Evangeline slumped back in her chair. “Let me guess. Me.”
“Just so,” the maid crowed. “That’s just what he said. And my master says, ‘She’s not here,’ which is as bold a lie as any, since you’re sitting right afore me, and the handsome gentleman says, ‘That’s right odd, as I got a letter from you and a letter from the Stanton woman both yesterday, and yours said I couldn’t have Evangeline yet and hers said to come straightaway and fetch her.’”
Susan made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. “My mother said that?”
Evangeline sat up straight. “But if he just got Lady Stanton’s letter, how did he know I’d be here in the first place?”
“Very good, my lady.” Bess nodded. “That’s just what my master asked, as well. And the handsome gentleman said he’d known enough as to guess you might be wherever the Stantons were, and he checked with Lord Stanton, who said he didn’t know a thing about any Pembertons but that his wife and daughter were over at Blackberry Manor for a spell, and the handsome gentleman put two and two together and come by to get you. Said he’d take you home where you belonged and chain you there if he had to, and that there wasn’t a dern thing my master could do about it, as the law was the law and you was the handsome gentleman’s legal property.”
Evangeline’s shoulders slumped. “It’s true.”
Susan crossed the room and dipped to kneel before her chair. “I am sorry about Mother.” She glanced over her shoulder at the maid. “Where is she now, do you know?”
“There’s nobody who doesn’t know. She was tearing through the guest quarters like a madwoman, looking for you near as I can tell, but I’m pretty sure as now we’ve got her abed or close to it. Had some idea you was with the master in the summerhouse and when neither of you was there, she got the idea you was either ruined or killed and she wasn’t sure which was the worse, and my master’s sister had to pour laudanum down her throat just to get her to settle down.” Bess shook her head as if amused by the whole tale. “As to everyone else, they’re still out back in the blackberry fields, none the wiser to your mama’s hysteria or to my master and his visitor. Except the old gentleman, with the white hair and the cane. Far as I know, he’s still asleep on the summerhouse floor.”
“In that case…” Evangeline brushed Susan out of her way and rose to her feet. “Is there someplace we could go to overhear? You said every servant in the house was watching.”
“Well…” The maid twisted her hands uncertainly. “My master’s orders were for you to stay hidden in the servant quarters, my lady. He’s just on the other side of that wall over there, the one with the bookcase and the big paintings. Doubt you can hear through the wall, though. Please just stay in here. Safe-like. I’ll be back soon to keep you informed.”
She fled the room before Evangeline had a chance to protest further.
Susan shoved up her spectacles with the back of her hand. “Are you afraid of what Lioncroft might say to your stepfather?”
“Not unless my stepfather’s carrying one of his knives. He’s the very soul of determination. And he owns me. I don’t want Gavin to get hurt.”
“I don’t want either of you hurt. I…” Susan sighed. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want us to be friends.”
“I’d like to be friends, too,” Evangeline said after a moment, “but a good portion of that depends on whether or not I’m returned to my stepfather.”
She strode over to the far wall and pressed her ear against the smooth paper. Bess was right. Nothing. So much for listening through walls. Unless…She sprinted to the bookcase and jerked books from every shelf.
“Evangeline!” came Susan’s startled voice. “What the dickens are you doing?”
“Looking for something.”
Susan paused. “A book?”
“A door.”
Evangeline stepped back, surveyed the room. Nothing but chairs and books and paintings. Paintings! She yanked on the first frame and barely jumped to safety before the canvas crushed her toes. She tugged on the second frame more gingerly—still nothing. The third frame, however, swung toward her with a groan. Both dust and muffled voices rolled out from the wall’s dank interior.
“Bring me a chair,” Evangeline hissed.
“A what? Did you just open the wall? How did you do that?”
“A chair,” Evangeline repeated. “We’ve got to prop the passageway open so we don’t get trapped inside. Trust me.”
