Barnaby’s story had some way to run; Gerrard was curious as to where Jordan intended to lead their conversation. “I rarely paint portraits of anyone.”
Jordan nodded, looking up—along the table, not at Gerrard. “Ah, yes—your real interest lies in the gardens, of course.” Raising his glass, he sipped, then, still without meeting Gerrard’s gaze, murmured, “A very lucky circumstance that Tregonning could offer you access to the gardens as inducement.”
Gerrard inwardly frowned. What the devil was Jordan getting at? “Lucky?”
Jordan darted a glance his way, then once more fell to studying his port. “Well, it’s common knowledge, at least to those of us who know the family well, why Tregonning wants the portrait done.”
He was too experienced to ask the question Jordan wanted him to ask—not yet. “You and your family know the Tregonnings well?”
Looking up, Jordan frowned. “Of course.”
“I understood from your father that the family hailed from Surrey.”
“Originally, but so did Miribelle, Tregonning’s late wife. As girls, she and m’mother were neighbors, bosom bows. Then they both married and Miribelle moved down here. After a few years, Mama and she grew frustrated with talking only through letters, so, as Tregonning wouldn’t leave Hellebore Hall, Mama convinced the pater they should buy Tresdale Manor, and”—Jordan gestured, his lip curling, his tone hardening—“here we are.”
He drained his port glass.
Gerrard wondered if Jordan knew just how transparent his resentment at being buried in the country, far from all excitement, was. Possibly he did, and didn’t care.
“You’ve been at the Hall for over a day now, long enough to see what a mausoleum it’s become. Miribelle was the life of the house; she and Mama constantly held parties and balls, all sorts of revelry. Not so much at the Hall itself, mostly here, but the brightness spilled into the Hall—even Tregonning used to smile occasionally.” Jordan set down his glass and reached for the decanter. He wasn’t drunk so much as well lit.
Gerrard said nothing, just waited. As he’d hoped, Jordan picked up his tale.
“Then Miribelle died.” Jordan paused to sip, then went on, “Suddenly, for no reason, she fell to her death. Ever since, we’ve barely had a party in the neighborhood.” His lip curled again; he glowered darkly across the room, then looked down, into his glass, and more quietly said, “It was given out it was an accident, of course.”
And there it was. Gerrard froze, physically, emotionally, as his mind made the mental leap and he saw the connections—the portrait, why Tregonning wanted it, Tregonning’s insistence that he was the only painter who would do, even to the point of stooping to extortion, Jacqueline’s comment that her portrait done by him was what she and her father needed, the importance she’d placed on it showing what she truly was…
Raising his glass, he took a long, slow sip of Lord Fritham’s excellent port; he barely tasted it. Yet nothing of his thoughts, of the sudden eruption of feelings churning through him, showed in his face, for which he was grateful—especially before a prat like Jordan Fritham.
“Indeed.” Anyone who knew him would have taken warning from his tone. Even Jordan looked up, alert, although not apparently understanding why. Gerrard sipped again, then cocked an eyebrow at Jordan. “Am I to take it that all those round about know of…the reason I’m here to paint Jacqueline’s portrait?”
He couldn’t keep the simmering anger completely from his voice, but while Jordan heard it and faintly frowned, he nevertheless answered with a light shrug. “I suppose all those who know the family well.”
“Most of those here, then?”
“Oh, not the younger ones—not the girls or Roger or Cedric.”
“I see.” Gerrard was suddenly very certain he did.
Lord Fritham chose that moment to push back his chair. Gerrard realized Barnaby had concluded his tale; all the usual exclamations and comments had been made and had died away.
“Very entertaining, Mr. Adair. Now I suspect it’s time we rejoined the ladies.” Beaming genially, Lord Fritham stood.
Chairs scraped. They all rose. Lord Fritham turned to speak to the butler. Gerrard moved with the others to the door; he hung back and Barnaby joined him.
They fell in at the rear of the group heading along the corridor to the drawing room; Lord Fritham had remained behind, but would no doubt shortly follow. They both slowed.
