Susan lifted the latter by its thin golden chain. The necklace was in want of polish, but overall unbroken and in decent condition. The crucifix itself was as bejeweled and ornate as she remembered, if much heavier than expected. No wonder the ghost was always dropping it. Susan cleaned both cross and chain with the underside of her skirts and fastened the clasp around her neck. She fingered the intricate loops and whirls of the crucifix for a long moment before tucking it out of sight in her bodice.
“I will keep it with me always,” she whispered aloud, just in case cousin Emeline’s much-wronged mother could hear her. “It will be a symbol of my commitment to do whatever it takes to rescue your daughter.”
She stood. Perhaps she couldn’t legally take Lady Emeline from her husband... but shecoulddo her damnedest to take the husband from cousin Emeline. The giant would torture his wife no more, once he swung from a noose for treason against the Crown. Susan just had to ensure that took place.
As she twisted open the handle to her bedchamber door, the magistrate’s cherubic face flashed into her mind. Perhaps Mr. Forrester would be of use after all. He’d single-handedly botched her prior escape attempt but, although Susan still felt him a cad for not having at leasttriedto intervene on Lady Emeline’s behalf, he was right when he said the law had not been on their side. In the case of piracy, however, it certainly was.
For the first time, Susan looked forward to the magistrate’s upcoming visit. In fact, she began to wonder if her suspicion that Mr. Forrester had never been interested in the origin of French silk had been correct all along. What if he suspected piracy afoot but had no means by which to prove it? Confirming a connection to smuggled silk could provide that link.
In giving the magistrate firm evidence of smuggling, she would not only save her cousin (and herself), but also simultaneously set both Lady Beaune’s and Dead Mr. Bothwick’s minds—and spirits—to rest.
Of course, it would also send Evan to the gallows… unless she could keep his name out of the scandal.
Mr. Bothwick, not Evan,she corrected herself. They were not friends, had never been friends. And they would never again be lovers.
All that mattered was saving Emeline. No matter how Susan’s heart might ache.
Within an hour, she found her way into town. She stepped inside one establishment after another to settle her debts, hyper-aware she was showing her face for the first time since being divested her of her virginity. She was now the common slut they believed her to be.
She ignored the pang in her heart and the acid twist in her stomach. Instead, she focused on charming the townsfolk, who seemed equally determined to remain uncharmed. Their antipathy reversed the moment she began spending her coins. Ah, the power of money. Until she began seeing ghosts, Susan had believed gold the last true magic remaining in the world.
She saved the tavern for last (and skipped the dress shop altogether—there were some cold hearts even gold could not warm) and over-tipped Sully. She bought the occupants a round for old times’ sake. Everyone but herself, rather. Now more than ever, she needed to keep a clear head.
As she’d done in the other establishments, she felt out the crowd for gossip pertaining to the dead Runner. And as before: nothing. No mention of blood or knife fights or strange corpses lying on the beach. Perhaps the Runner had yet to be discovered. Or perhaps, as Timothy had intimated, the killer had already collected the body.
She propped an elbow against the bar and considered her options. If the killer hadn’t returned and the Runner was still lying in the sand, perhaps she ought to “accidentally” stumble across him. She could start screaming.Somebodywas bound to come running. Then the poor man could have a proper burial. She’d pay for it herself, if necessary.
The Runner wasn’t the only one who deserved to be properly recognized. Susan touched her palm to the heavy crucifix lying between her breasts. Lady Beaune deserved much more than a blank gravestone. Susan waved over the barman.
“Who carves headstones in town?”
If Sully found this question odd, he made no mention.
“Nobody,” he answered distractedly, more intent on inventorying his brandy than on focusing on Susan. “Got to order special for that. Bath, maybe. London if you fancy a nice one.”
London. Ever the crock of gold.
She thanked the barman and headed back outside in the direction of the Bow Street Runner. She’d order the finest gravestones London had to offer, the moment she arrived back in Town. She’d commission the calligraphy to read—
Gone. Good Lord.Gone.
She turned in a slow circle, peering down both sides of the empty beach. No blood. No body. Had she walked too far or, perhaps, not far enough? No, impossible. There was the rowboat, still covered in dried seaweed. The waves had washed any tracks away and erased the last of the spilled blood.
Now what? Susan stared at the ocean, then the rowboat, then the wet sand where the Runner had lain the day before. Was this how Mr. Bothwick had felt when he couldn’t find his brother’s body? Helpless and frustrated and angry? He’d felt much worse, she imagined. He’d lost family. She bit her lip. Perhaps he’d had nothing to do with his brother’s death after all.
She squeezed her eyes shut and recognized this train of thought for what it was. An attempt to justify the unjustifiable. He was a pirate. Innocence of his brother’s murder, if that were indeed the case, did not make Mr. Bothwick an innocent man. He was not to be trusted. The fact that shehadtrusted him... Well, all that proved was that love made one stupid.
No. She’d only thought she was in love. Atendre.A passing fancy. That was the only explanation for seeking him out time and again, for throwing herself in his arms at the first sign of trouble, for willfully relinquishing her virginity. But it wasn’t real love. It couldn’t be. He was a pirate.
Besides, even if she was ninnyhammered enough to fall in love with an adventure-seeking criminal, it hardly signified. She’d been taught since birth that something so fleeting as a mere emotion should never become a decision-making factor in one’s life. One set goals for oneself, and one reached those goals through logic, determination, and a fair bit of planning.
Returning safely to London was her number-one goal, now more than ever. The fantasy of marrying an inattentive old title for his pocketbook and laissez-faire had paled significantly, now that she had a better idea of what she would have to endure to produce his heirs. Without passion, the act would lose all of its magic.
Not that she wished to worsen matters by indulging a stupid girlish fancy like being inlove. Besides, it wasn’t as if the feeling was returned. Whether or not Mr. Bothwick had any plans to fulfill Miss Devonshire’s suspect matrimonial predictions, he had been clear from the start that any interest he showed in Susan—or any woman—was that of the carnal variety. She had known that. She had willfully exploited that fact to alleviate her own anxiety. And now she would have to live with the repercussions. Somewhere far, far away.
She inhaled deeply. The scent of the ocean and salty taste of the breeze reminded her it was perhaps best not to wander alone too far past town borders whilst a murderer still roamed free. She opened her eyes.
Mr. Bothwick was striding toward her. No one else was in sight.
