“Mr. Evans is behind the break-ins.” Her voice was scratchy after too many tears. The deceitful cad wasn’t worth one sleepless minute, which hadn’t stopped her tormenting herself through the night.
She’d never expected her family to believe her immediately, but it was an unpleasant shock when her aunt laughed. “Don’t be silly. He’s a gentleman to his bootstraps.”
Genevieve stoutly refused to recall moments when he’d been less than gentlemanly. And she’d been less than a lady. He’d betrayed her; he’d flown her to heaven. She still couldn’t reconcile those two facts. Her stomach heaved with humiliation and outrage. Outrage above all. How could he touch her like that and all the while plot this cowardly crime?
“He broke in that night you went to Sedgemoor’s.” Curse her distress. It made her sound like a weepy female when she had to appear strong and sure.
“Nonsense,” the vicar said sharply. “That man was masked, wasn’t he? And you described a horrible ruffian when Mr. Evans has the prettiest manners. I despair of you, Genevieve, slandering a good man.”
“Papa,” she said helplessly, even as her heart sank at his stubborn expression. When he looked like that, nothing would shake him. “Trust me about this.”
“You took against Mr. Evans from the first. Heaven knows why.” His jaw jutted at an ominous angle. “Now, when you know the comfort I derive from his presence, you seek to deprive me of my one security. It’s too bad of you, Genevieve. Too bad.”
“Mr. Evans was in Oxford with you when it happened,” her aunt said. Genevieve found the sweet reason in her tone harder to counter than her father’s querulousness.
“Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?” Genevieve couldn’t, she just couldn’t, confess that she’d recognized Christopher as the intruder after he’d kissed her.
After he’d gone riding, she’d searched his bedroom for incriminating evidence. But the scoundrel kept few possessions with him and she found nothing to prove him a villain. Instead, she’d spent far too long breathing lemon verbena, an inevitable reminder of what he’d done to her. Should she need such a reminder, curse her.
Her aunt looked unconvinced. “If he was with you, how could he rob the vicarage?”
“He hired thugs. Whoever arranged this knew that the household lay unprotected.”
Her aunt resumed knitting, clearly dismissing Genevieve’s suspicions. “That could be anyone passing through Little Derrick. Why would you think Mr. Evans has wicked intentions?”
His intentions were wicked in all sorts of ways Genevieve didn’t want to recall. She flushed. “I remember his voice from that night.”
Her aunt regarded her as if she was mad. “After all this time?”
“Our troubles started when he arrived,” Genevieve said, even as she recognized that nothing would persuade either Aunt Lucy or her father that Christopher Evans meant them harm. She’d reviled his fatal charm before, but never with such virulence.
“Coincidence.” In other circumstances, she’d welcome the vicar’s spark of authority. Since yesterday, he’d been so cowed, it had wrung her heart, no matter his sins against her. “I won’t hear a word against him.”
“Papa—”
“I agree with your father, Genevieve.” Aunt Lucy’s voice softened. “We’re all upset and jumping at shadows. But that doesn’t mean you should leap to conclusions about innocent bystanders.”
Christopher was an innocent bystander the way she was a society belle. “You’re wrong,” she said flatly.
The disapproval in her father’s expression could still make her squirm. “I’d appreciate it if you kept these wild surmises to yourself, girl. If you bother Mr. Evans with this twaddle, he may take offense and leave.”
Which would be a fine thing in Genevieve’s opinion. She choked back a bitter sigh. It hurt that her family refused to listen to her. It hurt almost as much as discovering that Christopher had connived to keep her away from the vicarage yes
terday.
“Genevieve?” her father said sternly when she didn’t reply. “I want your word that you’ll never mention this silliness again.”
Frustration welled, prompting her to tell them exactly why she knew Christopher Evans was false. But her courage failed. Even after she exposed her shame, they’d probably still take his side.
She straightened and stared back at her father, wishing she felt angry rather than devastated. “I promise not to accuse Mr. Evans.”
Her father nodded, his brief vigor fading. “Very well. We’ll speak no more of this.”
No, they wouldn’t. From now on, she’d watch for incontrovertible evidence of Christopher’s crimes and pray that nobody got hurt in the meantime. The vicarage’s defense fell to her.
God help her.
“So she hates my guts.” Arms braced against the marble mantel, Richard stared into the roaring library fire.