The Truth about Love

4

After luncheon, another quiet meal, Gerrard retreated to his studio while Barnaby hied out to explore Cyclops and the gardens in general.

Earlier, they’d explored the Garden of Night-a curious, dramatic and vaguely disturbing place. The atmosphere had been all Gerrard’s dream had promised, not just darkly Gothic but with a sinister undertone carried in the oppressive stillness. The more cheery Garden of Poseidon had lightened their mood before Treadle’s gong had summoned them back to the house.

Closing the nursery-cum-studio door, Gerrard got to work. His purpose was defined-to set out all he needed, to unpack the boxes the footmen had left stacked against the walls and lay out paints, pads, pencils and the various paraphernalia with which he habitually surrounded himself-yet while his hands were busy, his mind remained engrossed.

Thinking of Jacqueline Tregonning.

Reliving, reviewing, all the moments he’d thus far shared with her, and trying to make sense of them, trying to wring every last iota of meaning from each, to get some firm concept-some concept he could accept as firm enough-of what she was, of what, with her, he was dealing with.

His initial view of her had been that she had character. That had proved true, yet her character was complex, far more so than he’d expected. He’d labeled her an enigma, and she still was to him.

He hadn’t, yet, made any real headway in understanding her. His observations to date had yielded not answers but yet more questions.

And that surprised him.

He would, he felt, have coped with that surprise, with the challenge she posed, well enough, if it hadn’t been for the rest of it-the aspects of their interaction he hadn’t foreseen, and wasn’t sure how to deal with.

Despite his experience, this was one situation he’d never before had to face. Not even when his subjects had been ravishing beauties, the twins for example, had he found himself wondering what their lips would taste like.

He kept telling himself that the sexual attraction he felt would fade, would merge into his customary, curious-yet-detached attitude as he learned more of Jacqueline. Instead, thus far at least, the more he learned, the closer he drew to her, the more powerfully the attraction flared.

Throwing the heavy locks on a case, he laid it open on the floor, then hunkered down to examine the pencils and charcoals neatly arrayed within. He tried to focus on his art, on the practical acts necessary to bring it to life, tried to channel his edginess into that, and didn’t succeed.

Selecting two pencils, he closed the case. Straightening, he crossed to where the table he’d requested sat at right angles to one end of the wide windows. Sketch pads lay stacked, the lightly textured paper he favored for first drawings spread ready, virginal white, waiting for his impressions, his first attempts at capturing them.

Such a sight always brought a surge of excitement, of eagerness to plunge into a new work; he felt the expected lift, the sharpening of his senses, yet there was something else, something more compelling, hovering in his mind, distracting him.

Laying down the pencils, he breathed in and closed his eyes-and vividly recalled how her eyes, moss, amber, gold and brown, had appeared in that fraught instant on the shore.

He focused on that moment, one that kept replaying in his brain; he remembered what he’d felt, how the feelings had flowed.

Realized that it wasn’t purely his reaction to her, the sexual attraction itself, that was destabilizing his concentration. It was her reaction to him, and his subsequent response to that-all of those elements combined.

Opening his eyes, he blinked. Frowned.

He couldn’t recall ever having his attention captured, ensnared, by a woman’s reaction to him. Yet every time her fingers trembled in his, he wanted to seize, not just them but her; every time her lovely eyes flared, he was visited by an urge to touch her, caress her, and watch them widen even more.

Beneath his breath, he swore. Every time he thought of her, he ended envisioning making love to her.

A tap fell on the door, light, uncertain.

Not Jacqueline, was his first thought.

He raked his hand through his hair. “Come in.” Any distraction was better than the circle his thoughts seemed determined to tread.

The door swung open; Millicent stood in the doorway. Seeing him, she smiled and walked in. She looked around, but that seemed merely a polite action, because she thought she should show interest.

“You seem to be settling in quite nicely-is everything to your liking?”

No-lusting after your niece is driving me deranged. Gerrard smiled. “Thank you. I have all I need.”

“Well…” Millicent hesitated; clearly there was some purpose behind her visit, one she was reluctant to broach.

