“Why? What’s in it?”
He flashed her a look of pure exasperation. “It doesn’t matter what’s in it!”
“Why should I risk my life for something that doesn’t matter?” she asked in her most reasonable tone, knowing the logic would drive him mad. He deserved some consternation. His half-truths and dangerous missions were more than she could handle right now. She stormed forward.
All Red had wanted was for her to pass a simple message, and look where that had gotten her. That business in the rock garden? She was lucky the still-living Mr. Bothwick had intercepted her. If the giant and the scarecrow had found her trespassing...
Susan shivered. She didn’t want to imagine the lengths to which they might have retaliated. She didn’t want to go back to Moonseed Manor at all.
Ignoring Dead Mr. Bothwick, she stood at the base of the path and glanced around the town. Nobody had come out to stone her today. Nor were there balloons and a parade. Instead, she was studiously ignored, as she had been the last time she dared show her face. A stupid woman, for not accepting Mr. Bothwick’s supposed proposal. A fallen woman, for having kissed him passionately.
A madwoman, for talking to ghosts. But at least she’d kept that much to herself.
“What do you think?” Dead Mr. Bothwick had apparently concluded his monologue. “Will you do it?”
“No,” she replied without bothering to ask for a summary of the speech she’d blessedly fallen deaf to. “I won’t. What I need to do is find a friend. Preferably a living one. Someone I could ‘visit’ until next weekend, when the magistrate comes to take me to Bath.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick stared at her doubtfully. “A friend? Nobody in town likes you.”
“Thank you,” she said icily. “I hadn’t noticed.”
They stared at the dilapidated buildings in awkward silence.
“Your brother likes me well enough.” Susan bit her tongue as soon as the words were out. She’d meant to trivialize that fact, not draw further attention to their relationship. Whatever their relationship was.
Suspicion returned to Dead Mr. Bothwick’s face. “Don’t trust him.”
She rolled her eyes and stomped away from him, away from town. He didn’t immediately follow, but kept watch from a distance. She ignored him, choosing to focus on the sea stretching before her. She continued down the beach, as wary of its savage beauty as of the black clouds threatening the horizon.
The dark water looked like she felt. Restless. Turbulent. Uncertain. The incoming waves crashed ashore, then retreated just as quickly, as if ashamed of crossing an invisible line in the sand. But seconds later, the pressure would build, and the dark froth would tumble inland before scrambling once again to the sea. Susan glanced down. The tips of her boots were wet. Had the indecisive ocean sneaked too far ashore, or had she been the one to throw caution to the wind? Either way, she ought to start minding her steps.
Of course she didn’t trust Mr. Bothwick. Worse, she couldn’t trust herself when she was around him. Asking him to shelter her for the night would be tantamount to agreeing to let him deflower her. That’s what the already-disapproving townsfolk would think, anyway. She didnotneed anyone carrying rumors to Bath. Not when her familial connections still seemed a strong enough motivator for the giant to keep her alive. If barely.
She cast a despairing glance over her shoulder at the distant town and then returned her gaze to the sea. She’d gladly lower her standards to a common inn, if only there were one to be had. Well, and if she had money. The arrival of which was looking less and less likely by the hour.
Almost time for the assembly,she reminded herself. Once she made it to Bath, the Stanton name would get her back home. Five days of purgatory, then she could rescue cousin Emeline. Surely they could survive five more days. They had no other choice.
She backed up until she reached the line where wet sand met dry. She turned and headed in the direction of Mr. Bothwick’s boat. Not because she was going to touch the thing, of course. Once was enough. But she could feel the weight of the villagers’ stares burning into her back. She had to get out of the townsfolk’s collective eye before their judging glances and general air of virtuous superiority made her nauseated.
Perhaps Dead Mr. Bothwick still floated somewhere around her and perhaps he didn’t. She didn’t know and didn’t care. Because she saw a familiar face up ahead. The open, honest face of the charming Bow Street Runner from Lady Wipplegate’s dinner party. Yet Susan’s leaden feet were anchored to the sand.
The good news: Janey was somehow secretly posting Susan’s letters to Town after all. Otherwise, the handsome Runner would not have come to rescue her before more disaster struck.
The bad news: He was dead.
Chapter 34
Despite being encased in long gloves, Susan’s fingers were ice-cold.
She edged closer. He lay in the sand, one arm flung out toward the sea, the other crossed over his chest as if he’d died attempting to staunch the still-seeping flow of blood from the knife protruding from his chest.
She forced her feet to approach the dead man. Prepared herself for the sight of the Bow Street Runner’s spirit rising from his body to castigate her for sending him on this death mission.
No such ghost appeared.
Wait... he was still bleeding? Perhaps he was alive! Filled with a mixture of hope and horror, she dropped to her knees beside him. She laid her gloved hand over his pale, ungloved one and pressed her ear to his parted lips. No. He was irrevocably dead.
He had come to save her, and she was too late to savehim.She sat back on her heels and tried to think what to do. The magistrate wouldn’t be back until midweek sometime. And the killer... Susan leapt to her feet, breath hitching. The killer was still here. Somewhere.
