He opened his mouth to defend himself, to justify as well as he could the rage that overtook him at the thought of that sanctimonious prick continuing to beat Rose—after all, much as he’d wanted to, hehadn’tkilled him—but at that moment, voices sounded from the corridor.
Familiar voices. Female voices. His maid staff, come to open the curtains.
“Damn it.” He rolled out of bed, shoved his legs into his breeches, gathered his boots and the rest of his clothes in his arms.
Evangeline watched him, silent.
“I’ll be back,” he promised, then shook his head when he realized he wouldn’t. “Rather, we’ll talk later this morning. I’ll explain”—the voices grew louder outside her door—“I’ll explain everything later. I should leave before a passel of servants stumble upon us.”
He pushed open the bookcase, strode inside the passageway, glanced over his shoulder.
She sat there, pale, unmoving, her eyes filled with—disappointment?
The doorknob turned. He ached to go to her anyway, to lay his head on her chest, to beg forgiveness for letting his temper get the best of him yet again.
Instead, he left.
Chapter 38
Evangeline almost didn’t go to breakfast.
She could hardly remain abed all day, wishing Gavin hadn’t told her about strangling Lord Heatherbrook, wishing Gavinhadn’tattempted to strangle him, or at least wishing she’d reacted differently to the news. Said something. Anything. Like the fact that a rather large part of her had hoped he’d planted the smirking earl a facer.
Where was the line between a fist to the face and fingers about a neck? Hadn’t she told Susan that Gavin was only violent when fighting for those he loved? He’d only raised his voice against Lord Heatherbrook after the man struck Lady Heatherbrook. In fact, the only occasions she’d seen him resort to violence at all was when Gavin was protecting his sister…and herself.
Heaven help her.
He loved her. Helovedher. Why else would he have told her the truth? And she’d thrown that love back in his face by being too high-minded to think clearly. What had Susan accused her of during the kite-flying? Ah, yes. Thinking she was better than everyone else, and always knew to do the right thing. She’d certainly done the wrong thing this morning.
While her lady’s maid dressed her, Evangeline made furious plans.
She’d have to apologize to Gavin, of course. Tell him she’d been surprised—obviously he’d shocked her, no denying that—but not angry. Tell him she understood his anger, that she’d been angry on Lady Heatherbrook’s behalf, too. Tell him she knew, in her heart and in her soul, that he would never harm an innocent person.Thatwould be unequivocally dishonorable. That was left to the most evil of men, like Lord Heatherbrook, like her stepfather.
Not Gavin. He was a good man. And she’d let him down.
She barely made it halfway to the dining room before being waylaid by her least favorite houseguest. How Edmund Rutherford could be drunk at eight o’clock in the morning was beyond her, unless he happened to still be awake from the night before.
He staggered over to her side. “You look ravishing today,” he slurred. “What’s different about you? Same hair…high color in your cheeks, though. Tup one of the footmen last night?”
Before she’d even made the conscious decision to do so, her palm connected with his cheek. Her ungloved palm. And she found herself once again spying on the activities in Lord Heatherbrook’s bedchamber.
The earl is absent, but his cousin Edmund crawls across the floor next to the bed, one hand rifling under the mattress. Without locating whatever he’s looking for, Edmund rises to his feet.
He crosses the room and picks up a small traveling desk. Within seconds, he discovers a secret latch, opens a hidden drawer, and removes the contents. He shoves the papers into his pocket without reading their contents, and places the desk back on the table.
Next, he heads to the dressing room. Edmund fishes through each drawer in turn. In one, he finds a change purse. In another, a snuffbox. Both disappear into his pockets.
Two of Lord Heatherbrook’s fashionable swordsticks lay propped against one wall. Edmund picks one up and hefts it in his hands, turning it over to scrutinize the craftsmanship. As if suddenly realizing it was far too big to fit in a pocket, he kneels to lean it back against the wall.
“You!” comes a sudden cry.
In one startled movement, Edmund tightens his fingers around the swordstick and pivots, swinging upward at the intruder.
Lord Heatherbrook crumples to the ground. A trickle of blood flows from his temple to the floor.
The swordstick clatters to Edmund’s feet.
He stands stock-still for a moment, as if paralyzed. After a sudden, terrified glance toward the open chamber door, he drops to his knees and puts his ear against Lord Heatherbrook’s mouth.
