“My hair comb.” Her voice was weak, a mere whisper. Her heart thundered.
He raised a brow. “Have you lost something else?”
She lifted her gaze to his too-innocent face.
So hedidhave the glove. He wanted her to know, but he wasn’t yet willing to show his cards. But why play mum? Because he was guilty of the crime? Or for some other heinous reason? Unfortunately, she could scarce ask questions without being required to answer some of her own. And he knew it.
“Thank you,” she said crisply.
She plucked the comb from his hand with still-trembling fingers and deposited it in her pocket, where it clinked against the knife and coins. After having paid out a considerable sum in the sundry shops, there was just enough room for the comb. She’d have to take care it didn’t fall from her pocket. As she was now convinced her cursed glove had done.
“My pleasure,” he responded, looking self-satisfied.
Insufferable blackguard. She’d let him feel like he had the upper hand for now. He wouldn’t be wearing his Cheshire grin when he and the rest of his pirate friends were led to the gallows.
As before, this thought brought a devilish cramp to her insides. And as before, she staunchly ignored said cramp. She hadn’t forced him to go about pillaging and plundering and whatever else pirates got up to. So she certainly wouldn’t feel guilty about him being caught. Particularly if he’d been personally involved in murder.
“How did you find me out here?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound suspicious. Or disillusioned.
He nodded at the overturned rowboat. “Find you? I was just about to take a turn about the ocean. Care to join me?”
Not on her life. “Perhaps another time.”
Possibly the day after hell froze over.
The dark sky was turning blacker by the minute. Apparently the recent rain had just been the beginning. Inclement weather aside, she’d have to be the veriest fool to go anywhere alone with him. Especially somewhere so prone to easily explainable “accidents” as the sea.
He inclined his head, but made no move toward the boat. Probably because he well knew to row in such conditions would be tantamount to asking the gods to strike him down. Then why bother with the bluff?
Deciding that trying to understand him would be the quickest path to madness, she turned her back without saying farewell. She headed toward Bournemouth proper with one hand pressed against her overstuffed pocket and the other cupped above her spectacles. The falling rain found her lenses anyway.
She made it almost to the town border before glancing back over her shoulder. Despite her blurred lenses, the overturned rowboat was just visible in the distance.
Mr. Bothwick was not. It was as if he’d been smudged from sight.
Discomfited, she turned back toward town and focused on returning to the dry warmth of her bedchamber before catching her death of cold.
After a change of clothes and a hot meal, the last of Susan’s energy drained from her exhausted body and she longed for nothing more than to go to bed. Unfortunately, someone was already in it. Hovering a few inches above the covers, rather.
Dead Mr. Bothwick.
“Good evening,” he said cautiously. Apparently her disposition showed on her face.
She declined to answer. The only thing good about the evening thus far was that it meant the day was finally over. Well, almost over. First she had to get rid of a ghost.
“The Runner is gone,” she informed him.
“I know.”
Sheknewhe’d been watching!
“Who took the body?” she asked eagerly.
His face contorted in frustration. “I don’t know.”
“How don’t you know?” She stared at him with incredulity. “Weren’t you there?”
He shook his head. “I was watching over something more important.”
