ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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Tesla chief executive Elon Musk's record-breaking $56bn (£47bn) pay award will not be reinstated, a judge has ruled.
The decision in the Delaware court comes after months of legal wrangling and despite it being approved by shareholders and directors in the summer.
Judge Kathaleen McCormick upheld her previous decision from January, in which she argued that board members were too heavily influenced by Mr Musk.
Reacting to the ruling, Mr Musk wrote on X: "[S]hareholders should control company votes, not judges."
Tesla vowed to appeal the ruling, saying the decision was "wrong".
"This ruling, if not overturned, means that judges and plaintiffs’ lawyers run Delaware companies rather than their rightful owners – the shareholders," the company said in a post on X.
Judge McCormick said the pay package would have been the largest ever for the boss of a listed company.
Tesla failed to prove the pay package, which dates back to 2018, was fair, she said.
A shareholder vote on the payment passed by 75% in June, but the judge did not agree the pay should be so large despite what she called Tesla's lawyers' "creative" arguments.
“Even if a stockholder vote could have a ratifying effect, it could not do so here," she wrote in her opinion.
The judge also ruled the Tesla shareholder who brought the case against Tesla and Mr Musk should receive $345m in fees but not the $5.6bn in Tesla shares they asked for.
Some observers said a ruling in favour of Mr Musk and Tesla would have dealt a blow to conflict of interest laws in Delaware.
"The idea of conflict rules is to protect all investors" not just minority investors, said Charles Elson of the University of Delaware's Weinberg Center for Corporate Governance.
Mr Elson said Judge McCormick's opinion was well-reasoned.
"You had a board that wasn't independent, a process that was dominated by the chief executive, and a package that was way out of any sort of reasonable bounds," he said. "It's quite a combo."
Mr Elson said he expects Tesla might try to reconstitute a similar pay package in Texas where the company moved its legal base earlier this year after the pay ruling.
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Beneath our feet is an almost limitless source of energy, but while a few lucky locations have geothermal heat close to the surface, the rest of the world will need to dig a lot deeper. The challenge is how to get deep enough.
There are some spots around the world where energy literally bubbles to the surface. In Iceland, home to more than 200 volcanoes and dozens of natural hot springs, tapping into this energy isn't hard. Dotted around the country are steaming pools of water, heated by the geothermal fires that burn just below the crust. Boiling jets of water and steam are thrown into the air by geysers.
Iceland now heats 85% of its houses with this geothermal energy, while 25% of the country's electricity also comes from power stations that harness this heat from underground. It's an appealing prospect – an almost limitless supply of energy waiting to be tapped.
But geothermal energy offers an essentially inexhaustible green energy source across the planet. And it's "always on'', unlike wind or solar power, since the heat is continually emitted from the Earth's molten core and the decay of naturally occurring radioactive elements in our planet's crust. Indeed, the Earth emits such enormous amounts of energy as it cools that the heat lost into space each year is enough to meet the world's total energy demands many times over.
The challenge is tapping into that energy.
Currently only 32 countries in the world have geothermal power plants in operation. There are fewer than 700 power plants around the world, generating around 97 Terawatt hours (TWh) in 2023 between them. That is less than half the amount of electricity generated by solar in the US alone and far short of estimates for the potential contribution that geothermal could make to the global energy mix. Some estimate that geothermal could contribute around 800-1400TWh of electricity annually by the middle of the century with a further 3,300-3800TWh per year of heat.
"The Earth itself has the potential to address a variety of hurdles in the transition to a clean energy future," argued Amanda Kolker, geothermal programme manager at the National Renewable Energy Laboratory (NREL) in the US, when releasing a report on the potential of geothermal energy in 2023.
But not every country is as lucky as Iceland, where reservoirs of hot water at temperatures of around 120-240C (248-464F) can be easily accessed close to the surface. In other areas of the country, wells drilled to depths of up to 1.5 miles (2.5km) provide access to temperatures of up to 350C (662F). Iceland's main geothermal site at Reykjanes, for example, has drilled experimental wells down 2.9 miles (4.6km) to access superheated fluids as hot as 600C (1112F). Already, day-to-day heat extraction is taking place using shallower wells that draw on temperatures around 320C (608F) to generate 720 Gigawatt hours (GWh) of electricity per year.
One reason geothermal is not more widespread is the high upfront investment needed to extract that energy. But physically reaching it has also been beyond us so far.
For other parts of the world to enjoy a part of this geothermal bonanza of clean energy, we need to drill deeper to reach the temperatures needed to generate electricity or provide large-scale heating for nearby neighbourhoods.Across much of the planet, temperatures increase by 25-30C (77-86F) on average every kilometre you go down through the Earth's crust. In the UK, for example, the subsurface temperature at around 5km (3 miles) down is about 140C (284F), according to the British Geological Survey.
Drill down far enough, though and it is possible to reach a point where water temperatures surpass 374C (705F) at pressures above 220 bars (one bar being average pressure on the Earth's surface at sea level). This is where water enters an energy-intense state known as supercritical, where it exists in a form that is neither liquid or gas. The hotter and more pressurised it is, the greater energy it contains.
In fact, a single superhot geothermal well could produce five to 10 times the energy that commercial geothermal wells produce today, according to the NREL.
One major hurdle, however, is that conventional rotary drills – even those tipped with diamond – are ill-equipped to excavate to the kind of depths needed to access these kinds of temperature. In the mysterious deep underworld of uncertain geology, extreme temperatures and huge pressures, drill components can fail frequently, while keeping holes from becoming blocked is a constant battle.
In 2009, for example, a team working on the Iceland Deep Drilling Project inadvertently tapped supercritical conditions when it drilled into a magma chamber at the Krafla volcano, about 1.2 miles (2km) below the surface. The superheated steam emitted from this well was highly acidic, making it difficult to use. The high pressures and temperatures involved also made it difficult to control, and it had to be intermittently discharged for around two years before a valve failure forced the hole to be sealed.
Deep drilling can also be an expensive and time-consuming endeavour.
The deepest hole ever dug by humans dates back to the Cold War, however, when there was a race between the superpowers to drill as far into the Earth's crust as possible. The Soviets managed to plough their way through 7.6 miles (12.2km) of rock – creating the Kola Superdeep Borehole, on the Kola Peninsula, high in the Arctic Circle. It took them almost 20 years to reach that depth and it remains the deepest humans have managed to delve into the Earth. (Read more about the Kola Superdeep Borehole in this article by Mark Piesing.)
The NREL estimates that the cost of drilling a 1km deep well is around $2m (£1.57m) while drilling four times that depth can cost between $6m-$10m (£4.7m to £7.87m) with current technology.Yet deep geothermal energy could provide some considerable cost savings when compared to conventional geothermal, due to the higher temperatures and pressures that can be accessed further into the Earth's crust. Some studies have suggested deep geothermal energy could supply heating for communities at costs similar to other forms of heating, such as using gas, but with fewer greenhouse gas emissions.
With this in mind, some pioneering researchers and companies are turning to new types of drills and drilling techniques to bore some of the deepest holes ever created in the hope of bringing geothermal energy to parts of the world that never thought it was possible.
Quaise Energy, a spin-off from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), for example, are aiming to drill holes as deep as 12 miles (20km) to access temperatures of 500C (932F) or more. To do so, they are turning to a tool that draws on years of research into nuclear fusion power. "While others are putting shovels in the ground, we're putting microwaves in the ground for the first time," says the company's co-founder Matt Houde.
He and his colleagues are experimenting with millimetre-wave directed energy beams that vaporise even the hardest rock. It focuses high-powered beam of radiation similar to microwaves but at a higher frequency onto a segment of rock, heating it up to 3,000C (5,432F) so that it melts and vaporises. By directing the beam so it bores through the rock, holes can be created without the debris and friction created by traditional drilling techniques.
"Millimetre-wave drilling is a process that can operate largely independent of depth," says Houde. "And millimetre-wave energy can also transmit through dirty, dusty environments."
The technology has grown out of nuclear fusion plasma experiments conducted by Paul Woskov, an engineer at MIT's Plasma Science and Fusion Centre. Millimetre-wave directed energy has been explored as a way of heating up plasma in nuclear fusion reactors since the 1970s, but a few years ago Woskov hit upon another use for the technology. He started using millimetre-wave beams generated by a device known as a gyrotron to melt through rock.
But so far the technology has only been tested in the laboratory, drilling shallow holes in relatively small samples of rock, but the company claims it can drill through rock at around 3.5m (11.5ft) per hour. While this is slow compared to traditional drilling techniques, there are other benefits as the "drill bit" isn't physically grinding through the rock, it should not wear out or need replacing. Quaise Energy are now at the final stage of laboratory testing of millimetre-wave technology prior to beginning field trials in early 2025. But transferring the millimetre-wave drilling technology from the laboratory to a full-scale drilling operation will still be a challenge.
"They have never been used before in the deep high-pressure subsurface environment," says Woskow. "Changes due to intense energy-matter interaction applied to drilling require a new learning curve."
Slovakia-based GA Drilling, meanwhile, is exploring a different high-energy drill technology to bore into the Earth's crust. It is using a pulse plasma drill, based on very short high energy electric discharges that disintegrate rock without causing it to melt. This avoids creating any viscous molten rock, which can be difficult to remove and can stop drill bits penetrating further. "Since the process is very swift with short shocks crumbling the rock, there isn't time for melt to form – so the need to pull up and replace the bit is greatly reduced," says Igor Kocis, chief executive and chairman of GA Drilling. "Five to eight kilometres (3-5 miles) is a target for our current development programme – and later 10km-plus," he adds. "These depths will allow nearly universal access to geothermal power."
Research into pulse plasma drills – using very short energy pulses that disintegrate rock using ionised gas as hot as 6,000C (10,832F) – is another avenue being explored by a European consortium led by the Geothermal Energy and Geofluids (GEG) group, with partners in Germany and Switzerland.
GA Drilling has also been collaborated with Konstantina Vogiatzaki, associate professor of engineering science at the University of Oxford to adapt advanced mathematics looking at how supercritical fluids can be controlled when tapping deep earth energy sources accessed via plasma drilling. "We worked on defining the optimum combustion system for a full-scale drilling tool, opening new horizons in controlling ultra-high pressure combustion through plasma drilling," says Vogiatzaki.
Others are looking beyond our own planet for ways to help us drill down into it. Technology developed for planetary exploration missions on the scorching surface of Venus, where temperatures can reach 475C (887F), are being adopted by geothermal drilling companies. Ozark Integrated Circuits – an electronics manufacturer based in Fayetteville, Arkansas – has been adapting circuits capable of withstanding extreme temperatures that can be used on deep Earth geothermal drilling rigs.For its own part, the NREL has turned to AI to analyse complex subterranean environments to try to find the best places to drill for supercritical water, as well as helping to predict and detect faults with drills before they cause major issues.
And some companies are already making inroads into the deep Earth. Geothermal company Eavor told the BBC that in 2024 it reached a depth of three miles (5km) with two vertical wells at a site in Gerestried, Bavaria, Germany. It has been using two of the largest land-based drilling rigs in Europe in an effort to create a commercial-scale plant in Geretsried that aims to bring geothermal heat to the surface by circulating water inside a closed loop design it calls the Eavor Loop. The system works like a giant radiator, with cold water in the loop being heated underground and then coming back to the surface where it will be used to generate electricity and piped into nearby homes through a district heating system. Eavor expectes to begin generating energy at the site in the first half of 2025, says John Redfern, Eavor's CEO and president.
"Our technology is looking to drill up to 11km (6.8 miles) in the future," says geologist and Eavor co-founder Jeanine Vany. "I believe we can make meaningful progress towards unlocking superhot rock in the next three to five years."
Their closed-loop approach also helps to avoid some of the contamination problems that can occur when superheated water is extracted from deep geothermal wells – as the Iceland Deep Drilling Project discovered in 2009. It can also help to reduce the emissions of hazardous gases, such as hydrogen sulphide, that open-loop geothermal systems can emit.
Vany also points out that deep geothermal energy doesn't need a lot of space on the surface, which means it could be slotted into urban locations in the future. But there are other problems to be overcome. It isn't yet clear how easy it will be to maintain deep geothermal wells and keep them from becoming blocked.
The drive to tap deep geothermal energy could also bring new life to ageing fossil fuel power stations as countries look to switch off their traditional carbon-emitting energy sources. Retrofitting old coal power stations into geothermal plants could be a way of giving the steam-powered generators a second life and help to speed up the construction of geothermal plants by taking advantage of existing electricity transmission lines. Woskov has identified an abandoned coal power plant in upstate New York, which he hopes could be reopened before the end of the decade to generate electricity from the heat deep underground.
There would be a certain poetry in that switch – a power station that once ran on a dirty fuel dug out of the ground finding new life in the clean energy revolution with an energy source from even deeper underground.,,
source : https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20241129-drilling-the-deepest-holes-on-earth-how-to-bore-12-miles-into-our-planets-crust
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“Agriculture is that which is so universally understood among them that no person, either man or woman, is ignorant of it; they are instructed in it from their childhood, partly by what they learn at school, and partly by practice, they being led out often into the fields about the town, where they not only see others at work but are likewise exercised in it themselves. Besides agriculture, which is so common to them all, every man has some peculiar trade to which he applies himself; such as the manufacture of wool or flax, masonry, smith’s work, or carpenter’s work; for there is no sort of trade that is in great esteem among them. Throughout the island they wear the same sort of clothes, without any other distinction except what is necessary to distinguish the two sexes and the married and unmarried. The fashion never alters, and as it is neither disagreeable nor uneasy, so it is suited to the climate, and calculated both for their summers and winters. Every family makes their own clothes; but all among them, women as well as men, learn one or other of the trades formerly mentioned. Women, for the most part, deal in wool and flax, which suit best with their weakness, leaving the ruder trades to the men. The same trade generally passes down from father to son, inclinations often following descent: but if any man’s genius lies another way he is, by adoption, translated into a family that deals in the trade to which he is inclined; and when that is to be done, care is taken, not only by his father, but by the magistrate, that he may be put to a discreet and good man: and if, after a person has learned one trade, he desires to acquire another, that is also allowed, and is managed in the same manner as the former. When he has learned both, he follows that which he likes best, unless the public has more occasion for the other.
The chief, and almost the only, business of the Syphogrants is to take care that no man may live idle, but that every one may follow his trade diligently; yet they do not wear themselves out with perpetual toil from morning to night, as if they were beasts of burden, which as it is indeed a heavy slavery, so it is everywhere the common course of life amongst all mechanics except the Utopians: but they, dividing the day and night into twenty-four hours, appoint six of these for work, three of which are before dinner and three after; they then sup, and at eight o’clock, counting from noon, go to bed and sleep eight hours: the rest of their time, besides that taken up in work, eating, and sleeping, is left to every man’s discretion; yet they are not to abuse that interval to luxury and idleness, but must employ it in some proper exercise, according to their various inclinations, which is, for the most part, reading. It is ordinary to have public lectures every morning before daybreak, at which none are obliged to appear but those who are marked out for literature; yet a great many, both men and women, of all ranks, go to hear lectures of one sort or other, according to their inclinations: but if others that are not made for contemplation, choose rather to employ themselves at that time in their trades, as many of them do, they are not hindered, but are rather commended, as men that take care to serve their country. After supper they spend an hour in some diversion, in summer in their gardens, and in winter in the halls where they eat, where they entertain each other either with music or discourse. They do not so much as know dice, or any such foolish and mischievous games. They have, however, two sorts of games not unlike our chess; the one is between several numbers, in which one number, as it were, consumes another; the other resembles a battle between the virtues and the vices, in which the enmity in the vices among themselves, and their agreement against virtue, is not unpleasantly represented; together with the special opposition between the particular virtues and vices; as also the methods by which vice either openly assaults or secretly undermines virtue; and virtue, on the other hand, resists it. But the time appointed for labour is to be narrowly examined, otherwise you may imagine that since there are only six hours appointed for work, they may fall under a scarcity of necessary provisions: but it is so far from being true that this time is not sufficient for supplying them with plenty of all things, either necessary or convenient, that it is rather too much; and this you will easily apprehend if you consider how great a part of all other nations is quite idle. First, women generally do little, who are the half of mankind; and if some few women are diligent, their husbands are idle: then consider the great company of idle priests, and of those that are called religious men; add to these all rich men, chiefly those that have estates in land, who are called noblemen and gentlemen, together with their families, made up of idle persons, that are kept more for show than use; add to these all those strong and lusty beggars that go about pretending some disease in excuse for their begging; and upon the whole account you will find that the number of those by whose labours mankind is supplied is much less than you perhaps imagined: then consider how few of those that work are employed in labours that are of real service, for we, who measure all things by money, give rise to many trades that are both vain and superfluous, and serve only to support riot and luxury: for if those who work were employed only in such things as the conveniences of life require, there would be such an abundance of them that the prices of them would so sink that tradesmen could not be maintained by their gains; if all those who labour about useless things were set to more profitable employments, and if all they that languish out their lives in sloth and idleness (every one of whom consumes as much as any two of the men that are at work) were forced to labour, you may easily imagine that a small proportion of time would serve for doing all that is either necessary, profitable, or pleasant to mankind, especially while pleasure is kept within its due bounds: this appears very plainly in Utopia; for there, in a great city, and in all the territory that lies round it, you can scarce find five hundred, either men or women, by their age and strength capable of labour, that are not engaged in it. Even the Syphogrants, though excused by the law, yet do not excuse themselves, but work, that by their examples they may excite the industry of the rest of the people; the like exemption is allowed to those who, being recommended to the people by the priests, are, by the secret suffrages of the Syphogrants, privileged from labour, that they may apply themselves wholly to study; and if any of these fall short of those hopes that they seemed at first to give, they are obliged to return to work; and sometimes a mechanic that so employs his leisure hours as to make a considerable advancement in learning is eased from being a tradesman and ranked among their learned men. Out of these they choose their ambassadors, their priests, their Tranibors, and the Prince himself, anciently called their Barzenes, but is called of late their Ademus.
“And thus from the great numbers among them that are neither suffered to be idle nor to be employed in any fruitless labour, you may easily make the estimate how much may be done in those few hours in which they are obliged to labour. But, besides all that has been already said, it is to be considered that the needful arts among them are managed with less labour than anywhere else. The building or the repairing of houses among us employ many hands, because often a thriftless heir suffers a house that his father built to fall into decay, so that his successor must, at a great cost, repair that which he might have kept up with a small charge; it frequently happens that the same house which one person built at a vast expense is neglected by another, who thinks he has a more delicate sense of the beauties of architecture, and he, suffering it to fall to ruin, builds another at no less charge. But among the Utopians all things are so regulated that men very seldom build upon a new piece of ground, and are not only very quick in repairing their houses, but show their foresight in preventing their decay, so that their buildings are preserved very long with but very little labour, and thus the builders, to whom that care belongs, are often without employment, except the hewing of timber and the squaring of stones, that the materials may be in readiness for raising a building very suddenly when there is any occasion for it. As to their clothes, observe how little work is spent in them; while they are at labour they are clothed with leather and skins, cut carelessly about them, which will last seven years, and when they appear in public they put on an upper garment which hides the other; and these are all of one colour, and that is the natural colour of the wool. As they need less woollen cloth than is used anywhere else, so that which they make use of is much less costly; they use linen cloth more, but that is prepared with less labour, and they value cloth only by the whiteness of the linen or the cleanness of the wool, without much regard to the fineness of the thread. While in other places four or five upper garments of woollen cloth of different colours, and as many vests of silk, will scarce serve one man, and while those that are nicer think ten too few, every man there is content with one, which very often serves him two years; nor is there anything that can tempt a man to desire more, for if he had them he would neither be the, warmer nor would he make one jot the better appearance for it. And thus, since they are all employed in some useful labour, and since they content themselves with fewer things, it falls out that there is a great abundance of all things among them; so that it frequently happens that, for want of other work, vast numbers are sent out to mend the highways; but when no public undertaking is to be performed, the hours of working are lessened. The magistrates never engage the people in unnecessary labour, since the chief end of the constitution is to regulate labour by the necessities of the public, and to allow the people as much time as is necessary for the improvement of their minds, in which they think the happiness of life consists.
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Michael Faraday (born September 22, 1791, Newington, Surrey, England—died August 25, 1867, Hampton Court, Surrey) was an English physicist and chemist whose many experiments contributed greatly to the understanding of electromagnetism. Faraday, who became one of the greatest scientists of the 19th century, began his career as a chemist. He wrote a manual of practical chemistry that reveals his mastery of the technical aspects of his art, discovered a number of new organic compounds, among them benzene, and was the first to liquefy a “permanent” gas (i.e., one that was believed to be incapable of liquefaction). His major contribution, however, was in the field of electricity and magnetism. He was the first to produce an electric current from a magnetic field, invented the first electric motor and dynamo, demonstrated the relation between electricity and chemical bonding, discovered the effect of magnetism on light, and discovered and named diamagnetism, the peculiar behaviour of certain substances in strong magnetic fields. He provided the experimental, and a good deal of the theoretical, foundation upon which James Clerk Maxwell erected classical electromagnetic field theory.
Early life
Michael Faraday was born in the country village of Newington, Surrey, now a part of South London. His father was a blacksmith who had migrated from the north of England earlier in 1791 to look for work. His mother was a country woman of great calm and wisdom who supported her son emotionally through a difficult childhood. Faraday was one of four children, all of whom were hard put to get enough to eat, since their father was often ill and incapable of working steadily. Faraday later recalled being given one loaf of bread that had to last him for a week. The family belonged to a small Christian sect, called Sandemanians, that provided spiritual sustenance to Faraday throughout his life. It was the single most important influence upon him and strongly affected the way in which he approached and interpreted nature. Faraday received only the rudiments of an education, learning to read, write, and cipher in a church Sunday school. At an early age he began to earn money by delivering newspapers for a book dealer and bookbinder, and at the age of 14 he was apprenticed to the man. Unlike the other apprentices, Faraday took the opportunity to read some of the books brought in for rebinding. The article on electricity in the third edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica particularly fascinated him. Using old bottles and lumber, he made a crude electrostatic generator and did simple experiments. He also built a weak voltaic pile with which he performed experiments in electrochemistry.
Faraday’s great opportunity came when he was offered a ticket to attend chemical lectures by Sir Humphry Davy at the Royal Institution of Great Britain in London. Faraday went, sat absorbed with it all, recorded the lectures in his notes, and returned to bookbinding with the seemingly unrealizable hope of entering the temple of science. He sent a bound copy of his notes to Davy along with a letter asking for employment, but there was no opening. Davy did not forget, however, and, when one of his laboratory assistants was dismissed for brawling, he offered Faraday a job. Faraday began as Davy’s laboratory assistant and learned chemistry at the elbow of one of the greatest practitioners of the day. It has been said, with some truth, that Faraday was Davy’s greatest discovery. When Faraday joined Davy in 1812, Davy was in the process of revolutionizing the chemistry of the day. Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier, the Frenchman generally credited with founding modern chemistry, had effected his rearrangement of chemical knowledge in the 1770s and 1780s by insisting upon a few simple principles. Among these was that oxygen was a unique element, in that it was the only supporter of combustion and was also the element that lay at the basis of all acids. Davy, after having discovered sodium and potassium by using a powerful current from a galvanic battery to decompose oxides of these elements, turned to the decomposition of muriatic (hydrochloric) acid, one of the strongest acids known. The products of the decomposition were hydrogen and a green gas that supported combustion and that, when combined with water, produced an acid. Davy concluded that this gas was an element, to which he gave the name chlorine, and that there was no oxygen whatsoever in muriatic acid. Acidity, therefore, was not the result of the presence of an acid-forming element but of some other condition. What else could that condition be but the physical form of the acid molecule itself? Davy suggested, then, that chemical properties were determined not by specific elements alone but also by the ways in which these elements were arranged in molecules. In arriving at this view he was influenced by an atomic theory that was also to have important consequences for Faraday’s thought. This theory, proposed in the 18th century by Ruggero Giuseppe Boscovich, argued that atoms were mathematical points surrounded by alternating fields of attractive and repulsive forces. A true element comprised a single such point, and chemical elements were composed of a number of such points, about which the resultant force fields could be quite complicated. Molecules, in turn, were built up of these elements, and the chemical qualities of both elements and compounds were the results of the final patterns of force surrounding clumps of point atoms. One property of such atoms and molecules should be specifically noted: they could be placed under considerable strain, or tension, before the “bonds” holding them together were broken. These strains were to be central to Faraday’s ideas about electricity. Faraday’s second apprenticeship, under Davy, came to an end in 1820. By then he had learned chemistry as thoroughly as anyone alive. He had also had ample opportunity to practice chemical analyses and laboratory techniques to the point of complete mastery, and he had developed his theoretical views to the point that they could guide him in his researches. There followed a series of discoveries that astonished the scientific world. Faraday achieved his early renown as a chemist. His reputation as an analytical chemist led to his being called as an expert witness in legal trials and to the building up of a clientele whose fees helped to support the Royal Institution. In 1820 he produced the first known compounds of carbon and chlorine, C2Cl6 and C2Cl4. These compounds were produced by substituting chlorine for hydrogen in “olefiant gas” (ethylene), the first substitution reactions induced. (Such reactions later would serve to challenge the dominant theory of chemical combination proposed by Jöns Jacob Berzelius.) In 1825, as a result of research on illuminating gases, Faraday isolated and described benzene. In the 1820s he also conducted investigations of steel alloys, helping to lay the foundations for scientific metallurgy and metallography. While completing an assignment from the Royal Society of London to improve the quality of optical glass for telescopes, he produced a glass of very high refractive index that was to lead him in 1845 to the discovery of diamagnetism. In 1821 he married Sarah Barnard, settled permanently at the Royal Institution, and began the series of researches on electricity and magnetism that were to revolutionize physics. In 1820 Hans Christian Ørsted had announced the discovery that the flow of an electric current through a wire produced a magnetic field around the wire. André-Marie Ampère showed that the magnetic force apparently was a circular one, producing in effect a cylinder of magnetism around the wire. No such circular force had ever before been observed, and Faraday was the first to understand what it implied. If a magnetic pole could be isolated, it ought to move constantly in a circle around a current-carrying wire. Faraday’s ingenuity and laboratory skill enabled him to construct an apparatus that confirmed this conclusion. This device, which transformed electrical energy into mechanical energy, was the first electric motor.
This discovery led Faraday to contemplate the nature of electricity. Unlike his contemporaries, he was not convinced that electricity was a material fluid that flowed through wires like water through a pipe. Instead, he thought of it as a vibration or force that was somehow transmitted as the result of tensions created in the conductor. One of his first experiments after his discovery of electromagnetic rotation was to pass a ray of polarized light through a solution in which electrochemical decomposition was taking place in order to detect the intermolecular strains that he thought must be produced by the passage of an electric current. During the 1820s he kept coming back to this idea, but always without result.
In the spring of 1831, Faraday began to work with Charles (later Sir Charles) Wheatstone on the theory of sound, another vibrational phenomenon. He was particularly fascinated by the patterns (known as Chladni figures) formed in light powder spread on iron plates when these plates were thrown into vibration by a violin bow. Here was demonstrated the ability of a dynamic cause to create a static effect, something he was convinced happened in a current-carrying wire. He was even more impressed by the fact that such patterns could be induced in one plate by bowing another nearby. Such acoustic induction is apparently what lay behind his most famous experiment. On August 29, 1831, Faraday wound a thick iron ring on one side with insulated wire that was connected to a battery. He then wound the opposite side with wire connected to a galvanometer. What he expected was that a “wave” would be produced when the battery circuit was closed and that the wave would show up as a deflection of the galvanometer in the second circuit. He closed the primary circuit and, to his delight and satisfaction, saw the galvanometer needle jump. A current had been induced in the secondary coil by one in the primary. When he opened the circuit, however, he was astonished to see the galvanometer jump in the opposite direction. Somehow, turning off the current also created an induced current, equal and opposite to the original current, in the secondary circuit. This phenomenon led Faraday to propose what he called the “electrotonic” state of particles in the wire, which he considered a state of tension. A current thus appeared to be the setting up of such a state of tension or the collapse of such a state. Although he could not find experimental evidence for the electrotonic state, he never entirely abandoned the concept, and it shaped most of his later work.