Gerrard gestured to the window seat beneath the farther window, the area he’d left for consultation, away from his work. “Won’t you sit down?”

Turning, Millicent saw the window seat. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

Following her across the room, Gerrard picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down facing the seat, close enough to see Millicent’s eyes, yet not close enough to crowd her.

He waited for her to sit, then sat himself. When she didn’t say anything but studied his face, as if wondering whether to speak at all, he prompted, “Was there something you wished to tell me?”

She studied his eyes for a moment longer, then grimaced. “Yes-you’re very acute.”

He made no reply but waited.

She sighed. “It’s about Jacqueline, and, well…the reason she no longer goes into the Garden of Night.”

He nodded encouragingly. “I noted her hesitation this morning.”

“Indeed.” Millicent clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “It’s because of her mother-or rather, Miribelle’s death. She fell to her death, you see. From the terrace, into the Garden of Night.”

He felt his expression blank with shock.

Millicent saw; she leaned forward, concerned. “I’m sorry. I see you didn’t know, but I wasn’t sure whether Marcus would think to mention the details, and, of course, having to learn about Jacqueline in order to paint her properly, you were bound to notice and wonder…well, as you did.”

He managed to nod; what he desperately needed was to think. “How did it happen?” When Millicent frowned, as if unsure what he meant, he restated the query, “What caused Jacqueline’s mother to fall?”

Millicent’s eyes widened a fraction; she sat back. He got the impression he’d put a foot wrong, but couldn’t imagine how or where.

A hand rising to fiddle with her neckline, Millicent said, her tone now careful, “It was, of course, thought to be an accident. Anything else…well, there never was any suggestion of anything else.”

She’d grown flustered; to his dismay, she stood. “So now you understand why Jacqueline won’t go into that area of the gardens. I don’t know that she’ll ever grow comfortable enough to venture there again. Please don’t press her.”

Gerrard rose, too. “No, of course not.”

Millicent turned quickly to the door. “Now I really must get on. You will remember that we’re dining with the Frithams this evening? The carriage will leave at seven.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Gerrard followed her to the door.

She didn’t wait for him to open it, but did so herself and started down the narrow stairs. “At seven, remember,” she called back, then whisked away down the corridor.

Gerrard leaned against the doorjamb, and wondered why Millicent had suddenly decided she’d said too much. What had she told him?

So little. Just enough to show him how much more he’d yet to learn.

Good Lord! She fell to her death from the terrace?”

“So Millicent said, and I doubt she invented it.” Gerrard lolled on the end of Barnaby’s bed, watching while his friend, now distinctly absentmindedly, tied his cravat.

Gently lowering his chin, creasing the folds expertly, Barnaby shot him a sidelong glance. “And there’s some question over the death, you say?”

“No, I don’t say-I infer.” Gerrard altered his voice to an approximation of Millicent’s. “Anything else…well, there never was any suggestion of anything else.” He reverted to his usual tones. “All said with her eyes wide and a look that clearly stated that while no one had ever suggested such a thing, it was the question in everyone’s mind.”

“A mystery!” Barnaby’s eyes glowed.

“Possibly.” Gerrard wasn’t entirely convinced of the wisdom of setting Barnaby loose on the subject, but he had to know more, and his friend was a master at ferreting out such things. “I asked Compton what he’d heard. Apparently, the late Lady Tregonning was well liked, nay, loved by all who knew her. The accepted theory is that she peered over the balustrade to look at something in the Garden of Night, overbalanced and fell. Tragic and regrettable, but nothing else. There’s no question but that the fall killed her-her neck was broken. That’s the story from the servants’ hall.”

“They usually know,” Barnaby murmured, easing on his coat.

“True.” Gerrard sat up. “However, if there’s no question over what killed her, then what caused her to go over the balustrade is the only thing that might remain in question-the only aspect that might account for Millicent’s reaction.”

Engaged in placing his handkerchief, watch and sundry other items into various pockets, Barnaby hmmed. “Suicide? It’s always an option in such cases.”

