Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2 Read online

  He did not bow in kind. Nor was it remotely possible he was a child of Lady Beaune. He was easily five-and-thirty. Had Papa’s cousin remarried in the unknown years since Mother had last spoken to this distant limb of the Stanton family tree? Did Mother comprehend where exactly she’d condemned her daughter? Or care?

  “Move out of the way, oaf,” came the cultured voice from before. “I must see this creature that travels alone and in the dark of night to visit the likes of you.”

  Rather than move aside, the giant stepped forward, crowding Susan backward. Her shoulders scraped the wall opposite. Her hands clenched at her sides.

  A new figure filled the door frame. Tall, but not impossibly so. Well-muscled, but not in a frightening way. As smartly tailored as any London dandy, but with an air of barely contained danger more suitable to the meanest streets where even footpads feared to tread. Alarmingly attractive despite the too-long chestnut hair and day’s growth of dark stubble shadowing the line of his jaw.

  “Mmm, I see.” An amused grin toyed with his lips. “My pleasure.”

  He performed as perfect a bow as any Susan had ever encountered in a Town ballroom. Before her trembling legs could force an answering curtsy, the giant moved back into place, blocking the... gentleman?... from her view.

  The giant’s thick arms crossed over his barrel chest. “Carriage?”

  “Gone,” rasped the scarecrow.

  Susan jumped. She’d forgotten his silent presence.

  “Driver?”

  The scarecrow’s terrifying smile returned. “Taken care of.”

  Satisfaction glinted in the giant’s eyes. Susan was positive that only panic reflected in hers. Would she be “taken care of” next?

  “Take her to the bone chamber.”

  Susan’s heart stuttered to a stop until she realized the giant had said Beaune chamber, not bone chamber. Beaune, as in her father’s fourth cousin thrice removed, Lady Beaune, with whom her family clearly should have kept a much more detailed correspondence. Yet even with this correction firmly in mind, Susan couldn’t help but doubt the Beaune chamber would remotely resemble the sumptuous Buckingham-quality guest quarters she’d hoped to find.

  The scarecrow turned and headed down the hall without bothering to verify that Susan followed. He was wise not to worry. She had no intention of standing around under the giant’s calculating gaze any longer than necessary.

  Susan scrambled after the scarecrow without a single word of parting for her host—not that the giant seemed particularly concerned about adhering to social niceties—and rounded a corner just in time to see the scarecrow ascend a pale marble staircase she swore hadn’t existed when they’d traveled this exact sequence of corridors moments before.

  She hurried to his side before she got lost for good. “That... wasn’t Lord Beaune.”

  A dry laugh crackled from his throat, accompanied by a sly glance from his dark, glittering eyes. “He seem dead? That’s the new master of Moonseed Manor. It’s to him you owe the roof over yer head tonight.”

  Dead. Her ears buzzed at the news. The news that Lady Beaune had been widowed and remarried was surprising enough. But the idea that Susan owed anything to anyone—much less her cousin’s new husband—was intolerable. She had once been Society’s princess! And would be again. Just as soon as she got back to London.

  The wiry manservant led her through another complicated series of interconnected passageways. A lit sconce protruded from the middle of an otherwise unadorned passageway, as bleached and unremarkable as all the rest. Orange candlelight spilled from an open doorway, chasing their shadows behind them. Susan wished she could flee as easily.

  “Your room,” came the scarecrow’s scratchy voice.

  Susan nodded and stepped across the threshold. When she turned to ask him directions to the dining areas and drawing rooms (and when she might hope to see the lady of the house), he was already gone.

  She pivoted to face the cavernous chamber once more, doing her best to ignore the uneasy sensation of walking into a crypt. Although the room was as cold as any catacomb would be, a large canopied bed, not a casket, stood in the center. The shadowy figure next to the unlit fireplace had to be a maid provided to ensure Susan’s comfort. Thank God. At least there was some hint of London sensibilities.

  Susan stepped forward just as the cloaked figure swiveled without seeming to move her feet. Long white braids flanked a narrow face hollowed with hunger and despair. Age spots mottled her clawed hands and pale neck. An ornate crucifix hung from a gold chain. Trembling fingers clutched the intricate charm to her thin chest. She did not appear to be starting a fire in the grate.