In the fall of 1831, Faraday attempted to determine just how an induced current was produced. His original experiment had involved a powerful electromagnet created by the winding of the primary coil. He now tried to create a current by using a permanent magnet. He discovered that when a permanent magnet was moved in and out of a coil of wire, a current was induced in the coil. Magnets, he knew, were surrounded by forces that could be made visible by the simple expedient of sprinkling iron filings on a card held over them. Faraday saw the “lines of force” thus revealed as lines of tension in the medium, namely air, surrounding the magnet, and he soon discovered the law determining the production of electric currents by magnets: the magnitude of a current was dependent upon the number of lines of force cut by the conductor in unit time. He immediately realized that a continuous current could be produced by rotating a copper disk between the poles of a powerful magnet and taking leads off the disk’s rim and centre. The outside of the disk would cut more lines than would the inside, and there would thus be a continuous current produced in the circuit linking the rim to the centre. This was the first dynamo. It was also the direct ancestor of electric motors, for it was only necessary to reverse the situation, to feed an electric current to the disk, to make it rotate. Theory of electrochemistry of Michael Faraday
While Faraday was performing these experiments and presenting them to the scientific world, doubts were raised about the identity of the different manifestations of electricity that had been studied. Were the electric “fluid” that apparently was released by electric eels and other electric fishes, that produced by a static electricity generator, that of the voltaic battery, and that of the new electromagnetic generator all the same? Or were they different fluids following different laws? Faraday was convinced that they were not fluids at all but forms of the same force, yet he recognized that this identity had never been satisfactorily shown by experiment. For this reason he began, in 1832, what promised to be a rather tedious attempt to prove that all electricities had precisely the same properties and caused precisely the same effects. The key effect was electrochemical decomposition. Voltaic and electromagnetic electricity posed no problems, but static electricity did. As Faraday delved deeper into the problem, he made two startling discoveries. First, electrical force did not, as had long been supposed, act at a distance upon chemical molecules to cause them to dissociate. It was the passage of electricity through a conducting liquid medium that caused the molecules to dissociate, even when the electricity merely discharged into the air and did not pass into a “pole” or “centre of action” in a voltaic cell. Second, the amount of the decomposition was found to be related in a simple manner to the amount of electricity that passed through the solution. These findings led Faraday to a new theory of electrochemistry. The electric force, he argued, threw the molecules of a solution into a state of tension (his electrotonic state). When the force was strong enough to distort the fields of forces that held the molecules together so as to permit the interaction of these fields with neighbouring particles, the tension was relieved by the migration of particles along the lines of tension, the different species of atoms migrating in opposite directions. The amount of electricity that passed, then, was clearly related to the chemical affinities of the substances in solution. These experiments led directly to Faraday’s two laws of electrochemistry: (1) The amount of a substance deposited on each electrode of an electrolytic cell is directly proportional to the quantity of electricity passed through the cell. (2) The quantities of different elements deposited by a given amount of electricity are in the ratio of their chemical equivalent weights.
Faraday’s work on electrochemistry provided him with an essential clue for the investigation of static electrical induction. Since the amount of electricity passed through the conducting medium of an electrolytic cell determined the amount of material deposited at the electrodes, why should not the amount of electricity induced in a nonconductor be dependent upon the material out of which it was made? In short, why should not every material have a specific inductive capacity? Every material does, and Faraday was the discoverer of this fact.
By 1839 Faraday was able to bring forth a new and general theory of electrical action. Electricity, whatever it was, caused tensions to be created in matter. When these tensions were rapidly relieved (i.e., when bodies could not take much strain before “snapping” back), then what occurred was a rapid repetition of a cyclical buildup, breakdown, and buildup of tension that, like a wave, was passed along a substance. Such substances were called conductors. In electrochemical processes the rate of buildup and breakdown of the strain was proportional to the chemical affinities of the substances involved, but again the current was not a material flow but a wave pattern of tensions and their relief. Insulators were simply materials whose particles could take an extraordinary amount of strain before they snapped. Electrostatic charge in an isolated insulator was simply a measure of this accumulated strain. Thus, all electrical action was the result of forced strains in bodies.
The strain on Faraday of eight years of sustained experimental and theoretical work was too much, and in 1839 his health broke down. For the next six years he did little creative science. Not until 1845 was he able to pick up the thread of his researches and extend his theoretical views.
Later life of Michael Faraday
Since the very beginning of his scientific work, Faraday had believed in what he called the unity of the forces of nature. By this he meant that all the forces of nature were but manifestations of a single universal force and ought, therefore, to be convertible into one another. In 1846 he made public some of the speculations to which this view led him. A lecturer, scheduled to deliver one of the Friday evening discourses at the Royal Institution by which Faraday encouraged the popularization of science, panicked at the last minute and ran out, leaving Faraday with a packed lecture hall and no lecturer. On the spur of the moment, Faraday offered “Thoughts on Ray Vibrations.” Specifically referring to point atoms and their infinite fields of force, he suggested that the lines of electric and magnetic force associated with these atoms might, in fact, serve as the medium by which light waves were propagated. Many years later, Maxwell was to build his electromagnetic field theory upon this speculation.
When Faraday returned to active research in 1845, it was to tackle again a problem that had obsessed him for years, that of his hypothetical electrotonic state. He was still convinced that it must exist and that he simply had not yet discovered the means for detecting it. Once again he tried to find signs of intermolecular strain in substances through which electrical lines of force passed, but again with no success. It was at this time that a young Scot, William Thomson (later Lord Kelvin), wrote Faraday that he had studied Faraday’s papers on electricity and magnetism and that he, too, was convinced that some kind of strain must exist. He suggested that Faraday experiment with magnetic lines of force, since these could be produced at much greater strengths than could electrostatic ones. Faraday took the suggestion, passed a beam of plane-polarized light through the optical glass of high refractive index that he had developed in the 1820s, and then turned on an electromagnet so that its lines of force ran parallel to the light ray. This time he was rewarded with success. The plane of polarization was rotated, indicating a strain in the molecules of the glass. But Faraday again noted an unexpected result. When he changed the direction of the ray of light, the rotation remained in the same direction, a fact that Faraday correctly interpreted as meaning that the strain was not in the molecules of the glass but in the magnetic lines of force. The direction of rotation of the plane of polarization depended solely upon the polarity of the lines of force; the glass served merely to detect the effect.
This discovery confirmed Faraday’s faith in the unity of forces, and he plunged onward, certain that all matter must exhibit some response to a magnetic field. To his surprise he found that this was in fact so, but in a peculiar way. Some substances, such as iron, nickel, cobalt, and oxygen, lined up in a magnetic field so that the long axes of their crystalline or molecular structures were parallel to the lines of force; others lined up perpendicular to the lines of force. Substances of the first class moved toward more intense magnetic fields; those of the second moved toward regions of less magnetic force. Faraday named the first group paramagnetics and the second diamagnetics. After further research he concluded that paramagnetics were bodies that conducted magnetic lines of force better than did the surrounding medium, whereas diamagnetics conducted them less well. By 1850 Faraday had evolved a radically new view of space and force. Space was not “nothing,” the mere location of bodies and forces, but a medium capable of supporting the strains of electric and magnetic forces. The energies of the world were not localized in the particles from which these forces arose but rather were to be found in the space surrounding them. Thus was born field theory. As Maxwell later freely admitted, the basic ideas for his mathematical theory of electrical and magnetic fields came from Faraday; his contribution was to mathematize those ideas in the form of his classical field equations.
About 1855, Faraday’s mind began to fail. He still did occasional experiments, one of which involved attempting to find an electrical effect of raising a heavy weight, since he felt that gravity, like magnetism, must be convertible into some other force, most likely electrical. This time he was disappointed in his expectations, and the Royal Society refused to publish his negative results. More and more, Faraday sank into senility. Queen Victoria rewarded his lifetime of devotion to science by granting him the use of a house at Hampton Court and even offered him the honour of a knighthood. Faraday gratefully accepted the cottage but rejected the knighthood; he would, he said, remain plain Mr. Faraday to the end. He died in 1867 and was buried in Highgate Cemetery, London, leaving as his monument a new conception of physical reality.
Source: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Michael-Faraday/Later-life
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Thousands of UK businesses could receive payouts if a legal claim filed against tech giant Microsoft is successful.
Regulation expert Dr Maria Luisa Stasi is alleging the tech giant overcharged companies for its Window Server software, used in cloud computing.
She is seeking compensation of over £1bn on behalf of UK businesses.The case has been brought on an "opt-out" basis - meaning UK organisations are all being represented to begin with unless they wish not to be.
And it is the latest class action lawsuit to be filed at the UK's Competition Appeal Tribunal against big tech firms, with Facebook, Google, and mobile phone firms amongst those facing action in other claims.
These types of claims are relatively new still, having been introduced in the UK in 2015, so there is little precedence to indicate how likely it is to be successful - but it will probably be years from now before there is an outcome.
It comes as the UK's Competition and Markets Authority investigates the cloud computing industry in the UK.
Broadly, cloud computing refers to data stored online, which can be accessed anywhere at any time.
It is a key part of how the modern world works, with cloud uses varying from storing vast amounts of data to streaming videos and music.
Cloud computing is also now a critical part of how many businesses operate.
Typically, this means either using Microsoft's Azure platform or entering into agreements with alternative providers like Amazon and Google - who then may licence software from Microsoft.
This licensing element is what has caused controversy, with Google telling the CMA in June: "We believe Microsoft’s licensing practices both raise rivals’ costs and weaken rivals’ ability to compete for a significant proportion of customer demand."
Microsoft has strongly denied this, opening its response to the investigation in July by stating that its licensing terms "do not meaningfully raise cloud rivals' costs".Small businesses
The legal action filed today claims that "many thousands" of UK businesses may have been affected.
It alleges that small firms "are hit particularly hard", pointing to figures from the Office for National Statistics which indicate more businesses closed down than started up in 2022.
“Put simply, Microsoft is punishing UK businesses and organisations for using Google, Amazon and Alibaba for cloud computing by forcing them to pay more money for Windows Server," said Ms Stasi.
"By doing so, Microsoft is trying to force customers into using its cloud computing service Azure and restricting competition in the sector.
"This lawsuit aims to challenge Microsoft’s anti-competitive behaviour, push them to reveal exactly how much businesses in the UK have been illegally penalised, and return the money to organisations that have been unfairly overcharged.”
source : https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c20wjnxr5ldo
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Unless you’re an astronaut, you probably don’t spend a lot of time thinking about gravity. We all take gravity for granted, and it would be hard not to!
Aside from a tiny sliver of the world’s population, most humans don’t know a life without gravity. From the Universe to our Solar System, to each planet, all the way down to our own bodies, gravity holds everything together.
But since we tend to see gravity as a given, it’s hard for us to imagine just how helpless we’d be without it… until it’s actually gone. Gravity is an attractive force between any two masses.The greater the mass, the greater the gravity. The greater the gravity, the stronger the pull. Gravity is the reason why the Earth rotates around the Sun, why we experience high and low tide, and why we can walk on this planet without floating away! Most importantly, gravity secures our atmosphere, holding in the air we need to breathe.
In fact, there are a lot of things we can thank gravity for. There are so many that if we were to try and list them all here, we’d probably end up with a video longer than Titanic.
So to give you an idea of just how important gravity is, in a really, really short amount of time, we’re going to take it away from you. But not for too long. Just five seconds. Are you ready?
With the world still spinning at its usual 1,600 km/h (1,000 mph) speed, everything that isn’t secured firmly to the ground would go flying. Cars, boats, trains, planes – well, obviously – but not like they normally do. More like this.
The Earth spins faster along the equator, so the impact of zero gravity would be felt hardest there. At the equator, you could experience winds almost six times stronger than the ones produced by Hurricane Katrina. That means that in just five seconds, you could be blown as far 2.3 km (1.4 mi) in any direction!
And not just you. There will be plenty of people, objects, and animals to look out for. Not to mention trees, soil, and mid-air floods from the world’s ponds, lakes, rivers and oceans!At the same time, the gases in the atmosphere would drift out into space. Not only are we now losing huge amounts of oxygen, but the sudden and sharp drop in air pressure would instantly shatter everyone’s inner ears.
But then there’s the planet itself, which is literally held together by gravity. Without gravity, the pressure of the Earth’s inner core will cause the planet to expand.It’s not like five seconds without gravity would cause the world to explode, but even a five-second expansion of the Earth’s inner core would cause some major earthquakes, and trigger huge volcanic eruptions. Add one more item to your list of dangerous things flying through the sky: lava!
Out in space, the planets in our Solar System that normally orbit the Sun, would instead start drifting away from it. Earth would follow its neighbors at a speed of 30 km/s (19 mi/sec).
But in just five seconds, it would have traveled 150 km (93 mi). That’s not far enough for our planet to be out of the habitable zone, but how habitable would Earth be after five deadly seconds without gravity?
When gravity is restored, you’ll hit the ground hard. If the impact doesn’t kill you, or you aren’t crushed by a heavy object, you would still be severely injured.
Hopefully, you’d catch your breath in time, with gravity pulling oxygen back down to Earth, and bringing the atmosphere back around the planet. But there would still be earthquakes and volcanic eruptions as the Earth’s core becomes compressed again. And there would still be massive flooding due to the significant displacement of the oceans.
The number of casualties would be astronomical. Not just from flying debris, lack of oxygen, or simultaneous natural disasters, but because in those five seconds without gravity, the Earth’s crust literally opened up and swallowed several major cities.
So, yeah. A lot can happen in just five seconds. And that just goes to show how essential gravity is to life on Earth, and beyond!
You may think you’re special, and you most certainly are! But just remember that you’re part of something bigger than you, and that’s what keeps you grounded. But don’t sink too low! Can you imagine how heavy you’d be if Earth’s gravity doubled?Describing a person as "down to earth" is the same as saying that he or she is "grounded." In other words, it's like saying that the person is "the salt of the earth." To say the least, this person certainly does not have his or her "head in the clouds." What all of these idioms are trying to convey is a person who is humble, self-aware and pragmatic – a person whose head hasn't filled up with so much idealism and fanciful nonsense that it could balloon and lift them off their feet.
In truth, it's not humility but gravity – the natural phenomenon pulling matter together – that keeps humans and other objects grounded. If our planet were to lose gravity for even five seconds, it would spell the end of life on Earth as we know it.Gravity pulls objects toward one another. The more massive an object is, the stronger its gravitational pull. The closer you are to an object, the stronger its gravitational pull. Earth, of course, is massive and very close to us. Its gravity is what keeps people walking on the ground and what causes feathers and textbooks to fall to the floor when dropped [source: Caltech].
The sun is much, much bigger than Earth – more than 1 million copies of our planet could fit inside it. The sun's gravity is what keeps our planet and others orbiting around that burning-hot star [source: NASA].
Without gravity, humans and other objects would become weightless. Ever see movies where astronauts are fumbling around trying to plant their country's flag on the moon? The reason they bounce up and down is that the moon is much smaller than, and therefore has much less gravity than, Earth. Same goes for when we see astronauts floating around weightless in their spacecrafts: The farther they get from Earth, the less the planet's gravity pulls them to the ground [source: Gannon].
If Earth suddenly lost all of its gravity, we wouldn't just start floating. The lack of any forceful gravitational pull would turn humans – and anything else with mass, like cars and buildings – into very fast-moving tumbleweeds. That's because the planet would continue spinning, without exerting gravity to keep objects tied to it [source: Domanico].
A loss of gravity would also mean that the planet would stop pulling down air, water and Earth's atmosphere. That's where the apocalyptic devastation somewhere along the lines of a Michael Bay movie come in. A sudden and significant loss of air pressure would immediately shatter everyone's inner ear. Think about the pressure that builds when you're flying or scuba diving; this would be much more intense and immediate. Concrete structures would crumble as oxygen – an important binding agent – left the planet [source: Cote].
What's H2O without the O? That's right, water would become hydrogen gas, causing immediate explosions among every living cell. Sure, it would be over in five seconds, but none of us would be around by the time the gravity came back [source: Cote].
source :
“What if Earth lost gravity for five seconds?”. CHRIS OPFER, Howstuffworks.
“What If The World Lost Gravity For 5 Seconds?”. 2020. Youtube.
“How Strong is the Force of Gravity on Earth?”. MATT WILLIAMS, 2016. Universe Today.
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Mr. Cunningham, as I’ve already made clear, I have no interest whatever in painting a portrait of Lord Tregonning’s daughter.” Gerrard Reginald Debbington lounged elegantly in an armchair in the smoking room of his select gentleman’s club. Concealing his mounting frustration, he held Lord Tregonning’s agent’s gaze. “I agreed to this meeting in the hope that Lord Tregonning, having been informed of my refusal of the commission to paint the portrait, had agreed to allow me access to the Hellebore Hall gardens.”
He was, after all, the ton’s foremost landscape painter; Lord Tregonning’s famous gardens were long overdue a visit from such as he.
Cunningham blanched. Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the papers spread on the small table between them.
Around them, a discreet hum held sway; Gerrard was peripherally aware of occasional glances thrown their way. Other members saw him, but on noticing Cunningham, they checked; recognizing that business was being conducted, they refrained from intruding.
Cunningham was in his mid-twenties, some years younger than Gerrard’s twenty-nine. Attired in sober, rusty black over serviceable linen and a biscuit-colored waistcoat, his round face, faint frown, and the
intent attention he gave to his papers marked him clearly as someone’s business agent.
By the time Cunningham deigned to speak, Gerrard had a sketch assembled in his head, titled “Business Agent at Work.”
“Lord Tregonning has instructed me to convey that while he appreciates your reservations over committing to a portrait of a subject you haven’t yet seen, such reservations only strengthen his conviction that you are indeed the painter he needs for this work. His lordship fully comprehends that you will paint his daughter as you see her, without any obfuscation. That is precisely what he wishes—he wants the portrait to be a faithful rendition, to accurately portray Miss Tregonning as she truly is.”
Gerrard’s lips thinned; this was going nowhere.
Without looking up, Cunningham went on, “In addition to the fee offered, you may take as many months short of a year as you deem necessary to complete the portrait, and over that time you will have unfettered access and unrestricted permission to sketch and paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall. Should you wish, you may bring a friend or companion; you would both be accommodated at Hellebore Hall for the duration of your stay.”
Gerrard stifled his exasperation. He hadn’t needed to hear that offer again, no matter how sweetly laced; he’d turned it down two weeks ago, when Cunningham had first sought him out.
Stirring, he caught Cunningham’s eye. “Your employer misunderstands—I do not, indeed, have never painted on commission. Painting is an abiding interest, one I’m wealthy enough to indulge. Painting portraits, however, is no more than an incidental pastime, successful perhaps, but not in the main of serious attraction to me, to my painterly soul if you will.”
Not strictly true, but in the present circumstance, apt enough. “While I would be delighted to have the opportunity to paint the Hellebore Hall gardens, not even that is sufficient incentive to tempt me to agree to a portrait I have no inclination, or need, to paint.”
Cunningham held his gaze. He drew in a tight breath, glanced briefly down, then looked up again, his gaze fixing over Gerrard’s left shoulder. “His lordship instructed me to inform you that this will be his final offer…and that should you refuse it, he will be forced to find some other painter to undertake the portrait, and that other painter will be accorded the same license in respect of the gardens as was offered to you. Subsequently, Lord Tregonning will ensure that during his lifetime and that of his immediate heirs, no other artist will be allowed access to the gardens of Hellebore Hall.”
Suppressing his reaction, remaining seated, took all Gerrard’s considerable willpower. What thedevil was Tregonning about, resorting to what amounted to extortion …?
He looked away, unseeing.
One thing was clear. Lord Tregonning was bound and determined to have him paint his daughter.
Leaning his elbow on the chair arm, his clenched jaw on his fist, fixing his gaze across the room, he searched for some acceptable way out of the well-baited trap. None immediately leapt to mind; his violent antipathy to allowing some portrait panderer to be the only artist to gain access to the fabulous landscapes said to surround Hellebore Hall was clouding his perception.
He looked at Cunningham. “I need to consider his lordship’s proposal more carefully.”
Given the clipped accents that had infected his speech, he wasn’t surprised that Cunningham kept his expression carefully neutral. The agent nodded once. “Yes, of course. How long…?”
“Twenty-four hours.” If he let such a subject torture him for any longer, unresolved, he’d go insane. He rose and extended his hand. “You’re at the Cumberland, I believe?”
Hurriedly gathering his papers, Cunningham stood and grasped his hand. “Yes. Ah…I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Gerrard nodded curtly. He remained by the chair until Cunningham had left, then stirred and followed him out.
He walked the parks of the capital—St. James, Green Park, then into Hyde Park. A poor choice; his boots had barely touched the lawn when he was hailed by Lady Swaledale, eager to introduce him to her daughter and her niece. A bevy of matrons with bright-eyed damsels in tow leaned from their carriages, hoping to catch his attention; others hovered, parading along the grassed verge.
Spotting his aunt Minnie, Lady Bellamy, in her carriage drawn up by the side of the Avenue, he excused himself to a particularly clinging fond mama on the grounds of paying his respects. The instant he reached the carriage, he grasped Minnie’s hand and with an extravagant gesture, kissed it. “I’m throwing myself on your mercy—save me,” he implored.
Minnie chortled. She patted his hand and leaned down to offer her lined cheek, which he dutifully bussed. “If you’d just make your choice, dear, they’d go off and hunt someone else.”
“Not, of course, that we want you to rush your choice.” Timms, Minnie’s companion, leaned forward to give Gerrard her hand. “But while you remain unattached, you must expect to be pursued.”
Gerrard assumed an expression of mock-dismay. “Et tu,Timms?”
Timms snorted. She’d grown more gaunt with the years, but there was nothing wrong with her mind.
Or with Minnie’s; she regarded him shrewdly, if affectionately. “Endowed as you are with an excellent estate, and the business interests the Cynsters have sponsored you into, let alone being my principal heir, there’s no getting away from it, m’boy—if you’d been as ugly as sin you might have given them pause, but as you are, celebrated gentleman painter that you’ve become, you’re in a fair way to being a matchmaking mama’s fondest dream.”
Gerrard looked his disgust. “I’m not at all sure marriage, at least in the near future, is in my best interests.”
That was his current stance, although not one he’d to date shared with anyone else.
“Oh?” Minnie opened her eyes wide. Serious for a moment, she searched his face, then her soft smile returned. “I wouldn’t worry your head with such considerations, dear.” She patted his hand. “When the right lady appears, it’ll all be very plain.”
Timms nodded sagely. “Indeed. No sense imagining it’ll be up to you to decide.”
Far from reassuring him, their words elicited a twinge of alarm. He hid it behind a smile. Sighting a group
of friends, he seized the opportunity to retreat; farewelling Minnie and Timms, he strolled across the lawn.
The four gentlemen hailed him. All were known to him; all, like him, were of marriageable age and condition. They were standing a little apart, surveying the field.
“The Curtiss chit’s quite fetching, ain’t she?” Philip Montgomery raised his glass the better to observe the beauty parading with her two sisters.
“If you can stand the giggling,” Elmore Standish replied. “For my money, the Etherington girl’s more the ticket.”
Gerrard half listened to their commentary; he was one of them in the social sense, yet his unconventional hobby set him apart. It had opened his eyes to a truth his peers had yet to see.
He exchanged a few comments, wryly cynical, then walked on, into the relative safety of Kensington Gardens. At that hour, the gravel walks were busy with nannies and nursemaids watching over their charges as they romped on the lawns. Few gentlemen strolled there; ladies of the ton rarely ventured that way.
He’d intended refocusing on Lord Tregonning’s outrageous proposition; instead, the gay shrieks of the youngsters distracted him, sending his mind down a quite different track.
Family. Children. The next generation. A wife. A successful marriage.
All were elements he assumed one day he’d have; they still spoke to something in him, still meant something to him. They were things he still desired. Yet ironically, while his painting, especially his portraits, had elevated him to a position where he could have his pick of the unattached ladies, the very talent that enabled him to create such striking art had opened his eyes, and left him wary.
Of taking a wife. Of marriage. Most especially of love.
It wasn’t a matter he was comfortable discussing; even thinking of love made him uneasy, as if doing so was somehow tempting fate. Yet what he’d seen and grappled with while painting his sister Patience and her husband, Vane Cynster, and later the other couples who’d sat for him, what he’d reacted to and striven to portray on canvas was so inherently powerful he’d have had to be blind not to comprehend the ability of that power to impact on his life. To affect him, to distract him. Perhaps to sap the creative energy he needed to give his works life.
Ifhe surrendered to it.
If he ever fell in love, would he still be able to paint? Would falling in love, marrying for love, as his sister and so many others in his wider family had, be a wellspring of joy, or a creative disaster?
When painting, he poured all he was into the act, all his energies, all his passions; if he succumbed to love, would it drain him and impair his ability to paint? Was there even a connection—was the passion that fired love the same as that which fired his creative talent, or were the two totally separate?
He’d thought long and hard, but had found little comfort. Painting was an intrinsic part of him; every instinct he possessed violently recoiled from any act that might reduce his ability to paint.
So he’d recoiled from marriage. Stepped back. Regardless of Timms’s view, he’d made the decision
that for him, at least for the next several years, love was an emotion he’d do well to avoid; marriage, therefore, did not presently feature on his horizon.
That decision ought to have settled his mind. Instead, he remained restless, dissatisfied. Not yet at peace with his direction.
Regardless, he couldn’t see any other sensible course.
Refocusing, he discovered he’d stopped; he stood staring at a group of children playing about the pond. His fingers itched, a familiar symptom of the craving for a pencil and sketch pad. He remained for several minutes, letting the vignettes of children at play sink into his visual memory, then moved on.
This time, he succeeded in turning his mind to Lord Tregonning’s offer. To considering its pros and cons. Desires, instincts, and the consequent impulses left him twisting in the wind, swinging first this way, then that. Returning to the bridge over the Serpentine, he halted and took stock.
In three hours he’d accomplished precisely nothing, beyond confirming how accurately Tregonning had read him. He couldn’t discuss such a proposal with any fellow artist; his nonartist friends wouldn’t comprehend how tempted yet torn he felt.
He needed to talk to someone who understood.
It was nearly five o’clock when he climbed the steps of Vane and Patience Cynster’s house in Curzon Street. Patience was his older sister. His parents had died when he was young; Patience had been his surrogate parent for years. When she’d married Vane, Gerrard had found himself welcomed into the Cynster fold, treated as one of the family, as Vane’s protégé. In becoming the man he now was, the influence of the Cynsters had been critical, a fact for which he was deeply grateful.
His father, Reggie, had been no satisfactory model; to the Cynsters, Gerrard owed not just his financial success, but also his elegance, his unshakable confidence, and that touch of hard-edged arrogance that among tonnish gentlemen set them, and him, apart.
In reply to his knock, Bradshaw, Vane’s butler, opened the door; beaming, he assured him that Vane and Patience were indeed in and presently to be found in the back parlor.
Gerrard knew what that meant. Handing over his cane, he smiled and waved Bradshaw back. “I’ll announce myself.”
“Indeed, sir.” Fighting a grin, Bradshaw bowed.
Gerrard heard the shrieks before he opened the parlor door. The instant he did, silence fell. Three heads jerked up, pinning him with accusatory stares—then his nephews and niece realized who’d dared to interrupt their playtime.
They came to life like demons. Uttering ear-splitting cries of “Uncle Gerrard!” they hurled themselves at him.
Laughing, he caught the eldest, Christopher, and dangled him upside down. Christopher shrieked with joy; laughing, Gregory jumped up and down, peering into his brother’s upturned face. Therese joined in. After shaking Christopher thoroughly, Gerrard set him down and, growling like an ogre, spread his arms and swept the younger two up.
Juggling them, he walked to the chaise facing the fireplace.
From the armchair angled before the hearth, with her youngest son, Martin, bobbing on her knees, Patience smiled indulgently up at him.
His broad shoulders propped against the side of Patience’s chair, Vane grinned; he’d been wrestling with the three older children when Gerrard had walked in. “What brings you our way? Surely not the chance to have your hair pulled by our resident monsters.”
Disengaging Gregory’s and Therese’s death grips on his previously neat locks, Gerrard fleetingly returned the grin. “Oh, I don’t know.” Setting the pair on the chaise, he dropped down to sit between them. He looked from one to the other. “There’s a certain something about them, don’t you think?”
