Part 3 (2/2)
Skepticism graced the faces now peering in her direction. All save one. Hetherington lifted his dun-colored brows and cast his wife a look of such unmitigated scorn that her bruised cheek nearly disappeared beneath the force of her blush.
”You,” Gavin seethed between clenched teeth.
A few of the guests startled to hear his first word of the evening.
Lord Hetherington's brows merely returned to a relaxed position, dismissing Gavin's snarled accusation without a word. Rose trembled when her husband raised his hand near her face, but he simply reached for a basket of fresh-baked bread-and smirked.
It was the smirk that did it.
Gavin leaned forward and leapt to his feet. He landed with his legs at shoulder width and knees slightly crouched, ready to spring across the table and tackle Hetherington in his seat. The chair toppled over behind him, clattering to the hardwood floor. Gavin ignored it. His sister had reentered his life after over a decade of absence. Violence against his family had taken her from him before. He would not allow it to do so again.
”Outside,” he ordered her husband, fists ready, voice hard. ”Now.”
Rose paled. Edmund motioned for a footman to refill his winegla.s.s. The rest of the guests watched, breathless and twitching, as if they were debating the wisdom of diving for cover beneath the table.
Lord Hetherington's lip curled as he sneered his rejection of Gavin's command. Were it not for the tremor in Hetherington's hand as he replaced the basket of bread upon the table, Gavin might have thought him unmoved. Everyone else apparently witnessed the same tremor, and their gazes swung in uniform terror from Hetherington's shaking fingers back to Gavin's furious scowl, as if quite certain now, now, now, he would leap across the table to snap Hetherington's pale neck. he would leap across the table to snap Hetherington's pale neck.
Gavin was certainly considering it.
”Stop.” The word was soft, a mere breath, but came from Rose.
A footman righted the fallen chair. After a moment, Gavin sat. The wary guests did not look convinced of his harmlessness.
”My-my daughter,” Rose stammered, making a small gesture toward Gavin's wide-eyed niece. ”Nancy was just getting to know Mr. Teasdale when the supper bell rang.”
Gavin stared at his sister. What the h.e.l.l did Teasdale have to do with anything?
Nancy gasped, as if a sharp elbow had just connected with her ribs. ”Er, yes,” she said loudly, casting an over-bright smile around the table. ”Splendid weather we're having. Didn't you say so earlier, Mr. Teasdale?”
Gavin forced his fists to relax as he belatedly realized she was attempting to diffuse tension. Based on the half dozen pair of eyes refusing to meet his, no one at the table would be surprised if Gavin drew a pistol, shot Hetherington in the face, and continued with his meal. Pity he didn't have a pistol handy.
Rose cast him a beseeching look. It seemed she was hoping for an evening a bit less b.l.o.o.d.y than the one Gavin now had in mind, so that her daughter could catch the eye of the white-haired sack of bones snoring softly in his seat. Very well. For the sake of his sister and his niece, Gavin would allow the farce of normalcy to continue. For now.
”I said nothing of the sort,” came Mr. Teasdale's quavering nasal voice, as if Nancy's words had only now reached his failing ears. ”Too cold outside and too hot inside. Can't get a good grip on my cane with the way my hand sweats so.”
A very unladylike snort came from either Miss Stanton or Miss Pemberton, both seated on the opposite side of the table. Edmund gave a drunken laugh, shook his head, and motioned for more wine. Apparently, Gavin wasn't the only one who found the old coot a ridiculous match for his young niece, no matter how full Teasdale's coffers might be.
Lady Stanton shot an icy stare in the direction of the stifled snort.
”Why, yes, delightful weather,” came the rapid-fire speech he now recognized as belonging to the Stanton chit. She must've been the snorter. ”Bitter wind and endless rain is just the thing for a house party. Don't you agree, Evangeline?”
”Hmmm,” came a soft, warm voice that could only belong to the mysterious Miss Pemberton, whose hot little gaze and enticing body were tucked safely out of view.
She probably thought she'd shocked him by mimicking his appreciative stare. As it turned out, he'd managed to shock himself with his body's instantaneous reaction. Even the sultry timbre of her voice had him thinking about tasting the curve of her red lips, instead of avenging his sister's bruised cheek.
”I do find autumn leaves beautiful,” his siren was saying now, ”but the trees here have gone gray and barren. As they were at your home as well, Lady Stanton. Do you miss the changing colors?”
