Evangeline would never have removed her kid gloves in favor of mitts, had she not been desperate to understand what was happening around here.
She took Mr. Lioncroft’s arm for the next turn and stopped breathing when she realized she’d suffered visions about every single person present—except him. Not now, and not in the hallway earlier.
How could this be happening?
She’d known such things were possible, although instances were rare. Her poor mother had been unable to glean visions from Neal Pemberton when she’d arrived pregnant and penniless in his small village, and had interpreted the odd immunity as an indication of True Love. The miscalculation had cost Mama her life.
When Evangeline was a child, Mama had pointed out that the visions were always of emotional moments in people’s lives. She’d said Neal Pemberton didn’t care enough about anything or anyone tohaveemotion. After all, he prided himself on his cruelty and indifference. But unlike her mother, as Evangeline grew older she’d endured horrific visions with every strike of her stepfather’s hand. His endless trips to the taverns where he’d rut in nearby alleys with a serving girl, his perverse pleasure in beating her mother for the very “witchiness” he’d hoped to harness by marrying her.
What could it mean for Gavin Lioncroft’s skin to be so relentlessly silent? A twist of fate? Or more proof that he was even more like her monster of a stepfather than she had at first feared?
Before she could come up with a satisfactory hypothesis, the music ended. Evangeline stumbled from Mr. Lioncroft before he could do more than toss her a quizzical glance.
Just as quickly, Lord Heatherbrook inclined his head to his wife, bowed to the rest of the party, and excused himself for the evening with a murmured explanation of “business matters.”
Still slumped in a wooden chair, Mr. Teasdale awoke, blinked at the non-dancing people standing awkwardly before him, and tottered out the door, his cane clomping with each step.
Lady Heatherbrook frowned after him. “Now we’re six women and three men. This won’t do at all, if we’re to continue dancing.” She glanced at the pianist, the open door, and then her brother. “Gavin,” she whispered, “would you please ask them to return? I’d go myself, but I…”
Mr. Lioncroft made eye contact with Evangeline for a split second before inclining his head to his sister and disappearing through the door. She had the sudden suspicion he’d gone to bludgeon his brother-in-law to death, not beg him to continue dancing.
With a loud bark, Benedict Rutherford erupted into a vicious coughing fit. When he regained control, he mumbled, “I’ve had enough music for one evening.” Before Lady Heatherbrook could coax him to stay, he bowed and left.
Francine Rutherford affected a huge yawn, covered her red-painted mouth with a chartreuse-gloved hand, and said, “I ought to retire with my husband.” She followed shortly behind him.
Evangeline was afraid Lady Heatherbrook might burst into tears.
“Mama.” Nancy tugged on Lady Heatherbrook’s arm. “If there’s to be no more dancing, and Mr. Teasdale isn’t even here to talk with me, may I go, too?”
“Fine. Go.” A muscle pulsed in Lady Heatherbrook’s temple above her bruised cheek. “Get some sleep, and I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“In that case, I’m going back to the library.” Edmund Rutherford inched toward the door. “I believe I abandoned a delicious port.” Within seconds, he was gone.
Evangeline glanced about the almost empty room. All that remained were Lady Heatherbrook, whose hands clenched at her sides, Lady Stanton, who stood cold and unmoving, and Susan, who appeared thrilled with the entire debacle.
Lady Stanton gestured toward the dance floor. “Will Lioncroft be right back, then?”
Lady Heatherbrook’s face crumpled. “Tonight was a disaster. You might as well go to your rooms. We can save the dancing for next time. If there is a next time.”
“Tonight was lovely,” Evangeline assured her, when neither Stanton spoke up.
“Thank you, dear.” Lady Heatherbrook reached over to pat Evangeline’s arm and once again the room disappeared, replaced with the same bedchamber as in the vision with Mr. Teasdale. Except this time, Mr. Teasdale was nowhere in sight.
Lord Heatherbrook sits at a small desk, scrawling on parchment. His head snaps up as Lady Heatherbrook comes into the room. “What now?”
“I saw your handkerchief.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He turns his attention back to his scribbling.
“You said you lost it weeks ago, and then there it was. With rouge stains.”
His pen falters. “What are you implying, Rose?”
“I don’t have to imply anything! Red stains on white linen speak for themselves.” She places one hand on her slender stomach, the other on his stiff shoulder. “Must you really—”
Lord Heatherbrook stands so quickly his chair shoots backward. The sudden movement sets his wife off balance. Rather than right her, he sets a palm to stinging the side of her cheek. She collapses to the floor in a heap.
The supper bell rings. Without bothering to help her up, he steps around her crumpled form.
