“She is.” Ollie refilled his empty brandy glass. “For as long as her parents continue to send money.”
At that, Evan stalked out of the study. Ollie could be so infuriating. Just because he’d been a member of the crew for several years—as opposed to Evan and Timothy’s mere six months—Ollie took great delight in treating the two of them like imbeciles.
Irritatingly, the overgrown brute did have a point. Evan undoubtedly would’ve been late coming home if he’d been the one on the ship.
But it wasn’t Evan on that ship. It was Timothy. Timothy, with the rule-following soul of a ledger-keeper. Timothy, who’d wanted to create charts and schedules for swabbing the deck and cleaning the privies, for Christ’s sake. If the captain said to dock by Monday, Timothy would’ve docked on Sunday morning.
But he hadn’t.
Evan let himself out of Moonseed Manor. Few stars lit the cloudy sky. He circled the perimeter of the house and crossed through the rock garden to the steep path plummeting down the sandy cliff to the beach below. Timothy would’ve—
Wait. What was that? There, smudged between the shore and the horizon. A ship, the hull rocking with black waves, the sails fluttering with the ocean’s salty breath.Theirship.
Evan scrambled down the narrow trail, his sure feet keeping him from tumbling to his death even as the sharp rocks and brambles scratched at his boots and clothes.
He leapt the last few feet and sprinted toward the ship. Running in boots on thick sand was never easy, but at least he wasn’t doing so weighted down with large wooden crates. The craft shimmered in the distance, a mirage of sails and shadow. Why weren’t the damn things helm-lashed? And why cast anchor so close to home? If Timothy didn’t have the ship housed in the usual spot before daybreak, half the town would see the flag from their breakfast windows.
Lungs burning from exertion, Evan slowed to a jog when he got close enough to realize there was no way to board the ship without swimming a fair bit out to it. The crew hadn’t bothered to drop anchor within shouting distance.
Evan sighed and shucked his boots and greatcoat. Lucky that fashionable garments from illegal French silk were free for the taking—for pirates, anyway—or Evan might be a bit displeased about being forced to dive into frigid saltwater in his evening clothes.
One of his stockings had been sucked away by the time he reached the bower’s cable. Soaking wet and shivering, he hauled himself up to the deck as quickly as possible. A ruined wardrobe he could forgive, but if he caught cold from dealing with his little brother’s antics and became too ill to go on the next mission, Evan would have to seriously consider fratricide.
“Timothy!” he shouted as he leapt to the deck. His single stockinged foot shot forward every time the silk slid across puddles of water. Evan half-hopped, half-danced his way to a reasonably dry patch and jerked the offending garment free. “Timothy? Red? Where the devil are you two?”
And the rest of the crew, for that matter. A so-called two-person job still required the usual collection of riffraff in order to set sail—or return home. There was no cargo in sight, either. The anonymous local associate who sold their smuggled goods must have made short work of divesting the ship of its booty. The spoils were no doubt long gone, and the captain’s share of the profits already in his pocket.
Damp footprints marked Evan’s trajectory as he made his way through the empty ship, calling out crew-member names and pushing open doors. Timothy was no doubt at home before a fire. That straitlaced rotter would laugh himself silly if he knew his brother was dripping wet and clomping around deck barefoot.
Evan gave the wardroom door a halfhearted shove, convinced by now that he was the only one stupid enough to still be on board. He stepped inside the cramped quarters and jolted to a stop.Damnit.
For the second time that evening, his hands convulsed uselessly at his sides. He never had his pistols when he needed them. And neither, it seemed, did Timothy.
A pair of glassy eyes stared right through Evan. His brother’s eyes. Evan’s heart shattered. A trickle of dried blood seeped from the small black hole in Timothy’s pale forehead, the thin red line separating his face into two ghostly halves. No point checking for a pulse. Evan’s stomach heaved as he crumpled to his knees. His brother.Gone.
He lowered his head, no longer able to stare into the eyes that had once looked up to him as if he were a hero. His fist slammed into the planks beneath his knees. He was no hero. He’d failed Timothy as a shipmate and as a brother. His throat tightened.Heshould’ve been the one aboard the ship. The one to face whoever had attacked Timothy.
Evan forced himself to his feet. He would find whoever had stolen his brother’s life. He’d catch the rotten son of a bitch, no matter who he was or where he’d slunk off to.
And then he’d kill him.
Chapter 3
For the first time in her life, Susan Stanton did not sleep past noon. Witnessing a ghostly breeze rip an old woman into strips of nothing was not, as it turned out, conducive to a good night’s rest. Although she considered herself a logical, fact-based, feet-firmly-on-the-ground sort, there was only one conclusion that could be drawn from such an event.
Moonseed Manor was haunted.
The only conclusion that could be drawn fromthatconclusion was that it was more imperative than ever that she return to London posthaste. She absolutely must be on the next carriage out of Bournemouth, even if she had to drive the horses herself.
Susan strode to the bell pull. Her hand had already curled around the cord when a chilling thought wriggled into her brain. Barely dawn. Would arealservant answer the call? Or a ghost? Her fingers dropped the cord as if the twine had branded her palm.
Perhaps—whilst she was having a steady series of firsts anyway—she should go ahead and dress herself.
Although she managed to remove her nightgown and don her shift with little incident, lacing stays and a morning gown proved quite impossible to do by oneself. Heart thudding, Susan gave the cursed bell pull a reluctant tug and sat down at a small escritoire in the corner to wait. After staring at a dusty pen-and-ink set for several moments, unlaced gown gaping open at her back, she decided to take this opportunity to inform her family of her impending return.
“Dear Mother,” she scratched across the top of a yellowed sheet of parchment.
I was wrong. I do hate you more than you hate me.
