Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1
Page 32
She shoved her chair back and sprang to her feet. If only she could’ve identified the murderer! Why was she cursed with a Gift capable of helping villains and strangers, but unable to save the man she loved?
Ignoring the startled expressions of the breakfast guests, she bolted from the dining room and sprinted through the corridors.
When Evangeline reached the anteroom, Francine Rutherford was descending the spiral staircase, one slender hand resting atop the burnished railing. Her slipper slid on the slick marble, pitching mother and unborn child forward.
Evangeline leapt forward to prevent her from tumbling headfirst down the remaining three or four steps.
Francine twisted midair, recoiled, clutched for the banister. “Stay away, you little witch,” she hissed, eyes wide, face pale. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
Evangeline froze, arms still outstretched from her attempt to prevent a fall. Her flesh chilled and she returned her hands to her sides.
A strangled “What?” was the only word her numb lips were able to form.
Francine’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Stanton told me about you and your unholy abilities. So much for speaking to God.”
Evangeline’s spine straightened and her fingers clenched. She was not violent by nature, but she found herself battling an overwhelming desire to plant Lady Stanton a facer.
Nose pointed skyward, Francine eased down the last steps until she was toe to toe to Evangeline, who still hadn’t moved.
Francine’s arms crossed below her bodice. “Go ahead and touch me if you want to see it firsthand, you little freak. Nobody will believe a commoner over a countess. If you breathe a word, I’ll say I saw Lioncroft kill him myself.” She shoved past Evangeline, head held high, and sauntered toward the hallway leading to the dining room. “As soon as I collect my husband, we’re leaving. Our carriage is waiting outside.”
“What?” Evangeline gasped, reaching out to grab Francine’s arm.
But Francine had already sailed through the open doorway into the depths of a shadowed passageway.
The new countess seemed to think Evangeline in possession of a dangerous secret. Just as obvious was the substance of that secret. But how could Evangeline prove it?
If Francine followed through on her threat to provide false witness against Gavin—and Evangeline had no doubt she would do so—Francine’s prediction as to which one of them would be believed would no doubt come true.
There had to be some way to prove Francine’s presence in Lord Heatherbrook’s bedchamber. If not, Evangeline should at least be able to determine a motive so heinous the others would be forced to believe her. Was the simple fact of inheriting strong enough?
Francine was leaving in the next few minutes. Whatever Evangeline was going to do, she needed to act quickly. She needed clues. She needed information. Who would be the most likely to know other secrets Francine Rutherford might be keeping?
Susan.
Evangeline raced up the spiral staircase two steps at a time, dashed down the corridor to the guest wing, and vaulted into Susan’s bedchamber.
“Bloody hell, Evangeline. Could you wait until my maid finishes lacing up my gown?”
“No.” Evangeline grabbed Susan’s gloved hands in hers. “Francine Rutherford killed Lord Heatherbrook.”
Both Susan and her maid stared at her, mouths agape.
Susan found her voice first. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Francine killed him. I need your help proving it. Fast.”
“How can I help? I had no idea.”
“But you know other things, don’t you? She slapped you for spreading lies, but—were they?”
Susan stepped backward and smoothed the lace of her bodice. “No. I stupidly spread the truth.”
“Just so. You know her better than me. Why would she do it?”
“How the hell would I know?” Susan began to pace around her bedchamber. “I thought she was still in love with him.”
“Still in love with—” Evangeline gaped at her. “But isn’t she married to his brother?”
“Biggest mistake of her life. Well, unless you count killing Heatherbrook.”
“Francine Rutherford was in love with Lord Heatherbrook,” Evangeline said slowly, trying to replay the moments she’d seen them interact.
“Madly,” Susan confirmed. “Emphasis on mad. She made a cake of herself over him for years. Gave him some sort of ultimatum. Should’ve known better, with a bounder like Heatherbrook. He responded by turning his attentions to another woman. Rumor has it Francine accepted Benedict’s proposal in an attempt to make Heatherbrook jealous, but as he made no attempt to win her back, she was forced to go through with the wedding.”
Evangeline frowned. “This all sounds like ancient history, though.”
Susan nodded. “It is. I was a child at the time.”
“Then why did she slap you that day at the opera house if her unrequited love and ill-advised marriage were both common knowledge?”
“Because the details of her extramarital affairs were not.” Susan’s cheeks colored. “Or affair, rather. With Heatherbrook, of course. Her husband’s brother. I happened to glimpse him with his hand down her bodice deep inside the Dark Walk one night at Vauxhall. He got rid of her gown faster than any lady’s maid I’ve seen.”
“You spied on them lovemaking?” Evangeline asked incredulously.
“Of course not. There wasn’t time. I ducked behind a bush. Not long after, I heard footsteps approaching, so I had to sneak out of there. But before I did, I heard her tell him if she were lucky, he could provide her with the one thing her husband could not.”
“How did she know you spread the rumors?”
“The footsteps turned out to be her husband’s. He was calling for her, afraid she’d been set upon by footpads. Heatherbrook went one way, she another. Unfortunately for me, the direction she chose coincided with the bush I was hiding behind.”
