Barnaby leaned forward. “Indeed we have.”
He explained.
Lord Tregonning nodded. “I agree. Given so many people imagine Jacqueline responsible for Miribelle’s death, and will therefore see her as the most likely to have killed Thomas, too, then our behavior becomes critical.”
Barnaby glanced around. “We—all of us—need to behave, and be seen to behave, in a manner that doesn’t just state but screams our belief in Jacqueline’s innocence. Millicent made a good start this afternoon, but we need to go further.”
Millicent nodded. “But will that—our behavior—be enough?”
“It could be.” Gerrard thought of the power certain ladies of the ton, his Cynster connections, for example, could wield. He wished he could summon a few of them into Cornwall—Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, Lady Osbaldestone, Minnie and Timms, and perhaps Honoria and Horatia. They’d have Jacqueline on a pedestal, crowned with innocence, in a few days—then they’d whip up the troops to hunt down the real killer. He stirred and looked at Jacqueline. “But in this case, we can be more direct. Whispers can work both ways.”
Jacqueline read his eyes. “You mean we should spread…what?”
“Fact,” Barnaby answered. “He spread falsity, we’ll spread the truth. Ultimately, our truth will trump his lies. But even more telling, just by starting such hares in people’s minds, we’ll be chipping away at the base he’s built—it’ll make it easier, once the portrait’s complete, to turn perception around, and raise a hunt for the real killer, for him.”
Lord Tregonning slowly nodded. “As this blackguard has grasped the chance afforded by poor Thomas’s body being found to restart his whisper campaign against Jacqueline, then if we don’t respond we risk being unable to counter him later, but if we attack the whispers now, directly, we’ll weaken his position even before we show the portrait. He’s given us an opportunity to start pulling down the edifice he’s erected—by his own actions, he’s strengthened our chances.”
Barnaby blinked, then a wide grin split his face. “That’s absolutely right. He’s started his own downfall—how ironic.”
“Indeed.” A rare smile curved Lord Tregonning’s lips. “Now, how do we go about this?”
“Simple.” Gerrard proceeded to outline the tactics he’d seen used to excellent effect by his formidable female connections.
Millicent nodded. “The next major gathering is the Summer Hunt Ball, three days from now. It’s hosted by the Trewarrens. It’s an annual event, one everyone attends.” She looked at her brother. “What do you think, Marcus?”
“I think, in the circumstances, we all should go, myself included.” Lord Tregonning glanced at Gerrard and Barnaby. “I dislike the bustle of balls and parties—I’ve rarely attended such events in the past. For that very reason, my appearance at Trewarren Hall should create all the stir we might wish.”
“Indeed!” A martial light glowed in Millicent’s eyes. “Everyone will be astonished, and will fall over themselves to learn why you’re there. You may be a fusty old creature, Marcus, but you do have your uses—just by appearing, you’ll cause a furor.”
Lord Tregonning humphed. “Well, I count on you all to make the most of it—I’m not one for conversation, certainly not what passes for such in ballrooms these days.”
“Don’t worry,” Barnaby said. “When it comes to playing social games, Gerrard and I have been trained by experts.”
“Speaking of which,” Gerrard said, “Jacqueline’s gown, her whole presentation, will need to be perfectly gauged.”
Millicent nodded. “We must go through your wardrobe, dear. Perhaps, Mr. Debbington, you could assist us with your opinion?”
Gerrard bowed. “I’d be delighted to oblige, ma’am.” Jacqueline cast him a sharp glance, but he didn’t meet her eyes.
“We’ll need to set the stage with minor appearances before the ball,” Millicent went on. “Maria Fritham’s regular at-home is tomorrow morning—that’s an excellent venue for young and old. And in the afternoon, I believe we should call on my old friend Lady Tannahay. She’s closely acquainted with the Entwhistles—I think we should ensure that they hear our facts. Aside from all else, they deserve a clear accounting of all we know, and Elsie will deliver that for us.”
Gerrard raised a brow at Barnaby, who met it with a resigned look. Gerrard turned to Millicent. “We’ll be honored to escort you and Miss Tregonning, ma’am.”
