She shrugged. “We’re next to siblings—they’re my closest friends.”
Barnaby nodded. “So we’re no further ahead on that front, but the older generation might remember more. Until now, the younger ones haven’t spent much time thinking of the deaths. They weren’t that important to them.”
Wise to his friend’s phrasing, Gerrard asked, “What other snippets have you gleaned?”
Barnaby’s grin flashed. “Not so much gleaned as thought through. I’ve been wrestling with the motive for Lady Tregonning’s murder.” He met Jacqueline’s gaze. “At present, we don’t have one, which is in large part the reason it was so easy to cast suspicion on you—you were the only one with any whiff of a cause, no matter how unlikely.”
Looking ahead, he continued, “If we accept that the same person killed Thomas and Miribelle, and that the reason Thomas was killed was because he was about to become engaged to Jacqueline, then isn’t it likely Miribelle was killed for a similar reason?”
“Such as?” Gerrard prompted.
“What if some gentleman had had his eye on Jacqueline all along, and had approached Miribelle to gain her support for his suit?”
Gerrard turned the notion over in his mind. “The relative timing’s always bothered me, but that…it fits.”
Barnaby nodded. “When Thomas disappeared, you”—with his head he indicated Jacqueline—“went into half-mourning. That stymied the killer for a while, but then, when you were accepting callers again, what more natural than that he should seek your mother’s support?”
Jacqueline briefly glanced at Gerrard, then turned to Barnaby. “You’re suggesting she refused her support, and because of that, he killed her?”
Barnaby pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I think it would have to be more than that—I think she must have flatly rejected the proposal, refused to countenance it, and said so. Declared she would forever oppose the match. That, I think, would have been enough to make someone who’d already committed murder to secure your hand resort to murder again.”
Continuing toward the Garden of Hercules and the house, they reviewed old points from that new perspective.
“Murdering your mother meant you went into mourning for a year,” Gerrard said, “but time passing doesn’t seem to worry this villain.”
Jacqueline nodded. “But now I’m out of mourning again, by a few months.” They were still in the sunshine, yet she shivered.
He caught her hand, engulfed it in his, lightly squeezed. “No one’s asked for your hand lately, have they?”
Without looking at him, she shook her head. “I’m sure Papa would have told me if they had. Other than Thomas, and that hadn’t been done formally, no one has ever asked permission to marry me.”
The Garden of Hercules loomed ahead. Shadows engulfed them as they descended toward the terrace. When they reached the steps, Gerrard stood back to let Jacqueline precede him, but as she took the first step, her hand still in his, he halted her and drew her to face him.
He met her eyes. “If any gentleman should ask for your hand, you will remember to mention it, won’t you?”
She held his gaze, then glanced at Barnaby, before looking back at him. “If any gentleman should ask, you’ll be one of the first to know.” Turning, she started up the steps.
Releasing her hand, Gerrard followed, not at all sure how to interpret that. At face value? Or because, by then, she would be his?
13
It’s one thing to have won over those who know me well,” Jacqueline whispered to Gerrard as, her hand on his arm, they followed her father and Millicent up the front steps of Trewarren Hall. Dragging in a tight breath, she resisted the urge to clamp a gloved hand to her fluttering stomach and plastered a delighted smile on her lips. “Wider society is liable to be another matter entirely.”
“Nonsense.” He smiled at her. “Stop worrying. Just act as you feel you should.” His gaze lingered on hers, then he murmured, “Listen to your heart.”
Difficult when it was thudding. She drew in another breath, aware when his attention shifted to her breasts; she felt warmed by the fleeting touch of his gaze, oddly reassured.
She didn’t need to ask if he would stay by her side; she knew he would. She didn’t need to wonder if his attention would cause comment; in this setting, that was a given. Her mind was racing faster than a bolting pair; she felt starved of breath, yet exhilarated and excitedly expectant.
No wonder her head was spinning.
As they joined the receiving line, she tried not to dwell on the moment in the drawing room when Gerrard had entered in full evening dress. Barnaby had followed him in, but she hadn’t even noticed him for some time. Gerrard in black and crisp white, with a silk waistcoat in subtle swirls of amber and brown, had captured her senses to the exclusion of all else.
