Gavin Lioncroft, outcast and killer, caged himself in his office until he was certain his sister had deposited the “guests” safely in their rooms on the opposite side of his aging mansion. Only then did he take the shortest path to the west wing, using the unlit corridors between the walls.
The murky interior was as dark and cold as the rest of the house. The edges of his shoulders brushed against the sides of the dank, narrow walls as he prowled through the blackness, taking a sharp turn here, another there. He had no need for map or candle when memory served him just as well.
Centuries ago, the secret passageways had been built for a far deadlier purpose than avoiding the pathetic quivering of unwanted visitors. But it was better for Gavin, and better for the uncertain futures of the guests themselves, if they did not chance upon his company while his blood still steamed with fury.
It had taken all of his willpower not to roar at them from atop the stairs, and send them fleeing into the night from whence they came. Somehow he’d restrained himself. His solitude was already ruined without adding death to the evening. Dangerous to tear off down the pitted roads at twilight.
He pivoted at another intersection. Light. There, at the end of the passageway. Just a tiny flickering crack. The guest wing, where his unwelcome visitors were housed.
Lady Stanton, a ridiculous birdlike woman with a pointed nose and a tremulous mole perched above pursed lips, her claw-like hands clutched about a hideous painted fan as though it possessed the power to save her from evil. Her daughter, the unfortunate Miss Stanton, a portrait-perfect waif dressed and coiffed and painted just so, as though she were nothing more than a lifelike doll for her mother to play with.
And the other one. Miss Pemberton. Not anyone’s doll. She looked like a wild thing, with her dark mass of flyaway hair, sun-bronzed skin, and censorious eyes. She looked no less terrified than the rest of them, but in a different way. As if she saw straight through his exterior, and judged the real man twice as frightening.
Gavin was not in search of his guests, however. And the time had come to make a few things clear.
He swung a secret panel and stepped into the hallway right behind his sister. The painting-adorned panel closed silently, sealing the passageway from prying eyes until the landscape in the gilded frame looked no different than the dozen others lining the hall.
“Evening, Rose.”
His sister froze, just as before in the foyer when he’d caught her welcoming the unwelcome arrivals. “I wanted to make sure the chambers were ready for the others.”
“Ah. The others,” he growled softly, stepping forward until he could see her face. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such unexpected company?”
By the twisting of her hands, Rose did not mistake his meaning. “We—they—” She coughed and started anew. “I didn’t think you’d mind a few extra heads overmuch.”
“No?” Gavin kept his voice low, smooth, modulated, the sarcasm hidden beneath the words. “Am I so welcoming?”
After an interminable pause, she mumbled, “Never. That I know of.”
Never was right. Solitude was much preferred over those who tolerated his company only to get closer to his pockets.
Gavin moved closer, purposefully crowding her until she backed against the closest wall and shivered. People tended not to feel safe when he was near. They sensed his inability to suffer fools. He stared at her until she blinked and looked away.
“And yet,” he said then, “you are cavalier with my goodwill.”
“I…No, of course not, I—” she broke off, unable to say more. She glanced down both sides of the shadowed corridor before returning her nervous gaze to Gavin’s face.
“You,” he said, “have done enough. All guests leave tomorrow morning.”
“But the house party,” she stammered, fixing him with watery puppy dog eyes. Gavin was unmoved by beasts with watery eyes, especially those who used them to manipulate. “You said they could stay a fortnight.”
“Nonsense,” he corrected softly. “I said ‘family’.”
Her cheeks leeched of color. “N-notourfamily.”
“I see.” And he did. He saw it was the height of foolishness for him to think his siblings could forgive a murderer, even after more than a decade. And twice as foolish to believe that his sister’s sudden interest had been anything more than a ploy to use him for her benefit. Gavin clenched his teeth. He had known better. “Whose family should I be expecting?”
Rose’s lip trembled. “Mine, any moment. My husband’s brother and sister-in-law, Benedict and Francine Rutherford. And their cousin, Edmund Rutherford.”
He raised his brows. “And the Stantons? Whose cousins are they?”
“No one’s,” she admitted, tugging at her bare fingers.
“Then why are they here?” He spun to face her, eyes narrowed. “You dare to match-make under my roof?”
Her response was a vivid blush and a violent shake of the head.
“How convenient for me,” he mocked, stroking a finger along his jaw as though pretending to consider the possibility. “Which chit is fit for a killer? The prim, vacant-eyed one with the blue eyes and yellow ringlets, or the unfashionably bronzed one, with the wild hair and clumsy curtsy? Perhaps I’ll have the former for my days and the latter for my nights. How kind of you to sacrifice such innocent creatures.”
