The Truth About Love (55 page)

“Indeed!” Barnaby sat forward. “We need to investigate what could possibly have drawn Millicent down into the garden. Her maid is certain she normally only strolled on the terrace, and it had rained.”

“Millicent isn’t all that fond of the gardens, y’know.” Sir Godfrey nodded. “She must have heard or seen something.”

Barnaby suddenly straightened; his gaze grew distant. “Ring for Treadle.”

Gerrard did; when the butler appeared, Barnaby put one question.

“Indeed, sir,” Treadle said. “Lady Tregonning often strolled on the terrace of a night. She had trouble sleeping.”

“Just like the elder Miss Tregonning?”

Treadle bowed. “Their habits were well-known belowstairs, sir—and, of course, I always know when the terrace door has been opened after I’ve locked up.”

Barnaby eyed him. “You don’t, by any chance, recall if the door had been opened on the night before Lady Tregonning died?”

“I do recall, as it happens, sir. I distinctly remember thinking, when she appeared so haggard at the breakfast table the next morning—the morning of the day she died—that the poor lady must have walked all night. She certainly hadn’t slept, and the terrace door had been opened.”

Barnaby thanked Treadle, who bowed and withdrew.

Sir Godfrey looked at Barnaby, horrified comprehension dawning. “You think
Miribelle
heard something, too?”

Lips set, Barnaby nodded. “I think she heard or saw something, but went back into the house…. Whatever it was, she knew what it meant, but she thought whoever was involved—the murderer, let’s say—hadn’t seen her.”

“But he had,” Gerrard said.

“Possibly. Whoever it was knew he’d been seen by someone at least—later that day, probably because of something Miribelle said or did, perhaps simply because she looked so uncommonly haggard, he guessed it was she.” Barnaby sat back. “So he killed her.”

“Which means,” Gerrard said, “that whatever Miribelle and presumably now Millicent saw or heard was dangerous, very dangerous, to the murderer.”

Barnaby nodded. “So dangerous he killed without the slightest compunction to prevent them telling…”

“Why didn’t Miribelle tell anyone, then?” Sir Godfrey asked. “If she knew what she’d seen enough to be so upset by it, why didn’t she say?”

After a moment, Barnaby admitted, “I don’t know. There’ll be a reason, but until we know what it was they both saw, we won’t be able to guess it.”

“Regardless,” Gerrard persisted, “everything hinges on what they saw. That’s the critical thing. What could it have been?”

“
Who
could it have been?” Sir Godfrey put in. “Who the devil wanders the gardens at night?”

Gerrard knew. “Eleanor Fritham, for one.” He met Sir Godfrey’s eyes. “There’s a telescope in my bedchamber—I’ve seen her on a number of nights, together with a gentleman I didn’t see well enough to identify.” Gerrard hesitated for a heartbeat, a remembered vision swimming before his eyes. “In addition to that, there’s a lover’s bower in the Garden of Night, well concealed, and someone is currently using it.”

Sir Godfrey’s brows rose high. “Is that so?” But then he frowned; after a moment he said, “Neither Miribelle nor Millicent would be likely to get hysterical over stumbling on a pair of lovers in the garden, so it won’t be that per se. However”—his tone hardened; he looked at Gerrard and Barnaby—“I propose we ask Miss Fritham just who she’s been meeting in the gardens at night, and see if either she or her beau can shed light on what Millicent saw.”

A
t Barnaby’s suggestion, Sir Godfrey sent to Tresdale Manor, requesting Eleanor’s presence at the Hall. She arrived an hour later, with Lady Fritham, who led the way into the drawing room.

“I’m sure I don’t know why you need Eleanor, Godfrey, but of course I brought her straightaway. All the ladies at my at-home are agog to know what’s afoot.” Lady Fritham smiled in pleasant query at Sir Godfrey.

The magistrate looked blank, then cleared his throat. “Ah—just a little matter I need to clear up, Maria. Perhaps…” He glanced at Barnaby. “If Mr. Adair and I could have a quiet word with Eleanor in the study, while you remain here with Marcus and Jacqueline and Mr. Debbington…”

Smiling easily at Eleanor, Barnaby offered his arm. She took it; she cast an uncertain glance at her mother, but Barnaby irresistibly led her from the room, with Sir Godfrey making haste in their wake.

