The Truth About Love (59 page)

It was the senior undergardener. He came quickly. “Sir?”

“We need you to keep Miss Fritham there, and keep her
down
—we don’t want her seeing what goes on out on Cyclops.”

The man glanced at the rock, then saluted, and hurried back up the path.

Gerrard turned to Matthew. “Can we get from here to the cove without Jordan seeing us?”

Matthew frowned. He pointed to the right. “There’s a gardener’s track that swings around that way—it ends at the cove. Because of the dip where the stream runs down, there’s cover all the way.” He looked at Gerrard. “Why?”

His gaze fixing on the figures out on the rock, Gerrard drew a determined breath. “Because I’m going to do the last thing Jordan will expect. I’m going to climb Cyclops from the seaward side.”

“No. You can’t,” Matthew said. “It’s not possible.”

Sir Vincent was shaking his head. “’Fraid he’s right—it’d be suicide.”

Gerrard turned his head and met Barnaby’s eyes. “You often rib me about my county of origin—tell them.”

Barnaby held his gaze, read his resolution, then sighed and glanced at the others. “Peak District. He’s right. If anyone can climb the seaward side of Cyclops, it’s him.”

L
ike a giant awakening, the rumbling grumble of Cyclops rose beneath Jacqueline’s feet. The blowhole gaped beside her; the powerful surge and swoosh of the waves steadily building within the rock cavern below filled her with terror.

Jordan’s arm was her only link with life. If he let go, poised as she was, she wouldn’t be able to save herself.

She was helpless, and one small step from certain death.

Panic threatened to engulf her. She fought it, but like the wetness seeping up her skirts, despair, cold and clammy, spread insidiously through her.

She had no idea what would happen, how the scene would play out, but the comber of tension running through Jordan’s muscles told her he was nowhere near as in control of himself as he was striving to appear.

What if he fumbled and dropped her?

The rumble of men’s voices was a counterpoint to that of Cyclops. She tried to make sense of the words, but couldn’t seem to tear her gaze or mind from the yawning hole at her feet. It seemed to be waiting to suck her down…

Gerrard. If she slipped and died, losing him and their future would be her last and overwhelming regret; she was determined to fight for the chance to embrace both. That purpose, the certainty of knowing what she wanted, of knowing nothing else was more important in life, had allowed her to think, and delay, and remove Eleanor.

He’d given her a vision of her future to cling to.

Closing her eyes, she let that purpose once more infuse her, calm her.

A stir among those who were circling Cyclops had her raising her head, determinedly refocusing. Barnaby and Sir Vincent pushed through to join her father. Barnaby gripped her father’s arm reassuringly. Her father, stone-faced, gave no sign he noticed, but she knew he had. Barnaby had a plan, but where was Gerrard?

Jordan was wondering the same thing; he searched the crowd, then asked.

Barnaby met his gaze. “He’s injured. He had to stay at the house.”

Her heart plummeted. Barnaby shifted his gaze and met her eyes.

And she knew it was a lie. Gerrard was here somewhere, doing something they didn’t want Jordan to know about.

Her heart changed direction; her spirits soared. She listened, trying to get some idea of their plan. Trying to gauge what her part in it might be, steeling herself to do whatever was necessary.

Barnaby seemed resigned to Jordan getting his way; his conversation was clearly predicated on that. “You’ve planned this well,” he told Jordan. “And over such a long time. But I’ll admit I’m confused—
why
did you kill Thomas?”

Jordan hesitated, but couldn’t resist the invitation to gloat before them all. “Obviously because he was about to offer for Jacqueline’s hand, and she would have accepted him. He was about to poach what ought to be mine.”

“Indeed.” Barnaby nodded. “I quite see that. But why, once he was removed, didn’t you ask for Jacqueline’s hand and tie up the business then?”

“I would have.” Jordan’s voice took on an edge. “Except first she went into mourning for the idiot, and later, it became clear she wasn’t likely to accept my suit.”

