The Truth About Love (11 page)

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…