The children crowed, and seized the opening to bombard him with tales of their recent exploits. He listened, as always drawn in by their innocent, untarnished view of mundane events. Eventually, they tired. The boys slumped on either side of him; Therese yawned, slipped from the chaise and crawled into her father’s lap.
Vane dropped a kiss on her soft curls and settled her, then looked at Gerrard. “So what is it? There’s obviously something.”
Leaning back, Gerrard told them of Lord Tregonning’s offer.
“So you see, I’m trapped. I absolutely definitely don’t want to do the portrait. His daughter will doubtless prove to be a typical, spoilt featherbrain, worse, one who’s used to ruling as queen in her rustic territory. There’ll be nothing there for me to paint beyond vacuous self-interest.”
“She might not be that bad,” Patience said.
“There’s every likelihood she’ll be even worse.” He sighed deeply. “I rue the day I allowed those portraits of the twins to be shown.”
From his earliest years, he’d been a landscape artist. He still was—it was his first and deepest calling—but ten years ago, purely out of curiosity, he’d tried his hand at painting portraits of couples. Vane and Patience had been the first he’d asked to sit for him; that painting hung above the drawing room fireplace in their house in Kent, safely private. He’d subsequently painted other couples, all family or connections, but the resulting paintings had always graced private rooms. Yet his hankering for challenge had lured him on; after painting portraits of each couple, he’d decided to paint matching portraits of the Cynster twins, Amanda, now Countess of Dexter, and Amelia, Viscountess Calverton, each holding their firstborn sons.
The portraits were intended to be hung in their country homes, but those of the ton who saw the portraits while they’d still been in London had set up such a clamor the custodians of the Royal Academy had begged, literallybegged him to allow the works to be shown in the annual portrait exhibition. The attention had been sweet; he’d allowed himself to be persuaded.
And had lived to regret it.
Vane regarded him with amused affection. “So hard to be such a success.”
Gerrard snorted. “I should appoint you my agent and let you deal with the horde of matrons, each of them ineradicably convinced that their daughter is the perfect subject for my next great portrait.”
Patience jigged Martin on her knee. “It is just one portrait.”
Gerrard shook his head. “That’s not how it works. It’s one of those great risks—choosing a subject. At present, my reputation is solid and intact. One truly ghastly portrait could incalculably damage it.
Regardless, I refuse to pander to the expectations of my subjects, or their parents. I paint what I see, which means Lord Tregonning and his darling daughter are very likely to be disappointed.”
The children were growing restless. Patience rose as their nurse looked in; she beckoned to the matronly woman and glanced at the children. “It’s time for your tea. Bread pudding tonight, don’t forget.”
Gerrard hid a wry smile as the allure of bread pudding trumped the attraction of remaining with him. Both boys slid to the ground, reciting polite farewells. Therese, helped up out of her father’s lap, blew him a kiss, then ran to beat her brothers out of the door.
Patience handed the baby over, then shut the door on her departing brood and returned to her chair. “So why are you so agonized? Simply decline his lordship’s invitation.”
“That’s justit. ” Gerrard raked his fingers through his hair. “If I decline, I not only lose all chance of painting the famous Garden of Night myself, but ensure that the only painter who’ll get the chance in the next fifty years will be some portrait dabbler who probably won’t even recognize what he’s looking at.”
“Which will be what?” Vane rose, stretched, then moved to another chair. “What is it about these gardens that makes them so special?”
“The gardens of Hellebore Hall in Cornwall were originally designed in 1710.” Gerrard had searched out the details after Cunningham had first called on him. “The area’s unique—a narrow protected valley angled southwest that captures the weather in such a way that the most fantastic plants and trees that grow nowhere else in England thrive there.
“The house is situated at the head of the valley which runs all the way to the sea. The proposed designs were seen by many, and generated much excitement at the time. Subsequently, the gardens were created over some thirty-odd years, but the family turned reclusive. Very few people have seen the gardens complete.” He glanced at Patience. “The few who did were enraptured.
“Landscape artists have been itching to paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall for decades. None have succeeded in gaining permission.” His lips quirked. He glanced at Vane. “The valley and its gardens lie within a large private estate, and the cove is rocky and dangerous, so slipping in and sketching on the sly has never been a viable option.”
“So every landscape painter in England—” “And the Continent and even the Americas.”
“—would jump at the opportunity to paint these gardens.” Vane cocked his head. “Are you sure you want to pass up the chance?”
Gerrard let out an explosive breath. “No.That’s my problem. Especially given the Garden of Night.”
“Which is?” Patience asked.
“The gardens comprise multiple areas, each named for an ancient god or mythical being. There’s a Garden of Hercules, which stands along one ridge and has lots of big, tall trees, and a Garden of Artemis, with topiary animals, and so on.
“One of the areas is the Garden of Venus. It contains a large number of aphrodisiacs and heavily perfumed species, many of which are night-blooming, and incorporates a grotto and a pool fed by the stream that runs through the valley. It’s located at the valley’s head, just below the house. Due to some quirk of nature, that particular area grew rampant. One lucky soul who saw it only a decade or so after planting described it as a gothic heaven—a dark landscape to eclipse all others. It became known as the Garden of Night.”
He paused, then added, “In landscape artist’s terms, painting the Garden of Night is akin to attaining the Holy Grail. It’s there, but has for generations remained out of reach.”
Vane grimaced. “Difficult choice.”
Gerrard nodded. “Very much a ‘damned if I do, and damned if I don’t’ decision.”
Patience looked from one to the other. “Actually, the decision’s quite simple.” She caught Gerrard’s eye. “All you have to decide is whether you’re willing to risk that your talent is up to the task of painting a reasonable portrait of this young lady, against the certainty of being able to paint your Holy Grail.”
She tilted her head. “Put it another way—how much do you want to paint the Garden of Night? Enough to challenge yourself to creating a decent portrait of one young lady?”
Gerrard met her gray eyes, held her direct gaze. After a moment, he glanced at Vane. “Sisters.” Vane laughed.
Even after Patience’s succinct reduction of the decision facing him, he might have refused, if it hadn’t been for the dream. He spent the evening with Patience and Vane, idly chatting about other things; when he parted from Patience in the hall, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “You know what you want to do, so do it. Take the risk.”
He’d smiled, patted her shoulder, then ambled home, wondering, examining the possibilities, but increasingly along the lines of how he might pull off a portrait of a vain flibbertigibbet without being overtly insulting.
Reaching his rooms in Duke Street, he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. Compton, his gentleman’s gentleman, came hurrying up to divest him of his coat and bear it away to be brushed and accorded all proper respect. Gerrard grinned, undressed and fell into bed.
And dreamed of the Garden of Night.
He’d never seen it, yet it appeared so vivid, so enticing, so mesmerizingly dark. So full of that dramatic energy that as a painter he was most attuned to. There was danger and excitement, a hint of menace, and something even more profound, more elementally sinister lurking in its shadows.
It called to him. Whispered seductively.
He woke in the morning with the summons still fresh in his mind. He didn’t believe in portents.
Rising, donning a velvet robe over trousers and shirt, he went downstairs. Making major decisions on an empty stomach was never wise.
He’d barely made a start on ham and eggs when a rat-a-tat-tat knock fell on the front door. Recognizing the signal, he reached for the coffeepot and filled his cup—before the Honorable Barnaby Adair could drain the pot dry.
The parlor door flew open. “My heavens!” Barnaby, a tall, elegant, golden-haired figure sporting a dramatically hunted look, swept in. “May the saints preserve me from all doting mamas!” His gaze fell on the coffeepot. “Any left?”
Smiling, Gerrard waved at both pot and platters as Compton hurried in with an additional place setting. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you—you’re a savior.” Barnaby sank into the chair beside Gerrard.
Gerrard eyed him with affectionate amusement. “And good morning to you. What’s put you out? Did Lady Harrington’s ball prove too exercising?”
“Not Harrington.” Barnaby closed his eyes, savoring the coffee. “She’s a decent enough sort.” Opening his eyes, he considered the platters. “It was Lady Oglethorpe and her daughter Melissa.”
“Ah!” Gerrard recalled the connection. “The old friend of your dear mama’s who was hoping you’d oblige and escort her darling about town?”
“The same.” Barnaby took a bite of toast. “You remember the story of the ugly duckling? Well, Melissa is that in reverse.”
Gerrard laughed.
Barnaby and he were much of an age, of similar temperament and background, had similar likes and dislikes, and both favored an eccentric pastime. He couldn’t remember how they’d first come to knock around town together, but over the last five years, they’d seen each other through various adventures, growing ever more comfortable in each other’s company, and now unhesitatingly called on the other for any and all support.
“Nothing for it,” Barnaby declared. “I shall have to flee the capital.” Gerrard grinned. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Yes it can. I tell you, Lady Oglethorpe isn’t looking to me just for escort duties. She has a gleam in her eye I mistrust, and if that wasn’t bad enough, the dreadful Melissa clasped her hands to her bosom—not a bad bosom, but the rest is hopeless—and fervently stated that yours truly was her ideal, and that no gentleman in the ton could hold a candle to my magnificence.” Barnaby grimaced horrendously. “Coming
it a great deal too strong, as the pater would say—made me feel quite ill. And it’sJune —don’t they know the hunting season’s over?”
Gerrard regarded his friend thoughtfully. Barnaby was the third son of an earl, and had inherited a substantial estate from a maternal aunt; like Gerrard, he was a prime target for matrons with daughters to establish. While Gerrard could and did use his painting as an excuse to avoid the worst of the invitations, Barnaby’s hobby of studying crime was a far less acceptable diversion.
“I suppose,” Barnaby mused, “I could go to m’sister’s, but I’m no longer sure she’s not dangerous, too.” His eyes narrowed. “If she invited the Oglethorpes to visit over summer…” He shuddered.
Gerrard leaned back and reached for his coffee cup. “If you’re set on escaping the dreadful Melissa, you could come with me to Cornwall.”
“Cornwall?” Barnaby blinked his blue eyes wide. “What’s in Cornwall?” Gerrard told him.
Barnaby perked up.
“Mind you,” Gerrard warned, “there’ll be at least one unmarried young lady present, and where there’s one—”
“There’s usually a pack.” Barnaby nodded. “Nevertheless, I’ve handled all comers to now—it’s just Melissa, her mother, and the family connection that have so demoralized me.”
Said demoralization had clearly been transient; Barnaby fell to demolishing the last sausage, then he looked at Gerrard. “So, when do we leave?”
Gerrard met his eyes. Patience had been right, not that he’d ever tell her. “I’ll write to Tregonning’s agent today. I’ll need to get in extra supplies, and make sure all else is in order here…shall we say the end of next week?”
“Excellent!” Barnaby raised his cup in a toast, drained it, then reached for the coffeepot. “I’m sure I can lie low until then.”
Twelve days later, Gerrard tooled his curricle between a pair of worn stone gateposts bearing plaques proclaiming them the entrance to Hellebore Hall.
“It’s certainly a long way from London.” Relaxed on the seat beside him, Barnaby looked around, curious and mildly intrigued.
They’d set out from the capital four mornings before, and spelled Gerrard’s matched grays over the distance, stopping at inns that caught their fancy each lunchtime and each evening.
The driveway, a continuation of the lane they’d taken off the road to St. Just and St. Mawes, was lined with old, large-boled, thickly canopied trees. The fields on either side were screened by dense hedgerows. A sense of being enclosed in a living corridor, a shifting collage of browns and greens, was pervasive. Between the tops of the hedges and the overhanging branches, they caught tantalizing glimpses
of the sea, sparkling silver under a cerulean sky. Ahead and to the right, the strip of sea was bounded by distant headlands, a medley of olive, purple and smoky gray in the early afternoon light.
Gerrard squinted against the glare. “By my reckoning, that stretch of water must be Carrick Roads. Falmouth ought to lie directly ahead.”
Barnaby looked. “It’s too far to make out the town, but there are certainly plenty of sails out there.”
The land dipped; the lane followed, curving slowly south and west. They lost sight of Carrick Roads as the spur leading to St. Mawes intervened on their right, then the tree sentinels that had lined the lane abruptly ended. The curricle rattled on, into the sunshine.
They both caught their breath.
Before them lay one of the irregular inlets where an ancient valley had been drowned by the sea. To their right lay the St. Mawes arm of the Roseland peninsula, solid protection from any cold north wind; to their left, the rougher heathland of the southern arm rose, cutting off any buffets from the south. The horses trotted on and the view shifted, a new vista opening as they descended yet further.
The lane led them down through sloping fields, then steeply pitched and gabled roofs appeared ahead, between them and the blue-green waters of the inlet. Swinging in a wide, descending arc, the lane went past the house that majestically rose into view, then curved back to end in a wide sweep of gravel before the front door.
Rounding the final curve, Gerrard slowed his horses; neither he nor Barnaby uttered a word as they descended the last stretch. The house was…eccentric, fabulous—wonderful. There were turrets too numerous to count, multiple balconies laced with wrought iron, odd-shaped buttresses aplenty, windows of all descriptions, and segments of rooms forming fanciful angles in the gray stone walls.
“You didn’t say anything about the house,” Barnaby said as the horses neared the forecourt and they were forced to stop staring.
“I didn’tknow about the house,” Gerrard replied. “I’d only heard about the gardens.”
Arms of those gardens, the famous gardens of Hellebore Hall, reached out of the valley above which the house sat and embraced the fantastical creation, but the major part of the gardens lay hidden behind.
Poised sentrylike at the upper end of the valley that ran down to the inlet’s rocky shore, the house blocked all view of the valley itself and the gardens it contained.
Gerrard let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. “No wonder no one ever succeeded in slipping in to paint undetected.”
Barnaby shot him an amused look, straightening as Gerrard tightened the reins, and they entered the shaded forecourt of Hellebore Hall.
Seated in the drawing room of Hellebore Hall, Jacqueline Tregonning caught the sound she’d been waiting for—the clop of hooves, the soft scrunch of gravel under a carriage’s wheels.
None of the others scattered about the large room heard; they were too busy speculating on aspects of
the nature of the visitors who’d just arrived.
Jacqueline preferred not to speculate, not when she could view with her own eyes, and make up her own mind.
Smoothly, quietly, she rose from the armchair beside the chaise on which sat her closest friend, Eleanor Fritham, and Eleanor’s mother, Lady Fritham of neighboring Tresdale Manor. Both were engaged in a spirited discussion with Mrs. Elcott, the vicar’s wife, over the descriptions of the two gentlemen shortly expected that Mrs. Elcott’s and Lady Fritham’s correspondents in the capital had provided.
“Bound to be arrogant, the pair of them, my cousin said.” Mrs. Elcott grimaced disparagingly. “I daresay they’ll think themselves a cut above us.”
“I don’t see why they should,” Eleanor returned. “Lady Humphries wrote that while both were from excellent families, very much the haut ton, they were perfectly personable and amenable to being entertained.” Eleanor appealed to her mother. “Why would they turn their noses up at us? Aside from all else, we’re all the society there is around here—they’ll lead very quiet lives if they cut us.”
“True,” Lady Fritham agreed. “But if they’re half as well bred as her ladyship makes out, they won’t be high in the instep. Mark my words”—Lady Fritham nodded portentously, setting her multiple chins and the ribbons in her cap bobbing—“the mark of a true gentleman shows in the ease with which he comports himself in any company.”
Unobtrusively slipping away, gliding silently up the long room to the window that gave the best view of the front portico, Jacqueline cynically noted the others present; aside from her father’s sister, Millicent, who after her mother’s death had come to live with them, none had any real reason to be there.
Not unless one deemed rampant curiosity sufficient reason.
Jordan Fritham, Eleanor’s brother, stood chatting with Mrs. Myles and her daughters, Clara and Rosa, both as yet unwed. Millicent stood with them, Mitchel Cunningham by her side. The group was engrossed in discussing portraiture, and the singular success of Mitchel and her father in persuading society’s foremost artistic lion to grace Hellebore Hall and favor her with his talents.
Calmly, Jacqueline approached the window. Regardless of her father’s, Mitchel’s, or the artistic lion’s belief,she would be the one bestowing the favor. She hadn’t yet decided whether she would sit for him, and wouldn’t, not until she’d evaluated the man, his talents, and, most importantly, his integrity.
She knew why her father had been so insistent this man, and only he, could paint the portrait her father required. Millicent had been nothing short of brilliant in planting the right seeds in her father’s mind, and nurturing them to fruition. As the one most intimately involved on all counts, Jacqueline was aware that the man himself would be pivotal; without him, his talents, and his vaunted integrity regarding his work, their plans would come to naught.
And there was no other way to turn.
Halting two paces from the window, she looked out at the occupants of the curricle that had just rocked to a stop before the portico; in the circumstances she felt no compunction in spying on Gerrard Debbington.
First, she had to identify which of the two men he was. The one who wasn’t driving? That tawny-haired
gentleman stepped lithely down, then paused to throw a laughing comment to the other man, who remained on the box seat, the reins held loosely in his long-fingered hands.
The grays between the curricle’s shafts were prime horseflesh, and had been well spelled; Jacqueline registered that in the briefest of glances. The man holding the reins was dark-haired, with strong, chiseled features; the tawny-haired one was prettier, the darker the more handsome.
In the second it took her to blink, she realized how odd it was for her to notice; male beauty rarely impinged on her mind. Then she looked again at the pair in the forecourt, and inwardly admitted that their physical attributes were hard to ignore.
The man on the box seat moved; a groom appeared and he descended from the carriage, handing over the reins.
And she had her answer;he was the painter. He was Gerrard Debbington.
A dozen little things confirmed it, from the strength apparent in those very long fingers as he surrendered the ribbons, to the austere perfection of his clothes, and the reined intensity that hung about him, every bit as real as his fashionable coat.
That intensity came as a shock. She’d steeled herself to deal with some fashionable fribble or vain popinjay, but this man was something quite different.
She watched as he answered his friend with a quiet word; the line of his thin lips didn’t so much curve as ease—the veriest hint of a smile. Controlled power, intensity harnessed, ruthless determination—those were the impressions that sprang to her mind as he turned.
And looked straight at her.
Her breath caught, suspended, but she didn’t move; she was standing too far from the pane for him to see her. Then she heard skirts rustling, footsteps pattering at the far end of the room; glancing sideways, she saw Eleanor, both Myles girls, and their mothers crowding around the far window that was angled to the forecourt. Jordan peered over their heads.
Unlike her, they’d crowded close to the glass.
Looking back at Gerrard Debbington, she saw him studying them, and inwardly smiled. If he sensed someone watching him, he’d think it was them.
Gerrard regarded the cluster of faces blatantly staring from the wide windows facing the forecourt. Raising a supercilious brow, he turned away; avoiding the gaze of the single woman standing back from the window closest to the portico, he looked at Barnaby. “It seems we’re expected.”
Barnaby could see the goggling crowd, too, but the angle of the nearer window hid the lone woman from him. He gestured to the door. “Shall we make our entrance?”
Gerrard nodded. “Ring the bell.”
Strolling to an iron handle dangling by the door, Barnaby gave it a tug.
Turning his head, Gerrard looked once more at the woman. Her stillness confirmed she thought he
couldn’t see her. Light spilled into the room from windows behind her, diagonally across from where she stood; courtesy of that she was, indeed, primarily a silhouette, barely illuminated. She was intelligent enough, then, to have realized that.
But she’d forgotten, or hadn’t known of, the effect of painted woodwork. Gerrard would take an oath the frame surrounding the window was at least eight inches wide, and painted white. It threw back enough light, diffused and soft, true, but light nevertheless, to let him see her face.
Just her face.
He’d already glimpsed three youthful female faces, every bit as uninspiring as he’d expected, in the other group. Doubtless his subject was one of them; God knew how he’d manage.
This lady, however…he could paint her. He knew it in an instant; just a glance, that’s all it took. Even though her features weren’t that clear to him, there was a quality—one of stillness, of depth, of a complexity behind the pale oval of her face—that commanded his attention.
Just like his dream of the Garden of Night, the sight of her face reached for him, touched him, called to the artist that was his soul.
The front door opened and he turned away. Outwardly set himself to the task of greeting and being greeted. Cunningham was there, doing the honors; Gerrard shook his hand, his expression mild, his mind elsewhere.
A governess, or a companion. She was in the drawing room, the doors of which he could now see, so unless she beat a very rapid retreat, he would meet her. Then he’d have to find some way of ensuring she was included along with the gardens in the other subjects he was permitted to paint.
“This is Treadle.” Cunningham introduced the butler, who bowed. “And Mrs. Carpenter, our housekeeper.”
A stern-faced, competent-looking woman bobbed a curtsy. “Anything you need, sirs, please ask.” Mrs. Carpenter straightened. “I’ve not yet assigned rooms, not being sure of your requirements. Perhaps, once you’ve looked around and decided which rooms would best suit, you could let Treadle and me know, and we’ll have everything arranged in a blink.”
Gerrard smiled. “Thank you. We will.” The charm behind his smile worked its usual magic; Mrs. Carpenter’s face eased, and Treadle unbent a fraction.
“This is Mr. Adair.” Gerrard introduced Barnaby, who with his usual air of genial bonhomie nodded to the two servants and Cunningham.
Gerrard looked at Cunningham.
Who seemed suddenly on edge. “Ah…if you’ll come this way, I’ll introduce you to the ladies, and inform Lord Tregonning that you’re here.”
Gerrard let his smile grow a fraction more intent. “Thank you.”
Cunningham turned and preceded them to the double doors leading into what Gerrard had surmised must be the drawing room.
He was right. They stepped into a room long enough to boast three separate areas for comfortable conversation. At one end, no longer by the window but gathered about the chairs angled before a large fireplace, was the group of ladies and the young man who’d peered out at them, and one other,
middle-aged lady he hadn’t previously seen.
Directly ahead, on the chaise that faced the doors, were two matrons, one of whom was eyeing Barnaby and him with incipient disapproval.
Although he didn’t glance her way, Gerrard was instantly aware of the single lady, standing alone and regarding them levelly from the other end of the room.
Suppressing his impatience, he halted beside Cunningham, who’d paused a yard over the threshold. Barnaby halted just behind his shoulder. Gerrard looked at the bevy of young misses, waiting to see which one came forward—which of the three he was going to hate to have to paint. To his surprise, they all hung back.
The middle-aged lady, a welcoming expression on her face, started toward them. As did the lone lady on his left.
The middle-aged lady was too old; she couldn’t be his subject.
The younger lady drew nearer; he could no longer resist, but looked directly at her. And saw her, her face, for the first time in good light.
He met her eyes, and realized his error. Not a governess. Not a companion.
The lady his fingers were already itching to paint was Lord Tregonning’s daughter. 2
With a lady approaching from either side, Cunningham dithered over whom to introduce first. The decision was taken out of his hands by the middle-aged lady, who swept up with a smile. “I’m Millicent Tregonning, Lord Tregonning’s sister.” She held out her hand. “Allow me to welcome you to Hellebore Hall.”
Brown haired, well dressed, but severe both in style and expression, Millicent Tregonning was saved from appearing overly hard by the softness of her hazel eyes. Clasping her hand, Gerrard bowed. “Thank you.”
He introduced Barnaby; stepping aside so his friend could greet the elder Miss Tregonning brought him closer to the younger lady—Lord Tregonning’s daughter, his subject, she who would be one focus of his artistic attention for the next several months.
She’d halted beside her aunt; of average height, clad in a gown of apple-green muslin enticingly displaying generous breasts, and hinting at a slender waist, nicely curved hips, and legs perfectly gauged to satisfy his critical eye, she calmly waited while Barnaby exchanged greetings. Momentarily free,
Gerrard studied her.
Turning her head, unruffled, she met his gaze. Her eyes, a medley of gold, amber and green, were large, well spaced under delicately arched brown brows. Her hair was glossy teak with lighter shades streaked through it, neatly confined in a topknot with just a few ten-drils flirting about her ears. The pale oval of her face was bisected by a straight nose; her complexion was flawless, ivory tinged with a healthy glow, while her lips had been drawn with a subtle hand, full feminine curves yet exquisitely mobile—elementally expressive. He already knew where to look for hints of her real thoughts, her real feelings.
At present, her eyes were calm pools of quiet confidence; she was observing, assessing, totally contained. Totally unperturbed and unthreatened. Despite his presence, and Barnaby’s for that matter, he could detect not the slightest hint of feminine fluster.
She wasn’t seeing them as gentlemen—as men—but as something else.
The truth came to him as her gaze deflected to her aunt. She was viewing him solely as a painter. “And this is my niece, my brother’s daughter, Miss Jacqueline Tregonning.”
Jacqueline turned to Gerrard Debbington. Smiling, she held out her hand. “Mr. Debbington. I hope your journey down was pleasant—it’s such a long way.”
He again met her gaze, then took her hand, the long fingers she’d remarked earlier closing, not too tightly yet firm and sure, about her slender bones. He bowed gracefully, his eyes never leaving hers. “Miss Tregonning. I’m grateful your father sought me out. The journey was indeed long, yet, had I not made it, I would certainly have lived to regret it.”
She barely registered his words. The tone of his voice, low, masculine, slid over her like a caress; the strength in his fingers, a sense of male power, spread over her skin and set her nerves flickering. His gaze held hers, intent with an interest she couldn’t name. Her fingers quivered in his—shocked, she stilled them.
His face, lightly tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones, the angular planes aristocratically austere, remained impassive, his expression politely detached—it was that intentness in his eyes, glowing brown, rich and alive as they held hers, that shook her.
That forced her to look again, and truly see.
She’d dubbed him society’s lion and he was unquestionably that, yet his polished elegance wasn’t a guise adopted for the world but a reflection of himself; it exuded from him, a tangible shield. His lightly waving hair, a darker brown than her own, was fashionably cut, framing his wide forehead and deep-set eyes; his brows were dark, well arched, his lashes long and thick.
He was tall, almost a head taller than she, broad of shoulder and long of limb; although he was lean rather than heavy, his graceful movements screamed of muscled strength camouflaged by stylish manners. That sense of innate strength was echoed in his face, in the hard lines of brow, nose and chin.
No fop, no self-absorbed popinjay. A lion, albeit a subtle one—in thinking him that she’d been right. He was dangerous, more dangerous than she’d imagined any man might be. Just by holding her hand, meeting her eyes and uttering a few words—what the devil had he said?—he’d made her lungs seize.
The realization rattled her; determinedly, she drew breath and politely inclined her head. “Indeed.” She hoped the old standby fitted; it usually did, regardless of what the preceding comment had been.
He smiled—briefly, tantalizingly—a genuine smile of such rampant charm she was distracted all over again. With an effort, she turned to his friend; Gerrard Debbington relinquished her hand, which aided considerably in her battle to focus her wits.
The tawny-haired god smiled at her. “Barnaby Adair, Miss Tregonning. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
She managed a smile and gave him her hand—and waited. Yet while Adair appeared cut from the same cloth as Gerrard Debbington, the clasp of his fingers had no discernible secondary effects; his eyes—a merry blue—were simply a pair of laughing eyes, and his voice held no power to make her forget his very words.
Relieved, she welcomed him, then stood back as Mitchel and Millicent made to usher the two gentlemen to the chaise, there to continue the introductions.
Mitchel, Millicent and Adair started off. Gerrard Debbington hesitated; she sensed him looking down at her. She looked up and met his eyes. With the lightest of gestures, the faintest lift of his brows, he indicated he expected her to accompany them. Acquiescing—she wasn’t entirely sure why, but quibbling was clearly ineligible—she stepped out in her aunt’s wake.
He prowled by her side.
By the simple expedient of not moving until she did, Gerrard kept Jacqueline Tregonning beside him throughout the introductions. He had no interest whatever in those he met, yet he was adept at the social niceties; part of his mind dealt with them, responding appropriately, placing names with faces, noting the connections. None of those with whom he spoke would have guessed his entire attention was riveted on the woman by his side.
He could barely believe his luck. Far from being a hated and deeply detested chore, painting Lord Tregonning’s daughter was going to be…precisely the sort of challenge he relished.
She’d captured every last shred of his awareness; there was so much about her to learn. Put simply, she fascinated him.
He was distantly conscious that elements of that fascination were similar to those elicited by ladies who sexually rather than artistically caught his eye, yet given Jacqueline Tregonning was the first lady he’d decided to paint to whom he was not in some way related, he wasn’t sure that wasn’t to be expected. He saw women as they were, as whole, complete, sexual beings; that was one of the reasons behind his portraits’ success.
