Evangeline cocked her head. Voices. Female voices. Young female voices. She was near the nursery!
She swiped her forearm across her face and grimaced when her arm came away smeared with dust. No way to tell whether the dirt had come from her face or if she’d just managed to transfer it to her face.
A glance at her gown revealed the borrowed dress to be in no better condition. Smudges and tears marred the flowing silk, as if she’d spent the morning tumbling down hills and gullies. A stray spider web clung to her slipper. When she tried to rub off the strands with her other shoe, she merely succeeded in spreading the sparkling cobweb to both feet.
She was in no condition to drop in unannounced on Lady Heatherbrook’s children. Nonetheless, the music of voices sounded impossibly dear, and she found herself creeping down the hall to listen outside the closed door.
“Gimme!” came a small voice.
“Mine!” came another.
“Girls!” That one belonged to Nancy Heatherbrook. “Shhh. This is important.”
“I don’t see why,” came a bored voice. Jane, the middle child. “Nobody talks to us anyway.”
“But if they do,” Nancy insisted, “you are to say that Mother and I were both in the nursery with you all night.”
“Why do I have to be in the nursery at all? I’ll be thirteen in two days. When will I be old enough to—”
“My dolly!”
“Jane! Jane! Rebecca won’t—”
An ear-piercing shriek interrupted any further conversation.
Evangeline stepped away from the door when the shrieking continued unabated. Definitely not the best moment to visit.
She turned back to the false painting, shuddering at the knowledge of what lay beyond the canvas. Except the painting wasn’t false, was it? It was well-crafted and beautifully done, making it as perfect a disguise as her bookcase had been.
Under no circumstances was she interested in revisiting the hidden passageway beyond. Instead, she faced the sconce-lit corridor and hurried away before Nancy Heatherbrook fled the cacophonous nursery and caught her in the hallway. A moment later, Evangeline froze before an open doorway.
Lord Heatherbrook’s bedchamber.
She had no wish to revisit it, no wish to peer inside, but somehow her eyes disobeyed her brain and she found herself gazing upon the bed where the earl had died.
Empty.
He was gone. The body was gone. The bed was freshly made. Somebody had been cleaning. The room smelled of lemons and vinegar instead of panic and death.
Despite herself, Evangeline stepped forward into the chamber. A bonneted maid crouched along one wall, straightening the earl’s collection of fancy swordsticks. She glanced over her shoulder as if sensing the presence in the doorway. Evangeline gasped.
Ginny. With her face covered in bruises.
Evangeline rushed forward. “What happened?”
Ginny blinked, touched her face, and struggled to her feet. “M’master happened, mum. ’Twas the handkerchief.”
Mr. Lioncroft had beaten a maid over a lost handkerchief? He was truly a beast. She’d been right not to trust him.
“Oh, no.” Evangeline bit at her lower lip. “I thought you found it before he discovered it was missing?”
“That I did, mum. But not before m’mistress come upon it.”
“Your…what?”
“Mistress. The lady of the house.”
“There’s a lady of the house?” Heat rushed to Evangeline’s cheeks. Of all the arrogant, dastardly things for him to do, Mr. Lioncroft had kissed her while his mistress slept beneath the same roof?
“Yes’m. Although I don’t guess she still is, now that he’s dead.”
“Now that he’s…what?”
“Dead. Weren’t you just in here this morning to lay your hands upon his corpse?”
“I—I—what?” Evangeline stared at her as the realization set in. “You work for the Heatherbrooks?”
“Yes’m. That I do.”
Evangeline closed her eyes. No wonder the footman claimed no Ginny worked with them. No Ginny did work with them. Not only that…
“Lord Heatherbrook hit you?”
Ginny nodded. “Better me than m’mistress, although he gave her a good one, too. If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look so fine yourself, covered in dust as you are. Haven’t you got a maid to do the cleaning?”
“I—yes, I suppose so. Why aren’t Mr. Lioncroft’s servants doing the cleaning in here?”
