He motioned the servants into the room. They scurried about the perimeter, lighting tapers until every wick sputtered with orange flame.
Slowly, Gavin approached the bed. Now that candlelight chased the shadows from the chamber, he could make out more than Heatherbrook’s general form. A white handkerchief wrapped around the top of the earl’s head. The portion above his left temple was encrusted with dried blood. Gavin glanced over his shoulder at Miss Pemberton, who sighed.
“What is it?” The Stanton chit called from the doorway. “A gunshot? A knife wound? Snakes?”
Miss Pemberton shook her head. “Blood—”
Everyone gasped.
“—but the injury has been bandaged. We’ve no way to know when or how he got the wound. He may have tripped, fallen, and bandaged himself before retiring for the night.”
Or he might’ve had an oil painting land on his head.
Gavin stared at the woman kneeling in her nightrail next to the bed. Would she defend him to the others? Their expressions broadcast their unwavering belief that if anyone had murdered a man tonight, Gavin was no doubt the villain.
Miss Pemberton was the first person in the last eleven years of his acquaintance to turn to logic before rumor when determining guilt. Thankfully, she was unsure about the source of the wound. He did tidy up that frame afterward, didn’t he? Perhaps they’d all assume Heatherbrook had injured himself. As long as there were no other signs of foul play, Gavin would not have to fear being relabeled a murderer.
“Wouldn’t he have rung for a servant to tend a blow to the head?” Lady Stanton asked from just behind her daughter. “I would’ve done so.”
“A fine suggestion,” Gavin said. He gazed at Miss Pemberton, willing her to look at him. She did not. “They shall all be questioned first thing in the morning.”
A silence fell. No one seemed eager to exchange glances with each other, much less look too long at the corpse upon the bed. Even Miss Pemberton was not scrutinizing the earl’s body as she’d first suggested—not that Gavin blamed her—and was instead biting her lip and gazing at the carpeted floor as if she’d rather be anywhere than where she currently stood.
“I heard you, by the way,” Edmund slurred from his perch against a wardrobe. “I heard you apologize to your sister for killing him.”
“No,” Gavin said. “You heard me apologize for killing someone else.”
His clarification failed to ease the tension.
Perhaps impatient with Miss Pemberton’s reluctant perusal of the lifeless earl, Benedict at last strode forward and tugged the pile of blankets from Heatherbrook’s still form.
Two things became quickly apparent. One was a mottled bruise surrounding the left side of Heatherbrook’s throat, matching the shape of Gavin’s left hand. The other was a corresponding bruise covering the other side, matching the shape of Gavin’s right.
Benedict gasped. A surplus of air sent him off into another vicious coughing streak.
No one spoke.
Miss Pemberton’s eyes dipped closed for a long moment before reopening. “I’d have to wager,” she said at last, “Lord Heatherbrook did not strangle himself with his bare hands after settling into bed.”
Lady Stanton sucked in a shocked breath. “Strangled,” she repeated, clutching her bespectacled daughter by the shoulders. “We need to call for the constabulary. Immediately.”
Gavin tried very hard not to react. The last thing he needed was the constabulary. Given his questionable past and his outburst at the dining table, they’d have him condemned to the gallows within a week. Unfortunately, he could think of no good reason to deny Lady Stanton’s request. Devil take it.
Careful to keep his expression neutral, Gavin slid his gaze about the roomful of onlookers and waited for their response.
They said nothing.
The Stanton chit and her mother exchanged an indecipherable look. Edmund stared into the bottom of his empty glass as though hoping more whisky would magically reappear. Benedict dropped the blankets he’d yanked from Heatherbrook’s body, as if the woven wool had scalded him. Francine clutched her belly with both hands, giving the impression she was a moment away from vomiting. Teasdale fidgeted with his cane, eyes downcast.
“Well?” Lady Stanton demanded. “Is someone calling for the constabulary or not?”
“Apparently,” Edmund said as he slammed his empty glass atop a dressing table, “not.”
“Useless,” Francine put in, the dip of the orange plume atop her coiffed head garish and out-of-place.