With Jacqueline Tregonning, he’d struck painter’s gold—a subject who had depth, who had layers of emotions and feelings, cares and concerns, all residing behind a face that in itself was intriguing. Just one glance into her beautiful eyes and he’d known what he was looking at—a subject who embodied the vital thing he needed to create a true work of art. She was an enigma.
She was too young to be as she was. Ladies of her years did not normally possess depths, let alone hidden depths; they hadn’t lived long enough, hadn’t experienced enough of life’s tragedies to have acquired them. Yet Jacqueline Tregonning was the epitome of a person of whom it was said: still waters
run deep. She was a still, deep pool, calm and glossy smooth on the surface, but with strong currents, strong emotions, running beneath.
Of what those emotions were, of what had caused not just them but her to be as she was, he had as yet no clue, yet he would need to learn the answer to that and all else about her in order to capture all he could see in her eyes, all he could sense behind her controlled expression.
He remained attuned to her as they spoke with those present; with each one, he instinctively catalogued not so much her outward reactions as what he sensed of her true feelings.Reserve, distance, a keeping apart. Her attitude was so consistent, so striking, the words resonated in his head. It wasn’t shyness; she didn’t seem at all shy. She was comfortable and assured, at ease in her own home with people he gathered she’d known most of her life. But she didn’t trust them.
Not a single one, with the sole exception of her aunt Millicent.
He was assimilating that when he heard a slow step and the soft thump of a cane. He turned, as did the others, as an older gentleman appeared in the doorway. The man located him, studied him, then came forward. Slowly, yet his movements weren’t frail or ponderous so much as measured.
Marcus, Lord Tregonning, was of the old school. Gerrard recognized the signs—the outdated cut of his coat, the knee breeches, the deliberately slow gait, the cane he didn’t need, the apparent invisibility of all others beyond the person in his lordship’s sights.
Himself. He was glad of the discipline Vane and Gabriel Cynster had taught him, the ability to keep his expression impassive, in this case squelching the urge to smile. Neither he nor Barnaby were likely to be affected by the intimidatory style of their grandsires.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Barnaby fighting a grin—an appreciative one, although his lordship was unlikely to see it so. They were, after all, guests in the man’s house, and there they stood, very much like predators, of distinctly different caliber to the other males in the room, bloods in their prime in the old lion’s territory.
Lord Tregonning’s dark gaze held a sharper, even more critical assessment than his daughter’s had. His face was pale, deeply lined, by grief, Gerrard suspected. His hair was still thick and dark, his eyes heavy-lidded and sunk deep; he carried himself erect, spine rigid. The hand wrapped about the head of the cane was aged, the skin mottled, but his grip showed no sign of weakness. The description that sprang to Gerrard’s mind was careworn, yet still as proud as bedamned.
His lordship halted no more than two feet distant. Old eyes, agatey brown, bored into his, then Lord Tregonning nodded. “Gerrard Debbington, I presume?”
Gerrard bowed. His lordship extended his hand; Gerrard shook it, calmly returning the old man’s steady regard.
“I’m delighted you were able to accept my commission, sir.”
Gerrard knew better than to display eagerness over business dealings. “The gardens, as you know, are a draw—the chance to paint them was difficult to pass up.”
Tregonning raised his brows. “And the portrait?”
Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline Tregonning; she’d moved a few paces away to chat with the other young ladies. “As to that, I believe my initial reservations, those I understand Mr. Cunningham conveyed to you, have been laid to rest. I’m quite looking forward to commencing the work.”
It took effort to keep his drawl even, his tone no more than mildly interested; in reality, he would like nothing better than to consign Tregonning and everyone else to some outer planet so he could haul out his sketch pad, sit Jacqueline Tregonning down, and get started.
Forcing his gaze from her, he turned back to his host in time to glimpse relief fleetingly flit across Tregonning’s worn features. “If you’ll permit me to introduce the Honorable Barnaby Adair?”
Tregonning shook hands with Barnaby; Gerrard seized the moment to confirm his impression. Yes, Tregonning had fractionally relaxed; the rigid set of his shoulders had eased, the sense of grim resolution had faded somewhat.
Turning from Barnaby, Tregonning eyed him once more, measuringly yet, Gerrard felt, also with a touch of approval. “Perhaps”—Tregonning flicked a glance at the ladies, both young and not so young attempting to appear not to be listening for all they were worth—“we should repair to my study and discuss your requirements.”
“Indeed.” Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, now moving further down the room. “It would be wise to establish the procedures I’ll follow, and what will be necessary to ensure a portrait of the quality I imagine we both wish to see.”
“Good, good.” Tregonning gestured to the door. “If you’ll come with me…?” “Marcus?Marcus, do wait!”
With Tregonning, Gerrard turned to see the older lady introduced as Lady Fritham, a close neighbor, beckoning.
Brows rising, Tregonning held his ground. “Yes, Maria?”
“I’m holding a dinner party tomorrow evening, and I wished to invite you and Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair to attend. It’ll be the perfect opportunity for them to meet our local set.” Her improbably blond curls quivering with eagerness, Lady Fritham opened her blue eyes wide and clasped bejeweled hands to her bosom. “Dosay you’ll come, gentlemen.”
Gerrard glanced at Tregonning, deferring to his host.
Tregonning met his gaze briefly, then looked again at Lady Fritham. “I’m sure Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair will be delighted to accept, Maria. As for myself, I fear you must excuse me.”
He bowed with austere grace, then turned away.
“I’ll remain here.” Barnaby nodded politely and went to join Millicent Tregonning.
Lord Tregonning made for the doors. Gerrard fell in beside him, wondering whether his lordship would summon his daughter—wondering if he should suggest it. They reached the doorway; Tregonning didn’t glance back. Inwardly shrugging, Gerrard followed him out.
Tregonning asked about London in the terms of one who hadn’t visited in decades; Gerrard replied as they crossed the hall and headed down a long corridor.
In some ways, his host was almost as intriguing as his daughter. There was an aura of weariness about the man; it colored his voice, yet was countered by a strong sense of grim, unquenchable resolve.
Tregonning’s wasn’t a face Gerrard could read; the man kept his emotions too locked away, repressed, concealed, and under too tight a rein to be accurately discerned even by an observer as acute as Gerrard knew himself to be.
He thought again of Jacqueline Tregonning. Perhaps the reserve he sensed in her was a familial trait, but in her case, her exterior hadn’t yet ossified. Regardless, that didn’t explain how she, a young lady of…he wasn’t sure of her age…came to have tragic secrets.
He looked about him as they walked. He was accustomed to ducal residences, but this house was enormous and more convoluted in design than was usual. The furnishings were of good but not exceptional quality, tending toward the dark, heavy and ornate, with ornamentation approaching the baroque. The overall effect was Gothic, fanciful, but not overwhelming.
At the end of the corridor, Tregonning preceded him up a flight of stairs. Opening a door off the landing, he led the way into a darkly appointed yet luxurious study.
It was a comfortable room, very male in ambience; sinking into the large leather armchair Tregonning indicated, Gerrard suspected his host spent most of his reclusive days there.
Settling into another armchair, Tregonning gestured. “My house and staff are at your disposal. What do you need?”
Gerrard told him. “The studio must have excellent light—old nurseries are often suitable.”
Tregonning nodded. “We have a large nursery no longer in use. I’ll give orders for it to be cleared and made ready. It has very large windows.”
“Excellent. I’ll inspect it to confirm it will suit. It would be helpful if my room, and that of my man, Compton, could be located nearby.”
Tregonning waved. “I’m sure the inestimable Mrs. Carpenter will be able to arrange matters as you wish.”
Gerrard detailed his other requirements—a long table, a double lock on the door, and other sundry items. Tregonning accepted all without quibble, naming those of his staff who would handle each point.
“I’ve brought all else I need with me—Compton should be arriving shortly with the luggage. While I will at some point have to return to the capital to replenish my supplies, exactly when is impossible to guess.”
Tregonning nodded. “Do you have any idea how long the portrait will take?”
“At this stage, I can’t say. My previous portraits were executed over a period of months; the longest took eight months. However, in those cases, the subjects were well-known to me. In your daughter’s case, I’ll need to spend some time simply observing her before I attempt even preliminary sketches.
“Apropos of that, one matter we should discuss is sittings, and what that term encompasses. For a
portrait of the nature you wish, I’ll need, at least initially, to have first call on your daughter’s time. I’ll need to observe her in different situations and settings about this house, her home. It’s essential I have some understanding of her character and personality before I set pencil to paper.” He added, purely as a matter of form, “I assume she understands this and is willing to commit the time necessary for a successful portrait.”
Tregonning blinked. It was the first time Gerrard had seen him anything less than absolutely, unquestioningly confident of all around him.
Jacqueline Tregonning’s assessing look flashed into his mind; a sinking feeling assailed him. Had she agreed to let him paint her?
Tregonning frowned. “She indicated she was willing to sit for a portrait, but I didn’t then know what you’ve just explained. She may well not appreciate the necessity…” He stirred, lips firming. “I’ll speak with her.”
“No. With due respect, it might be better if I did. I could then answer any questions she may have, which will ensure there are no subsequent misunderstandings.” Gerrard held Tregonning’s gaze. “The demands on her time will actually decrease once we commence formal sittings.”
Tregonning’s face cleared; nodding, he relaxed in his chair. “That might be best. She did say she was agreeable, and I’m sure she won’t refuse, but it would be wise for her to know what you need of her.”
Gerrard quietly exhaled. He had much greater confidence in his powers of persuasion than he had in Tregonning’s. The man seemed distant from everything, and that might well include his daughter; while he hadn’t yet gained even an inkling of Jacqueline’s attitude to her father, he didn’t want to risk any adverse reaction from her.
He was even more determined than Tregonning that his portrait of Jacqueline Tregonning would go ahead, and under the most favorable circumstances. So he’d talk to the lady himself, and ensure he got an agreement he could fall back on if she later turned difficult.
Reviewing all they’d covered, he continued, “As I don’t normally accept commissions, I think it wise to be plain about what I’ll eventually deliver. The commission is for a final, framed, full-length portrait in oils of your daughter—unless there’s some major catastrophe that prevents its execution, that’s what I’ll deliver to you within the next year. I, however, will retain all sketches and preliminary works. In addition, I never permit any early viewing of my work—the first you’ll see of it will be the completed work I present to you. Should you not wish to accept it, I will keep the portrait and no commission will apply.”
Tregonning was nodding. “That’s entirely acceptable.” He caught Gerrard’s eye. “You’re also keen to paint the gardens.”
Gerrard blinked. “Indeed.” He glanced at the window; the fabulous gardens that had for decades obsessed him and his peers lay displayed before him. “Whatever sketches and paintings of the gardens I complete will be mine to keep. Should I ever offer any for sale, you will, of course, be given first refusal.”
Tregonning humphed. “I suppose,” he said, levering himself up from the depths of the armchair, “that you’ll want to start exploring the gardens straightaway.”
His gaze still locked on the vista beyond the window, Gerrard rose, too, then turned to meet Tregonning’s old eyes. “Actually, no. I don’t anticipate exploring the gardens, artistically speaking, other
than as a backdrop for your daughter, until I’ve got the portrait under way.” Tregonning was surprised but pleased, indeed, gratified.
Accompanying him back to the drawing room, Gerrard was aware of the irony. He’d come here to paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall, yet despite his obsession with them, ever since he’d laid eyes on Jacqueline Tregonning, he’d been consumed by thoughts of painting her.
Against her allure, not even the Garden of Night could compete.
They returned to the front hall. Lord Tregonning saw him to the drawing room door, but stopped short of entering. “I’ll instruct Treadle and Mrs. Carpenter as to your needs—no doubt they’ll consult with you.”
“Thank you.”
With a nod, Tregonning turned away. Gerrard watched him walk back in the direction from which they’d come. Feminine chatter spilled out of the drawing room. Clearly his lordship intended to seek refuge in his study, leaving him and Barnaby to the tender mercies of Lady Fritham, Mrs. Myles and the censorious Mrs. Elcott.
Accepting the inevitable, he turned and strolled back into the fray. Tea had been served in his absence; Millicent Tregonning smiled and poured him a cup. Accepting it, he chatted to her and Mrs. Myles, seated beside her, regarding his first impressions of the area. Mrs. Myles was instantly recognizable as a mother with daughters to establish; her bright eyes and gushing comments explained why Barnaby was on the other side of the room.
Returning his empty cup, Gerrard excused himself and followed.
Of course, neither he nor Barnaby could truly escape. They would remain the cynosure of local attention until the novelty of their presence faded.
Avoiding the chaise on which Lady Fritham sat absorbed in spirited argument with the severe Mrs. Elcott—clad in gray twill that matched her gray hair, the vicar’s wife behaved as if holding herself ready to be scandalized at any moment—he walked down the room to where the younger crew was holding court, Barnaby unsurprisingly center stage.
The Misses Myles saw him approaching, and quickly shifted to create a space between them. He smiled his practiced smile, and with an easy nod strolled around the group to Jacqueline Tregonning’s side.
Although following Barnaby’s tale, she sensed him draw near. She glanced fleetingly up at him, then moved aside to allow him to stand beside her. Detecting exasperation in her brief glance, Gerrard wondered…then realized she couldn’t study him while he was standing next to her.
His lips eased, curved.
Across the circle, the Misses Myles’s eyes brightened. Without appearing to notice, Gerrard gave his attention to Barnaby. The last thing he wished was to raise any hopes in the Misses Myles’s young breasts.
The thought had him glancing discreetly down, to his left, to where Jacqueline’s breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown. Her skin was flawless, creamy white; his fingertips tingled—he would wager that skin was rose-petal soft.
Although of perfectly acceptable style for a young lady some years beyond her first season, Jacqueline’s endowments filled out the gown in a manner guaranteed to draw gentlemen’s eyes. Retrieving his gaze, Gerrard glanced around the circle; other than Barnaby, who he was aware had noticed, the other two gentlemen seemed oblivious of Jacqueline’s charms. Contempt for the familiar, or…?
In between attending Barnaby’s story, Mitchel Cunningham ignored the Myles sisters and shot brief, very brief, glances at Eleanor Fritham, Lady Fritham’s daughter. Eleanor was indeed a beauty, a touch older than Jacqueline and in very different style. She was taller, reed slender, with alabaster skin and long, pale fair hair. Her eyes were cerulean blue, her lashes and brows brown. She was using them shamelessly on Barnaby, her attention slavishly fixed on him.
Much good would it do her. She might be a beauty, yet Gerrard instinctively knew she was unlikely to be of serious interest to either him or Barnaby.
Noting another of Cunningham’s swift glances, Gerrard made a mental note to mention the association to Barnaby, purely in pursuit of a peaceful existence, something Barnaby appreciated as much as he.
The brevity of Cunningham’s glances was almost certainly attributable to the other gentleman in the group, Eleanor’s older brother, Jordan Fritham. A brown-haired, precociously superior gentleman in his mid-twenties, he stood between his sister and the Myles girls. Taking in Jordan’s stance, Gerrard smothered a grin. The sketch that sprang to life in his mind was titled: “Cock of the Local Walk Greatly Displeased by the Appearance of Interlopers on His Patch.”
Barnaby and he were the interlopers, yet as far as Gerrard could tell, it wasn’t his attention to Jacqueline but Eleanor’s to Barnaby that was ruffling Jordan’s feathers. He strove to hide his reaction, but there was a hard glint in his eyes, a twist to his thin lips that screamed his irritation.
“So when Monteith came thundering up in his curricle thinking he’d won”—Barnaby struck a dramatic pose—“there was George Bragg, leaning on his whip, waiting to greet him!”
The Myles sisters gasped; Eleanor Fritham’s eyes glowed with laughter. With an engaging grin, Barnaby concluded his tale of the latest curricle-racing scandal. “Monteith was furious, of course, but there was nothing he could do but put a good face on it and stump up the blunt.”
“Oh, thatmust have hurt.” Eleanor lightly clapped her hands.
“Oh, it did,” Barnaby assured her. “Monteith took off for his Highland eyrie and hasn’t been sighted since.”
Gerrard knew the story; he’d been there. Jordan Fritham made some slighting comment about London horseflesh. Gerrard didn’t catch Barnaby’s reply; Jacqueline had turned to him, considering him. He looked down and met her frankly measuring gaze.
“Are you inclined to such pastimes, Mr. Debbington?”
She’d forgotten he was a man again. He smiled, deliberately charming, and watched her blink. “No,” he
murmured. “I have better things—more rewarding things—to do with my time.”
For an instant, she held his gaze, then the bustling rustle of skirts gave her an excuse to glance away.
And breathe in. Deeply. He was acutely aware—to his fingertips aware—of the rise and fall of her breasts.
The interruption was Lady Fritham, come to summon Eleanor and Jordan away. Mrs. Myles somewhat reluctantly followed, gathering her daughters, and the party broke up.
Millicent, Mitchel and Jacqueline went to see the visitors to their carriages. Following some paces behind, Gerrard and Barnaby halted in the front hall.
“An unthreatening bunch, don’t you think?” Barnaby said. “I’ve been focusing on Jacqueline Tregonning.”
“I noticed.” Barnaby’s eyes danced. “Artist smitten by subject—not an entirely original plot.” “Not smitten, you idiot, just absorbed. There’s a great deal more to her than meets the eye.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on the latter. As for the former”—Barnaby shot him a sidelong glance he chose to ignore—“we’ll see.”
Mrs. Carpenter entered the hall. She came forward. “Mr. Debbington, Mr. Adair, we have your rooms ready. If you’ll come with me, we can make sure they suit.”
Gerrard smiled. “I’m sure they will.” With a last glance for Jacqueline, standing, waving, on the front porch, he turned and with Barnaby followed Mrs. Carpenter upstairs.
She and her staff had been as efficient as Lord Tregonning had intimated; the room to which she led Gerrard was just along the first-floor corridor from the stairs that led up to the old nursery.
“Treadle’s had the footmen up there moving the heavy pieces. I’ll have the maids go up first thing tomorrow, sir. Perhaps if you’ll look in after breakfast and let us know how you’d like things set up?”
“My thanks, Mrs. Carpenter, and to Treadle, too. I’ll consult with you after breakfast.”
Mrs. Carpenter bobbed a curtsy and left. Gerrard turned and surveyed the room. It was large, with a sitting area before a wide fireplace and a huge tester bed set on a dais at the opposite end. A door to one side of the fireplace led to a dressing room from which Compton had looked out, nodded on seeing him, then retreated to finish unpacking his things.
They’d left Barnaby in a similar room, in the same wing but closer to the main stairs. Gerrard ambled to the open dressing room door and looked in. “Everything to our liking?”
“Indeed, sir.” Compton had been with him for eight years; a veteran of the Peninsula campaigns, he was now approaching middle age. “A very well-run enterprise, and a pleasant household with it.” Compton shot Gerrard a sidelong glance. “Belowstairs, at least.”
“As to abovestairs,” Gerrard said, answering the unvoiced question, “all seems comfortable enough, but
we’re still at first glance. Where does Cunningham fit in, do you know?”
“Eats with the family, he does.” After a moment, Compton asked, “Want me to ask about?”
“Not about him, but report anything you hear about the younger Miss Tregonning—I need to get to know her better, and quickly.”
“Will do. Now, will the brown Bath superfine do for tonight, or do you want to go with the black?”
Gerrard considered. “The black.” Leaving Compton to fig out his evening clothes, he turned back into the bedroom and headed for the glass-paned doors that opened onto the balcony.
The private semicircular balcony ran half the length of the room. Because of the odd shape of the house and the angle of the room next door, no other room was visible, and vice versa; both balcony and room were essentially private, and offered a unique and stunning view over the gardens.
Gerrard stepped out, entranced.
Even through the lengthening shadows of approaching dusk, the gardens were magical—fantastical shapes rose out of the twilight, a plethora of fairy-tale landscapes scattered across and down the valley, each opening out from the last, then merging into the next.
On the horizon, the sea shimmered gold in the last light of the dying sun, then melted through shades of gilt and silver laid over blue to become the iridescent surf breaking on the rocks clogging the inlet’s narrow beach. He let his gaze slowly travel nearer, noting how the gardens became progressively more structured the closer they got to the house. In the ring of areas adjoining the house, he glimpsed a garden of round boulders on one ridge, a formal Italianate garden nearer at hand, statuary in another section and a towering pinetum on the other ridge.
He could hear the tinkling music of water running over rock. Looking down toward the sound, he saw a terrace below the balcony. The terrace skirted the house on the valley side, giving views and also access to the gardens; he could just make out steps leading down in several places. Toward the middle of the house, a denser, darker patch of thick vegetation ran right up to the terrace, perhaps even extending beneath it.
That, Gerrard guessed, on a mild surge of satisfaction, had to be the famous Garden of Night.
Tomorrow, he’d explore. He tried to focus on the prospect, only to find his mind drifting, insistently, back to Jacqueline Tregonning.
How was he going to gain her trust, gain her confidence enough to learn all he wanted to know?
Considering the best way to approach a young lady he now knew wasn’t as conventional as he’d blithely assumed, he wandered back into the room, absentmindedly shutting the door on the darkening gardens.
Dinner was a curious experience. The food was excellent, the conversation beyond subdued. The hour passed in oddly peaceful quiet, with long stretches of silence, yet strangely without any sense of repression. They spoke as necessary, but there was no compulsion to fill the gaps.
Gerrard was fascinated. Both he and Barnaby had been watchful, quick to match their hosts’ behavior. Both found the family intriguing, Barnaby because, as a student of crime, he found the vagaries of human nature absorbing, while for Gerrard, Jacqueline’s interaction with her family would inevitably form the cornerstone of his mental picture of her, the basis of the understanding he ultimately brought to her portrait.
Regardless of the relative silence, the established procedures were followed; when the covers were drawn, the ladies rose and left the gentlemen to pass the port. Mitchel asked Barnaby about the curricle-racing scandal. Lord Tregonning grasped the moment to inquire whether the room he’d been given met with Gerrard’s approval. On being assured it did, his lordship nodded and lapsed once more into comfortable silence.
Gerrard sat back, comfortable, too, and considered his best way forward with Jacqueline. At the end of a restful twenty minutes, they all rose and quit the dining room. Lord Tregonning left them in the hall, heading for his study. Together with Mitchel and Barnaby, Gerrard strolled back to the drawing room.
They crossed the threshold to the gentle strains of a sonata. Gerrard looked at the pianoforte set in one corner, but it was Millicent at the keys. Jacqueline was seated at one end of the central chaise, a lamp on the table beside her, the soft light sheening on her tumbling curls as, head bent, she plied her needle over a piece of embroidery.
He headed her way, eager to learn of her interests, her pastimes—of her.
She looked up, smiled politely, then made to gather up the embroidery; a basket sat by her feet.
“No—I’d like to look.” He smiled when, surprised, she blinked up at him. He summoned his charm. “If I may?”
She stared at him for a moment, then made a small gesture. “If you wish.” Her tone stated she didn’t understand why he would.
Sitting beside her, he cast an inevitably critical eye over the fine linen she spread on her lap so he could see. His gaze raced over it, then slowed. It was his turn to blink. He leaned closer, looked harder.
He’d expected the usual embroidery ladies wasted their time with, some conventional scene done in conventional style. That wasn’t what she was creating.
And creating it was.
His painter’s eyes drank in the lines, the balance of shapes and colors, the use of varying textures to give the illusion of depth. “This isn’t from a pattern.”
No question. After a moment, she said, “I make it up as I do it. I have a picture in my head.”
He was barely conscious of nodding; he hadn’t expected her to have any artistic streak, but this…He pointed to a patch above the center. “You’ll need a visually strong element there—it’s the focal point.”
The look she cast him was faintly irritated. “I know.” She gathered the linen, tucking the strands of silk she was working with into the folds. “There’s a sundial there.”
He could see it; that would work. He glanced at her as she bent to tuck the embroidery into the basket. “Do you paint or draw?”
She hesitated, then answered, “I draw a little, but mostly in preparation.” She looked back, met his eyes. “I do watercolors.”
Not perhaps the easiest of confessions to make to the country’s foremost landscape artist; his landscapes were watercolors. “You must show me your works sometime.”
Her eyes, currently more green than gold, snapped. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“I mean it.” His tone, clipped and definite, faintly impatient, emphasized that fact. “I want to—will need to—see them.”
She held his gaze, faintly puzzled; beyond that, he couldn’t read her thoughts. Then she said, “Speaking of painting, are the amenities provided adequate to your needs? If there’s anything more you require, please ask.”
A clear change of subject, but she’d given him precisely the opening he wanted.
“The amenities are satisfactory, however, there are a number of aspects we need to discuss.” He glanced at the pianoforte; Barnaby was turning music for Millicent and chatting with Mitchel. Before dinner, he’d asked Barnaby to keep Millicent and any others occupied to clear his way with Jacqueline. Barnaby had grinned widely, but wisely made no comment beyond assuring him he’d be delighted to oblige.
He returned his gaze to Jacqueline’s face. “I find music rather distracting. Perhaps we could walk on the terrace, and I’ll explain what will be necessary to create the portrait your father wants.”
She hesitated, her gaze on his face yet not, he would swear, seeing him, then she nodded. “That would be helpful.”
Rising, he offered his hand. Again she hesitated, yet this time he knew why; he was aware of how she steeled herself before placing her fingers in his. He gripped, and felt a surge of purely male satisfaction at the faint tremor he detected before she suppressed it. He drew her up, then released her; suavely waving her to the French doors open to the terrace, he reminded himself it formed no part of his plan to discompose her, much less make her wary of being in his company.
Side by side they strolled out, into the soft night. Onto the terrace he’d seen from his balcony. Below his room, the terrace was relatively narrow; here it spread wide, an area in which guests from the drawing room and the ballroom next door could gather and admire the view.
Tonight the view was shrouded in shadows, the moon a mere sliver shedding just enough light to limn all it touched in silver, transforming the gardens into a fantastical landscape, yet his attention remained on the creation who walked beside him, not on those spread before him.
She’d walked to the right, away from the area he was increasingly certain contained the Garden of Night. It was said to be best viewed in the evening, yet he felt no urgency over exploring it just yet; he’d see it in daylight first, tomorrow maybe.
He glanced at Jacqueline. Her gown of pale green silk faded to beaten silver in the faint light; her skin
appeared translucent; only the rich color of her hair retained its warmth. Her expression was calm, composed, yet he sensed she was thinking rapidly.
It seemed wise to speak before she could distract him. “I mentioned to your father the necessary demands that sitting for a portrait places on the subject—he wasn’t sure you were aware of the details.”
Strolling slowly beside him, Jacqueline told herself to concentrate on his words, and ignore the voice that uttered them. “What are those demands—in detail?”
Lifting her head, she met his eyes, dark in the night, and marveled again that she was so quiveringly aware of him in a way she’d never been of any other before. She battled to quell a shiver, difficult to excuse given the warmth of the gentle, perfumed breeze wafting about them.
After a moment, he replied, “Initially, I’ll demand a great deal of, if not most of, your time, although largely in social settings, much the usual round of your life. I need to gain a strong sense of who you are, how you feel about many subjects.” He glanced out at the gardens. “How you react to things, your likes, dislikes, and the reasons behind them. The subjects you’re happy to talk of, and those you’d rather avoid.”
They walked on for a few paces, then he looked at her. “Basically, I need to get to know you.”
She studied his face. The light was good enough for her to make out his expression, but she couldn’t read his eyes. His expression he controlled; his eyes were more revealing. What he was suggesting was frankly unnerving. “I thought portraitists paint”—she gestured—“at best what they see.”
His lips quirked in wry acknowledgment of the qualification. “Most do. I don’t. I paint more.” “How so?”
He didn’t immediately answer; as they walked on, she sensed he was considering the question for the first time. Eventually, he said, “I think it’s because every person I’ve painted to date is someone I’ve known for years, someone I’m connected to, whose background and family I know.” He met her gaze. “What I paint goes far deeper than a face and an outward expression. Just as with landscapes I paint not just the detail but the atmosphere as well, so, too, with people. It’s the intangibles that are most powerful.”
She nodded and looked ahead. “I’ve heard of your reputation, but I’ve never seen any of your works.” “All are in private hands.”
She glanced at him. “You don’t show them?”
“Not the portraits. They were created as gifts.” He lightly shrugged. “And to see if I could.” “Do you mean to say my portrait will be the first for which you’ve received a commission?”
