Too Wicked To Kiss Part 7

"You said you were going to sleep, but here you are in my bedchamber, seated before my fire."

"I never sleep, so if I say so, then of course, I'm lying. Old men sleep all the time. I would've thought I could at least take Teasdale at his word." She shrugged deeper into the chair. "Well, there's still Hetherington's worthless cousin, Edmund Rutherford. He's an easy enough sort to read, wastrel that he is. I imagine he's still in the men's after-dinner room, drinking Lioncroft out of port."

Evangeline shook her head. "The men's after-dinner room was the library, which was absent of both port and Mr. Rutherford. The footman refilling the decanter said they'd cleared up the gla.s.ses as the men left to rejoin us."

"I knew it," Susan cried, jerking upright in the chair as she clapped her hands together. "Scandal is afoot!"

"It is?" Evangeline fought another blush. It most certainly was, but she had no intention of discussing her her scandalous behavior. She hadn't even meant to come upon the sinfully handsome man, let alone s.h.i.+ver against him as he devoured her with kisses. scandalous behavior. She hadn't even meant to come upon the sinfully handsome man, let alone s.h.i.+ver against him as he devoured her with kisses.

"Yet another liar," Susan crowed. "Edmund must have known there was neither port nor gla.s.s to drink it in, and invented his mission back to the library as a cover for some other, more dastardly deed."

"Maybe he simply tired of dancing," Evangeline suggested.

"Ha. A reprobate like him? No doubt he was en route to or from an a.s.signation. Besides dancing, a.s.signations are house parties' primary allure."

"What is?" is?"

"Love-making with other guests," Susan clarified matter-of-factly. "Secretly, of course."

This time Evangeline couldn't staunch the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks and neck. Had she been a baser sort of woman-or Mr. Lioncroft a less considerate sort of man-she herself might've been one of that number earlier tonight.

"Bah, don't be missish," Susan scoffed, thankfully misinterpreting Evangeline's blush as something other than guilt. "a.s.signations are a ton ton staple. I only wonder who was lonely enough to rut with a rotter like Edmund. A servant, perhaps? Surely not a guest. Did you see where he got off to?" staple. I only wonder who was lonely enough to rut with a rotter like Edmund. A servant, perhaps? Surely not a guest. Did you see where he got off to?"

"I never saw him at all. I didn't actually see Benedict Rutherford, either, but I heard him coughing down one of the halls."

"Aargh," Susan groaned, startling Evangeline from her perch against the useless bookshelf. "If it's to be my house, too, can't I skulk about like everyone else? The only person I saw up to any mischief was Nancy, trying to sneak into her bedchamber and being laughably noisy about it. Although I suppose stealth hardly matters if she plans to marry a deaf old mummer like Teasdale." Her shoulders shook in a dramatic shudder. "Next time you wander the corridors alone, you absolutely must invite me to accompany you. Where was Francine? By her husband's side, as she claimed?"

"No, she was..." Evangeline thought back. "She was outside Mr. Lioncroft's office, I think. I'm not quite sure."

"Yet another a.s.signation," Susan breathed, eyes alight behind her spectacles. "I suspected as much."

Evangeline's stomach twisted. "Another...what?"

"a.s.signation. If you recall, I mentioned the Rutherfords and I have some unfortunate history. Trust me when I say I am not the least bit surprised to discover Francine taking her pleasure with Lioncroft. She can't resist the scent of power, and Lioncroft positively reeks of it."

Ice slid beneath Evangeline's skin, covering her arms with gooseflesh. Had Mr. Lioncroft left the hallway where they'd kissed, only to make love to an over-rouged Francine Rutherford? Or, worse, had he already done so before she'd unwittingly entered his office in the first place?

Gagging, Evangeline thrust a fist to her lips and shuddered. She was the worst kind of fool. Her initial suspicion that Mr. Lioncroft was no better than her philandering sot of a stepfather was correct after all.