Lady Stanton sniffed, as though displeased at being addressed by Miss Pemberton. ”I despise nature,” she said dismissively and turned to face Gavin, the first of the dinner guests to openly do so since the handprint had first made its appearance. She fixed him with a strange, calculating gaze. ”You have a lovely estate, Mr. Lioncroft. Susan was just telling me how pleasant she found her accommodations.” From the startled gaping of Miss Stanton's curiously wordless mouth, Gavin deduced she'd said nothing of the sort. Lady Stanton pursed her lips, as if all too cognizant her daughter's expression had given the lie to her words. ”In any case, I am sure you kept the weather in mind and planned plenty of indoor activities.”
Gavin stared at her small gla.s.sine eyes and chose not to respond.
For one, he hadn't planned for a single activity besides evicting everyone from his premises at the earliest possible moment. For two, he was disappointed at having the conversational ball tossed back into his court so quickly. Couldn't the fops and fribbles spout off about the weather amongst themselves and leave him in peace?
A trio of footmen arrived with platters of fresh fish and tiny pots of cream and sauces. Gavin turned his focus to his supper plate, ignoring Lady Stanton's question and Lord Hetherington's continued smirks. The latter would get Gavin's ”response” later, when no one was around to witness it.
Chapter Five.
Evangeline didn't take her first easy breath until the men and women went their separate ways after supper. Yet even in the ladies' withdrawing room, something was not quite right.
The walls were crimson in this wing, which would've been a welcome departure from the seething snakes, had the color not given the feel of a room awash with fresh blood.
The servants setting the tea were as ubiquitous and un.o.btrusive as ever, but seemed to dally with their tasks longer than necessary. They darted quick little glances toward Evangeline when the aristocrats weren't looking-which they never were, as Polite Society rarely noticed their staff unless they required something-and exchanged meaningful looks with each other as if an irresistible but forbidden curiosity had been placed just out of reach.
Evangeline had a terrible suspicion the curiosity in question was her. How could she have forgotten to tell Ginny not to mention her help to others?
”I knew it,” whispered Susan, dragging her to a quiet corner.
”You knew what?” Evangeline glanced around to make sure they were somewhat private. Only the servants were still watching.
”I knew he'd as soon kill us as dine with us. He didn't utter more than three or four words during the entire meal, but the evil in his eyes spoke volumes. Did you see his expression when Lord Hetherington lifted his hand as though to strike the countess anew? Lionkiller positively smoldered. I'd wager they're brawling on the floor in the other room right now.”
”I can't imagine Lord Hetherington in a brawl,” Evangeline said, deciding to concentrate on Susan's patter and pretend she was unaware of the servants' relentless scrutiny.
”Oh, Lioncroft would thrash him, no question there. I heard he's always been a rough-and-tumble sort. Infamous for his quick temper even when at Eton and Cambridge. Mother says to this day, the only two attractions capable of luring him from his home are pugilism clubs and brothels.”
Fighting and whoring. Splendid. Evangeline well knew the sort of man who delighted in such things, as fighting and whoring were her sotted stepfather's primary activities when not at home beating his womenfolk. There wasn't much to recommend Mr. Lioncroft in the first place, but further proof of his similarity to Neal Pemberton was the final nail in his coffin. Evangeline would rather stow away to India than be caught alone with such a man.
”And what about the handprint on Lady Hetherington's cheek?” Susan continued in a hushed whisper, her eyes alight with the excitement of scandal. ”I cannot imagine the ignominy of walking about with such a mark. During a party, no less. What do you suppose she did to deserve it?”
”What makes you think she deserved it at all?” Evangeline snapped, suddenly hyperconscious of her own fading bruises beneath her gown. She had no wish to see unnecessary pain inflicted upon someone else.
Susan shook her head. ”Don't be silly. Husbands don't hit their wives for no reason.”
Evangeline strangled on an outraged reply. Was ”because Mama happened to be standing there” a good enough reason for fists to fly? Or ”because he was drunk” or ”because he was hungry” or ”because his horse threw a shoe that day?” Neal Pemberton might think so. Evangeline did not. But in the end, she decided not to share her opinion aloud. Perhaps Susan was better off not knowing how the world really worked.
”Shhh, here she comes.” Susan leapt to her feet. Evangeline followed suit.
The countess approached with wary eyes and a hesitant smile. She'd reapplied her face powder, somewhat masking the redness of her cheek. ”Are you ladies game for some dancing later?”
”Oh, yes,” Susan gushed, clasping her hands together. ”I love dancing.”
”I'm afraid I am to be a wallflower,” Evangeline said. There hadn't been much time for dancing in their little village, though she'd always wanted to try. But with less than a week gone by since her mother's funeral, dancing seemed wholly out of the question.
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