“They did. Everything except for my master’s swordsticks, that is. He was always real particular about them things. Cost a pretty penny, I suppose. Hope m’mistress sells every last one.”
“Me, too,” Evangeline agreed, still reeling from the combined shock of Ginny’s battered face and the knowledge Lord Heatherbrook, not Mr. Lioncroft, put the bruises there. “I…I apologize for not helping you sooner. Maybe I could’ve saved you both.”
“How could you help sooner when I hadn’t met you sooner?” Ginny pointed out reasonably. “Besides, if he hadn’t beat me for that, it would’ve been for something else. Probably for looking at him wrong, or letting one of his swordsticks get dirty. Some men are like that.”
Evangeline couldn’t help but nod. Most men were like that. Maybe all men.
Ginny resumed cleaning. Evangeline hurried back into the hallway. She needed to get back to her room—and changed—before anyone else saw her.
Chapter 16
When Evangeline finally reached her section of the guest quarters, a dark figure lounged against the wall outside her door, thumbs hooked in his waistband, eyes closed as if asleep. She tried to slip in her room without catching his notice, but the creak of a loose floorboard betrayed her.
His eyelashes lifted. “Miss Pemberton. How do you feel?”
“Much improved, Mr. Lioncroft. Thank you for asking.”
“I meant it when I said you could call me Gavin.”
“I’d rather not.” She stepped past him, ducked her head, and reached for the doorknob.
“Did you forget something?”
Her fingers clutching the cold brass of the doorknob, she glanced at him over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t changed. He still stared at her with the most intense gaze she’d ever encountered, his posture tense but casual, the soft tumble of his hair carelessly rakish, the familiar lines of his warm mouth—no. She wasn’t forgetting anything. She only wished she could.
“No,” she said at last. “I plan to stay in my chamber for a while.”
“You plan to—” As his eyes finally quit their focus on hers long enough to take in her tangled hair, her tattered dress, her ruined fingernails, his words simply stopped. He blinked once, twice, again. And then, “What happened?”
What could she say? Oh, I’ve been skulking between the walls, just like you?
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Look at you. Where the hell have you been?”
“Your favorite place, no doubt.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, go away. I’m not in the best temper, and I don’t want conversation. I want a bath.”
“I’ll call for one.” He strode forward, intent on entering her bedchamber.
“You stay right there! I can operate a bellpull myself.”
Mr. Lioncroft paused. He leaned back against the wall, his demeanor not quite as relaxed as before. “All right.”
Evangeline’s hand fell from the doorknob. “What are you doing?”
“Staying here.”
“I said go away!”
“You also said to stay right here,” he pointed out reasonably. “I chose to follow the latter directive.”
“I meant ‘go away’ both times.” She glared at him. He didn’t move. “Why were you lurking in the shadows?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. You frightened me.”
“Well, you can’t just—Oh. That’s very kind of you. I
frightened me, too. But I’m fine now, so you can—”
“You don’t look fine. You look…dirty.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Lioncroft. That’s why I’m calling for a bath.”
“And call me Gavin.” When she made no effort to do so, he just grinned. “Are you going back to bed?”
“Not if you plan to sneak in and smother me.”
Evangeline regretted the snappish words the moment they flew from her lips.
Mr. Lioncroft, however, seemed neither stung nor perturbed by her waspishness. Because he was guilty? Or because he was simply accustomed to being presumed as much, and expected no preferential treatment from her?
She opened her mouth—to say what, exactly, she didn’t know—but in one smooth step, he stood between her and the safety of her bedchamber.
“I’m here because I was worried about you, Miss Pemberton. And because I’m attracted to you.”
“I—” The protest caught in her throat as his dark gaze burned into hers.
“As to your imminent death…Did you see me smother anyone?”
She backed up a step. “I wasn’t there.”
“Did God tell you I smothered Heatherbrook before He sent you that attack?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The Lord didn’t send me an attack.”
