Too Wicked To Kiss Part 11

The admission did nothing to calm his frayed nerves.

"Well?" he said, when Miss Pemberton showed no signs of explaining further.

"Well," she echoed softly. Her gaze slid toward the body on the bed. "He was definitely murdered. I don't know about the blow to his head, but someone...someone smothered Lord Hetherington. With a pillow." Her gaze snapped back to Gavin, her eyes round and huge. "He couldn't breathe."

Her breath hitched again, as if in remembrance. Her limbs twitched. Gavin pulled her closer, so that he leaned against the cold gla.s.s of the windowpane and she nestled atop the wrinkled linen of his shirt and the crumpled pillow of his cravat.

Was she insane? Was he he insane for half-believing her? insane for half-believing her?

Half-believing her, h.e.l.l. After what he had witnessed, he absolutely believed her. He remained unconvinced G.o.d whispered the secret into her ear, but no skill at playacting could slow her heart to a standstill, render her lungs incapable of motion, and leech the pallor of death into her cold skin.

Whatever had just happened with Miss Pemberton, he believed Hetherington had been asphyxiated. Gavin cast his own fleeting glance toward the bed. So much for his hopes of death by natural causes. Someone suffocated the sanctimonious b.a.s.t.a.r.d with his own pillow. Not a crime in Gavin's book, except for one thing.

Gavin was still the primary suspect.

Chapter Ten.

Miss Pemberton's breathing had calmed, her limbs were now warm and steady. Her gaze still fixed on his. She seemed to be awaiting a response.

"All I know," Gavin said at last, "is that you didn't get that news from G.o.d."

She shoved his arms, knocking them from their loose hug.

"But I believe you," he said softly.

She paused in the act of rising from his lap. The tight muscles of her bottom still perched on his thigh, as though she were one heartbeat from taking flight. She turned, slowly, her parted lips mere inches from his. "You do?"

"I do."

Before he could say more, a gasp and a chuckle clashed in the corridor. Dread encasing his stomach, he dragged his gaze to the doorway at the source of the noise.

The gasp came from his sister, the chuckle from Edmund.

"Guess the Stanton chit was right, eh, Lioncroft?" Edmund wiggled thick eyebrows. "Reckon we should've sent up a chaperone after all. What happened to the army of maidservants? They defect?"

With a strangled cry, Miss Pemberton leapt from Gavin's lap and staggered forward. She glared at him over her shoulder as she found herself trapped between two pairs of curious eyes, a murder victim, and the suspected killer lounging across the window seat.

"Don't be a bore, Edmund." Lioncroft infused his voice with as much disinterest as he could affect. "As any young lady might do faced with mortality, Miss Pemberton merely fainted. I couldn't very well lay her next to him until she recovered, so I made do with the window seat."

Edmund snorted, retrieved a silver flask from his pocket, and saluted Gavin with it.

Rose shook her head. "Miss Pemberton, I'm not sure you realize how uncomplimentary..." She swallowed and pierced Gavin with her gaze. "I just came to see...to see that he was still dead. That I hadn't imagined it."

Edmund smirked. "And instead, we came across you. G.o.d impart any good gossip before you wound up in Lioncroft's lap, Miss Pemberton?"

"Edmund!" Rose snapped, her face draining of color. "Enough."

She pushed past him, striding forward until she reached the foot of the bed.

Miss Pemberton closed her eyes. She breathed slowly, deeply, as if to do so required every bit of her concentration. When her eyes reopened, she focused them on Edmund.

"Yes," she answered, one hand on the mattress as if for balance. "He did."

Edmund choked on a mouthful of whiskey. From the shocked expression on his face, Gavin half-expected him to expire of apoplexy.

"What?" Edmund staggered against the doorframe. "What did He say? I mean, what did G.o.d say?"

Miss Pemberton trembled slightly, as if her limbs were not quite ready to hold her upright again.

Gavin rose from the window seat. "Leave her alone."

Edmund tipped back his flask with a shrug. Miss Pemberton glanced at the bed, winced, swayed. Gavin leapt forward.

Rose reached out one hand to steady her. "Ignore Edmund. He's a drunk and a fool. You look-"

But the moment Rose's bare fingertips brushed against Miss Pemberton's still ungloved wrist, Miss Pemberton dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

Evangeline awoke in her windowless bedchamber with the worst headache of her life.

A low fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with flickering light and the faint stench of burning logs.

Anything but the scent of death.

Never again. So help her, she'd never step near that cursed chamber again. Let Lady Stanton do her worst. Evangeline far preferred the poverty of life on the street to death by the fickle hand of her dark Gift. Was that why Mama made her swear to always use her talent to help those in need? Because the possessor of the Gift was doomed to a short life of violence, loneliness, and betrayal?