Her husband Benedict dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. “Fools, every one of them.”
Teasdale examined his cane as if he had just noticed its presence in his hand. Conversation strangled to a halt.
“What time is it?” Miss Pemberton asked after another excruciating lull. Everyone stared at her as though she’d spoken in tongues.
Gavin fumbled for his fob. “Half past two.”
“Then it’s late.” She squared her shoulders. “We’re all tired, we’ve had a shock, and none of us are thinking clearly. Now is not the time to make accusations.” She took a deep breath. “Why don’t we reconvene in the morning, as planned?”
“For breakfast?” came Lady Stanton’s cold, incredulous voice. “Who can eat at a time like this?”
“Hell, I can. Drink, too.” Edmund jerked his head toward Heatherbrook’s motionless body. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean I am. Breakfast sounds like a fine time to make accusations.”
The Stanton chit tittered hysterically and clapped both hands across her mouth.
Teasdale waved his cane toward the bed. “What are you going to do with Heatherbrook in the meantime? Seeing as how we’re not penning a note to the local constabulary.”
“I’ll pen one to the rectory instead.” Gavin ran a hand through his hair too harshly, pulling a few strands from his scalp. “We’ll still need a funeral.”
God help him, not a funeral. He hadn’t attended one since he was seventeen.
He swallowed, forcing old memories from his mind. “Clear the chamber.” The others started when his words came out too loud, but he suddenly couldn’t stand to be in the same room as another lifeless body. “Return to your rooms. I’m returning to mine. Breakfast…breakfast will be ready by eight.”
Slowly, they shuffled out of the room and dispersed into the corridor.
“Well, I for one shan’t sleep a wink,” said Lady Stanton as she preceded her daughter down the hall.
“Lioncroft will sleep like a baby,” came Edmund’s slurred rejoinder. “He’s used to family members popping up dead in mysterious circumstances.”
Gavin took two quick strides out of the room and into the hall, prepared to have it out with Edmund then and there.
Before Edmund even registered his approach, however, Gavin’s footsteps faltered. Thrashing a sotted Edmund lost its allure the more distance Gavin put between himself and Heatherbrook’s cold, bruised body. Whether Edmund deserved a fist to the face or not, Gavin had had enough violence for one day.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
Chapter 12
Evangeline jerked awake from yet another nightmare long before a maid arrived to open the bed curtains. She staggered out of bed and over to the small washbasin in the corner, hoping the freezing water would splash the memory of her mother’s broken body from her mind. As usual, the shock of icy wetness sent gooseflesh shivering across her skin but did little to dispel the images trapped in her head.
Another day, another death.
Eventually, a slight lady’s maid slipped into the room with a candle clutched between her rough hands. She used the orange flame to light the tall tapers dotting Evangeline’s chamber before disappearing into the connecting dressing room to gather new garments and undergarments.
“Your morning dress, mum,” the girl murmured, returning with an armful of borrowed silk.
Evangeline winced. What should have been a mourning dress was
instead a flowing mass of palest green, trimmed beneath the bodice by a strip of satin the deep hue of pine. Soft, gorgeous, and a mockery to her mother’s memory.
She forced herself to hold still as a shift, stays, and the mint-colored gown replaced her nightrail.
What now? Now that Lioncroft had killed again? Surely Lady Stanton didn’t mean to proceed with her machinations, no matter how badly they’d all secretly wished someone would avenge the cruelty done to Lady Heatherbrook.
While Evangeline suspected most of the guests wouldn’t much miss the late lord, the earl’s four children couldn’t help but suffer at the loss. She missed her own mother terribly. Her heart twisted in empathy. The children should not be alone. She could find the nursery, could she not? As soon as she could excuse herself from the breakfast table, she should make her way directly there to check on the children.
“You should’ve seen it coming,” the maid muttered under her breath as she fastened the last of the buttons on the back of Evangeline’s neck.
“I—what?”
“Should’ve seen it coming,” the maid repeated. “Or did you, an’ you just didn’t see fit to tell anybody?”
Mouth agape, Evangeline whirled to face the young girl.
