The Truth About Love (40 page)

“How…arrogant.” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed; she glanced again at the doorway. “He refused point-blank to dally with me in the gardens last night—he was quite curt about it, too. Indeed, I’m starting to wonder about Mr. Debbington—about whether he’s a trifle queer.”

“Oh?” Jacqueline heard the defensive note in her voice; she fought to convert it to simple curiosity. “Queer in what way?”

“Well, you know what they say about artists.” Eleanor lowered her voice. “Perhaps he’s one of those who prefer boys rather than women.”

Jacqueline was thankful Eleanor was still looking at the doorway, and so missed her slack jaw. Words of denial leapt to her tongue; she swallowed them just in time. “Ah…surely not.”

How could she defend Gerrard over such a charge—how could she explain how she knew?

Another thought struck. Was this how rumors, damaging whispers without any foundation, started? Just a spiteful, speculative comment, and…

She glanced around, confirming no one else stood close enough to have heard.

Lady Tannahay caught her eye and beckoned.

“Come.” Jacqueline wound her arm in Eleanor’s, determined to distract her from her latest tack. “Lady Tannahay wishes to speak with us.”

Ruthlessly, she drew Eleanor with her, away from other, less well informed minds.

T
hrough the open nursery window, Gerrard had heard the chatter of many voices drifting up from the terrace. He’d glanced at the small clock Compton had placed on the scarred mantelpiece, sighed and set aside his brushes, then headed downstairs to change his shirt.

He was striding down the corridor to the gallery when Barnaby appeared, heading his way. “How is it?” he asked.

“Interesting.” Halting, Barnaby waited until he joined him. “They’re all eager to hear more. From the prevailing attitude, I’d say we’re well on the way to ensuring no one suspects Jacqueline of any involvement in Thomas’s murder.”

Turning to walk beside him, Barnaby went on, “As for her mother’s death, some of the ladies are indeed wondering whether that, too, is a conclusion that needs revisiting.”

Gerrard glanced at him. “Have any of them broached the subject?”

“No. It’s more a case of them suddenly being struck by the possibility, but as yet no one is game to openly question the accepted truth.”

Gerrard looked ahead. “So we still need the portrait.”

“Indubitably. The portrait will give them precisely the right opportunity to voice their wonderings aloud.” Reaching the stairs, they went quickly down. “And that,” Barnaby declared, “is the opening we need.”

They stepped off the stairs, both concealing their resolution behind the affable masks they used to charm. With assured ease, they strolled into the drawing room; exchanging a glance, they parted.

Gerrard saw Jacqueline speaking with Lady Tannahay, Eleanor beside her. Both were facing away; neither had seen him. Deeming Jacqueline for the moment safe, he paused to chat to the numerous other ladies keen to pass the time—to politely inquire about his family, his stay in the area, but most importantly to learn all he knew of Thomas Entwhistle’s death.

Barnaby was similarly engaged on the opposite side of the room. Seated on the central chaise, Millicent held court. The entire gathering, including those who’d stepped out onto the terrace to admire the view—and stare at the cypresses in the Garden of Hades—exuded a significantly different tone to that which had held sway when they’d first set foot in Lady Trewarren’s ballroom. Eyes had been opened, perceptions turned around. Barnaby was right; over the matter of Thomas’s death, they’d succeeded in lifting suspicion from Jacqueline.

Buoyed, Gerrard smiled; reassured, increasingly relaxed, he circled the room to join Jacqueline.

She looked up when he halted beside her, and smiled. Warmth leapt to her eyes and set them glowing; her lips softened. “Hello.”

He met her eyes, inclined his head.

A heartbeat passed, then she blinked, recollected herself and faced forward. “Lady Tannahay has been asking after you—after the portrait.”

“Indeed.” Her lips curving, her eyes twinkling, Lady Tannahay extended her hand.

