“There you go. My sister confirms it.” Mr. Lioncroft refocused his gaze on Evangeline. “I am not a good person. I never have been. But I am trying to do right by you, and by my family. Which means I refrained from killing my sister’s rotter of a husband, much as I might’ve liked to do so, and which also means I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself for me. I will attempt not to make a cake of myself over you in public.”
Evangeline tried to lighten the awkward atmosphere. “Just in public?”
His lips curved in a slow, secret smile. “I reserve the right to make a cake of myself over you in private.”
Lady Heatherbrook cleared her throat. “Please do not discuss right in front of me what you may or may not do with Miss Pemberton in private.”
“Would you care to leave, dear sister?”
“No. I thought you were trying not to ruin her.”
“Oh. Right.” He inclined his head toward Evangeline. “See how quickly I forget? Being considerate is a wholly new endeavor for me. For over the past decade I have lived by myself, but for a couple years before that…” His eyes shadowed. “I left a trail of bruised pride and broken promises in my wake.”
“More like bruised limbs and broken hearts.” Lady Heatherbrook gave a short, wry laugh. “Anyone you couldn’t beat in a carriage race, you beat with your fists. And captured the fancy of most of their ladies in the process.”
“Yes. Well. I never claimed to be a good person.”
Evangeline stared at him. “I can’t imagine that behavior endeared you to your friends.”
“I never had any friends.”
She blinked. “Never?”
He shrugged one shoulder and glanced away.
“You had me,” Lady Heatherbrook said softly.
His smile was humorless. “Not when it mattered.”
Lady Heatherbrook flinched. “That was your own fault.”
“I know.”
An uncomfortable silence leached the warmth from the room.
Evangeline gazed at the man on the other side of the sofa. He appeared to be trying desperately to appear as casual and unaffected as ever, but the tightness of his muscles belied the posed carelessness in the splay of his long limbs.
Hard to believe a man like Mr. Lioncroft was more like her than unlike her. He’d grown up friendless. So had she. He had one family member he could count on. So had she. That family member had left him alone and hurting. So had she.
But her mother was gone now, forever. And Lady Heatherbrook was sitting right there across from them, her cheeks pale, her eyes moist, her hands twisting in her lap. She would not be doing so if she truly thought her brother a reprobate beyond all redemption. If he would just go to her, speak to her, surely she would forgive him for whatever he had done.
Why was he still sitting there, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, staring at an invisible spot on the ceiling with enough force to burn holes in the plaster? Did he truly believe himself so wholly bad as to be unlikable, unlovable, unforgivable? And why was Lady Heatherbrook not speaking up on his behalf? Because she believed those things, too?
A distant chime shattered the silence.
Lady Heatherbrook twisted her skirts nervously. “Time for supper. Should we join the others?”
Mr. Lioncroft started, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. The fierce expression in his dark eyes was wounded and raw.
Deciding she cared more about him than his sister’s chaperonage, Evangeline reached out, gently, hesitantly, and touched his arm with her fingertips. “Gavin—”
He leapt to his feet. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to dine without me.”
In seconds, he was across the room, out the door, and gone.
Evangeline turned toward his sister, who immediately closed her eyes.
“Please don’t say it.” Lady Heatherbrook’s voice was harsh, scratchy. “I—I know. I do know. I’m no better than he. I don’t think I’m hungry, either. I seem to have lost my appetite.” Her eyes flew open. “I’m sorry, Miss Pemberton. Forgive me.”
And she struggled to her feet, crossed the floor, and slipped from the room.
Chapter 34
Mr. Teasdale barely made it through the first course before nodding off in his chair. How he could sleep through Benedict Rutherford’s hacking cough and Edmund Rutherford’s drunken ranting, Evangeline couldn’t imagine. Both she and Francine Rutherford kept their eyes focused on their plates, so as to dissuade Edmund from inquiring their opinion as to which of the west wing parlor maids was the fairest.
