Part 8 (2/2)
”Molly.”
”You're a smart woman, Molly. You're right about my visions. But what you may not know is that the only way I can attempt to guide the content of my visions is by concentrating on a single question as I touch another person. And even that fails more often than not.” Evangeline paused. How much did she need to reveal in order to keep her biggest secrets? ”I had no reason to antic.i.p.ate Lord Hetherington's death. Accidental visions are useless at best. Were I to touch you now, I'd be just as likely to see you toddle behind your mother in leading strings as to see you snuggled before a fire with your husband and three children.”
The girl blinked. ”I'm to have three children?”
”I have no idea. That's my point.” Evangeline met and held the girl's nervous gaze. ”More importantly, I hope to keep my...talent in the strictest confidence. I've no wish to be thrown to the streets, or into Bedlam, and I do not hold the openness of the ton ton's collective minds in particularly high esteem.”
”My master doesn't hold toffs in any esteem,” Molly scoffed. ”He says they're all self-important rotters with lukewarm lemonade for brains.”
”Yes. Well. I'd tend to agree.” As Evangeline hugged herself, the lace of her mitts scratched against her dry skin. ”Wait...Mr. Lioncroft doesn't-you haven't told him about my visions, have you?”
The girl's chin jerked up. ”For all his troubles, he's a good master. If he asks if you're a witch, any one of us would tell him the truth.”
Normally, such staunch loyalty would bring a smile to Evangeline's face. In this case, however, her words sent ice along Evangeline's spine.
”But if he doesn't ask?” she insisted.
After a long moment, Molly shrugged. ”He's not one for idle chatter. There's many haven't once heard him speak. I doubt he'll mention you at all.”
Evangeline supposed the unlikelihood of her name crossing Mr. Lioncroft's lips should make her feel better, but instead-Evangeline straightened her shoulders. Best to not a.n.a.lyze her illogical emotions. She'd be long gone before he caught wind of any witchery afoot.
After doing her best to twist Evangeline's unruly curls-which had never suffered pins for more than a few minutes before, and showed no signs of doing otherwise today-into some sort of looping plait, Molly gave up, curtsied, and left.
Within a moment, a brisk knock rattled the connecting door to Susan's chamber. Evangeline twisted the handle and welcomed in her neighbor.
Susan's gown, a powder-blue confection with indigo accents, elegantly complemented her cerulean eyes and pale skin. Unlike Evangeline, Susan wore both a portrait-perfect chignon and a delighted smile.
”I'm surprised you answered so quickly,” she said, sweeping past Evangeline to warm her hands by the fire. ”I half-suspected you to be a slugabed.”
”I'm surprised you knocked,” Evangeline muttered as she closed the connecting door. ”I didn't think you knew how.”
”Oh, don't be shrewish. It's much too fine a day.”
”How do you know? There are no windows.”
”Not outside, goose. Inside. I haven't had such excitement in ages.” Susan threw open the hallway door and grinned. ”Are you coming or not?”
Seeing no recourse, Evangeline joined her in the corridor and led the way to the breakfast table. As it happened, Lady Stanton had not yet arrived. Neither had Lady Hetherington or her daughter Nancy.
Mr. Lioncroft sat at the head of the table, brooding over a plateful of untouched eggs. Francine Rutherford was to his left, toying with a slice of toasted bread. Her husband Benedict sat on her left, showing no trouble consuming his kippers. His cousin Edmund was next, with a full gla.s.s of wine and only a few crumbs remaining on his plate.
n.o.body occupied the two seats to Lioncroft's immediate right.
Mr. Teasdale occupied the chair following the gap, his cane dangling between the curved wooden slats.
Although they'd surely heard Susan and Evangeline approach, not a single guest so much as glanced up at two young ladies hesitating in the doorway.
”Well, we're here,” Susan whispered behind a gloved hand. ”You want Teasdale or Lioncroft?”
Evangeline wanted to go back to bed. Sleep, however, did not await her there. ”I don't care,” she murmured. ”I'm not even hungry.”
Susan fished one hand in her pocket. ”Heads or tails?”
”Just go in and sit down.” Evangeline nudged her forward. ”We can't stand here whispering.”
”Fine.” Susan removed her empty hand from her pocket and began to tug off her gloves. ”You get Lioncroft, then.”
Evangeline took a step into the room, and then paused. ”He's your future fiance. Don't you want to sit by him?”
Susan clutched the doorframe. ”I will when we're married and not a moment sooner.”
”If he frightens you so,” Evangeline hissed behind her cupped palm, ”why marry him?”
”Lesser evil. He's a good catch now that I'm ruined, remember?” Susan's brow furrowed. ”Well, he was before he started murdering people again. He might hang for it this time. And I can't marry a dead man. If I'm lucky, Mother will have given up on the whole idea.”
”I should hope so. Now is not the time to trap anyone into false comp-”
”Ladies.” Mr. Lioncroft's deep voice boomed into the stillness. ”There's plenty of provisions yet on the sideboard.”
Evangeline dropped her hands back to her sides and flashed an embarra.s.sed smile at five pairs of curious eyes. Susan crossed to the sideboard, scooped meat and eggs onto her plate, and plopped down next to Mr. Teasdale, across from Benedict Rutherford. Evangeline laid a single slice of toasted bread on hers before taking her place between Susan and Mr. Lioncroft.
”What were you discussing in the doorway?” Edmund Rutherford slurred over a gla.s.s of wine. ”Which one of us will be the next to be throttled in our sleep?”
He laughed at his own jest. Neither Evangeline nor Susan bothered to reply. During the awkward silence which followed, however, Evangeline finally risked a glance at the silent man seated next to her. Mr. Lioncroft's glare singed the air between him and Edmund, warning him without words. Edmund returned his gaze to his gla.s.s. Evangeline couldn't tear hers from Mr. Lioncroft.
Like her, he appeared not to have slept well.
His s.h.i.+rt was pressed, his breeches clean and snug, but his cravat appeared to have been tied without aid of candlelight. Dark whiskers shadowed the hollows below his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The jagged scar stood out bold and pale. Tousled locks curled about his neck and ears and tumbled forward into dark brown eyes. The pale skin visible beneath the blackness of his lashes was tinged with a faint purple, as though his nightmares were no less consuming than hers.
”I say,” Edmund said, breaking the silence. ”I'd wager the lot of us sleep with scarves about our necks tonight.”
Francine Rutherford shoved her untouched plate across the table. ”Tasteless, Edmund.”
Benedict laid his hand atop hers. ”He's a drunk.”
”He's an a.s.s,” she countered.
”And you,” Edmund put in, ”are the new Lord and Lady Hetherington. Very churlish of Benedict, I'd say. He was already next in line without pus.h.i.+ng things along quite so violently.”
”See here,” was all Benedict managed to get out before erupting into a bout of barking coughs.
”And now you're the heir, Edmund,” Francine pointed out. The plume from her bonnet dipped and swayed above her forehead. ”Very neatly done. Do I have to guard my husband in his sleep?”
”Perhaps, perhaps.” Edmund downed the last of his wine and motioned for a footman to refill the gla.s.s. ”Although I suppose we should turn to the head of the table for a glimpse at the true villain.”
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