Too Wicked To Kiss Part 12

Susan clapped a hand to her throat as if she couldn't wait to share this possibility with the lady in question. Evangeline would just as soon spend the rest of the house party sequestered in her room. She had far worse to worry about-Neal Pemberton's relentless pursuit. She'd never heard of anyone outwitting an event foretold in a vision, but heaven help her, Evangeline hoped to do the impossible.

"May I ask a favor, Susan? Two of them, actually?"

"Of course."

"First, I must beg you not to mention my visions to anyone. Speaking to G.o.d may not be any more believable, but at least people rarely make waves against things having to do with the Church."

"As long as you'll keep me informed of whatever visions you experience," Susan said with a laugh. "Truly, you have my word." She drew a cross over her bodice with one finger. "And the other thing?"

"If you-If I-" Evangeline paused, unsure how to phrase her request. "Should you catch even the smallest whisper of my stepfather's presence, would you warn me immediately?"

"Where? Here? He's invited to Blackberry Manor?"

"No, not here. Perhaps we'll be on a farm, but I'm not sure where or when. Just if you would would catch wind of my stepfather, please alert me as soon as possible. His name is Neal Pemberton. Stay as far away from him as you can. He's dangerous." catch wind of my stepfather, please alert me as soon as possible. His name is Neal Pemberton. Stay as far away from him as you can. He's dangerous."

"All right." Confusion ebbed the good humor from Susan's face. "I think you may still be overtaxed. Try to sleep some more. I'll check on you again before lunch."

She reached out to pat Evangeline's arm, checked herself midair, and returned her hand to her side with an embarra.s.sed smile.

"Forgive me," she murmured. "I'm far more used to touching than I realized."

Without waiting for a response, she pivoted on one heel and strode from the bedside. She dropped the small leather-bound book atop the bookcase before slipping out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

Save for the crackling of the fire, silence filled the chamber. And yet, Evangeline knew she would not sleep. Had no wish to sleep. Only nightmares awaited her there.

She rose from the bed and crossed to the row of bookshelves lining the large, windowless wall. As before, she tugged on the books overflowing the top shelf. As before, they did not budge. She moved to the next shelf and pulled at one of the books. It flew into her hands, almost knocking her off balance.

What in heaven's name...?

Evangeline hunched before each of the bookstands, jerking t.i.tles at random from each shelf.

Volumes fell into her fingers from every shelf-save one.

She returned to that first shelf, crouching until she was eye level. The books looked looked real enough. Perhaps they were just stuck? real enough. Perhaps they were just stuck?

Her fingertips ran across the dusty spines, gliding up to where the binding met the pages, letting the uneven paper rub against her skin. With as much force as she could muster, she yanked at the biggest book on the top shelf.

It did not budge. Not only did it not budge, the effort threw Evangeline off-kilter, rocking her back on her heels. Arms flailing like windmills, she pitched forward in a frantic attempt to regain her balance. She fell hard against the bookcase, cras.h.i.+ng her shoulder against the immobile top shelf. The entire bookcase swung inward. Inward-into the wall wall.

And Evangeline tumbled with it.

After a helpless sneezing fit, she picked herself up, smacked the dust from her gown, and stared in wonder.

No wonder her room had no windows.

The secret pa.s.sageway-for, of course, it was that-hid all the windows. Small circles of gla.s.s dotted the wall above her head, much like the portholes of a pa.s.senger s.h.i.+p. Evangeline wished she were tall enough to peer through them, to see what lay behind the mansion. Undoubtedly, the windows had been positioned to prevent just such an action, so that whoever lurked between the walls could skulk about undetected.

Had she truly begun to doubt Mr. Lioncroft's guilt? Of course, he was a murderer. What other kind of man dwelled in a mausoleum like Blackberry Manor, creeping about betwixt the walls? Had he-had he spied on her? In her bed? As she slept?

Gooseflesh rippled up her arms. As she hugged herself, her hip b.u.mped against the open bookcase.

And the concealed door swung closed.

The thick walls swallowed Evangeline's cry as she flattened her palms against the dirt and cobwebs, scrabbling her fingernails for purchase. Nothing. How could there be nothing? The door swung inward, so certainly there must be a k.n.o.b, a handle, some mechanism by which to reopen access to her chamber. Still nothing. She banged with her fists, screaming for someone to help her.

No one came.

She scratched at the cracks until her fingers bled before finally admitting defeat. This was even worse than being locked in the cursed pantry. She sagged against the wall, her back to the unyielding surface, her face tilted toward those tiny round windows high above her head.

Even if she could leap high enough to reach the gla.s.s, the circular frames were much too narrow to climb through. Trapped in the walls. Oh, G.o.d. Oh, G.o.d. She hated closed s.p.a.ces. She hated dark, closed s.p.a.ces. And she hated being trapped trapped in dark, closed s.p.a.ces the most. No solution presented itself but to continue on the pa.s.sageway and hope to find an exit. in dark, closed s.p.a.ces the most. No solution presented itself but to continue on the pa.s.sageway and hope to find an exit.

With a tiny, distressed moan, she inched down the dusty corridor. How did Mr. Lioncroft fit inside the narrow pa.s.sage without his shoulders sc.r.a.ping against the sides? Evangeline had to be careful not to keep grating her knuckles against the rough walls. She would've put her gloves back on if she'd known she was about to tumble through a bookcase. In fact, she would've fled the manor altogether.