"Oh!" Susan leapt from the chair and rushed to Evangeline's side. "You look like you're going to be ill. Truly, you must learn not to be so missish about who does what with whom. I'm I'm not upset she's the secret paramour of my fiance-to-be. He can keep her as his mistress even after we marry, as far as I'm concerned. The less he forces his husbandly attention upon me, the better. A woman can only do so much closing of her eyes and thinking of Mother England." not upset she's the secret paramour of my fiance-to-be. He can keep her as his mistress even after we marry, as far as I'm concerned. The less he forces his husbandly attention upon me, the better. A woman can only do so much closing of her eyes and thinking of Mother England."

Evangeline bit at the knuckle of her first finger until she drew blood, certain now she would regurgitate her meal all over those ugly wooden trolls. How could she have been so stupid?

She'd liked his attention. Encouraged him. Partic.i.p.ated wantonly and willfully.

Hadn't she learned from her mother's example that just because a woman was unable to experience visions of a man's misdeeds in no way implied the man in question was absent of them?

Neal Pemberton was a vicious brute, sotted or sober, who cared little for his servants and even less for his womenfolk. Heaven knew the mercurial Mr. Lioncroft was no doubt even worse a profligate, and capable of equally unspeakable cruelty.

She would never again be so foolish as to find herself alone with an animal like him.

"Truly..." Susan patted Evangeline's shoulder, her voice uncharacteristically concerned. "Are you quite all right? Mother says I never know when to curb my tongue. I should like to be friends with you, not send you into a fit of the vapors after only a minute or two of my conversation."

Evangeline dropped her fists to her sides and forced a wan smile. She opened her mouth to a.s.sure Susan of their continued friends.h.i.+p when a series of loud staccato screams ripped across the silent mansion and echoed through the chambers.

"Aaahh!" Susan bounced on her heels like a pony itching to race across a field. "Something's happening! Come, come, I shan't miss it!"

"Go without me." Evangeline backed up until the bookcase dug into her spine. Screams were never good. They brought back too many memories better left buried.

Susan goggled at her, as if staying put was hardly an option. "What did I just say? If we skulk, we skulk together. Whyever would I leave without you?"

"Because I don't want to go. Besides, I'm in my nightclothes."

"We're all in our nightclothes, goose. It's well after midnight." Susan heaved on Evangeline's linen-swathed arm, hauling her toward the door with the exaggerated force of a circus strongman. "What if someone needs our help? What if-what if-" She gasped, managing to look simultaneously thrilled and horrified. "What if Lioncroft has killed again? again?"

Chapter Eight.

Icy sweat froze the tiny hairs on the back of Gavin's neck as he raced through the hidden pa.s.sageways to the bedchamber his sister shared with her husband.

"Rose?" he shouted as he burst from behind a concealed access panel and into the deserted corridor. "Rose?"

He slammed into the closed chamber door and fumbled with the handle. The door swung open from within. Rose stood silent, wooden, bloodless. She didn't move. She didn't speak.

"What happened? Are you all right?" With trepidation doubling the rhythm of his already-pounding heart, Gavin fought the urge to reach out for her, to touch her. If she'd had a bad dream or saw a spider, he was not one she'd turn to for comfort. Over a decade had pa.s.sed since the last time he and his sister had embraced, and he was not yet ready to accept more rejection.

His sister's dull, sightless eyes stared right through him.

"Hetherington." The hollowness in Rose's voice sent chills rippling along the muscles of Gavin's back. "He's dead."

Gavin staggered against the doorframe. "He's what?"

"Dead." She stepped backward, away from the hallway, away from him, granting him access to the chamber's shadowy interior. "See for yourself."

Not entirely certain he wanted to see for himself, Gavin inched further into the darkness until he could make out a motionless lump beneath a pile of blankets.

Hetherington, all right. Not that he'd expected to encounter anyone else in his sister's bed. Gavin edged closer. No sound. No movement. Not a good sign. He leaned over the p.r.o.ne body until his ear brushed against the earl's cold, parted lips.

One second pa.s.sed in silence. Two seconds. Three. After a long moment, Gavin stopped waiting. He straightened, ripped his gaze from Hetherington's waxy face, and turned to his sister.

"I'm sorry, Rose. He-he's not breathing."

She nodded, her head jerking like a marionette on a string. "He's dead."