Manipulating society’s views necessarily meant being socially active. Although he saw painting Jacqueline’s portrait as his primary and most important contribution to rescuing her from the situation, Gerrard believed in the arguments they’d expounded. They had to stem the social tide first, before it swept Jacqueline away.
Thus it was that the next morning, he and Barnaby found themselves engaged in precisely the activity they’d fled London to avoid—doing the pretty by various young misses in some lady’s drawing room.
Lady Fritham’s at-home was well attended. From the sudden hiatus in the conversations and the round-eyed looks cast their way as they entered, the principal topic of interest wasn’t hard to guess.
Millicent led them in, sweeping in confidently, a transparently relaxed smile on her lips.
Rising from the chaise to greet her, Lady Fritham wasn’t quite sure what to make of that smile. “Millicent, dear.” Her ladyship touched cheeks. “I’m delighted to see you.” Lady Fritham drew back, eyeing Millicent searchingly. “And in such good spirits.”
Her ladyship’s gaze deflected to Jacqueline, following Millicent, a similar open and easy expression on her face. Lightly frowning, Lady Fritham looked back at Millicent. “I had wondered if this latest dreadful news would…well, weigh on you, and Jacqueline, too, of course.”
Millicent raised her brows. “Well, dear, while having a dead body discovered moldering in the far-flung reaches of our gardens was certainly a shock, especially when we learned it was that poor boy Thomas, we did all suspect foul play years ago, when he disappeared, so finally finding incontrovertible proof of that, while admittedly distressing, is hardly the sort of news to knock one prostrate. It’s not as if anyone in the household, nor even the staff, are suspected of the crime.”
Lady Fritham blinked. “They aren’t—no, well, of course they aren’t…”
Millicent patted her hand. “I did explain it yesterday—you must not have heard—but it’s patently clear poor Thomas was struck down by some man while up on the northern ridge. It seems it could have been anyone—any man, that is—that Thomas knew. That’s all we know.”
Millicent turned to Gerrard and Barnaby, who had followed Jacqueline. “Mr. Adair and Mr. Debbington know much more of the details than I—I’m sure they’ll be happy to elucidate.”
As they’d arranged during the drive to Tresdale Manor, Barnaby stepped in to appease the curiosity of the matrons congregated about Lady Fritham while Millicent circulated to spread their news. After exchanging greetings, Gerrard escorted Jacqueline to join the knots of younger callers scattered about the room.
Her hand on his sleeve, she kept her head high and her easy smile in place, yet despite her outward composure, he sensed her tension. This was her first public appearance since Thomas’s body had been found; it was important she strike the right note.
They’d briefly discussed how she should behave, that when addressing Thomas’s or her mother’s death, she had to stop herself from retreating, from withdrawing behind her inner shields. To all who’d known her previously as an openhearted, extroverted soul, the change in her could too easily be—indeed, had so easily been—misperceived as evidence of a guilty conscience.
Three long double windows stood open to the garden; the younger crew had gathered in fluid groups before them. Guiding her to the first group, he murmured, “Just be yourself—that will be enough.”
She shot him a swift glance, then looked ahead, smiled and greeted Mary Hancock.
Wide-eyed, Mary returned her greeting. “I
t must have been a horrible shock to learn the body was Thomas’s.”
Jacqueline appeared to consult her feelings, then evenly replied, “I think I was more sad than shocked. We’d always suspected he’d met with foul play, but I had hoped there might be some other explanation.” She drew in a breath and released it in a sigh. “However, that wasn’t the case, and we must now hope that it’ll be possible to find the man who murdered him and bring the miscreant to justice.”
Sincerity rang in her tone. Mary nodded, clearly struck, as was Roger Myles beside her.
Others were not so perceptive; across the circle, Cecily Hancock’s lips thinned, then curled. Gerrard saw a nasty, dismissive comment form on her tongue; she opened her mouth—he caught her eye.
