“You shouldn’t be here,” sounded a deep voice. Dead Mr. Bothwick was right. That was definitely the giant.
“Don’t be so skittish,” came the calm rejoinder, the voice gentlemanly with a touch of country. Mr. Forrester?! “After that near-debacle with your houseguest, at least I have a story to spin. If she asks, I can always say I’ve called to check on your wife. I assume you’ve purchased thicker chains?”
Susan gasped, then belatedly clapped both hands over her gaping mouth.
“Watch what you say,” the giant growled. “The walls have ears.”
Trembling, she pushed away. She had heard enough. Whatever was going on between the giant and the magistrate, Mr. Forrester knew about Lady Emeline—had known the truth all along—and deliberately chose to do nothing. He was a hypocritical cad, at best. Another man not to be trusted. What else might he be turning a blind eye to?
She could no longer trust him. With anything. She needed a real man of the law. Would find one, the moment she arrived in Bath. She had to arm herself with as much proof as possible. Frantic, she raced down the corridor. She had to steal the strongbox.
It was her only hope.
Chapter 41
The moment Miss Stanton had turned her back to him on the beach, Evan had resumed his march toward Poseidon’s cave.
With no outbound journey scheduled for over a week—and that voyage being of the one-way variety—this could be Evan’s last opportunity to sneak aboard the ship. Having decided that saving his own neck now took precedence over determining his brother’s killer, he desperately wanted another look at the captain’s logbook. In fact, he planned to destroy it. With any luck, the previous diaries were also back on their shelves. He’d destroy those, too.
Or, since those dated back to long before he joined the crew, perhaps he would be wise to keep hold of them for leverage.
Like the glove.
His blood simmered as he recalled the panicked expression on Miss Stanton’s face when he’d first held out his hand. Shehadbeen out looking for her glove. Not that he blamed her. Misplacing easily identifiable blood-soaked garments was never a good idea.
What the glove’s presence meant, however, he had no clue. He’d asked around as carefully as he could. He’d looked around even more carefully. Yet there was no gossip of any altercations involving Miss Stanton. No signs of struggle. No injured man or woman. Certainly no dead body.
Just a single glove with a hell of a lot of blood.
Evan slipped into the mouth of the cave, flattened against the wall, and listened. The cave should be empty. With no cargo to guard—and the threat of discovery thick in the air—the last thing the sea dogs would want to do was get caught aboard a notorious smuggling ship. They’d been sighted enough times that their mere presence on board might be enough to connect them to the crimes.
With no time to lose and daylight fading fast, Evan crept into the darkness.
Damn his brother’s nettlesome sense of honor rearing its ugly head. He had no wish to sneak off in the dead of night because of Timothy. If Evan could obliterate all evidence linking himself to the smuggling, he might not have to run. But he needed every scrap of proof to be in his possession. Now. Tonight.
He paused before leaving the safety of shadows to approach the ship. He heard no noises, saw no activity, felt no eyes upon him, but there was a hint of... smoke. The faint odor hung in the air. Soft, but bitter and insistent. The scent was old enough that he needn’t fear anyone still bent over open flames, but recent enough that he couldn’t waste another second dallying.
He boarded the deck.
The ship, as he’d hoped, was empty of life. Unfortunately, the captain’s quarters not only still lacked the older leather-bound diaries but the current one had also gone missing.Damnit. He was never going to erase all references tying him to the crew if every time he looked for something, somebody else had already stolen it.
He lifted his chin and gave the air another sniff. Perhaps he wasn’t the only jack-tar on a mission to seek and destroy incriminating evidence. He disembarked and followed the scent of smoke through the cave until he came upon a round pile of ash.
He knelt and sifted through the fragile cinders. His fingers came across no conveniently unscathed parchment explaining precisely what had been burned and why. If paper had been incinerated, no indication remained. He shifted position and kept sifting gently.
Then he saw it. A charred scrap of leather no larger than a farthing. The color and thickness matched the spine of the captain’s logbook. Evan rose to his feet, the crusty piece of leather feather-light in his palm. Poseidon’s crew must have been burning the older diaries last week when Evan had invaded their camp. Now he would never have an opportunity to peruse the pages to see what incriminating evidence remained. Then again, no inquisitive magistrate would be able to connect Evan to any of the ship’s journeys, rightly or wrongly. How it would’ve rankled to be found guilty for missions in which he hadn’t participated.
When he shoved the tiny fragment into his pocket, his fingers brushed against Miss Stanton’s glove. Was it possible he was judgingherunfairly? He doubted she’d been out in silk and lace to slaughter chickens, but he’d certainly seen no sign of foul play. Perhaps the panic in her eyes had been because she feared he would leap to conclusions rather than listen to explanations. And wasn’t that precisely what they both had done?
Contemplative, he strode from the cave. If he had been rash in his judgment, he would have to make amends. Just as soon as he procured that jewelry box and destroyed whatever evidence lurked inside. Only then he would be free. Free of worry, free from under the captain’s thumb, free to pursue Miss Stanton as an eligible gentleman. Not a dead man walking.
Evan jerked to a stop at the foot of the trail leading to Moonseed Manor. He wanted to pursue Miss Stanton? As in... to love and to cherish, now and forevermore? He shook the not unpleasant image from his head and forced his ash-smudged boots up the steep cliff. Now was not the time to entertain such thoughts. Without the contents of that strongbox in his possession, he wouldn’t be able to risk spending another day in Bournemouth, much less spend his remaining hours courting a woman.
First things first: destroy the last of the evidence.
Moonseed Manor was silent when Evan let himself in through the servant’s entrance. Too silent. It was just past suppertime and he’d yet to catch sight of a footman or a maid, much less the master of the house and his lapdog. Which meant the latter two had to be up to no good in some dark corner of the Manor—if they were home at all. As to the servants, Evan had no idea where they might be. Unless they’d been given the same instructions he’d given his:Pack. We leave soon.
With any luck, however, he wouldn’t have to quit Bournemouth. At least, outside of his own free will. With the logbooks gone, all he needed was the contents of Ollie’s deceptively decorative strongbox and Evan’s life would once again be fully his.