"I'm sorry," he said again, involuntarily transported back in time to another dark autumn night, another pale motionless figure, another face forever frozen in death. An irreversible horror for which he could never be forgiven. He took a halting step toward his sister. Had he ever apologized for what he'd done to their parents? He hadn't seen her, hadn't spoken to her...until now. "Forgive me, Rose. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for-"

A chorus of gasps crackled from the corridor.

Gavin whirled to find the rest of the house party, in various stages of undress, stacked in the doorway. They tumbled into the room like bone dice from an overturned cup, their faces pallid, their manner frightened, their eyes judging.

Edmund clutched a gla.s.s of whiskey with pale fingers, the stench of alcohol on his breath overpowering in the close quarters. His cousin Benedict stood to the left with one hand clapped to his mouth, although whether to hold back coughs or bile, Gavin couldn't guess. Benedict's wife Francine hovered behind him, still coiffed and over-rouged. With both spotted hands balancing his weight atop his gold-tipped cane, Mr. Teasdale stared past Rose to the figure half-covered with blankets. Nancy swayed next to him, her eyes closed and her lip quivering. Miss Stanton, right beside her, stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed, not at Hetherington's corpse, but at Gavin, as though half-expecting to find him drenched in blood. Her mother stood behind her, one blue-veined hand fluttering at her throat.

The only one paying more attention to his sister than the body on the bed was Miss Pemberton. She stood next to Rose, one gloveless hand upon her arm. After a moment, she lifted her fingers and turned to face Gavin. Gone was the heightened color her cheeks had held less than an hour earlier, replaced now by a vast and horrible emptiness. She met his gaze, unblinking, unmoving, unspeaking.

He swallowed, unaccountably feeling like he owed her an explanation for the tableau before them, even though he had no better idea than anyone else what caused Lord Hetherington's demise. Or whom.

Edmund Rutherford broke both the silence and the stillness by downing the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and drawling, "Caught with another body, eh, Lioncroft?"

Gavin growled and stepped forward.

"Ai!" Edmund leapt backward and b.u.mped into Francine Rutherford. "I'm just pointing out the coincidence."

"Get off me, you oaf." She gave him a shove and he stumbled forward a few feet. "Don't touch me."

Benedict Rutherford doubled over with a coughing fit and smothered his face in the crook of his elbow. When he straightened, his face was even whiter than before. With a small shudder, he turned to Rose and asked, "What happened?"

She didn't respond.

All the nervous gazes returned to Gavin. Miss Pemberton was the first to speak.

"Did somebody...hurt him?" she asked, her voice soft but steady. "Or did he just pa.s.s?"

A choking laugh escaped Rose's throat, startling everyone.

"When I came in," she said, the words as dull and lifeless as her expression, "I thought he was sleeping. After dismissing my maid, I crawled into bed next to him. I bid my husband good night. He said nothing. I thought he was ignoring me again, to be cruel." The tips of her fingers rubbed idly against her still-bruised cheek. "I hadn't forgiven him for striking me, nor for the cause of our argument. So I poked his arm with my finger. When that had no effect, I shook his shoulder. When that that had no effect"-her voice trembled-"I slapped him like he slapped me. He deserved it!" She turned her wild gaze from her husband to the houseguests. "But he didn't feel it. He didn't say a word. He didn't even breathe, because he was dead. had no effect"-her voice trembled-"I slapped him like he slapped me. He deserved it!" She turned her wild gaze from her husband to the houseguests. "But he didn't feel it. He didn't say a word. He didn't even breathe, because he was dead. Dead Dead." Her fingers clutched at her elbows. "So help me, I slapped a dead man. When I realized...When I-"

Rose fell in a sudden faint. Miss Pemberton's arms flew forward to catch her. She grimaced, her eyes squinting as though blinded by a bright light. She staggered to one side. Gavin stepped forward to take his sister from her. Benedict intercepted the move, slipping his hands under Rose's flaccid arms and taking her from Miss Pemberton. With Rose's dead weight clutched to his chest, he half-carried, half-dragged her toward the bed.

