“No!” Her hands fisted and she tucked them beneath crossed arms. “I broke my arm when I fell into the Thames earlier this year. I drowned. Before that, I was an ordinary young lady. Afterward...” She bit at her lower lip for a moment. “At first I thought Moonseed Manor was haunted. Then I realized it was me.”
“Does Ollie suspect that you—”
Her small hand latched around his wrist like an iron manacle. “Don’t tell him.”
“I didn’t say I was going to.”
“Do not trust him, Evan. Whatever you do.”
He considered the seriousness of this directive. “Because of last night?”
“Because...” She took a deep breath, as if to rally courage. “He’s a pirate.”
Evan’s mouth fell open. “He’s a what?”
“You can’t breathe a word,” she said quickly, her hand still preventing blood flow to his fingers. “There’s already been at least one death because of it. Two, I suppose, counting your brother.”
Evan’s skin turned clammy. “Timothy told you Ollie was a pirate?”
She nodded. “He was investigating them.”
“Timothy was investigating... pirates?” He felt like a deuced fool repeating everything she said, but his brain was boiling in his skull.
She nodded again. “I imagine they’re all going to prison. Then they’re going to hang.” She looked particularly pleased by the thought of Ollie dangling from a noose.
Evan, however, was not as delighted by this news.
At what point had Timothy decided to go turncoat and ferret information to the law? He would’ve had to realize that although he might save his own neck from the morning drop, there would be no pardoning the rest, Evan included. The entire crew would hang. Some of the jacks were conscienceless knaves, yes, but... to pretend to be complicit, solely to ensure a trip to the gallows, when to do so would condemn your own brother to go down with the ship?
Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Miss Stanton began pulling on clothing. First her stays, then her gown. She turned and gave Evan her back. He did his best to button and lace her without snapping any strings. His hold on sanity seemed equally frayed.
She knew about Ollie. She even knew things about Timothy that Evan himself hadn’t known. Which meant it was all true. There truly were spirits. Who spoke to her. One of which was the late Timothy Bothwick.
Brother. Smuggler. Traitor.
Chapter 37
The giant wasn’t the only pirate in Bournemouth.
Susan had turned her back toward Mr. Bothwick the moment his expression had changed from startled to furious. She’d left immediately after he’d slipped the last button into place and hadn’t looked back. She couldn’t face him without giving away what she’d seen darken his hazel eyes: betrayal.
Mr. Bothwick was one of the soon-to-be-condemned pirates.
And she’dlainwith him.
She pushed blindly through the trees, scarce able to keep her feet on the trail. Between the dark clouds and the thick branches converging overhead, it felt more like nightfall than late afternoon. A wet drop slipped through the sparse leaves and streaked across one of her lenses. The skies were about to open up, and she wasn’t 100 percent certain this was the footpath that led from Mr. Bothwick’s cliff back to Moonseed Manor.
But the trampled dirt wasapath leadingsomewhere.With the cold rain falling faster by the second—and the house she’d just escaped from home to a bloody pirate—she would seek whatever shelter she could find.
She should continue to be safe from Mr. Bothwick as long as he didn’t realize she knew the truth. The giant appeared content to spare her life whilst her parents paid him. Or perhaps her murder wouldn’t be worth risking his own life. After all, the Stantons’ connections were considerable. Crossing the baron and his wife would be begging to visit the gallows.
Nonetheless, the idea of immediately returning to Moonseed Manor held little pull.
Her hands were freezing. She longed for the relative warmth of gloves. Perhaps she should wear her soiled ones, despite the blood staining the once-white silk. She reached numb fingers into her pocket, pulled out the dark crumple, and gave it a good shake.
Now the cloth was brown and damp... and consisted of a single glove. Spectacular. Where had the other one flown off to? She hesitated, her clothes and hair and skin getting wetter by the moment, and debated just leaving the other glove where it lay. But no. She’d had sound reasons for not tossing them aside before, and those reasons still stood. With a sigh, she retraced her steps to the point where she thought she’d shaken out the wrinkled silk.
Nothing but dirt, mud, and fallen leaves. Most of which clung to the remaining glove and her now-ruined gown. Perhaps she hadn’t retraced her steps correctly. Perhaps she’d wandered down adifferentfootpath. Typical. Susan gave up on the missing glove—it had to be buried under a foot of mud anyway—and headed back down the trail. At least, she hoped she did. She would go mad if she broke through the trees only to discover herself once again at Mr. Bothwick’s door.
