Part 10 (1/2)
”It's settled, then,” he said, swaying slightly. ”You two run along, feel Hetherington's dead body all you like, and meet us later to fill us in on G.o.d's message.”
Evangeline stared weakly as the breakfast room emptied of its last few occupants, save for she and Mr. Lioncroft.
”Well, Miss Pemberton?” came his low, deep voice.
She turned to face him, but words failed her. For a moment, the tortured expression darkening his eyes was so fierce, she could almost believe him innocent of the crime.
But then, Neal Pemberton had mastered the art of appearing blameless despite his culpability. Such looks were not to be trusted. Particularly those from men she could not read with a simple touch.
Mr. Lioncroft's gaze was equally unreadable as he said, ”I must admit the truth.”
Evangeline blinked. He would admit to killing Lord Hetherington?
”I don't believe for one second that any celestial deities speak to you. In fact, I don't even believe that you believe it.”
He rose and held out a palm, as though to a.s.sist her to her feet. Although for the first time in her life she could touch and be touched without being overcome with visions, she did not place her hand in his. She wished to touch a murderer even less than she wished to touch the lifeless body of his victim.
She hoped she wasn't next.
Chapter Nine.
”Are you ready?” Gavin asked once he and the reluctant Miss Pemberton reached Hetherington's guest quarters. He paused, one hand on the bra.s.s doork.n.o.b, and waited for her reply.
Miss Pemberton hesitated, neither nodding nor shaking her head, careful not to meet his eyes.
Why? Because touching Hetherington's dead body was an elaborate ruse designed to-to-to what, exactly? Gavin could think of no good reason-or even a bad reason-for a young lady to lay her hands upon a corpse. Reasons for Lady Stanton to suggest such a charade likewise escaped him. Whatever her agenda might be, Gavin doubted Miss Pemberton heard voices from G.o.d.
There was no G.o.d.
Or if there were, He was a capricious, vengeful G.o.d, delighting in sending loved ones to the grave before their time, and destroying the lives of those who remained behind. If such a G.o.d could speak to them through Hetherington's cold body, Gavin had no wish to hear the message. He already knew he was d.a.m.ned.
Without waiting for Miss Pemberton to decide whether or not she would enter or flee, Gavin twisted the handle and thrust open the door.
The guest chamber looked much like it did when they'd gathered there a few hours before. Same oil-on-canvas landscapes, same rotting furniture, same stiff body stretched across the mattress.
A few items, however, were different.
The smell, for one. Gavin's lungs seized in protest. The cl.u.s.ter of crimson roses decaying on the nightstand couldn't mask the unmistakable stench of death pervading the still bedchamber. He would have to remove Hetherington soon before the entire mansion stank of his corpse.
Fewer candles flickered now than in the middle of the night, but Hetherington's p.r.o.ne form was clearly visible. The thick scarlet curtains had been pulled back and tied with frayed golden ropes, allowing warm shafts of sunlight to fall upon the bed. Dust motes glittered in the stale air above the big bay windows, casting a sheen across the lumpy cus.h.i.+ons and an unnatural glow across Hetherington's sunken cheeks.
No fire burned behind the cold grate, just as no blood pulsed beneath the dead man's waxy skin.
Gavin strode into the room, into the patch of s.h.i.+mmering dust. His back blocked the sun, blocked the light, sending his odd, elongated shadow scuttling across the untouched bed.
Miss Pemberton remained in the doorway, eyes tightly closed.
He couldn't blame her. As much as he'd despised the earl's company when Hetherington was still alive, spending the morning with his corpse was even less appealing.
The mottled handprints stretched around the earl's pale neck stood out bold and incriminatory against skin the color of snow and ash, announcing Gavin's infamous inability to control his temper. He stared at the marks his hands had bruised into the earl's skin. To tell the truth, Gavin hadn't wanted wanted to control his cursed temper. He'd wanted to wring the earl's b.l.o.o.d.y neck. to control his cursed temper. He'd wanted to wring the earl's b.l.o.o.d.y neck.
And then he'd wanted Miss Pemberton-who showed no signs of remembering their interplay. At least not with any nostalgia.
