Part 8 (1/2)

Perhaps impatient with Miss Pemberton's reluctant perusal of the lifeless earl, Benedict at last strode forward and tugged the pile of blankets from Hetherington's still form.

Two things became quickly apparent. One was a mottled bruise surrounding the left side of Hetherington's throat, matching the shape of Gavin's left hand. The other was a corresponding bruise covering the other side, matching the shape of Gavin's right.

Benedict gasped. A surplus of air sent him off into another vicious coughing streak.

No one spoke.

Miss Pemberton's eyes dipped closed for a long moment before reopening. ”I'd have to wager,” she said at last, ”Lord Hetherington did not strangle himself with his bare hands after settling into bed.”

Lady Stanton sucked in a shocked breath. ”Strangled,” she repeated, clutching her bespectacled daughter by the shoulders. ”We need to call for the constabulary. Immediately.”

Gavin tried very hard not to react. The last thing he needed was the constabulary. Given his questionable past and his outburst at the dining table, they'd have him condemned to the gallows within a week. Unfortunately, he could think of no good reason to deny Lady Stanton's request. Devil take it.

Careful to keep his expression neutral, Gavin slid his gaze about the roomful of onlookers and waited for their response.

They said nothing.

The Stanton chit and her mother exchanged an indecipherable look. Edmund stared into the bottom of his empty gla.s.s as though hoping more whiskey would magically reappear. Benedict dropped the blankets he'd yanked from Hetherington's body, as if the woven wool had scalded him. Francine clutched her belly with both hands, giving the impression she was a moment away from vomiting. Teasdale fidgeted with his cane, eyes downcast.

”Well?” Lady Stanton demanded. ”Is someone calling for the constabulary or not?”

”Apparently,” Edmund said as he slammed his empty gla.s.s atop a dressing table, ”not.”

”Useless bunch,” Francine put in, the dip of the orange plume atop her coiffed head suddenly garish and out-of-place.

”Volunteers,” her husband Benedict agreed, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief. ”Fools, every one of them.”

Teasdale examined his cane as if he had just noticed its presence in his hand. Conversation strangled to a halt.

”What time is it?” Miss Pemberton asked after another excruciating lull. Everyone stared at her as though she'd spoken in tongues.

Gavin fumbled for his fob. ”Half past two.”

”Then it's late.” She squared her shoulders. ”We're all tired, we've had a shock, and none of us are thinking clearly. Now is not the time to make accusations.” She took a deep breath. ”Why don't we reconvene in the morning, as planned?”

”For breakfast?” came Lady Stanton's cold, incredulous voice. ”Who can eat at a time like this?”

”h.e.l.l, I can. Drink, too.” Edmund jerked his head toward Hetherington's motionless body. ”Just because he's dead doesn't mean I am. Breakfast sounds like a fine time to make accusations.”

The Stanton chit t.i.ttered hysterically and clapped both hands across her mouth.

Teasdale waved his cane toward the bed. ”What are you going to do with Hetherington in the meantime? Seeing as how we're not penning a note to the local constabulary.”

”I'll pen one to the rectory instead.” Gavin ran a hand through his hair too harshly, pulling a few strands from his scalp. ”We'll still need a funeral.”

G.o.d help him, not a funeral. He hadn't attended one since he was seventeen. His nieces were much too young to have to throw dirt atop the casket of a parent.

He swallowed, forcing old memories from his mind. ”Clear the chamber.” The others started when his words came out too loud, but he suddenly couldn't stand to be in the same room as another lifeless body. ”Return to your rooms. I'm returning to mine. Breakfast...breakfast will be ready by eight.”

Slowly, they shuffled out of the room and dispersed into the corridor.

”Well, I for one shan't sleep a wink,” said Lady Stanton as she preceded her daughter down the hall.

”Lioncroft will sleep like a baby,” came Edmund's slurred rejoinder. ”He's used to family members popping up dead in mysterious circ.u.mstances.”

Gavin took two quick strides out of the room and into the hall, prepared to have it out with Edmund then and there.

Before Edmund even registered his approach, however, Gavin's footsteps faltered. Thras.h.i.+ng a sotted Edmund lost its allure the more distance Gavin put between himself and Hetherington's cold, bruised body. Whether Edmund deserved a fist to the face or not, Gavin had had enough violence for one day.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

Evangeline jerked awake from yet another nightmare long before a maid arrived to open the bed curtains. She staggered out of bed and over to the small washbasin in the corner, hoping the freezing water would splash the memory of her mother's broken body from her mind. As usual, the shock of icy wetness sent gooseflesh s.h.i.+vering across her skin but did little to dispel the images trapped in her head.

Another day, another death.

Eventually, a slight lady's maid slipped into the room with a candle clutched between her rough hands. She used the orange flame to light the tall tapers dotting Evangeline's chamber before disappearing into the connecting dressing room to gather new garments and undergarments.

”Your morning dress, mum,” the girl murmured, returning with an armful of borrowed silk.

Evangeline winced. What should have been a mourning mourning dress was instead a flowing ma.s.s of palest green, trimmed beneath the bodice by a strip of satin the deep hue of pine. Soft, gorgeous, and a mockery to her mother's memory with its bold color. dress was instead a flowing ma.s.s of palest green, trimmed beneath the bodice by a strip of satin the deep hue of pine. Soft, gorgeous, and a mockery to her mother's memory with its bold color.

She forced herself to hold still as a s.h.i.+ft, stays, and the mint-colored gown replaced her nightrail.

What now? Now that Lioncroft had killed again? Surely Lady Stanton didn't mean to proceed with her machinations, no matter how badly they'd all secretly wished someone would avenge the cruelty done to Lady Hetherington.

While Evangeline suspected most of the guests wouldn't much miss the late lord, the earl's four children couldn't help but suffer at the loss. Her heart twisted in empathy. She could find the nursery, could she not? As soon as she could excuse herself from the breakfast table, she should make her way directly there to check on the children.

”You should've seen it coming,” the maid muttered under her breath as she fastened the last of the b.u.t.tons on the back of Evangeline's neck.

”I-what?”

”Should've seen it coming,” the maid repeated. ”Or did you, an' you just didn't see fit to tell anybody?”

Mouth agape, Evangeline whirled to face the young girl.

The maid's complexion was more or less the same shade of pale green as the borrowed morning dress. Nonetheless, she stared up at Evangeline with shaking hands and a determined gaze. A strand of red hair fell from her bonnet to her face and she shoved the offending lock away without breaking eye contact.

”I heard what you were,” she insisted, the faint quiver in her voice giving away her fear of speaking out, even to a n.o.body like Evangeline. ”All of us know.”

”Us” no doubt meant the staff of Blackberry Manor, just like ”witch” was no doubt the word that went unspoken.

Back home, servants had been Evangeline's staunchest supporters. Here, they were...not. She could expect neither understanding nor tolerance under the best of circ.u.mstances. A dead body abovestairs was not the best of circ.u.mstances. Especially for a runaway suspected of witchery. And after helping Ginny, Evangeline could hardly deny her visions.

”I didn't know,” she said at last. ”I swear.”

The maid flinched, as if she'd half-expected Evangeline to toss her bodily from the room rather than respond to a mere maid. Was such skittishness because she was used to violent treatment from Mr. Lioncroft? Or because the maid feared Evangeline herself?

”What's your name?”