“Well!” Lady Fritham looked nonplussed. “How strange.”

Seated on the chaise, Jacqueline drew in a breath, strengthened her smile, and patted the cushions beside her. “Do sit down, ma’am. Whom did you leave at the manor? I know Aunt Millicent would love to know.”

Frowning, Lady Fritham sank to the chaise. “Where is Millicent?”

“She’s a trifle indisposed,” Lord Tregonning said.

“Oh.” Lady Fritham accepted that without a blink. “Well, let me see. There’s Mrs. Elcott, of course…”

She ran through her guests; Jacqueline was racking her brains over how to spin out the conversation—but then Eleanor reappeared in the doorway.

An Eleanor transformed—her color was high, her eyes flashing. She gave every sign of being highly offended. “Come, Mama! It’s time we left.”

Lady Fritham blinked uncomprehendingly. “But my dear—”

“
Now,
Mama! I wish to leave immediately.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes at Barnaby, who came to stand just back from the doorway. “I have nothing more to say to Sir Godfrey,
or
Mr. Adair. So if you please…”

Eleanor didn’t wait for a reply, but swung on her heel and stalked off.

Lady Fritham looked stunned. “Good gracious! Well! I’m sure I don’t know…” Her hand at her throat, she rose. “Do excuse us, Marcus—I have no idea what’s got into her.”

“Of course, Maria.” Lord Tregonning and Gerrard rose, bowing as Lady Fritham, agitated, fluttered toward the door.

“Maria?” Lord Tregonning waited until Lady Fritham looked back. “Just one thing—I would appreciate it if you would inform your family and household that the Hellebore Hall gardens are to be considered out of bounds. It seems they’ve grown too dangerous.”

“Dear me! Yes, of course I’ll tell everyone, Marcus. Do tell Millicent I’ll call later to see how she is.” With a wave, Lady Fritham hurried out into the hall in the wake of her wayward daughter.

Barnaby walked in; an instant later Sir Godfrey joined them. They all waited for the front door to shut, then Gerrard asked, “What did you learn?”

“Very little.” Barnaby dropped into a chair. “She flatly denied ever being in the gardens at night. She was lying through her teeth.”

“Indeed.” Sir Godfrey sank heavily into an armchair. “Never seen her like that before—all bold as brass and spit in your eye.”

“She panicked,” Barnaby said. “And took a high tone to conceal it.”

Sir Godfrey humphed. “What I want to know is who she’s lying to protect. Someone must know.” He looked at Jacqueline. “Who’s she interested in, heh? Anyone she’s been seen with?”

Jacqueline opened her lips to say she had no idea, then paused. The four men all noticed her hesitation, and waited. She felt color rise to her cheeks; she briefly debated the question of loyalty to a friend, then remembered her aunt lying upstairs, silent and still. She drew in a deep breath. “Eleanor has a lover. I don’t know who, but…” She gestured vaguely. “She’s been seeing him for years.”

Sir Godfrey’s brows couldn’t get any higher. “Same man for all those years?”

“As far as I know. And before you ask, I have absolutely no idea, no clue, as to who he might be.”

“But he’s someone who’s always here?” Barnaby asked. “In the area?”

Jacqueline shrugged. “As far as I know.”

Sir Godfrey frowned. “We’ll have to find someone who knows more about Miss Fritham’s secret lover.”

They’d all heard footsteps in the hall, coming from the front door; all had assumed it was Treadle. But the footsteps abruptly stopped—just beyond the open door. As one, they looked up.

Mitchel Cunningham stood framed in the doorway, his face pale, his expression stunned. He stared at Sir Godfrey as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, then he blinked, and frowned. He took a step nearer. “Is anything wrong?”

“Mitchel—do come in.” Lord Tregonning beckoned. “You might be able to help us with this.”

Swiftly, Lord Tregonning outlined what had happened; they all watched Mitchel’s face—his shock was beyond question sincere.

“Good God! But she’s all right?”

“Yes.” Sir Godfrey took up the tale. “But…” He explained they were now searching for the gentleman Eleanor was in the habit of meeting in the gardens at night. “Do you have any idea who this blighter might be?”