“What did happen, Miss Pemberton?” He studied her face as if he’d spent the better part of two hours trying to solve that particular riddle.
“Nothing happened. Much.” She glanced down both sides of the deserted corridor. “I truly don’t wish to talk about this.”
“No? Or not out here? I’ll gladly follow you into your chamber.”
Evangeline swallowed. At this rate, she’d be the one compromised with Mr. Lioncroft, not Susan. And the last thing she needed was to be the legal property of yet another murderer. “You’ll do no such thing.”
He smiled, leaned forward, brushed his fingertips down the curve of her cheek, along her neck, to the hollow of her throat. He lifted his fingers away just before they could slide across the lace of her bodice. Gooseflesh raced down her spine and along the bare flesh of her arms.
“Why not?” he asked softly. “You don’t trust yourself alone with me?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He wanted the truth? Fine. She’d give him the truth. “Because you’re a known murderer,” she said through gritted teeth. “Lord Heatherbrook’s death was no mysterious accident—he was clearly murdered. And none of us will be safe while the crime goes unpunished.”
Heavens above. Had she just blurted out all that to the killer? Mr. Lioncroft crossed his arms over his chest, but his gaze never fell from hers.
“Hmmm.” He slanted her a considering glance. “If you’re convinced of my guilt, why explain your reasoning to me instead of screaming for help?”
“Because I—well, because—I don’t know.” She stared at him for a moment, speechless. “I guess that’s not very logical of me.”
“On the contrary. Thus far, you’ve proven yourself the most logical of all my uninvited guests. Unfortunately for me, I happen to be the most logical suspect.”
“Fortunately for you, nobody summoned the constabulary.”
“Ahhh.” He smiled. “Perfect. Use your logic, Miss Pemberton. What does that mean?”
“You’re a blackguard with devilish powers of persuasion?”
“I like to think so, yes. Nonetheless, would I have been able to shoo away the constabulary had an angry mob arrived to string my neck from a gibbet?”
She stared at him for a moment, at the seriousness of his expression, the furrow in his brow, the white slash of his scar against the stubble of his jaw. Would he be able to escape punishment by fleeing through his labyrinthine mansion? If he used the secret passageways, perhaps. For a time. But would he ever be truly free?
“No,” she answered grudgingly. “I suppose not.”
“Then why aren’t they here? If everyone present was as convinced of my guilt as you are, surely by now one of them would have put ink to paper and demanded my capture.”
Evangeline had no response. She stormed forward, intending to shoulder past him by force if necessary. When he stepped aside to let her pass, she half-stumbled, half-fell into her chamber. She turned, positive his expression would be smug, his wide lips curved, his eyes mocking her.
But he was gone, leaving only his subtle masculine scent behind.
During her bath, Mr. Lioncroft’s words echoed in her mind. Later, as her lady’s maid attempted—and failed again—to fashion a chignon from Evangeline’s heavy curls, his words kept repeating themselves to her. By the time Susan burst through the connecting doorway, Evangeline was dressed, somewhat coiffed, and sick unto death of her mind replaying Mr. Lioncroft’s parting words.
He had a point.
She couldn’t fathom why most of the guests seemed equally averse to constabulary intervention. She was right to label him a blackguard with devilish powers of persuasion. He almost had her considering the notion he—but, no. He was no doubt the villain. Because if he wasn’t…who was?
“You look better,” Susan observed from her position in the sole chair, “but still deathly pale. Are you certain you’re feeling quite the thing? Have you eaten anything?”
“Yes,” Evangeline said, choosing only to respond to the latter. “Molly brought me some bread and fruit.”
“Who’s Molly?”
“My lady’s maid. That is, my borrowed lady’s maid.”
