“No.”
“There you are. Passing fancy.” Susan strode to the doorway, nudged open the door, and peered through the crack. “He’s long gone.”
“What if he hadn’t been? What if he’d slipped inside my room and killed me? You weren’t concerned about my safety?”
“I’d hear you scream.”
Evangeline crossed her arms. “Not if I was smothered in my sleep like Lord Heatherbrook.”
“Well, I’d know Lioncroft was the villain because I saw him around. He’d be sure to hang. But you’re still alive, and guests are waiting for you in the Green Salon. At least, they were.” Susan pushed the door completely open, then glanced over her shoulder at Evangeline “Are you feeling up to an appearance?”
“No.”
But she headed out into the corridor anyway.
When she entered the Green Salon, she discovered it much as Susan had described it. Stark gray walls. Mold-colored chairs. Fluttering white tapers that failed to cast enough light on the half dozen or so framed paintings to determine their subjects.
Lady Stanton sat on the edge of a tattered chair. Mr. Teasdale slept on the sofa, his head lolling to one side, his cane taking up most of the cushion. Mr. Lioncroft leaned against a tall bookcase. For all Evangeline knew, it was another façade for his network of secret passageways.
“At last.” The small black mole shivered above Lady Stanton’s pursed lips. “You kept us waiting, Miss Pemberton.”
“Mother, don’t—”
“She’s feeling much improved,” Mr. Lioncroft interrupted, his voice low and lazy but his eyes dangerous. “How thoughtful of you to inquire.”
Frost coated Lady Stanton’s voice. “You dare to correct my manners?”
“You dare to sling accusations of murder while imposing on my hospitality?”
“Evangeline,” Susan interjected loudly, causing Mr. Teasdale to start. “Why don’t you explain what happened in Heatherbrook’s chamber?”
“Yes, do.” Lady Stanton fixed her colorless eyes on Evangeline. “Did ‘God’ tell you anything?”
“Just that Lord Heatherbrook was, er, smothered. With a pillow.”
“Eh? What’s that?” Mr. Teasdale struggled to his feet, relying heavily on his cane. “Smothered with a pillow, you say?”
One of Lady Stanton’s pale eyebrows arched. “But who smothered him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then that’s useless. Your mother could often—”
Evangeline’s spine stiffened. “Lady Stanton—”
“Can’t you strive for more accuracy in your—”
“Lady Stanton, honestly—”
“We’re no better off than we were before!”
“We do know how, if not whom,” Susan interjected with an encouraging smile toward Evangeline.
“Useless. If ‘God’ spoke to her through Lord Heatherbrook, why doesn’t she know the killer’s identity?”
“Eh,” Mr. Teasdale grunted, one pinkie digging in his hairy ear. “Because dead men tell no tales.”
Susan straightened her spectacles. “Might the fact that he is dead be a factor, Evangeline?”
“I imagine so. This was the first time I’ve specifically sought…interaction with God through a corpse.”
Mr. Lioncroft lifted a brow. “I should hope so. Hardly the favorite pastime of most young ladies.”
“How about the living, then?” Lady Stanton turned her glare from him to Evangeline. “Have you tried the obvious?”
“That’s right.” Susan’s eyes widened. “We could know right away.”
“Know what?” Mr. Lioncroft demanded.
Evangeline backed up a step.
“I’ll ensure your privacy so Mr. Teasdale doesn’t suspect anything,” Susan whispered excitedly. “As soon as I get him and Mother away, go touch Lioncroft.”
“I can’t,” Evangeline whispered back. “I—”
But Susan had skipped to her mother’s side. She tugged Lady Stanton from her seat. “Come, Mother, we’ve heard enough. Mr. Teasdale, would you be so kind as to accompany us?”
Mr. Teasdale’s forehead wrinkled. “Where?”
“Yes, Susan, where?” Lady Stanton stared down her nose at her daughter. “I’m not leaving Mr. Lioncroft alone with Miss Pemberton. We don’t want her to be compromised, do we?”
