Evangeline pressed her ear against the wall and listened.
Mr. Lioncroft wasn’t in his office. He wasn’t in the dining rooms, the drawing rooms, or the library. And from the sound of it—or lack thereof—he wasn’t even roaming the secret passageways between his walls.
How was she going to apologize, to explain he hadn’t heard what he thought he’d heard, if she couldn’t even find him?
She’d almost given up altogether when she recalled his studio.
Her knock on the closed door went unanswered, as did her tentative, “Gavin?” and her somewhat more forceful, “Gavin!” Either he was not inside, or he had no wish for her company. Too bad.
Her fingers curved around the brass doorknob. The cold metal sent ripples of gooseflesh along her arms. Or perhaps the gooseflesh was due to her impending confrontation with the man within. If he were within. There was but one way to be sure.
With a twist of the handle, she eased the door open.
Large windows graced the far wall. A maze of tall wooden easels cluttered up the interior. Layer upon layer of canvases tilted against all four walls, some bare, some with breath-stealing landscapes. A thick, pungent smell permeated the air with a sharp, strange scent. Paintbrushes, color-smudged palettes, and half-rolled tubes lay atop a table covered in stained cloths. A jumble of wood stacked in one corner next to an unfinished frame.
On the opposite side of the room stood a lone long-limbed figure, feet at shoulder width, thumbs hooked into his waistband, gaze fixed at the sprawling view of wild blackberry fields below.
Evangeline cleared her throat.
He remained motionless.
“I know you’re innocent,” she informed him softly. “I know you’ve never killed anyone in your life.”
He smiled grimly.
“Rebecca heard rumors, that’s all,” she tried again, taking a hesitant step closer. “I had already told her you didn’t do it.”
He didn’t respond.
“I apologize,” Evangeline said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He said nothing.
“Do you want me to leave?”
His jaw tightened.
“Do you want me to stay?”
His muscles twitched.
“May I see Jane’s portrait?”
He whirled to face her.
“What would be the point?” he demanded, eyes bleak. “It’s half-finished. It’ll never be finished. Now that they’re terrified I killed their father, they’ll be too frightened to suffer my company, much less sit for me. Rose will take them away and I’ll never see them again. Not even on canvas.”
Before she could respond, he strode to an easel facing a small chair. He grimaced at the canvas perched on the crossbar. His hand lifted above his shoulder, then came flying down toward what was no doubt Jane’s unfinished portrait.
“No,” Evangeline cried and launched herself across the room.
She tried to throw herself between him and the still-wet canvas—and succeeded.
The edge of his palm barely glanced against her, but a horrified expression engulfed his face.
“Oh, my God.” His voice was strangled, his face ashen. “Ihityou. Oh, my God.”
“You didn’t.” She shook her head frantically. “I swear you didn’t. It was me. I didn’t want you to ruin the painting. You love your niece. She loves you. Don’t look at me like that, Gavin. You didn’t hurt me. I’m fine. I’m fine.”