“You talk to Lionkiller’s servants? Maybe that’s why you’re so pale. You were supposed to be sleeping, not talking. Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I—no.” Evangeline frowned at Susan, who was too busy warming her feet by the fire to notice. Of course, Evangeline talked to the servants. She understood them. They tended to be more straightforward, friendlier, safer than Polite Society aristocrats. She didn’t expect Susan to feel the same. They came from different worlds. “Where are the others now?” she asked. “Dining?”
“No, they’re in the Green Salon. Well, those who remotely believe in the possibility of you chatting with God are.”
Evangeline glanced around her crimson chamber. “There’s a Green Salon?”
“Don’t look so hopeful. Not green like dandelion leaves and lime ices and grass in the springtime. Green like decaying moss moldering atop a tombstone. Gray is the only other color. Well, and brown. Made me long for scab-colored furniture again. Lionkiller is in dire need of a bride. And a shopping excursion.”
“Who is in the Green Salon? Your mother?”
“Of course.” Susan selected a poker from next to the fireplace. “She’s not going anywhere until the matter is solved, one way or the other.”
“I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to escape while we’re all still alive. Does she think him innocent?”
“Lioncroft? Lawk, no. But he got away with murder last time, didn’t he? History may repeat itself. In which case, he remains rich and eligible, and with his neck intact.”
“You’d marry a murderer?”
“I was already planning to do so,” Susan pointed out, nudging the fire with the poker. “If he escapes the noose again, nothing of substance will have changed.”
Not true. Plenty had changed.
Evangeline leaned against one of the cavorting-troll bedposts and frowned. For one, “Lioncroft” was no longer a faceless name. She’d met the man himself. Argued with him. Danced with him. Kissed him. Watched him threaten a man…for laying a hand to his sister. He admitted being angry enough to kill. And he didn’t deny having done so in the past.
What was wrong with her for being attracted to him in spite of herself?
His weren’t mere character flaws. Dangerous, violent, unpredictable. He shared many of his worst traits with her stepfather, a man of no redeeming qualities. A vile man she’d never understood why her mother ha
d remained with, even if—as Mama claimed—she’d only done so for Evangeline’s sake.
What if Mama had felt a similar…attraction…to Neal Pemberton? A quickening of the pulse, an undeniable awareness from deep within?
Evangeline shuddered. Revolting idea. But suddenly, horribly, humiliatingly plausible. Relatable. Oh, God. Had her mother’s attraction to her second husband’s exterior blinded her to the evil inside? Evangeline would not make the same mistake. Would not.
“What’s wrong?” Susan asked, one hand on her hip, the other gripping the poker. “You made the most horrid face of revulsion I have ever seen in my life. What were you thinking about?”
“Mr. Lioncroft.”
“And he merited such an expression? I’m the one to marry him, not you.”
That’s right. Evangeline would never marry. She stared into the crackling fire. The carved trolls scaling her bedpost dug into her back. “Don’t you—that is to say, do you—find him attractive?”
Susan shrugged. “Perhaps, if you’re the sort to find Satan himself attractive.”
“How would you know what Satan looks like?”
“Obviously, like Lioncroft.” Iron clanked against iron as Susan shoved the poker back in its stand. “At least the man’s been tarrying outside your door instead of mine.”
Evangeline pushed away from her bed. He had, but how would Susan know? He’d disappeared long before she’d sailed through the connecting door.
“You saw us?”
“‘Us’? You mean him. Of course. He took root right there in the hallway and said he planned to wait until you woke, just to make sure you were all right. Disturbing. If I should sicken after we marry, I hope he leaves me well alone.”
Evangeline crossed over to the cracked mirror next to the doorway. Disturbing? Only because it was Mr. Lioncroft. In any other man, such an act would’ve been sweet. Charming. Kindhearted.
“You didn’t tell me he was out there waiting.”
“I did so. I said he came by with that horrible treatise on metallurgy.”
After trying and failing to poke her flyaway curls back into their coil, Evangeline glared at her reflection. “You didn’t say he stayed by.”
“I figured he’d get bored and leave. Why, is he still there?”
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 13