“Criminy, Susan.”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t have stumbled across them if they hadn’t been up to mischief.”
“What did she mean, provide her with the one thing her husband could not?”
“A baby, Evangeline.” Susan shook her head with a sigh. “Obviously.”
Evangeline’s jaw dropped open. “Benedict Rutherford can’t father children?”
“Apparently not.”
“That’s it! That’s why she did it. She could be the mother of the next heir. If she hadn’t killed him, he and Lady Heatherbrook might’ve kept having children until he fathered a son. It explains everything.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “What do we do about it?”
Evangeline hesitated. She’d promised Gavin she’d stop jumping to conclusions, and she’d been wrong about the murderer’s identity so many times before, but…No. She’d rather be wrong yet again than let a murderer walk free.
“We shall stop her.” Evangeline threw open the door. “Quick, go after them before it’s too late. They’ve already brought their carriage round. I’ll go find Gavin and tell him we’ve uncovered the murderer’s identity.”
“Wait. Take this.” Susan jerked open the drawer to a portable desk and rifled through its contents before thrusting a folded parchment at Evangeline. “Here’s a copy of the scandal sheet that ran the column. I saved all the articles to remind myself what can happen when secrets aren’t kept.”
Evangeline took the proffered paper and tore off in search of Gavin.
Chapter 40
Had Gavin known Evangeline might burst into his studio at any moment, he might’ve chosen to work on his niece’s miniature rather than the portrait of Evangeline he was painting from memory.
As it was, she caught him brush in hand, adding a few more flyaway curls to her gorgeous mane of hair.
“Gavin, I—angels above. Is that me?”
He inclined his head. There was no point in denying it.
She blinked at the canvas. “I thought you wanted to paint me nude.”
“Oh.” She blushed. “Good point.”
“This way,” he said gruffly, “even if I can’t hold you at night, at least I can see your smile. That is, unless I’m hung for murder.”
“Never.” She thrust a scrap of newsprint at him, eyes shining. “That’s what I’ve come to tell you. I know who killed Lord Heatherbrook.”
He tossed his paintbrush aside and took the paper. “Truly? Who?”
“Francine Rutherford. She’s carrying Lord Heatherbrook’s child.” Evangeline gestured at the folded sheet in his hand. “Read the article and you’ll understand. Benedict’s already got their carriage round front, but Susan’s making sure she doesn’t go anywhere. I came to tell you straightaway.”
Francine killed Heatherbrook and planned to let Gavin hang in her place. That unbelievable bitch. Thank God Evangeline figured it out before he found himself—
Gavin’s heart slowed, then raced to a crescendo. Wait. If he needn’t fear the gallows, that meant—that meant—
“Stay,” he begged, tugging Evangeline into his arms. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go anywhere. I meant what I said last night. I want—wait for me. I’ll be right back. Just let me make sure Francine doesn’t escape before the magistrate arrives.”
He crushed his lips to hers, then let her go. But only for now. Saints be praised, the moment Francine was arrested he could make Evangeline all the promises he’d longed to make the night before.
“I’ll wait until you return,” she promised, giving him a little smile. “To be honest, the thought of leaving makes me want to throw myself in a river.”
Gooseflesh rippled up his arms. Without thinking, he found himself saying, “That’s how my father died.”
She blanched. “Oh! I didn’t mean…I thought a carriage…that is, I knew you had nothing to do with it, but—”
“I had everything to do with it.”
“What?” Evangeline backed up a step, crossed her arms.
He winced, and hoped telling her everything was the right thing to do. “You remember when my sister mentioned my love of curricle races?”
She nodded, brow furrowed, eyes frightened.
Devil take it. He didn’t want to tell her any of this…but she deserved to hear the truth from him, rather than through secondhand visions or thirdhand rumors.
He let out a slow breath. “I was seventeen. Home on holiday. Positive my father’s order to ‘mind my safety’ was yet another of his high-handed attempts to control my life. Ban me from curricle racing, would he? Fine. Then no one would drive it. In anger, I took a sledge to the axle to render it unusable, then returned to the house still primed for a fight. When my father called me an immature pup in front of servants and siblings alike, I was too angry and embarrassed to admit what I’d just done to the carriage. Instead I screamed about how he couldn’t tell me what to do, that he’d be sorry he tried, and stomped off to my chambers without looking back.”
Her warm hand settled on his arm, stroked softly. “Adolescents and their parents are frequently at odds. Rendering a family carriage unusable is a petty prank, but I don’t see how it makes you a murderer.”
“I could have prevented the accident,” Gavin confessed when his throat cleared enough to allow the passage of words. “I thought the axle was unusable, but it held together just long enough to...”
He closed his eyes to block the memory. It didn’t work.
When he reopened them, Evangeline’s expression was horrified.
“I knew my father planned to dine elsewhere. That he’d promised my sister he and my mother would set out that very night with gifts for her baby. ” He swallowed thickly. “I thought I was forcing them to stay home. Instead, they left… and never came back.”
Evangeline clapped her hands over her mouth, paled, backed against the wall.