Unlike Francine, Evangeline made sure to eat everything placed before her. Not only was the fare at Blackberry Manor far superior to any she’d had while living with her stepfather, but also, the future loomed uncertain before her. If she accepted Mr. Lioncroft’s offer of a carriage tomorrow—and of course she would, for what else could she do?—she still had no idea where she’d take shelter, much less where she’d get her meals.
On the other hand, she was beginning to think going without would be preferable to spending an hour trapped in a dining room with Edmund Rutherford.
“But the ginger-hackled servant heading toward the guest quarters when the dancing ended the other night,” he was saying now, fixing his bloodshot gaze on Benedict. “She may be a maid, but she’s not a maiden, am I right? Her skirts are as likely to be up as down.”
“I don’t know,” Benedict muttered. “Perhaps we could discuss something else?”
“Those freckles,” he continued as if Benedict hadn’t spoken. “I’d say…comely all right.”
Francine’s fork clattered to her untouched plate. “Honestly, Edmund. There are ladies in the room.”
“Pah.” He grinned at her unrepentantly. “Ladies are so missish. That’s why I focus my attention on maids.”
“I didn’t notice any maids,” Benedict said in a calming voice, as though hoping to quit the topic before his wife stabbed his cousin with a fork. “I didn’t wander the halls after dancing.”
Evangeline set her utensils atop her plate. “But you did,” she said slowly, thinking back to that night. Not long after Mr. Teasdale’s cane had come clomping by, she’d heard…“Your cough. I heard you coughing from down the corridor.”
“Of course you did,” Edmund slurred. “The way he coughs, I’m surprised he doesn’t rattle the paintings right off the walls. If he was wandering the halls, I’m surprised he didn’t run across that maid with the plump set of—”
“If I did,” Benedict cut in, “I failed to notice. Why would I? I’m married.”
Edmund shrugged. “I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other. Do you, Francine? If I were married, I’d still be sure to hire maids I’d like to—”
“What did you notice?” Evangeline interrupted, leveling her gaze at Benedict.
“What?”
“You said you didn’t notice any maids, so you must’ve been looking for something else. Something you didn’t want us to know about, or you wouldn’t have lied about where you were. Something secret.”
Francine pushed her plate away. “Have you been keeping secrets from me, darling?”
“I—” Benedict paused, shifted, coughed discreetly into a handkerchief. “Perhaps I simply had no wish to hear conjecture about my presence and Heatherbrook’s death.”
“Why would anyone speculate on a correlation if you weren’t anywhere near him?” Francine asked reasonably.
Benedict didn’t answer.
“You argued with him after dancing,” Evangeline guessed. Perhaps she’d unmask the murderer before she left Blackberry Manor, after all! “You went to his room, you argued with him, and you killed him. Then you blamed the crime on Mr. Lioncroft.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Benedict snapped. “He was dead when I got there. He—” Benedict paled, as if shocked by his own words.
“He was dead when you got there?” Evangeline repeated, her voice climbing. “He was dead when you got there, and you didn’t raise the hue and cry?�
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“And be thought a murderer?”
Francine recoiled from her husband. “What were you doing in his bedchamber?”
“I went to confront him,” Benedict admitted after a moment. “But like I said, I didn’t get the chance.”
Edmund swirled his wine. “Confront him about what?”
Benedict hesitated, then turned to his wife. “I didn’t want you to know,” he said, “but we’re in a bit of a financial state.”
She blinked garishly painted eyelids. “We are?”
He nodded glumly. “Heatherbrook had been giving me an allowance ever since he assumed the title, and just this month he cut it off. Permanently, he said.” Benedict coughed into the crook of his elbow. “Our estate didn’t turn a profit this year. We needed that money. He refused. Just that morning, he—he laughed when I asked him again for the money. Shook his head, and laughed. At me. His brother.”
Evangeline stared at him across the table. “Then why visit him again at night? What would be any different?”
“I would be different. I—I’m not proud of it, but I planned to force his hand.”
Francine’s eyes widened. “How?”