“But you didn’t give up?” Barnaby sounded intrigued. Jacqueline suspected he was, just not in the way Jordan thought.

“Of course not—I just hunted for another avenue to achieve the same end.” When Barnaby waited, Jordan went on, “Miribelle was encouraging Jacqueline to go to London, but then Miribelle herself handed me the perfect solution. She poked her nose somewhere it shouldn’t have been. When she tried to stop Jacqueline riding with us, we realized who’d seen us in the Garden of Night. So Miribelle had to be dealt with, quickly, before she drummed up the courage to tell anyone. And that, of course, was the key.”

“You killed Miribelle,” Sir Vincent cut in, his eyes and tone condemnatory, “and placed the blame on Jacqueline.”

Jordan smiled. “Actually, no—I killed Miribelle, and
you all
placed the blame on Jacqueline. You
suspected
—and that was all Eleanor and I needed. All we had to do was blow gently here, then there, fanning your silly suspicions—it was so easy. You were all so gullible—it was the greatest game.”

“One you played beautifully,” Barnaby concurred.

Jordan inclined his head. “It gave me a scenario I could exploit to secure Jacqueline’s hand, even against any resistance from her—in the circumstances, it was perfectly natural to propose a marriage of convenience to keep her quietly here in the country. It would have worked, too.”

“But”—Barnaby looking confused—“I thought Lord Tregonning refused your suit?”

“He did.” Exasperation and contempt laced Jordan’s words. “He rambled about his honor and not accepting such a sacrifice—but he would have come around in the end. Once the rumors spread about Millicent’s death, well, it was just a matter of time before the situation with Jacqueline became simply too pressing. Marrying her off to me would have been the only solution.”

“Good God!” Sir Vincent was appalled, but then he swallowed and offered, “You really played us well.”

Jordan smiled. “Thank you.”

“One other thing,” Barnaby continued, as if they were merely filling in the time until Mitchel returned. “How did you…”

S
tanding on the rocks at the edge of the cove, hands on his hips, Gerrard looked up at the granite face of Cyclops. He could reach the narrow ledge circling it easily enough, but the climb up from there would be close to vertical for most of the way.

He eyed the wet rock, then walked across to its lower reaches, and leaned against it to tug off his boots. Leather soled, they’d be no help. In lieu of proper climbing boots, bare feet were the best alternative.

The waves were rolling in, angrily grasping more of the rock-strewn beach, feeding the roar, still muted, inside Cyclops’s cavern. Without a word, Matthew took his boots. Gerrard stripped off his stockings and crammed them in, then methodically emptied his pockets. He would have preferred to remove his coat, but the material would give him some protection against the rough, encrusted rock. He was going to get cuts enough as it was.

Turning to Cyclops, he buttoned his coat.

Beside him, Matthew looked up at the granite monolith, black where the waves had wet it, and shivered. “You might not make it.”

“I know.” He had thought of it. “But if she dies, I’d never be able to live with myself if I hadn’t tried.”

He studied the face for an instant longer, then looked at Matthew. “Don’t get seen until I reach the top.”

Matthew nodded. “Good luck.”

A crash of waves swallowed the words. Gerrard turned, reached for the narrow ledge and hoisted himself up.

The ledge was barely wider than his foot; clinging to the rockface with one hand, he quickly followed it along, circling the bulk of Cyclops until he reached the point he’d visually gauged as directly opposite where Barnaby and the others stood. As it happened, he would be climbing straight up one side and then over the top of the gaping maw where the sea rushed in, boiling and churning as it pushed into the cavern.

He didn’t stop to consider. He climbed.

He’d been climbing since he could crawl. Despite all his years in London, he’d visited his home every year, and every year he’d climbed. He wasn’t too rusty, too out of practice. Which was just as well. For someone of his experience, the rock itself was easy enough to conquer. What made the seaward ascent of Cyclops treacherous was the wet, and the constant but unpredictable crash and surge of the waves.

