What few servants Evan employed had been with him for over a decade. The instruction to begin packing was dispatched quickly, and incurred neither questions nor raised brows. They were, for better or worse, loyal to a fault.
His manservant, however, lingered behind.
“Yes, Croxley?”
The man hesitated before stepping forward. That alone was all Evan required to make his heart start pounding anew. Croxley never hesitated.
“I found a glove beneath your soiled linen,” the manservant said at last. “I would have thrown it in the fire, but since you hadn’t done so yourself... I wondered if you knew it was there.”
“A glove,” Evan repeated stupidly. “Why would I throw a glove into the fire?”
Rather than respond with words, the manservant held out his hand. His fingers uncurled to reveal a lady’s silk glove. The crusted-brown cloth stuck to itself in clumps, dampened with what could only be blood.
Silently—more because words failed him than out of any desire to hold his tongue—Evan took the soiled object from his manservant. The hair comb in his pocket now seemed a ridiculous keepsake. He could scarce believe he of all people had suffered a romantic moment over the duplicitous woman who’d left behind this mass of ruined silk.
He brought the glove to his nose and sniffed. Definitely blood. The scent brought too many memories. The glove held far too much blood for a mere scratch. And Susan had been uninjured.
The cloth was still damp in some areas. Evan transferred it to his other hand and stared in disbelief at his rust-stained palm.
Someone nearby was severely wounded. And Susan had said nothing.
He made a fist to hide the blood from view, but he could still smell its coppery odor, feel the tackiness stick to his fingers and palm.
Whyhadshe come here? He now doubted her panic had anything to do with the caged Lady Emeline. Upon whose bleeding body had she attempted to staunch the flow of blood? Or had she been the one to cause the injury? And why had she not confided in him?
Once again, he would have to hunt for clues. But this time, he didn’t know the identity of the victim. Or if said person was alive or dead. Whatever was going on, Miss Susan Stanton was involved up to her eyeballs. Evan had no way to know whose side she was on.
But he doubted it was his.
Chapter 39
Susan forced her shaky limbs back to the escritoire and sat down to compose a response to her parents. She endeavored to keep the missive free from swear words, but doubted her darling progenitors would fail to perceive her ire.
Send the carriage back,she wrote, then underlined the final word a half dozen times.My life is in danger. Others have died. I must return home.
After Janey left with the newest letter, Susan locked the door behind her and planned to stay put until one of her missives actually summoned help. But after a lonely tray of tea, an equally lonely supper, and a long, sleepless night, she could scarce stand to remain cooped up in the bedchamber any longer.
A full day might have been enough time for her pleas to reach London, and for a rider to return—if a rider had been going to do so. The fact that breakfast came and went on its little tray and brought no word from Stanton House or Bow Street Runner headquarters... well, Susan didn’t want to think overmuch about that.
If they’d taken her seriously, they would have arrived by now. And if they dismissed her words as the ravings of a madwoman, then she was simply back where she started. She’d have to save herself.
The promise of Bath loomed larger and larger until she could think of nothing else but escape. The presence of the money box only served to underscore her cursed powerlessness that much more. The necessity of waiting until the assembly was more untenable than ever, now that she had enough coin to rent a coach yet still no immediate course of doing so.
After the breakfast tray had been fetched, Susan rose to her feet. She couldn’t remain in this house. Not with the scarecrow belowstairs, grinning his slash-faced smile because he’d managed to deflect her first viable conveyance for escape whilst she’d been upstairs in a tub of tepid water.
For now, perhaps she could pay her debts. She stuffed her pocket full of coin, then frowned. The heavy pouch no longer had room for the little blade. Her debts weren’t overmuch. Given a Bow Street Runner had been brutally murdered—with a letter bearinghersignature in his pocket—perhaps she ought to keep the weapon with her at all times. Thus resolved, she dumped a portion of the coin back into the money box.
Toying with the knife, she crossed toward the door. As she passed the fireplace where Lady Beaune’s ghost always disappeared, a cold breeze slithered down Susan’s neck, causing the slim ivory handle to slip from her fingers. The knife thunked hollowly to the wooden floor.
Susan jumped backward (thankfully with her toes intact) and looked about the room for the ghost. No Lady Beaune. Had she accidentally walked into the poor woman, just as she was beginning to materialize? Bloody hell. If it weren’t for bad luck... Susan knelt to pick up the fallen knife, frustrated at having missed an opportunity to attempt communication. At this rate, she’d never decipher the dead woman’s mission, much less complete it.
No sooner had Susan’s fingers lifted the knife mere inches from the wooden floor, the ghostly breeze returned. Gooseflesh rippled down her arms. This time, the current was strong enough to ruffle Susan’s hair. The handle once again clunked hollowly against the floor.
Wait... hollowly?
Susan rapped at the wooden panel against which the knife had fallen. Definitely hollow. She rapped against the adjacent panels. Markedly solid. She sat back on her heels, frowning, then eased the blade from the ivory handle. She slipped the tip into the crack between the first floorboard and its neighbors, and levered gentle pressure on the handle until the stubborn board began to creak open. As soon as the corner rose high enough for a fingertip to slip beneath, Susan did so, wrenching it all the way open.
Dust. Spiderwebs. And Lady Beaune’s antique crucifix.
