All she had to do was stay on the footpath.
“Just stay on the footpath,” she repeated under her breath what felt like more than an hour later. “Those noises do not belong to feral animals. Keep moving.”
It was no longer raining, but the ground was slippery with wet leaves. The sandy soil shifted beneath her boots with every step, keeping her off-balance and her gait uneven. The visibility had gone from poor to nonexistent when a mass of black clouds had swallowed the thin slice of moon. The only reason she knew she was on a path at all was that she had yet to crash face-first into a tree.
The branches, however, ripped at her pelisse, tugged at her hair, tore her bonnet off completely. She didn’t wish to admit it, but the very narrowness of the trail meant she was no longer on the one she’d taken to Moonseed Manor from the stables. If she ever had been. She briefly considered turning around, but she’d walked for so long that surely there would be a break in the trees at any moment.
Besides, this might be her only chance. Susan’s cold fingers closed around the gold chain hanging about her neck and tugged the antique crucifix from beneath her bodice. She held the cross tight in her hands, pressed it to her chest. Shewouldget that strongbox. The smugglers would be captured, Lady Emeline would be freed, and the spirits of both Lady Beaune and Dead Mr. Bothwick would finally be at peace. It was all up to her. She had to succeed.
Her already-slow steps slowed even further when she heard distant noises up ahead. Footsteps cracked across fallen twigs. Mr. Bothwick? Perhaps she’d found her way to the stables after all!
She crept as close as she dared before peering through the trees, then recoiled in shock.
Chapter 43
Not the stables. The chicken shed. Not Mr. Bothwick, but Mr. Forrester. With a lantern half-hidden beneath his greatcoat. By all appearances, the magistrate had only just emerged from the selfsame path on which she still stood. Good Lord. Susan gripped the closest tree for support and tried to remain dead silent.
She almost failed to breathe when she saw the person he’d come to meet.
Dinah Devonshire.
Surely they didn’t intend to rendezvous in the chicken shed! Susan had been so certain Miss Devonshire would die before stepping foot inside the dirty little hut. Then again, Susan would’ve thought the same about Mr. Forrester just a few hours prior. But the man she’d considered good-intentioned but naive had turned out to be the opposite on both counts. Perhaps Miss Devonshire, too, was not the hollow-headed doll she appeared to be.
“Go.” Miss Devonshire waved him back, casting furtive glances over her small, round shoulders. “We’ll meet another night.”
The magistrate did not halt his approach. “No. I need to speak with you.”
“It’s unsafe,” she insisted, but preened as if delighted to discover her charming company held more sway than whatever danger lurked outside the little shed.
“Unsafe how?” Mr. Forrester gestured at the lone cow, asleep where it stood. “The animals are the only ones listening.”
Miss Devonshire touched his arm, blinked up at him with huge eyes. “But Miss Stanton saw us here last time. What if she comes back?”
“She cannot. I had Ollie Hamilton’s manservant lock her chamber door.”
Susan resisted the urge to bash her head against the closest tree. Not only had she gotten utterly lost en route to Mr. Bothwick’s stables, she wouldn’t be able to reenter her own bedchamber when she returned to Moonseed Manor. Assuming she could retrace her steps at all.
“You...” Miss Devonshire’s voice wobbled. Dark lines creased her beautiful forehead, as if she just realized her tattle might’ve engendered consequences more serious than she’d anticipated. Her fingers no longer grazed the magistrate’s arm, nor were her wide eyes focused flirtatiously on his face. Her hands were now twisting together beneath her bosom. “I don’t think she means ill. She’s simply too...curious.”
“Don’t worry.” The magistrate gave a kick to the hind leg of the sleeping cow. The animal jerked awake and lumbered away. Susan clutched the tree and fumed.
Miss Devonshire’s shocked gasp did not earn the slightest flicker of acknowledgment from the magistrate.
“I’ll take care of Miss Stanton’s curiosity.” Mr. Forrester’s cherubic smile looked more demonic than angelic.
Susan hoped she was overestimating the level of finality in his tone.
Miss Devonshire recoiled from the magistrate. However, the scant inches between her shoulders and the shed did not allow for much distance, and her shoulders banged against the closed door. She cast about nervous glances again at the unexpected noise, but this time her eyes hinted she more than half-hoped someonewouldoverhear.
“I need the money you owe me.” Mr. Forrester’s bald statement neatly changed topic without affording Miss Devonshire the opportunity to ask further questions about Susan’s fate.
Miss Devonshire frowned, her nervous fingers clenching together. “How much?”
His expression was ruthless. “All of it.”
Her jaw dropped. “But I haven’t sold even a third! I’d been hoping Miss Stanton would spend some of her city money. Perhaps when the next shipment comes in, things will be different. Didn’t you say you might procure new fashion plates for me? With the right look as incentive, the local ladies will—”
“There will be no more shipments.”