Not for the first time, Evangeline wished she were a typical girl from a typical family. Even if her family were atypical, they'd at least be atypical in a typical way.

Like Susan, whose mother was determined to matchmake her to the first available bachelor. Susan, whose dearest desire was to escape her mother. Susan, who...was seated before Evangeline's fire, flipping the pages of a small book.

Evangeline no longer questioned Susan's presence in her room, but she couldn't help but wonder how Susan had managed to pry a real book from the false shelves.

"What are you reading?" Evangeline croaked. She grimaced, swallowed, tried again. "What are you reading?"

The book tumbled from Susan's fingers. "You're awake! Oh. This?" Susan's head dipped as she bent to retrieve the fallen book. "De Re Metallica, a hideously boring treatise on the history of metallurgy in the sixteenth century. You would know better than me. Lioncroft says you dropped it by accident." Susan made a face. "I'd drop it, too. Into the nearest river."

Evangeline bit back a laugh. The "novel" she'd filched from the library was a treatise on metallurgy? Mr. Lioncroft was no doubt as confused by her selection as Susan was, although it was kind of him to bring it by.

Kind. Kindness wasn't a quality she suspected the average murderer to possess. Nor was empathy or thoughtfulness. Although, from the first, Mr. Lioncroft had been anything but average. She would've died right along with the earl had he not been there to save her. He'd offered comfort. Ordered her to breathe. Bade her speak his name.

Gavin.

Evangeline shivered. She could not. She would not. Not even in her mind. Kindness did not outweigh violence. Although...his kindness did give her pause. Her stepfather-another murderer-was not a kind man. He terrorized her and her mother, just like he terrorized the simple folk in her hometown, just like he terrorized the poor creatures slaving for him in his Spital Fields factories.

Gavin-Mr. Lioncroft, rather-did not seem to thrive on terrorizing others. He seemed to expect others to be terrified on their own. And used his reputation to his benefit. But did he seek to act upon the fear of others by striking out with vicious cruelty against innocents? No.

Lord Hetherington was hardly an innocent. Evangeline would never say anyone deserved deserved to die, but hadn't she herself hoped Mr. Lioncroft would teach him a lesson about fear and revenge? to die, but hadn't she herself hoped Mr. Lioncroft would teach him a lesson about fear and revenge?

Of course, she hadn't expected murder.

Susan yanked back a curtain and loomed over the side of the bed. "Ew. You look all pale and clammy. Are those bruises on your neck? Lionkiller didn't try and strangle you, too, did he?"

Evangeline struggled to sit up, failed, and sank back down. "How long have you been here?"

"Ever since Lionkiller brought you in."

"And when was that?"

"I don't know. Perhaps an hour ago? Time flies when reading sixteenth century treatises on metal extraction techniques. Truly, Evangeline. A novel would've been better."

"Thank you for the suggestion."

Susan settled on the edge of the bed and met Evangeline's eyes. "Will you please tell me what happened?"

What had had happened? happened?

Evangeline had been in some kind of trance, reliving the final, panic-stricken moments of Lord Hetherington's abbreviated life. The next thing she knew, she was tucked in Gavin Lioncroft's strong arms. Warm. Safe. Protected. Evangeline frowned at the realization. In her entire life, her mother had been the only other person who had attempted to protect her. And in the end, she'd died. At the hands of a violent brute. In this case, Mr. Lioncroft was was the violent brute-and also the protector. the violent brute-and also the protector.

At the very least, the man was an enigma Evangeline had no clue how to solve.

"I don't know," she said aloud, unsure whether she was addressing Susan's spoken query or her own unvoiced questions.

"What do you mean, you don't know? You were there! Did you learn whether Hetherington died peacefully or not?"

Evangeline nodded reluctantly.

"Well? Did he kick off in his slumber? Or was something more sinister afoot?"

"Something more sinister, I'm afraid."

"Aaahh! I insist you divulge every detail. What happened? Who killed him?"

Evangeline sorely wished she could tell her about her vision and how badly the experience shook her. For years, she'd ached for a friend, someone she could discuss her Gift with, someone who could be trusted. But Mama said the ton ton could never be trusted. Susan was nice, but also could never be trusted. Susan was nice, but also ton ton. And Susan's mother, the very woman Mama had entrusted to keep her daughter and her secret, had been willing to inform a houseful of strangers of Evangeline's visions over the breakfast table. Mama was right. The ton ton was not to be trusted. was not to be trusted.

So Evangeline just shrugged, and winced as the motion pulled at her sore shoulders.

"What?" Susan cried. "How don't you know? You should know everything. And then you should tell me! me!"

