The Truth About Love (26 page)

Barnaby softly applauded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Gerrard glanced around. “Then I take it we’re agreed?”

“Indeed, my boy,” Millicent said.

Jacqueline and Barnaby nodded.

“What we need to do next,” Barnaby said, “is plan the first step of our campaign.”

T
hey didn’t just plan, but rehearsed; by the time they climbed the stairs to dress for dinner, they had their approach finely tuned.

The opening move fell to Millicent.

They all gathered in the drawing room as usual; also as usual, Lord Tregonning joined them only a few minutes before Treadle would appear. When her brother bowed to her, Millicent swept up and took his arm. “Marcus, dear”—she kept her voice low—“I wonder if Jacqueline and I could have a word with you after dinner? In your study, if you don’t mind?”

Lord Tregonning blinked, but, of course, agreed.

Dinner passed in the customary quiet fashion. Gerrard was grateful; they all had their arguments to hone.

At the end of the meal, rather than lead Jacqueline from the room, Millicent looked pointedly up the table. “If you could, Marcus…?”

Lord Tregonning shook himself. “Oh—yes, of course.” He glanced at Gerrard and Barnaby. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen—”

“Actually, Marcus,” Millicent broke in, “it would be helpful if Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair joined us. What we need to discuss involves them, too.”

Lord Tregonning wasn’t a slow-top; he glanced from Millicent and Jacqueline, waiting by her side, to Gerrard and Barnaby. His eyes narrowed, but he nodded, somewhat curtly. “As you wish. My study?”

They left Mitchel Cunningham, curious and trying to hide it, in the front hall, and repaired to his lordship’s study. With five of them in the room, it was a trifle crowded, but there were chairs enough for all.

Once they were settled, from behind his desk Lord Tregonning let his gaze touch each of their faces, eventually coming to rest on his sister’s. “Well, Millicent? What’s this about?”

“Quite a number of things, as it happens, but before we get to specifics, I want you to know that I’ve listened to every argument, every fact and conclusion, and I agree wholeheartedly with them all. Now.” She looked at Jacqueline. “My dear?”

Perched on the edge of a large leather armchair, her hands pressed together in her lap, Jacqueline drew in a deep breath, and prayed her voice wouldn’t waver. “I realize we’ve never talked of this, Papa, but I want you to know that I had nothing to do with Thomas’s death.”

She paused, her eyes on her father’s; she felt herself inwardly tense. “And I never harmed Mama—I didn’t, and would never have harmed a hair on her head. Yes, we argued that day, but that was all. I didn’t see her again after I left her in the breakfast parlor. I have no idea who killed her, or Thomas. But I do know and understand why you asked Mr. Debbington to paint my portrait.”

Lord Tregonning’s face had turned to stone. Glancing from him to Jacqueline, Gerrard wished he could take her hand, remind her with a touch that he was there, supporting her, but they would already be asking her father to assimilate a lot in one evening.

The atmosphere in the room had thickened, growing heavy with unspoken emotion; Jacqueline drew in a tight breath. “I know of the rumors, the whispers—unfortunately, I didn’t know of them early enough to deny them, not when I might have been believed. By the time I realized…” Her voice stalled; she gestured helplessly. “I didn’t credit them. I didn’t see their danger—not until it was too late.”

Voice strengthening, she went on, “But I
didn’t
kill Mama, and I didn’t kill Thomas, either. Someone else did, and we”—she broke off to include Gerrard, Barnaby and Millicent with a glance—“think that same person started, and is continuing creating stories, whispers, about me. I had thought—prayed—that the portrait, once complete, would open people’s eyes and start them thinking afresh. But now Thomas’s body has been found—if we do nothing, then I’ll be blamed for his death, too.” She drew breath. “Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair can explain the details better than I—I beg you to consider all they say.”

She looked at Gerrard. Conscious of her father’s eye, he didn’t smile, but formally inclined his head; she’d given him the perfect introduction.

