The Truth About Love (22 page)

“Excellent point,” Barnaby conceded. “It definitely wasn’t a lady.”

“Therefore,” Gerrard concluded, his jaw firming as he led the way into the house, “not Jacqueline.”

S
he didn’t come down to dinner.

“She asked for a tray in her room,” Millicent said in response to Gerrard’s query. “She said she needed a little time alone to absorb the shock.”

He murmured an “Of course,” and pretended to accept it, but his mind, his imagination, churned.

As always, dinner was a quiet meal, leaving him plenty of time to think. With a few stilted comments, Lord Tregonning made it clear he considered the subject of Entwhistle’s death closed. Barnaby shot Gerrard a questioning look, clearly asking whether they should challenge that; almost imperceptibly, Gerrard shook his head and mouthed, “Not yet.”

His first priority was Jacqueline.

After dinner, increasingly restless, he joined Millicent and Barnaby in the drawing room.

“This latest
nonsense,
” Millicent declared, “will simply not do! It’s dreadful for Jacqueline, and poor Thomas, too. While people assume it’s her doing, the real killer goes
free
!”

He and Barnaby assured her they had absolutely no intention of letting the matter rest. Mollified, Millicent confirmed that, although her friends in the neighborhood had always kept her apprised of local happenings, she’d never heard of any dispute involving Thomas, not of the sort that might have led to murder. Dismissing that as a motive, they turned to the other plausible reason, that someone had killed Thomas because he was about to offer for Jacqueline’s hand, and would most likely have been accepted.

Gerrard looked at Millicent. “Is that correct—that he was about to offer, and would have been accepted?”

“Oh, yes. The match was a favorable one on all counts.”

“So who,” Barnaby asked, “were the jealous hopefuls Thomas’s success with Jacqueline threatened?”

He suggested Matthew Brisenden, but Millicent dismissed that idea out of hand. She was adamant, even though Barnaby pressed.

“No, no—he’s cast himself in the role of her protector—a knight errant. His duty is to serve, not to marry her. You shouldn’t take his attitude to mean he has any serious
matrimonial
interest in her—I’m sure he hasn’t.”

Reluctantly Gerrard confirmed that Jacqueline had said much the same.

“Indeed.” Millicent nodded. “I don’t think you should imagine Matthew was jealous of Thomas.”

“Nevertheless,” Barnaby said, “Brisenden might have had some reason to view Thomas as a danger to Jacqueline. That’s an equally strong motive for him to attack Thomas, and he was known to be in the vicinity.”

Millicent pulled a face. “I hate to admit it, but that
is
a possibility. However, a better bet would be Sir Vincent Perry—he’s had his eye on Jacqueline for years.”

So Sir Vincent, whom Gerrard and Barnaby had yet to meet, went on their list, along with unknown others yet to be identified let alone discounted. The exercise left them disheartened. Barnaby admitted proving who killed Thomas might not now be possible. On that somber note they retired.

They parted in the gallery and went to their respective rooms.

Gerrard spoke with Compton; he’d heard nothing useful.

“They’re a bit shocked. In a day or so, as they mull things over, someone might remember something. I’ll keep listening, you may be sure.”

According to Compton, the staff had never imagined that Jacqueline was in any way involved with either Thomas’s disappearance, or her mother’s death. “Doesn’t seem to have occurred to them at all.”

Dismissing Compton, Gerrard stood before the windows; hands in his pockets, he thought of what they knew about both murders. If people viewed the facts rationally, with an unclouded mind, Jacqueline’s innocence shone like a beacon. But people hadn’t, and wouldn’t, because someone had clouded the issue. Deliberately.

Someone had, with malice aforethought, cast Jacqueline as a scapegoat.

Something dark within him leapt, all gnashing teeth and sharp claws. Muttering a savage curse, he suppressed it; now was not the time for that sort of action—he couldn’t see the enemy yet.

He looked out at the dark gardens, at the black and purple sky, at the roiling clouds forming fantastical shapes as they blew in from the west; a landscape artist’s dream, he barely saw them.

Rescuing Jacqueline was now critical to him. Not just for her sake, but for his, too.

How she felt, how she was. That was his immediate and all-consuming focus; since Barnaby had told them of the body, the question hadn’t left the forefront of his brain. He was worried, concerned, about her—anxious, with his heart uncertain and his gut tight.

Part of him wanted to pretend it was just his painterly instincts wanting to observe her in an emotional state, but that was balderdash. He
cared
for her in the same vein he cared for Patience, and other females like Amanda and Amelia…that was closer to the truth, yet still not all of it.

His imagination was too active not to create visions of her alone in her room, grieving, yes, but more—feeling her aloneness, feeling helpless. Thomas would have been her champion once, but he’d disappeared, left her alone—at least now she knew it hadn’t been deliberately.

But he was her champion now.

He swung from the windows and paced, frustration growing. The clock struck eleven; he glowered at it, at the reminder of how many more hours he would have to endure before he saw her again, before he could reassure this insistent and strangely vulnerable part of him that she was whole, still well…still willing to explore what lay between them with him.

That last part of his motive was there, to be sure, but somewhat to his surprise it wasn’t the predominant element; knowing she wasn’t weighed down with grief, worry, and especially fear, was.

He wasn’t going to get much sleep, not until he knew she was all right. Could he find out now, tonight?

He’d feel ridiculous knocking on her door and asking her outright, not at this hour…

Creative imagination was a wonderful thing. Inspiration gleamed; within seconds, his mind had filled in the details.

He didn’t stop to think. Turning, he strode to the door, opened it, and closed it quietly behind him.

H
e only needed to see her, to speak with her. To reassure himself that she was all right.