  She did not appear to be a maid at all.

  “M-may I help you?” Susan asked.

  The old woman did not answer.

  Were there more sundry guests in this pharaoh’s tomb of a manor? Was this one lost, confused, afraid? So was Susan, on all counts, but the least she could do was help this poor woman find her correct bedchamber.

  Before she could so much as offer her hand, however, a sharp breeze rippled through the chamber. She shivered before she realized she could no longer feel the phantom breeze—although it continued to flutter the old woman’s dark red cloak and unravel the braids from her hair.

  In fact... the breeze began to unravel the old woman herself, ripping thread by red thread from her cloak like drops of blood disappearing in a pool of water. The wind tore long curling strands of white hair from her bowed head, then strips of flesh from her bones, until the only thing standing before Susan was the empty fire pit. The glittering crucifix fell onto the hardwood floor and disappeared from sight.

  The chamber door slammed shut behind her with foundation-shaking force. Susan didn’t have to try the handle to know she was trapped inside.

  She wondered what else was locked inside with her.

  Chapter 2

  Evan Bothwick swirled his untouched brandy, then tossed the liquid into the fire. He didn’t jump backward as steam and sparks shot from the flames, giving the smoke a slightly sweeter air. For a moment, something akin to rancid fruit overpowered the more pungent peat. Neither odor, however, was what soured his stomach.

  Empty glass dangling from his fingers, he faced his companion.

  “I must know the truth.”

  Ollie’s oversized frame hulked before the bar. “I don’t know a damn thing. She’s some London deb, here to repent for the wickedness of her ways.”

  “Not about your houseguest, brute.” In frustration, Evan hurled his empty tumbler into the fire. The glass shattered on impact, but the smell of the smoke did not change. “I’m scarce interested in the blasted woman slamming doors abovestairs.”

  “Humph. You’re always interested in women.” Ollie poured a fresh glass of brandy and proffered it in one large paw.

  Evan made a shooing motion to decline the offer, then watched in silent horror as his host downed the entirety in one swallow, like a shot of cheap whiskey. “I’m interested in wenches, not women, Ollie. Wenches are... perfect. Much easier to deal with.”

  Ollie swiped the back of his hand across his beard. “How could what’s-her-name be any easier? She’s right upstairs.”

  “She doesn’t know me.” Evan glanced at the fob in his waistcoat pocket. “And I don’t have time to change that.”

  Ollie’s too-loud laughter filled the smoky room. “From what they’re saying in town, you had more than enough time to dally with that scrumptious little Miss—”

  “Let’s just talk about Timothy, shall we? He and Red were meant to dock this time last week.”

  “Red ain’t here, either.”

  “That’s my point.” Evan leaned back, his shoulder thudding against the mantel. “Timothy was the lead on that mission, and he’s responsible enough to—”

  Ollie shrugged. “Smugglers aren’t responsible.”

  Evan’s fingers twitched at his side. “Ollie, could you please be serious for a moment? If I had a pistol handy,
I’d shoot you just for prevaricating.”

  “There you go. Now you’re acting yourself again. Except for the ‘please.’” Ollie turned back to the sideboard. “Sure you don’t fancy another brandy?”

  Evan glared at him. “Red’s a useless corkbrain and always has been, but Timothy would’ve sent word if something went wrong.”

  “Then nothing went wrong. Just because you’re a few years older doesn’t mean you’ve got to mother the poor bastard. Perhaps the two of you are cut from the same cloth. Could be he’s shacked up with a few bits o’ fluff and is far too busy being naked to bother sending his brother any love notes. He’ll be home when he’s had his fill.”

  Evan shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like Timothy at all. He’s irritatingly punctual, and you know it. Time’s running out. Ship has to be seaworthy again by Friday, or heads will roll. Timothy does not need trouble with the captain.”

  “They’ll be back.” Ollie sipped his brandy. “Like you said—your brother’s a responsible sort.”

