“First,” he announced by way of greeting. “Where is Francine Rutherford?”
Five pairs of startled eyes gazed his way.
“On her way to one of their country properties, I believe,” Rose responded hesitantly. “Why?”
“Second,” he continued without answering her question. “Why the hell did you and Nancy ask the girls to lie about where you were the night your husband died?”
“Wh—what?” Nancy’s face whitened. “We didn’t—”
“You did. You forced Jane to lie to my face. And for what? Neither one of you did anything wrong.”
Rose and Nancy stared at each other, mouths agape. “You didn’t—?”
Gavin glanced at the open doorway. “Oh, for God’s sake. Each of you thought the other did it, and you were trying to protect each other’s neck? All this time, I was sure you thought it was me.”
Nancy colored and shook her head.
Rose moved the twins aside and got to her feet. “Even families who love each other can suspect each other of horrible things,” she said softly. “Even families who love each other can be wrong. Forgive me?”
“Have you ever forgiven me?” he asked and turned to go.
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Rose said simply. “I’m a mother. I would never leave my children alone with someone I didn’t trust. You’ve been a wonderful uncle to them.”
He paused to look back at her. “Not for much longer. Francine killed your husband. But if I don’t find her, I’ll be the one to hang.”
“No,” Nancy gasped, eyes wide. “Aunt Rutherford mentioned stopping by their London town house before heading home. Don’t let her get away with blaming you for Papa’s death.”
Gavin nodded as he sprinted from the room and down the hall. Within minutes, he was on the back of a horse and tearing down the dirt road to catch a killer.
Chapter 42
Evangeline’s head was still swimming from Gavin’s confession when she finally returned to her bedchamber. She didn’t know what to think. She’d been positive he’d had nothing to do with his parents’ death.
She closed her bedchamber door and headed to her bed, intending to throw herself atop the mattress and scream into the pillows until she made sense of her life, and decided whether to stay or to go. That plan, however, did not come to fruition.
There, in the center of her bed, sat what appeared to be a brown clay pot filled with dirt.
She stepped closer. Definitely a pot. She stuck her finger in the moist black soil. Definitely dirt. And lying atop was a small card simply reading, “Think of me. Gavin.” She blinked, reread, poked the soil again. She’d been unlikely to forget him in the first place, but he’d vanquished the possibility altogether by being the first man to present her with a pot of farewell dirt.
Mystifying.
No matter how much she stared at it, turned it, prodded it, it steadfastly remained a brown clay pot filled with dirt.
She picked it up. Heavier than she expected, but not too heavy to lug around England. Was that what she was supposed to do with it? Lug it around England and think of Gavin? If ever she required a sign from God that she wholly and unequivocally did not understand the world of the ton, surely this was that sign. Couldn’t he have just given her a locket with his miniature inside?
Having nothing else pressing to do, she balanced the pot on one hip and shouldered through her connecting door to beg an explanation from the resident ton expert.
Susan took one look at her, leapt backward against a hanging mirror, and threw up her arms for protection.
“I apologize! I apologize! Please don’t throw dirt on me!”
Evangeline paused. “For what?”
“For not finding Francine in time.”
“You didn’t find Francine?”
Susan peeked through her fingers. “You didn’t know?”
Evangeline shook her head slowly. “Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know.” Susan’s hands lowered. “But Lioncroft went to find her. I’d hate to be her right now. He’s frightening when he’s angry.”
“He is not,” Evangeline began, then stopped, startled. Her defense of him was automatic. She had not liked to hear his role in his parents’ death, but was not a murderer then or now.
“I’ll be honest,” Susan said. “Despite everything you said, I never quite believed he was innocent until today.”
“I told you.” Evangeline dropped into Susan’s chair and settled her clay pot on her lap. “There was no way he could’ve smothered Heatherbrook in his office, or even knocked him out and carried him through the entire mansion, sight unseen.”
“I might’ve agreed with that logic had I not witnessed you prying open the wall yesterday afternoon. I imagine it’s quite simple to move about unseen when one is secreted within hidden passageways.”
Evangeline stared at her. “I never thought of that.”
“Of course you didn’t. Why would you? You thought he was innocent. You were trying to think of ways other people might’ve done it. I, on the other hand, was convinced of his guilt, so of course, I was looking for ways he might’ve committed the crime.”
“You’d make him a terrible wife.”
“Oh, piffle. We both know he’s never going to marry me.”
Perhaps she had known, but nonetheless, a blessed sense of relief settled in Evangeline’s tense muscles to hear Susan speak the words aloud.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Susan said hesitantly, “why are you walking around with a pot of dirt?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“How the dickens would I know?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was maybe some particular ton tradition.”
“Dirt?” Susan poked a tentative finger inside. “Are you bamming me?”
“Never mind. I’ll consider it a new mystery to solve.” Evangeline hesitated. “You were right about me being a bossy know-all. I shouldn’t have been like that, and I apologize. Still friends?”
“Pah, of course. All women have their moments of being bossy know-alls. Take my mother, for example. Or don’t…I shouldn’t wish her on anybody. Speaking of which, where will you be off to next?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What are your choices?”
