Sir Godfrey’s brows couldn’t get any higher. “Same man for all those years?”
“As far as I know. And before you ask, I have absolutely no idea, no clue, as to who he might be.”
“But he’s someone who’s always here?” Barnaby asked. “In the area?”
Jacqueline shrugged. “As far as I know.”
Sir Godfrey frowned. “We’ll have to find someone who knows more about Miss Fritham’s secret lover.”
They’d all heard footsteps in the hall, coming from the front door; all had assumed it was Treadle. But the footsteps abruptly stopped—just beyond the open door. As one, they looked up.
Mitchel Cunningham stood framed in the doorway, his face pale, his expression stunned. He stared at Sir Godfrey as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, then he blinked, and frowned. He took a step nearer. “Is anything wrong?”
“Mitchel—do come in.” Lord Tregonning beckoned. “You might be able to help us with this.”
Swiftly, Lord Tregonning outlined what had happened; they all watched Mitchel’s face—his shock was beyond question sincere.
“Good God! But she’s all right?”
“Yes.” Sir Godfrey took up the tale. “But…” He explained they were now searching for the gentleman Eleanor was in the habit of meeting in the gardens at night. “Do you have any idea who this blighter might be?”
Gerrard didn’t know if it was his artist’s perception, or if his connection with Jacqueline had made him more sensitive, but he had no difficulty reading the pained—nay, tortured—expression in Mitchel’s eyes. For form’s sake, he quietly asked, “It wasn’t you, was it?”
His tone made it clear the words were more statement than question. Mitchel’s dark eyes deflected to his face. Mitchel met his gaze, then slowly shook his head. “It wasn’t me.” The words were hollow, achingly empty.
None of them doubted he spoke the truth.
Lord Tregonning cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mitchel.”
Mitchel nodded; he barely seemed to see them. “If you’ll excuse me?”
They let him go.
When his footsteps had died away, Sir Godfrey asked, “Am I right in thinking…”
Gerrard nodded. “Mitchel has, I think, nurtured hopes, although I doubt it’s gone beyond that.”
“Hopes we’ve just dashed,” Lord Tregonning said. “But better he learn now than later.”
Briefly, they revisited all they’d learned; Sir Godfrey asked about protection for Millicent, and was reassured.
“When she wakes, she’ll be able to point her finger at the villain.” His gaze hard, Sir Godfrey sounded uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. “And heaven help him after that.”
They determined to forge ahead with the ball. Gerrard, Barnaby and Lord Tregonning spent the afternoon writing and dispatching invitations, while Jacqueline attended to all the myriad arrangements.
After dinner, she retired to sit with Millicent, leaving the men discussing their plans. Later, Gerrard fetched her from Millicent’s room, and followed her to hers.
Leading the way in, she crossed to the windows, and stood looking out at the black velvet sky. Closing the door, Gerrard paused, considering the line of her spine, head erect, the way she’d folded her arms. There were no candles burning; the room was washed with gray shadows. Slowly, he followed her, wondering.
Halting behind her, he reached for her, and drew her back against him. She leaned back, let her head settle against his shoulder. He glanced down at her face, at her stormy expression, and waited.
Eventually, she drew a long breath. “It’s always, always, people who love me, who care for me, who get hurt. Who die.” Her next breath shook. “I don’t want you to be in their number.”
He bent his head, brushed his lips over her temple. “I won’t be. And Millicent isn’t dead—there’s no change for the worse, no reason to think she’ll die. Regardless, trust me, I’m not about to let this villain take me from you.” With his gaze, he traced her face. “I’m not about to let him deny us this—what we have, what our future will be.”
Commitment rang in his tone; Jacqueline heard it, and felt tears sting her eyes. What if she believed him, and then…
“It won’t happen.” Gerrard breathed the words across her ear; his grip firmed, holding her more securely. “All the times before, it was one person alone he had to deal with—this time, there’s all of us. We’re all ranged against him—you, me, Barnaby, your father, Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles, Sir Godfrey. This time, he can’t win.”
