The Truth About Love (13 page)

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?”

She studied his face, then lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“How did you know?”

Because she and Millicent had concocted the plan and Millicent had seeded it into her father’s brain. She decided against confessing, not until she knew why he was so angry. “He didn’t tell me, but once I heard of your reputation, his…
purpose
wasn’t hard to guess.”

“Not for you, or for any of those others interested in the mystery of your mother’s death.”

A vise slowly tightened about her chest; she ignored it. “I suspect that’s so, although I haven’t thought much of it.”

“
They’ve
certainly thought of it.”

She hoped so, but his tone sounded vicious. Unsure of his direction, she made no response.

After a long moment of, distinctly grimly, studying her face, he abruptly said, “Let’s take off the gloves here.”

When she raised her brows in surprise, he clarified, “And speak plainly. For some reason that I’ve yet to fathom,
you
are suspected of being in some way behind your mother’s falling from that terrace”—he stabbed a finger toward the place in question—“to her death. Your father”—his jaw clenched; hands gripping his hips, he swung and paced away—“being one of those who credit portrait painters with an ability to see beyond any superficial façade, has commissioned me to paint a portrait of you, presumably convinced that I will see, and through my painting reveal, your guilt or innocence.”

Reined temper—nay, fury—invested every sharp, decisive movement; it resonated in his tone, in the crisply bitten-off words. Swinging around, he stalked back to her. Halting before her, he looked into her face. “Is that correct?”

She held his gaze, replayed all he’d said, then nodded. Once. “Yes.”

For one second, she thought he’d explode. Then he swung violently away, hands rising to the sky as if invoking the gods whose gardens surrounded them. “In the name of all Heaven,
why
?”

He swung back; his gaze impaled her. “Why does your father suspect
you
? How
can
he suspect you? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

She stared at him, dumbstruck, for one heartbeat quite sure the earth beneath her feet had tilted. Slowly, she blinked, but his expression—the charged conviction she could see in it, limned in silver—didn’t change. Softly, she exhaled; the vise about her lungs eased a notch. “How do you know?”

He did know, absolutely; it was written in his face. He’d already seen the truth where others did not.

Impatient, he pulled a face, but the intensity in his expression didn’t waver. “I see—I know. Believe me, I know.” He moved closer, his gaze razor sharp as he examined her face. “I’ve seen evil—I’ve looked into the eyes of more than one man who truly was evil. Some people hide it well, but if I spend sufficient time with them, they’ll slip and it’ll show—and I’ll know.”

He paused, then went on, his gaze steadying on her eyes. “I’ve been watching you carefully, albeit for less than two days. What I’ve seen is all manner of emotions, complicated and complex feelings, but of the shadow of evil I’ve seen not a trace.”

After a moment, he added, “I would have by now if it was there. What I see is something quite different.”

His voice had changed, softened. Enough for her to feel she could ask, “What do you see?”

He looked at her for the space of ten slow heartbeats, then shook his head. “I’m not good with words—I paint things I can’t describe.”

She wasn’t sure that was the truth, but before she could think of how to probe, he asked, “I need to know before I speak with him—why does your father think you were in any way involved with your mother’s death?”

Apprehension flared. “Why—what are you going to speak with him about?”

His temper returned; the smile he flashed her was all restrained violence. “Because I have no intention of being his unwitting pawn in judging his daughter.”

“No!” She grasped his sleeve. “Please—you
must
do the portrait. You agreed!”

Her desperation rang clearly. He frowned, then he twisted his arm, breaking her grip, catching her hand. She felt his fingers move over hers, then they stilled.

A moment passed, then he sighed. He raked his other hand through his hair, met her eyes again. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you simply tell him you’re innocent? Force him to believe you—surely he will? He’s your
father
.”

His frown deepened. “You shouldn’t have to go through this, to face what amounts to a public examination with me as your inquisitor, laying all you are bare.”

Concern, open and sincere, colored his tone—concern for her. It had been so long since she’d been offered such straightforward and unconditional support—and more, defense—she wanted to close her eyes, wrap herself in all the tenor of his voice conveyed, and wallow.

But he was confused, and he had to understand—had to understand and agree to paint her portrait.

She drew in a long breath, felt the cool night air reach her brain. She glanced around; her gaze fell on the bench around the central fountain, presently silent and still. She gestured. “Let’s sit, and I’ll explain what happened, and you’ll see why things are as they are.”

Why I need you to paint me as I truly am.

He didn’t release her hand, but led her to the bench, waited until she sat, then sat beside her. Leaning forward, one elbow on his knee so he could watch her face, he closed his hand around hers—and waited.

She was supremely conscious of his nearness; ignoring her prickling senses, she cleared her throat. “Papa…you must understand he’s in an invidious position. He loved my mother dearly—she was literally the light of his life. When she died, that light went out and he lost…his connection with the world. He was dependent on her in that sense, so losing her was doubly difficult for him. This is what happened, what he knows.”

