“First of all,” he began, then paused as he realized he couldn’t start with a “first of all” regarding Heatherbrook’s killer when his uninvited guests were busy gawking at the miraculously re-conscious Miss Pemberton. “Are you all right now?”
She responded by crossing her arms over her bodice.
“Excellent.” He turned to face the footman. “Milton, would you fetch that slip for me? Thank you.” Gavin sat against the front edge of his desk. “While a few of us are together, I’d like to take this opportunity to point out any given guest could have killed Heatherbrook.” Their blinking stares indicated he might’ve been better served with some kind of segue between the two topics. Deciding to forge ahead now that he’d broached the subject, he continued, “We’re all in agreement on how he died, correct?”
Francine arched an eyebrow. “Strangulation?”
“Smothered,” the Stanton chit corrected her.
“Oh, right.” Edmund fished a flask from a pocket. “Miss Pemberton chatted with God about that.”
The lady in question froze, then placed her fingertips to her temples. She very carefully did not look at Gavin or either of the Stanton women, no doubt terrified any one of the three would divulge the truth of her visions to Edmund, Benedict, and Francine.
How could Miss Pemberton claim not to be a witch? Gavin nowknewher to be a liar, and still he ached to crush her to him and claim her mouth with his. What other explanation could there be?
He forced himself to turn in such a way as to face the others without also facing her. Perhaps if he couldn’t see her, she couldn’t bewitch him.
“What did God say, again?” Francine asked.
“Said Heatherbrook was smothered to death.” Benedict tugged a fresh handkerchief free from his pocket. “With a pillow.”
Edmund sniffed the contents of his flask. “Did God send proof?”
“Actually,” Gavin said as his footman returned to the room, “He did. Thank you, Milton. That will be all.”
“What,” Lady Stanton said, her fan beating double-time, “is that?”
“A pillowslip, Mother. A much stained one.”
“From the Heatherbrooks’ guest chamber,” Gavin confirmed.
The Stanton chit peered closer. “Killers often use a weapon of convenience. And what could be more convenient than a feather pillow, when the victim lay sound asleep in his bed?”
“Look.” Gavin held the damaged silk by the corners and shook the wrinkles out as best he could. A few flakes fell from a scab-colored splotch in the center. “Blood.”
Miss Pemberton tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Lord Heatherbrook’s forehead was wounded, was it not? The blood must have transferred to the slip when the killer placed the pillow atop the earl’s injured face.”
Edmund refilled his empty goblet with the amber contents of his flask. “How do we know Lioncroft didn’t smear Heatherbrook’s blood on there himself, right after Miss Pemberton chatted with God?”
Gavin bared his teeth at him. “While I appreciate your unfailing belief in the extent of my audacity, I could not have done so.”
Francine raised a thin eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because,” Miss Pemberton answered slowly, “when we got to the bedroom last night, the blood had already dried. Remember? The front of the bandage was dark and crusty, and the bit trailing down the side of his nose was kind of scabby-looking, with a tinge of—”
“Miss Pemberton, enough.” Lady Stanton’s painted fan closed with a snap. “You’ve made your point. The blood had to have been transferred from cloth to cloth while Heatherbrook was still alive.”
Gavin laid the pillowslip across the desk, blood side up.
“Pah,” Benedict scoffed. “We can see blood, but it could be anyone’s blood.”
“Yes and no,” Miss Pemberton countered. “If it were someone else’s blood, what would it be doing on Lord Heatherbrook’s pillowslip unless it came from the killer himself? I am uninjured. Lady Stanton and her daughter are uninjured.Mr. Lioncroftis uninjured.”
In the space of a heartbeat, Gavin decided his very favorite female trait would forevermore be the ability to reason. He grinned at Miss Pemberton, who was busy glaring at Benedict. She’d not only pointed out the flaw in the new lord’s logic, she’d made sure to intimate Gavin’s potential innocence. Perhaps now the focus could finally be on finding the true killer.
“We’realluninjured,” Francine put in with a sigh.
“So it seems,” Benedict agreed. “Therefore, it must be Heatherbrook’s blood. I see no other explanation for—” His handkerchief flew to his face as Benedict erupted into another fit of vicious, hacking coughs.
