Page 63 of Too Sinful to Deny
At a dinner party she’d been to last Season, one of Lady Wipplegate’s guests had been a Bow Street Runner. Susan couldn’t remember his name off the top of her head, but if she sent a note to him inside a letter for Lady W., it should eventually find its mark. If she were lucky, he’d arrive even before her allowance did!
She scribbled off a few lines of twaddle for Lady Wipplegate, and an even more cryptic message regarding Important Matters of Extreme Urgency for the Runner (for Lady W. would no doubt read it aloud at tea before passing it along) and folded both into a neat pile for Janey. Who had hopefully spoken the truth about having some means to secretly post mail and wasn’t just tossing all Susan’s missives directly into the closest fire.
A Runner would fix everything. He’d solve Dead Mr. Bothwick’s murder, rescue cousin Emeline (ideally both master and servant would become unfortunate casualties in the ensuing scuffle), and whisk Susan back to London where she belonged. Perfect.
Correspondence thus completed, Susan leaped to her feet—and almost collided with Lady Beaune’s ghostly form.
By hopping on one foot and windmilling a bit, Susan somehow managed to steady herself without accidentally brushing against the wraithlike woman with palsied fingers and long white braids.
The ghost fluttered to her fireside vigil, morose, head bowed. She worried at the ornate crucifix about her neck with spotted, trembling hands. And, as before, said nothing. Of course, shewasa deaf-mute. Which made meaningful conversation difficult—but not impossible. Susan tiptoed to her side, hesitant to startle the ghost, but eager to attempt interaction.
She pointed at her chest. “I’m—”
The ghost was already nodding, although still not meeting Susan’s eyes.
“Er... you know who I am?”
Another quick, shy nod.
Susan’s hand flattened against her chest in shock. Lady Beaune’s ghost had just responded (if nonverbally) to spoken communication. Twice. Which made her sense of hearing suspiciously acute for an alleged deaf-mute.
“Can you speak?” she asked softly.
The ghost shook her pale head.
So. At least part of the tale was true.
A horrific gasp sucked from the ghost’s lungs and she began to spin, round and round, faster and faster. Susan scrambled out of the way.
Agitated, the ghost ripped the crucifix from her neck, held it aloft. Little by little, her crooked body unraveled as she spun. Ribbons of clothing, of flesh, of essence, trailed out from her disintegrating form and disappeared into the suddenly Arctic air.
Then she was gone.
The crucifix clattered to the floor and winked from sight.
Susan swallowed, allowing her shoulders to slump against the wall. On a scale of one to ten, her communication attempt was perhaps a two. Possibly a negative two. How was she going to grant the ghost’s wish if the ghost was incapable of asking for whatever it was she desired?
Then again, ifshewere Lady Beaune—or her barely alive daughter—what she would ask for would be for someone to pull the still-beating heart from the giant’s overlarge chest and feed it to the grinning scarecrow before tearing them both to pieces with a pickax. Or something of that nature.
Perhaps she was better off incapable of comprehending the ghost’s mission.
Since there was no point hanging about Moonseed Manor if she wasn’t going to kill her host in his sleep (and who’s to say giants ever slept?), Susan tied her pelisse about her shoulders and headed into town.
Before she’d set foot among the half-ring of tumbledown buildings, it was already clear that Something Was Different.
A motley crowd of locals were milling about the sand, instead of creeping out of sight among the shadows as they normally did during the day. If the fair had come to town, such a turnout might make sense. But Susan saw no signs of revelry.
They all had their faces pointed in the direction of Moonseed Manor, not-so-surreptitiously observing her careful approach. If this had been a matter of a quick glance instead of watching an hourlong tramp down the windy path, such casual attention might make sense. But these were no quick glances.
They backed away as she neared, bending their heads together in excited conversation, letting loose with the occasional titter. If they had just heard a rumor that Miss Susan Stanton got a thrill from spying on trysting couples through dirty windows, such rude behavior might make sense.
Bloody hell. This was not remotely conducive to her plans. But she imagined it was plenty conducive to the evil porcelain doll’s. Far be it for anyone to say Miss Devonshire didn’t stick to her open threats.
Spread rumors about Susan Stanton, would she? Very well. In return, Susan would investigate Miss Devonshire’s treasonous French silk and report her findings to the magistrate the moment he arrived back in town. That’d teach Miss Devonshire a lesson for her crimes against the sovereign.
Or not. What dress shop was without French silk?
Her steps slowed to what one could only describe as a dismal trudge. It wasn’t that she was depressed (which, of course, she was) or that she was actively trying to suppress the urge to unleash her inner harpy on Miss Devonshire in a rabid fury (which, of course, she was) but that it was going to be damn near impossible to secretly keep watch on anybody, what with ninety pairs of eyes following her every move. No doubt waiting to see if the Peeping Tom of Mayfair had come to town to spy on someone. Which, as it happened, she had.
