Too Sinful to Deny Read Free

to see the lady of the house), he was already gone.
    She faced the cavernous chamber once more, doing her best to ignore the uneasy sensation of walking into a crypt. Although the room was as cold as any catacomb would be, a large canopied bed, not a casket, stood in the center. The shadowy figure next to the unlit fireplace had to be a maid provided to ensure Susan’s comfort. Thank God. At least there was some hint of London sensibilities.
    Susan stepped forward just as the cloaked figure swiveled without seeming to move her feet. Long white braids flanked a narrow face hollowed with hunger and despair. Age spots mottled her clawed hands and pale neck. An ornate crucifix hung from a long gold chain. Trembling fingers clutched the intricate charm to her thin chest. She did not appear to be starting a fire in the grate. She did not appear to be a maid at all.
    “M-may I help you?” Susan asked.
    The old woman did not answer.
    Were there more sundry guests in this pharaoh’s tomb of a manor? Was this one lost, confused, afraid? So was Susan, on all counts, but the least she could do was help this poor woman find her correct bedchamber.
    Before she could so much as offer her hand, however, a sharp breeze rippled through the chamber. She shivered before she realized she could no longer feel the phantom breeze—although it continued to flutter the old woman’s dark red cloak and unravel the braids from her hair.
    In fact . . . the breeze began to unravel the old woman herself, ripping thread by red thread from her cloak like drops of blood disappearing in a pool of water. The wind tore long curling strands of white hair from her bowed head, then strips of flesh from her bones, until the only thing standing before Susan was the empty fire pit. The glittering crucifix fell onto the hardwood floor and disappeared from sight.
    The chamber door slammed shut behind her with foundation-shaking force. Susan didn’t have to try the handle to know she was trapped inside.
    She wondered what else was locked inside with her.

    Evan Bothwick swirled his untouched brandy, then tossed the liquid into the fire. He didn’t jump backward as steam and sparks shot from the flames, giving the smoke a slightly sweeter air. For a moment, something akin to rancid fruit overpowered the more pungent peat. Neither odor, however, was what soured his stomach.
    Empty glass dangling from his fingers, he faced his companion.
    “I must know the truth.”
    Ollie’s oversized frame hulked before the bar. “I don’t know a damn thing. She’s some London deb, here to repent the wickedness of her ways.”
    “Not about your houseguest, brute.” Evan hurled his empty tumbler into the fire. The glass shattered on impact, but the smell of the smoke did not change. “I’m scarce interested in the blasted woman slamming doors abovestairs.”
    “Humph. You’re always interested in women.” Ollie poured a fresh glass of brandy and proffered it in one large paw.
    Evan made a shooing motion to decline the offer, then watched in silent horror as his host downed the entirety in one swallow, like a shot of cheap whiskey. “I’m interested in wenches, not women, Ollie. Wenches are . . . perfect. Much easier to deal with.”
    Ollie swiped the back of his hand across his beard. “How could what’s-her-name be any easier? She’s upstairs. And no lock ever kept you out of somewhere you wished to be.”
    “Exactly. She’s upstairs. Whereas if you pick the right wench, you never have to clap eyes on her again.” Evan glanced at the fob in his waistcoat pocket. “Like I said . . . perfect.”
    Ollie’s too-loud laughter filled the smoky room. “From what they’re saying in town, you clapped more than your eyes on that scrumptious little Miss—”
    “Let’s just talk about Timothy, shall we? He and Red were meant to dock this time last week.”
    “Red ain’t here, either.”
    “That’s my point. ” Evan leaned back, his shoulder thudding against the