If only life were that simple. Just the very thought-the sensation of laying atop her mattress, just as Lord Hetherington had lain across his mattress-the soft cushion of the feathers beneath her head just like the pillow beneath the earl's, just like the pillow that covered his face, stealing his breath, stealing the air, stealing his life- "Evangeline! Evangeline! Are you all right? You're scaring-"

The moment Susan's warm knuckles pressed against Evangeline's forehead, the bedchamber disappeared. Instead, a wide flat plain rolled out before her, a never-ending field filled with row after row of wilting plants. A strange, dead farm Evangeline had never seen.

Susan races down one of the soil paths, sweating, panting, skirt hiked up to her shins so she could run even faster."Evangeline!" she yells. "Evangeline! Come back! He's out there! He'll kill you!"Susan clutches at her side with one hand. The scrawny bushes scratch at her skirts."Evangeline," she pants. "No. Wait. Come back."Up ahead, the neat rows of scraggy bushes ends. A pair of scarred brown horses chew at the closest plants. Stiff leather tethers the beasts to a small black carriage with dirty windows. An all-too-familiar driver perches aloft, holding the reins.Her stepfather's driver.The vile blackguard bursts from an adjacent path. A kicking and biting version of herself flails in his arms, trying desperately to escape.As always, he silences her with his fist...and laughs.

Susan lifted her fingers from Evangeline's forehead. "Good Lord. You look worse now than when you arrived."

Evangeline felt felt worse than when she'd arrived. Worse, even, than when she'd arrived at Stanton House just three days before. Then she'd believed she had a chance of evading her stepfather until her twenty-first birthday. Now she knew her efforts would be futile. Wherever Susan was in the vision, so would Evangeline be-and Neal Pemberton right behind her. But where were they? And worse than when she'd arrived. Worse, even, than when she'd arrived at Stanton House just three days before. Then she'd believed she had a chance of evading her stepfather until her twenty-first birthday. Now she knew her efforts would be futile. Wherever Susan was in the vision, so would Evangeline be-and Neal Pemberton right behind her. But where were they? And when when were they? How much time did Evangeline have before her stepfather found her? A year? A month? A week? were they? How much time did Evangeline have before her stepfather found her? A year? A month? A week?

Now more than ever, she yearned for a friend.

Which might be why, instead of saying nothing, Evangeline said, "Don't touch me." At Susan's stricken expression, Evangeline added, "It's better if you don't. I-I get visions when people touch me. And headaches. Awful ones."

Evangeline expected Susan to laugh off the a.s.sertion, or at least to ask if Evangeline had just received a vision from their brief touch, or whether she'd gotten a vision from Lord Hetherington's cold flesh.

Instead, Susan's forehead creased. "I was just feeling for fever. How else can you feel for fever? Has no one ever touched you? How can you live without being touched?"

"My mother touched me. She felt for my fevers."

"But she's dead. Who will feel for your fevers now?"

Pain gripped Evangeline's heart. "n.o.body."

"What about children?"

"I won't have any."

"No, I mean other children, when you were a child. However did you play Fox and Hounds or Sardines or even learn to sew without touching anybody?"

"I never did any of those things."

"You cannot sew? sew?" Susan clapped her hands to her chest. "You are so lucky lucky. If I never see another sampler as long as I live...but then, I don't have visions to contend with, and I can touch anyone I please. Although, to be honest, I doubt I'd touch many corpses if it were left up to me. Did it not work?"

"It worked," Evangeline admitted. "But I didn't see who did it."

"Lioncroft, of course. No question. How did Hetherington die?"

"Smothered with a pillow."

"A what? what?" Susan stared at her, mouth agape. "Well. I admit, that hardly sounds like Lioncroft's style. He seems much more forward with his aggression. For example, had you said he strangled Hetherington to death, I wouldn't have blinked an eye. Likewise, had you told me Lioncroft bashed in his head with a large rock. Rocks can be vulgar and deadly. But a pillow, pillow, of all things. No...I wouldn't have guessed that." of all things. No...I wouldn't have guessed that."

"What are you saying? You think him innocent?"

"Well," Susan said again. "Well. I guess I'm saying, now I don't know know. He's probably the villain, but-a pillow?"

For some reason, this small concession made Evangeline more unsettled, rather than less. The situation seemed so much more straightforward when everyone was convinced of Mr. Lioncroft's guilt. Doubt...doubt made things murky.

Evangeline tried never to doubt.

"A pillow seems cowardly," Susan was saying now. "Lioncroft may be many evil things, but he doesn't strike me as cowardly. He seems the type to hurl Hetherington from the closest balcony window or impale him on a rapier, not the sort to sneak in on him when he's sleeping and smother him with a pillow. Perhaps even Lady Hetherington's pillow. She might've lain lain on it, not even knowing. How positively dreadful!" on it, not even knowing. How positively dreadful!"