Too Wicked To Kiss Part 15

"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?"

"Typical young ladies are simpering ninnies, wilting beneath false smiles and trembling in their jewel-encrusted gowns and whispering about each other behind their fans. 'Accomplished' and portrait-perfect, straitlaced and silly, thoughtless and tedious. You, on the other hand..." He advanced closer until she could feel the heat from his body through the thin silk of her gown. "You're stubborn. Intelligent. Pa.s.sionate." 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? 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 friend of Susan's, not a murderer."

"So you say. But you are as much an outsider as I am, if not more so in this circ.u.mstance. The killer was someone capable of lifting a pillow. You are capable of such strength, are you not? The killer roamed the pa.s.sageways alone last night. You roamed the pa.s.sageways 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 Hetherington died by strangulation, you were the one who p.r.o.nounced 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? The audacity! She'd never have come within eyesight of Lord Hetherington'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 Hetherington's employ. Beaten. And then he ended up dead."

This time when she shoved at his chest, he caught her wrists in his fists and trapped them against the faint beating of his heart. She tried to pull away. He would not let her.

"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 my orders." orders."

"If any 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. 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 ill.u.s.trating that whatever evidence the party believed they had against him was based on superst.i.tion and supposition rather than fact.

"Fair enough," she muttered.

His lashes lowered. "You believe me innocent?"

"No," she said. "But I don't not not believe you." 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 that had happened? Never. had happened? Never.

Just like he was the first man she could respond to as a woman. Couldn't help help but respond to as a woman. 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, embarra.s.sed 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 gentling, by ending the kiss completely, by pressing his cheek against hers.

Evangeline blinked at the unexpected sensation of rough male stubble, and s.h.i.+vered 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 coa.r.s.e 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 const.i.tution 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?"

"n.o.body 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 a.s.sistance in a matter. That is, unless...Were you about to affect a compromising position?"

"No," Evangeline said.

"Bother." He sipped from his flask. "I enjoy watching."

"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 Twelve.

While Edmund remained in the Green Salon with his flask, Evangeline joined the others in the search for the missing children.

Or rather, she didn't join anyone at all, because everyone had decided to split up and search separately in an attempt to cover ground in the quickest manner possible, considering the missing children were the two youngest girls.

Benedict Rutherford and Mr. Lioncroft tore outside in case the twins had somehow wandered from the mansion without any of the staff members noticing. Susan and Lady Stanton took the ground floor wing with the library and the salon used for dancing. Francine Rutherford took the opposite wing, with the kitchen and scullery and servants' area. The servants scattered indoors and outdoors to hunt for the girls.

Evangeline headed upstairs to search the guest wings. She stopped by the nursery, where Lady Hetherington 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, and there was no predicting where. Lady Hetherington 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 Hetherington'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 men like 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, too inconspicuous, too 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 s.p.a.ce 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 were fingernails? 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, m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.sage.

"Fetch Mr. Lioncroft!" Evangeline shouted to the wide-eyed maid. "Now!"

The tea set shattered to the floor in a jumbled puddle of spilt tea and broken china. 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 facade? Had she not been so desperate to flee the suffocating confinement of the secret pa.s.sageway, she would've paid more attention to something other than escape.

She tried the next painting, then the next, then the next.

By the time she had the correct frame flung open, Mr. Lioncroft's footfalls thundered fast and heavy down the corridor, the maid dropping behind him to collect the broken tea service.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" he demanded the moment he reached Evangeline's side.

"The twins," she explained, pointing a trembling finger at the unrelenting blackness. "They're trapped inside."

Without pausing to ask more questions, he brushed past her and vanished, hurrying sideways in the opposite direction from which she'd first heard noises. His disappearance was so sudden and so complete, her breath tangled in her throat.

"No," she called into the dark, standing at the junction between candlelight and shadow, with one hand gripping the open frame and the other splayed against the corner of the wall. "The other way. Go back the other way. They're-"

"Mama?" came a small terrified voice from the undulating gloom to Evangeline's right.

"No, it's Miss Pemberton," she called back, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. "Come this way."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the corridor. Follow my voice, darling."

"I can't...It's-it's too dark," came the small broken voice of a child. "Can you come get me?"

"I-" Evangeline gulped for air. Could she voluntarily enter such a dark confined s.p.a.ce? She slid a slipper forward and shuddered when the tip of her foot disappeared into the inky murk. Her lungs. .h.i.tched and her limbs melted. Oh, Lord. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't couldn't.

"Rachel? Rebecca?" came Mr. Lioncroft's deep voice, followed by the shuffling of his large booted feet as he edged back into view.

"Down that way," Evangeline said, panting with terror but pointing in the right direction.

"Why didn't you go to them?" The shadows were too dense to read his expression, but there was no mistaking the anger in his tone.

"I-" she said again and faltered, unable to complete the thought even to herself.

He was already gone, slipping down the narrow pa.s.sageway toward a child's soft whimpers. After several long heart-stopping moments, he returned with a dusty blond moppet clinging to his neck.

"Rebecca?" Evangeline asked.

"No. Rachel. She was alone."

"Oh. Where's Rebecca?"