  Evan’s eyes narrowed. For a fellow water rat, Ollie was far too cavalier about the disappearance of their ship and fellow crew. “If you know something, tell me. Now.”

  Ollie slammed his empty tumbler onto the sideboard. “I know you’re becoming annoying, that’s what I know.”

  Their eyes locked for a long moment before Evan growled and turned toward the fire. He wished he’d taken that second brandy after all, just to have something to destroy. Everything was going wrong. “We should’ve all gone together.”

  “It was a two-person job.”

  “Then I should’ve gone instead of that featherwit Red.”

  “I believe Timothy asked you to do just that, but you were occupied with the bit o’ muslin you met on the last job.”

  “Just for one night.” Evan snatched his greatcoat from the arm of a wingback chair. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed Ollie to wed. Or the type of woman that would want him. Evan himself couldn’t handle the oaf ’s company for long stretches. The little blonde upstairs would soon regret whatever impulse had brought her so far from home… and wearing bejeweled Town finery into a den of smugglers. “That new guest of yours is certainly fancy. I hope she’s under your protection.”

  “She is.” Ollie refilled his empty brandy glass. “For as long as her parents continue to send money.”

  At that, Evan stalked out of the study. Ollie could be so infuriating. Just because he’d been a member of the crew for several years—as opposed to Evan and Timothy’s mere six months—Ollie took great delight in treating the two of them like imbeciles.

  Irritatingly, the overgrown brute did have a point. Evan undoubtedly would’ve been late coming home if he’d been the one on the ship.

  But it wasn’t Evan on that ship. It was Timothy. Timothy, with the rule-following soul of a ledger-keeper. Timothy, who’d wanted to create charts and schedules for swabbing the deck and cleaning the privies, for Christ’s sake. If the captain said to dock by Monday, Timothy would’ve docked on Sunday morning.

  But he hadn’t.

  Evan let himself out of Moonseed Manor. Few stars lit the cloudy sky. He circled the perimeter of the house and crossed through the rock garden to the steep path plummeting down the sandy cliff to the beach below. Timothy would’ve—

  Wait. What was that? There, smudged between the shore and the horizon. A ship, the hull rocking with black waves, the sails fluttering with the ocean’s salty breath. Their ship.

  Evan scrambled down the narrow trail, his sure feet keeping him from tumbling to his death even as the sharp rocks and brambles scratched at his boots and clothes.

  He leapt the last few feet and sprinted toward the ship. Running in boots on thick sand was never easy, but at least he wasn’t doing so weighted down with large wooden crates. The craft shimmered in the distance, a mirage of sails and shadow. Why weren’t the damn things helm-lashed? And why cast anchor so close to home? If Timothy didn’t have the ship housed in the usual spot before daybreak, half the town would see the flag from their breakfast windows.

  Lungs burning from exertion, Evan slowed to a jog when he got close enough to realize there was no way to board the ship without swimming a fair bit out to it. The crew hadn’t bothered to drop anchor within shouting distance.

  Evan sighed and shucked his boots and greatcoat. Lucky that fashionable garments from illegal French silk were free for the taking—for pirates, anyway—or Evan might be a bit displeased about being forced to dive into frigid saltwater in his evening clothes.

  One of his stockings had been sucked away by the time he reached the bower’s cable. Soaking wet and shivering, he hauled himself up to the deck as quickly as possible. A ruined wardrobe he could forgive, but if he caught cold from dealing with his little brother’s antics and became too ill to go on the next mission, Evan would have to seriously consider fratricide.

  “Timothy!” he shouted as he leapt to the deck. His single stockinged foot shot forward every time the silk slid across puddles of water. Evan half-hopped, half-danced his way to a reasonably dry patch and jerked the offending garment free. “Timothy? Red? Where the devil are you two?”

  And the rest of the crew, for that matter. A so-called two-person job still required the usual collection of riffraff in order to set sail—or return home. There was no cargo in sight, either. The anonymous local associate who sold their smuggled goods must have made short work of divesting the ship of its booty. The spoils were no doubt long gone, and the captain’s share of the profits already in his pocket.

