“Only that the packages you ordered are here. Where shall we store them?”
“I suppose you can deliver them directly to—no, I prefer to do it myself.” He stepped away from his easel. “Where are they now?”
“Belowstairs. They’ve only just arrived.”
A familiar, pungent stench enveloped the room as Gavin uncapped the jar of turpentine in order to clean the bright oils from the coarse hairs of his paintbrushes. He had thought to paint dawn instead of dusk. Something new, different, cheerful. He had failed. The sun lilted drunkenly in the sky, its effect garish, its rays overbright, illuminating the muck splattered across an abandoned cottage and the dirt crusted on the cracked windows.
“And Madame Rousseau? Has she responded?”
“Yes, my lord. She leaves immediately.”
“Excellent.” Gavin recapped the turpentine and laid his brushes across a paint-stained cloth to dry. “Anything else?”
“No, my lord.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
The footman bobbed and left.
Gavin replaced his paints, latched the door to his studio, and strode down the corridor. He wondered what Mr. Pemberton thought upon receiving Gavin’s no-doubt unanticipated response. Promising to return her “soon” instead of “immediately” was not at all the norm, but most likely a small delay would be of little concern. After all, she was fed, chaperoned, and entertained, and Mr. Pemberton—who claimed his stepdaughter a nuisance—had no cause for alarm. Aside from old rumors, that was. Gavin’s reply had failed to mention the more recent murder. Or his intention for Miss Pemberton to solve it.
When he reached the vestibule below the spiral staircase, a pair of maids handed him his packages. The two large boxes contained the twins’ new dolls. The smaller, part of his birthday gift for Jane. He fervently hoped thirteen-year-old girls liked jewelry.
He turned to climb the stairs just as the two Stanton women sashayed from around the corner. Damn.
Upon catching sight of him, the Stanton chit froze in place, as if her yellow hair and pale skin and pink gown might somehow blend undetectably into the gray marble surrounding them. Her mother, however, pursed her lips—setting that horrible mole to wriggling—and strode forward, clearly intending to cut him off at the pass.
“Lioncroft,” she said, her close-set eyes as colorless as her skin. “Imagine running into you.”
Gavin shifted his hold on the packages. “I live here.”
“And what a lovely home it is. Susan was just saying so. Weren’t you, Susan?”
The Stanton chit was too busy pretending invisibility to respond. Very well. The better for him to pounce.
“Miss Stanton,” he said, his unexpected address startling her into a squeak. “Would you say you’ve been friends with Miss Pemberton for very long?”
She shoved at her spectacles with the back of her hand. “Er…”
Lady Stanton’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Why?” Gavin leaned one hip against the banister and stared into her colorless eyes. “Because I’ve just received the oddest letter. A fellow by the name of Neal Pemberton claims her to be his underage runaway stepdaughter, and demands her return.”
“I’m not surprised. Every word you spoke is truth. I sent Mr. Pemberton a letter informing him of her whereabouts.”
“Mother, you didn’t!”
“Of course, I did. I told her I would do worse than that if she couldn’t be bothered to aid us in our cause, and I am a woman of my word.”
Gavin placed one foot on a higher step to better balance the packages on his thigh. “And in what cause, may I ask, was Miss Pemberton to aid you?”
Lady Stanton’s smile cracked like glass breaking in two. The Stanton chit had the grace to look mortified. Which could only mean one thing…
Damn.Hewas The Cause.
Miss Pemberton’s actions were somehow designed to interest him in the Stanton chit, of all people. Unbelievable. He bit back a groan. Whether by the noose or parson’s trap, every single guest beneath his roof aimed to ensnare him.
“I see,” he said, although they hadn’t spoken. He rose from the banister and climbed a few steps toward the next floor. “I’m afraid I’m uninterested in matrimonial pursuits.”