Benedict grimaced. “I took a pistol with me. I wasn’t going to kill him! The thing wasn’t even loaded. I just wanted to show him I was serious. That now was not the time to be high-handed and miserly. And when I saw him there, I…I didn’t know what to do. I froze for a moment, and then I ran. I couldn’t call for help while standing there with a pistol in my hand. Who would’ve believed I hadn’t harmed him?”
Edmund swirled his wineglass. “I’m not sure I do now. After all, you inherited.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Benedict insisted. “Would I have just confessed the truth of that night if I’d killed him?”
“We do believe you.” Francine placed her hand atop his. “You may have been desperate, but you will always be a man of honor.”
“If he was alive when he left Mr. Lioncroft’s office and dead in his chamber when you arrived,” Evangeline reasoned, “someone else wanted him dead. Someone else visited his chamber and suffocated him with a pillow.”
“Perhaps Lioncroft came by to continue their argument,” Francine suggested. “He’s always had an unpredictable temper.”
“No.” Evangeline shook her head. “Someone else.”
Edmund gulped at his wine. “The French tutor?” he suggested. “Surely that chap was less than happy to have the object of his affection betrothed to another.”
Evangeline considered that idea for a moment. “While I agree that prospect—and being sacked—might have given Monsieur Lefebvre a strong motive, he’s not even here. He would’ve had to journey a full day’s ride, sneak unnoticed inside Blackberry Manor, determine the precise location of Lord Heatherbrook’s bedchamber…It makes no sense.”
“Might he have bribed a servant?” Francine asked. “After all, he was something of a servant himself. He might have befriended someone.”
“It’s possible.” Evangeline didn’t find the idea particularly likely, but she was willing to support any theory that saved Mr. Lioncroft from the gallows. If her dinner companions were at last willing to entertain alternate explanations, surely that meant they could be convinced of his innocence.
Francine rose to her feet. “I think I need to lie down.”
Benedict stood as well and placed her hand on his arm. “You hardly ate a thing. Are you unwell?”
Evangeline smiled as she watched them leave and wondered for the hundredth time when Francine would share the good news with her husband. No doubt he’d be thrilled to be a father. She kept her thoughts to herself, of course, as the only reason she had any clue of the happy tidings was due to the onslaught of visions she’d suffered during the country dances that first night.
Her smile faded as she caught sight of Edmund leering drunkenly at her over his wineglass. Based on the soft snores still emanating from the direction of Mr. Teasdale, she and Edmund were virtually unchaperoned.
She leapt to her feet.
Edmund’s blatantly appreciative gaze followed her every move. “Where are you going?”
Evangeline mentioned the first place that sprang to mind. “The nursery.”
He gestured to the seat next to him. “Why don’t you stay here with me?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Me neither.” His lips curved in a smirk.
“I told the girls I’d visit them,” Evangeline said quickly, and quit the room before he had a chance to lumber to his feet and follow her.
She had in fact told the girls she’d visit them. She’d said “sometime,” and now seemed a very good time to make good on her promise.
On her way to the nursery, she kept thinking about Francine’s idea of Monsieur Lefebvre bribing a servant. Mr. Lioncroft had suggested a servant, as well. He’d wondered if Ginny had acted on her own, out of revenge for herself or her mistress.
Could the two be connected? After all, Monsieur Lefebvre wasn’t the only one whose plans had been upset by the loss of both his position and his would-be paramour. Nancy Heatherbrook had been equally distraught. And had instructed her sisters to claim both she and her mother had been with them in the nursery all night.
Perhaps Lady Heatherbrook hadn’t been protecting herself. Perhaps she’d been protecting her daughter.
By the time Evangeline reached the nursery, she’d all but convinced herself of Nancy Heatherbrook’s guilt and planned to confront her immediately. That was not to be, however, as only the twins were present. After exchanging greetings, she settled on the sofa, content to watch the two little girls play with their dolls.
Not half an hour later, Jane swept into the room flushed and breathless. Ignoring her sisters completely, she clapped her hands together and skipped directly to Evangeline.