Gerrard took it and bowed. He answered her ladyship’s queries readily, and was rewarded with her suggestion that he take the two young ladies for a stroll on the terrace. They parted from her ladyship with a bow and curtsies. Gerrard drew Jacqueline closer, his hand at the back of her waist as he turned her toward the French doors.

She looked up at him, that same open, transparently trusting expression softening her countenance; he felt as if he was literally basking in the glow, then he looked past her, to Eleanor Fritham.

Eleanor’s expression had blanked; she looked from him to Jacqueline, then, eyes narrowing, glanced once more at him before turning her attention, now acute and frankly chilly, to Jacqueline. “I
thought
—”

“Ladies.” He spoke over Eleanor, drowning her words, deflecting their edge. Smiling charmingly, he took Jacqueline’s arm. “Shall we stroll?”

Smiling in return, Jacqueline nodded, then looked at Eleanor.

Over Jacqueline’s head, he met Eleanor’s eyes.

She’d heard the warning in his tone, read the same message in his eyes. She hesitated, then nodded, thin-lipped. “By all means—let’s walk on the terrace.”

He didn’t like her tone, and even less the impression that she was planning to pay him back for his rejection of her—and his preference for Jacqueline.

But by the time they’d gained the terrace, Eleanor had reverted to her customary friendliness, at least toward Jacqueline. Toward him, she remained watchful and sharp-eyed. Like a stalking cat.

Jacqueline was lighthearted, relaxed, her gaze warming whenever it rested on him. He was certain she wasn’t aware of it, or of how easily Eleanor at least was reading her reaction and, he would swear, interpreting it correctly. Jacqueline’s innate openness left her blind to Eleanor’s two faces.

He was alert, on guard, but they moved through the ladies gathered on the terrace, chatting here and there, and nothing happened. He’d started to relax again when abuptly Eleanor halted and, smiling, turned to Jacqueline.

“Let’s go down and stroll through the Garden of Night.” They were standing before the main garden stairs. Eleanor spread her arms, attracting the attention of other ladies nearby. “It’s a lovely afternoon, and I’m sure Mr. Debbington would like to view the garden with a guide who knows it well.” She focused on Jacqueline. “You haven’t taken him through it, have you?”

He glanced at Jacqueline; her expression had grown stony, rigid—distant. Her inner shields had sprung up.

“No.” The word was flat, expressionless.

Her fingers had tightened on his arm.

Eleanor shook her head, smiling in fond exasperation. “I don’t know why you won’t walk there anymore—your mama’s been gone for over a year. You’ll have to venture in there again sometime.”

With a bold, brazen smile, Eleanor reached to take his arm.

Jacqueline caught her wrist.

Eleanor jerked, taken aback. Her eyes widened.

Releasing Eleanor, Jacqueline drew a deep breath. Gerrard glanced at her, concerned, and saw her walls come down, saw her deliberately lower them, leaving her emotions exposed, letting what she felt—all she felt—show.

“I will walk there again—someday. But in case you’ve forgotten, my mother didn’t
go
—someone flung her to her death, into the Garden of Night. And that someone wasn’t me. Mama died down there, alone. I won’t walk there again until we learn who her killer was, until he’s been exposed, and has paid for what he did. Then, yes, I’ll walk again in the Garden of Night, and perhaps show Mr. Debbington its treasures. Until then…I fear you’ll have to excuse me.”

Her voice had gained strength with every word. Her last sentence was a regal declaration. With a cold nod to Eleanor, Jacqueline turned away. He turned, too, retaking her hand and placing it on his sleeve.

She glanced up at him, determination and resolution clear in her face. “I believe we’ve strolled long enough out here.”

“Indeed.” He glanced over the heads, into the drawing room. “Tea has been served. We should go in.”

She nodded. Head high, she didn’t look back as he steered her over the threshold. About to follow, he glanced back, noting the barely suppressed surprise—and the welling approval—in the eyes of the ladies who’d overheard the exchange. Noted, too, the stunned, utterly dumbfounded look on Eleanor Fritham’s face.