Mr. Lioncroft crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Why does everyone think I’m going to compromise her? I haven’t had a rakehell reputation in years.”
Mr. Teasdale’s cane trembled. “I don’t think you’ll compromise her.”
“Thank you.”
“You might kill her. That’s your reputation now.”
“We’ll stay in the hallway.” Lady Stanton swept past Mr. Teasdale and into the corridor.
“With the door ajar,” Susan added. “Significantly ajar. No killing.”
Shaking his head, Mr. Teasdale allowed himself to be tugged from the room.
With that, the threesome pulled the door mostly shut and left Evangeline and Mr. Lioncroft quite alone.
Splendid. Abandoned in pursuit of visions from the one man who couldn’t provide her with them.
He did not look pleased.
“What the hell just happened?” Mr. Lioncroft demanded.
“I don’t know,” she hedged. “They’re mad as hatters?”
“Undoubtedly.” He prowled forward, until the meager candlelight tossed his shadow over her skin. “But something bizarre just took place beneath my nose. Why are the Stanton women lurking in the corridor? What do they expect you to do?”
Evangeline sighed. “Chat with God.”
“Now? About me?”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
“They think God will confirm you killed Lord Heatherbrook.”
“Hmmm. Although I’m unconvinced heavenly hearsay will do much in a court of law, the lot of you have me all but convicted already. Well, except for my nieces.”
“Your nieces don’t know you killed their father?”
“They don’t know he was killed. Rose told them he died in his sleep.”
“Is she packing them up to go? What will you do when they learn the truth?”
“I don’t know.” He hooked his fingers in his waistband. “I’m just concentrating on being an uncle while they’re still here.”
She tried not to look skeptical. “Do you know much about being an uncle?”
“Not one whit.”
“Then what are you doing to be uncle-ish?”
“Keeping my promise of a party for Jane’s birthday.”
“A party for Jane’s—that’s very kind of you, but her father died last night.”
“He was worthless.” Mr. Lioncroft fell silent, then regarded her with an odd expression. “From the moment I first saw you, Miss Pemberton, I knew you were different.”
Evangeline’s heart thudded. “What—what do you mean?”
He advanced closer until she could feel the heat from his body through the thin silk of her gown. “You’re stubborn. Intelligent. Passionate.” His voice turned husky. “Beautiful in a far better way.”
“I…” She fought the urge to reach for him, to touch him, to close the gap between them. “Oh.”
“But perhaps I have a blind spot.” Mr. Lioncroft stepped backward. A cool draft sliced across her body. She took a hesitant step forward, caught herself in motion, and froze. His words were no longer complimentary. “Perhaps you’ve entranced me merely to throw suspicion from yourself.”
“From myself?” Evangeline sputtered. “Suspicion of what?”
“Perhaps you are the mysterious murderer. You are not even an invited guest. What brings you to Blackberry Manor?”
“I—the Stantons invited me. I’m a family friend… of sorts. Not a murderer.”
“So you say. But you are as much an outsider as I am, if not more so in this circumstance. The killer was someone capable of lifting a pillow. You are capable of such stre
ngth, are you not? The killer roamed the passageways alone last night. You roamed the passageways alone last night.” A small self-deprecating smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Much as I would like to believe otherwise, I’m well aware you stumbled upon my presence by accident. The killer lied about his whereabouts at the breakfast table this morning. You, madam, lied about your whereabouts.”
“Everybody lied!” She cast a nervous glance toward the cracked salon door, wondering if the three persons hovering outside could hear the hushed conversation within.
“Ah. But although everyone seemed content to agree Heatherbrook died by strangulation, you were the one who pronounced him suffocated to death. How would you know, if you were not the one to do so?”
“I-I—” She had been accused of many things in her life, but murder? She’d never have come within eyesight of Lord Heatherbrook’s corpse had her goal not been justice. Evangeline pushed at Mr. Lioncroft’s chest in frustration. He remained immobile.