“What’s the matter?” Barnaby asked.
Gerrard shot him a glance; Barnaby was one of the few who would notice his state. “I’ve just learned something disturbing, too complicated to explain here. Have you learned anything?”
“Not about Lady Tregonning’s death, but I did hear about Jacqueline’s suitor.”
“She had a suitor?”
“Had being the operative word. The son of a local landowner, well liked, a good match on all sides. They were apparently fond of each other, everyone expected an announcement any day…then he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Incredulous, Gerrard glanced at Barnaby.
Who nodded grimly. “Just disappeared. He visited Jacqueline one afternoon, then he left for the stables, and hasn’t been heard of to this day.”
Gerrard looked ahead. “Good God.”
“Indeed.” The drawing room doors were approaching; they both checked and looked back. And saw Lord Fritham coming along, the very picture of a jovial host, in their wake. They both hesitated, then Barnaby murmured, “Do you know what the odds against having two strange, unexplained happenings occurring innocently at one house are?”
“Too long,” Gerrard replied, and stepped into the drawing room.
Barnaby followed, but then wandered away, no doubt intent on learning more.
Gerrard left him to it; using his height, he scanned the room, searching for the one person he wanted to interrogate himself.
But Mitchel Cunningham was nowhere in sight.
Mrs. Hancock and Miss Curtis, seated on a chaise, had spotted him standing alone. They beckoned; perforce, he went. He chatted with this one, then that; while the Myles sisters and Mary Hancock entertained the company with various airs on the pianoforte, he waited for Mitchel Cunningham to reappear.
Time passed, and the agent didn’t return. Eventually, Gerrard paused by the side of the room and took stock. Eleanor Fritham was also absent.
On the thought, draperies further down the long room stirred, and Eleanor appeared, strolling easily back to join the guests. She was visually stunning, with her long, fine blond hair floating about her, her pale skin, long neck and slender, sylphlike figure; she wasn’t quite ethereal, yet at the same time, not quite of this world…and she, too, was unmarried, apparently unspoken for.
Gerrard inwardly frowned; he watched as Eleanor joined the circle of which Jacqueline was a member, smoothly linking her arm in Jacqueline’s in a gesture that screamed of long friendship. Given what he now suspected, Gerrard wondered at that apparent closeness. Jacqueline was facing away; he couldn’t gauge her reaction.
Shifting his gaze, he scanned the room again; he was about to move on when, from behind the same set of drifting draperies through which Eleanor had appeared, Mitchel Cunningham stepped into the room.
Gerrard changed direction and strolled his way, intercepting Mitchel before he could join any other guests. “Could I have a word, Cunningham?” When Mitchel blinked, he added, “It’s about the portrait.”
Cunningham had dealt with him enough to comprehend the significance of his clipped accents. Lips thinning, he nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Gerrard turned to the French doors giving onto the terrace. “Perhaps in more private surrounds.”
Cunningham went with him. As they stepped onto the flagstones, Gerrard glanced along the terrace; the long window with the billowing draperies did indeed give onto the terrace—at the heavily shadowed end.
Jordan Fritham’s dog-in-the-manger attitude over his sister, apparent whenever Cunningham drew close,
now made sense; the notion of having a brother-in-law who was a mere gentleman’s agent would not sit well with Jordan’s sense of self-worth.
Cunningham had noticed him glancing at the far window; returning his gaze to the agent’s eyes, Gerrard didn’t hide his comprehension, but Cunningham’s aspirations were not his concern.
“I’ve discovered,” he said, “that the reason behind Lord Tregonning’s insistence that I paint his daughter’s portrait goes somewhat deeper than mere appreciation of my art.”
Cunningham paled; even in the poor light, his increasing nervousness was obvious. “Ah…”
“Indeed.” Gerrard held his temper on a tight rein. “I see that you’re aware of it. I have one question: Why wasn’t I informed?”