He guided Jacqueline to a quiet spot a little way from the central chaise. Leaving her for a moment, he fetched her a cup of tea. Handing it to her, he smiled—not his charming smile but a private, totally sincere expression. “Bravo!” He kept his voice low as he turned to stand beside her, facing the room. “That was very well done.”

She sipped, then set her cup on the saucer. “Do you think so?”

She didn’t look up, but glanced at the guests—at the ripple of conversation that was spreading from the French doors through the room.

“I would describe it as a command performance, except it wasn’t a performance. You spoke the truth, from the heart—everyone who heard realized how hard that was to do.”

He looked down, caught her gaze as she glanced up. “No matter how annoying Eleanor might be, in this case, she set the stage for you perfectly—and you had the courage to seize the moment and play the most difficult role.”

Jacqueline studied his eyes, drank in the undisguised, patently sincere admiration she read in them. Felt her heart lift. “I thought you said it wasn’t a performance?”

“It wasn’t.” His eyes remained steady on hers. “The role you had to play was you.”

H
e understood her so well. Far better than any other ever had. Jacqueline had no idea what she’d done to deserve such a boon from fate, but she wasn’t about to refuse it.

Wasn’t about to waste one precious minute she might spend in his arms.

That night, she waited until Holly left her room, counted to twenty, then rose from her dressing stool, tightened her robe’s sash, and all but flew from the room.

To his. To him.

To the pleasure she knew she would find there, and to learn more, to delve deeper into the mysterious realm that had opened between them.

Of that, she wanted to know a great deal more.

On swift, slippered feet, she sped through the gallery. Remembering the fraught scene of the afternoon—the scene she’d not simply suffered through, as until now had been her habit, but had grasped and turned to her advantage, all because Gerrard had shown her the need to be herself, and had convinced her she had the strength to do it, to play that most difficult of roles—she glanced out of the windows, down at the terrace, at the glimmer of marble that was the steps leading down, at the dark conglomeration of canopies that marked the Garden of Night, rustling in the breeze.

Frowning, she slowed, then stopped and stepped to the window. She looked to left and right, confirming that there was no breeze. Not even the tips of the tall, feathery herbs in the Garden of Vesta were stirring.

She looked again at the bushes surrounding the upper entrance to the Garden of Night. They’d definitely moved, but now were as still as the rest of the gardens. She pulled a face. “One of the kitchen cats—must be.”

Turning, she continued along the gallery, her attention reverting to her goal.

S
ee?
I told you! She’s off to his room—the
trollop
.”

“Keep your voice down.”

A long moment passed. Cloaked in the heavy shadows of the entrance to the Garden of Night, the first speaker stirred, and glanced, sharply, at the other. “Did you know he’s started her portrait?”

The other shrugged and made no reply.

“I tell you, it’s
serious
! You should hear what the old biddies are saying—how if the portrait shows her as innocent, they’ll have to think again. They’re starting to
expect
to have to think again.”

“Are they?” The words were softly uttered. A moment passed. “Now, that won’t do.”

“Precisely! So what are we going to do to stop it?”

Another long silence ensued. Eventually, the other spoke, voice flat, even, cold. “Don’t worry—I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

“You’ll see. Come on.” The larger figure turned into the enshrouding darkness of Venus’s garden. “Let’s go in.”

J
acqueline reached Gerrard’s room and whisked through the door. Shutting it, she looked across the room, and saw him standing by the windows.

He’d been looking out, but had turned. No lamps were lit; cloaked in shadow, he watched as she crossed the room to him.

As she neared, she looked into his face. The planes were hard-edged, angular and unreadable. Impassive and implacable. Boldly, she walked to him. Walked into his embrace as he reached for her; his hands slid around her waist, fingers flexing, grasping, drawing her to him and holding her.