“I should hope so. Now is not the time to trap anyone into false comp—”
“Ladies.” Mr. Lioncroft’s deep voice boomed into the stillness. “There’s plenty of provisions yet on the sideboard.”
Evangeline dropped her hands back to her sides and flashed an embarrassed smile at five pairs of curious eyes. Susan crossed to the sideboard, scooped meat and eggs onto her plate, and plopped down next to Mr. Teasdale, across from Benedict Rutherford. Evangeline laid a single slice of toasted bread on hers before taking her place between Susan and Mr. Lioncroft.
“What were you discussing in the doorway?” Edmund Rutherford slurred over a glass of wine. “Which one of us will be the next to be throttled in our sleep?”
He laughed at his own jest. Neither Evangeline nor Susan bothered to reply. During the awkward silence which followed, however, Evangeline finally risked a glance at the silent man seated next to her. Mr. Lioncroft’s glare singed the air between him and Edmund, warning him without words. Edmund returned his gaze to his glass. Evangeline couldn’t tear hers from Mr. Lioncroft.
Like her, he appeared not to have slept well.
His shirt was pressed, his breeches clean and snug, but his cravat appeared to have been tied without aid of candlelight. Dark whiskers shadowed the hollows below his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The jagged scar stood out bold and pale. Tousled locks curled about his neck and ears and tumbled forward into dark brown eyes. The pale skin visible beneath the blackness of his lashes was tinged with a faint purple, as though his nightmares were no less consuming than hers.
“I say,” Edmund said, breaking the silence. “I’d wager the lot of us sleep with scarves about our necks tonight.”
Francine Rutherford shoved her untouched plate across the table. “Tasteless, Edmund.”
Benedict laid his hand atop hers. “He’s a drunk.”
“He’s an ass,” she countered.
“And you two,” Edmund put in, “are now Lord and Lady Heatherbrook. Very churlish of Benedict, I’d say. He was already next in line without pushing things along quite so violently.”
“See here,” was all Benedict managed to get out before erupting into a bout of barking coughs.
“And now you’re the heir, Edmund,” Francine pointed out. The plume from her bonnet dipped and swayed above her forehead. “Very neatly done. Do I have to guard my husband in his sleep?”
“Perhaps, perhaps.” Edmund downed the last of his wine and motioned for a footman to refill the glass. “Although I suppose we should turn to the head of the table for a glimpse at the true villain.”
All eyes swiveled toward Mr. Lioncroft.
He lifted a dark brow and stared back without blinking. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’msayingit.” Edmund wiped sweat from his lip with the back of one hand. “Where were you last night when Heatherbrook blew out his last breath?”
A silence descended.
“In my office.” A muscle twitched near Mr. Lioncroft’s temple. “I could call you out for suggesting otherwise.”
“Nobody will call anybody out,” Mr. Teasdale interrupted. He peeled the crust from his toast with trembling fingers. “One untimely death is enough for now.”
Francine sent a quelling gaze at Edmund. “No matter how much some people might deserve theirs.”
Edmund winked, as though the desirability of his demise was none of his concern.
“Where were you last night?” Evangeline asked him before she could stop herself. “In the library as you claimed?”
“Why, yes, you saucy thing. I was.” He toasted her with his empty wineglass. “I had a glass of port. Several of them. Spent hours there, just as I said I’d do.”
Evangeline frowned.
Susan, however, sucked in a loud gasp. She dropped her knife to the table with a clatter and turned wide blue eyes to Evangeline. “Didn’t you say—Ow! What the dickens, Evangeline. Did you just kick me?”
“Yes,” Evangeline hissed, half-tempted to kick her again. “Be quiet.”
Mr. Lioncroft stared at them both, but said nothing.
“Where were the rest of you?” Edmund asked as he swirled his newly filled glass. “Dancing into the wee hours?”