Susan dashed for a chair. Within moments, they had the access panel propped wide and two more chairs stuffed inside the passageway. When they climbed atop the seat cushions, Susan was still the only one tall enough to peek through the porthole-shaped window high up on the wall. Words, however, filtered through.
“I told you,” came Mr. Lioncroft’s low, steady voice. “She’s not here.”
“You’re lying. She’s mine and I want her.”
“You dare accuse me of lying?”
“I’ll accuse any liar of lying. I know how valuable the little bitch is. One touch and—Ow! Damn you! I ought to—Goddammit!”
Scuffling sounds ensued. Evangeline elbowed Susan in the ribs.
“Oh,” she whispered, tearing her gaze away from the porthole long enough to cast Evangeline a chagrined grimace. “Sorry. Lioncroft planted him a facer. Your stepfather tried to return the favor, but Lioncroft ducked and your stepfather ended up striking the column. He’s got a bloody hand and what’ll probably be a black eye, and now they’re scowling at each other from opposite sides of the porch.”
“Not that kind of touch,” came Neal Pemberton’s voice at last. “Although it’s no business of yours.”
More scuffling.
“Another facer,” Susan confirmed. “He’s going to look like a raccoon. Now Lioncroft’s got him by the neck. He’s turning purple.”
“She gets visions,” Neal blurted out. “She sees things. Just like her mother. That’s a useful talent to possess, and she belongs to me. Don’t think you can use her for yourself, if that’s what you have in mind. I will summon every authority, write to every paper, thrash you myself if need be, until you hand that witch—”
Scuffling. Shattered wood. A thud. More scuffling.
“Your stepfather isn’t doing very well with his thrashing. He got in a couple lucky jabs, but that wood breaking was Lioncroft throwing him through a balustrade. Lioncroft tackled him before he had a chance to get up, and now—oh, no!” Susan rose even higher on her toes and stared out the window in horror.
“What?” Evangeline demanded, her skin going cold. “Tell me.”
“You were right. He has a knife. He got Lioncroft in the side.”
Evangeline swayed against the wall. “What?”
“Oh! One of the footmen snuck up and hit your stepfather in the head with what looks like the pink pall-mall mallet. It’s got red bits now. I think he’s dead.”
Silence.
Once Evangeline regained her breath and her balance, she glanced up at Susan. “Really?”
“Yes. No…wait, he’s breathing. Lioncroft kicked him to make sure. He’s got one hand over his wound and the other hand motioning toward your stepfather’s carriage. Ah, they’re putting him back in. Not Lioncroft—He tried, but there’s too much blood coming from his side. He keeps staggering and wincing.”
Evangeline’s heart stuttered. “No,” she whispered.
“He’s standing mostly upright again. The footmen have your stepfather stuffed in his carriage. Lioncroft’s saying something to the driver. Something with a lot of hand gestures. And now they’re going. Evangeline, they’re going!”
Evangeline scrambled down from her chair and shot out of the passageway and across the room.
“Evangeline,” Susan shouted. “Wait for me. You know I can’t find my way out!”
“Bess will show you back,” Evangeline called over her shoulder as she wrenched open the door and hurtled into the hall. Gavin was hurt. Her stepfather had stabbed him. For trying to he
lp her.
If he died from the wound, she’d kill her stepfather herself.
Chapter 32
The slash in Gavin’s side didn’t start stinging until Miss Pemberton flew out the front door, launched across the porch, and threw her arms around him. He forced himself not to flinch when her trembling arms squeezed the tender flesh above his injury. He’d never admit it to anyone if asked directly, but he’d discovered over the past week that he rather liked hugs. When there wasn’t a four-inch knife wound slicing him from waist to hip.
The good news was, the cut was long but shallow. At worst, give his valet a few minutes with a needle and Gavin would be good as new.
The bad news? He and his decimated porch were soaked in blood, Miss Pemberton was squeezing his torso with rib-shattering strength, and the murmur of concerned party guests was getting louder by the second.