Her tone was even, the question direct if somewhat forward; nevertheless, it struck a nerve. Gerrard halted, and waited until she did the same and faced him. “Miss Tregonning, why do I get the impression you’re assessing my abilities as a portraitist?”
She blinked at him, then equally succinctly replied, “Probably because I am.” She tilted her head,
studying him. “Surely you didn’t expect me to simply agree to be painted by”—she gestured—“someone whose talents are unknown to me?”
“Just any old artist” was what she’d meant to say. He narrowed his eyes; she didn’t react, her expression remained open. “Your father gave me to understand that you’d agreed to allow me to paint your portrait.”
She frowned slightly. Her gaze remained steady on his face. “I agreed to sit for a portrait. Not to sit for any particular painter. Papa chose you—I’ve yet to decide whether you meet my requirements.”
Again he had cause to thank Vane and Gabriel Cynster for teaching him the knack of impassivity in the face of extreme provocation. He let a moment go by—a fraught moment in which he reined in his reaction, and found words in which he could acceptably express it. “Miss Tregonning, do you have any idea how many petitions, if not outright pleas, I’ve received to do portraits of young ladies of the ton?”
“No, of course not, but that’s neither here nor there. This is me, my portrait, not theirs. I’m not one to be ruled by the opinion of the giddy horde.” She looked at him with slightly more interest. “Why did you refuse them? I assume you did?”
“Yes. I did.” His words were excessively clipped; she didn’t seem perturbed in the least. Her eyes remained on his, waiting…“I wasn’t interested in painting any of them.Now, before we go any further”—before she asked the obvious next question—“it seems I should share with you the particulars I made clear to your father. I paint what’s there, both in a faceand behind it. I won’t alter, exaggerate or suppress what I see—any portrait I paint will be a faithful representation not just of how the person appears, but also of who they are.”
She’d raised her brows at his fervor, but all she said was, “Andwhat they are?” “Indeed. In the final work, what they are will show through.”
She held his gaze for a moment—a frankly assessing moment—then she nodded, once, decisively. “Good. That’s precisely what I need—what my father needs.”
She turned and walked on. Gerrard mentally shook his head, then followed, still grappling with the way the situation had swung around. Apparently his painting her was not, as he’d thought, a case of his conferring a boon on her; it seemed there’d been a real question of whether she’d condescend to sit for him!
The possibility of her not doing so forced him to tread carefully. Lengthening his stride, he came up with her. He glanced at her face; her expression was uninformative, her eyes veiled. “So…” He felt forced to ask the plain question. “Will you sit for me?”
She halted and faced him. Calmly, she met his gaze. For the first time, he felt he was seeing further—that she was letting him sense something of the woman she was, and the strength she possessed—the reason, surely, for her steadiness, her assurance, so much stronger than usually found in young ladies of her age…
“How old are you?”
She blinked. “Why? Does it matter?”
His lips thinned at the faint amusement in her tone. “I need to get to know you, to understand you, and knowing how old you are helps to get an idea of your life, and what questions to ask, what else I need to know.”
She hesitated; he sensed her withdrawing, being more careful. “I’m twenty-three.” She lifted her chin. “How old are you?”
He recognized the diversion, but calmly replied, “Twenty-nine.” Her brows rose. “You seem older.”
It was hard to remain on his high horse when she was so determinedly ignoring convention. “I know.” The understated elegance he’d absorbed from Vane always had made him appear more mature.
He continued to hold her gaze. “So do you.” Also true.
She smiled fleetingly, a genuine, amused if faintly wry expression. It was the first spontaneous smile he’d seen from her; he immediately determined to see more.
They stood for a moment, each studying the other, then he said, “You haven’t answered my question.”
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then her lips slowly curved. Swinging around, she started strolling back toward the drawing room. “If you’re half the painter you believe yourself to be”—she glanced over her shoulder, caught his eye, then faced forward and strolled on—“then, yes, I’ll sit for you.” Her words drifted back to him. “Papa chose well, it seems.”
He watched her walk away, aware to his bones of her bold yet veiled challenge, and his response to it. Deliberately, he fixed his gaze on her exposed nape, then let it slide caressingly down her back, tracing the line from shoulder to hip, to ankle…then he stirred, and followed her.
3
He spent a restless night and was awake and out on his balcony to see the sun rise over the gardens. And consider Jacqueline Tregonning.
She was so very different from what he’d expected. They were closer in age than he’d anticipated, although in terms of worldly experience, his was far greater. Regardless, there had to be some experience, some incident in her life to account for the steel he sensed in her. It wasn’t simply strength of character, latent and unrecognized, but mature inner strength that had been tried, tested and found true; she possessed the inner fortitude of a survivor.
Which begged the question: What had she survived?
Whatever it was, did it also account for the shadows in her eyes? She might be self-confident and strangely assured, yet she wasn’t lighthearted; she was definitely not carefree, as by rights she ought to be. It wasn’t precisely sorrow he sensed coloring her world, nor yet simple sadness. She wasn’t of a maudlin or morose disposition.
Hurt? Perhaps, but something, certainly, had caused her reserve, her distancing from those about her. It wasn’t her nature but a deliberate choice—that’s why he’d noticed it.
What had happened to her, and when, and why did its effects still linger?
Compton arrived with his washing water; Gerrard quit the balcony to shave and dress. On his way downstairs, he remembered the other nagging question his evening’s interlude with Jacqueline had left circling in his brain.
What had she meant by saying she, and her father, needed the portrait to show what, specificallywhat, she was?
Inwardly frowning, he walked into the breakfast parlor. Courtesy of his room being all but at the end of the farthest wing, he was the last to arrive. He inclined his head to Lord Tregonning, at the table’s head, nodded to Millicent and Jacqueline, then headed for the sideboard.
Treadle deftly lifted the lids of the chafing dishes. After making his selection, he returned to the table and took the chair next to Barnaby—opposite Jacqueline.
His gaze drifted over her as he sat. She looked…the word he needed wasravishing, no matter he normally recoiled from such flowery language. She was delectable in a gown of ivory muslin sprigged with tiny oak leaves in golds and greens. The scooped neckline again did justice to her charms; the bodice was gathered beneath her lovely breasts with a spring-green ribbon.
Shifting in his chair, he reached for the coffeepot.
Barnaby grinned at him, but said nothing, returning his attention to a plate piled high with ham and kedgeree.
Unlike dinner, breakfast was a relatively mundane affair. Mitchel, seated beside his employer, spoke in an undertone about crops and fields.
Across the table, Millicent caught Gerrard’s eye. “I trust your room was comfortable?”
“Perfectly, thank you.” Gerrard swallowed a sip of coffee. “I was wondering if you and Miss Tregonning had time this morning to show myself and Mr. Adair about the gardens, at least enough for us to get our bearings.”
“Yes, of course.” Millicent glanced at the blue skies beyond the windows. “It’s a perfect day for it.” A second of silence passed.
Gerrard had learned enough to be careful. “Miss Tregonning?” When she glanced up, plainly at a loss, he politely inquired, “Will you be free?”
She met his eyes, then smiled—another spontaneous expression, this time one of amused appreciation. Gerrard found himself smiling back.
“Yes, of course. The gardens are extensive.” She glanced down at her plate. “It’s easy to get lost.”
Lost in the gardens, or in the web of her distracting personality? Gerrard knew which for him posed the greater danger; he had an excellent sense of direction.
An hour later, after he’d inspected and approved the attic nursery as his studio and explained how he wished things set out, the four of them met on the terrace.
“It’s easiest if we start at a spot that has some meaning.” With her furled parasol, Jacqueline pointed at the ridge to the immediate right of the house. “The Garden of Hercules is the most northerly of the gardens, and is also the way to the stables, a fact most gentlemen can be relied upon to remember.” She turned to them. “Shall we?”
Barnaby flourishingly waved her on. “Lead on, fair damsel—we’ll follow.” She laughed and set out. Barnaby fell in beside her.
Gerrard accompanied Millicent. He’d asked Barnaby to initially escort Jacqueline, giving him an opportunity to square matters with her aunt. They strolled the length of the terrace; by then Barnaby and Jacqueline were far enough ahead to permit private conversation.
“Thank you for agreeing to this outing,” Gerrard said. “It can’t be all that exciting for you—you must know the gardens like the back of your hand.”
Millicent smiled. “Actually, I don’t. I’m quite glad to have the opportunity to refresh my memory.” Gerrard blinked. “I thought…that is, I assumed this was your home.”
“It was when I was very young, but our mother vastly preferred life in Bath, and I was the youngest, so I most often went with her. And then Papa died, and she and I stayed in Bath permanently. Over the years, I’ve only visited briefly. Mama became an invalid years ago, and, truth be told, I agreed with her—life at Hellebore Hall is terribly quiet. But then Miribelle, Jacqueline’s mother, died so tragically…My older sisters have families of their own, so of course I came to stay.”
They’d reached the end of the terrace; Gerrard gave Millicent his arm down a short flight of steps to a gravel path that led to the ridge.
Once they were strolling again, he asked, “How long ago did Jacqueline’s mother die?”And how? “Just fourteen months ago. We’ve only been out of mourning for two months.”
Gerrard fought to hide his astonishment. Tregonning had been after him to paint Jacqueline for more than two months. Because he was paranoid he’d lose her, too, and wanted the portrait done before he did?
That seemed…distinctly odd.
Before he could frame a useful question, Millicent spoke again.
“My brother has explained to me, Mr. Debbington, that your work on Jacqueline’s portrait will necessitate your spending considerable time in her company, that you will need to learn about her to lend your work authority. My brother is very keen that the portrait be accurate. I can see that that will inevitably require you to spend time alone with Jacqueline.” Millicent turned a severe, rather dauntingly level gaze on him. “You appear to be an estimable gentleman, sir, and your reputation is spotless. Yes, indeed”—she nodded—“I checked.”
She looked ahead as they continued strolling. “Consequently, as far as your association with Jacqueline goes, I believe I can trust in your honor. If you will give me your word you will preserve the proprieties to
the extent no harm will come to Jacqueline’s good name, then I believe that, in these circumstances, I can relax my vigilance regarding the appropriate distance that should be preserved between gentlemen and young ladies such as my niece.”
Gerrard blinked. Direct speaking was clearly a family trait; it was distinctly refreshing. “Thank you, ma’am. I give you my word that no harm will come to your niece’s good name through any action of mine.”
“Very good.” Millicent nodded ahead to where Barnaby was regaling Jacqueline with some story, the two bright heads close. “In that case, I suggest you send Mr. Adair back to me. I would dearly love to hear what that scoundrel Monteith has been up to now. I knew his father, and a bigger blackguard I never did meet.”
Gerrard couldn’t suppress his grin. Bowing, he left Millicent and quickly overtook the pair ahead.
Barnaby was intrigued by Millicent’s request; he happily fell back to walk with her, leaving Jacqueline strolling with Gerrard.
A small forest of tall conifers, all shades of dark green, some carrying their canopies high above long boles, others more like thick bushes, appeared before them. The path wound on between the trees, through the still shade; they followed it, their feet crunching on dry needles.
“The stables lie beyond the ridge.” Jacqueline waved ahead. “This path takes you to them, but we’ll turn off it soon. Each segment of the gardens was designed to represent one of the ancient gods, Roman or Greek, or one of the mythical creatures associated with them.” In the cool beneath the trees, her voice carried easily to Millicent and Barnaby behind them. “This”—she gestured about them—“is the Garden of Hercules, the massively strong trunks representing his fabled strength.
“He was, of course, a demigod, but an obvious one to include.” She smiled briefly at Gerrard. “My ancestors weren’t dogmatic over their choice of subjects, and in that time, there was great interest in the ancient myths.”
Gerrard nodded. They reached the ridge line and paused; ahead lay the usual stable buildings, separated from the gardens by a strip of open field through which the path continued. To the left of the path was a fenced paddock in which horses grazed; to the right, out of the center of a ring of tall corn rose an old, worn but still recognizable statue.
“Pegasus.” Gerrard smiled.
“They had him shipped from somewhere in Greece.” Jacqueline studied the winged horse for a moment. “He’s one of my favorites. To get to the stables, you have to pass beneath his eye.”
She turned left onto a connecting path that led along the ridge a little way before curving back down into the gardens; brows rising, Gerrard followed. Barnaby and Millicent had paused to exchange comments on Pegasus; they eventually followed some yards behind.
“This next garden,” Jacqueline said as the conifers thinned and the path led on into the sunshine, “is the Garden of Demeter. Among other things, she was the goddess of crops and the fruitful earth, so…”
They walked out into a large and varied orchard. Some of the trees still held a few blossoms; the scent of growing fruit was tangy and sharp on the air. Bees lazily buzzed as they strolled down the gravel path,
descending deeper into the valley. Jacqueline and Millicent unfurled their parasols; the sun was high enough to flood the valley with warmth and light.
The house now lay to their left, rising above them as they descended into the valley. Directly ahead at the junction of four paths—theirs and three others that spread like an open fan into the gardens before them—stood a small wooden pergola, painted white. Roses rambled over it in lazy profusion, spilling yellow blooms over the roof and down the carved pillars.
Jacqueline pointed left to a long strip of garden that ran from the pergola back to the terrace. “The kitchen gardens, otherwise known as the Garden of Vesta, goddess of the hearth.”
It didn’t look like any kitchen garden Gerrard had ever seen. As if reading his thoughts, Jacqueline said, “What you can see are mostly herbs. There are vegetables planted between, but the rampant growth of the herbs screens them.”
“ ‘Rampant’ being a very apt word,” Barnaby returned. “Everything seems”—he glanced around them—“extraordinarily healthy.”
Pausing under the pergola, Jacqueline nodded. “It’s the situation, the shelter, and the soil.” She waited while they all looked around, then waved to the three paths diverging before them. “This path”—she pointed to the one to the left, angling back to the house—“leads to the Garden of Poseidon.”
“There?” Barnaby blinked. “I thought he would be down by the shore, god of the sea that he is.”
“Ah, but Poseidon was the god ofall water—fresh as well as salt—and it was claimed all springs flowed from where his trident struck.” Jacqueline pointed to where, directly ahead, they could see sunlight glinting off the rippling waters of a stream running down the valley. “The stream is fed by a spring that rises in a grotto under the central section of the terrace. Poseidon therefore presides over the point where its waters start to flow freely down the valley, leaving the shoreline to Neptune.”
“Aha! Very neat.” Barnaby squinted down the valley toward the distant cove, but it was too far away, and there were too many intervening trees, shrubs, and rises and dips in the land to get any real view.
Gerrard decided he’d waited long enough; the Garden of Poseidon seemed to lie just below the area of thick, dark vegetation he’d noted the previous evening. “Where’s the famous Garden of Night?”
He was standing beside Jacqueline; she didn’t move, yet he was aware she stiffened. Nothing showed in her face, but it had suddenly become a mask. However, when she spoke, her tone was even, albeit devoid of emotion.
“The Garden of Night is reached through the Garden of Poseidon, or directly from the terrace via the main garden stairs. It abuts the terrace—in fact the grotto where the spring rises is part of the Garden of Night, more properly the Garden of Venus, who aside from being the goddess of love was also the first goddess of gardens, hence her preeminence here.” Looking down, Jacqueline stepped out of the pergola onto the central of the three paths leading on. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the various plants that grow in the Garden of Night. As it’s closest to the house, we’ll leave it for later.”
Gerrard held his peace, following her out into the sunshine; the others strolled after him.
Resetting her parasol, Jacqueline waved up the path to their right; it wended up and then along the steeply sloping north ridge. “That path leads through the Garden of Dionysius—it’s full of grapevines of
various sorts. Beyond it, you can see the cypresses of the Garden of Hades, cypresses being the tree of graveyards. That path rejoins this one farther down the valley, at the last viewing stage.”
She gestured about them. “This area, directly below the Garden of Poseidon, is the Garden of Apollo. It’s one of the gardens that uses statuary—he’s the god of music, hence the once-gilded statue of a lyre.”
They came upon the statue, an intricate work in iron, on a pedestal in the center of a small circle of lawn. The path wound its way past. They approached the stream; a small wooden bridge spanned it. “Music,” Jacqueline continued, “is also created by the sound of the stream running over the rocks and the small weirs placed along its course.”
They halted and listened. Watery music did indeed fill the air, tinkling, burbling, almost singing. It was a pleasant, relaxing sound. Gerrard scanned the area; it was rich with lush lawns and burgeoning flower beds.
Jacqueline stepped onto the bridge. “Apollo was also the god of light, and this area of the gardens has light for the longest time each day. The sundial”—she pointed to it, on the lawn just off the path ahead—“marks the point considered the center of the gardens.”
They followed her on. The path steadily descended down a bank of verdant growth. Glancing back, Gerrard noted that while the roofs of the house were still visible high above the head of the valley, areas nearer to hand that they’d already traversed were not. It would indeed be easy to get lost.
“The four viewing stages,” Jacqueline said as they reached the next, a rectangular stone platform with a wooden roof, “are placed at the main junctions of paths and also where a number of gardens meet.”
There were five paths, including the one they’d just arrived on, radiating from the stone platform.
“We’ve just left the Garden of Apollo. That path”—Jacqueline pointed to the next path on the higher side of the platform—“leads back to the house via the Gardens of Poseidon and Venus. The next also leads back to the house, but through the Gardens of Diana, Athena and Artemis—we’ll go back that way later. The next path”—she pointed to one heading up the southern ridge—“initially goes through a portion of the Garden of Mars, but then forks—you can head back to the house via the Garden of Diana, or go farther down the valley through the Gardens of Hermes and Vulcan. Which brings us to the path we’ll take, heading down to the cove.”
She led the way; Gerrard followed, taking her elbow to steady her down the steps. She glanced briefly at him, then looked ahead. “Thank you.”
Once on the path, he released her. They waited until the others joined them, then Jacqueline turned and walked on. “This is the Garden of Mars. Although everyone knows him as the god of war, most gods have multiple, often contradictory faces, so Mars is also the god of fertility and farming, especially of all things that grow in the spring.”
The beds they were passing were full of plants that had flowered and now carried seed pods of every description.
“Your relative, whoever he was, was quite inventive in choosing his gods.” Hands in his pockets as he ambled beside her, Gerrard added the questions of how Jacqueline’s mother had died, and why Jacqueline disliked the Garden of Night, to his growing list.
“My great-great-great-grandfather started it, my great-great-grandfather completed the design, but the planting wasn’t complete until my great-grandfather’s time.”
They walked on, Jacqueline naming the gardens as they went, describing the association of each with the god for whom the area was named. They descended through the Garden of Persephone, goddess of plenty, lying below the dark mass of the Garden of Hades, her husband, lord of the underworld. The path led them to the lowest of the viewing platforms, a wooden one giving an excellent view of the narrow cove filled with rocks on which the waves crashed, then slowly, sussuratingly, receded.
The platform sat squarely at the intersection of four paths. The one leading to the shore wended through a landscape comprised of plants with unusual leaves or strange shapes. “The Garden of Neptune, god of the sea. The plants were chosen because they look like various seaweeds, or suggest another world.”
They all stood at the balustrade, drawn to the view of the sea, gentle today yet the waves still rolled in. Gulls wheeled on the updrafts rising up the cliffs to the right, their screeching a sharp counterpoint to the rumble and whoosh of the waves. To the left, the cove was bound by a rocky outcrop, the extreme seaward section of which consisted of a single, massive boulder.
“Here comes a big wave.” Barnaby pointed.
Gerrard looked; from the corner of his eye he saw Jacqueline glance at him, caught the curving of her lips…now what?
A sudden roaring sound reached them; before they could react, a spout of water exploded upward from the center of the massive rock.
Gerrard stared.
Barnaby grabbed his arm. “Good Lord! It’s a blowhole!”
They both turned to Jacqueline. Smiling, she nodded. “It is indeed a blowhole—known as Cyclops, of course.”
“Of course!” Barnaby’s face was alight.
“What you just witnessed was a mild eruption. Every day as the tide comes in, there’s a time when every fourth wave or so sends up a huge fountain. During king tides, the height and amount of water thrown out is simply amazing.”
“Does the path lead down to it?” Gerrard asked.
“Yes, but it doesn’t go onto Cyclops, the rock, itself—it’s too dangerous. The surface is perennially slippery, and the sea’s quite deep just there. The currents are very strong, and, of course, if anyone ever got sucked into the blowhole, they’d be smashed against the rocks inside.”
He glanced at her. “Can we go closer?”
Her smile deepened. “I was planning to. Beyond Cyclops, the path curves around and heads back to the house.”
Jacqueline started down the steps onto the last path. Gerrard moved to follow her.
“Jacqueline, dear, I’ll wait for you here.”
With Jacqueline, Gerrard turned to look back at Millicent. She smiled gamely at them. “While I’m certain I have enough stamina to return to the house from here, going down that last stretch might just be too much.”
“Oh…all right. We’ll just go down and come back.”
Gerrard glanced at Barnaby, still on the platform beside Millicent.
“Actually,” Barnaby said, “I have a better idea. You said that path curves around—does it meet this one?” He pointed to the path to his left.
Jacqueline frowned lightly. “Yes, they converge in the Garden of Vulcan just below the south ridge. From there, the path leads through the Gardens of Hermes and Diana, to the upper viewing platform, the only one we’ve yet to visit.”
Barnaby turned to Millicent. “Why don’t we head that way, taking in the sights at our leisure, and these two can go down and view Cyclops, then join us at the upper platform?”
“But don’t you wish to view Cyclops from closer range?” Millicent asked.
“I do.” Barnaby smiled, distinctly devil-may-care; he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I would prefer to get closer than Miss Tregonning would probably think wise, and I would be loath to argue with such a charming hostess.” He flashed his irrepressible smile at Jacqueline. “I’ll come back later.”
Jacqueline looked uncertain.
“Go on.” Barnaby waved them on. “I’ll stroll with Miss Tregonning and enjoy the sylvan delights.” So saying, he offered Millicent his arm. Surrendering, she took it and allowed him to lead her up the other path.
Jacqueline stood watching, frowning.
Gerrard waited for a moment, then touched her arm. “Shall we?”
She didn’t jump, but when she turned her head and her eyes met his, they were a fraction wide. “Yes, of course.”
She sounded a touch breathless. Side by side, they walked down the sloping path. His latest questions burned in his brain, but he decided to ask someone else—possibly Millicent—about Jacqueline’s mother rather than put his foot wrong with her. As for her reaction to the Garden of Venus, he wasn’t yet sure what that was, but she’d said they would pass it on their way back—time enough to probe then.
They rounded the last bend in the path; the breeze off the waves hit them, and snatched at her parasol. She quickly furled it; he waited while she secured it, then offered his arm. “It’ll be safer if you hold on to me.”
She drew in a breath, then slid her hand around his elbow, laying her fingers on his sleeve. Sensing her
uncertainty, he didn’t draw her close, but now they were in the open, the breeze shrieked about them, plastering her dress to her figure, tugging at her skirts. She really would be safer clinging to him, taking refuge in his windshadow.
He wished she would. Most young ladies would unhesitatingly seize the opportunity; instead, she struggled to walk by his side and keep a decorous distance between them. Despite his unwanted sexual awareness of her, still notably high, her caution rankled.
They reached the line of rocks above the sloping shore. At the southern end of the cove, the massive bulk of Cyclops rose from the waves, its seaward faces cloaked in spume and spray.
Gerrard squinted. “Is that a ledge running around it?”
“Yes.” Jacqueline raised her voice over the crash of the waves. “It’s terribly dangerous, as you can see. At neap tide, you can follow the ledge all the way around and into the blowhole chamber itself, but at most times, the waves are too high, and the footing far too treacherous.”
He stepped off the edge of the path to get a better view. Bracing one booted leg against a large rock, he studied the outcrop, noting the proportions. “I’ll have to come down at sunset. Or sunrise. Or perhaps we’ll have a storm?” He wanted to see more variations of light on Cyclops, and more movement about it, too.
Pushing back from the rock, he straightened and turned.
Only to discover Jacqueline had leaned toward him, fighting to hold back her hair with one hand.
They were suddenly very close, their faces only inches apart. Her eyes widened. Her lips were parted; she’d leaned close to say something.
Their eyes locked. Looking into hers, into the moss-agatey depths, he realized she’d forgotten what she’d been about to say.
Beyond his control, his gaze dropped to her lips. Soft, intensely feminine, shaped for passion, and mere inches away.
As was her body, those delectable breasts and elementally female curves. All he had to do to bring her against him was tip her to him, or take half a step more.
The impulse to do so was nearly overpowering; only the thought that she might panic held him back. Yet the allure of those lips, the desire to taste them, to raise his hands, frame her face and angle it up so his lips could cover hers and he could learn…
His gaze lowered to where the pulse beat wildly at the base of her throat, then lowered further, to her breasts, high, full…frozen. She wasn’t breathing.
Forcing his gaze up, he met her eyes, and read in them how shocked, stunned and uncertain she was—how out of her depth she was.
He couldn’t take advantage of such innocence, such clear and open naïveté. She might be twenty-three, but she had no idea what this was.
She’d clearly had no experience with desire, much less lust.
Taking a firm grip on his own, he grasped her arm, and gently moved her back so he could step up onto the path.
“Ah…” Jacqueline blinked and looked around; she fixed on Cyclops. “I was going to ask…”
She dragged in a huge breath, and grabbed hold of her wayward wits. Keeping her gaze on the huge rock, she battled to steady her giddy head and ignore the man by her side. “I was about to ask about Mr. Adair. He wouldn’t be so reckless as to try to explore Cyclops, would he?”
When her companion didn’t immediately reply, she glanced briefly at him, ready to be mortified if he said anything about that fraught moment an instant ago.
Instead, he was looking, not at her, but at Cyclops. Retaking her arm, he urged her on; hesitantly, trying not to notice the sensations his touch evoked, she fell into step once more beside him.
“Barnaby’s insatiably curious, but not rashly so—not to the point of endangering himself. He might be many things, incorrigible and impossible to restrain at times, but he’s not stupid.”
“I didn’t mean to imply he is,” she hurried to say. “But…well, you know.” She gestured. “Young men and their follies and reckless ways.”
He looked at her then. She met his eyes—and realized they were warm, that his lips had eased, fractionally curving—that he was genuinely amused, not trying to be charming.
His natural smile was more potent than he knew.
“Young men,” he repeated, then quietly said, “Neither Barnaby nor I are that young.”
His eyes held hers for an instant, then his gaze lowered to her lips, then dropped away as he looked ahead.
They walked five paces before she remembered how to breathe.
Foolish, foolish,foolish ! She had to overcome this ridiculous sensitivity that he, somehow, triggered. She might have led a quiet country life, but she’d attended country assemblies aplenty and she’d never—not ever—responded to a gentleman—to the man, to his presence—as she did to Gerrard Debbington.
It was nonsense—her reaction made no sense at all.
She had to, was determined to, overcome it, and if she couldn’t do that, then she’d ignore it, certainly hide it so he got no inkling of her witless sensibility.
After that moment on the shore, ignoring all he made her feel seemed eminently wise.
The path led them around the edge of Cyclops, some distance back from the blowhole itself. Gerrard paused at the point where the path rose; looking down on the rock, they could see the hole clearly. A muffled rumbling reached them, then a small spout of water gushed up through the hole.
“The tide’s turning,” she said, and moved on.
He followed, his long fingers still wrapped about her elbow; she didn’t shake free, didn’t want to call attention to her awareness of his touch.
Yet she was aware—to her bones aware—of the latent strength not just in his fingers but in the lean, hard body keeping pace so close beside her.
Once they’d left Cyclops, the delights of the Garden of Vulcan, with its fiery red and orange flowers and bronze foliage, followed in turn by the Gardens of Hermes and Diana, the former dotted with ornamental stone cairns, the latter incorporating a small wood that was home to a herd of deer, gave her fodder enough to distract him. And herself.
By the time they reached the upper viewing stage, a delicate wrought-iron pergola, and rejoined Barnaby and Millicent, she’d managed to press that moment on the shore to the back of her mind.
She indicated the path that left the pergola to wind up the incline of the south ridge. “That leads to the Garden of Atlas, which is a rare example of a rock garden created with nothing but spherical boulders, rocks and stones.”
“Reflecting the globe Atlas shouldered?” Shading his eyes, Barnaby looked up at the ridge. “Indeed. From the upper end of that garden, steps give access to the south end of the terrace.”
