Within seconds, Gavin reached her side.
“Please tell me you’ve no designs on jumping,” he said softly, placing a tentative hand across her white knuckles.
“I—no.” She straightened, swallowed, blushed. “Fantasy. That is to say, folly. I could never…Mother’s been through enough without me worsening things further.”
His breaths once again came easy now that he no longer feared she might tumble over the edge. And with the return of air to his lungs came the return of doubt. Gavin imagined himself the last person she’d hoped would discover her in such a position, and he had no inkling of how to proceed now that he had. Although Nancy had made no movement to remove her fingers from beneath his, Gavin shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned against the railing, and tried to guess at the thoughts of a seventeen-year-old miss.
He suspected whatever had Nancy contemplating the shortest path down the long spiral staircase had to do with something even greater than Heatherbrook’s death. He hoped like hell her distress had nothing to do with a romance between herself and Mr. Teasdale. He considered his niece far too young to have to leg-shackle herself to a man old enough to be William the Conqueror’s grandfather.
Having thus done away with the topics of death and marriage—neither of which were desirable states in Gavin’s estimation—what subjects were safe to discuss with one’s estranged niece? She seemed in desperate need of cheering up, but at seventeen, he could offer her neither porcelain dolls nor Irish whisky.
“After…things return to normal,” he ventured, hoping he’d found a reasonably bland topic, “will you be heading to London for your first Season?”
Nancy’s cheeks paled. Her eyes welled with tears.
“No,” she choked out, as if the words were ripped from her soul. “I shall never have a Season, Jane shall never have a Season, the twins will never have a Season, and things will never, ever return to normal again.”
And with that, she ripped herself from the banister and tore down the corridor toward the guest chambers in a flash of ribbons and ringlets and tears. With a muffled, hitching sob, she careened around the corner and out of sight.
That…had not gone well. Gavin turned to face the burnished cherry railing. Death by spiral staircase suddenly seemed as viable an option as any.
Except there, at the bottom, came his footman. Milton plodded up the curved marble stairs, one hand bearing a small silver tray with a franked parchment atop.
Gavin met the footman halfway, thanked him, and broke the seal on the missive. Its contents read as follows:
Dear Mr. Lioncroft,
It has come to my attention that you are harboring a runaway, namely, my stepdaughter. Because she has not yet reached her majority, she belongs at home and I must request her immediate return.
As we are both gentlemen, I shall expect to receive confirmation of your intent to facilitate her prompt departure. To that end, my man is waiting for your reply. If she is too much trouble to deal with easily—and I am quite aware of how much trouble Evangeline can be—it is of no consequence whatsoever for me to come fetch her myself.
I am sure you are a reasonable man who will not allow a simple family matter to escalate to dramatic proportions. My stepdaughter belongs in my custody.
Please inform me of your expenses during the time you housed her, and I will ensure you are properly reimbursed.
Yours, etc.
Mr. Neal Pemberton
Gavin read the letter three times before any of it made sense. Once it did, he crumpled the entire sheet in his fist.
Miss Pemberton, it seemed, was an even greater liar than he’d first supposed.
Here by happenstance, as a special friend of Miss Stanton’s, was she? Ha. Yet another bloody parasite, here to take advantage of his roof and food and pockets. How had she talked Lady Stanton into allowing her to impose upon a house party? As silver-tongued as she was bewitching, no doubt.
“Beg pardon, my lord,” murmured the footman. “But there’s a messenger waiting belowstairs. Should I…?”
“Ah. Right.” Gavin’s fist tightened around the crumpled missive. “I shall pen an immediate reply.”
One neither Mister nor Miss Pemberton was likely to enjoy. For he was not yet ready to give up his beautiful liar. Considering she sought to use him for his money and shelter, she could not object to Gavin using her particular attributes in return.
After all, she possessed the singular ability to prove his innocence by uncovering which of the ingrates below his roof was responsible for Heatherbrook’s murder.
The law might say Neal Pemberton could have his duplicitous stepdaughter back… but not until Gavin finished with her first.
Chapter 23
The next morning, wet paintbrush in hand, Gavin turned to face the footman hesitating in the doorway to the studio. “Has something happened?”
