Too Sinful to Deny by Erica Ridley Page B

companion to the unfortunates in the cold earth out-of-doors.
    The last place she wanted to go was down into that darkness, from whence those horrible whimpers rose. But if a child needed help, how could she not?
    Careful to keep her descent as soundless as possible—if a villain were there with the wounded child, she certainly had no wish to make her presence known—Susan crept down the steps one by one.
    A dank chill emanated from the stone passageway. Tiny beads of moisture covered the smooth slabs, as if whatever misdeeds took place within these walls caused the house itself to break into a cold sweat.
    Not for the first time, Susan wondered whether it would be smarter to just walk on back to London after all, with nothing more than the pelisse on her back. What were a hundred or so miles to the truly desperate? But then came another soft whimper. If she had within her power the opportunity to save an innocent from a terrible fate, she would never forgive herself for walking away.
    She reached the bottom at last. There was only one room. And no way to miss what hunched inside.
    The ghost from her bedchamber.
    As before, a pair of long white plaits tumbled from beneath a hooded cloak. Age spots dotted ungloved hands. Dirty, ripped fingernails clawed at the cold stone walls, still damp with perspiration. Shadow obscured the rest.
    Or did. Susan must have made a small sound. The figure turned around, hobbled forward, cocked her head . . . and the crimson hood fell away from her face.
    A gasp fluttered from Susan’s lips. Not a ghost at all. Not even old.
    The elaborate crucifix was missing from the woman’s thin neck. The braids—now that they caught the weak light from the candelabra in the corridor—were palest blond, not white. And the creature had just managed to brush off one of her age spots with the back of her hand. Dirt. From clawing at the walls. But why—
    Then she saw it.
    A chain. Thin. Delicately so. But strong enough to keep this poor woman’s warped frame shackled to its cage. The slender chain stretched from an iron ring attached to the lowest corner stone to an invisible manacle beneath the hem of the crimson cloak.
    The woman couldn’t have been much older than four or five and twenty. She hobbled toward Susan. And whimpered when the chain checked her progress at her very first step. This time, its taut length revealed the iron clamp encircling a pale, bone-thin ankle.
    Susan’s lungs drew in a sudden, heaving breath as if she’d been underwater all this time and finally come up for air. It was not a feeling she liked to relive.
    If this woman was locked, trapped, imprisoned . . . there must be a key to release her. Susan just had to find it. But the walls were empty. Consumed with urgency, she jerked her body around to search the corridor for a nail hanging a key in the shadows.
    She came face-to-face with the giant.
    The master of the manor did not look pleased. The scarecrow stood just behind him, grinning his horrible slash-faced smile. He still carried a shovel in one hand. From the other dangled a ring of keys. Which quickly disappeared into a pocket.
    Susan tried to move, tried to smile and say she must’ve lost her way (dear Lord, why hadn’t she lost her bloody way?), tried to squeeze through the half-inch of space not filled up by the giant and escape Moonseed Manor forever. But her limbs were frozen in place.
    “There you are, Miss Stanton,” drawled the giant’s deep voice, as if he and the scarecrow had spent the entire morning looking for her.
    Perhaps they had. The scarecrow’s tiny eyes glittered at her above his evil smile.
    The giant moved farther into the room. “I see you’ve met my wife.”
    His—Once again, Susan’s lungs failed her. She turned to gape at the frail, hunchbacked creature chained to the wall. How could this be Lady Beaune? The woman whimpered, put both gnarled hands to her face, and cowered into the corner.
    “Y-you keep my cousin chained up in the