Gerrard grimaced and rose. “It could be that. Millicent wanted to explain so I wouldn’t press Jacqueline to enter the Garden of Night, then realized she’d revealed too much…yes, that might be it.”

He headed for the door; it was nearly seven o’clock.

Barnaby joined him. “But…?”

Hand on the knob, Gerrard met his friend’s eyes. “I need to know the truth, whatever it is, and for obvious reasons I can’t ask Jacqueline.”

Barnaby grinned and clapped him on the back. “Leave it to me-I’ll see what I can learn this evening. There’s sure to be someone attending who’ll be eager to swap a bit of gossip and scandal.”

Shaking his head, Gerrard led the way out of the room. “Just don’t make it sound like we’re conducting an investigation.”

“Trust me.” Barnaby followed him out and shut the door. “I’ll be the soul of discretion.”

Gerrard started for the stairs, inwardly debating. Eventually, he murmured, “There’s one other thing.”

“Oh? What?”

“I need to understand why Jacqueline’s unmarried. She’s twenty-three, attractive, and Tregonning’s heiress-even buried out here, she must have, or have had, suitors. Who? And where are they now? No one’s suggested there’s any gentleman in the wings. Is her mother’s death in some way responsible for that?”

“Interesting point.” They reached the head of the stairs; Barnaby slanted a cheerfully inquisitive glance Gerrard’s way. “Just tell me-is that the way the wind now blows?”

Gerrard snorted. “Spare me.” He started down the stairs. “I need to know for the portrait.”

“Such things shouldn’t be too hard to learn.”

“Just remember-discretion is imperative.”

“You know me.”

“Indeed-that’s why I’m reminding you.”

It wasn’t, in truth, Barnaby’s discretion that caused Gerrard concern, but his enthusiasm; once embarked on solving a mystery, Barnaby was apt to forget such niceties as feminine susceptibilities and social strictures. From his position in the circle of which Jacqueline was a member, Gerrard kept an eye on his friend as Barnaby prowled the Frithams’ drawing room.

Hunting for information. With his bright eyes, cheery personality and, when he wished it, polished address, it was an undertaking at which he admittedly excelled.

Gerrard was doing his own reconnoitering. Lady Fritham had summoned a good slice of the local gentry. By remaining in the same group as Jacqueline, he was able to gauge her reactions to others as they came up to greet them. In between shaking hands and keeping track of relationships, he viewed again the continuing conundrum of her behavior. Outwardly, she was confident, assured and serene, yet she remained reserved, aloof emotionally as distinct from physically, as if she’d taken a step back from everyone there; while she knew them well, she saw them as people to keep at a distance.

He’d thought it was distrust, and there were certainly traces of that in her stance, yet now, after hearing of her mother’s death, he wondered if what he was sensing was instead a form of inner shield, a protection she maintained so others couldn’t reach her, couldn’t hurt her.

Why would they hurt her?

Had these people hurt her? If so, how?

He started looking more closely, not at Jacqueline but at everyone else, watching, analyzing…He felt the shift in his attitude as a sudden honing of his senses, a definite alert that spread through him.

In addition to Lord and Lady Fritham and their son and daughter, the Myles family entire were present, Mr., Mrs., Master Roger and both Misses, Clara and Rosa. The severe Mrs. Elcott and her spouse were absent, perhaps not surprisingly. A Mr. and Mrs. Hancock were there, with two daughters, Cecily and Mary, in train; a local squire, Sir Humphrey Curtis, a widower, was attending with his sister, Miss Amabel Curtis.

Lord Trewarren, a local landowner, his lady and their two sons, Giles and Cedric, were presently part of their circle, along with Mitchel Cunningham and Millicent.

“Mr. Debbington, you really must share your opinion of the Hellebore Hall gardens.” Lady Trewarren, head high, peered at him myopically across the circle. “Millicent tells me you viewed them today. Will you paint them?”

“Eventually, yes, but as for my opinion, it’s difficult to rate something that’s so very unique. It certainly ranks as one of the best sources for landscape art I’ve seen.”

Lady Trewarren turned to Millicent. “Millicent, dear, you really must work on Marcus to open up the gardens on occasion. What is the point of having such wonderful gardens if no one ever sees them?”

