The Truth About Love (33 page)

Smoothly, unhurriedly, he lifted her and set her on her feet. Retaining one hand, he rose and stood beside her.

With unshakable savoir faire, he nodded to Eleanor and Matthew. “Miss Fritham. Mr. Brisenden. Have you been down by the lake?”

Gerrard kept his tone polite, faintly bored, as if he was discussing a stroll in the park. A kiss did not qualify as a major indiscretion; he refused to allow them to treat it as such.

Matthew glowered at him. Gerrard quashed the impulse to smile in return. He’d never expected to be thankful to see Brisenden’s disapproving countenance, yet he was. Who knew what he might have revealed if Jacqueline had continued her persuasion?

A gong sounded, resonating through the trees.

“Ah—luncheon.” Setting Jacqueline’s hand on his sleeve, he raised his brows in polite query at Eleanor and Matthew, and waved to the path leading to the house. “Shall we?”

They had no option but to follow as he led Jacqueline up the path; Eleanor did so quite readily; Matthew would, Gerrard suspected, have preferred to call him out, but, still glowering darkly, tramped reluctantly behind them.

Eleanor, unsurprisingly, came up on his other side. Acknowledging her with the most distant of nods, he kept his attention on Jacqueline, instituting a conversation about the various trees they passed; there were times when his hobby was distinctly useful.

Jacqueline responded glibly; far from being embarrassed or trepidatious over being discovered indulging, he sensed she was irritated, sharply annoyed with her importunate friends.

The observation gave him heart; perhaps he’d achieved something today.

Something aside from having attracted Eleanor’s attention in a way he’d up to now avoided.

He’d known his share of predatory females; Eleanor was definitely one. Now that she’d seen evidence of his interest in Jacqueline, specifically the nature of that interest, her blood was up. She thought he was interested in dalliance, and was about to offer her charms.

He was defensively aware of the speculative glances Eleanor threw him as they walked back to the terrace. She didn’t attempt to join his and Jacqueline’s conversation, but eyed him as if she was measuring him to the last inch, and deciding just how to harness him.

She was destined for disappointment, but what intrigued him more was that Jacqueline was aware of Eleanor’s avid interest. He saw it, saw Jacqueline notice Eleanor’s assessing looks, saw comprehension and more in Jacqueline’s eyes.

But she didn’t look at him. Didn’t glance up to see if he’d noticed, or if he was responding. Not a hint of jealousy, or possessiveness, invested her demeanor, but she was watching, noting, nonetheless.

Was she so sure of him, of her hold on his senses?

Or did she truly not care?

The latter option bothered him more than he liked. Even more than her earlier question and her threat of waiting for him to answer before she declared herself his. That was definitely not part of his plan.

They were first to the terrace, but to his relief, the others came up in a laughing, chattering throng before they’d finished helping themselves to the cold meats and pastries set out on a table.

Barnaby was among those returning from the lake. Gerrard summoned him with a look; encouraging Jacqueline to draw the younger girls to their table, they endeavored to hold Eleanor at bay.

Temporarily defeated, she joined Jordan’s circle, but she paid scant attention to her brother’s discourse. Her eyes remained fixed on Gerrard, occasionally sliding to Barnaby, but returning, always, to Gerrard. Jordan’s gaze also frequently came his way.

Inwardly, Gerrard swore and remained on guard.

Just as well; as they all left, going down the front steps in a gay, noisy group, exchanging promises and challenges for when they met again that evening, Eleanor maneuvered to come up beside him. He led Jacqueline to his curricle. His grays stamped, unimpressed by the high-pitched voices; a groom held on to their bits, reverently crooning.

Barnaby had gone to the other side of the curricle; it was just roomy enough to accommodate three.

Alongside, Jordan’s curricle stood waiting with a pair of showy bays between the shafts.

“I wonder, Mr. Debbington…” Boldly, Eleanor gripped his arm, forcing him to halt and face her. She smiled. “I wonder if I might suggest Jacqueline and I swap places, at least until the turnoff to the manor.” She let her gaze sweep his horses, then turned her eyes on him. “I’ve a great penchant for powerful beasts. I find them quite fascinating.”

Gerrard resisted the urge to roll his eyes; even more smoothly than she, he replied, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’ve arranged to take an alternative route.”

“Oh?” Eleanor’s gaze and tone sharpened. “To where?”

In a different direction to the one she was heading in; beyond that, Gerrard had no clue. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would so impertinently question him.

Before he could utter the annihilating setdown spontaneously forming on his tongue, Jacqueline’s fingers tightened on his sleeve; leaning forward, she spoke across him. “Mr. Debbington expressed an interest in viewing the church at Trewithian. With luck, we’ll just have time to head that way, then return to the Hall.”

Eleanor deflated. “Oh. I see.”

Jacqueline smiled lightly; reaching out, she lifted Eleanor’s hand from Gerrard’s other sleeve, squeezed it in farewell and released it. “We’ll see you tonight.”

Eleanor nodded, disappointed, but amiable enough. “Yes, of course.”

Gerrard blinked, and hurriedly added an abbreviated farewell; Barnaby, already in the curricle, waved. With not the slightest sign she understood that she’d just been put in her place, Eleanor inclined her head, and turned away.

For one instant, Gerrard stared. Then he inwardly shook himself, turned and helped Jacqueline into his curricle, followed, gathered the reins, sat, and set his horses trotting.

“Phew!” Barnaby leaned back as the wheels rolled smoothly down the drive. “That was a near-run thing.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “Quick thinking, too. You have my heartfelt gratitude for saving us, m’dear.”

“Indeed.” Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, and caught her eyes; they were lightly dancing. “Should I really turn east?”

She looked at the gates, rapidly approaching. “I think we’d better. But it’s a pleasant drive and not that much further. Especially with such”—she gestured to his grays—“
powerful beasts
.”

Gerrard laughed; so did Barnaby.

Her smile deepening, Jacqueline looked ahead.

D
espite the roundabout route, they returned to Hellebore Hall in good time. Gerrard drove straight to the stables, then he, Jacqueline and Barnaby walked across the field toward the house. Pegasus watched over them; Jacqueline smiled as they passed the statue.

Over her head, Gerrard glanced at Barnaby. “Did you learn anything?”

Barnaby had intended subtly sounding out the younger generation over the source of the whispers. He’d questioned Lord Tregonning; thinking back, all his lordship could recall was that after he’d emerged from his grief over his wife’s death, Sir Godfrey and Lord Fritham had both behaved as if everyone
knew
that Jacqueline had been responsible. Everyone had behaved in that way, avoiding speaking of the incident, and if they couldn’t, referring to it as an accident. Lord Tregonning had accepted the unspoken verdict; his grief had left him unable to question it, and without detailed knowledge to challenge it.

Only later, when the pall of grief had fully lifted, had he come to find that unspoken verdict hard to swallow.

Barnaby had been hunting, bloodhoundlike trying to track the whispers to their source. Gerrard wasn’t sure it would prove possible, but he was grateful Barnaby was so tirelessly investigating every possible avenue.

Hands in his pockets, Barnaby grimaced. “Only that the whispers have been spread over a long time—no one remembers from whom they first heard the suggestion that Jacqueline was responsible for her mother’s death. The association with Thomas’s death is an extension of that.” After a moment, he went on, “Jordan and Eleanor are the most open in their support.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I gathered they’ve always been quick to take your part.”

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?

I
t’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.