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TOO SINFUL TO DENY!
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Sweepstakes Question: Which of the following cast of unsavory characters is secretly in league with the smugglers?
Being a "He Said, She Said" secret window
into the lives of a few of our favorite unsavories:
SUSAN STANTON, as told by Susan Stanton:
“I. . . I. . .” Susan managed, before choking on an explanation she did not have.
She what? She was the twenty-year-old sole offspring of a loveless titled couple who had banished their ostracized disappointment of a daughter to the remotest corner of England rather than bear the sight of her? She nudged her spectacles up the bridge of her nose with the back of a gloved hand and forced what she hoped was a smile.
“My name is Miss Susan Stanton,” she tried again, and decided to leave the explanation at that.
SUSAN STANTON, as told by Evan Bothwick:
She wiggled in his arms. “You can put me down now.”
“I could,” he agreed, irritated to realize he was still holding her. He was definitely going to put her down. Any second now. “But you’ve just gotten interesting.”
“Oh, now I’m interesting? Arriving in the dead of night, secretly following you, sliding down a cliff on my sure-to-be-bruised derrière—all that is perfectly normal in your world? What the hell did I do in the past thirty seconds that’s so bloody interesting?”
A mouth like that and the face of an angel. Evan held her a little closer. “This keeps getting better.”
EVAN BOTHWICK, as told by Susan Stanton:
A door banged open several feet ahead. The handsome gentleman she’d met the night before flew backward into the hall, crashed into the wall opposite, and landed in a crouched position. His pistols pointed straight ahead at the open doorway from whence he’d flown. The door immediately slammed shut behind him.
He didn’t move for several long seconds, as if deciding whether to kick the door back open or to start shooting straight through it. To say his dress was in a state of disarray would be a gross understatement. But costume was a lesser concern than his propensity for indulging homicidal urges.
Just when Susan came to the conclusion that she’d be better off sneaking back upstairs after all, the would-be murderer straightened, snapped seaweed-laden boots together with military precision, and marched down the hall in the opposite direction.
EVAN BOTHWICK, as told by Evan Bothwick:
Evan inclined his head. Perhaps she had a dose of common sense after all. Even he was starting not to trust himself. His mind was positive he should stay far, far away, but his body seemed to think a few minutes alone with hers would do them both quite nicely. His smile widened.
“Scoundrel.”
“You have no idea.”
A frustrated sound escaped her lips. She glared at him, wobbled, then cast her gaze skyward as if hoping for divine intervention.
Attractive as the untouchable debutante might be, Evan did not have time to waste. He debated walking off while she wasn’t looking. Ungentlemanly, perhaps, but at least he could deliver himself from temptation.
DINAH DEVONSHIRE, as told by Susan Stanton:
“What a relief,” Miss Devonshire cooed with false sweetness. “We were afraid you and an unfortunate blond girl who collapsed this morning in Sully’s tavern might have been one and the same.”
Mr. Forrester’s lips rounded into an O. “That’s where I saw you.”
Susan's face flamed.
The two ladies tittered. They’d known precisely who she was—most likely from the moment she’d stepped into the shop—and had chosen this method of revealing their knowledge so as to provide maximum humiliation before a handsome gentleman.
DINAH DEVONSHIRE, as told by Evan Bothwick:
A too-high voice rang out, “Evan! Evan!”
He bit back a sigh. “Miss Devonshire,” he answered politely.
She came to a breathless stop before him, all flushed cheeks and bouncing curls and saccharine desperation. “I asked you to call me Dinah.”
And he’d never asked her to call him Evan, but had that done any good? Miss Dinah Devonshire was a living, breathing reminder of why a man should never dally with a woman he would have to lay eyes on again the next day. Tenterhooks grew from her fingers. If he weren’t careful, he’d wind up fastened among the cloth stretching to dry in her workroom.
TIMOTHY BOTHWICK, as told by Evan Bothwick:
“Let’s just talk about Timothy, shall we? He and Red were meant to dock this time last week. Timothy was the lead on that mission, and he’s responsible enough to—”
Ollie shrugged. “Smugglers aren’t responsible.”
Evan’s fingers twitched at his side. “Red’s a useless corkbrain and always has been, but Timothy would’ve sent word if something went wrong.”
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.
GORDON FORRESTER, as told by Susan Stanton:
A man of no more than thirty years stood silhouetted in the doorway, his body backlit by the morning sun and his features cast in shadow. He was nearly as tall as Mr. Bothwick, if a bit less muscular. Strands of golden hair danced between the sunlight and the breeze.
“Mr. Forrester,” the two women behind Susan breathed simultaneously.
“Ladies.” He bowed. “Good morning.”
Candlelight lit Mr. Forrester’s face, exposing angel-blue eyes and a boyish smile beneath his head of golden curls. Blues and reds lent his attire the classic air of a Rubens portrait. He reached for Susan’s trembling hand, dipped, and pressed a kiss against the back of her gloved fingers.
GORDON FORRESTER, as told by Evan Bothwick:
The local magistrate leaned against the counter, murmuring to the barman. Probably trying to convince Sully not to open until noon from now on, so as to curb public drunkenness. God, how Evan hated self-righteous toadies who felt compelled to uphold the letter of the law. The magistrate was one of the worst.
“Good Lord.” Sully leaned halfway over the counter. “What the hell happened to you?”
Gordon Forrester’s holier-than-thou gaze took in Evan’s sand-specked hair, salt-starched greatcoat, and stockingless legs. He was no doubt wracking his brain to think of a way to turn excessive dishabille into a gaol-worthy offense.
“Fell off a pier.” Evan flashed Forrester a you-can’t-touch-me smile and settled atop a barstool. “Seen Red lately?”
OLLIE HAMILTON, as told by Susan Stanton:
The door swung fully open and a fairytale giant filled the entirety of the frame.
Her shoulders reached his hips. His shoulders reached the sides of the doorframe and very nearly the top as well. His broad back hunched to allow his dark head to pass beneath the edge. Small black eyes glittered in an overlarge square face, his mouth hidden behind a beard the color of fresh tar. Arms that could crush tree trunks flexed at his sides. He did not offer his hand.
OLLIE HAMILTON, as told by Evan Bothwick:
Evan snatched his greatcoat from the arm of a wingback chair. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed Ollie to wed. Or the type of woman that would want him. Evan himself couldn’t handle the oaf’s company for long stretches. The little blonde upstairs would soon regret whatever impulse had brought her so far from home. . . and wearing bejeweled Town finery into a den of smugglers.
“That new guest of yours is certainly fancy. Hope she knows enough to lock her door.”
“My house.” Ollie lifted his empty brandy glass. “Nothin’ locked to me.”