The sharp contrast of the black and white emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean, hard lines of his long frame and the austere, patriarchal planes of his face. The harnessed power she’d so often glimpsed in him was tonight on full show, the intensity that was an inherent part of him blatant and unrestrained. Sexuality shimmered, an invisible cloak about him; she could almost taste the raw power and his aggressive brand of passion.
Eleanor was going to swallow her tongue.
They’d never competed for the attention of any gentleman; she wasn’t sure they’d be competing over Gerrard, yet Eleanor’s attempt to monopolize him earlier that day had raised the unwelcome specter in her mind, one factor contributing to the manic frenzy of butterflies swarming in her stomach.
The man beside her—not the gentleman, but the man—was another.
She wasn’t sure of him, either, not now she’d seen him in his true colors. Not now she was standing beside him, her gloved hand on his black sleeve, so very aware of his physical presence—and so very aware of her own.
Since the bronze sheath had been made, she’d gained several inches. One at least in height, which left the hem flirting about her ankles in a decidedly provocative fashion. That was the least of her worries. She’d also gained about her hips and breasts, of all places; if she drew in a large breath too quickly, she might be in serious trouble.
As she infused her smile with even greater brightness and curtsied to Lady Trewarren, she made a mental note to locate the withdrawing room before any disaster could occur, so she would know where to run when it did.
Rising from her curtsy, she saw an arrested look in Lady Trewarren’s eyes, and only just suppressed the urge to glance down and check, but her ladyship’s gaze rose smoothly to her face; her eyes lit with real warmth. They touched fingers and cheeks, then Gerrard led her on in Millicent’s wake.
As predicted, her father’s presence instantly created a stir; guests peered over heads and peeked around others to confirm that yes, Tregonning was there, in the flesh. She was grateful for the distraction he provided.
She was about to glance around when she met Gerrard’s gaze, and realized he’d been watching her.
He leaned closer. “Relax.” His hand closed over hers on his sleeve, a warm and reassuring clasp. “You look superb.” His gaze lazily, and quite brazenly, drifted lower, over her breasts, and down. His lips quirked; fleetingly his eyes met hers again, then he looked ahead. “So nice to be proved right. That color is delectable on you.”
Delectable? Was that why he’d looked, just for an instant in that fleeting glance, as if he’d like to…
She refused to let herself finish the thought; she had distractions enough as it was.
Gerrard knew his role; it was imperative Jacqueline didn’t focus on the whispers, on how people viewed her. Didn’t retreat. Her self-protective shields gave credence to the whispers, hiding what she truly was—a young lady patently incapable of murder.
He was there to distract her; he knew how to do it.
They moved into the throng filling the ballroom. Leaving directly challenging the whispers to Lord Tregonning and Millicent, supported by Barnaby an
d his deduced facts, they parted from the others; Lord Tregonning and Millicent went one way, Barnaby another. Gerrard turned his attention to keeping Jacqueline absorbed in the whirl of a major ball.
Lady Trewarren had handed all the unmarried young ladies dance cards; the old custom was useful in ensuring, as her ladyship had put it, “No disputes for me to settle.”
“I’ll take the first waltz,” he murmured. “If you’d be so kind.”
She glanced up, met his eyes, then inclined her head. “If you wish.” Catching the tiny pencil attached to the card, she duly inscribed his name on the appropriate line.
“And the supper waltz, too.”
She cast him a glance, but wrote that down, too.
“Jacqueline!” Giles Trewarren appeared out of the crowd. His face was alight with good cheer, and definite approval. “Excellent! I’ve caught you in time. I’d be honored if you would grant me the first country dance.”
In less than a minute, they were surrounded by the unmarried gentlemen of the district, all eager to have their names on her card. Gerrard stood beside her, amused by the surprise he glimpsed in her eyes—she truly had no idea of the effect she, gowned as she was, had on impressionable males.
On less impressionable ones, too.
A certain possessiveness had crept into his manner; he knew it. He said little, but monitored the conversation, ready to step in and redirect it if need be. He didn’t want anyone mentioning Thomas or her mother, and sobering her. Her eyes were alight; she was blossoming, just as he’d known she could.