"You can't put her on a pillow right next to her dead husband," came Miss Pemberton's pained voice, stopping Benedict in his tracks. "She'll faint again the moment she comes to."

Benedict froze, frowned, coughed.

Gavin rescued his sister's limp body from the wheezing man. With little effort, he scooped her into his arms and stalked right into the throng of horrified faces. His houseguests parted like the Red Sea, melting against the walls to allow him pa.s.sage.

"Where are you taking her?" came Teasdale's quavering voice.

"I don't know," Gavin muttered, his footsteps halting. "Away."

"Put Mother in my room," Nancy said, her eyes gla.s.sy with shock. "I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

Gavin nodded and continued his path down the dim corridor. Sconces scattered shadows across old paintings and nervous footmen. The procession of houseguests and servants followed him like rats behind the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

He laid his sister in his niece's bed and instructed a handful of maids to keep an eye on them both. With a final glance at Rose's ashen complexion, he strode back through the crowded hallway to the Hetherington guest chambers.

As before, the guests followed.

"What now?" Francine asked, once they came upon Hetherington lying precisely as they'd left him.

"I don't know," Gavin said.

"Now," said Miss Pemberton as she stepped forward, "We're going to take a closer look at Lord Hetherington."

Lady Stanton ducked behind a painted fan. "Why?"

"Because Lady Hetherington was unable to...tell me," Miss Pemberton answered, "whether or not she thought his death was accidental." All gazes locked on Gavin's. Miss Pemberton's was the only countenance tinged with something other than suspicion and fear. Her methodical, cool-tempered responses made her seem oddly capable and eerily resigned, like a surgeon approaching a blood-soaked battlefield. "That is, if we may?"

Gavin inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"You think foul play is a possibility?" Francine asked.

"Foul play is a probability," Edmund corrected. "I'd wager someone in this very room offed the arrogant fop."

From the weight of so many stares, Gavin wagered he could suppose who his guests a.s.sumed had done the killing. "I'd like to prove that false."

He motioned the servants into the room. They scurried about the perimeter, lighting tapers until every wick sputtered with orange flame.

Slowly, Gavin approached the bed. Now that candlelight chased the shadows from the chamber, he could make out more than Hetherington's general form. A white handkerchief wrapped around the top of the earl's head. The portion above his left temple was encrusted with dried blood. Gavin glanced over his shoulder at Miss Pemberton, who sighed.

"What is it?" The Stanton chit called from the doorway. "A gunshot? A knife wound? Snakes?"

Miss Pemberton shook her head. "Blood-"

Everyone gasped.

"-but the injury has been bandaged. We've no way to know when or how he got the wound. He may have tripped, fallen, and bandaged himself before retiring for the night."

Or he might've had an oil painting land on his head.

Gavin stared at the woman kneeling in her nightrail next to the bed. Would she defend him to the others? Their expressions broadcast their unwavering belief that if anyone had murdered a man tonight, Gavin was no doubt the villain.

Miss Pemberton was the first person in the last eleven years of his acquaintance to turn to logic before rumor when determining guilt. Thankfully, she was unsure about the source of the wound. He did tidy up that frame afterward, didn't he? Perhaps they'd all a.s.sume Hetherington had injured himself. As long as there were no other signs of foul play, Gavin would not have to fear being relabeled a murderer.

"Wouldn't he have rung for a servant to tend a blow to the head?" Lady Stanton asked from just behind her daughter. "I would've done so."

"A fine suggestion," Gavin said. He gazed at Miss Pemberton, willing her to look at him. She did not. "They shall all be questioned first thing in the morning."

A silence fell. No one seemed eager to exchange glances with each other, much less look too long at the corpse upon the bed. Even Miss Pemberton was not scrutinizing the earl's body as she'd first suggested-not that Gavin blamed her-and was instead biting her lip and gazing at the carpeted floor as if she'd rather be anywhere than where she currently stood.

"I heard you, by the way," Edmund slurred from his perch against a wardrobe. "I heard you apologize to your sister for killing him."

"No," Gavin said. "You heard me apologize for killing someone else."

His clarification failed to ease the tension.