Beckoning, she stepped onto the other path leading toward the house. “This will take us into the Garden
of Athena. We could go straight through to the terrace—there’s another set of steps—but if we take the fork that goes through the Garden of Artemis, we’ll pass by the Garden of Night, too, before climbing the main terrace stairs.”
“Lead on.” Gerrard smiled easily as he came to pace beside her.
He looked ahead; she grasped the moment to surreptitiously study his profile. He’d asked numerous questions about the gardens as they’d walked. He was a landscape artist; the gardens would be of consuming interest, yet she had a suspicion he’d asked more because she’d expected him to, more to put her at ease, to soothe her leaping nerves…he couldn’t know how he affected her, could he?
Facing forward, she pushed the disturbing notion out of her conscious mind. “The Garden of Athena, goddess of wisdom, is laid out in formal style, using primarily olive trees, sacred to the goddess.” Her knowledge of the gardens was extensive; from childhood, she’d quizzed the gardeners, some of whom were older than her father and remembered the changes the decades had wrought.
They took the fork she indicated and strolled on into the fanciful landscape of the Garden of Artemis, home to a host of topiary animals, lions and tigers among them, the goddess’s especial followers.
The sun shone strongly; the temperature was significantly higher than it had been when they’d set out. She slowed her pace; Millicent had to be tiring. She and her aunt had only recently become close, but she’d quickly grown fond of Millicent.
Ahead, the main steps up to the terrace rose in a curving flight of white marble with the same waist-high balustrade that ran the length of the terrace itself. The path they were following led to the bottom of the steps, then curved away into the Garden of Night.
She’d thought she was up to it, to taking them at least a little way into that most famous area of the
gardens, but the closer they got to the heavy, large-leaved, dark green foliage that enclosed it, she felt instinctive resistance rise, until it was choking her.
It was broad daylight, she chided herself, yet her mind instantly conjured how dark, almost subterranean, the garden felt regardless of the hour, with its wide still pool into which the spring all but silently flowed, the closeness of the humidity the spectacularly rampant growth held in, the muted quality of the light, so diffused and broken by the thick canopy that even at noon the garden resembled a cavern, and above all else, the claustrophobic stillness and the heavy, suffocating medley of perfumes.
Dragging in a breath past the vise that, with each step, tightened about her lungs, she halted at the foot of the stairs. “I have several matters I must attend to before luncheon, which will be served shortly, so perhaps, Aunt”—she glanced at Millicent—“we should go inside?”
Approaching on Barnaby’s arm, Millicent nodded. “I think so.” The long walk had clearly wearied her. She furled her parasol. “I must speak with Mrs. Carpenter before luncheon.”
Relieved, Jacqueline turned to Gerrard and Barnaby. “If you wish to go on, that path leads through the Garden of Night, and then into the Garden of Poseidon.” She managed a light smile. “As Papa has doubtless told you, you should feel free to explore the gardens at will.” Glancing at Barnaby, she considered reiterating her warning about venturing onto Cyclops, then remembered Gerrard’s words, and thought better of it.
Barnaby had been peering ahead; he flashed her a grin. Reaching for her hand, he bowed over it. “Thank you for a fascinating tour.” Straightening, he looked at the Garden of Night. “I’m sure we can manage on our own from here.”
She smiled and shifted her gaze to Gerrard, expecting to see a similar eagerness to explore in his face. Instead, he was watching her, studying her.
Her breath caught; her lungs seized.
Millicent, thank heavens, spoke to him, deflecting his attention. By the time his too acute gaze returned to her, she’d recovered and was ready. She inclined her head, her lips lightly curved. “I hope you feel comfortable within the gardens now, sir, enough to go about on your own.”
“Indeed.” His brown eyes held hers. “If you’re sure we can’t tempt you to accompany us, and leave those ‘several matters’ until later?”
Her smile felt tight. “Quite sure. Unfortunately…” She broke off before completing the lie. Millicent moved past her, starting up the steps. She reminded herself she owed him no explanation. Drawing a determined breath, she met his eyes. “I’ll see you at luncheon, sir. Treadle will ring the bell on the terrace, so you’ll be sure to hear it.”
His disturbingly intent gaze lingered on her face, but then he bowed. “Until then, Miss Tregonning.”
Inclining her head, she turned and followed Millicent up the steps. Her senses pricked, nervously flickering. Gaining the terrace, she paused, then looked back.
Gerrard hadn’t moved. He’d remained where she’d left him, watching her…as if he knew how tight her lungs were, how tense her nerves…how her heart was thudding.
His eyes met hers. For an instant, all about them stilled…
She turned and followed Millicent across the terrace and into the house. 4
After luncheon, another quiet meal, Gerrard retreated to his studio while Barnaby hied out to explore Cyclops and the gardens in general.
Earlier, they’d explored the Garden of Night—a curious, dramatic and vaguely disturbing place. The atmosphere had been all Gerrard’s dream had promised, not just darkly Gothic but with a sinister undertone carried in the oppressive stillness. The more cheery Garden of Poseidon had lightened their mood before Treadle’s gong had summoned them back to the house.
Closing the nursery-cum-studio door, Gerrard got to work. His purpose was defined—to set out all he needed, to unpack the boxes the footmen had left stacked against the walls and lay out paints, pads, pencils and the various paraphernalia with which he habitually surrounded himself—yet while his hands were busy, his mind remained engrossed.
Thinking of Jacqueline Tregonning.
Reliving, reviewing, all the moments he’d thus far shared with her, and trying to make sense of them, trying to wring every last iota of meaning from each, to get some firm concept—some concept he could accept as firm enough—of what she was, of what, with her, he was dealing with.
His initial view of her had been that she had character. That had proved true, yet her character was complex, far more so than he’d expected. He’d labeled her an enigma, and she still was to him.
He hadn’t, yet, made any real headway in understanding her. His observations to date had yielded not answers but yet more questions.
And that surprised him.
He would, he felt, have coped with that surprise, with the challenge she posed, well enough, if it hadn’t been for the rest of it—the aspects of their interaction he hadn’t foreseen, and wasn’t sure how to deal with.
Despite his experience, this was one situation he’d never before had to face. Not even when his subjects had been ravishing beauties, the twins for example, had he found himself wondering what their lips would taste like.
He kept telling himself that the sexual attraction he felt would fade, would merge into his customary, curious-yet-detached attitude as he learned more of Jacqueline. Instead, thus far at least, the more he learned, the closer he drew to her, the more powerfully the attraction flared.
Throwing the heavy locks on a case, he laid it open on the floor, then hunkered down to examine the pencils and charcoals neatly arrayed within. He tried to focus on his art, on the practical acts necessary to bring it to life, tried to channel his edginess into that, and didn’t succeed.
Selecting two pencils, he closed the case. Straightening, he crossed to where the table he’d requested sat at right angles to one end of the wide windows. Sketch pads lay stacked, the lightly textured paper he
favored for first drawings spread ready, virginal white, waiting for his impressions, his first attempts at capturing them.
Such a sight always brought a surge of excitement, of eagerness to plunge into a new work; he felt the expected lift, the sharpening of his senses, yet there was something else, something more compelling, hovering in his mind, distracting him.
Laying down the pencils, he breathed in and closed his eyes—and vividly recalled how her eyes, moss, amber, gold and brown, had appeared in that fraught instant on the shore.
He focused on that moment, one that kept replaying in his brain; he remembered what he’d felt, how the feelings had flowed.
Realized that it wasn’t purely his reaction to her, the sexual attraction itself, that was destabilizing his concentration. It was her reaction to him, and his subsequent response to that—all of those elements combined.
Opening his eyes, he blinked. Frowned.
He couldn’t recall ever having his attention captured, ensnared, by a woman’s reaction to him. Yet every time her fingers trembled in his, he wanted to seize, not just them but her; every time her lovely eyes flared, he was visited by an urge to touch her, caress her, and watch them widen even more.
Beneath his breath, he swore. Every time he thought of her, he ended envisioning making love to her. A tap fell on the door, light, uncertain.
NotJacqueline, was his first thought.
He raked his hand through his hair. “Come in.” Any distraction was better than the circle his thoughts seemed determined to tread.
The door swung open; Millicent stood in the doorway. Seeing him, she smiled and walked in. She looked around, but that seemed merely a polite action, because she thought she should show interest.
“You seem to be settling in quite nicely—is everything to your liking?”
No—lusting after your niece is driving me deranged.Gerrard smiled. “Thank you. I have all I need.”
“Well…” Millicent hesitated; clearly there was some purpose behind her visit, one she was reluctant to broach.
Gerrard gestured to the window seat beneath the farther window, the area he’d left for consultation, away from his work. “Won’t you sit down?”
Turning, Millicent saw the window seat. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
Following her across the room, Gerrard picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down facing the seat, close enough to see Millicent’s eyes, yet not close enough to crowd her.
He waited for her to sit, then sat himself. When she didn’t say anything but studied his face, as if
wondering whether to speak at all, he prompted, “Was there something you wished to tell me?” She studied his eyes for a moment longer, then grimaced. “Yes—you’re very acute.”
He made no reply but waited.
She sighed. “It’s about Jacqueline, and, well…the reason she no longer goes into the Garden of Night.” He nodded encouragingly. “I noted her hesitation this morning.”
“Indeed.” Millicent clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “It’s because of her mother—or rather, Miribelle’s death. She fell to her death, you see. From the terrace, into the Garden of Night.”
He felt his expression blank with shock.
Millicent saw; she leaned forward, concerned. “I’m sorry. I see you didn’t know, but I wasn’t sure whether Marcus would think to mention the details, and, of course, having to learn about Jacqueline in order to paint her properly, you were bound to notice and wonder…well, as you did.”
He managed to nod; what he desperately needed was to think. “How did it happen?” When Millicent frowned, as if unsure what he meant, he restated the query, “What caused Jacqueline’s mother to fall?”
Millicent’s eyes widened a fraction; she sat back. He got the impression he’d put a foot wrong, but couldn’t imagine how or where.
A hand rising to fiddle with her neckline, Millicent said, her tone now careful, “It was, of course, thought to be an accident. Anything else…well, there never was any suggestion of anything else.”
She’d grown flustered; to his dismay, she stood. “So now you understand why Jacqueline won’t go into that area of the gardens. I don’t know that she’ll ever grow comfortable enough to venture there again. Please don’t press her.”
Gerrard rose, too. “No, of course not.”
Millicent turned quickly to the door. “Now I really must get on. You will remember that we’re dining with the Frithams this evening? The carriage will leave at seven.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Gerrard followed her to the door.
She didn’t wait for him to open it, but did so herself and started down the narrow stairs. “At seven, remember,” she called back, then whisked away down the corridor.
Gerrard leaned against the doorjamb, and wondered why Millicent had suddenly decided she’d said too much. What had she told him?
So little. Just enough to show him how much more he’d yet to learn.
Good Lord! She fell to her death from the terrace?”
“So Millicent said, and I doubt she invented it.” Gerrard lolled on the end of Barnaby’s bed, watching while his friend, now distinctly absentmindedly, tied his cravat.
Gently lowering his chin, creasing the folds expertly, Barnaby shot him a sidelong glance. “And there’s some question over the death, you say?”
“No, I don’t say—I infer.” Gerrard altered his voice to an approximation of Millicent’s. “Anything else…well, there never was any suggestion of anything else.” He reverted to his usual tones. “All said with her eyes wide and a look that clearly stated that while no one had eversuggested such a thing, it was the question in everyone’s mind.”
“A mystery!” Barnaby’s eyes glowed.
“Possibly.” Gerrard wasn’t entirely convinced of the wisdom of setting Barnaby loose on the subject, but he had to know more, and his friend was a master at ferreting out such things. “I asked Compton what he’d heard. Apparently, the late Lady Tregonning was well liked, nay, loved by all who knew her. The accepted theory is that she peered over the balustrade to look at something in the Garden of Night, overbalanced and fell. Tragic and regrettable, but nothing else. There’s no question but that the fall killed her—her neck was broken. That’s the story from the servants’ hall.”
“They usually know,” Barnaby murmured, easing on his coat.
“True.” Gerrard sat up. “However, if there’s no question over what killed her, then what caused her to go over the balustrade is the only thing that might remain in question—the only aspect that might account for Millicent’s reaction.”
Engaged in placing his handkerchief, watch and sundry other items into various pockets, Barnaby hmmed. “Suicide? It’s always an option in such cases.”
Gerrard grimaced and rose. “It could be that. Millicent wanted to explain so I wouldn’t press Jacqueline to enter the Garden of Night, then realized she’d revealed too much…yes, that might be it.”
He headed for the door; it was nearly seven o’clock. Barnaby joined him. “But…?”
Hand on the knob, Gerrard met his friend’s eyes. “I need to know the truth, whatever it is, and for obvious reasons I can’t ask Jacqueline.”
Barnaby grinned and clapped him on the back. “Leave it to me—I’ll see what I can learn this evening. There’s sure to be someone attending who’ll be eager to swap a bit of gossip and scandal.”
Shaking his head, Gerrard led the way out of the room. “Just don’t make it sound like we’re conducting an investigation.”
“Trust me.” Barnaby followed him out and shut the door. “I’ll be the soul of discretion.”
Gerrard started for the stairs, inwardly debating. Eventually, he murmured, “There’s one other thing.” “Oh? What?”
“I need to understand why Jacqueline’s unmarried. She’s twenty-three, attractive, and Tregonning’s heiress—even buried out here, she must have, or have had, suitors. Who? And where are they now? No one’s suggested there’s any gentleman in the wings. Is her mother’s death in some way responsible for that?”
“Interesting point.” They reached the head of the stairs; Barnaby slanted a cheerfully inquisitive glance Gerrard’s way. “Just tell me—is that the way the wind now blows?”
Gerrard snorted. “Spare me.” He started down the stairs. “I need to know for the portrait.” “Such things shouldn’t be too hard to learn.”
“Just remember—discretion is imperative.” “You know me.”
“Indeed—that’s why I’m reminding you.”
It wasn’t, in truth, Barnaby’s discretion that caused Gerrard concern, but his enthusiasm; once embarked on solving a mystery, Barnaby was apt to forget such niceties as feminine susceptibilities and social strictures. From his position in the circle of which Jacqueline was a member, Gerrard kept an eye on his friend as Barnaby prowled the Frithams’ drawing room.
Hunting for information. With his bright eyes, cheery personality and, when he wished it, polished address, it was an undertaking at which he admittedly excelled.
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?
Hadthese 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 bevery 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 fatherneeded, the importance she’d placed on it showingwhat she
truly was…
Raising his glass, he took a long, slow sip of Lord Fritham’s excellent port; he barely tasted it. Yet nothing of his thoughts, of the sudden eruption of feelings churning through him, showed in his face, for which he was grateful—especially before a prat like Jordan Fritham.
“Indeed.” Anyone who knew him would have taken warning from his tone. Even Jordan looked up, alert, although not apparently understanding why. Gerrard sipped again, then cocked an eyebrow at Jordan. “Am I to take it that all those round about know of…the reason I’m here to paint Jacqueline’s portrait?”
He couldn’t keep the simmering anger completely from his voice, but while Jordan heard it and faintly frowned, he nevertheless answered with a light shrug. “I suppose all those who know the family well.”
“Most of those here, then?”
“Oh, not the younger ones—not the girls or Roger or Cedric.” “I see.” Gerrard was suddenly very certain he did.
Lord Fritham chose that moment to push back his chair. Gerrard realized Barnaby had concluded his tale; all the usual exclamations and comments had been made and had died away.
“Very entertaining, Mr. Adair. Now I suspect it’s time we rejoined the ladies.” Beaming genially, Lord Fritham stood.
Chairs scraped. They all rose. Lord Fritham turned to speak to the butler. Gerrard moved with the others to the door; he hung back and Barnaby joined him.
They fell in at the rear of the group heading along the corridor to the drawing room; Lord Fritham had remained behind, but would no doubt shortly follow. They both slowed.
“What’s the matter?” Barnaby asked.
Gerrard shot him a glance; Barnaby was one of the few who would notice his state. “I’ve just learned something disturbing, too complicated to explain here. Have you learned anything?”
“Not about Lady Tregonning’s death, but I did hear about Jacqueline’s suitor.” “She had a suitor?”
“Hadbeing the operative word. The son of a local landowner, well liked, a good match on all sides. They were apparently fond of each other, everyone expected an announcement any day…then he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Incredulous, Gerrard glanced at Barnaby.
Who nodded grimly. “Justdisappeared. He visited Jacqueline one afternoon, then he left for the stables, and hasn’t been heard of to this day.”
Gerrard looked ahead. “Good God.”
“Indeed.” The drawing room doors were approaching; they both checked and looked back. And saw Lord Fritham coming along, the very picture of a jovial host, in their wake. They both hesitated, then Barnaby murmured, “Do you know what the odds against having two strange, unexplained happenings occurringinnocently at one house are?”
“Too long,” Gerrard replied, and stepped into the drawing room.
Barnaby followed, but then wandered away, no doubt intent on learning more.
Gerrard left him to it; using his height, he scanned the room, searching for the one person he wanted to interrogate himself.
But Mitchel Cunningham was nowhere in sight.
Mrs. Hancock and Miss Curtis, seated on a chaise, had spotted him standing alone. They beckoned; perforce, he went. He chatted with this one, then that; while the Myles sisters and Mary Hancock entertained the company with various airs on the pianoforte, he waited for Mitchel Cunningham to reappear.
Time passed, and the agent didn’t return. Eventually, Gerrard paused by the side of the room and took stock. Eleanor Fritham was also absent.
On the thought, draperies further down the long room stirred, and Eleanor appeared, strolling easily back to join the guests. She was visually stunning, with her long, fine blond hair floating about her, her pale skin, long neck and slender, sylphlike figure; she wasn’t quite ethereal, yet at the same time, not quite of this world…and she, too, was unmarried, apparently unspoken for.
Gerrard inwardly frowned; he watched as Eleanor joined the circle of which Jacqueline was a member, smoothly linking her arm in Jacqueline’s in a gesture that screamed of long friendship. Given what he now suspected, Gerrard wondered at that apparent closeness. Jacqueline was facing away; he couldn’t gauge her reaction.
Shifting his gaze, he scanned the room again; he was about to move on when, from behind the same set of drifting draperies through which Eleanor had appeared, Mitchel Cunningham stepped into the room.
Gerrard changed direction and strolled his way, intercepting Mitchel before he could join any other guests. “Could I have a word, Cunningham?” When Mitchel blinked, he added, “It’s about the portrait.”
Cunningham had dealt with him enough to comprehend the significance of his clipped accents. Lips thinning, he nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Gerrard turned to the French doors giving onto the terrace. “Perhaps in more private surrounds.”
Cunningham went with him. As they stepped onto the flagstones, Gerrard glanced along the terrace; the long window with the billowing draperies did indeed give onto the terrace—at the heavily shadowed end.
Jordan Fritham’s dog-in-the-manger attitude over his sister, apparent whenever Cunningham drew close, now made sense; the notion of having a brother-in-law who was a mere gentleman’s agent would not sit well with Jordan’s sense of self-worth.
Cunningham had noticed him glancing at the far window; returning his gaze to the agent’s eyes, Gerrard didn’t hide his comprehension, but Cunningham’s aspirations were not his concern.
“I’ve discovered,” he said, “that the reason behind Lord Tregonning’s insistence thatI paint his daughter’s portrait goes somewhat deeper than mere appreciation of my art.”
Cunningham paled; even in the poor light, his increasing nervousness was obvious. “Ah…”
“Indeed.” Gerrard held his temper on a tight rein. “I see that you’re aware of it. I have one question: Why wasn’t I informed?”
Cunningham swallowed, but gamely lifted his head and met Gerrard’s gaze. “I advised telling you, but Lord Tregonning forbade it.”
“Why?”
“Because he was uncertain how you would react to his reason, whether you might decline to do the portrait in such circumstances, and then later, once you’d accepted the commission, he was concerned not to…to prejudice your view in any way.”
He had to fight to keep the anger building inside him from his face. The situation was beyond outrageous, yet…he couldn’t, now, simply walk away. “Is Miss Tregonning aware of her father’s expectations of the portrait?”
Cunningham looked appalled. “I assume not…” He blinked. “But I don’t know. Her knowing or not was not discussed with me.”
“I see.” So many aspects of the situation were fueling his ire, his mind was swinging violently, railing over first one, then the next. That Tregonning would pander to such suspicions of his daughter made him see red; that Jacqueline, knowing of her father’s scheme, should so meekly agree made him want to shake her. How could she accept, as she patently had, that such suspicion was even reasonable?
How could she so calmly accept that he, an unknown gentleman, should judge her? How dared she—they—place such an onus on him?
He was furious, but fought to keep his rage contained. Focusing, grimly, on Cunningham’s pale face, he nodded. “Very well. I suggest, since Lord Tregonning does not wish me to know of his expectations, that there’s no reason for him to know of this discussion.”
Cunningham’s Adam’s apple bobbed; he nodded. “As you wish.”
“Indeed.” Gerrard caught the agent’s eye. “I suggest you endeavor to forget this conversation took place, and I”—deliberately he glanced toward the end of the terrace—“will do the same.”
With another nervous nod, Cunningham turned and walked back into the drawing room. Gerrard waited for a full minute, then followed.
Pausing just inside, he looked across the room at Jacqueline Tregonning. He couldn’t wait to get back to Hellebore Hall.
5
The dinner party drew to a close; along with Millicent, Barnaby and a subdued Mitchel Cunningham, they thanked their hosts and left Tresdale Manor. They traveled back to Hellebore Hall in Lord Tregonning’s antiquated coach; the distance wasn’t great—the manor was the nearest large house—yet with only two horses pulling the heavy carriage, the journey took nearly half an hour.
Throughout, Gerrard sat in the dark, his shoulder against Barnaby’s, with Jacqueline sitting directly opposite, her knees, covered by the fine silk of her gown, courtesy of the country road frequently brushing his.
It wasn’t just the contact that unnerved her, but his unwavering regard. He knew she was conscious of it, but was past caring; he wanted answers to many questions, and she was the key to the most important.
That’s precisely what I need—what my father needs. She knew; he wanted to hear it from her lips.
They reached the Hall and trailed into the foyer, there to exchange the customary good-nights. He bowed over Jacqueline’s hand, squeezed it, caught her eye as he released her. She couldn’t know what he intended, but at least she’d be alert.
The look she cast back at him as she followed Millicent up the wide staircase confirmed that.
With a nod to him and Barnaby, Mitchel Cunningham walked off down a corridor; after dallying a moment to let the ladies go ahead, he and Barnaby started up in their wake.
The gallery at the head of the stairs was long, and presently a collage of moonlight and shadow. The ladies turned right; a few paces behind, Gerrard and Barnaby headed left, toward their rooms. Gerrard put out a hand, halting Barnaby. Glancing back, he confirmed that Jacqueline and Millicent were sweeping on, unaware, and were now out of earshot. He turned to Barnaby. “Did you learn anything more about the suitor?”
“Only that he disappeared between two and three years ago, when Jacqueline was twenty. Although there’d been no formal declaration, she went into half-mourning. Then her mother died fourteen months ago, which in large part fills the time to date and explains why there have been no other suitors.”
“Did you hear anything about her mother’s death?”
“No, but I didn’t have the right opportunities to pursue it. It’s the older ladies we need to butter up for that.”
Gerrard nodded. Glancing back along the gallery, he saw Jacqueline turn down the corridor at its end, Millicent still by her side. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He turned and, swift and soft-footed, followed Jacqueline. “Hey!” Barnaby kept his voice down.
“Tomorrow,” he flung back sotto voce, and continued on.
He reached the corridor and looked along it. It was empty; another corridor opened to the right at its end. He went quickly down, then peered around the corner into the next wing—and saw Jacqueline pause outside a door. She spoke to Millicent, who nodded, then walked on; Jacqueline opened the door and went in. He hung back, watching Millicent’s dark figure recede into the shadows. At last she stopped, opened a door, and went in. He waited until the faint click of the latch reached him, then walked—stalked—down the corridor.
Reaching Jacqueline’s door, he knocked—two sharp, preemptory raps, not overly loud. An instant later, the door opened. A little maid, stunned, stared up at him.
Gerrard looked at the maid, then looked past her. “Holly? Who is it?”
Holly’s eyes grew rounder. “Ah, it’s…”
Jacqueline came into view, halfway across the room. She’d taken off her jewelry, but had yet to unpin her hair. Her eyes widened, too.
Gerrard ignored the maid and beckoned, imperiously, to Jacqueline. “I need to talk to you.”
His tone gave her warning his mood was deadly serious; he wasn’t proposing any waltz in the moonlight. She met his gaze; her expression grew careful. She came to the door.
The little maid ducked back, out of the way. Jacqueline set a hand to the door’s edge. “You need to talk to menow ?”
“Yes. Now.” Reaching in, he grasped her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers. He glanced at the maid. “Wait here—your mistress will be back shortly.”
He tugged Jacqueline over the threshold. She opened her mouth. He shot her an openly furious glance; she blinked, stunned, and wisely said nothing. Unceremoniously, he towed her back along the corridor, back into the gallery, then down the side stairs that led directly to the terrace.
They emerged beside the drawing room, opposite the main stairs leading down into the gardens, to the path leading into the Garden of Night.
“No!” Jacqueline pulled back against his hold. “Not into the Garden of Night.” He looked at her face. “Was it night when your mother died?”
She blinked; a moment passed before she said, “No. It was sometime in the late afternoon or early evening.”
He frowned. “You’re not sure when?”
She shook her head. “They found her later in the evening.”
He saw pain in her face, saw memories flit across her features, dulling her eyes. He nodded curtly and towed her unrelentingly on—along the terrace away from the main stairs.
She realized, and reluctantly kept pace. “Where are we going?” “Someplace that’s relatively open.”
Where they’d be visible to anyone who looked out, but out of earshot of the house—private, yet not hidden, not secluded. Somewhere that would reduce the impropriety of talking with her alone in the middle of the night.
“The Garden of Athena will do.” The formal garden, the least conducive to seduction. Seduction was definitely not what he had in mind.
And any lingering influence to wisdom wouldn’t go astray.
Resigned, Jacqueline followed him along the terrace, then grabbed up her skirts as he went quickly down the secondary stairs that led to the Garden of Athena. That one look he’d shot her when she’d been about to protest had been enough to assure her humoring him would be wise, no matter what weevil had wormed its way into his brain. Clearly he’d learned about her mother’s death; how much he’d heard she’d no doubt soon learn.
Despite the tension humming through him, suppressed temper she had not a doubt, despite his precipitate actions, the abruptness of his growled words—despite the strength in the fingers wrapped about her hand—she felt not the slightest quiver of alarm, not the smallest qualm in allowing him to lead her far from her room, into the depths of the gardens in the dark of the night.
It wasn’t, in truth, all that dark. As he stalked along the graveled path through Athena’s garden, between the neatly clipped hedges and geometrically laid rows of olive trees, the moon bathed all about them in a steady radiance that cast everything in either silver or smudged black, a moorish enamel.
They reached the center of the formal garden, a circle between the inner points of four long rectangles. Abruptly, Gerrard halted; releasing her hand, he swung to face her.
His eyes, black in the night, raked her face, then locked on her eyes. “You know why your father wanted me—specificallyme—to paint your portrait, don’t you?”
She studied his face, then lifted her chin. “Yes.” “How did you know?”
Because she and Millicent had concocted the plan and Millicent had seeded it into her father’s brain. She decided against confessing, not until she knew why he was so angry. “He didn’t tell me, but once I heard of your reputation, his…purposewasn’t hard to guess.”
“Not for you, or for any of those others interested in the mystery of your mother’s death.”
A vise slowly tightened about her chest; she ignored it. “I suspect that’s so, although I haven’t thought much of it.”
“They’vecertainly thought of it.”
She hoped so, but his tone sounded vicious. Unsure of his direction, she made no response.
After a long moment of, distinctly grimly, studying her face, he abruptly said, “Let’s take off the gloves here.”
When she raised her brows in surprise, he clarified, “And speak plainly. For some reason that I’ve yet to fathom,you are suspected of being in some way behind your mother’s falling from that terrace”—he stabbed a finger toward the place in question—“to her death. Your father”—his jaw clenched; hands gripping his hips, he swung and paced away—“being one of those who credit portrait painters with an ability to see beyond any superficial façade, has commissioned me to paint a portrait of you, presumably convinced that I will see, and through my painting reveal, your guilt or innocence.”