Cunningham swallowed, but gamely lifted his head and met Gerrard’s gaze. “I advised telling you, but Lord Tregonning forbade it.”
“Why?”
“Because he was uncertain how you would react to his reason, whether you might decline to do the portrait in such circumstances, and then later, once you’d accepted the commission, he was concerned not to…to prejudice your view in any way.”
He had to fight to keep the anger building inside him from his face. The situation was beyond outrageous, yet…he couldn’t, now, simply walk away. “Is Miss Tregonning aware of her father’s expectations of the portrait?”
Cunningham looked appalled. “I assume not…” He blinked. “But I don’t know. Her knowing or not was not discussed with me.”
“I see.” So many aspects of the situation were fueling his ire, his mind was swinging violently, railing over first one, then the next. That Tregonning would pander to such suspicions of his daughter made him see red; that Jacqueline, knowing of her father’s scheme, should so meekly agree made him want to shake her. How could she accept, as she patently had, that such suspicion was even reasonable?
How could she so calmly accept that he, an unknown gentleman, should judge her?
How dared she—they—place such an onus on him?
He was furious, but fought to keep his rage contained. Focusing, grimly, on Cunningham’s pale face, he nodded. “Very well. I suggest, since Lord Tregonning does not wish me to know of his expectations, that there’s no reason for him to know of this discussion.”
Cunningham’s Adam’s apple bobbed; he nodded. “As you wish.”
“Indeed.” Gerrard caught the agent’s eye. “I suggest you endeavor to forget this conversation took place, and I”—deliberately he glanced toward the end of the terrace—“will do the same.”
With another nervous nod, Cunningham turned and walked back into the drawing room. Gerrard waited for a full minute, then followed.
Pausing just inside, he looked across the room at Jacqueline Tregonning.
He couldn’t wait to get back to Hellebore Hall.
5
The dinner party drew to a close; along with Millicent, Barnaby and a subdued Mitchel Cunningham, they thanked their hosts and left Tresdale Manor. They traveled back to Hellebore Hall in Lord Tregonning’s antiquated coach; the distance wasn’t great—the manor was the nearest large house—yet with only two horses pulling the heavy carriage, the journey took nearly half an hour.
Throughout, Gerrard sat in the dark, his shoulder against Barnaby’s, with Jacqueline sitting directly opposite, her knees, covered by the fine silk of her gown, courtesy of the country road frequently brushing his.
It wasn’t just the contact that unnerved her, but his unwavering regard. He knew she was conscious of it, but was past caring; he wanted answers to many questions, and she was the key to the most important.
That’s precisely what I need—what my father needs.
She knew; he wanted to hear it from her lips.
They reached the Hall and trailed into the foyer, there to exchange the customary good-nights. He bowed over Jacqueline’s hand, squeezed it, caught her eye as he released her. She couldn’t know what he intended, but at least she’d be alert.
The look she cast back at him as she followed Millicent up the wide staircase confirmed that.
With a nod to him and Barnaby, Mitchel Cunningham walked off down a corridor; after dallying a moment to let the ladies go ahead, he and Barnaby started up in their wake.
The gallery at the head of the stairs was long, and presently a collage of moonlight and shadow. The ladies turned right; a few paces behind, Gerrard and Barnaby headed left, toward their rooms. Gerrard put out a hand, halting Barnaby. Glancing back, he confirmed that Jacqueline and Millicent were sweeping on, unaware, and were now out of earshot. He turned to Barnaby. “Did you learn anything more about the suitor?”
“Only that he disappeared between two and three years ago, when Jacqueline was twenty. Although there’d been no formal declaration, she went into half-mourning. Then her mother died fourteen months ago, which in large part fills the time to date and explains why there have been no other suitors.”
“Did you hear anything about her mother’s death?”
“No, but I didn’t have the right opportunities to pursue it. It’s the older ladies we need to butter up for that.”
Gerrard nodded. Glancing back along the gallery, he saw Jacqueline turn down the corridor at its end, Millicent still by her side. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He turned and, swift and soft-footed, followed Jacqueline.