Gerrard didn’t know if it was his artist’s perception, or if his connection with Jacqueline had made him more sensitive, but he had no difficulty reading the pained—nay, tortured—expression in Mitchel’s eyes. For form’s sake, he quietly asked, “It wasn’t you, was it?”

His tone made it clear the words were more statement than question. Mitchel’s dark eyes deflected to his face. Mitchel met his gaze, then slowly shook his head. “It wasn’t me.” The words were hollow, achingly empty.

None of them doubted he spoke the truth.

Lord Tregonning cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mitchel.”

Mitchel nodded; he barely seemed to see them. “If you’ll excuse me?”

They let him go.

When his footsteps had died away, Sir Godfrey asked, “Am I right in thinking…”

Gerrard nodded. “Mitchel has, I think, nurtured hopes, although I doubt it’s gone beyond that.”

“Hopes we’ve just dashed,” Lord Tregonning said. “But better he learn now than later.”

Briefly, they revisited all they’d learned; Sir Godfrey asked about protection for Millicent, and was reassured.

“When she wakes, she’ll be able to point her finger at the villain.” His gaze hard, Sir Godfrey sounded uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. “And heaven help him after that.”

T
hey determined to forge ahead with the ball. Gerrard, Barnaby and Lord Tregonning spent the afternoon writing and dispatching invitations, while Jacqueline attended to all the myriad arrangements.

After dinner, she retired to sit with Millicent, leaving the men discussing their plans. Later, Gerrard fetched her from Millicent’s room, and followed her to hers.

Leading the way in, she crossed to the windows, and stood looking out at the black velvet sky. Closing the door, Gerrard paused, considering the line of her spine, head erect, the way she’d folded her arms. There were no candles burning; the room was washed with gray shadows. Slowly, he followed her, wondering.

Halting behind her, he reached for her, and drew her back against him. She leaned back, let her head settle against his shoulder. He glanced down at her face, at her stormy expression, and waited.

Eventually, she drew a long breath. “It’s always,
always,
people who love me, who care for me, who get hurt. Who
die.
” Her next breath shook. “I don’t want you to be in their number.”

He bent his head, brushed his lips over her temple. “I won’t be. And Millicent isn’t dead—there’s no change for the worse, no reason to think she’ll die. Regardless, trust me, I’m not about to let this villain take me from you.” With his gaze, he traced her face. “I’m not about to let him deny us this—what we have, what our future will be.”

Commitment rang in his tone; Jacqueline heard it, and felt tears sting her eyes. What if she believed him, and then…

“It won’t happen.” Gerrard breathed the words across her ear; his grip firmed, holding her more securely. “All the times before, it was one person alone he had to deal with—this time, there’s all of us. We’re all ranged against him—you, me, Barnaby, your father, Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles, Sir Godfrey. This time, he can’t win.”

Her champion, he’d gathered supporters to her cause; without him, she’d still be trapped in the nightmarish web her tormentor had spun.

Jacqueline closed her hands over his at her waist, felt the strength in his hard, warm body at her back. For the first time, she understood in her heart the nature of the fear that drove him to protect her, even over her protests. If she could lock him away somewhere safe until the villain had been caught, she would, in a blink.

It seemed his mind was following a similar tack. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about announcing our betrothal.”

Not, she noted, about agreeing to marry him, which she still hadn’t done. “I told you—ask me once he’s caught. Until then”—she turned in his arms, lifting hers to circle his neck, meeting his gaze—“we’re just lovers.”

His eyes, dark in the night, held hers. A long moment passed, then he shook his head. “No. We’re not.”

He bent his head, covered her lips with his—and showed her. Demonstrated, orchestrated a shattering display of how far beyond mere lovers they were.

Impossible to deny, not just him, but the reality of what had come to be, of the depth, the breadth, the overwhelming power of the connection that had grown between them. The heat, the searing need, the possessiveness that flamed and raced through them both, cindering any inhibitions, any residual reservations. It opened the door to passion unrestrained, to rampant desire and its assuagement. Infused their minds and drove them, invested their touch, their bodies, their souls.