He didn’t meet anyone on his way to her room, hardly surprising given the hour. Stalking to her door, he glanced down. Strong light showed beneath it. Grimly encouraged, he rapped on the door. Half a minute passed, then Jacqueline opened it.

Her eyes widened; she stared at him.

He tried not to stare back. She was wearing a fine lawn nightgown with a gauzy robe thrown over it. Her hair was down, a rich brown veil rippling over her shoulders—it was transparently clear she hadn’t been abed.

With the lamps blazing behind her, that wasn’t the only thing transparently evident.

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Jaw clenching, he reached for her arm and moved her back. Stepping into the room, he shut the door.

“What…?” She was still staring at him.

The light now reached her face. He noted her pallor; her stunned, lost and off-balance expression wasn’t solely due to his arrival. “I want to look through your wardrobe.”

Scanning the room, he saw a large armoire positioned along the side wall. He headed for it.

“My
wardrobe
?” Her tone incredulous but growing stronger, she flitted in a flutter of fine fabrics after him.

“I need to look over your gowns.”

“My gowns.” Not a question; her tone suggested he’d taken leave of his senses. “You need to see my gowns now.”

“Yes.” He pulled open the wardrobe doors, revealing a full length of hanging space filled with gowns. “You weren’t asleep.” He reached for a creation in amber silk.

She tried to peer into his face. “What are you about? Why this burning need to look at my gowns?” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s after eleven!”

He didn’t look at her. “I need to gauge what will look best on you.”

“At
night
?”

Holding the amber gown before him, he shot her a sidelong glance; arrested, his gaze lingered. “Indeed.” He drank in the way the lamplight flowed over her skin, gilding it with the softest of gold washes. He drew in a shallow breath. “I might very well paint you in candlelight. Here—hold this.” Thrusting the amber gown into her hands, he dived back amid the rest.

“This”—he pulled out a bronze silk sheath and tossed it at her—“and this.” He added a gown in figured green satin to the pile growing in her arms. “Although”—he glanced back at the last gown—“that might be too dark. We’ll see.”

Returning to the wardrobe, he flipped through the contents, making more selections. “I have a certain look in mind—the color and style of your gown will be critical.”

Jacqueline watched him, bemused and suspicious. She accepted the dresses he piled in her arms, and wondered. At last, he stepped back, reached for the wardrobe doors—and shot her a swift glance that was too saber-sharp, too assessing, to be casual.

He met her gaze; she raised a brow.

His lips twisted, rather grimly. He closed the wardrobe doors and reached for her hand. “Come here.”

He towed her, her arms full with seven gowns, over to the hearth. Two lamps stood on either end of the mantelpiece, spilling strong, steady light out over the room.

“Here.” Drawing her about, he positioned her before the mantel, a foot or so from the lamp on one end. He stood back, looked, then shifted her a fraction closer to the lamp. He seemed to be judging the play of light on her hair.

“That’s it. Now turn your face up a little, toward the lamp.” His fingers touched, lingered beneath her chin. “Just so.” He cleared his throat. “Now.” Scooping the gowns out of her arms, he selected one in spring green, and flung the rest over her armchair.

Ignoring the thought of her maid’s protests, Jacqueline watched as he shook the spring-green gown out, looking at it, then at her; his gaze drifted down her body…she recalled how fine her nightgown and robe were, recalled she was standing before the fire.

Abruptly, he held up the gown, as if to preserve her modesty—although he’d already looked and, she would wager, his keen artist’s eyes had seen all there was to see. He handed her the gown. “Hold this against you and let me see.”

She did as he asked, mystified, wondering why she was humoring him, yet she stood before the fire, bathed in light, and allowed him to hand her gown after gown. Some he dismissed, others he returned to; the selection he’d chosen covered a range of colors from deepest forest green—a color, once she’d held it up, he rejected out of hand—to old gold, another shade that on examination didn’t meet with his approval.

“Somewhere in between,” he muttered, returning to a gown of
eau de nil
silk.

That he was in truth evaluating her gowns was plain enough, but the swift searching glances he every now and then directed her way assured her that wasn’t his sole aim. Indeed, as he returned to assessing gowns in various shades of bronze, she was increasingly sure his interest in her gowns and on the play of candlelight on her hair was not so much an aim as his excuse.

Finally, he stood back. Hands on hips, he studied her, head tilted, a critical expression in his eyes, a slight frown on his face. “That’s the closest you have to the right color—an intense bronze but with more gold than that is what we need. And, of course, the drape is all wrong, but at least now I know what’s necessary.”

“Indeed.” She waited until his gaze rose to her eyes, then asked, “So why are you really here?”

He held her gaze, then opened his mouth.

“And don’t tell me it was to study my gowns.”

He shut his lips, pressed them tight. His eyes held hers as he debated, then his lips eased and he exhaled through his teeth, not quite a sigh, not quite an exhalation of frustration. “I was worried.”

A muttered confession. “About what?”

“About you.”

He didn’t sound pleased about it. When she looked her befuddlement, he reluctantly elaborated, “About what you might be thinking and feeling.” His hand rose, fingers spearing into his hair, but then he stopped and lowered his arm. “I was worried about how the revelations of the day had affected you.” He glanced away, his gaze falling on the pile of her discarded gowns. “But I did want to evaluate your gowns. I want to complete the portrait as soon as possible.”

A vise of cold iron closed about her chest. “Yes, of course.” Turning away, she moved to lay the bronze silk gown she’d been holding over the chair. “I expect you’ll want to leave as soon as possible.”

Guarding her expression, smoothing her features to rigid impassivity, she turned to face him—and found him, hands on hips, frowning, quite definitely, at her.