The maid’s complexion was more or less the same shade of pale green as the borrowed morning dress. Nonetheless, she stared up at Evangeline with shaking hands and a determined gaze. A strand of red hair fell from her bonnet to her face and she shoved the offending lock away without breaking eye contact.
“I heard what you were,” she insisted, the faint quiver in her voice giving away her fear of speaking out, even to a nobody like Evangeline. “All of us know.”
“Us” no doubt meant the staff of Blackberry Manor, just like “witch” was no doubt the word that went unspoken.
Back home, servants had been Evangeline’s staunchest supporters. Here, they were…not. She could expect neither understanding nor tolerance under the best of circumstances. A dead body abovestairs was not the best of circumstances. Especially for a runaway suspected of witchery. And after helping Ginny, Evangeline could hardly deny her visions.
“I didn’t know,” she said at last. “I swear.”
The maid flinched, as if she’d half-expected Evangeline to toss her bodily from the room rather than respond to a mere maid. Was such skittishness because she was used to violent treatment from Mr. Lioncroft? Or because the maid feared Evangeline herself?
“What’s your name?”
“Molly.”
“You’re a smart woman, Molly. You’re right about my visions. But what you may not know is that the only way I can attempt to guide the content of my visions is by concentrating on a single question as I touch another person. And even that fails more often than not.” Evangeline paused. How much did she need to reveal in order to keep her biggest secrets? “I had no reason to anticipate Lord Heatherbrook’s death. Accidental visions are useless at best. Were I to touch you now, I’d be just as likely to see you toddle behind your mother in leading strings as to see you snuggled before a fire with your husband and three children.”
The girl blinked. “I’m to have three children?”
“I have no idea. That’s my point.” Evangeline met and held the girl’s nervous gaze. “More importantly, I hope to keep my…talent in the strictest confidence. I’ve no wish to be thrown to the streets, or into Bedlam, and I do not hold the openness of the ton’s collective minds in particularly high esteem.”
“My master doesn’t hold toffs in any esteem,” Molly scoffed. “He says they’re all self-important rotters with lukewarm lemonade for brains.”
“Yes. Well. I’d tend to agree.” As Evangeline hugged herself, the lace of her mitts scratched against her dry skin. “Wait…Mr. Lioncroft doesn’t—you haven’t told him about my visions, have you?”
The girl’s chin jerked up. “For all his troubles, he’s a good master. If he asks if you’re a witch, any one of us would tell him the truth.”
Normally, such staunch loyalty would bring a smile to Evangeline’s face. In this case, however, her words sent ice along Evangeline’s spine.
“But if he doesn’t ask?” she insisted.
After a long moment, Molly shrugged. “He’s not one for idle chatter. There’s many haven’t once heard him speak. I doubt he’ll mention you at all.”
Evangeline supposed the unlikelihood of her name crossing Mr. Lioncroft’s lips should make her feel better, but instead—Evangeline straightened her shoulders. Best to not analyze her illogical emotions. She’d be long gone before he caught wind of any witchery afoot.
After doing her best to twist Evangeline’s unruly curls—which had never suffered pins for more than a few minutes before, and showed no signs of doing otherwise today—into some sort of looping plait, Molly gave up, curtsied, and left.
Within a moment, a brisk knock rattled the connecting door to Susan’s chamber. Evangeline twisted the handle and welcomed in her neighbor.
Susan’s gown, a powder-blue confection with indigo accents, elegantly complemented her cerulean eyes and pale skin. Unlike Evangeline, Susan wore both a portrait-perfect chignon and a delighted smile.
“I’m surprised you answered so quickly,” she said, sweeping past Evangeline to warm her hands by the fire. “I half-suspected you to be a slugabed.”
“I’m surprised you knocked,” Evangeline muttered as she closed the connecting door. “I didn’t think you knew how.”
“Oh, don’t be shrewish. It’s much too fine a day.”
“How do you know? There are no windows.”
“Not outside, goose. Inside. I haven’t had such excitement in ages.” Susan threw open the hallway door and grinned. “Are you coming or not?”