Matthew Brisenden came up. He cast a dark glance Gerrard’s way, but to Jacqueline his behavior was gentlemanly and deferential; inwardly Gerrard acknowledged it always was. The lad—he had difficulty thinking of Matthew as a peer—continued to act as if he’d elected himself Jacqueline’s champion.
Gerrard quashed the impulse to point out, forcefully, that the position was already filled.
“My dear Miss Tregonning.” A gentleman some years older than Gerrard, well built but tending portly, shouldered through the growing crowd to bow flourishingly before Jacqueline. “You outshine the moon tonight, my dear. Dare I hope to claim the supper waltz?”
Jacqueline smiled and gave the man her hand. Gerrard detected no change in her manner, but to his eyes, the fellow was an aging Romeo.
“Sir Vincent, I would indeed have been delighted, but I fear Mr. Debbington was before you.”
Gerrard recognized the name and was instantly alert. This was the gentleman Millicent had said had his eye on Jacqueline.
Jacqueline glanced at him, then at Sir Vincent. “I don’t believe you’ve met. May I introduce you?”
She did. Sir Vincent Perry eyed him measuringly, but returned his bow. “Debbington.” Sir Vincent turned back to Jacqueline. “Then perhaps you would honor me with the dance after supper, Miss Tregonning?”
Consulting her card, she nodded and wrote in Sir Vincent’s name. “Indeed, sir—the honor will be mine.”
Other gentlemen came and went, joining their circle, securing a dance with Jacqueline, then moving on to meet with other young ladies, but Sir Vincent remained. Jacqueline responded readily to his sallies, but treated him as she did all the others; she did nothing to encourage him.
Gerrard was aware of the increasingly narrow-eyed glances Sir Vincent threw his way.
He ignored them, but kept a mental eye on Sir Vincent while over the heads he tracked the progress of the rest of their party. While crossing the room, Lord Tregonning had paused beside various groups to acknowledge the interest his presence evoked; his attitude, that of a gentleman expecting to be pleasantly entertained without any concern clouding his mind, caused those he spoke with, once he’d moved on, to look at Jacqueline—Gerrard hoped with new eyes.
His lordship had set a steady course for Sir Godfrey, eventually engaging the magistrate; Millicent and Barnaby had swept up in support. Gerrard knew their strategy. Lord Tregonning had introduced Barnaby and his findings, then left it to Barnaby to explain. Barnaby was still explaining. Sir Godfrey seemed to be making heavy weather of absorbing Barnaby’s deductions.
Lord Tregonning excused himself and made his slow, regal way to the cardroom; there, he’d engage the older gentlemen like himself, expressing his shock at the discovery of Thomas’s body and his views on the person responsible, slaying any thought that he entertained the notion that Jacqueline had been in any way involved.
Barnaby and Millicent remained talking, low-voiced and serious, with Sir Godfrey. Then Millicent looked up, clearly exasperated. She pointed to a door, linked her arm in Sir Godfrey’s, and all but forcibly towed him off to the library, there, Gerrard guessed, to lecture him at length and make sure he understood the Tregonnings’ stance. Barnaby followed, quietly determined. Gerrard had every confidence the pair would succeed in clarifying Sir Godfrey’s mind.
“Ah, my dear Jacqueline.”
Jordan Fritham’s arrogant drawl recalled Gerrard to nearer events.
Jacqueline smiled and gave Jordan her hand. “Jordan. Where’s Eleanor? I haven’t sighted her yet.”
“Oh, she’s over there somewhere, busily filling up her dance card.” With a nonchalant wave, Jordan dismissed his sister. “I thought I should come and do my part to fill yours.” Assured, he glanced idly over the crowd. “The cotillion, I think, if you please?”
Gerrard tensed; Sir Vincent openly bristled. Jordan’s attitude—tone, stance and clear assumption—was so ineffably superior it bordered on the rude. Yet Gerrard was prepared to wager the egotistical prick didn’t even realize; he was considering ways to puncture Jordan’s ego when Jacqueline spoke.
“I’m so sorry, Jordan, but you’re too late.” With a gentle smile, she held up her card. “My card’s already full.”
