“Supper,” she said instantly, as though her mind was focused solely on her next meal. Perhaps her husband’s pockets held even less than she’d intimated. “And then dancing. Do you…?”
His jaw clenched. “I do not dance.”
With guests I did not invite, he might have clarified, but the blatant relief bathing her face at the thought of spending some of the evening without his company changed his mind.
“Tonight,” he continued with a lift of his brow, “I shall make an exception.”
Chapter 3
With her back flush against the closed door, Evangeline stared at her bedchamber in horror. She was supposed to sleep here?
To one side stood a cavernous fireplace, its embers glowing and crackling. Despite the feeble light cast by the dying fire, the room was as dark and foreboding as the rest of the house.
Evangeline inched forward to nudge at the charred logs with a poker.
Sparks spit at her. Sinuous shadows danced across the murky walls as the flames lengthened.
On the other side of the fireplace was a single wooden door. According to Lady Heatherbrook, this led directly to Susan’s bedchamber. Near as Evangeline could determine, proximity to another living human was the sole redeeming quality of her assigned quarters.
The gray swirls above the wainscoting matched those in the outer corridors, lending all the walls of the mansion the alarming appearance of swarming with snakes. The flickering shadows caused the serpents to teem, to undulate, until Evangeline was certain she could hear them hiss. She resolved not to edge too near, lest they bite.
Chiding herself for the unease tensing her muscles and chilling her skin, she crept cautiously around the room.
The wall with the hallway door was bare of all decoration, save a small cracked mirror. The long snake-covered wall on the opposite side of the room was unbroken by door or window. Diabolical, Evangeline decided, that neither sunlight nor fresh air could find its way in. That wall corresponded with the rear of the house and should face a forgotten garden, perhaps, or even the forest. Instead, she saw nothing but seething shadows. She should beg for a room with windows—unless, of course, whatever lurked behind the mansion was something she’d rather not see.
Much like the bed. She turned to face it.
The four-poster monstrosity stretched from the interior wall to well past the center of the room. The foot of the bed faced the fireplace. She supposed the fat little forms carved into the oak were supposed to be frolicking angels, but the artist had made them tiny naked trolls instead. No matter where she stood, their eyes followed her, their stubby fingers beckoning, their smiles ghastly and overstretched.
Evangeline edged closer. The thick velvet tester hung in heavy crimson folds about the perimeter of the bed. Dark scab-colored material lined the canopy. At least while she slept, the covering would block the ceiling from view, where the same macabre artist had frescoed another army of pale winged trolls, dancing and frolicking and beckoning overhead with their too-small eyes and terrifying grins.
To the right of the bed was a tall wooden door, leading not into another guest room, but rather, a dressing chamber. Between the windowless wall and the length of the bed lurked a short, squat series of waist-high bookshelves, the tops still several inches short of the sculpted molding where serpents met wainscoting.
The only other object in the room was a single wingback chair, its upholstery the mottled hue of an old bruise. Beneath her shift, Evangeline had many that would match.
She dragged the chair as close to the fireplace as she dared and was just about to sink onto the seat cushion when the hallway door swung open.
“Oh! Excuse me, mum,” said a small, frightened maid, her dark gaze darting about the room as if the serpents might leap from the walls to her person.
Evangeline could certainly empathize.
“Come in,” she said, motioning with one hand.
“I mustn’t,” said the maid as she stepped inside. “Gor! He’ll kill me for sure.”
“Who?” Evangeline asked, then blanched at the stupidity of her question. Lioncroft, of course. The only murderer present. She changed her query to, “Why?” and gazed at the maid until the latter sighed.
“I’ve lost summat, that’s why. And I’ll be sacked by morning, I will.”
From long habit, Evangeline was at her side, tugging off a glove as she walked. The maid froze in either sheer terror or utter confusion as the back of Evangeline’s cold hand pressed against her forehead, her cheek, her forearm.
What did you lose? her fingers demanded. Remember. Remember.