Her champion, he’d gathered supporters to her cause; without him, she’d still be trapped in the nightmarish web her tormentor had spun.
Jacqueline closed her hands over his at her waist, felt the strength in his hard, warm body at her back. For the first time, she understood in her heart the nature of the fear that drove him to protect her, even over her protests. If she could lock him away somewhere safe until the villain had been caught, she would, in a blink.
It seemed his mind was following a similar tack. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about announcing our betrothal.”
Not, she noted, about agreeing to marry him, which she still hadn’t done. “I told you—ask me once he’s caught. Until then”—she turned in his arms, lifting hers to circle his neck, meeting his gaze—“we’re just lovers.”
His eyes, dark in the night, held hers. A long moment passed, then he shook his head. “No. We’re not.”
He bent his head, covered her lips with his—and showed her. Demonstrated, orchestrated a shattering display of how far beyond mere lovers they were.
Impossible to deny, not just him, but the reality of what had come to be, of the depth, the breadth, the overwhelming power of the connection that had grown between them. The heat, the searing need, the possessiveness that flamed and raced through them both, cindering any inhibitions, any residual reservations. It opened the door to passion unrestrained, to rampant desire and its assuagement. Infused their minds and drove them, invested their touch, their bodies, their souls.
Beyond physical intimacy, beyond desire and passion, beyond, it seemed, the earthly realm, the power swelled, shone, and claimed them.
Accepting their worship, their devotion—ultimately accepting their surrender.
As night deepened and the shadows turned black, Jacqueline lay in Gerrard’s arms, listening to his heart beating steadily beneath her ear while the strength and devotion carried in that connection surrounded and closed about them.
She wondered what the next fraught days would bring, knew he was thinking the same.
Heard in her mind Timms’s fateful words, suspected he did, too.
What will be will be.
There was nothing they could do but accept, and follow the path on.
21
They gathered about the breakfast table late the next morning. Jacqueline had checked on Millicent; there’d been no change in her aunt’s condition. Millicent lay straight and still under the covers, her eyes closed, gently breathing, looking far more fragile than she normally did.
Gerrard squeezed Jacqueline’s hand when she slipped onto the chair beside him; she smiled weakly in return, then gave her attention to her father and the details of the ball.
Mitchel had breakfasted earlier and gone out about the estate, as he often did; breakfast was long finished, the trays cleared away, and they were discussing the best location for the portrait when he returned.
They all looked up when he strode in, alerted by the heavy deliberation in his stride.
Deathly pale, he halted at the end of the table. He looked at them all—Gerrard, Jacqueline and Barnaby—then his gaze settled on her father. “My lord, I have a confession to make.”
The comment started hares in all their minds—confused hares; none of them saw Mitchel as the murderer. They exchanged glances, wondering.
“Ah…” Her father waved to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down, my boy, and explain?”
J
aw set, Mitchel drew out a chair and dropped into it. Leaning on the table, he fixed her father with an unfaltering gaze. “I’ve betrayed you, and failed in my duty.”
What followed was not a confession to murder; it was a disturbing tale nonetheless.
“I believed”—Mitchel’s jaw clenched—“or rather was led to believe that my feelings for Eleanor Fritham were returned. More, I was encouraged by Jordan to think that I could win Eleanor’s hand—I see now that they were both deceiving me, leading me on.” Mitchel’s gaze darkened; he met her father’s eyes steadily. “They wanted information from me, and I gave it.”
From his tone, that appeared to be the extent of Mitchel’s crime.
“What information?” Gerrard asked.
“Details of Lord Tregonning’s estate and business dealings.” Mitchel spread his hands. “I didn’t see all that much harm in it at the time.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I arrived here after your mother died. I believed everything Jordan told me about her death—that you were disturbed and needed to be kept at home, and that Jordan would eventually marry you and gain control of your fortune and Hellebore Hall—”
“What?” Jacqueline’s stunned exclamation was drowned out by more violent expostulations from her father and Gerrard. She waved them to silence; dumbfounded, she stared at Mitchel. “Jordan intended marrying me?”