Millicent murmured that she quite agreed. “I’m hoping that the interest sure to accrue when Mr. Debbington shows his works will help convince Marcus.”

Gerrard returned Millicent’s smile, but his attention had deflected to Lady Trewarren, and the sudden distraction he saw in her face. She’d glanced to where her older son Giles was speaking with Jacqueline.

Gerrard could hear their conversation, Giles politely inquiring whether Jacqueline would like to join him, his brother and unspecified others on a ride to St. Just tomorrow.

Giles seemed a likable enough chap; he smiled with pleasure when Jacqueline accepted the simple invitation-throwing Lady Trewarren into a maternal flutter. Gerrard had seen the like before, usually in the context of fond mamas wanting to protect their darling sons from entanglements with encroaching cits. Yet Giles was hardly a babe, and Jacqueline was no cit; regardless, as Lady Trewarren turned back to him and Millicent, conscious of her distraction and, it seemed, wishing to disguise it, her desire to suppress any association between Jacqueline and Giles showed in her eyes.

Millicent hadn’t noticed; she’d been discussing the recent spate of fine weather with Lord Trewarren.

Gerrard allowed the conversation to claim him, but he kept an eye on Lady Trewarren. Sure enough, when an opening offered, she claimed, not her husband’s but her eldest son’s arm and, excusing them from the circle, moved on.

Jacqueline showed no sign of consciousness over having a handsome admirer removed from her side, and indeed, Giles’s place was almost immediately filled by Roger Myles.

“Quite,” Gerrard said, replying to a query about the capital. “It’s sweltering in late summer.”

He shifted, scanning the crowd-trying to locate Mrs. Myles, to see if she, too, would react as Lady Trewarren had.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The Frithams’ butler stood in the open doorway; when everyone turned to him, he bowed magisterially. “Dinner is served.”

The usual mild chaos ensued as Lady Fritham partnered them. Waving to this one, then that, she set Barnaby to escort Clara Myles, then pounced on Gerrard; linking her arm with his, she led him across the room.

Leaning close, she murmured, “Millicent mentioned that you need to spend time with Jacqueline, in pursuit of the portrait, as it were, but tonight is hardly a time for work-I’ve asked Eleanor to make sure you enjoy yourself.”

So saying, she delivered him to her daughter.

Amenable enough, Gerrard smiled and claimed Eleanor’s hand, and wondered what opportunities the seating would afford.

When they filed into the long dining room, he found himself in perfect accord with Lady Fritham’s organization. Entirely without intending to, indeed, for quite the opposite reason, she’d given him what for him was the perfect place-directly opposite Jacqueline.

That meant he couldn’t converse with her, but at the moment, that wasn’t his aim. Observing her was, along with Lady Trewarren and Mrs. Myles, both mothers of young gentlemen of Jacqueline’s acquaintance.

As it happened, Jacqueline had Roger Myles and Cedric Trewarren flanking her; all three were of much the same age, which, Gerrard judged, made Roger and Cedric too young for Jacqueline. From what he saw of their interactions as, with Mary Hancock, they took their seats, they’d known each other for years; they treated each other as friends, nothing more.

Having seated Eleanor, he drew out the chair beside her and sat. Cecily Hancock was on his left. From the gleam in both young ladies’ eyes, they were eager to entertain him.

Charm to the fore, he asked about the local attractions.

Throughout the meal it proved easy enough to deal with Eleanor and Cecily, both of whom openly vied for his attention, while simultaneously watching Lady Trewarren and Mrs. Myles. Both ladies were seated at one end of the table, opposite each other; he had to face Cecily to see Lady Trewarren, but, thanks to Cecily’s increasingly blatant attempts to monopolize him, that was easy to disguise.

As the courses came and went, he watched and analyzed. Lady Trewarren, while noting her younger son chatting animatedly to Jacqueline, seemed less concerned than when Giles had sought Jacqueline’s attention; presumably her ladyship recognized the nature of Cedric’s and Jacqueline’s friendship. With Mrs. Myles, however…the desserts were on the table before Gerrard glimpsed, just fleetingly, a touch of the same motherhen concern he’d seen in Lady Trewarren.