“Come.” Gavin wrenched her from his chest, hauled her against his good side, and hustled her back indoors before the party guests caught sight of them. “You can hug me inside.”
She allowed him to lace his fingers with hers and pull her across the anteroom and down the hall before glancing up at him with those wide brown eyes.
“Where are we going?”
His steps faltered. Where the hell was he dragging her? Away from potential scandal should curious houseguests stumble upon them, yes, but aside from that…Where would nobody look for him?
“Yellow Salon.”
Miss Pemberton listed sideways, apparently trying to walk in a straight line whilst bent at the waist inspecting his wound. “Should we send for a surgeon?”
“No surgeon. I promise to live.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “For now.”
She did not look reassured. “But he stabbed you. There’s…there’s…”
“Blood?” Gavin shouldered open the door to the Yellow Salon and ushered her inside. “Nothing a needle and thread can’t fix.” She stopped so suddenly he tripped over her and sent them both sprawling into the back of a sofa. “What? No needles?”
She rounded on him as if discovering he kept an army of circus performers hidden behind the chaise. “No snakes. No snakes upon the paper, no trolls grinning from the wood, no dark flickering shadows. There’s a window in here. A bay window. With a yellow cushion. Gorgeous ivy-colored furniture. And yellow walls. Bright, bright yellow, like daffodils in sunlight.”
He glanced around the familiar room. “Yes. That’s why it’s called the Yellow Salon.”
Her hands jutted forward as if about to shove him in the middle of his chest. But when her gaze flickered to his bloodstained side, her palms turned skyward then slapped down against her hips. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you?”
Gavin took a subtle step backward. “You don’t like yellow?”
“I love yellow!” She glared at him. “I love yellow, and green and blue and pink and white and—”
He reached behind her to shut the door. His servants did not need to overhear Miss Pemberton’s spontaneous recital of her favorite colors. “You sound like my niece.”
Her jaw clenched. “I sound like a woman forced to sleep in a bedchamber occupied by snake-inhabited walls and a troll-infested bed.”
Ah. That. He tried for a slow, sensual smile. “You can sleep in mine, if you like.”
Her lips pursed. Pursed lips couldn’t be a good sign. “I would like to know why we weren’t shown in here when we arrived, if this is the proper receiving room. It’s beautiful.”
“Because it’s beautiful.”
He strode past her to the window and pulled the curtains closed. When he turned back around to face her, she hadn’t moved. If anything, her pursed lips had gotten pursier.
“You don’t like beautiful things?” Miss Pemberton asked at last.
Since she seemed content to stand there squinting at him as though he were the strangest specimen of male she’d ever encountered, Gavin crossed over to a sofa and eased onto the cushion, careful not to bump his injured side against the armrest.
“I like you,” he reminded Miss Pemberton once he’d arranged himself as comfortably as he could, “and you’re beautiful. But I was angry about having unexpected guests. I wanted everyone to leave as quickly as they came, and they wouldn’t hurry off if they enjoyed their stay.” He flashed his most devilish smile. “So I didn’t show anybody into any receiving rooms.”
Her arms crossed below her breasts, plumping them above the dipping neckline. “And the guest quarters?”
“Have not been renovated since I purchased the house. I haven’t had guests in over a decade.” He widened the spread of his relaxed legs, lounged one arm along the back of the sofa, gazed up to find Miss Pemberton staring at him as if he exuded more danger injured than uninjured. “A few weeks notice was hardly enough time to commission new suites, should I have had the inclination to do so.”
She bit her lower lip, suckled it, freed it. Gavin would’ve liked to do the same.
Her gaze dipped from his eyes, to his mouth, to his ruined clothing. “Why didn’t you do it?”
“Do what? Die?”
She came closer, first one tentative halting step, then another. “No. Why didn’t you hand me over to my stepfather?”
“Hand you over to that cretin? Why would I?”
“You had to.”
“Yet I didn’t.”
“But he’s my stepfather.” She paled, shivered, swallowed. “He owns me.”