With each touch, Evangeline’s surroundings disappeared as visions of the maid’s memories enveloped her. And as usual, each touch brought renewed pressure to Evangeline’s skull until the pain dimmed her eyesight and roared in her aching ears. Sometimes she succeeded in conjuring the right images. Sometimes she failed. But she always, always tried.
Show me what you lost today. Show me.
“A handkerchief?” she asked over the throbbing in her temples. At the maid’s startled expression, Evangeline nodded. “You dropped it next to a dressing bureau when you read the letter.”
“When I read the—” the maid broke off and gaped at her.
“You were crying,” Evangeline said apologetically, knowing the maid hadn’t meant anyone to see her secret pain. “You were holding a pile of soiled linen beneath one arm, and the handkerchief fell behind you as you stuffed the letter back in your pocket.”
Sudden clarity flashed in the maid’s eyes.
She did not thank Evangeline, however, nor hug her or smile at her or heap praise upon her, or anything else Evangeline had come to expect from the grateful servants back home who’d considered both she and her mother to be angels from heaven. Instead, the maid’s nervous gaze darted about the chamber once more before she edged backward from the room. She bolted down the hall without bothering to close the door behind her.
It was then that Evangeline realized not only was she as far as possible from home, but that “home” was something she couldn’t duplicate, even on a small level. Hopefully the maid hadn’t run off to tell her master of their guest’s obvious madness—or worse, of her exploitable talent.
Evangeline touched her trembling hands to her temple as her brain raged against her skull. She could usually avoid the headaches by limiting the number of her visions. Why had she been so determined to help the maid? To recapture a small sense of normalcy? Or to prove to herself she had a higher purpose than merely being Lady Stanton’s puppet?
Never trust Polite Society, Mama had said. Evangeline would be wise not to trust their servants, either. At least not until she’d had a chance to better observe the situation.
She made it to the bruised wingback chair before being interrupted again. The new disruption was blond, thin, and bespectacled, and barreled into the room by way of the connecting door.
“There you are,” Susan said, as if Evangeline might be anywhere else. “I wondered where you disappeared to.”
“I’m here.” Evangeline rubbed the tension from the base of her neck with cramped fingers. “Against my better judgment.”
“Two weeks is all. Nothing to it.” Susan peered at her closely. “Have you got a megrim?”
“Something terrible,” Evangeline admitted, then remembered not to take any new individuals into confidence. Mama had regretted telling Lady Stanton about her own visions when they’d been children. Evangeline wouldn’t make the same mistake with Susan. Not after the Stantons had lied to her, and now expected her to blithely hoodwink a killer. “How is your room?” she asked politely, hoping to change the subject.
“Oh, dreadful,” Susan answered cheerfully, gazing around Evangeline’s chamber. “Easily as dismal as this one. No windows, same hideous painted babies with their odd little hands and misshapen heads, blood-colored décor splattered about the chamber…” She leaned a hip against the closest bedpost, running one finger along the ferocious grin
of a tiny troll. “I say, but there has never been a man more in want of a wife than Lionkiller. First thing I shall do is sell this oversized mausoleum. And if he won’t let me do that, at least I’ll have windows put in every single room. Then sconces. And paint. Buckets and buckets of bright yellow paint.”
Evangeline stood, rearranged her chair to face her guest, and sat back down. “So,” she began slowly, unsure of how to respond to any of Susan’s statements. “You still wish to go through with it, then? Marry him, I mean?”
Susan laughed without humor. “Do I wish to? It’s the lesser evil, I’m afraid. Though I’d prefer to marry a title, I could do worse than marry a murderer.”
“You could?” Evangeline echoed, still rubbing her neck. “How?”
“Staying at home with Mother, for one.” Susan’s eyes lit with mischief. “I’d sooner marry a chimney sweep as commit myself to a lifetime of that.”
Evangeline could see her point.
“Lioncroft is the younger son of a viscount,” Susan continued. “What with his brother’s six or seven potential heirs in line first, there’s not much chance of inheritance. Except…With a man like Lionkiller, who knows how many people could turn up dead.” Susan wiggled her eyebrows above her spectacles. “I could be a viscountess yet.”