Reined temper—nay, fury—invested every sharp, decisive movement; it resonated in his tone, in the crisply bitten-off words. Swinging around, he stalked back to her. Halting before her, he looked into her face. “Is that correct?”
She held his gaze, replayed all he’d said, then nodded. Once. “Yes.”
For one second, she thought he’d explode. Then he swung violently away, hands rising to the sky as if invoking the gods whose gardens surrounded them. “In the name of all Heaven,why ?”
He swung back; his gaze impaled her. “Why does your father suspectyou ? Howcan he suspect you? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
She stared at him, dumbstruck, for one heartbeat quite sure the earth beneath her feet had tilted. Slowly, she blinked, but his expression—the charged conviction she could see in it, limned in silver—didn’t change. Softly, she exhaled; the vise about her lungs eased a notch. “How do you know?”
He did know, absolutely; it was written in his face. He’d already seen the truth where others did not.
Impatient, he pulled a face, but the intensity in his expression didn’t waver. “I see—I know. Believe me, I know.” He moved closer, his gaze razor sharp as he examined her face. “I’ve seen evil—I’ve looked into the eyes of more than one man who truly was evil. Some people hide it well, but if I spend sufficient time with them, they’ll slip and it’ll show—and I’ll know.”
He paused, then went on, his gaze steadying on her eyes. “I’ve been watching you carefully, albeit for less than two days. What I’ve seen is all manner of emotions, complicated and complex feelings, but of the shadow of evil I’ve seen not a trace.”
After a moment, he added, “I would have by now if it was there. What I see is something quite different.”
His voice had changed, softened. Enough for her to feel she could ask, “What do you see?”
He looked at her for the space of ten slow heartbeats, then shook his head. “I’m not good with words—I paint things I can’t describe.”
She wasn’t sure that was the truth, but before she could think of how to probe, he asked, “I need to know before I speak with him—why does your father think you were in any way involved with your mother’s death?”
Apprehension flared. “Why—what are you going to speak with him about?”
His temper returned; the smile he flashed her was all restrained violence. “Because I have no intention of being his unwitting pawn in judging his daughter.”
“No!” She grasped his sleeve. “Please—youmust do the portrait. You agreed!”
Her desperation rang clearly. He frowned, then he twisted his arm, breaking her grip, catching her hand. She felt his fingers move over hers, then they stilled.
A moment passed, then he sighed. He raked his other hand through his hair, met her eyes again. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you simply tell him you’re innocent? Force him to believe you—surely he will?
He’s yourfather .”
His frown deepened. “You shouldn’t have to go through this, to face what amounts to a public examination with me as your inquisitor, laying all you are bare.”
Concern, open and sincere, colored his tone—concern for her. It had been so long since she’d been offered such straightforward and unconditional support—and more, defense—she wanted to close her eyes, wrap herself in all the tenor of his voice conveyed, and wallow.
But he was confused, and he had to understand—had to understand and agree to paint her portrait.
She drew in a long breath, felt the cool night air reach her brain. She glanced around; her gaze fell on the bench around the central fountain, presently silent and still. She gestured. “Let’s sit, and I’ll explain what happened, and you’ll see why things are as they are.”
Why I need you to paint me as I truly am.
He didn’t release her hand, but led her to the bench, waited until she sat, then sat beside her. Leaning forward, one elbow on his knee so he could watch her face, he closed his hand around hers—and waited.
She was supremely conscious of his nearness; ignoring her prickling senses, she cleared her throat. “Papa…you must understand he’s in an invidious position. He loved my mother dearly—she was literally the light of his life. When she died, that light went out and he lost…his connection with the world. He was dependent on her in that sense, so losing her was doubly difficult for him. This is what happened, what he knows.”
Pausing, she assembled the facts in her mind. “My mother and I got along well, as well as any mother and daughter. Socially speaking, I’m more like her than Papa—I quite enjoy entertaining, the balls and parties. Mama lived for them—entertaining was a central part of her existence. She and I shared our liking of that part of life, but I’m also my father’s daughter, and can manage perfectly well on a diet of peace and quiet that would have driven Mama insane.”
A small smile curved her lips as she remembered; she felt it fade as her memories rolled on. “She was thrilled when Thomas Entwhistle started calling—he’s the son of Sir Harvey Entwhistle. I suppose you would say he was my suitor. We planned to wed, we talked of announcing our betrothal…and then Thomas disappeared.
“Mama was…upset. As was I, of course, but after a time she seemed to think that I’d said something to Thomas to send him off, but I hadn’t.” She frowned, looked down. And saw her hand cradled in Gerrard’s strong fingers. She drew breath and went on, “That was the start of a…” She paused, then shrugged. “I suppose it was a growing estrangement. No specific break, just a stepping back on her part—I never understood why. Perhaps with time…but then…”
She drew a huge breath; lifting her head, she looked straight ahead, felt Gerrard’s fingers firm about hers. “The day of her death, she came down late to breakfast—Papa had already gone to his study. She passed Mitchel in the doorway as he left. She looked…as if she hadn’t slept all night.”
She glanced at Gerrard. “My mother was beautiful, but even the slightest illness showed in her face. I asked what was wrong, but she denied anything was. She plainly wanted me to ignore her state, so I did. Then she realized I was in my riding habit. I can remember her looking at me—no, atit …it was so strange. She’d seen the habit any number of times—she’d bought it for me—but that morning she looked at it as if it were…oh, greasy kitchen rags. A nauseating sight. She asked where I was going—her voice was odd. I told her I was going riding with the others—she went dead white, and said no.
“I was so taken aback I laughed. But then I realized she was in earnest. I asked why not, but she would only shake her head and say I couldn’t go.”
She sighed; the deadening feeling that afflicted her whenever she thought of the rest of that day slipped slowly down her veins. “We argued. Increasingly bitterly. The servants heard, of course, and I think Mitchel did, too—his office is just down the hall from the breakfast parlor. She simply kept saying I couldn’t go riding—no reason, no explanation of any kind. She got increasingly strident…in the end, I simply walked out.”
When she didn’t go on, Gerrard stroked her hand, gently prompted, “And?” “I went riding.”
He frowned. “And she fell from the terrace?”
She shook her head. “No. That was sometime later. This was the morning. I rode out, and we went into St. Just. I didn’t get back until mid-afternoon, and went straight to my room. Despite the ride, I was…upset. Unhappy and uncertain. I didn’t know what would happen, but I wasn’t going to be treated like a child, told I couldn’t go here or there with no reason.
“I threw myself on my bed—and fell asleep. Later, I woke, bathed and dressed for dinner, then went down. My father came down—I could tell he knew nothing of the argument. Then Mitchel came in, and we waited for my mother to appear.” She lifted her free hand in a small gesture. “She never did.”
After a moment, she went on, “Eventually, Papa sent upstairs and Mama’s maid came hurrying down, saying Mama hadn’t come up to change for dinner. She’d had afternoon tea in the parlor, but when Treadle collected the tray, she wasn’t there. He’d assumed she was walking on the terrace, or had gone down into the gardens.
“Everyone thought she must have gone walking and perhaps sprained her ankle. The servants went out to look; they scoured the gardens. They didn’t search the Garden of Night until last, because it’s so close to the house—you can hear anyone calling from there, and anyone there can hear those on the terrace.
But she couldn’t, of course, because she was dead.”
Gerrard sat, slowly stroking his fingers over her hand, putting all she’d told him in sequence, in context. “I still don’t understand why anyone would imagine you had a hand in your mother’s death.”
She laughed, not humorously; there was pain in the sound. “You could say that came about by default.” She looked down at her fingers, locked in his. “Default in the sense that there were no other suspects.
Also in the sense that I didn’t protest my innocence, not until far too late.”
She drew in an unsteady breath. “Immediately after…when they found her and later, I was distraught. Despite that odd estrangement, we’d still been very close. I was…in anguish, not just over her death and the manner of it, but because of the argument, because she’d gone with that between us, because the last words we’d exchanged were so horrible.”
Her voice quavered; she swallowed and shook her head. “I cried for days. I don’t remember all I said—all I know is that people view how I behaved then as a sign of my guilt.”
Gerrard felt his jaw clench. To honestly and openly grieve for a parent, then have that held against one, used against one…he smothered the caustic words that rose to his tongue; her revelations were flowing freely—not a good time to interrupt.
She went on, her voice low but clear, her gaze fixed on their linked hands. “We went into deep mourning—I didn’t set foot out of the house for three months and I didn’t receive callers. I don’t remember much of that time other than that Millicent came for the funeral and stayed. I don’t know what I would have done without her.
“Eventually, however, I emerged, and went about again…and that was when I realized what people were thinking—thatI’d pushed Mama to her death. When I first realized, I laughed, it struck me as so nonsensical. I couldn’t believe anyone would credit it. I assumed it was one of those silly notions that flare, then fade…only it didn’t.”
Jacqueline heard the strength building in her voice, felt again the upswell of hurt and, even more, the anger that had followed it, that fueled her determination to see her plan through. She looked up. “By the time I realized that, it was too late. I tried to speak with my father, but he refused to discuss the subject. The others were the same—the Frithams, even Mrs. Elcott, who’ll normally talk about anything. She was the one who made me understand what was going on—that the reason they all wished the subject of Mama’s death closed, deemed an accident and forgotten, was because they all believed that any examination of the facts would point to me.”
She drew breath, and more evenly stated, “They think they’re protecting me. The only people who believe in my innocence are Millicent, Jordan and Eleanor. The other younger people weren’t aware or involved, so they don’t have any real opinion, but everyone else…we’ve tried, but none of us can get the subject mentioned, let alone discussed!”
Frustration rang in her tone; Gerrard squeezed her fingers. “So while you were in deep mourning, essentially cut off, you were tried, found guilty—and then absolved, with the incident to be buried.”
“Yes!” She thought for a moment, then amended, “Well, no, not quite. Everyone around has known me all my life—they don’twant to believe I’m guilty. But they fear I am, so they’ve decided to avoid the question altogether. They don’t want to look at who killed Mama because they’re afraid they’ll find it was me, so they’ve declared her death an accident, and are determined to leave well enough alone.”
“But you don’t want it left alone.”
“No!” She shot him a glance—wondered, fleetingly, why she felt she could be so open, so direct, so unguarded with him. “Mama’s deathwasn’t an accident. But until I can convince them it wasn’tme who pushed her over the balustrade, they won’t look for who did.”
She saw in his eyes that he understood. After a moment, she went on, her gaze locked with his, “Jordan and Eleanor gave up, but Millicent and I—we kept thinking. We had to find a way to make people question the notion that’s become embedded in their brains—that it was me. We thought of a portrait. If it was good enough to show my innocence clearly…it was the only way we could think of to open people’s eyes.”
His eyes narrowed, steady on hers. “So having me paint you was your idea.”
She shook her head. “The idea of the portrait was ours. Millicent took months to seed the notion into my father’s head. For him, a portrait was a viable way forward—if it shows me guilty, he’ll hide it away; even if someone finds it, it’s not proof, not real proof that can convict someone of a crime. To him, a portrait is the only way to end his…well, his misery. He loves me, but he loved Mama even more, and he’s torn by thinking I killed her—and yet not knowing.”
Her voice had thickened; clearing her throat, she went on, “Entirely fortuitously through her correspondents in town, Millicent heard of the Academy’s exhibition and your portraits—the information seemed godsent. She suggested your name to Papa.” She paused, then added, “You know the rest.”
Gerrard held her gaze for a moment longer, then straightened; looking out across the regimented rows of olive trees, he leaned back against the edge of the fountain. The stone was cold across his shoulders; the sensation helped to anchor him, to help him re-form his view of what, precisely, was going on at Hellebore Hall.
So much more than he’d imagined when he’d accepted the commission to paint Lord Tregonning’s daughter.
What she’d told him…he didn’t doubt it was the truth. Not only was he sure she couldn’t successfully lie to him, what she’d said explained so much he hadn’t understood, like Tregonning’s position—invidious indeed—and his choice of the way forward, and the attitude of others toward Jacqueline. And hers to them.
He’d held her hand throughout; the feel of her fingers, slim and slender under his, helped settle his thoughts, and focus his mind in the right direction. Forward. “What are you expecting to happen once the portrait is painted and shown?” He glanced at her, caught her gaze. “Once people start to question the circumstances of your mother’s death, won’t they think…” He paused, then rephrased, “Couldn’t the answer be suicide?”
She shook her head vehemently. “No—no one who knew Mama would even suggest it. She loved life, loved living. She wouldn’t have suddenly decided she no longer wished to.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. No one has ever raised that prospect, not even though, believing me guilty yet not wanting it to be so, they’d grasp at any straw, even that.” She straightened, briefly searched his face. “Until I—we—convince them it wasn’t me, that it’s all right—safe if you like—to look for Mama’s killer, they won’t. And the real killer will remain free.”
Looking into her eyes, he grasped the point she knew, but had thus far not stated. “Your mother’s killer is still here—he’s someone you know.”
She held his gaze steadily. “He must be. You’ve seen the estate. It’s not easy to slip in undetected, not unless you know the place, and there were no gypsies or suspicious outsiders in the area when she died.”
He looked away, across the garden, still, silent and eerily beautiful under the now waning moon. A moment passed, then he felt her fingers tense within his hand, lightly grip. He turned his head, met her gaze, darkly shadowed in the night.
“You will paint my portrait, won’t you?” How could he refuse?
She angled her head, brows arching, faintly challenging. “Can you do it? Paint me that well that my innocence will show?”
“Yes.” He had absolutely no doubt he could.
She drew a breath, held it, then quietly said, “I can understand your resistance to being manipulated into being an unwitting judge, but at my request, could you agree to being a witting one?”
He held her gaze, let a moment tick by purely out of habit; he didn’t need to think. “If you truly wish it, then yes. I will.”
She smiled.
“There will, however, be a price.”
Her brows rose, this time in surprise, but, her eyes searching his, she didn’t confuse his “price” with his commission. “What?”
He didn’t know—he didn’t even know what had prompted him to utter the words, but he wasn’t about to take them back. “I’m not certain, yet.”
She held his gaze, then calmly replied, “Let me know when you are.”
Desire lanced through him. From her tone, low and faintly sultry, he couldn’t tell whether she was deliberately challenging him, or simply meetinghis challenge with her usual directness.
She drew breath and evenly continued, “Until then…I’ll do whatever you ask, tell you anything you wish, sit for however many hours you want—just as long as you paint me as I truly am so that everyone will know I’m not my mother’s murderer.”
“Done.” He held her gaze for an instant longer, then lifted the hand he held to his lips. He brushed a kiss to her knuckles, watched the slight shiver she fought to suppress, then turned her hand and, watching her still, deliberately pressed a much more intimate kiss to her palm.
And had the satisfaction of seeing her lids fall, of sensing her irrepressible response.
She was the quintessential damsel in distress and she’d asked him to be her champion; as such, he was entitled to her favor.
But he’d yet to decide what he wanted from her, and they were in the middle of an open garden. Reining in his impulses, with her unusually strong, unexpectedly definite, he rose, drew her to her feet, and escorted her back into the house.
Hell’s bells—what a coil!” Barnaby paused to study Gerrard’s face. “Can you truly do that—paint innocence?”
“Yes, but don’t ask how.” Sprawled in an armchair, waiting while Barnaby dressed for the day, Gerrard looked out at the sunlit gardens, at the lightly ruffling canopies. “It’s not so much a finite quality, as something that shines through in the absence of aspects that dim or tarnish it, like guilt and evil. In this case, given the effect the crime has had on Jacqueline, it’ll be a case of painting all she is, of getting the balance of the different elements right so that it’s plain what isn’t there.”
“The evil necessary to commit matricide?” “Precisely.”
Seeing Barnaby loading his pockets with the paraphernalia he always carried—not just the usual gentlemanly things like handkerchief, watch and coin purse, but a pencil and notepad, string, and pocketknife—Gerrard rose. “In the circumstances, I want to get started on the portrait straightaway. The sooner I get to grips with it—get down what I need to show and decide how to pull it off—the better.”
The sooner Jacqueline would be free of the haunting of her mother’s death. And the sooner he’d be free, too, although what it was that, courtesy of Lord Tregonning bringing him here, now had him in its grip, he wasn’t sure.
As they left the room, Barnaby shot him a glance. “So you’re committed to this—to doing the portrait and, through that, starting a search for the real killer?”
“Yes.” They started down the corridor; Gerrard looked at Barnaby. “Why do you ask?”
Barnaby met his gaze, for once deadly serious. “Because, dear boy, if that’s your tack, then you really will need me here to watch your back.”
They’d reached the stairs; a noise in the hall below had them both looking down. Jacqueline, unaware of them, crossed the hall, heading for the breakfast parlor. She passed out of sight. In step, they started down.
“And, of course,” Barnaby mused, “someone will need to watch the lovely Miss Tregonning’s back, too.”
Gerrard knew a taunt when he heard one, knew he should resist, yet still he heard himself say, far too definitely to be misconstrued, “That, you may leave to me.”
Suppressed laughter rippled beneath Barnaby’s words. “I was sure you’d feel that way.”
An instant later, however, when they stepped off the stairs and Barnaby glanced at him, all trace of amusement had flown. “All teasing aside, chum, we will need to exercise a degree of alertness. I haven’t learned any more to the point yet, but I’ve heard more than enough to convince me there’s something very odd going on down here.”
He wanted to start sketching her immediately, but…
“I’m terribly sorry.” Faint color tinged Jacqueline’s cheeks. “Last evening, Giles Trewarren invited me to ride with him and a few of the others to St. Just this morning—I agreed to meet them at the top of the lane.”
Gerrard could read in her eyes that their discussion of the previous night—all she’d promised in return for his agreement to paint her—was fresh in her mind; she truly was sorry she’d accepted Giles’s invitation.
In light of that, he swallowed the urge to throw a painterly tantrum and insist she spend the day with him, wandering the house and gardens while he drew her out, and captured what showed in quick pencil sketches. The most preliminary of works, there would be many of them before he was satisfied he had the right setting, the right pose, and even more importantly the right expression for the portrait he was determined to create.
His enthusiasm and determination were running high; his commitment was absolute. Despite the success of his portraits of the twins, he was convinced his portrait of Jacqueline would transcend them; it would be the finest thing he’d done to date. His fingers were not just itching, the tips were almost burning with the desire to grip a pencil and wield it.
“I do hope you don’t mind?”
Her hazel eyes declared her sincerity. He inwardly sighed. “Perhaps Mr. Adair and I could accompany you—if you don’t mind?”
She smiled, genuinely relieved. Perhaps genuinely pleased? “That would be perfect. You haven’t seen much of the local area yet, and St. Just is the nearest town.”
Barnaby was happy to go jauntering—happy for the opportunity to talk to more locals and see what he could learn of the mysteries. After breakfast, the three of them met on the terrace, then headed for the stables.
Jacqueline was an accomplished rider; Gerrard inferred as much from the spirited bay mare that was waiting for her at the mounting block. Swinging up to the saddle of the chestnut gelding the stableman had chosen for him, he settled the horse, watching as Jacqueline let her mount prance, let her dance, then deftly brought her alongside.
The instant Barnaby had finished getting acquainted with his mount, a young black, they headed out, Jacqueline in the lead. She left the drive almost immediately, turning onto a grassed track between rolling green fields. Gerrard, watching her, caught the laughing glance she threw over her shoulder, then she touched her heels to the mare’s flanks—and raced ahead.
He was after her in an instant, instinctively, without thought.
With a startled “Whoop!” Barnaby followed.
They thundered over the turf, the rush of their passage converting the mild breeze to a wild wind whistling past their ears, raking through their hair.
The land rose steadily as they climbed out of the valley in which the Hall stood. When she crested the rise, Jacqueline pulled up, her mare cavorting, eager to fly on.
She looked back.
Gerrard was close behind her, closer than she’d realized; he wheeled the chestnut to a halt beside her. Barnaby, a few seconds behind, slowed; it was he who noticed the view first.
“I say!” His eyes grew round.
Gerrard turned. He said nothing, but when she looked at his face, she smiled. He was speechless. In that instant, the artist in him, the ability of his talent to take control of him utterly, was manifest. He sat mesmerized by the view, the magnificent sweep across Carrick Roads to Falmouth on the shore beyond.
“Well,” Barnaby said, “never let it be said that Cornwall has no scenery.”
“Indeed not!” She asked about the scenery of his own country; it transpired he’d been born and raised in Suffolk.
“Undramatic views we have aplenty—lots of windmills and flat fields. But”—sitting his horse, he looked again across the water—“nothing like this.”
After a moment, he glanced at Gerrard, between them, still staring avidly across the water, then he looked at Jacqueline. “You could try twitting him on the scenery of his county—it might break the spell.”
Gerrard murmured, “I can hear, you know.”
“Ah, but you can’t see. Not anything beyond the landscape, anyway.” Barnaby nodded down the rise to where a group ahorse milled at a spot in a lane. “Are they waiting for us?”
Jacqueline looked and waved. “Yes. That’s our group.” She glanced at Gerrard; he gestured her on. “I take it that spot’s the top of the lane?”
“Yes.” She urged her mare into a walk, angling down the rise. “It’s where we usually meet. From there, we can follow the lane that way”—she pointed south—“to St. Mawes, or if we go north a little way, we’ll come to the lane to St. Just.”
Gerrard took stock of the group ahead. Both Trewarrens, Giles and Cedric, were there, both Frithams, and both Hancock girls, Cecily and Mary. He saw Jacqueline regard Cecily with some surprise; given his treatment of Cecily the previous evening, he had to wonder why, if she wasn’t a regular member of the riding group, she’d come.
He didn’t have to wonder for long. When they joined the others and exchanged greetings, Cecily treated him coolly, then turned her attention entire on Barnaby.
Gerrard stifled a grin. If Cecily had thought him harsh in putting her in her place, she’d be well advised not to corner Barnaby.
Leaving Barnaby to fend for himself, he gave his attention entire to Jacqueline, to observing how she reacted to the others and they to her, not joining in with the group but standing one pace back, neither judging nor encouraging, prepared to be amused, but not making any demands. It was a stance that worked well as they trotted down the lane to St. Just, then walked down the steep streets to an ancient inn, the Jug and Anchor. Leaving their horses in the inn’s stables, they set out along a stone-paved path that wended around the steep shoreline, giving glorious views across Carrick Roads.
It should have been a battle not to let the landscape claim him; instead, walking by Jacqueline’s side, unable to—with no reason to—take her arm, yet highly conscious of the desire to do so, his attention didn’t waver in the least. Indeed, it seemed oddly heightened, more focused on her because of their company, yet when, realizing, he looked more closely, he couldn’t understand why some part of him felt as if the younger males—Jordan, Giles and Cedric—posed some threat.
Jacqueline herself remained calm, composed, not as aloof, as carefully shielded as she had been in the company of their elders, yet she appeared perfectly capable of snubbing any pretentious behavior toward her. Not that any of the younger men tried.
Listening to their conversation, mostly led by Jacqueline and Eleanor, walking on her other side, he concluded they were all simply friends, easy in their joint company. Only Jordan occasioned any constraint, and that purely because of his arrogance. His attitude was so staggeringly superior, Gerrard found it hard not to let his amusement show.
At one point, on the heels of a statement from Jordan that “Everyone who’s anyone knows that the latest color for coats is light brown—tan to be precise,” Jacqueline cast him a glance, almost as if she worried that he might take umbrage; his coat, after all, was deep green. He felt his lips ease; she smiled lightly back, then looked ahead, and with that he felt quite content—content enough to shut his ears to anything Jordan might say.
They turned back to the inn at midday. They’d decided to take luncheon there; Gerrard gathered it was a routine they’d often followed in younger days. He glanced back to see how Barnaby was faring, and was frankly surprised to see no sign of ennui in his friend’s face. Quite the opposite; Barnaby was being his charming best, and Cecily was enthralled…
Barnaby had found a source of information nearer to hand than the “older ladies.”
Facing forward, Gerrard smiled, and kept pace at Jacqueline’s side as they approached the inn and climbed the steps to its porch.
The inn door opened; a young gentleman stepped out. He stopped the instant he saw them. His gaze passed over the men, and locked on Jacqueline. “I saw you riding down earlier—I’ve booked the parlor.”
There was a fractional hesitation, then Jacqueline smiled and went forward. “Matthew, how lovely of you to see to it.”
Giving the young man her hand, she turned to introduce them. “Matthew Brisenden—Gerrard Debbington.” To Matthew, she said, “Papa has asked Gerrard to paint my portrait.” She looked at
Gerrard. “Matthew is the son of Mr. Brisenden, the sexton.”
Gerrard shook hands; the intensely disapproving look in Brisenden’s face wasn’t hard to interpret. To some, painters ranked only a few rungs higher than opera dancers on the “persons whose existence should be deplored” scale. However, his elegance, and the fact he’d been commissioned by Lord Tregonning, was clearly causing young Brisenden some difficulty. He wasn’t sure how he should treat him.
Gerrard smiled charmingly, and left him to figure it out on his own.
At least, that was his intention, until Matthew reached for Jacqueline’s arm. Beside her, Gerrard sensed her recoil, but they were too tightly packed into the porch for her to avoid Brisenden’s grasping fingers; he locked them about her elbow.
Gerrard was aware of Barnaby’s surprise, then the swift, warning glance his friend sent him—he was more aware of a sudden surge of reaction that left him tensed, momentarily deaf, with his vision closed down, cloudy around the edges, crystal clear in the center, something that normally would have sent him into a panic, but just now seemed totally right…
What might have transpired he couldn’t have said, but he—they—were saved from it by two men trying to leave the inn. They couldn’t get through the door because Brisenden was blocking their way. He had to release Jacqueline and move on to allow the two past.
Gerrard reached for Jacqueline’s hand, wound her arm through his and laid her hand on his sleeve. Her fingers fluttered, but then settled and gripped lightly—a tentative touch he felt to his marrow. The departing customers clattered down the steps, and Brisenden reascended; Gerrard waved to the door. “Why don’t you lead us in, Brisenden?”
Brisenden noted Jacqueline’s hand lying on his sleeve. The young man’s expression turned to stone. He raised his eyes and met Gerrard’s levelly, but then he inclined his head and led the way in.
From that point on, ably assisted by Barnaby who alternated between acting the distracting fool and deftly engineering both seating and conversation, Gerrard took charge. Enough was enough; Brisenden was banished to the end of the table farthest from Jacqueline, who found herself sitting between Gerrard and Jordan Fritham.
Despite his painful superiority, Jordan had given not the slightest hint of any interest in Jacqueline. In return for Barnaby’s keeping Brisenden occupied, Gerrard felt saving his friend from Jordan was the least he could do.
The meal passed smoothly and pleasantly enough. The conversation flowed easily, ranging over the usual elements of country life, the upcoming church fair, the fishing, the expected balls and parties—who had been to London for the Season and would be there to report the latest news…Almost in unison, all eyes turned to Barnaby.
He smiled, and happily regaled them with a tale of two sisters intent on taking the ton and its peers by storm. Only Gerrard knew how severely censored Barnaby’s account was; he was amused and impressed by how agile his friend’s mind could be.
At the end of the meal, they all rose and left, settling with the innkeeper by placing the whole on their respective fathers’ slates.
Their horses were waiting. Matthew hovered, transparently expecting to help Jacqueline to mount; he didn’t get a chance.
Gerrard escorted her from the inn, down the steps, to her mare’s side. With a crisp command to the groom to hold the mare steady, he released Jacqueline, grasped her waist and lifted her to her saddle.
Easily. But then his eyes locked with hers, the feel of her body, lithe and elementally feminine between his hands, registered, the widening of her lovely eyes impinged…He realized he’d stopped breathing. He had to battle to force his hands from her, to let her go, and step back.
“Thank you.” She sounded even more winded than he felt.
Walking to where another groom held his mount, he flung himself into the saddle. By the time they’d all mounted and were ready to start the steep climb up the lane, he’d managed to unlock his jaw, and was breathing normally again.
He brought his chestnut alongside Jacqueline’s mare as they started up the incline. She noticed, but other than a fleeting look, did nothing, said nothing.
He wasn’t sure there was anything she could have said. Nothing that would have left either of them less on edge. Less aware.