“Oh! Miss Pemberton, you can’t imagine where I’ve been. Remember my locket? This one.” She gestured at her throat. “Uncle Lioncroft has been painting my portrait. Two, really. A big one, which he says he’d like to keep himself—he wants to do one of each of his nieces, he says, so we can be with him even when we’re not—and a miniature, which will go right inside my locket. See? It’ll be ever so cunning.”
“I see,” Evangeline said, not quite sure how else to respond. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”
“Quite lovely. I’m very nearly an adult, you see. Uncle Lioncroft says my come-out will be here before he knows it. He says—”
“Nurse says,” interrupted one of the twins, “Uncle Lioncroft killed Papa.”
“He did not,” said the other, clutching her doll to her chest. “Nurse is mean.”
“I thought,” Evangeline said slowly, “your mother said your father passed peacefully in his sleep?”
“Well…” Jane twisted her locket. “She did say that, yes. But then Nurse said she only said that so we wouldn’t be scared of Uncle Lioncroft. She says Uncle Lioncroft hurt Papa because Papa hurt Mother. And it doesn’t matter why Uncle Lioncroft did it—murderers hang.”
Nurse, Evangeline thought, needed to learn to curb her tongue.
“I miss Papa,” Rebecca said plaintively. “Why does Uncle hate him so much?”
Because your papa was a violent brute seemed an inappropriate answer. The handprint still hadn’t completely faded from Lady Heatherbrook’s face. As her brother, of course, Mr. Lioncroft would want to protect her. He wouldn’t rob his nieces of their father, but he’d certainly do his best to save his sister from future harm.
“He…” Evangeline began, and faltered.
The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Lioncroft’s nieces to fear him. But he’d already admitted fighting with their father and being angry enough to kill him. What could she say to mitigate a statement like that?
“I hate him,” Rebecca cried. “I hate him for killing my Papa!”
She threw her doll across the room. When the porcelain face shattered against the corner of a bookshelf, Rebecca burst into tears.
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Evangeline ran to her side and gathered the weeping child into her arms. She ground her teeth against the instant headache brought on by a barrage of little girl visions about biscuits and chocolate. She’d caused more harm than good if Rebecca had interpreted her hesitation as a tacit admission of Mr. Lioncroft’s guilt.
“Rebecca,” she said softly, stroking her blond curls. “Your father—”
“Was a bloody saint,” came a low growl from the open doorway.
Evangeline jerked her gaze up Mr. Lioncroft’s tall, tense form to the anger slashing across his face.
“I was just—”
“Allowing my nieces to believe I murdered their father. How kind of you.” His voice was tight, his eyes cold, hard, furious, as he took in the scene before him. Jane, twisting her locket. The beautiful doll, lying rejected and ruined on the floor. Rebecca, shivering and sobbing in Evangeline’s lap. “I was a fool to hope otherwise.”
He spun from the doorway and stalked into the shadows.
“Wait,” Evangeline called, struggling to her feet as best she could without dropping Rebecca to the floor.
But he was gone.
If only she could start her visit to the nursery anew. Perhaps she could’ve said the right things, kept Rebecca from crying, saved the lovely doll from destruction.
There’d been more than rage in Mr. Lioncroft’s eyes. There had been pain. He’d taken Rebecca’s rejection of his gift as a rejection of himself. And he’d no doubt interpreted Evangeline’s clumsy handling of his niece’s question as the worst kind of betrayal. He’d trusted her. Trusted her to believe in him when nobody else did. Trusted her to help him.
Instead, she’d made everything worse.
Chapter 35
Evangeline pressed her ear against the wall and listened.
Mr. Lioncroft wasn’t in his office. He wasn’t in the dining rooms, the drawing rooms, or the library. And from the sound of it—or lack thereof—he wasn’t even roaming the secret passageways between his walls.
How was she going to apologize, to explain he hadn’t heard what he thought he’d heard, if she couldn’t even find him?
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 28