He met Lord Tregonning’s gaze squarely. “I speak from the perspective of a painter, and also that of a businessman. As the latter, I’ve met evil in my time, faced it eye to eye—I know what true evil looks like. But as a portraitist, I’ve worked solely with innocents, with the kind, the good and the generous. More than any other attributes or traits, I can unhesitatingly recognize those—I’ve worked with them for the last seven and more years. When I look at your daughter, that’s what I see—to my eyes, innocence and purity of heart shine from her.”

He paused, letting silence lend weight to his words, letting them sink into Lord Tregonning’s mind. “When I heard of the whispers concerning Miss Tregonning and the death of her mother, I was flabbergasted. It was beyond my comprehension that such suspicions existed—from my point of view, they have no basis. In proof of that, I can assure you that my portrait of Miss Tregonning, once complete, will indeed cast severe doubt over the validity of the rumors. As she patently did not kill her mother, or, indeed, anyone, then the question will arise:
Who did?
”

Lord Tregonning’s attention was totally his. Any thought that they might not be able to sway him, that he might insist on remaining aloof and decline to participate in their planned action, evaporated. Gerrard felt the painful intensity in his gaze, for one instant felt the torment the outwardly stoic man had endured, and was humbled by it.

“You’re certain she’s—” Lord Tregonning glanced at Jacqueline. “Forgive me, my dear, but…” He looked again at Gerrard, his dark gaze fixing on his face. “You’re sure beyond doubt that she was not involved?”

Gerrard nodded. “However, I’m aware a painter’s opinion is not going to sway anyone in authority, although I will guarantee to sway all society. Yet in this case, there are numerous facts, observations and deductions that Mr. Adair has assembled which establish beyond doubt that Jacqueline was in no way involved in the deaths of Thomas Entwhistle, nor your wife, her mother, Miribelle Tregonning.”

Gerrard looked at Barnaby, passing the baton in their carefully orchestrated argument.

Accepting it, Barnaby succinctly detailed the evidence he’d gathered that proved it was impossible for a woman, especially any lady, to have killed Thomas Entwhistle, and briefly outlined why Jacqueline could not be a suspect in her mother’s death.

“In addition, the rumors have it that she killed her mother in a momentary rage, but there’s no evidence whatever, either from the staff, who always know such things, or from friends, many of whom have known her all her life, that she has ever been subject to momentary rages.” He glanced at Jacqueline, faintly smiled. “Not even mild furies.”

Turning back to Lord Tregonning, Barnaby concluded, “In short, the whisper campaign against your daughter is fashioned from whole cloth, totally unsustainable when examined, yet the killer—assuming, as I think we should, that it is he behind the rumors—was exceedingly clever. He used Jacqueline’s standing, more specifically the fact that she’s well loved by all about. By raising the possibility that it
might
be she, he ensured all those round about, including yourself, did not pursue the question of who the murderer was.”

Barnaby paused, then quietly said, “I have absolutely no doubt that a man killed Thomas Entwhistle, and that the same man killed your wife. His identity remains a mystery, but given these latest rumors—the ones circulating after the discovery of Thomas’s body—it’s safe to conclude he’s still here, in the neighborhood. He hasn’t moved away.”

Lord Tregonning drew in a deep breath. Slowly, he placed his hands on the desk. “Why have you chosen tonight to tell me this?”

The others looked at Gerrard.

“Because of these latest rumors. It was our intention to follow the plan you’d instigated—to finish the portait, then use it to open people’s eyes. With respect to your wife’s death, that approach still applies. But now Thomas’s body has been discovered, and the killer has grasped the opportunity to extend the suspicion surrounding Jacqueline. If we wait, and allow the web of suspicion ensnaring her to continue to be spun, unchallenged and unchecked, we’ll weaken our position, possibly to the extent that when the portrait is complete, even though it will showcase her innocence, that might by then be insufficient to reverse the tide the killer has set running.”

For a long minute, Lord Tregonning said nothing, then he turned to Jacqueline. “My dear, I owe you an abject apology. Why I ever listened to the whispers—” His voice quavered and he stopped, but his gaze never left Jacqueline’s face. “I should never have doubted you. My only excuse is that when your mother died—was murdered…I found it very hard to think. Not for months. I pray you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

The simple words, heartfelt and true, hung in the quiet room.