Mitchel frowned. “That’s what he said. Whether it was true—”
The doorbell pealed. Not once, but continuously.
“What the devil…?” Lord Tregonning glared, then the pealing ceased.
Treadle hurried past the open parlor door on his way to the front hall. A second later, a cacophony of voices spilled into the hall, too many voices to distinguish. Gerrard and Barnaby pushed back their chairs. They stood; Mitchel rose, too. They all looked out to the corridor.
Abruptly, Treadle appeared in the doorway, looking harassed and rather desperate. “My lord, they won’t—”
He got no further; Mrs. Elcott thrust him aside and swept in. A veritable wave of neighbors poured after her, Lord and Lady Fritham, Matthew Brisenden, Lady Trewarren, Mrs. Myles, Mr. and Mrs. Hancock, and Sir Vincent Perry among them. Of the crowd, only Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles, who looked frankly taken aback, had been invited.
Lady Trewarren headed for Lord Tregonning. “Marcus, we’ve just heard the sad, sad news! It’s thoroughly dreadful! We didn’t know what to think, but of course we’re here to support you and Jacqueline through this latest ordeal.”
Lord Tregonning had reached the end of his patience. “What ordeal?”
Lady Trewarren halted; she blinked at him. “Why, the ordeal of Millicent’s death, of course. You can’t possibly not call that an ordeal, surely. Why—”
The chatter rose again, threatening to drown out all else.
“Millicent isn’t dead!”
Lord Tregonning’s roar led to immediate silence.
Gerrard seized the reins. “From whom did you hear that Millicent had died?”
Mrs. Elcott stared at him as if she wasn’t sure he was sane. “But she isn’t dead—or is she?”
Gerrard hung on to his temper. “No, she isn’t, but it’s important we learn who told you she was.”
Lady Trewarren exchanged a glance with Mrs. Elcott, then looked at Gerrard. “Why, I heard it from my staff, of course.”
Others nodded.
“It’s all over St. Just,” Matthew volunteered. “My father had it from the innkeeper—Papa will be along shortly.”
Lord Tregonning looked at Lady Tannahay. “Had you heard anything?”
Mystified, Lady Tannahay shook her head. Beside her, the Entwhistles did, too.
“But we’re from further afield, Marcus,” Lady Entwhistle pointed out. “This sounds like a rumor that’s only just begun.”
Lord Tregonning looked at Treadle.
So did Gerrard. “Any chance any of the staff spoke to anyone—or more likely, that someone visited here, and got the wrong idea?”
“No, sir, m’lord.” Treadle drew himself up. “Mrs. Carpenter and I will take an oath on it—none of the staff have left the house nor talked to anyone at all, and no one has visited here. Not until”—with his head he indicated the crowd in the room—“just now.”
Gerrard looked at Mitchel.
Equally puzzled, Mitchel shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to anyone about Millicent.”
Gerrard turned to Lord Tregonning. “The only person who would have thought Millicent was dead…”
Lord Tregonning nodded. “Indeed.” He looked at the others. “We need to identify who started this rumor.”
Matthew had been following the exchanges closely. “On my way out, I spoke to our gardener. He heard of it last night in the tavern—he said the head gardener from Tresdale Manor told him.”
“My maid had it from her young man.” Lady Trewarren glanced at Lady Fritham. “He’s your junior stableman, Maria.”
Lady Fritham looked confused. “My maid told me, too—I gathered all the staff knew.”
“I had it from my maid Betsy this morning.” The portentous note in Mrs. Elcott’s voice had everyone turning to her. She nodded, acknowledging their attention. “Betsy lives with her parents and comes in every day. She heard the news from her sister, who’s parlormaid at the manor—she, the sister, told Betsy that Cromwell, the butler at the manor, had overheard Master Jordan telling Miss Eleanor that Miss Tregonning was dead, and there was no more to be done.”
