Part 15 (1/2)
”Keeping my promise of a party for Jane's birthday.”
”A party for Jane's-that's very kind of you, but her father died last night.”
”He was worthless.” Mr. Lioncroft fell silent, then regarded her with an odd expression. ”From the moment I first saw you, Miss Pemberton, I knew you were different.”
Evangeline's heart thudded. ”What-what do you mean?”
”Typical young ladies are simpering ninnies, wilting beneath false smiles and trembling in their jewel-encrusted gowns and whispering about each other behind their fans. 'Accomplished' and portrait-perfect, straitlaced and silly, thoughtless and tedious. You, on the other hand...” He advanced closer until she could feel the heat from his body through the thin silk of her gown. ”You're stubborn. Intelligent. Pa.s.sionate.” His voice turned husky. ”Beautiful in a far better way.”
”I...” She fought the urge to reach for him, to touch him, to close the gap between them. ”Oh.”
”But perhaps I have a blind spot.” Mr. Lioncroft stepped backward. A cool draft sliced across her body. She took a hesitant step forward, caught herself in motion, and froze. His words were no longer complimentary. ”Perhaps you've entranced me merely to throw suspicion from yourself.”
”From myself? myself?” Evangeline sputtered. ”Suspicion of what?”
”Perhaps you are the mysterious murderer. You are not even an invited guest. What brings you to Blackberry Manor?”
”I-the Stantons invited me. I'm a friend of Susan's, not a murderer.”
”So you say. But you are as much an outsider as I am, if not more so in this circ.u.mstance. The killer was someone capable of lifting a pillow. You are capable of such strength, are you not? The killer roamed the pa.s.sageways alone last night. You roamed the pa.s.sageways alone last night.” A small self-deprecating smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ”Much as I would like to believe otherwise, I'm well aware you stumbled upon my presence by accident. The killer lied about his whereabouts at the breakfast table this morning. You, madam, lied about your whereabouts.”
”Everybody lied!” She cast a nervous glance toward the cracked salon door, wondering if the three persons hovering outside could hear the hushed conversation within.
”Ah. But although everyone seemed content to agree Hetherington died by strangulation, you were the one who p.r.o.nounced him suffocated to death. How would you know, if you were not the one to do so?”
”I-I-” She had been accused of many things in her life, but murder? The audacity! She'd never have come within eyesight of Lord Hetherington's corpse had her goal not been justice. Evangeline pushed at Mr. Lioncroft's chest in frustration. He remained immobile.
”Perhaps you merely stood in the shadows and watched,” he continued, his words low and relentless. ”Perhaps you orchestrated the event from afar. I saw you speaking to a strange maid right before dinner. Later I discovered that same maid in Hetherington's employ. Beaten. And then he ended up dead.”
This time when she shoved at his chest, he caught her wrists in his fists and trapped them against the faint beating of his heart. She tried to pull away. He would not let her.
”Why would I instruct a servant to do such a horrible thing?” She struggled to free herself and failed. ”That makes no sense.”
His head bent until the tip of his nose was but a hand's width from hers. ”I have no way to know your motives, madam. The Lord does not speak to me.” He paused. His faintly tea-scented breath tickled her forehead, her cheek, her eyelashes. ”You agree the maid could have wielded the pillow?”
”Any servant could've done so,” she bit out, ”but not on my my orders.” orders.”
”If any any servant could've done so, you agree dozens of individuals other than myself may have been the villain.” And he smiled at her. Satisfied. servant could've done so, you agree dozens of individuals other than myself may have been the villain.” And he smiled at her. Satisfied.
Evangeline jerked her wrists from his grip as she realized he had never once thought her guilty of such a horrible crime-he was merely ill.u.s.trating that whatever evidence the party believed they had against him was based on superst.i.tion and supposition rather than fact.
”Fair enough,” she muttered.
His lashes lowered. ”You believe me innocent?”
”No,” she said. ”But I don't not not believe you.” believe you.”
”An improvement.”
His face lit with an astonished grin, as if she'd presented him with a pirate's treasure rather than a begrudging concession. Had he truly believed he'd never find someone willing to at least consider the possibility of his innocence?
If so, that made two of them. Evangeline had fully expected him to live up to his reputation as an irredeemable, soulless villain. Instead, he stood before her a man. A man asking for her help. He appealed to her not as a ”witch” with psychic visions, but as a woman with a logical mind. When was the last time that that had happened? Never. had happened? Never.
Just like he was the first man she could respond to as a woman. Couldn't help help but respond to as a woman. but respond to as a woman.
She brushed her fingertips across his forearm, reveling in the ability to touch the dark hairs on his arm, the warm skin beneath, the coiled tension of muscle. She glanced up at him, embarra.s.sed to be caught enjoying the simple pleasure of contact and unable to explain her action. She sought for a safe topic.
”Who do you think killed him?” she ventured.
Rather than respond with words, he claimed her mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. She half-expected to find her spine up against the closest wall, but he surprised her by gentling, by ending the kiss completely, by pressing his cheek against hers.
Evangeline blinked at the unexpected sensation of rough male stubble, and s.h.i.+vered to find it not at all unpleasant. If she turned her face a mere fraction, the sensitive skin of her lips would rub against the coa.r.s.e hair, the line of his jaw, the pale scar marring its surface.
Before she could do anything so foolish, however, he lifted his head.
His fingers smoothed the flyaway tendrils from her face and tucked them behind her ears. His palms caressed the flushed heat of her cheeks, down the slope of her bare neck, along the curve of her shoulders. He squeezed her arms briefly, as if wanting to hug her but unable to make the attempt, and then his hands fell back to his sides.
Evangeline wasn't sure if she should flee or embrace him. Without his touch, she was chilled, aching, uncertain. She stood there, staring up at him, sharing his breath, wis.h.i.+ng she knew the right thing to say.
”I hate to blame anyone unfairly,” he confessed, his voice soft. ”I was hoping your objectivity would shed some light. Have you no second choice? The new lord, perhaps?”
”Benedict Rutherford?”
Mr. Lioncroft nodded.
”I don't know...He doesn't seem to have a strong enough const.i.tution to murder anyone.”
”Surely he's strong enough to lift a pillow. A child can lift a pillow.”
”So can a woman scorned,” she said slowly.
He frowned. ”You're not suggesting-”
The door to the Green Salon flew open and Edmund Rutherford lurched in. ”You are here,” he said. ”I thought they were jesting.”
Evangeline glanced behind him at the empty doorway. ”They who?”
”The Stantons.”
”In the corridor?”
”n.o.body is in the corridor.” He unscrewed a small flask and sniffed the contents.
”So they sent you to watch us?”
”To fetch you and beg your a.s.sistance in a matter. That is, unless...Were you about to affect a compromising position?”