After a moment, she swallowed her comment whole and merely, very quietly, humphed.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to responding to any of the detailed questions they’d agreed Jacqueline should, with proper maidenly reserve, refrain from answering.
Between them, they succeeded in casting doubt on what had been the prevailing if unvoiced suspicion over Thomas’s death.
After that first encounter, Jacqueline relaxed a trifle. By the time they’d spoken with and weathered the group before the second set of windows, she’d settled more comfortably into being herself. Her inner barriers, while still present, were less rigid, less formidable. Less apparent.
He’d thought he’d kept his satisfaction in that last to himself, but as they strolled to the third group, she pinched his arm. “What is it?”
He glanced at her, realized she’d sensed his response; keeping his expression impassive, he looked ahead. “Nothing.”
Eradicating her inner shields, wiping away the fear and distrust that had fashioned them so that she could once again openly be the woman he knew she was, so that not only her innocence, but her generous heart, her courage, her steadfastness of character could shine…that was now a personal goal, one of serious importance to him.
Jordan and Eleanor were in the last group, as was Giles Trewarren. Eleanor and Giles made room for them. They greeted the others, then Jordan smiled at Jacqueline, his attitude supercilious and arrogant as ever, yet he clearly intended to be conciliating. “My dear, don’t let the rumors of the ill-formed distress you—none of us who know you believe anything of the sort.”
The comment fell into a sudden silence. Some of the others colored, while Clara Myles and Cedric Trewarren, who had chatted earlier with Barnaby, looked confused; they were the only ones in the group who had caught up with recent developments. Gerrard debated stepping in and, as an outsider able to claim complete ignorance, baldly asking what the devil Jordan meant—Jacqueline beat him to it.
She frowned, openly puzzled. “Whatever do you mean, Jordan? What rumors?”
Jordan blinked. He studied her face; his leached of all expression. He glanced around the circle. “I—ah…that is…”
Eleanor, beside Jacqueline, leaned closer and laid a hand on her arm. “What Jordan means”—she lowered her voice—“is that, what with the discovery of Thomas’s body in your gardens, the ill-informed have been indulging in speculation. We just wanted you to know we don’t believe a word of it.”
Jacqueline met Eleanor’s eyes; she held to her puzzled frown for a moment longer, then let it dissolve into an understanding smile. “Dear Eleanor.” She patted Eleanor’s hand. “You’re such a good friend, but truly, now Thomas’s body has been found, the only question in the minds of those who know the details is who the man who killed him was.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. She searched Jacqueline’s face. “Man?”
Jacqueline nodded; she was starting to enjoy this—enjoy tackling the rumors directly. “It seems Thomas went with some man up to the point on the northern ridge, then the man hit him with a rock and killed him. The body rolled down into the garden and the killer covered it with cypress needles.”
Clara shivered. “It’s horrible even to think of.”
“It must have been a shock to realize it was Thomas’s body.” Giles looked politely inquisitive, but there was also understanding in his gaze. “Mama said it was you who identified Thomas’s watch.”
Jacqueline nodded. “It was a shock at the time. Now I just feel sad. It’s terrible to think of some man killing Thomas like that.”
Gerrard listened as she responded to helpful questions, using them to reiterate the facts they wished stressed, steadily dissipating the cloud of, as Eleanor had termed it, ill-informed speculation. Jacqueline referred any who asked for more details to Barnaby.
Jordan and Eleanor exchanged glances; they clearly felt awkward over having commented on rumors that were being so openly debunked. They remained unusually silent, but they listened as the others drew Jacqueline out, and she obliged. She’d grown rock-steady over how to present their case; her assurance and self-confidence increasingly showed.
It was a convincing performance.
By the time Millicent summoned them, declaring herself ready to leave, Gerrard had no doubt that, with steady application, they would lay the killer’s whispers to rest.
They returned to the Hall just in time for luncheon. To their surprise, Lord Tregonning joined them; he was eager to hear the results of their first foray. Mitchel Cunningham was out about the estate, allowing a more relaxed exchange of information. Barnaby was in fine fettle—he actually made Lord Tregonning laugh.