“Hey!” Barnaby kept his voice down.
“Tomorrow,” he flung back sotto voce, and continued on.
He reached the corridor and looked along it. It was empty; another corridor opened to the right at its end. He went quickly down, then peered around the corner into the next wing—and saw Jacqueline pause outside a door. She spoke to Millicent, who nodded, then walked on; Jacqueline opened the door and went in. He hung back, watching Millicent’s dark figure recede into the shadows. At last she stopped, opened a door, and went in. He waited until the faint click of the latch reached him, then walked—stalked—down the corridor.
Reaching Jacqueline’s door, he knocked—two sharp, preemptory raps, not overly loud.
An instant later, the door opened. A little maid, stunned, stared up at him.
Gerrard looked at the maid, then looked past her.
“Holly? Who is it?”
Holly’s eyes grew rounder. “Ah, it’s…”
Jacqueline came into view, halfway across the room. She’d taken off her jewelry, but had yet to unpin her hair. Her eyes widened, too.
Gerrard ignored the maid and beckoned, imperiously, to Jacqueline. “I need to talk to you.”
His tone gave her warning his mood was deadly serious; he wasn’t proposing any waltz in the moonlight.
She met his gaze; her expression grew careful. She came to the door.
The little maid ducked back, out of the way. Jacqueline set a hand to the door’s edge. “You need to talk to me now?”
“Yes. Now.” Reaching in, he grasped her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers. He glanced at the maid. “Wait here—your mistress will be back shortly.”
He tugged Jacqueline over the threshold. She opened her mouth. He shot her an openly furious glance; she blinked, stunned, and wisely said nothing. Unceremoniously, he towed her back along the corridor, back into the gallery, then down the side stairs that led directly to the terrace.
They emerged beside the drawing room, opposite the main stairs leading down into the gardens, to the path leading into the Garden of Night.
“No!” Jacqueline pulled back against his hold. “Not into the Garden of Night.”
He looked at her face. “Was it night when your mother died?”
She blinked; a moment passed before she said, “No. It was sometime in the late afternoon or early evening.”
He frowned. “You’re not sure when?”
She shook her head. “They found her later in the evening.”
He saw pain in her face, saw memories flit across her features, dulling her eyes. He nodded curtly and towed her unrelentingly on—
along the terrace away from the main stairs.
She realized, and reluctantly kept pace. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace that’s relatively open.”
Where they’d be visible to anyone who looked out, but out of earshot of the house—private, yet not hidden, not secluded. Somewhere that would reduce the impropriety of talking with her alone in the middle of the night.
“The Garden of Athena will do.” The formal garden, the least conducive to seduction. Seduction was definitely not what he had in mind.
And any lingering influence to wisdom wouldn’t go astray.
Resigned, Jacqueline followed him along the terrace, then grabbed up her skirts as he went quickly down the secondary stairs that led to the Garden of Athena. That one look he’d shot her when she’d been about to protest had been enough to assure her humoring him would be wise, no matter what weevil had wormed its way into his brain. Clearly he’d learned about her mother’s death; how much he’d heard she’d no doubt soon learn.
Despite the tension humming through him, suppressed temper she had not a doubt, despite his precipitate actions, the abruptness of his growled words—despite the strength in the fingers wrapped about her hand—she felt not the slightest quiver of alarm, not the smallest qualm in allowing him to lead her far from her room, into the depths of the gardens in the dark of the night.
It wasn’t, in truth, all that dark. As he stalked along the graveled path through Athena’s garden, between the neatly clipped hedges and geometrically laid rows of olive trees, the moon bathed all about them in a steady radiance that cast everything in either silver or smudged black, a moorish enamel.
They reached the center of the formal garden, a circle between the inner points of four long rectangles. Abruptly, Gerrard halted; releasing her hand, he swung to face her.
His eyes, black in the night, raked her face, then locked on her eyes. “You know why your father wanted me—specifically me—to paint your portrait, don’t you?”