Seeing no recourse, Evangeline joined her in the corridor and led the way to the breakfast table. As it happened, Lady Stanton had not yet arrived. Neither had Lady Heatherbrook or her daughter Nancy.
Mr. Lioncroft sat at the head of the table, brooding over a plateful of untouched eggs. Francine Rutherford was to his left, toying with a slice of toasted bread. Her husband Benedict sat on her left, showing no trouble consuming his kippers. His cousin Edmund was next, with a full glass of wine and only a few crumbs remaining on his plate.
Nobody occupied the two seats to Lioncroft’s immediate right.
Mr. Teasdale occupied the chair following the gap, his cane dangling between the curved wooden slats.
Although they’d surely heard Susan and Evangeline approach, not a single guest so much as glanced up at two young ladies hesitating in the doorway.
“Well, we’re here,” Susan whispered behind a gloved hand. “You want Teasdale or Lioncroft?”
Evangeline wanted to go back to bed. Sleep, however, did not await her there. “I don’t care,” she murmured. “I’m not even hungry.”
Susan fished one hand in her pocket. “Heads or tails?”
“Just go in and sit down.” Evangeline nudged her forward. “We can’t stand here whispering.”
“Fine.” Susan removed her empty hand from her pocket and began to tug off her gloves. “You get Lioncroft, then.”
Evangeline took a step into the room, and then paused. “He’s your future fiancé. Don’t you want to sit by him?”
Susan clutched the doorframe. “I will when we’re married and not a moment sooner.”
“If he frightens you so,” Evangeline hissed behind her cupped palm, “why marry him?”
“Lesser evil. He’s a good catch now that I’m ruined, remember?” Susan’s brow furrowed. “Well, he was before he started murdering people again. He might hang for it this time. And I can’t marry a dead man. If I’m lucky, Mother will have given up on the whole idea.”
“I should hope so. Now is not the time to trap anyone into false comp—”
“Ladies.” Mr. Lioncroft’s deep voice boomed into the stillness. “There’s plenty of provisions yet on the sideboard.”
Evangeline dropped her hands bac
k to her sides and flashed an embarrassed smile at five pairs of curious eyes. Susan crossed to the sideboard, scooped meat and eggs onto her plate, and plopped down next to Mr. Teasdale, across from Benedict Rutherford. Evangeline laid a single slice of toasted bread on hers before taking her place between Susan and Mr. Lioncroft.
“What were you discussing in the doorway?” Edmund Rutherford slurred over a glass of wine. “Which one of us will be the next to be throttled in our sleep?”
He laughed at his own jest. Neither Evangeline nor Susan bothered to reply. During the awkward silence which followed, however, Evangeline finally risked a glance at the silent man seated next to her. Mr. Lioncroft’s glare singed the air between him and Edmund, warning him without words. Edmund returned his gaze to his glass. Evangeline couldn’t tear hers from Mr. Lioncroft.
Like her, he appeared not to have slept well.
His shirt was pressed, his breeches clean and snug, but his cravat appeared to have been tied without aid of candlelight. Dark whiskers shadowed the hollows below his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The jagged scar stood out bold and pale. Tousled locks curled about his neck and ears and tumbled forward into dark brown eyes. The pale skin visible beneath the blackness of his lashes was tinged with a faint purple, as though his nightmares were no less consuming than hers.
“I say,” Edmund said, breaking the silence. “I’d wager the lot of us sleep with scarves about our necks tonight.”
Francine Rutherford shoved her untouched plate across the table. “Tasteless, Edmund.”
Benedict laid his hand atop hers. “He’s a drunk.”
“He’s an ass,” she countered.
“And you two,” Edmund put in, “are now Lord and Lady Heatherbrook. Very churlish of Benedict, I’d say. He was already next in line without pushing things along quite so violently.”
“See here,” was all Benedict managed to get out before erupting into a bout of barking coughs.
“And now you’re the heir, Edmund,” Francine pointed out. The plume from her bonnet dipped and swayed above her forehead. “Very neatly done. Do I have to guard my husband in his sleep?”
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 9