For now, Gavin almost added. Where had that come from? He was in no position to change her legal status. Even if he wished to marry her—which he neither admitted nor denied—he couldn’t protect his own neck, let alone hers, too. Plenty could happen between now and whenever he might have the opportunity to petition for a license. If he couldn’t promise to stay alive for the wedding, then he could promise her nothing.
“I don’t care if he owns you,” Gavin said instead. “I sent him away.”
“He’ll be back.”
“Not until he recovers from those black eyes,” Gavin assured her with as much flippancy as he could muster. How long would a blackguard like her stepfather stay away, when she was right—he was her legal guardian. How long before he did write his letters, make good on his threats, summon the magistrate? A month? A week? “We’ll make sure you’re gone by then,” he said, hoping she couldn’t detect the bleakness in his tone. Not because he feared her worthless scab of a stepfather, but because in order to rid herself from one man, she’d have to rid herself of them both. “Shall I summon you a carriage?”
She started, as if assailed by the same thoughts. “Now?”
He forced himself to say the words. “It’s yours when you wish it.”
She fairly leapt the distance between them until she was but an arm’s breadth before him, his boots on either side of hers. “But I haven’t determined the murderer’s identity.”
“Nor will you be able to help under your stepfather’s captivity. I prefer you safe somewhere unknown than unsafe somewhere known.” He rubbed his face with one hand, cursed himself for its smoothness. Had he the slightest inkling she preferred his kisses the way he’d been giving them, forceful, scratchy, rough, he’d never have put razor to chin before the picnic. Now their farewell kiss—for surely she would allow him a farewell kiss?—would be inadequate, disappointing, unsatisfying. And, oh, how he longed to satisfy her. Her safety, however, was his primary concern. “Given the choice, I admit to disliking the thought of you going anywhere at dusk. Twilight is a dangerous time to begin a journey. Can you wait until morning?”
She edged closer, her gown brushing against the inside of his calves, his knees, his thighs. “But…but I haven’t determined the murderer’s identity.”
“So you’ve reminded me.”
“If I fail to help before I go, will—will you hang?”
Probably. Then again, he might hang even if she stayed. Gavin lifted a shoulder as if the thought held no sway. “Would you miss me either way?”
&nbs
p; Her breath hitched. Her palms cupped his face. Her forehead touched his. “I would. You know I would. I miss you already.”
As did he. Knowing she felt the same seemed to worsen the feeling of dread, to tighten his already tight muscles, to speed up his already racing heart. Gavin pulled her into his lap, clutched her to him, breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. Her hip curved against his uninjured side. Her knees tucked between his legs. The side of one silk-covered breast pressed against his chest.
She would have to leave him.
He would have to let her.
But not yet.
She tilted her face up at the exact moment his slanted down. Their breath came together first, then their mouths, then their tongues. She tasted like fear, like loneliness, like desire. Or maybe that was him. Maybe that was both of them. She, the woman who couldn’t risk touching, who couldn’t risk loving, who couldn’t outrun her past.
And Gavin, the man who…what? Was he any different? He either didn’t know or didn’t want to know, just like he didn’t want to stop kissing her, just like he didn’t want to let her go, to put her in a carriage and send her away where he’d never see her again, smell her hair, taste her mouth and tongue and skin. But what else was he to do? What else was she to do? Her stepfather would be back, and the law would side with him.
Gavin wrenched his mouth from Miss Pemberton’s.
“Tell me,” he said, brushing his lips across the soft skin of her forehead. “Why did you run from him?”
She shuddered, but remained silent.
At first, he thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she leaned the side of her head against his shoulder and let out a long, slow exhale.
“First,” she said, “I’ll tell you why my mother didn’t run. Me. A woman of her position—which is to say, none—can’t even aspire to become the lowliest of scullery maids or the cheapest of prostitutes. Not without suffering visions and their consequences. Add to that limitation a child who showed every sign of the same affliction, and she was trapped.”
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 26