  Damp footprints marked Evan’s trajectory as he made his way through the empty ship, calling out crew-member names and pushing open doors. Timothy was no doubt at home before a fire. That straitlaced rotter would laugh himself silly if he knew his brother was dripping wet and clomping around deck barefoot.

  Evan gave the wardroom door a halfhearted shove, convinced by now that he was the only one stupid enough to still be on board. He stepped inside the cramped quarters and jolted to a stop. Damn it.

  For the second time that evening, his hands convulsed uselessly at his sides. He never had his pistols when he needed them. And neither, it seemed, did Timothy.

  A pair of glassy eyes stared right through Evan. His brother’s eyes. Evan’s heart shattered. A trickle of dried blood seeped from the small black hole in Timothy’s pale forehead, the thin red line separating his face into two ghostly halves. No point checking for a pulse. Evan’s stomach heaved as he crumpled to his knees. His brother. Gone.

  He lowered his head, no longer able to stare into the eyes that had once looked up to him as if he were a hero. His fist slammed into the planks beneath his knees. He was no hero. He’d failed Timothy as a shipmate and as a brother. His throat tightened. He should’ve been the one aboard the ship. The one to face whoever had attacked Timothy.

  Evan forced himself to his feet. He would find whoever had stolen his brother’s life. He’d catch the rotten son of a bitch, no matter who he was or where he’d slunk off to.

  And then he’d kill him.

  Chapter 3

  For the first time in her life, Susan Stanton did not sleep past noon. Witnessing a ghostly breeze rip an old woman into strips of nothing was not, as it turned out, conducive to a good night’s rest. Although she considered herself a logical, fact-based, feet-firmly-on-the-ground sort, there was only one conclusion that could be drawn from such an event.

  Moonseed Manor was haunted.

  The only conclusion that could be drawn from that conclusion was that it was more imperative than ever that she return to London posthaste. She absolutely must be on the next carriage out of Bournemouth, even if she had to drive the horses herself.

  Susan strode to the bell pull. Her hand had already curled around the cord when a chilling thought wriggled into her brain. Barely dawn. Would a real servant answer the call? Or a ghost? Her fingers dropped the cord as if the twine had branded her palm.

  Perhaps—whilst she was having a
steady series of firsts anyway—she should go ahead and dress herself.

  Although she managed to remove her nightgown and don her shift with little incident, lacing stays and a morning gown proved quite impossible to do by oneself. Heart thudding, Susan gave the cursed bell pull a reluctant tug and sat down at a small escritoire in the corner to wait. After staring at a dusty pen-and-ink set for several moments, unlaced gown gaping open at her back, she decided to take this opportunity to inform her family of her impending return.

  “Dear Mother,” she scratched across the top of a yellowed sheet of parchment.

  I was wrong. I do hate you more than you hate me.

  “Moonseed Manor has proven to be an unacceptable choice for accommodation.”

  Not that I expect you care.

  “While I have not spoken with Father’s cousin—”

  —because she’s most likely DEAD—

  “—I did meet the master of the house—”

  —who could snap my neck as easily as a bird’s—

  “—and will inform him of my intent to return to London.”

  Unless I can manage to escape without him noticing.

  “I have decided to leave at my earliest convenience, which happens to be within the hour. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if I arrive on the heels of this very letter. In order to depart as expeditiously as possible, I shall abandon my luggage and hire the first available—”

  Bloody hell.

  Susan stared at the ink drying before her. Mother hadn’t exactly packed a purse full of money for her daughter’s one-way trip to the edge of the world.

  To be honest, the need for physical coin hadn’t occurred to Susan either (not that she’d been given a voice in the let’s-disown-our-daughter planning process), if only because credit was a given in London. Everyone knew her face and the Stanton name. If she wished for, say, an emerald necklace, she walked out of a store with an emerald necklace. Father would settle the accounts later. Well, he would’ve before the Incident that had gotten her locked in her bedchamber. Now what she needed was to marry a titled aristocrat with deep pockets and a generous soul. Not an easy feat, but at least possible. In London. Where her name meant something.