Evangeline felt her face flush. “My choices,” she said slowly, “seem to be Blackberry Manor…or somewhere else.”
Susan tapped her chin. “Well, Blackberry Manor sounds intriguing. Does this mean Lioncroft asked you to marry him?”
“No. But he did give me a pot of dirt.”
“I see.” Susan shoved her spectacles up the bridge of her nose with the back of a hand. “Ill-advised attempts at gift giving aside, what’s to stop you from staying? Is it that a lack of a proposal rather implies he’s hoping you’ll stay on as his mistress?”
“No,” Evangeline answered slowly. “It’s not that. In fact, he somewhat…he almost proposed.”
“Almost?”
“He implied if he were assured of not hanging, he would ask for my hand.”
“Oh, Evangeline!” Susan clapped her hands together excitedly. “That’s wonderful! Isn’t it? Why don’t you look happy? Is it the pot of dirt? Men are imbeciles. You must be very specific about what constitutes a proper gift. Tell him no more dirt. Tell him you require jewelry for an engagement gift. Tell him pearls, or perhaps—”
“I don’t know if I can marry him,” Evangeline confessed. No matter how much she might wish.
Susan gaped at her. “Why on earth not? You’ve been taken with him from the first. And even Edmund harped on Lioncroft’s constant mooncalfing, remember? You yourself said Lioncroft would only marry if he wished to. He must love you. Wasn’t that what you wanted? A love match?”
Evangeline swallowed. That was part of what she wanted. Love… and a life free of fear.
“He didn’t even kill Heatherbrook,” Susan continued blithely. “So you needn’t worry he’s resumed
any violent tendencies. Well, he did bruise Heatherbrook up a bit, and he thrashed Edmund once or twice, and he planted on your stepfather a few well-deserved facers…but absolutely no killing. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say no killing. It turns out,” Evangeline confessed softly, “he’s responsible for his parents’ deaths after all.”
Susan’s brows lifted uncertainly. “Er…That’s exceptionally old news, Evangeline. He killed them over something trivial, if I recall correctly. I don’t remember what…Pugilism, maybe? Or his marks at university?”
“Carriage racing,” Evangeline stammered. “And he didn’t do it on purpose. It was a horrible accident. Well, not an accident-accident, which I think is why my stomach won’t lie still, but he didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Susan blinked. “I’ll be honest. I heard what you just said, yet I have no idea if you’re defending him or denouncing him. Which is it?”
“I don’t know,” Evangeline groaned. “What would you do?”
“Clearly, I’d meant to marry him regardless. I would’ve felt my decision even more validated had I known the tragedy was an accident. While I understand it’s easier to believe in a past you know than a future you don’t, the trouble with the past is it’s unchangeable. Much as he might like to, Lioncroft can no more reverse his parents’ deaths than I can go back in time to prevent myself from spreading malicious gossip. It happened. Either you love someone enough to forgive them their past mistakes, or you don’t.”
Evangeline dropped her head in her hands. Heaven help her. Weren’t those the exact words she’d used to coax Gavin into forgiving himself for the careless things he’d done as a young man?
“You’re right.” She glanced up at Susan. “I’m a ninny-hammer.”
“Well, yes. It’s part of your charm. I can come to the wedding, though, right? Oh, let me help plan it! Lioncroft has enough money to make it the Society event of the Season. Oh, and since you haven’t a mother to do so, I can be the one to tell you all about the wedding act.”
“The wedding act?”
“You know. Lovemaking. I’ll tell you now if you want. Mother says it’s not so bad because it’s always dark so you can’t see what he’s doing anyway, and if you lay still enough, it’ll be over quick as can be and you can get on with whatever you were doing, and if he doesn’t jostle you about too much, you might even be able to compose shopping lists in your head while he—”
“Susan.”
“Yes?”
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“If you think you might have the slightest chance of entering into a physical relationship with a man, for marriage or otherwise—”
“Why would I do it otherwise?”
“Listen to me. If you even have a dream about kissing, promise me you will write immediately for my advice.”
“You have advice?”
“More like a counterargument, yes.” Evangeline lifted the pot of dirt and rose to her feet. “But right now, I have to find Gavin before he leaves. I owe him an apology…and to let him know he owns my heart.”
Before the opportunity to set things right was lost.
Chapter 43
The brisk October wind rifled Gavin’s hair, chapped his dry cheeks, destroyed his cravat. He didn’t care. He felt suddenly free. Freer than he’d ever been. He had his family again. As long as he didn’t swing for Francine’s crimes.
He caught sight of the Rutherfords up ahead and overtook their carriage within moments. When their wheels slowed to a stop, Gavin leapt from his horse, strode over, and yanked open the door.
Francine stared at him with barely-concealed horror.
“Lioncroft,” she managed, her hands twisting nervously in her skirt. “What a surprise.”
He inclined his head coldly. “Isn’t it?”
Benedict regarded him with a furrowed brow. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I came to congratulate you,” Gavin said, “For your future heir.”
Benedict frowned. “I’m not the future heir anymore, Lioncroft. Now I’m the earl. Horrifying as it is, Edmund is the future heir.”
