“I don’t believe for one second that any celestial deities speak to you. In fact, I don’t even believe that you believe it.”
He rose and held out a palm, as though to assist her to her feet. Although for the first time in her life she could touch and be touched without being overcome with visions, she did not place her hand in his.
Falling for him would be far too dangerous.
Chapter 13
“Are you ready?” Gavin asked once he and the reluctant Miss Pemberton reached Heatherbrook’s guest quarters. He paused, one hand on the brass doorknob, and waited for her reply.
Miss Pemberton hesitated, neither nodding nor shaking her head, careful not to meet his eyes.
Why? Because touching Heatherbrook’s dead body was an elaborate ruse designed to—to—to what, exactly? Gavin could think of no good reason—or even a bad reason—for a young lady to lay her hands upon a corpse. Reasons for Lady Stanton to suggest such a charade likewise escaped him. Whatever her agenda might be, Gavin doubted Miss Pemberton heard voices from God.
There was no God.
Or if there were, He was a capricious, vengeful God, delighting in sending loved ones to the grave before their time, and destroying the lives of those who remained behind. If such a God could speak to them through Heatherbrook’s cold body, Gavin had no wish to hear the message. He already knew he was damned.
Without waiting for Miss Pemberton to decide whether or not she would enter or flee, Gavin twisted the handle and thrust open the door.
The guest chamber looked much like it did when they’d gathered there a few hours before. Same oil-on-canvas landscapes, same rotting furniture, same stiff body stretched across the mattress.
A few items, however, were different.
The smell, for one. Gavin’s lungs seized in protest. The cluster of crimson roses decaying on the nightstand couldn’t mask the unmistakable stench of death pervading the still bedchamber. He would have to remove Heatherbrook soon before the entire mansion stank of his corpse.
Fewer candles flickered now than in the middle of the night, but Heatherbrook’s prone form was clearly visible. The thick scarlet curtains had been pulled back and tied with frayed golden ropes, allowing warm shafts of sunlight to fall upon the bed. Dust motes glittered in the stale air above the big bay windows, casting a sheen across the lumpy cushions and an unnatural glow across Heatherbrook’s sunken cheeks.
No fire burned behind the cold grate, just as no blood pulsed beneath the dead man’s waxy skin.
Gavin strode into the room, into the patch of shimmering dust. His back blocked the sun, blocked the light, sending his odd, elongated shadow scuttling across the untouched bed.
Miss Pemberton remained in the doorway, eyes tightly closed.
He couldn’t blame her. As much as he’d despised the earl’s company when Heatherbrook was still alive, spending the morning with his corpse was even less appealing.
The mottled handprints stretched around the earl’s pale neck stood out bold and incriminatory against skin the color of snow and ash, announcing Gavin’s infamous inability to control his temper. He stared at the marks his hands had bruised into the earl’s skin. To tell the truth, Gavin hadn’twantedto control his cursed temper. He’d wanted to wring the earl’s bloody neck.
Miss Pemberton stood in the doorway, dark lashes fanning against pale cheeks, arms clutched tightly beneath her bodice, curls springing from their pins as if they, too, would rather flee than enter.
The dead man’s jaw hung open, as if he’d died while snoring. Howhadhe died? He’d left Gavin’s office with nothing more than a sore throat and a bruised ego. Well, and a scrape on his temple where the portrait had struck him. Was Gavin once again a killer, after all? Could that glancing blow have somehow caused Heatherbrook’s death?
Gavin knelt beside the bed, allowing the insistent sun to shine above his head across the earl’s lifeless face. A folded handkerchief tied snug around the motionless skull, blood crusting the linen above the earl’s right ear. Gavin frowned. The earl’srightear? The gilded frame had struck the opposite side! A patch of raw skin scratched across his left cheekbone where the painting had glanced off the earl’s face.
Heatherbrook may well have died from a blow to the head, but it wasn’tGavin’sblow. Someone else had struck him and left him to die. Someone else murdered him. Someone else had stood silent and allowed accusation and innuendo to surround Gavin once again.
He began to wish Miss Pemberton really could converse directly with God. Perhaps she could ask Him for a hint as to who had dealt the killing blow. Gavin glanced at the doorway.
Miss Pemberton was no longer there.
She was crossing the room with short, quick strides, her slippered feet silent against the square of plush carpet, her hands fisted beneath the flowing silk of her gown, her full lips pressed together in an expression of fierce determination.
“Move,” she said. Then, “Please.”
Gavin moved.
He rose to his feet, stepped backward to the bay window and sat on the lumpy crimson cushion. He immediately leapt upright again.
“Wait.”
