Perhaps Lady Heatherbrook hadn’t been protecting herself. Perhaps she’d been protecting her daughter.
By the time Evangeline reached the nursery, she’d all but convinced herself of Nancy Heatherbrook’s guilt and planned to confront her immediately. That was not to be, however, as only the twins were present. After exchanging greetings, she settled on the sofa, content to watch the two little girls play with their dolls.
Not half an hour later, Jane swept into the room flushed and breathless. Ignoring her sisters completely, she clapped her hands together and skipped directly to Evangeline.
“Oh! Miss Pemberton, you can’t imagine where I’ve been. Remember my locket? This one.” She gestured at her throat. “Uncle Lioncroft has been painting my portrait. Two, really. A big one, which he says he’d like to keep himself—he wants to do one of each of his nieces, he says, so we can be with him even when we’re not—and a miniature, which will go right inside my locket. See? It’ll be ever so cunning.”
“I see,” Evangeline said, not quite sure how else to respond. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”
“Quite lovely. I’m very nearly an adult, you see. Uncle Lioncroft says my come-out will be here before he knows it. He says—”
“Nurse says,” interrupted one of the twins, “Uncle Lioncroft killed Papa.”
“He did not,” said the other, clutching her doll to her chest. “Nurse is mean.”
“I thought,” Evangeline said slowly, “your mother said your father passed peacefully in his sleep?”
“Well…” Jane twisted her locket. “She did say that, yes. But then Nurse said she only said that so we wouldn’t be scared of Uncle Lioncroft. She says Uncle Lioncroft hurt Papa because Papa hurt Mother. And it doesn’t matter why Uncle Lioncroft did it—murderers hang.”
Nurse, Evangeline thought, needed to learn to curb her tongue.
“I miss Papa,” Rebecca said plaintively. “Why does Uncle hate him so much?”
Because your papa was a violent bruteseemed an inappropriate answer. The handprint still hadn’t completely faded from Lady Heatherbrook’s face. As her brother, of course, Mr. Lioncroft would want to protect her. He wouldn’t rob his nieces of their father, but he’d certainly do his best to save his sister from future harm.
“He…” Evangeline began, and faltered.
The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Lioncroft’s nieces to fear him. But he’d already admitted fighting with their father and being angry enough to kill him. What could she say to mitigate a statement like that?
“I hate him,” Rebecca cried. “I hate him for killing my Papa!”
She threw her doll across the room. When the porcelain face shattered against the corner of a bookshelf, Rebecca burst into tears.
Evangeline ran to her side and gathered the weeping child into her arms. She ground her teeth against the instant headache brought on by a barrage of little girl visions about biscuits and chocolate. She’d caused more harm than good if Rebecca had interpreted her hesitation as a tacit admission of Mr. Lioncroft’s guilt.
“Rebecca,” she said softly, stroking her blond curls. “Your father—”
“Was a bloody saint,” came a low growl from the open doorway.
Evangeline jerked her gaze up Mr. Lioncroft’s tall, tense form to the anger slashing across his face.
“I was just—”
“Allowing my nieces to believe I murdered their father. How kind of you.” His voice was tight, his eyes cold, hard, furious, as he took in the scene before him. Jane, twisting her locket. The beautiful doll, lying rejected and ruined on the floor. Rebecca, shivering and sobbing in Evangeline’s lap. “I was a fool to hope otherwise.”
He spun from the doorway and stalked into the shadows.
“Wait,” Evangeline called, struggling to her feet as best she could without dropping Rebecca to the floor.
But he was gone.
If only she could start her visit to the nursery anew. Perhaps she could’ve said the right things, kept Rebecca from crying, saved the lovely doll from destruction.
There’d been more than rage in Mr. Lioncroft’s eyes. There had been pain. He’d taken Rebecca’s rejection of his gift as a rejection of himself. And he’d no doubt interpreted Evangeline’s clumsy handling of his niece’s question as the worst kind of betrayal. He’d trusted her. Trusted her to believe in him when nobody else did. Trusted her to help him.
Instead, she’d made everything worse.
Chapter 35