He didn’t look down, but climbed steadily on. The moves were second nature—finding the next fingerhold, shifting his weight, searching for the next toehold, lifting up and on, over and over. There were a few strained moments, especially as he moved past the upper edge of the opening in the rock and footholds became scarce, but the tricks, the rhythm, and most especially the discipline, were there to see him through.

No rush. Never hurried. One small step at a time, steady and sure.

Behind him, the squall drew steadily nearer; the light started to dim.

He slipped on a patch of seaweedy slime he hadn’t been able to see against the wet rock. He swung over the gaping hole—if he fell, he’d be swept into the chamber to a certain death. For an instant, he hung, fingers aching, muscles screaming, then he searched and found another toehold, and steadied.

He didn’t think of anything but Jacqueline. Just her. Not what was going on above his head, but the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her in the night.

Spray and spume surrounded him; the roar in the blowhole chamber was gaining in intensity. He shut his ears to it, thought of Jacqueline’s laugh—he hadn’t heard it often enough yet for either of them to die.

What will be will be.

He clung to Timms’s message like a promise, closed his mind to the pain in his wrists and grazed palms. Didn’t think of the gashes on his feet, across his fingers.

Beneath him, the sea surged and crashed, demanding his attention, demanding he stop and look down. He ignored it and climbed.

The edges were more jagged the higher he went, less worn by the waves, sharpened by the wind. Clouds had blown in and now covered the sun; the wind freshened further, hurling froth and lashing the waves. He was soaked to his thighs, and was starting to lose sensation in his feet, but he was almost there.

Almost at the point where the vertical face ended and the rock curved toward its flattened summit. The first gradual slope would be the most crucial; he wouldn’t be able to stand until he reached more level ground nearer to the blowhole, but throughout he’d be exposed, visible to those watching, and to Jordan if he turned around.

He was almost surprised to find himself lying prone, catching his breath on the top of the rock. He’d kept his head down; he hoped no one had yet sighted him. Drawing in a steadier breath, feeling his heart slow to a more normal rhythm, he focused on the discussion taking place mere yards away.

It had reached its culmination.

“Enough!”
Jordan sounded harassed. “Just write a straightforward pledge, nothing fancy, stating you give Hellebore Hall and the entire estate to me, now, as of this date, that you promise that Jacqueline will marry me, and that you swear I’m not guilty of killing Thomas Entwhistle, Miribelle Tregonning or Millicent Tregonning.” Jordan paused. “Just write it!”

No one moved; no one spoke.

Gerrard risked lifting his head.

Just as Jordan lost patience. He swung Jacqueline out over the edge—her feet left the rock and she shrieked. She clutched at Jordan’s arm around her waist; he drew her back, but left her teetering on her toes, wholly dependent on his arm to keep her from sliding to her death.

“Now,” Jordan snarled, “are you going to start writing?”

Gerrard rose into a crouch. All the men arrayed about the rock facing Jordan saw him. His eyes locked on Jordan, he crawled swiftly forward, until he was on sufficiently level ground to stand.

For one instant, he remained still, gathering every ounce of strength he had left, gauging what he needed to do.

Cyclops’s eye was two yards wide, black and gaping. Jordan stood to one side with his back to him; he held Jacqueline balanced precariously over one sloping edge. She, too, was facing the other way. Even as Gerrard watched, there was a roar from beneath, then Cyclops spewed froth and water up and out over the rock, covering Jacqueline’s ankles.

The salt water stung his cut feet. Her slippers were soaked—she’d have no purchase at all.

Any second Jordan was going to notice the direction of many of the men’s shocked gazes.

Barnaby shifted, mouth opening, but Sir Vincent beat him to it. He tapped Mitchel on the shoulder. “Here—I’ll kneel down. Rest the paper on my back and write what he wants.”

“Just get on with it.” Jordan spoke through clenched teeth.