“Right, right,” Edmund agreed with patronizing cheerfulness. “We believe you. Excuse me, there, old boy.” He gestured for a footman. “Splash a little more wine into my glass, would you?”
“I admit…” Francine slanted a glance toward Lioncroft. “You did look angry enough to throttle Heatherbrook.”
“Iwasangry enough,” Lioncroft admitted in a low growl. “But I let him live.”
With one hand cupped over her mouth, Susan leaned close to Evangeline. “He’s going to have to polish his alibi,” she stage-whispered. “Not very persuasive, as such things go.”
Evangeline silently agreed. “I could’ve, but didn’t,” was not the strongest defense.
“Heatherbrook slapped his wife, not Lioncroft.” Francine’s words were low, smooth, insidious. “Perhaps…”
“The countess did him in herself?” Edmund chuckled. “Of course. Who would suspect her?”
“Not me,” Susan said in awe. “She looks so timid. I say, you never can tell.”
Mr. Lioncroft’s gaze turned fierce. “The lady isn’t present to defend herself, and has suffered quite enough already without being judged a murderess in her absence.”
“To be honest,” Edmund said with a swish of his wine, “my money’s still on you.”
“Then you would do well,” Mr. Lioncroft bit out, “not to prick my temper further.”
A startled gasp sounded from the open door. All heads swiveled toward the entryway of the breakfast room, where Lady Stanton stood frozen. One pale hand clutched her throat.
“Did I just hear you confess your guilt?”
“I assure you, madam,” Mr. Lioncroft said. “You did not.”
“Why, good morning, Mother. We were just saying how unfortunate it was that we shall never know what—or who—perpetrated Lord Heatherbrook’s death.”
“Of course we shall.” Frost coated Lady Stanton’s tone as she glared at her daughter. After Susan dropped her gaze, Lady Stanton turned an arched brow to the rest of the table. “Just have Miss Pemberton feel him.”
“Feelhim?” Benedict Rutherford echoed. “Why on earth would she do that?”
Lady Stanton blinked. “Why, because she’s a—”
“I’m a…religious person,” Evangeline interrupted, leaping to her feet. Her breathing sounded overloud. Rushing blood echoed in her ears. “As you may know, many religious people lay their hands upon each other for…religious reasons.”
As their expressions ranged from confused to suspicious, Evangeline half-wished she’d gone ahead and let Lady Stanton label her a witch. At least she wouldn’t have to fear a murderer on the loose if the aristocrats carted her off to Bedlam. Then again, she’d rather flee through the countryside on foot than be incarcerated in a small, windowless room for the rest of her life.
After a long disbelieving silence, Edmund was the first to find his voice. “What’s Miss Pemberton going to do,prayon him? Surely he’s a bit beyond the point where he’d rise from the dead.”
Francine grimaced. “Pardon my rudeness, but that is a bit ridiculous.”
Lady Stanton sniffed. “I hadn’t wished to divulge the shocking truth, but she claims to—”
“Hear voices from God,” Evangeline blurted out. She nodded vigorously when several doubtful faces gazed her way. “Heavenly conversation is not at all the sort of thing one brags about. Isn’t that right, Lady Stanton?”
She fixed Lady Stanton with a desperate stare. The lady was unmoved.
“If I say yes, will you ‘pray’ about it?”
“Yes!”
“Then, yes.” Lady Stanton waved a disdainful hand in Evangeline’s direction. “She hears voices from God. Shall she go touch Heatherbrook now?”
Evangeline closed her eyes, but not before she saw the baffled expressions bounce from her, to Lady Stanton, back to her again, then on to Mr. Lioncroft.
Of all the times for Lady Stanton to start hinting at her secret, why volunteer her to touch a corpse during breakfast? The way things were going, at least if she got sent to Bedlam, Lady Stanton would be coming with her. Angels above. Perhaps Evangelineoughtto get religious.