Evangeline gripped the edges of her chair. “You cannot possibly condone—”
“No, no, don’t be silly. I’m just having a bit of sport, is all. He hasn’t killed in years. I doubt he’ll start the habit back up again on my account, even if I say ‘please.’” She shrugged, as if this lack of action meant Mr. Lioncroft had become quite dull. “And now we—” A staccato knock interrupted whatever Susan had been about to say. She leapt from the bedpost to the door, twisting the knob as though it were her room, not Evangeline’s. “Why, good evening, Mother. I was just about to discuss you quite rudely in your absence.”
“Impertinent chit,” Lady Stanton said coldly, sweeping into the room without giving her daughter a second glance. “Miss Pemberton,” she said instead. “I am here to discuss strategy.”
“Huzzah,” Susan cried, slamming the door shut behind her. “How I love strategy!”
Lady Stanton ignored her.
“For Mr. Lioncroft, you mean?” Evangeline asked, rising to allow Lady Stanton the sole chair.
“Of course.” Lady Stanton sank onto the cushion with a scowl. “We begin tonight. Now, what’s the best motivator for a man to propose?”
“Love?” Evangeline suggested at the same time Susan said, “Money?”
“Scandal,” Lady Stanton corrected. “Although ‘money’ is a very good guess, Susan. The simplest method to bring a man up to scratch is to find oneself in a compromising position with him.”
“I don’t want him to ravish me,” Susan blurted out. “Not until after we’ve wed.”
Lady Stanton’s jaw clenched. “Compromised, not ruined. Perhaps a kiss—”
“No kisses!”
“—or an embrace—”
“No embraces!”
“—or even simply being caught alone together should do.” After successfully ignoring her daughter’s many outbursts, Lady Stanton nodded to Evangeline. “That is your task. Be sure to appear both horrified and scandalized. As a gentleman, he will have no choice but to propose at once.”
“Except he’s a ‘gentleman’ by technicality,” Susan put in. “What if he doesn’t propose? Won’t I be ruined anyway?”
“You’ve already ruined yourself with your silly Town antics,” Lady Stanton snapped. “I have no doubt Lioncroft will do as he ought. You simply have to catch him alone, and Miss Pemberton will do the rest.” Susan and Evangeline exchanged a wordless glance as a chime sounded from outside the door. “That’s the supper bell,” Lady Stanton said. “Don’t dawdle, Susan. Tardiness does not become a future bride.”
With that, Lady Stanton rose, sent a frigid glance about the room, and strode out the door.
“Tardiness does not become a future bride,” Susan mocked, dropping into Evangeline’s chair before Evangeline had an opportunity to do so. “Be honest. What do you think of Mother’s stratagem?”
Evangeline swallowed the word “mad” and tried to formulate a safe response. Much as she hated to admit it, the Stantons were right about one thing—only death awaited her if she walked away now. She only hoped Lady Stanton didn’t suspect Evangeline had inherited her mother’s visions. “You don’t think the plan will work?”
“Of course, it will work. Half the ton marriages are based on business decisions, the other half on indiscretions with bad timing.” Susan shook her head, a grin toying with her lips.
“Aren’t you frightened of marrying a murderer?” Evangeline asked, unable to imagine toying with such a man. “Or his reaction, once he realizes you have tricked him?”
Susan’s cheeks colored. “Ideally, he won’t realize that part. Mother believes the events will unfold naturally. Young ladies are compromised all the time, accidentally or otherwise. As to being frightened—well, of course I’m frightened. After all, he might kill me.”
“Then what makes this plan the lesser evil?”
“Invitations have all but dried up for me.” Susan looked genuinely miserable. “I must marry at once or die a spinster. At home. With my mother.”
Evangeline stared at the crackling fire. “Mr. Lioncroft is a last resort, then?”
Susan shrugged, although her eyes were cloudy. “You don’t see anybody else chasing him, do you? I’m sure to be his last resort as well. And just think: the idea would never have occurred to Mother had Lady Heatherbrook not stopped by with an invitation.”