“Perhaps you merely stood in the shadows and watched,” he continued, his words low and relentless. “Perhaps you orchestrated the event from afar. I saw you speaking to a strange maid right before dinner. Later I discovered that same maid in Heatherbrook’s employ. Beaten. And then he ended up dead.”
“Why would I instruct a servant to do such a horrible thing?” She struggled to free herself and failed. “That makes no sense.”
His head bent until the tip of his nose was but a hand’s width from hers. “I have no way to know your motives, madam. The Lord does not speak to me.” He paused. His faintly tea-scented breath tickled her forehead, her cheek, her eyelashes. “You agree the maid could have wielded the pillow?”
“Any servant could’ve done so,” she bit out, “but not on my orders.”
“If any servant could’ve done so, you agree dozens of individuals other than myself may have been the villain.” And he smiled at her. Satisfied.
Evangeline jerked her wrists from his grip as she realized he had never once thought her guilty of such a horrible crime—he was merely illustrating that whatever evidence the party believed they had against him was based on superstition and supposition rather than fact.
“Fair enough,” she muttered.
His lashes lowered. “You believe me innocent?”
“No,” she said. “But I don’t not believe you.”
“An improvement.”
His face lit with an astonished grin, as if she’d presented him with a pirate’s treasure rather than a begrudging concession. Had he truly believed he’d never find someone willing to at least consider the possibility of his innocence?
If so, that made two of them. Evangeline had fully expected him to live up to his reputation as an irredeemable, soulless villain. Instead, he stood before her a man. A man asking for her help. He appealed to her not as a “witch” with psychic visions, but as a woman with a logical mind. When was the last time that had happened? Never.
Just like he was the first man she could respond to as a woman. Couldn’t help but respond to as a woman.
She brushed her fingertips across his forearm, reveling in the ability to touch the dark hairs on his arm, the warm skin beneath, the coiled tension of muscle. She glanced up at him, embarrassed to be caught enjoying the simple pleasure of contact and unable to explain her action. She sought for a safe topic.
“Who do you think killed him?” she ventured.
Rather than respond with words, he claimed her mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. She half-expected to find her spine up against the closest wall, but he surprised her by gently ending the kiss completely, pressing his cheek against hers.
Evangeline blinked at the unexpected sensation of rough male stubble, and shivered to find it not at all unpleasant. If she turned her face a mere fraction, the sensitive skin of her lips would rub against the coarse hair, the line of his jaw, the pale scar marring its surface.
Before she could do anything so foolish, however, he lifted his head.
His fingers smoothed the flyaway tendrils from her face and tucked them behind her ears. His palms caressed the flushed heat of her cheeks, down the slope of her bare neck, along the curve of her shoulders. He squeezed her arms briefly, as if wanting to hug her but unable to make the attempt, and then his hands fell back to his sides.
Evangeline wasn’t sure if she should flee or embrace him. Without his touch, she was chilled, aching, uncertain. She stood there, staring up at him, sharing his breath, wishing she knew the right thing to say.
“I hate to blame anyone unfairly,” he confessed, his voice soft. “I was hoping your objectivity would shed some light. Have you no second choice? The new lord, perhaps?”
“Benedict Rutherford?”
Mr. Lioncroft nodded.
“I don’t know…He doesn’t seem to have a strong enough constitution to murder anyone.”
“Surely he’s strong enough to lift a pillow. A child can lift a pillow.”
“So can a woman scorned,” she said slowly.
He frowned. “You’re not suggesting—”
The door to the Green Salon flew open and Edmund Rutherford lurched in. “You are here,” he said. “I thought they were jesting.”
Evangeline glanced behind him at the empty doorway. “They who?”
“The Stantons.”
“In the corridor?”
“Nobody is in the corridor.” He unscrewed a small flask and sniffed the contents.
“So they sent you to watch us?”
“To fetch you and beg your assistance in a matter. That is, unless…Were you about to affect a compromising position?”
“Where did they go?” Mr. Lioncroft asked, ignoring the taunt.