Stunned surprise filled Jordan’s face; Gerrard had to fight to keep his lips straight, especially when his eyes met Sir Vincent’s.
“Oh.” Jordan blinked; he seemed to be having trouble assimilating the blindingly obvious—that Jacqueline was a popular young lady who didn’t need his patronage to fill her evening with dance partners. He blinked again. “I see. Well, then, I’ll…leave you to it.”
With an abrupt bow, he swung around and walked away.
“Jacqueline, dear.” They turned to see Millicent sweeping down on them, resplendent in lilac bombazine. She smiled at the circle of attentive males, then announced, “Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles have arrived, my dear, and they’d very much like to speak with you. And Mr. Debbington, too, of course.” She flashed a smile at the others. “I’m sure these gentlemen will excuse you.”
They did, with swift bows and intrigued expressions.
Taking Jacqueline’s hand, Gerrard laid it on his sleeve, covering it with his. He looked down at her, encouragement in his eyes. “Just be yourself—that’s all you need to do. Don’t be afraid to let what you feel show.”
He felt her fingers quiver beneath his; she drew in a breath, and stiffened her spine. Her attention was already fixed on their destination, a corner of the room where Lady Tannahay stood beside an older gentleman, tall, imposing, but with bowed shoulders, a smaller, rotund lady by his side. The lady wore dark gray, her gown severely cut.
Jacqueline held her head high; Gerrard’s whispered words echoed in her mind. What she felt for the Entwhistles, for Thomas…As they drew near, she concentrated on that, let her emotions well.
Gerrard halted before Sir Harvey and Madeline, Lady Entwhistle. Jacqueline’s eyes locked with her ladyship’s; she was distantly aware of Millicent introducing Gerrard to Sir Harvey, but Lady Entwhistle searched her eyes—in her ladyship’s face she saw understanding, compassion, and the same sense of loss she herself still felt.
“My dear.” With a wavering smile, Lady Entwhistle reached for her hands.
Jacqueline surrendered them readily, returning the light pressure of her ladyship’s fingers.
“I know you share our loss, my dear—that you’ve grieved for Thomas as
have we. He was a dear, dear boy and we miss him every day, but you…” Lady Entwhistle struggled to find a smile and squeezed Jacqueline’s hands. “While finding his body is a shock, I hope you can now leave poor Thomas to rest, and go on with your life. We were very happy when he chose you, but we wouldn’t wish his death to ruin your life. I had no idea until Elsie spoke with us that some had even considered…But with what I hear these gentlemen”—her ladyship’s gaze shifted briefly to Gerrard and she smiled faintly—“have learned, the situation should be plain to all.”
Lady Entwhistle drew in a steadying breath, and smiled more definitely at Jacqueline. Then she impulsively drew her closer and touched cheeks. “My dear,” she murmured, “I do hope you’ll put all this behind you and go on. I know Thomas would have wanted that.”
Jacqueline drew back; ignoring the tears in her eyes, she smiled at Lady Entwhistle. “Thank you.” Their gazes held. Nothing more needed to be said.
“Ahem.” Sir Harvey cleared his throat. He nodded at Jacqueline. “Good to see you looking so well, m’dear.” He looked at his wife. “I’ve just been talking to Debbington here.”
Gerrard shook hands with Lady Entwhistle, then Sir Harvey continued, “He tells me his friend, Mr. Adair, can explain the details better—ah, here he is now.”
Barnaby, whom Gerrard had beckoned to join them, came up and was introduced to the Entwhistles. Sir Harvey and Lady Entwhistle decided to retire to the library to hear all Barnaby could tell them.
With Gerrard, Jacqueline took her leave of them. As she turned back to the room, Elsie Tannahay caught her eye. “Come walk with me for a little, my dear. It’ll save you from the overly interested, at least until the dancing starts.”
Gerrard offered Lady Tannahay his arm; with a gracious smile, she took it. He offered his other arm to Jacqueline.
Millicent waved them on. “I’m off to talk to that reprobate Godfrey. I want to keep my eye on him.”
They parted. As they strolled down the room, Lady Tannahay relentlessly claimed Jacqueline’s attention, chatting about inconsequential matters; her position in local society ensured that no one attempted to interrupt, but everyone was watching.