“One of the many things that makes no sense,” Evangeline murmured. “Why would he want to host a house party in the first place?”
“I don’t suppose he wanted one at all. The look on his face when he first saw us…” Susan shivered delicately. “I thought surely he’d kill us all, right there in the anteroom.”
“So did I.” Evangeline didn’t want to imagine what he would do if he knew what the scheming Stantons had planned. “He seemed…powerful. Like he might pounce upon his prey at any moment.”
“That about sums it up,” Susan admitted. “It’s also why I don’t wish to be compromised until the very last day. No matter what Mother says, you won’t rush things, will you?”
Evangeline shook her head. She wouldn’t participate in their schemes at all. She wasn’t eager to play games with a lion. Besides, to catch the two of them alone she would have to be present as well. And she was fairly certain two young ladies were no match for a monster like Mr. Lioncroft.
“There’s the bell again,” Evangeline said. “Shall we dine?”
In fact, now that suppertime was upon them, perhaps she ought to see what else she could learn about the man and his house, to better prepare herself against him. She reached for her reticule on the floor next to the bed and pulled out two matching gloves of lace and silk, hemmed to allow her bare fingertips through.
“Oh!” cried Susan from right behind Evangeline, causing her to jump. “Your mitts are positively antique. Wherever did you get them?”
Evangeline smoothed the thin material up over her forearms without responding. Mama had worn these very gloves the night Evangeline’s father exercised his marital right to lock his wife in a tiny moldering attic. Evangeline shuddered. There was nothing she hated more than being locked in small dark spaces. Nothing.
“My mother gave them to me,” she answered finally, unable to avoid Susan’s curious gaze any longer. “These mitts were hers, and my grandmother’s before her.”
“Then they’re lucky gloves.” Susan slapped her hands together. “How lovely.”
Lucky? They’d accompanied her mother through two husbands, one who took her freedom, and one who took her life. Could scraps of silk carry such “luck” with them?
“I hope not,” Evangeline muttered and followed Susan into the hallway toward Lady Stanton’s chamber. The door banged sh
ut behind them, extinguishing a nearby sconce. Evangeline shivered, nervously rubbing her mitts.
The last thing either of them needed was luck like that.
Chapter 4
“I have no sense of orientation,” Susan announced as she strode from Evangeline’s chamber. “All the endless hallways and twisted corridors vanished from my head within seconds of Lady Heatherbrook pointing them out. I shall die of hunger before I recall the location of the dining room.”
Evangeline felt in control of her surroundings for the first time since their arrival.
“Follow me,” she said, and set off down a series of spidering passageways, each as dark and ill-lit as the last.
Evangeline had been born with an innate sense of direction, and being left to her own devices in a sprawling country village for hours at a time had eradicated any fear of finding her way on her own. In fact, the serpentine corridors of Blackberry Manor did not instill alarm at the thought of becoming lost, so much as a general dread of stumbling across someone or something she had no wish to find.
At one shadowed intersection, she stopped so suddenly that Susan barreled directly into her.
“What is it?” Susan asked, peering over Evangeline’s shoulder. “Dead body?”
Evangeline shook her head. “Voices. I’m positive we’re to turn left, but I think I hear Lady Heatherbrook down the hallway to the right.”
Before Evangeline could stop her, Susan darted down the hall and peeked around the corner. She glanced over her shoulder, motioned to Evangeline, and then returned her focus to whatever Lady Heatherbrook was up to.
With a sigh, Evangeline followed. Susan reached out one gloved hand and yanked Evangeline closer until they were huddled together like frightened rabbits.
At the other end of the darkened hall, Lady Heatherbrook was deep in discussion with an elderly man turned out in expensively tailored clothing. Although his spine curved and his cane trembled and his thinning hair sprang from his head in dry white curls, the scowl etched in his wrinkled face gave Evangeline the impression of someone very, very angry. She wished Lady Heatherbrook’s back was not to them, so they could gauge her expression.
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 3