Pausing, she assembled the facts in her mind. “My mother and I got along well, as well as any mother and daughter. Socially speaking, I’m more like her than Papa—I quite enjoy entertaining, the balls and parties. Mama lived for them—entertaining was a central part of her existence. She and I shared our liking of that part of life, but I’m also my father’s daughter, and can manage perfectly well on a diet of peace and quiet that would have driven Mama insane.”

A small smile curved her lips as she remembered; she felt it fade as her memories rolled on. “She was thrilled when Thomas Entwhistle started calling—he’s the son of Sir Harvey Entwhistle. I suppose you would say he was my suitor. We planned to wed, we talked of announcing our betrothal…and then Thomas disappeared.

“Mama was…upset. As was I, of course, but after a time she seemed to think that I’d said something to Thomas to send him off, but I hadn’t.” She frowned, looked down. And saw her hand cradled in Gerrard’s strong fingers. She drew breath and went on, “That was the start of a…” She paused, then shrugged. “I suppose it was a growing estrangement. No specific break, just a stepping back on her part—I never understood why. Perhaps with time…but then…”

She drew a huge breath; lifting her head, she looked straight ahead, felt Gerrard’s fingers firm about hers. “The day of her death, she came down late to breakfast—Papa had already gone to his study. She passed Mitchel in the doorway as he left. She looked…as if she hadn’t slept all night.”

She glanced at Gerrard. “My mother was beautiful, but even the slightest illness showed in her face. I asked what was wrong, but she denied anything was. She plainly wanted me to ignore her state, so I did. Then she realized I was in my riding habit. I can remember her looking at me—no, at
it
…it was so strange. She’d seen the habit any number of times—she’d bought it for me—but that morning she looked at it as if it were…oh, greasy kitchen rags. A nauseating sight. She asked where I was going—her voice was odd. I told her I was going riding with the others—she went dead white, and said no.

“I was so taken aback I laughed. But then I realized she was in earnest. I asked why not, but she would only shake her head and say I couldn’t go.”

She sighed; the deadening feeling that afflicted her whenever she thought of the rest of that day slipped slowly down her veins. “We argued. Increasingly bitterly. The servants heard, of course, and I think Mitchel did, too—his office is just down the hall from the breakfast parlor. She simply kept saying I couldn’t go riding—no reason, no explanation of any kind. She got increasingly strident…in the end, I simply walked out.”

When she didn’t go on, Gerrard stroked her hand, gently prompted, “And?”

“I went riding.”

He frowned. “And she fell from the terrace?”

She shook her head. “No. That was sometime later. This was the morning. I rode out, and we went into St. Just. I didn’t get back until mid-afternoon, and went straight to my room. Despite the ride, I was…upset. Unhappy and uncertain. I didn’t know what would happen, but I wasn’t going to be treated like a child, told I couldn’t go here or there with no reason.

“I threw myself on my bed—and fell asleep. Later, I woke, bathed and dressed for dinner, then went down. My father came down—I could tell he knew nothing of the argument. Then Mitchel came in, and we waited for my mother to appear.” She lifted her free hand in a small gesture. “She never did.”

After a moment, she went on, “Eventually, Papa sent upstairs and Mama’s maid came hurrying down, saying Mama hadn’t come up to change for dinner. She’d had afternoon tea in the parlor, but when Treadle collected the tray, she wasn’t there. He’d assumed she was walking on the terrace, or had gone down into the gardens.

“Everyone thought she must have gone walking and perhaps sprained her ankle. The servants went out to look; they scoured the gardens. They didn’t search the Garden of Night until last, because it’s so close to the house—you can hear anyone calling from there, and anyone there can hear those on the terrace. But she couldn’t, of course, because she was dead.”

Gerrard sat, slowly stroking his fingers over her hand, putting all she’d told him in sequence, in context. “I still don’t understand why anyone would imagine you had a hand in your mother’s death.”

She laughed, not humorously; there was pain in the sound. “You could say that came about by default.” She looked down at her fingers, locked in his. “Default in the sense that there were no other suspects. Also in the sense that I didn’t protest my innocence, not until far too late.”

She drew in an unsteady breath. “Immediately after…when they found her and later, I was distraught. Despite that odd estrangement, we’d still been very close. I was…in anguish, not just over her death and the manner of it, but because of the argument, because she’d gone with that between us, because the last words we’d exchanged were so horrible.”

Her voice quavered; she swallowed and shook her head. “I cried for days. I don’t remember all I said—all I know is that people view how I behaved then as a sign of my guilt.”

Gerrard felt his jaw clench. To honestly and openly grieve for a parent, then have that held against one, used against one…he smothered the caustic words that rose to his tongue; her revelations were flowing freely—not a good time to interrupt.

She went on, her voice low but clear, her gaze fixed on their linked hands. “We went into deep mourning—I didn’t set foot out of the house for three months and I didn’t receive callers. I don’t remember much of that time other than that Millicent came for the funeral and stayed. I don’t know what I would have done without her.