“My mother was thrown from the carriage. She died in my arms. My father and the horses slid over a curved precipice into the river below. That night, my brother inherited the viscountcy. He never forgave me.” Gavin smiled humorlessly. “I never forgave myself. How could I? I’d purposely sabotaged the carriage that killed our parents.”
She looked like she might be ill at any moment.
“People talk,” he continued. Lord, did they. And why not? He’d given them plenty to talk about. “By dawn, the tragedy was common knowledge, as was the asinine threat that preceded it. My brother’s first act as viscount was to evict me. I couldn’t blame him. It was better than being hung for my crime.”
Evangeline shook her head, groped for the door, stumbled out into the corridor.
Gavin’s flesh chilled in terror. He’d told her the truth, and now she was as horrified as everyone else. He’d warned her he wasn’t a good person. He’d warned her.
He shoved the folded parchment into a pocket and sprinted after her. She wasn’t far, just outside the door, hugging herself, back to the wall. When he came to stand in front of her, several heart-stopping moments passed before she finally met his gaze.
“Did you tell everyone you hadn’t meant for your parents to die?” she asked, her voice wooden, her eyes dull.
“David was too angry to speak to me. I rode to Rose’s, to tell her Mother and Father weren’t coming, to tell her why. She already knew. Wouldn’t let me in.” He shrugged. “I didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. Didn’t realize the gossip would matter. By the time mourning was officially over and I made my first attempt to rejoin Society, it was too late. Even my tailor gave me the cut direct. Everyone. I was an outcast. And I deserved no better.”
Evangeline hugged herself tighter. “What did you do then?”
“I went to work. I had nothing else to do, nothing to live for. Then I moved to Braintree and Bocking. Eventually bought a home, turned a profit, remembered my love of art. And then, barely a month ago, I discovered the depth of one’s pockets correlates inversely with the length of the ton’s memories.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the sister that spent years refusing my letters decided to come calling with her family. A baroness who hadn’t spoken to me in a dozen years suddenly wished to leg-shackle me to her daughter. Even another death couldn’t deter the Rutherford clan from eating my food and depleting my whisky. I wasn’t a person. I was a scandal sheet and a pocketbook. An object of derision, wealth, and fear.” Gavin hesitated, fighting the sensation of his heart in his eyes. “Then came you.”
He reached for her.
She flinched.
Part of his soul died.
“You’d better go.” Evangeline stared at him for a moment, then looked away. She motioned down the hall with one listless finger. “Susan can’t hold Francine captive forever.”
“I promised you a carriage to anywhere you chose, but…don’t leave me. Please.” He reached out, gripped her tense shoulders. His voice trembled with desperation. “I need you.”
Her gaze lowered. She said nothing.
He released her, backed up a step, paused just in case…
She didn’t move.
With a heavy heart, Gavin gave up. He’d known from the start his hopes had been set too high. He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve happiness. And what was she, if not his source of happiness? Without her, his life would be nothing once again.
He gazed at her for a long moment. At least he would have her portrait. Those impassioned brushstrokes would forever remind him of the short time he had loved her—and those precious moments when he had been loved back.
No matter where she went, she would always be the keeper of his soul. He would love her until he died, and ever after. He couldn’t help it. She was everything to him.
Her continued silence was worse than screaming epithets at him, worse than a thousand knife wounds. But there was nothing he could do to change the past. He’d spent over a decade trying, and still remained the worthless cur he’d been at s
eventeen.
Evangeline closed her eyes.
At least he’d met her, known her, loved her. No matter she could no longer bear the sight of him, he’d never regret the days he’d lived with her presence.
She’d told him to hurry, to confront Francine. Very well. He could at least do that. He’d do anything she asked. He’d prostrate himself at her feet, declare himself her slave for eternity if only she would forgive him his many, many faults and let him touch her once again, kiss her, hold her.
Perhaps…perhaps if he just tried hard enough, he could somehow redeem himself in her eyes. Enough to warrant a second chance. Was it possible? He had to believe there was hope. Hope of a future with the woman he loved. He had to believe there was hope.
If there were none, he would die.
After a final glance at her downturned face, Gavin ducked behind the closest secret panel and slipped into the shadowed network of passageways between the walls.
Chapter 41
Too late. Why was he always too late?
Gavin forced himself not to throttle the Stanton chit. “Where the devil did they go?” he asked for the third or fourth time. “I thought you were watching her.”
“I meant to watch her.” She quivered before him, hands wringing, eyes tearing up behind her spectacles. “She was already gone by the time I came downstairs. Mr. Teasdale’s gone, too. They summoned their carriages before breakfast.”
“I don’t care about Teasdale,” he thundered, smashing his fist into the closest wall. “I care about that bitch Francine. Where the hell did she go?”
“I don’t know,” she cried. “I told you I don’t know! Ask your sister. They were talking before breakfast. Maybe—”
He spun away from her and set off in search of Rose. She wasn’t in the dining room. She wasn’t in her bedchamber. She was upstairs in the nursery, reading stories to the twins. Jane and Nancy perched on either edge of the sofa beside her.