Then Jacqueline was out of her chair, rounding the desk to hug her father. “Oh, Papa!”

Gerrard looked away, at Barnaby, who was also giving father and daughter a moment alone; Barnaby’s blue eyes were alight—he looked positively smug. Millicent dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Gerrard sat back, and thought of Patience, and the twins, and other family moments he’d witnessed in which the females always cried.

The emotion in Lord Tregonning’s words replayed in his mind. He cleared his throat, then glanced across to see Lord Tregonning awkwardly patting Jacqueline’s shoulder.

“Thank you, my dear.” His lordship harrumphed loudly, then whipped out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Jacqueline squeezed his arm, then returned to the armchair, whisking a scrap of fine linen from her sleeve to blot her eyes.

“Yes. Right then.” Lord Tregonning realigned his blotter, then looked at Gerrard and Barnaby, and lastly at Millicent. “I thank you all for acting as you have—Jacqueline and I are fortunate to have such supporters. However”—his voice gaining strength, he lifted his head and squared his shoulders—“I assume, given the need to commence countering these insidious whispers immediately, that you have some plan in mind?”

Barnaby leaned forward. “Indeed we have.”

He explained.

Lord Tregonning nodded. “I agree. Given so many people imagine Jacqueline responsible for Miribelle’s death, and will therefore see her as the most likely to have killed Thomas, too, then
our
behavior becomes critical.”

Barnaby glanced around. “We—all of us—need to behave, and be seen to behave, in a manner that doesn’t just state but screams our belief in Jacqueline’s innocence. Millicent made a good start this afternoon, but we need to go further.”

Millicent nodded. “But will that—our behavior—be enough?”

“It could be.” Gerrard thought of the power certain ladies of the ton, his Cynster connections, for example, could wield. He wished he could summon a few of them into Cornwall—Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, Lady Osbaldestone, Minnie and Timms, and perhaps Honoria and Horatia. They’d have Jacqueline on a pedestal, crowned with innocence, in a few days—then they’d whip up the troops to hunt down the real killer. He stirred and looked at Jacqueline. “But in this case, we can be more direct. Whispers can work both ways.”

Jacqueline read his eyes. “You mean
we
should spread…what?”

“Fact,” Barnaby answered. “He spread falsity, we’ll spread the truth. Ultimately, our truth will trump his lies. But even more telling, just by starting such hares in people’s minds, we’ll be chipping away at the base he’s built—it’ll make it easier, once the portrait’s complete, to turn perception around, and raise a hunt for the real killer, for him.”

Lord Tregonning slowly nodded. “As this blackguard has grasped the chance afforded by poor Thomas’s body being found to restart his whisper campaign against Jacqueline, then if we don’t respond we risk being unable to counter him later,
but
if we attack the whispers now, directly, we’ll weaken his position even before we show the portrait. He’s given us an opportunity to start pulling down the edifice he’s erected—by his own actions, he’s strengthened our chances.”

Barnaby blinked, then a wide grin split his face. “That’s absolutely right. He’s started his own downfall—how ironic.”

“Indeed.” A rare smile curved Lord Tregonning’s lips. “Now, how do we go about this?”

“Simple.” Gerrard proceeded to outline the tactics he’d seen used to excellent effect by his formidable female connections.

Millicent nodded. “The next major gathering is the Summer Hunt Ball, three days from now. It’s hosted by the Trewarrens. It’s an annual event, one everyone attends.” She looked at her brother. “What do you think, Marcus?”

“I think, in the circumstances, we all should go, myself included.” Lord Tregonning glanced at Gerrard and Barnaby. “I dislike the bustle of balls and parties—I’ve rarely attended such events in the past. For that very reason, my appearance at Trewarren Hall should create all the stir we might wish.”

“Indeed!” A martial light glowed in Millicent’s eyes. “Everyone will be astonished, and will fall over themselves to learn why you’re there. You may be a fusty old creature, Marcus, but you do have your uses—just by appearing, you’ll cause a furor.”