“I meant to steal the jewelry box back, but when I finally arrived at the stables, servants were everywhere. Loading carriages. Why does a country man need multiple carriages?” She tried to clean the lenses of her spectacles but only succeeded in smearing them further. “I think he’s going to leave. For good.”
“Not with my evidence, he isn’t. Did you see what happened to the box?”
“No. But I did see the magistrate discussing smuggled goods with Miss Devonshire as if extorting payment for illegally obtained fabric was an everyday occurrence.” She started walking in what she hoped was the direction of Mr. Bothwick’s house, then paused to glance at the ghost. “Er... is it this way?”
He nodded absently and flashed ahead of her.
She quashed her joy at having actually chosen the correct trail and hurried after him. “Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Forrester was involved?”
“Because I didn’t know,” Dead Mr. Bothwick answered grimly. “Until last night when I heard him talking to Ollie. That’s why I had to watch and listen. Forrester wanted to see what Ollie had dug up from the gravesite. Ollie claimed it was nothing, a box of fripperies Lady Emeline had hidden. But Forrester didn’t believe him. He suspects the end of his game is nigh. He’s frightened, and there’s nothing deadlier than a man backed into a corner.”
Susan shuddered. She’d overheard more than enough about the magistrate’s penchant for convenient “accidents.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick floated down a fork in the path. “They went to the dining room to fetch the strongbox, but it was gone.” Dead Mr. Bothwick bobbed in place. “I’ve been looking for you ever since.”
“How did the magistrate get involved in piracy?”
“How would I know?” The ghost darted forward amongst the trees. “I can’t ask many questions these days. But since Ollie’s been with the captain longer than he’s been with Lady Emeline, I’d have to assume the smuggling crew has been together since long before Forrester weaseled his way into the plot. He’s always been one to manipulate others for his own profit. The sort who scored good marks at university by any means other than academic effort. Some people mistook him as stupid. I never made that mistake.”
Susan hurried to catch up. “You knew him before he became magistrate?”
“I’ve known him since Eton. My brother had already completed his levels but Forrester and I were of an age.”
“You went toEton?”
“Head boy every year, I might add.”
Susan narrowed her eyes at him. “Where exactly did you say you were from before you moved to Bournemouth?”
“I didn’t.” He floated ahead. “But if you’re curious, London. Although I suspect Evan has always preferred his cottage in Bath.”
“He has a cottage in—did you just sayLondon?”
“His cottage is in Bath, the town house is in London. He always kept a room for my use whenever I was in Town because I spent most of my time on Father’s estate in Surrey.”
Mr. Bothwick’s current lodgings were finally in sight, but Susan couldn’t take another step. She stumbled against the closest tree.
Vertigo assailed her from each of the ghost’s carelessly thrown words. No wonder Dead Mr. Bothwick had seemed offended and disdainful when she’d presumed superiority for being a member of Society. He had moved in those same circles.
And no wonder the still-living Mr. Bothwick had so many times evoked the image of a Society gentleman as easily at home in Almack’s or Jackson’s as racing along Hyde Park or playing whist at a dinner soiree. Hewassuch a gentleman, had likely done all those things and more when not taking holiday elsewhere. A cottage in Bath. An estate in Surrey. And she’d had no idea.
She had gone to him, made love to him, in large part because she’d believed that despite his many and varied flaws, she had fallen hard for the goodness he possessed deep inside. And now, to her utter humiliation, she discovered she’d as much as given herself to a ghost, for all the substance between them.
“Enough tittle-tattle.” Dead Mr. Bothwick bobbed across the sandy soil, floating away from the footpath in the direction of his brother’s house. “Let’s fetch that strongbox.”
Susan trudged along behind him. At least Mr. Bothwick had not patronized her with romantic lies. Had he spoken words of love, and had she foolishly permitted herself to believe such fancies... Susan doubted her broken heart would ever have healed. Particularly when she’d discovered he planned on leaving and hadn’t bothered with so much as a good-bye. Unless she counted the pistol he’d pointed at her chest.
Dead Mr. Bothwick glanced back at her over his semitransparent shoulder, his ghostly face lined with impatience. This was a man who had died for his strong faith in right and wrong. She had been less than exemplary. This was her chance to prove her character and set things to rights.
“Ready?” He motioned her forward. “If his carriages are full, we haven’t much time.”
“You’re right. Let’s have done.” She touched her fingertips to the crucifix hidden beneath her bodice.Someonehad to fight for those who could not.
Shoulders squared, she marched away from the trees.
Chapter 45
Evan placed the ornate strongbox inside a secret, specially built enclosure behind his stables, engaged the locking mechanism, and covered the access point with dung-scented soil. Once his horses trampled atop the location a few times, the hay-strewn area would look no different from any other. The perfect hiding place. They could rip up every floorboard of his house, tear apart the very walls, and never find the jewelry box.