“Actually, that’s not the case at all,” Gavin bit out. “Is it, Francine?”
She paled.
“Uh-oh.” Gavin flashed a ferocious smile. “You haven’t told him? He’s going to notice, sooner or later.”
Benedict coughed into his napkin. “What the hell are you talking about, Lioncroft?”
Gavin swung inside the carriage and arranged himself atop the rear-facing seat. He lounged back against the squab, knees spread, arms crossed. “Your wife killed Heatherbrook because she’s pregnant with his child.”
Benedict froze.
“He’s a liar!” Francine clutched her husband’s sleeve, hands shaking.
“She’s been lifting her skirts for him for years, it seems, and it’s finally paid off,” Gavin continued relentlessly. “She might very well have the next little Lord Heatherbrook in her belly.”
Francine closed her eyes and dropped her hands from her husband’s sleeve.
Benedict stared at his wife, face ashen. “You promised me it was over. When that scandal sheet came out, you promised me it was an exaggeration, a one-time relapse blown out of proportion.”
Francine glanced away, lips tight.
“The scandal sheet said more than that,” Gavin reminded him helpfully. He produced the very article from his front pocket and unfolded the clipping on his lap. “It claims Francine had to look elsewhere if she wanted heirs. If that’s true, she won’t be able to deny her condition for more than another month or two before it’s obvious to anyone with eyes.”
Benedict swallowed, his gaze and tone dull. “Francine…?”
“We both wanted a baby. We talked about it all the time. It’s not my fault you couldn’t father one. So I found someone who could. I didn’t love him, Benedict. I just wanted a baby. For us. Like we dreamed about.”
He recoiled and stared at her. “I wanted a child of my own.”
“It’s your baby,” she gritted out, “if you say it is. Just think, darling—we’ll be raising the new earl!”
“Because you killed the old one?” Benedict slammed his fist against the carriage wall. “My brother, Francine. My brother.”
Her voice wobbled. “You hated him, too. How many times did you wish for his untimely death?”
“Because he slept with my wife,” he roared. “I wanted to kill him for that.”
“I did it for you.” She placed a trembling hand on his knee. “I did it for us.”
“And now we’re all going to the magistrate. I’ll follow on my horse.” Gavin rapped at the panel to summon the coachman. “Don’t kill each other before we get there.”
Chapter 44
Rather than drive herself mad waiting for news of Gavin, after she had missed seeing him before he had left to catch Francine, Evangeline decided to while away the hours watching the children play in the nursery. However, the girls were nowhere to be found. Even stranger, she couldn’t even find a servant to ask where they might be. Or, in fact, any houseguest. Might everyone have gone outside for kite-flying or pall-mall?
Pot of dirt still tucked under her arm, she made her way to the servants’ quarters rather than the front porch, as the side door spilled directly into the lawn where the wickets had been set up for Jane’s birthday. No wickets. No kites. Dozens of scurrying servants.
Dread began to coil in Evangeline’s belly. She had the horrible suspicion the staff of Blackberry Manor was not engaged in a casual game of hide-and-seek.
Jane flew out from between two tall rows of blackberry bushes, caught sight of Evangeline, and burst into tears.
Evangeline ran up to her, stroked her hair with her free hand. “What happened?”
“It’s my fault,” Jane sobbed. “The twins have been asking to play out-of-doors all morning, and I said I would but I didn’t because I wanted to sneak into Uncle Lio
ncroft’s studio to look at the miniature he’s painting of me. When I came back they were gone. I was so angry at them for running off again that I told Nancy and Mother they should be spanked, and we all came outside to fetch them. But we couldn’t find them, and then we found Rachel, and Rachel was crying, and she said Rebecca was hurt somewhere between the bushes and we can’t find her anywhere.”
“Not again.” Evangeline would sack their nurse in a heartbeat. “Does Rachel know where she is?”
“She’s crying too hard to speak. We can’t get any helpful information from her.”
Evangeline straightened. “I can. Take me to her. Hurry!”
Jane took off running with Evangeline right on her heels.
They sped through the rows of towering blackberry bushes, mindless of the occasional brambles tugging at their hair and ripping at their skirts. Just when Evangeline was beginning to think the fields stretched on forever, a smart white gazebo appeared in the center of a small clearing.
Jane stumbled to a stop. “Rachel? Rachel?” She turned to face Evangeline, panic in her eyes. “I don’t understand. She was right here. Now I’ve lost her, too!”
“No,” Evangeline choked, catching sight of a too-familiar form stepping out from behind a tall bush. “She’s still here.”
“Mornin’, darling.” Neal Pemberton tightened his hold on Rachel’s limp body, one large hand clapped over the child’s mouth, the other holding a knife to her ribs. “Miss me?”
Oh, God. The blackberry fields. Of course.
“Let her go,” Evangeline demanded, wincing at the tremor in her words.
“Now, why would I want to do that?” he drawled.
“Let her go,” Evangeline repeated, her voice high-pitched and cracking. “Jane, I need you to run. Find your mother, find a servant, find anyone. Tell them Neal Pemberton is here and he’s got Rachel.” She took a deep breath and tried to look confident. “For now.”
Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 Page 33