After walking no more than five minutes, the path diverged. She could either continue straight, following the feeble light cast by the small windows overhead, or she could turn right and venture into darkness.

Evangeline chewed her lip, then grimaced when her skin tasted like dust. She a.s.sumed straight led further along the guest wing. As hers was one of the last occupied chambers, she doubted much help lay in that direction. So darkness it would be.

She squared her shoulders and strode into the shadows.

Evangeline hadn't gone more than a dozen paces into the dark, musty corridor before running into the first cobweb. By the time she'd clawed sticky strands from her cheeks for the third or fourth time, the idea of a secret pa.s.sageway had gone from distressing to h.e.l.lish.

The only silver lining to the pure blackness was her inability to tell whether any spiders still lived on the webs. She squinted into the shadows, not to see better, for the blackness was too thick and perfect to see through, but to keep the gummy fibers from her eyes.

Dust clogged her nostrils with each footstep. The dank pa.s.sage narrowed, at times causing her to twist her arms before her stomach or edge sideways with her heels to one wall and her toes touching the other, pressing in on her the further she went, like the unforgiving walls of a casket.

Briefly, she considered turning around, but for what? There was nothing to return to but more dust and shadow and spiders. Her fingers still ached from scratching at the swinging door.

Inside the walls...walls which grew taller, thicker, closer. They loomed overhead, mocking her, squeezing her.

She drew a shaky breath. One would think years of her stepfather locking her into cramped, dark places would lessen the impact of such an environment, not fill her with instant terror. The vile pantry he preferred to keep her in was almost large enough to lay p.r.o.ne upon the floor, arms outstretched. Here in the walls, she barely fit upright and wouldn't dare to lie upon the floor. At home, enough feeble light flickered around the edges of the pantry door to illuminate the shelves, the jars, the occasional rat. Nothing but blackness filled the sliver of s.p.a.ce between the walls of Blackberry Manor. Blackness and cobwebs and spiders.

Her fluttering heart was edging closer and closer to panic.

Hot tears stung at Evangeline's eyes when she found herself at a crossroads. Which way should she go? She was lost. Trapped. Helpless.

She stood in the center of the intersection, reaching blindly with both hands. The opening straight ahead was as tight and narrow as the one she had just escaped. She refused to select that path. The pa.s.sages to her left and right were wide enough to let her stand with her hands on her hips without fear of her elbows sc.r.a.ping against the rough walls.

Think, she commanded herself over the roaring in her ears. Right or left? Right or left?

Eyes squeezed tight against the oppressive blackness, she did her best to picture the guest quarters in her mind. Behind her was her own room, an impossible distance away. To her left lay the furthest bedchambers, empty of guests. Before her was another pa.s.sage too narrow to risk entering. To her right must be the other guest hall, leading to the Hetheringtons' and Rutherfords' chambers-and possibly a murderer.

Evangeline turned right.

This pa.s.sageway was not only wider than the previous one, it seemed friendlier. Less dusty. Less dank. No cobwebs. Although she was grateful for that small favor, something was amiss. What could make one secret pa.s.sageway cleaner than another, but recent use? Had Mr. Lioncroft slipped into Lord Hetherington's chamber through a false bookcase in order to smother the earl as he slept?

Light. She gasped, and choked on the musty air. She gasped, and choked on the musty air.

Pale, flickering orange glowed through four skinny cracks, forming a perfect rectangle against the wall up ahead. Evangeline sprinted forward. She hurled herself at the dark expanse in the center. The door flew outward, flinging Evangeline with it. She tumbled to the ground in a jumble of bruised elbows and knees. The door swung closed as she rolled to a stop. She untangled herself and stood, facing the spot where she'd emerged. A large oil painting stared back at her. She tugged on the gilded frame. It creaked and eased forward, awarding her with a glimpse of the darkness beyond. She jumped backward. The painting clicked into place. The painting...seemed vaguely familiar. Oils on canvas hung along the entire corridor, just like they did...where?

Evangeline c.o.c.ked 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 to her face. 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.

Splendid.

She was in no condition to drop in unannounced on Lady Hetherington'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 Hetherington. "Shhh. This is important."

"I don't see why," came a bored voice. Jane, the middle child. "n.o.body talks to us anyway."

"But if they do," Nancy insisted, "you are to say that Mother and I both were 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 circ.u.mstances was she interested in revisiting the hidden pa.s.sageway beyond. Instead, she faced the sconce-lit corridor and hurried away before Nancy Hetherington fled the cacophonous nursery and caught her in the hallway. A moment later, Evangeline froze before an open doorway.

Lord Hetherington'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 mistress slept beneath the same roof? 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 Hetheringtons?"

"Yes'm. That I do."

Evangeline closed her eyes. No wonder the footman claimed no Ginny worked with them. No Ginny did did work with them. Not only that... work with them. Not only that...

"Lord Hetherington 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 Hetherington, 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 all men. 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.

Unfortunately, she was not so lucky.

No sooner had she rounded the next corner when Edmund Rutherford swaggered out of an adjoining room, a tumbler of whiskey clutched in one hand.

"Well, well." He blinked at her, then grinned. "Why, it's Miss Pemberton. For a moment there, I thought I'd discovered a new maid I hadn't yet tried."