Page 56 of Too Sinful to Deny
“What does Mr. Bothwick have to do with anything? Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep an eye on the dress shop?”
Mr. Forrester shook his head. “Too risky. The girls might catch on. How much business can one woman conceivably have in a dress shop?”
Clearly this man had never been to London. Or past primary school.
Susan had never heard such a ridiculous strategy in her life. To top it all off, his mystery wasn’t even amystery.She was dealing with pirates, ghosts, murder, a mysterious jewelry box, and a helpless woman chained in the cellar, and he wanted to know where French silk came from?
“So,” she said, trying to rein in his imagination before it ran away with him, “following Mr. Bothwick makes sense because...”
“Because he might let something slip. Didn’t you hear them back there? He’s taking Miss Devonshire to the assembly. From what I’ve heard, a proposal will be forthcoming at any moment. I’m sure he knows every facet of her life. They’re quite serious.”
“They’re quite—” This time, anger, not lust, boiled Susan’s blood. She’d known Mr. Bothwick was a shameless rakehell flitting from flower to flower like an insatiable bee. He’d never pretended to be anything else. But to have kissed her—repeatedly!—when he was the next thing to married... No wonder he’d fled through the window when they’d almost been caught. And no wonder Miss Devonshire hated Susan so much!
She glared down the coast at Mr. Bothwick so hard it must’ve burned his flesh. He dropped the rock he’d been about to throw and turned toward her, puzzled. She maintained eye contact for just a second longer before jerking her gaze back to the magistrate.
Who, as it turned out, was a complete idiot scarcely capable of reasoning his way out of bed in the morning, if he thought such a stupid plan could possibly do any good. He would not be an ally against the giant after all. She’d have to try anyway, of course, but at this rate, she’d be lucky if Mr. Forrester and his questionable brainpower weren’t a liability. He couldn’t be counted on to help her or her cousin in any capacity more intricate than that of a hired hack.
Besides, who cared about French silk? It was illegal, but so was French brandy, and everyone in town drank the stuff by the bucketful. No wonder they were so open about it. Their local man of the law was a clueless ninnyhammer. Susan kicked at the sand in disgust.
Movement in the distance caught her eye. Mr. Bothwick was approaching. She had little time to finish the conversation in relative privacy.
“Mr. Forrester,” she said, “are you aware of the graves in the rock garden behind Moonseed Manor?”
He nodded. “Everyone is. One belongs to Lord Jean-Louis Beaune. And one belongs to his wife.”
So he did know. “Why is her gravestone unmarked?”
“Because the priest wouldn’t bless the burial. She’d committed suicide, as I recall.”
Susan wasn’t convinced that being locked up for thirty years and escaping your prison the only way you could, only to be shot dead by your husband as you lay there bleeding, exactly counted as suicide. Or that the gardens of Moonseed Manor constituted anything resembling hallowed ground. But she didn’t press the point. Mr. Bothwick was almost upon them. It was time to end the conversation.
After they turned back toward town, however, she realized Mr. Forrester’s explanation had been noticeably lacking.
“But what about the third one?”
The magistrate fell into step beside her, with Mr. Bothwick almost on his heels. “The third one what?”
She shivered at the memory of those blank marble slabs. “The thirdgrave.”
Both men stopped in their tracks and stared at her.
“There’s a third one?”
Chapter 22
Dead Mr. Bothwick materialized at Susan’s side. “No. Tell themno.”
Two large, solid (still-living) men continued staring down at her with something colder than curiosity glittering in their eyes.
“Er,” she said brightly.
“Where, exactly, is this third grave?” asked Mr. Forrester.
“When did you first notice it?” asked the still-living Mr. Bothwick.
“Donottell themanything,” his dead brother hissed, his entire form rippling in agitation. “Don’t mention my death, don’t let on you can see me, and for God’s sake, take back everything you just said about a third grave in the rock garden!”
“Er,” Susan said again, and hesitated. She hadn’t been prepared for theoppositeof Bring-a-Message-to-My-Family day. And she wasn’t convinced she should pay more credence to the dead than the living.
