The scarecrow’s ragged-tooth smile disappeared into a thin line. His fingers flexed, then tightened around the shovel. Without bothering to refill the hole—no matter why he’d dug one to start with—he swung the sharp metal base over one bony shoulder like a deadly infantryman poising his bayonet. Then he stepped toward her.
She could run. But not fast and not far, and she hadn’t the slightest clue where to runtothat would possibly offer shelter from a homicidal butler who knew every grain of salt in this godforsaken village. Yet staying out in the open, alone, had ceased to be an option that ensured survival.
He crept closer. His jerky limbs gave his gait a disjointed rhythm, but the steel glinting behind his head lent him an air of imminent danger.
She needed to hide amongst people. Living people.Now.Before she had a chance to change her mind, Susan did the only thing she could.
She bolted into the dress shop.
Thick curtains blocked the sun. A flickering candelabrum illuminated the dank interior, casting a hellish orange glow over the two women hunched together between rows of dark, flowing silk. The witch stood mostly in shadow, the tip of her parasol digging into the floor next to her feet. She spoke in hushed tones to a porcelain doll of a woman with strawberry-blonde locks and a beautiful lace-trimmed gown.
Both ceased talking at the hollow click of the door. They turned.
Two pairs of suspicious eyes glinted at Susan. The tiny flames from tarnished candelabra sent shadows scurrying across their faces. Susan hesitated, but could not flee. She knew what lurked, shovel in hand, on the other side of these walls.
“Will you look at that,” the witch murmured without straightening her hunched spine. “A customer.”
“Fresh blood.” A terrible smile formed in the porcelain doll’s perfect face.
They broke their tête-à-tête and advanced toward Susan. The porcelain doll’s steps were as silent and sure as a prima ballerina flying across a London stage. The tip of the witch’s closed parasol scraped across the hardwood floor like a sword hanging free from its scabbard.
The door creaked open behind Susan, sending a gust of salty air swirling through the room. Layers of silk fluttered with the chill. Neither the witch nor the porcelain doll halted their approach. Footsteps sounded in the doorway behind Susan. A shadow fell across the floor.
She turned to face the scarecrow.
He wasn’t there.
Instead, a man of no more than thirty years stood silhouetted in the doorway, his body backlit by the morning sun and his features cast in shadow. He was nearly as tall as Mr. Bothwick, if a bit less muscular. Strands of golden hair danced between the sunlight and the breeze. He stepped forward. The door swung shut behind him.
“Mr. Forrester,” the two women behind Susan breathed simultaneously.
“Ladies.” He bowed. “Good morning.”
Susan blinked. Arealgentleman?
His gaze met hers. “I came to see the two prettiest young ladies in Bournemouth, and must say I’m delighted to discover a third in your midst.”
Candlelight lit Mr. Forrester’s face, exposing angel-blue eyes and a boyish smile beneath his head of golden curls. Blues and reds lent his attire the classic air of a Rubens portrait. He reached for Susan’s trembling hand, dipped, and pressed a kiss against the back of her gloved fingers.
An awkward silence wafted amongst the shadows. “M-Miss Susan Stanton,” she stammered when she realized no one else would be able to make the introduction for her. Had she mentioned shehatednot being in London?
“Gordon Forrester.” He rose to his feet before releasing her hand. “Delighted to meet you.” He inclined his head, then moved past her to buss the other ladies’ cheeks without another word.
Dismissed so easily?
Susan stared after him in shock. That had to go on record as the shortest conversation she’d ever held with a gentleman. The sharks that swam up to her in London ballrooms smelled Stanton money in the water and scarcely let her have a moment alone to visit the retiring room. The ones who approached her outside the ballroom walls—well, those fancied an intimacy Susan had sworn never to grant any man unworthy of being her husband. But true gentlemen neverdismissedher.
And for women such as these!
She stared, arms crossed beneath her bodice, as the porcelain doll performed a perfect pirouette to show off her fashionable gown (and no doubt the ankles beneath). A blush as deep a red as her flyaway hair stole up the witch’s pale cheeks as she curtsied behind her closed parasol. Neither one ofthemhad bothered to introduce themselves.
Susan’s jaw clenched. In London, she knew every face worth knowing and they all knew her. In London, hers were the cheeks being bussed by this viscount or that countess. In London, a thick ring of admirers had once hovered well within her orbit, eager to hear whatever words might fall next from her lips. But then gossip had embroiled her in one scandal, and the Frost Fair had dropped her in another.
While she was stuck here, she would have to make the best of it. Susan straightened her glasses and stepped forward. Mr. Forrester glanced up, but instead of smiling at her as all gentlemen used to do, his cherubic brow furrowed in a frown.
“I keep feeling we’ve met before, Miss Stanton. Have you been in Bournemouth long?”
“I’m afraid I arrived last night.”