All eyes swung back to Lady Fritham. She blinked, puzzled. “But Jordan didn’t say anything to me. Hector?” She looked at Lord Fritham; nonplussed, he shook his head. Confused, Lady Fritham turned to Lord Tregonning. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Damn!” Barnaby had stood quietly by, absorbing information; he suddenly leaned forward and spoke to Lord Tregonning. “My lord, I meant to ask earlier—has any man applied to you for Jacqueline’s hand?”
Lord Tregonning frowned, started to shake his head, then stopped. His expression blanked, then he shifted and glanced at Jacqueline. “I’m sorry, my dear—I suppose I should have mentioned it, but indeed, it was such a…well, insulting offer, couched as it was. As a sacrifice, in fact—as he had no wish to marry any other young lady, he was willing to assist our family by marrying you and ensuring you stayed here, safely out of sight, kept close at home for the rest of your life.”
“When was this?” Barnaby asked.
“About five months ago.” Lord Tregonning’s lip curled. “Even though at that time I wasn’t sure…it was still a dashed stomach-curdling offer. I dismissed it, of course—told him I appreciated the thought, but it wouldn’t be honorable to accept such a sacrifice on his part.”
“He who?” Barnaby pressed.
Lord Tregonning blinked at him. “Why, Jordan, of course. Who else?”
“Who else, indeed,” Barnaby muttered. Aloud, he asked, “And no other man applied for Jacqueline’s hand?”
Lord Tregonning shook his head.
“Marcus?” Lady Trewarren had lifted her head; she was glancing up and around. “I hate to mention it, but I smell smoke.”
Others started sniffing, turning around.
Treadle, eyes widening, met Gerrard’s gaze, then stepped back and hurried out of the room.
“I’m really very sensitive when it comes to smoke,” Lady Trewarren went on, “and I do believe it’s getting stronger—”
“Fire!”
It was a maid who screeched from somewhere upstairs.
The crowd in the parlor tumbled out into the hall. The smell was more distinct, but there was no other evidence of flames. Everyone stared up at the gallery; with a thunder of feet, a group of footmen raced across, heading into the south wing.
“All the ladies into the drawing room.” Barnaby started herding them in that direction. Some protested, wanting to see what was afire; Sir Vincent smothered an oath and went to help.
Treadle appeared at the head of the st
airs. He came hurrying down. “It’s the old nursery, sir.” He glanced at Gerrard. “And your room, Mr. Debbington. The drapes have caught well and truly there. We’re ferrying pails up the service stairs, but we’ll need all hands possible.”
“I’ll help.” Matthew Brisenden started up the stairs. The other men exchanged glances, then swiftly followed.
Jacqueline hung back. As Barnaby and Sir Vincent hurried back from the drawing room, she put a hand on her father’s arm. “I’ll check with Mrs. Carpenter, then return to the drawing room and make sure the ladies remain safely there.”
Gerrard had dallied on the stairs to hear what she intended; he caught her eye, nodded, then turned and took the stairs three at a time.
Her father patted her hand. “Good girl. I’ll go and see what’s to do.”
She watched him start slowly up the stairs. Confident Treadle would keep him from any harm, she headed for the kitchens.
As she’d expected, pandemonium reigned. She helped Mrs. Carpenter calm the maids, and organize them to help the stablemen lug pails from the well to the bottom of the south wing stairs. A chain of grooms and footmen hurried the pails up, some to the first floor, others to the attics.
Mrs. Carpenter looked grim. Once the maids were occupied, she drew Jacqueline aside. “Maizie found the fire in Mr. Debbington’s room. She said it was arrows—arrows with flaming rags around them—that were tangled in the curtains. That’s how the fire started. She was babbling on about how we shouldn’t think it was coals dropping from the grate and her to blame—I told her no such thing, but thought you and his lordship should know.”
Jacqueline nodded. Arrows. An arrow had been shot at Gerrard, and now there were more arrows. She hadn’t heard the details of how Gerrard had been shot at, but the only way an arrow could have hit Gerrard’s curtains was if it had been fired from the gardens, and she knew the gardens well. Knew there was no close, clear line to Gerrard’s windows; the archer would have had to be a good way off, and skilled enough to allow for the cross breeze.