Gerrard looked at Jacqueline, saw the change in her face, in her eyes, and knew it had been a long time since she’d heard such a sound from her father. She blinked and looked down. After a moment, she patted her lips with her napkin and looked up once more, composed again.
That moment of fleeting emotion prodded Gerrard; he needed to get started on the painting. When they rose from the table, he confirmed that they would leave at three o’clock for Lady Tannahay’s.
In the front hall, he bowed to Millicent and Jacqueline. “I need to sort things out in the studio. I’ll join you here at three.”
“Yes, of course, dear.” Millicent waved him off and swept toward the parlor. Barnaby followed, continuing their conversation regarding the new police force in the capital.
Jacqueline remained. She met his eyes. “Thank you for your support this morning.”
He held her gaze, then, reaching out, took her hand, smoothly raised it to his lips and lightly kissed. “It was entirely my pleasure. I’m glad we made such a good fist of it.”
He released her. Turning, he left her, but was aware that she watched him walk away, until he turned the corner and passed out of her sight.
What ho?” Barnaby strolled through the studio door, and looked around with interest.
Gerrard glanced up from the sketches he was sorting, grunted, then returned to his task.
Barnaby drifted about the room, eventually stopping by the window. Leaning his shoulders against the frame, he sank his hands into his pockets and looked at Gerrard. “So—how long do you think it’s going to take?”
“The portrait?” Gerrard replaced one sketch on the table with one of those he held in his hands. Critically examining the series laid out before him, he murmured, “I think I can do it fairly quickly. Some portraits form a lot faster than others—in this case, I already know exactly what I want to show, how the whole has to look. I just need to get to it.”
Head on one side, he studied the sketches. “I’m going to paint the setting first, then pose Jacqueline separately, and place her in it. Given I know how I want to portray both…a month might see it done.”
“Hmm…” Barnaby had been studying him. “I can see you’re keen to get started—there’s no reason you need to act as social escort.”
Gerrard glanced up.
Barnaby struck a pose. “Devoted friend that I am, I’m prepared to make a telling sacrifice and take your place at every blessed afternoon tea.”
Gerrard laughed. “I’m not that gullible. You love gossiping, especially being the center of attention when the
re’s a murder to discuss. And although the dear ladies might not know it, I know you’re sounding them out, ferreting about for any little clues they have tucked away under their bonnets.”
Unrepentant, Barnaby grinned. “True. But I meant what I said. If you’d rather stay here and get a start on the portrait, I’ll engage to stick by Jacqueline’s side. Besides, if I understood Millicent correctly, this afternoon will be a private call.”
Perched on his stool, Gerrard stared at his sketches. They called to him, lured him to focus on them, on the painting he would create from them; he was itching to commence. Barnaby’s offer was tempting, except…
He shook his head. “No. I’ll play escort, too. We did well this morning, partly because we could divide and conquer. You’re a dab hand with the matrons, and I can wield my exotic status to good effect with the younger crew. Together, we’re the perfect support for Millicent and Jacqueline.”
And if he wasn’t with them, by Jacqueline’s side, ready and able to ease her path, to ensure no one did anything to damage her emerging confidence…he’d never be able to concentrate on painting, anyway. “Let’s leave things as they are—I can paint at night.”
Barnaby studied his expression, which he kept studiously impassive, then nodded. “If you’re sure.” Barnaby pushed away from the window. “I’ll leave you to it, then—I’ll see you in the front hall at three o’clock.”
Gerrard nodded, and let his sketches claim him once more.
Their call on Lady Tannahay, at nearby Tannahay Grange, proved to be as Barnaby had foreseen, a private call. Millicent sent in her card; within minutes, they were ushered into the presence of her old friend.
Elsevia—Elsie—Lady Tannahay, was a gracious lady a few years senior to Millicent; she greeted them with unreserved friendliness, and a shrewd look in her eye. She waved them to seats in her comfortable drawing room. “Do sit down. You positively must tell me all about this strange business of poor Thomas Entwhistle’s body.”