Mrs. Myles was much more guarded in her expressions, yet Roger was her only son; when, along with Jacqueline and Cedric, Roger laughed at some joke, she leaned forward and looked down the table-not censorious but worried, concerned…She saw, then sat back. Absentmindedly she patted her lips with her napkin, her brow faintly creased, her gaze far away, then Lord Fritham spoke to her and she looked his way.

Gerrard let his gaze return to Cecily.

Just in time to see her shoot a smug, spite-filled glance, first at Eleanor, then across the table at Jacqueline, who glanced up just in time to catch it.

Then Cecily looked at him, positively oozing what she no doubt imagined was sultry seductiveness. He’d obviously missed something he ought to have nipped in the bud.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Cecily purred, leaning closer, “why it’s so important that you paint Jacqueline-why, everyone knows brown hair is entirely out of fashion. But now you’re in the area, I daresay you’ll be on the lookout for other suitable ladies to paint, to make your stay down here worthwhile.” Touching fingertips to her primped blond curls, she smiled and all but batted her lashes at him. “I would be very happy to sit for you.”

Gerrard decided against telling her she was precisely the sort of young lady he daily prayed he’d never have to paint. Informing her that if he painted her, all her spite and nastiness-from what he’d taken in of her comments she was well endowed with both-would show, also seemed unwise; she’d probably shriek, faint or accuse him of something.

Yet thanks to her indiscreetly modulated voice-he was quite sure she’d intended all around them to hear-everyone was waiting to hear his response. Beside him, Eleanor had angrily tensed; seated beyond Cecily, Mitchel Cunningham had colored painfully, but was avidly listening. Jacqueline had calmly turned to Roger and made some comment, drawing both Cedric and Mary-a quiet girl quite different from her sister-into the conversation, yet although they were ostensibly involved in their discussion, they were all waiting, listening, too.

It took him a mere instant to absorb that; he smiled, gently, at Cecily. “I’m afraid, Miss Hancock, that painters such as I don’t follow fashion.” His tone was cool, his drawl patronizingly light. He hesitated a heartbeat, holding her gaze, before adding, “We set it.”

With that, he turned to Eleanor, smoothly engaging her with a question about St. Just, without compunction leaving Cecily-the-spiteful to come about as best she could.

For a few minutes, she sat in total silence, then he heard Mitchel Cunningham ask her a polite question. After a moment, Cecily quietly replied.

Across the table, Jacqueline caught his eye. Their gazes held for a heartbeat; he sensed she was grateful, yet puzzled, too-why, he had no clue.

A few minutes later, Lady Fritham rose, gathered the ladies and led them from the room. The gentlemen regrouped, congregating in the chairs about the table’s head as the brandy and port were set before Lord Fritham. Gerrard was surprised when Jordan Fritham circled the table to claim the chair beside him. They both helped themselves to the port as the decanter was passed around, then settled back.

Lord Fritham appealed to Barnaby, “What’s this I hear about Bentinck? Got himself in a spot of bother, so I hear.”

Understanding his lordship’s request, Barnaby launched into a highly colored recounting of Samuel Bentinck, Lord Mainwarring’s latest and possibly last attempt at matrimony. Gerrard sat back, relaxed; he knew the story, had heard Barnaby’s version at least twice, yet his friend was an excellent raconteur-it was no hardship to hear the tale again.

Barnaby rattled on; beside Gerrard, Jordan Fritham grew restless.

Eventually, he leaned closer to Gerrard, lowering his voice. “Quite a coup, I understand, that old Tregonning managed to persuade you to travel into our wilds to paint Jacqueline.”

Gerrard glanced at Jordan. He’d looked down, studiously examining the wine as he twirled his port glass. Jordan was in his mid to late twenties, yet Gerrard found it difficult to view him as a peer; Jordan’s perpetual arrogance, his condescending attitude, his often petulant, if not truculent expression, marked him so clearly as immature.

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.