She stood in the doorway, dark lashes fanning against pale cheeks, arms clutched tightly beneath her bodice, curls springing from their pins as if they, too, would rather flee than enter.
The dead man's jaw hung open, as if he'd died while snoring. How had had he died? He'd left Gavin's office with nothing more than a sore throat and a bruised ego. Well, and a sc.r.a.pe on his temple where the portrait had struck him. Was Gavin once again a killer, after all? Could that glancing blow have somehow caused Hetherington's death? he died? He'd left Gavin's office with nothing more than a sore throat and a bruised ego. Well, and a sc.r.a.pe on his temple where the portrait had struck him. Was Gavin once again a killer, after all? Could that glancing blow have somehow caused Hetherington's death?
Gavin knelt beside the bed, allowing the insistent sun to s.h.i.+ne above his head across the earl's lifeless face. A folded handkerchief tied snug around the motionless skull, blood crusting the linen above the earl's right ear. Gavin frowned. The earl's right right ear? The gilded frame had struck the opposite side! Look. There. A patch of raw skin scratched across his left cheekbone where the painting had glanced off the earl's face. ear? The gilded frame had struck the opposite side! Look. There. A patch of raw skin scratched across his left cheekbone where the painting had glanced off the earl's face.
Hetherington may well have died from a blow to the head, but it wasn't Gavin's Gavin's blow. Someone else had struck him and left him to die. Someone else murdered him. Someone else had stood silent and allowed accusation and innuendo to surround Gavin once again. blow. Someone else had struck him and left him to die. Someone else murdered him. Someone else had stood silent and allowed accusation and innuendo to surround Gavin once again.
He began to wish Miss Pemberton really could converse directly with G.o.d. Perhaps she could ask Him for a hint as to who had dealt the killing blow. Gavin glanced at the doorway.
Miss Pemberton was no longer there.
She was crossing the room with short, quick strides, her slippered feet silent against the square of plush carpet, her hands fisted beneath the flowing silk of her gown, her full lips pressed together in an expression of fierce determination.
”Move,” she said. Then, ”Please.”
Gavin moved.
He rose to his feet, stepped backward to the bay window and sat on the lumpy crimson cus.h.i.+on. He immediately leapt upright again.
”Wait.”
She did not wait. She strode directly to the spot he had just vacated beside the bed. And began peeling off her left glove. Slowly, slowly, the delicate leather rolled down her arm and off her fingers, revealing pale skin covered in gooseflesh.
”Wait,” he said again.
The sight unsettled him, although he was unsure why. He glimpsed her bare fingers every time they gathered to eat, so his unease did not stem from the soft whiteness of her hands. Perhaps his pulse skittered in fits and starts because of the still-visible gooseflesh rising on her skin, because of the trembling of her slender fingers, because of the pained resignation lining her eyes as though she faced something even worse than the sightless eyes of a dead man.
”What's wrong?” she said now, her palms paused a few inches above the earl's gaping mouth. ”Besides coming here to touch a dead man.”
”I-” h.e.l.l. h.e.l.l. Gavin stared at the back of Miss Pemberton's head for a long moment, unable to move toward her and unable to retake his seat. Her hands shook. ”I forgot to summon the maids,” he said at last, remembering why he had spoken. ”I promised an army of servants, not none. Just allow me a moment to tug the bellpull, and we'll have-” Gavin stared at the back of Miss Pemberton's head for a long moment, unable to move toward her and unable to retake his seat. Her hands shook. ”I forgot to summon the maids,” he said at last, remembering why he had spoken. ”I promised an army of servants, not none. Just allow me a moment to tug the bellpull, and we'll have-”
”I prefer to be alone.”
Her words cut through the stillness, cut through his speech, cut through the thick air, cold and heavy with the scent of death.
”You...wish for me to leave?”
She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze for the first time since reaching the guest quarters. ”No,” she said softly. ”Stay.”
”All right.”
He stayed, but did not sit. For some reason, his muscles warned him to remain tense, alert, at the ready in case some unknown danger lurked nearby.