Evangeline fought to do the same. “When did they go?”
“A few minutes ago, when that mousy maid with the bruised cheek came barreling down the corridor, blubbering about Rose being hysterical over the children.”
“The children? What’s wrong with the children?”
Edmund shrugged and recapped his flask. “They’re missing.”
Chapter 17
While Edmund remained in the Green Salon with his flask, everyone else split up to search separately in an attempt to cover ground in the quickest manner possible.
Evangeline headed upstairs to search the guest wings. She stopped by the nursery, where Lady Heatherbrook was slumped on a sofa, Nancy and Jane cuddled to either side.
According to almost-thirteen-year-old Jane, she’d left the room long enough to find a chamber pot, and when she returned, the girls were gone. According to Nancy, twin five-year-olds could be anywhere. Lady Heatherbrook was trembling too hard to do more than murmur that her fervent prayer was that they’d disappeared on their own, and not by the hand of the unknown killer.
Evangeline tugged off her gloves as subtly as she could before offering all three of them her deepest sympathies and giving each a heartfelt hug in the hopes of allaying some of their fears, and gaining insight into the girls’ mysterious disappearance.
The only thing she gained was a headache so intense that for a moment she couldn’t see. She winced at the over-bright shafts of dusty sunlight pouring through the windows, turned her head too sharply, blinked back tears at the explosion raging within her skull. Ever since the terrifying encounter with Lord Heatherbrook’s dead body, even the briefest of human contact had her cringing at the pain and gasping for air.
Once Evangeline’s headache abated enough for her to open her eyes more than a squint, she made her way to the hallway running alongside the guest wing. She headed down the corridor, thrusting open doors and calling for the girls.
She heard nothing but the cracking of her own voice. She saw no one in the unused chambers but the occasional startled servant peeking behind doors and bureaus.
Dare she hope the girls had hidden on their own? Thanks to her stepfather, Evangeline had learned to hide at a very young age. However, she’d never managed to hide from servants. They were too observant, t
oo omnipresent. Which could only mean the girls couldn’t have gone far undetected. Not outside, not downstairs, not to another wing. They had to be near the nursery. But where?
After reclosing the last of the guest-room doors in an adjoining corridor, she slumped against a wall, the wainscoting digging into her hip, the side of her still-pounding head resting between two framed paintings. Something scurried behind the serpentine paper, the eerie scritching and scratching echoing in what Evangeline knew to be a larger-than-necessary crawl space between the walls. Hopefully not rats. She’d hated the vile creatures from the first time her stepfather had locked her in their old pantry.
She glanced down the long corridor toward where she recalled the secret access door to be. Already she could hear the noises getting louder, moving closer, sounding as much like fingernails against rotting wood as tiny claws from horrid little rodents. Her breath caught. What if the noises were fingernails?
Evangeline knocked on the wall. The noises stopped. She pressed her ear to the wall. Was her imagination coloring her perception?
A soft thud thumped near her feet. Could the girls be on the other side? Evangeline kicked the mopboard, striking her toes against the molding three times in quick succession.
Once again, the silence fell for a few seconds before three quick thuds clunked near her feet, making the unmistakable sound of a return knock. And then—thank heavens—a soft, muffled voice.
“Mama? Jane? Nancy?”
Evangeline froze for the briefest of seconds before tearing down the hall, tugging each frame in search of the false painting. One landscape fell with a bang, startling a maid carrying a tea tray from the connecting passage. The tea set shattered to the floor in a jumbled puddle of spilt tea and broken china.
“Fetch Mr. Lioncroft!” Evangeline shouted to the wide-eyed maid. “Now!”
The maid set off down the corridor at a dead run.
Evangeline skidded to a halt before a wide gilded frame as tall as she was. Was this the painting? She jerked on the frame, managing only to set it askew. How had she forgotten which canvas was the façade? Had she not been so desperate to flee the suffocating confinement of the secret passageway, she would’ve paid more attention to something other than escape.
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 14
