“What?” It was Susan’s turn to stare uncomprehendingly.
The magistrate gave a self-conscious smile. “You just seemed so disappointed, is all. I, too, wish the dancing were sooner. In fact, I would like to call on you beforehand, if I may. One week seems terribly long to wait to enjoy the company of a delightful young lady like yourself.”
Oh, good Lord. He thought she was pining to be whirled about in his arms? She’d never pined for a man, much less a boring waltz. All the most interesting activities took placeoffthe dance floor.
Over the magistrate’s shoulder, she spied Mr. Bothwick again. Still watching them.Therewas a man who no doubt knew plenty of interesting activities for which one did not require moving to music. And possibly even more interesting ones that did. Susan tried to tamp down the sudden flash of heat simmering just beneath her flesh.
She needed to get back to Mayfair. Now. Before she did something stupid. But how? Perhaps Mr. Forrester could be of service prior to the assembly.
“When are you leaving?” she asked suddenly. “Where are you going next?”
His brows lifted in feigned (or possibly unfeigned) hurt. “So eager to be rid of me?”
“Not at all,” she assured him. Rot. She needed to sound innocently flirtatious, not like she was fishing for escape routes. She hugged his arm a little closer and tried not to feel Mr. Bothwick’s gaze carving a hole in the back of her head. “I was just curious about you.”
And how she might stow a ride in the magistrate’s carriage. Wherever the damn thing was. Assuming he hadn’t arrived in a mail coach. Not that she’d seen a single mail coach in the entire time she’d been in Bournemouth. Bloody hell, what if he’dwalked?No matter. He’d need a proper carriage to take her and his aunt to the assembly. Escape was still on the horizon.
The magistrate smiled uncertainly. “I’m afraid I’m not going home for a while. I’ve business in the area and various loose ends to tie up. If you’d like, though...” He paused, studied her intently, flushed. “I might be able to stop by Bournemouth midweek, before the assembly. May I call on you?”
“Yes,” she blurted, then mentally kicked herself when both Mr. Forrester and Mr. Bothwick interpreted her immediate enthusiasm in exactly the wrong way. One beamed. The other glowered.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t correct the assumption that she was romantically inclined toward the well-tailored magistrate without offering an alternate explanation. She only hoped that when Mr. Forrester did return midweek, Mr. Bothwick would leave them alone long enough for her to take the magistrate into her confidence.
Or run away, whichever was easier.
They strolled in silence for several long moments. She glanced over the magistrate’s shoulder again and started when she realized Mr. Bothwick had disappeared. She scanned the shore until she saw him. Close, but not too close. Skipping rocks into the sea. This was her chance.
“Mr. Forrester, there’s something I—”
“Out of earshot, is he?”
She blinked in surprise, then nodded. No sense pretending confusion as to whom he meant.
“Good.” The magistrate’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I need your help.”
“You need my—” She stared at him uncomprehendingly. That had beenherline. “What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to keep an eye on Evan Bothwick.”
“You need me to what?”
“Oh, dear. I should have asked first if you find a bit of spying upon others morally reprehensible.” He tugged at his cravat worriedly. “And if so, would it change your mind if I assured you all actions were in the name of upholding the law for Mother England?”
Susan shot a suspicious glance at the dress shop but saw no more unfriendly faces. If Miss Grey and Miss Devonshire were watching, they were doing so from inside. Had they told the magistrate their Peeping Tom rumor after all? Was this all a grand joke being played on silly Susan Stanton? Perhaps there was no assembly at all. Just a farce to make a fool of her.
“Will you do it?” Mr. Forrester pressed.
“Why?” she returned with equanimity.
“Because”—for a split second, Susan almost thought he was making up his answer on the spot—“I’m investigating the ladies’ dressmaking business.”
Susan stared. Well, at least she knew this was no elaborate ploy to humiliate her, orchestrated by the two dressmakers. Her enemies were far too intelligent to come up with something this stupid.
“Investigating them for what? Uneven hems?”
“I’ve been told,” he said, his voice returning to a hushed whisper, “that they’ve been selling French silk. You are perhaps too genteel to pay attention to such minutiae, but trade with the French is illegal. If they are indeed doing so, I must discover where this silk is coming from. For that, I require your help.”
Well, the source was easy enough. French silk came fromFrance.There, mystery solved.