Matthew Brisenden stood on the inn porch, his hand raised in farewell.
Regardless of his senses’ preoccupation with the woman riding by his side, Gerrard felt Brisenden’s dark and brooding gaze between his shoulder blades until they reached the upper slope and left the inn behind.
6
Ihope you won’t read too much into Matthew’s behavior.”
“Brisenden?” Gerrard caught Jacqueline’s eye. It was late afternoon, and they were heading out to the gardens. He had a sketch pad under one arm, and three sharpened pencils in his pocket. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh…because he appears so intense, so focused on me, but he isn’t, or rather he means nothing by it, not really.”
“Not really?” He shot her a sharp glance. “He acted too familiarly, as you—and the others, too—recognized perfectly well.”
Her lips formed a small moue. “Perhaps, but he always behaves like that.” “As if he owns you—has some claim on you?”
“He’s not usually that bad. He seems to have taken it into his head that it’s his personal duty to protect me and keep me from all harm.”
“Hmm.” Gerrard kept to himself the observation that to Brisenden, him painting her portrait might well
constitute “harm.”
Reaching the steps leading to the Garden of Athena, Jacqueline led the way down. “His whole family’s quite…well,intense, if you take my meaning. About religion and God and all the rest. And he is their only son.”
Gerrard digested that as he followed. Reaching the gravel, he stepped out in her wake. “Be that as it may, Mr. Brisenden needs to keep his hands to himself, at least when their assistance isn’t required.”
They’d ridden back without further incident. Jordan and Eleanor had cantered with them all the way to the Hall; Tresdale Manor lay farther on—the way through the Hall lands was a shortcut. To Gerrard’s relief, the Frithams hadn’t lingered, but had left them at the stable arch and ridden on.
Barnaby had parted from them when they’d reached the terrace; by then Gerrard had confirmed that the light in the gardens was perfect, and had declared that Jacqueline had to sit for him, at least until the light died. She’d met his eyes, hesitated, then agreed, but she’d insisted on changing out of her habit. He’d permitted it only because he’d had to go and fetch his pads and pencils.
He glanced at her as she walked beside him. It hadn’t occurred to him to specify what she wore, yet the gown she’d chosen was perfect for the late afternoon light, a soft, very pale green that complemented her hair and eyes. He had an excellent memory for color; a few jotted notes in his margins would be enough to bring his sketches alive, vibrant in his mind.
The gardens spread out before them; he glanced around, pulse quickening with the familiar lift of energy, of eagerness, that came with the start of a new project. He pointed to the bench where they’d sat the previous night. “Let’s start there.”
She sat on the stone bench built out from the square fountain. “You’ll have to instruct me in how one sits for an artist.”
“At this stage, the requirements are not arduous.” He sat at the other end of the bench, swiveling to face her. “Turn to face me and get comfortable.” While she did, he placed his ankle on his knee, opened his sketch pad and balanced it on his thigh. Quickly, he laid down a few strokes, just enough to give him setting and perspective.
“Now.” Glancing up, he met her gaze, and smiled with his usual easy charm. “Talk to me.” Her brows rose. “About what?”
“Anything—tell me about your childhood. Start as far back as you remember.”
Her brows remained high as she considered, then slowly lowered, her gaze growing distant. He waited, his eyes on her, his fingers smoothly moving lead across the paper. She wasn’t looking directly at him; he didn’t think she would. Like most people relating such things, she’d fasten her gaze to the side of his face, giving him precisely the not-quite-direct angle he wanted. His suggestion of topic hadn’t been as idle as he’d intimated; thinking of childhood elicited all sorts of memories, memories that showed in his subjects’ faces.
“I suppose,” she eventually said, “that the earliest moment I can remember clearly is being set atop my first pony.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Oh, yes! His name was Cobbler. He was a tan and black cob, and had the sweetest nature. He died years ago, but I can still remember how he loved apples. Cook always gave me one when I went out for my riding lesson.”
“Who taught you?”
“Richards, the head stableman. He’s still here.” “Did you go walking through the gardens?”
“Of course—Mama and I used to walk every day, rain or shine.” “When you were a child?”
“And later, too.”
For a moment, he let silence claim them. She didn’t move, either because she was held by her memories, or because she knew how fast his fingers were moving, how rapidly he was re-creating the expressions that had flowed across her face—the simple delight of childhood happiness shadowed by more mature sorrow.
Eventually, he flipped over the page; without looking up, he said, “It must have been quite lonely when you were young—the Frithams weren’t here then, were they?”
“No, they weren’t—and yes, I was lonely. There weren’t even children among the staff or the nearer workers, so I was entirely on my own except for my nanny and later my governess. It was wonderful, the start of a new and exciting life, really, when the Frithams came.”
Again, the happiness in her face shone clear; Gerrard worked to get some sense of it down. “How old were you then?”
“Seven. Eleanor was eight and Jordan ten. Their mama, Maria, and mine were childhood friends, which was why they came to live close. Overnight, I had an older brother and sister. Of course, I knew the area much better than they did, especially the gardens, so we were more equal, so to speak. Later…well, Eleanor is still my closest friend, while Jordan treats me much as he does Eleanor, as an older brother.”
He was tempted to ask how she viewed Jordan; instead, he asked about their youthful exploits. She described a number of incidents, the process occasionally bringing a smile to her lips, a laughing glint to her eyes.
After twenty minutes had passed, she glanced at him. “Is this working?”
He added a few more strokes, then lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “You’re doing wonderfully. That’s all there is to this stage of sitting. Just chatting and letting me get acquainted with your face, your expressions.”
Finishing his latest sketch, he flipped back the earlier sheets and critically reviewed them. “During the next days”—he scanned what he’d caught so far, various expressions all from the same angle—“I’ll do a lot of these, but as I become more certain what expressions I want to work more deeply with”—and
what topics elicited the emotions in her that gave rise to those expressions—“I’ll do fewer sketches but they’ll be in greater detail, until I have enough practice in re-creating exactly the effect I want to show.”
Looking up, he met her gaze. “Until I can draw you as we need to portray you.”
Jacqueline held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “It seems far easier than I’d thought, at least for me.”
“This is the easy part—the further we go, the more time I spend on each sketch, the longer you’ll have to sit in one place, in one pose.” Shutting the pad, he smiled. “But not yet. By the time we get to the final sittings and you need to sit perfectly still for an hour, you’ll be trained to it.”
She laughed, conscious of a tightening in her chest, of a tension she was coming to recognize as more akin to excitement and anticipation than fear.
He rose; sketch pad in one hand, he held out the other.
She looked up at him, then laid her fingers across his palm. Steeled herself as his long fingers closed over hers.
Felt, for one finite instant, her heart skip, still, then start beating again, more rapidly. His eyes were locked with hers; he didn’t move.
And she suddenly saw, realized, understood that what she was feeling, sensing between them…it wasn’t just her alone.
He felt it, too.
She saw the truth in the shifting planes of his face, the sudden tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible flare of something behind the glowing brown of his eyes.
He drew her up and she rose. He hesitated, then released her hand.
Looking down, she smoothed her skirts; glancing up from beneath her lashes, she saw him look away, saw the rise of his chest as he drew in a breath—one that seemed as tight as hers.
He waved deeper into the gardens. “Let’s walk. I want to see you against different backdrops, in different levels of light.”
They walked into the Garden of Diana, but after two quick sketches, he shook his head. Dappled shade, he declared, wasn’t appropriate. They strolled on into the Garden of Mars, which met with his approval. He had her sit by a burgeoning bed while he sprawled nearby. Again he asked questions and she answered; it was odd for he didn’t expect her to meet his eyes. From his sudden silences, filled with the swift scratch of pencil on paper, she realized he wasn’t really listening but watching, that it was her expressions he was reading.
A curious communication.
A strange catharsis—she quickly realized she could say almost anything, and he wouldn’t react; he wasn’t there to judge what she said, but to see how she felt about the subjects he raised, to explore her
feelings as she allowed them to show.
It had been a long time since she’d spoken her thoughts freely; the exercise, focusing on her reactions, allowed her to examine them, to know and recognize what she felt and how she felt.
After a while he rose, drew her up briskly and waved her on into the Garden of Apollo. He had her sit before the sundial; this time, he sketched from her other side. “Given we’re here,” he said, “let’s talk about time.”
“Time how?” she murmured, cheek on her updrawn knees as he’d requested. “Time as in, do you feel, living down here, that it’s passed you by?”
She thought about that. “Yes, I suppose I do. There’s very little to do down here. I’m twenty-three and I feel my life—my adult life—should have started by now, yet it hasn’t.” She paused, then added, “What with Thomas disappearing, and then Mama’s death, I feel as if I’ve been placed in limbo.”
“You need to free yourself before you can move on.”
“Yes.” She nodded, then remembered and repositioned her head. “That’s it exactly. Until Mama’s killer is caught, time for me will stand still. I can’t go away and leave it—the suspicion—behind; it’ll follow me wherever I go. So I have to shatter it, disperse it, eradicate it, before I’ll be free to start living again.”
He said nothing. She slanted a glance his way. He was rapidly sketching. A small, beguiling smile played at the corner of his lips.
“What are you smiling at?”
He looked up, met her gaze—and she was instantly aware of a sense of communion, a connection of a sort she’d never shared with anyone else.
Looking down, he continued sketching, but the curve of his lips deepened. “I was thinking I ought to call this ‘Waiting for Time to Move.’ ”
She smiled, turning her head fractionally so she could direct that smile at him.
He looked up; his gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t move—stay just like that.” His fingers had already whipped the page over and he was furiously sketching anew.
Mentally raising her brows, she did as he asked. “Sitting” was tiring, but also strangely relaxing.
They’d been sitting in perfect peace for ten or more minutes when a firm step on the path approaching the stone viewing stage, not far away, had them both turning to look.
Gerrard got to his feet, closing his sketchbook. “I’ve got enough of that pose for now.”
He crossed to where she sat and reached for her hand; he ignored their mutual sensitivity—that odd, concerted leap of their pulses—and drew her to her feet. Her hand locked in his, he held her beside him and turned to face whoever was marching along the path; it wasn’t Barnaby, and no gardener walked with such an assured tread.
“It’s Jordan,” Jacqueline said, as if sensing his alertness.
Sure enough, brown hair ruffled and nattily dressed—a trifle overdressed for Gerrard’s taste—Jordan came into view, stepping onto and then off the stone viewing platform. Straightening, he saw them.
It was instantly apparent he hadn’t come looking for them, yet it wasn’t just surprise that showed in his face. A petulant expression came into being, but as Jordan approached, Gerrard got the impression it wasn’t disapproval of him and Jacqueline being alone, but the fact they were there at all that had irritated.
Jacqueline tugged; unobtrusively, he released her hand. “Good afternoon, Jordan.”
Jordan nodded. “Jacqueline.” His gaze moved to Gerrard. “Debbington.”
Gerrard returned his nod. “Fritham. Are you looking for Lord Tregonning?” If so, that was odd, for Jordan wasn’t coming from the house.
“No, no—just out for a constitutional.” Jordan glanced at the gardens around them. “I often walk here—Eleanor and I were made free of the gardens a long time ago.”
Turning back to him, Jordan looked at his sketch pad. “Making a start on the portrait?” “Indeed.”
“Good, good.” Jordan shifted his gaze to Jacqueline. “The sooner that’s done and all can see the result, the better.”
The comment—in tone as well as words—was ambiguous. Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, but could detect nothing in her expression to guide him; her inner shield was up. Whatever Jordan thought wasn’t going to be allowed to touch her, yet she’d said Jordan was one of the few who believed in her innocence. Perhaps he was one of those who thought portraits were inherently false, revealing nothing real.
“Well.” Jordan shifted; Jacqueline had given him no encouragement to dally, but he didn’t seem to wish to. “I’ll leave you then. Don’t want to delay the great work.”
With a nod to them both, he continued on, heading up the garden to the northern viewing stage. Gerrard turned to look in the direction from which he’d come. “How did he get here?”
Jacqueline’s inner reserve melted away. “He walked. The Manor’s in the next valley—although it’s a considerable way by road, the house is much closer as the crow flies. The ridge”—she nodded toward the southern ridge bordering the gardens—“is only ten minutes’ walk from the Manor’s side door, and there’s a footpath that leads down through the woods to join the gravel walk in the Garden of Diana.”
“Does he often just turn up like that?”
“Sometimes. I don’t know how often he walks here. The gardens are so large, I doubt anyone would know.”
“Hmm.” Jordan had gone through the wooden pergola and then disappeared into the Garden of Dionysius. Looking down the long valley to the west, noting the angle of the sinking sun, Gerrard waved Jacqueline on. “Let’s try the Garden of Poseidon. Water’s an interesting element at sunset.”
When the day before he’d set eyes on the spot where the stream flowing out from the Garden of Night emerged into the light, cascading over shallow stone steps to pour into a narrow rectangular pool, he’d suspected he’d found the perfect setting. Now he knew what his painting had to achieve, there wasn’t a skerrick of doubt left in his mind. It had to be here. He’d paint her in the studio, but the setting in which, in the final portrait, she stood, would be this.
“I want you over there—sit on the edge of the pool.” At the bottom of the stone steps, the water gathered into a channel, then flowed into the pool through a spout.
She went to do as he’d asked. From beneath his lashes, he watched for any sign of unease, and was relieved when he detected none.
“Like this?” She sank gracefully onto the stone coping beside the spout, facing him. He smiled. “Perfect.”
It was; the golden light of the westering sun flowed up the valley to carom off the pool’s surface and bathe her in soft gilt. Her skin took on a shimmering glow; her hair came alive, rich and sheening. Even her lips seemed to hold a touch of deeper mystery, and her eyes were full of…dreams.
He felt something inside him still; she looked past him, down the valley, into that golden light. The expression on her face…
Without further thought, he drew.
Furiously fast, yet exact, precise, he transferred all he could see in that brief, shining moment onto the white page. He knew the instant he had enough, when one more line would ruin it. He stopped, leafed over the page, and looked up, pencil poised.
Her lips curved lightly. “What next?”
“Just stay there.” What next was for him to get the first rendering of the setting he wanted. The lower entrance to the Garden of Night, an archway of deep green leaves and vines beyond which dark shadows drifted, lay behind her—ten good paces behind her, but perspective in an artist’s hands was a tool, a weapon. When he finally drew her, she would stand framed in that archway; the Garden of Night was the perfect symbol of what held her trapped, of what she wanted to and needed to escape, and from which the portrait would release her. The rectangular pool would lie before her feet, reflecting light up over her, a symbol of her emergence from the darkness into the light.
Perfect.
The essence of the Garden of Night came to life beneath his pencil, created with deft strokes of his fingers.
When he finally paused and truly looked at what he’d done, he was satisfied.
More, he was moved; it was the first time he’d attempted to meld the artistic halves of himself—the
lover of Gothic landscapes, and the observer and recorder of people and their emotions. He hadn’t consciously realized he would, but he had, and now he knew.
He couldn’t wait to dive deeper into the challenge.
Turning over another leaf, he looked at her. “Tell me about your mother.”
“Mama?” She’d learned not to look directly at him; she continued to stare down the valley.
A moment passed, then she said, “She was very beautiful, quite vain in fact, but she was always soalive. Enthused by life. She truly lived every day—if she woke up and there wasn’t something to do, she’d organize some outing, some event however impromptu. She was something of a butterfly, but a gay, giddy one, and there was no unkindness in her, so…”
He let her talk, watched, waited until the right moment to ask, “And when she died?”
Her expression changed. He watched the sadness close in, dousing the happy memories, saw not just loss of a loved one, but loss in a wider sense—a loss of innocence, of trust, of security.
She didn’t reply, yet his fingers flew.
After a very long moment, she murmured, “When she died, we lost all that—this place and all who lived here lost our wellspring of life.”
“And of love?” He hadn’t meant to say the words; they just slipped out.
After another long silence, she replied, “More that love became tangled and confused.”
He continued sketching, very aware—elementally aware—when she drew in a deep breath, and shifted her gaze to look at him.
For some moments, her expression was unreadable, then she asked, “What do you see?”
A woman trapped through others’ love for her. The words rang in his mind as his eyes held hers, but he didn’t want to reveal how clearly he saw her, not yet. “I think”—he closed his sketch pad—“that you saw her more clearly than she saw you.”
She tilted her head, studying him, examining his words—and, he suspected, his motives. Then she inclined her head. “You’re right.”
He looked steadily back at her. His comment, he felt sure, was also true for others—like her father, Mitchel, Jordan, even Brisenden. Their view of her was of a weak female; they were the type to assume that females were inherently less able, less strong than themselves on any plane. He’d grown up too close to too many strong women to make such a mistake. Jacqueline was nothing if not strong, and commitment only strengthened her resolve.
If he were the killer, he’d be very wary of her.
The thought came out of nowhere, and chilled him. Suppressing an inner shiver, he looked down at his sketches, flipping through them, rapidly evaluating what he’d done.
Released from his scrutiny, Jacqueline watched him. For this pose, he’d stood to sketch her; he’d fallen into a comfortable wide-legged stance, broad shoulders square, his long-limbed, lean body loose and relaxed. While in the throes, he didn’t seem to feel the urge to move, as if all his vitality, all the intensity that was so much a part of him, were concentrated in his fingers and his eyes, and the brain that connected them.
He was fascinating, compelling. To her, yes, but she wouldn’t be the only female so affected. Eleanor would find him attractive, too. He had such a high-handed tendency to command, to order…she felt her lips curve; she wasn’t even sure he was aware of it, so focused was he on his goals.
It was that focus, intense and powerful, that would draw Eleanor—she’d want to force him to turn it on her. To surrender it to her.
For a moment, Jacqueline wondered—did she feel the same, for the same reason? An instant’s reflection returned the answer: no. That’s where she and Eleanor differed. Eleanor would delight in using force, yet for her, the conquest would be in his willingly lavishing on her the intensity of devotion she saw in him as he sketched, as he viewed her as his subject.
Not as her.
A ripple of awareness skittered through her as she recalled his “price” and the reckless promise she’d made in the moonlight, that she’d meet it whatever it might be. Had he been viewing her as his subject then, or as her? At the time she’d assumed the former, but now she’d realized there were moments when he was as physically aware of her as she was of him…
She’d thought his attentions, the hot kiss he’d pressed to her palm, had been to learn how she responded to such things, that he’d wanted to know as a painter. What if he’d wanted to know as a man?
The idea left her feeling as if she were teetering on the brink of a precipice, unsure whether to step forward or back. Back would be safe, yet forward…as fascinating and compelling as she found him, if he beckoned, would she go?
Another shiver, this time one of anticipation, coursed down her spine. She let her gaze slide over him again, felt the compulsion rise.
Closing his sketch pad, he looked up. His eyes fixed on hers. After a moment, his gaze drifted up. “Your hair…”
“What about it?”
“When I paint you, it needs to be different. Can you unpin it? It’ll help if I see how we need it to be, then you can wear it that way from now on.”
Her hair was secured in a neat chignon; raising her hands, she started removing pins. The chignon unraveled; she set the pins down, shook the long strands free, then threaded her fingers through them, drawing them out, letting them fall across and over her shoulders.
He frowned. “No, that’s not right, either.”
He closed the space between them in a few long strides. Setting his pad and pencils down, he sat on the coping, facing her.
She felt her lungs constrict, but she was growing used to the effect.
His gaze was locked on her face, gauging. He reached for her chin, turned her face to his, then reached for her hair, long fingers sliding into the unruly mass.
She caught her breath, prayed she wasn’t blushing, prayed she’d be able to hide her reaction.
His frown remained as he bunched her hair, shifting it this way, then that, clearly unsatisfied. Then he twisted the tresses and set the bunched curls on the top of her head. Looking into his face, she sensed him still…
With his other hand, Gerrard reached for her chin, fought not to notice the delicacy of bones and skin as he gently gripped and turned her face first to the left, then to the right, then to the precise angle he thought was best suited for the portrait, all the while holding her hair atop her head.
There. Angle right, and hair up, a neat knot with a tendril or two trailing down on the right, a subtle highlight to draw attention to the exposed curve of her throat.
That was the line he wanted to capture, vulnerability, grace and strength combined. Youth, yet with intrinsic wisdom, instinctive and true. A pose that had clarity, that resonated with truth.
Again his gaze skimmed the line of her throat, skin white and flawless, tinted by the fading golden light. Raising his gaze, he took in the medley of browns, vibrant and earthy, worldly, too, of her hair; he would capture that and use it.
He lowered his gaze to her face.
Met her eyes, the mossy shade darker, the gold more intense as they widened, darkened. Her lips were lush, edged with rose gilt.
Time stood still.
He raised his gaze to her eyes, saw a curiosity the counterpart of his own staring at him from the hazel depths.
What would it be like?
Lowering his head, tipping her face up, he touched his lips to hers.
Felt them quiver. And took, seized, albeit gently, with all the expertise he’d learned over the years. He increased the pressure beguilingly, seductively, brushing lightly, tantalizing and tempting.
He wanted to devour, yet it was she who captured him with a tentative response so slight it was like gossamer, a fleeting moment of innocence and pleasure. For one fraught instant he felt completely caught, taken captive—then reality returned, and he realized what he’d done.
Realized he’d gathered her into his arms.
Realized he’d taken the step he hadn’t yet made up his mind he would take. He’d been tempted, not solely by his own desires but by hers, too, yet the feel of her in his arms, of her lips beneath his—the feelings those sensations evoked—assured him at some elemental level that this was right.
Yet if he was wise, he’d go slowly.
Lifting his head, he looked down into eyes the color of woodland moss. He drew in a breath, surprised to discover his lungs parched and tight. “I’m sorr—” He broke off, unable as he looked into her eyes to utter the polite lie. He felt his jaw firm. “No. I’mnot sorry, but I shouldn’t have done that.”
She blinked up at him. “Why not?”
He searched her eyes; she was asking with her usual candor, an open honesty he’d grown to treasure. “Because it’ll make it that much harder not to do it again.”
The truth. She heard it; he saw comprehension widen her eyes, followed swiftly by calculation. “Oh…”
He looked into her eyes, was drowning in them…With a mental curse, he shut his. “Don’t do that.” “What?”
He gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes shut. “Look at me as if you want me to kiss you again.” She didn’t reply. Three heartbeats passed.
He was debating whether to open his eyes when her soft whisper reached him. “I’m not good at lying.”
Five words, and she vanquished him. Overthrew that part of his mind that was fighting to maintain control, and cast him adrift. Into the sea of desire that welled in her eyes as they met his when he lifted his lids.
She searched his eyes, hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted her lips to his. Touched lightly. He could no more resist the explicit invitation than stop the sun from sinking beneath the sea.
Summoning what restraint he could, he kissed her back, then, unable to deny her or himself, he pressed the caress further, aware that, just as he had expectations of the kiss, so, too, would she. He wondered what they were, why…but then he traced her lower lip with the tip of his tongue, her lips parted, and he stopped thinking.
Jacqueline quivered as his tongue slid between her lips, held her breath as he shifted and gathered her deeper into an embrace that, no matter how alien, felt safe. His arms were steel bands, caging her, but protectively, his chest a muscled wall of comforting solidity against her breasts. His lips moved on hers, impressing, engaging. Tentatively she met his questing tongue with hers, lightly stroked—and sensed his encouragement, his appreciation.
She relaxed, secure in his arms, and mirrored his actions. There was heat in the exchange, persuasive and tempting, beguiling yet contained, not overwhelming but tantalizing, a promise of more, later. For now, she was content returning his caresses. Raising one hand, she lightly traced his cheek, the angular planes quite different from her own, cloaked in abrading stubble lacing firm skin.
By subtle degrees, he deepened the kiss and she, knowingly, followed. With growing confidence she kissed him back—and gloried in his response, in the continuing exchange that spun out in delight and mutual pleasure.
The reciprocity, for she knew it was so, caught her, and held her enthralled.
She tasted like summer wine, heady and sweet, potent and warm. Faintly illicit, carrying the promise of dark sultry nights and stirring passion. Now he’d learned, now he’d savored, he should draw back, yet still Gerrard lingered. The question of what she sought from the kiss returned; he now knew she’d shared few kisses, if any, before, not like this.
The reluctance he felt to end the interlude was not solely on his own account.
And that surprised him. Who was leading whom, and was that safe? The question gave him the strength to act, to gradually draw back and lift his head.
He watched as she opened her eyes, as she blinked and refocused on his. He’d kissed many ladies in far more illicit encounters, yet this time his charm didn’t come to his aid. No glib words sprang to his tongue, no suave smile to his lips. This time, he didn’t want to end the moment, didn’t want to let her go; despite his experience, he couldn’t pretend he did.
Looking into her eyes, a glorious medley of greens and gold, he could only hold her, and wonder…
Jacqueline saw his equivocation, felt it in the arms surrounding her that didn’t ease. She comprehended something of what she read in his eyes; she, too, felt…distracted. As if she’d just experienced something that was important to explore further, but…the moment was already slipping away.
Her hands had come to rest against his chest; she found a half smile and gently pushed back. After an instant’s hesitation, his arms eased, and he released her.
“The sun’s almost gone.” She looked down the valley to where the burning orb of the sun was disappearing below the horizon. Shifting along the coping, she glanced his way. “We should go inside. It’ll soon be time to change for dinner.”
He nodded and stood. He picked up his sketch pad, stuffed the pencils in his pocket, then he looked at her, and held out his hand.
She met his gaze, then placed her fingers in his and let him help her to her feet.
He released her once she was steady. Together they turned, and, side by side, without words, walked up through the gardens.
With one long, shared glance, they parted on the terrace. 7
Late that night with the moon riding the sky, Gerrard stood in the balcony doorway of his bedroom staring moodily out at the silvered gardens, and considered where fate had led him.
Not by the nose, but by another part of his anatomy, together with a section of his psyche he hadn’t previously known existed.
He could hardly claim he hadn’t known what he was doing, that he hadn’t been cognizant of the dangers, the risks. He’d known, but had acted anyway; he couldn’t remember when last he’d been so heedlessly impulsive.
Arms folded, he leaned against the doorjamb; eyes fixed unseeing on the shadows below, he tried to get some mental purchase on what, preciselywhat, was driving him. It wasn’t anything he’d experienced before.
He knew what he wanted: Jacqueline. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d seen her watching him through the window when he’d arrived at Hellebore Hall—but what was driving him to it? The compulsion that was growing day by day, pressing him to make her his—from where did that spring?
Lust was certainly there, familiar enough, yet this was lust of a different order, an unusual degree. He’d lusted after ladies before; it didn’t feel like this. With Jacqueline, the drive came from deeper within him, from some more primitive, more intense realm of emotion…Words, as always, failed him, yet if he painted it, it would glow with myriad shades of red, all the varied hues, not just one.
The vision shone in his mind. After a moment, he shifted his shoulders, then settled back against the frame.
His reaction to her, his fascination with her, was only half his problem. The other half was her fascination with him. He was aware of that to his bones; every little twitch, every instinctive feminine response she made, he felt like a sharpened spur, digging in, heightening his awareness of her, stirring his lust, and the need to slake it.
Never before had he been in the grip of such elemental and reckless desire.
Thatwas what had led to that kiss. Then her curiosity, her directness, had snared him, and drawn him with her into deeper waters.
Unwise. He’d known it at the time, but hadn’t called a halt, as he could have done.
Worse, he knew beyond doubt that it would happen again, and it wouldn’t end with just a kiss. If he stayed and painted the portrait he was now desperate to paint, met the irresistible challenge fate had laid before him and painted the work she and her father wanted and needed him to paint…
For long minutes, he stood gazing out at the night-shrouded gardens, grappling with what he now faced. If he stayed and painted Jacqueline’s portrait, he would risk falling in love with her.
Would the passion, the lust, the desire—all that love encompassed—drain the passion he drew on to paint? Or were the two separate? Or complementary?
Those were the questions he hadn’t wanted to face, that he’d hoped, at least for the next several years, to leave unbroached.
But they faced him now, and he didn’t know the answers. And could think of only one way to learn them.
Yet if he took that route and the answer to his first question was yes…he would have risked and lost all he was.
Resigning Lord Tregonning’s commission and leaving Hellebore Hall immediately was the only way to avoid putting those questions to the test. The ultimate test. A good portion of his mind, the logical, cautious side of him, strongly urged leaving as the most sensible course.
The painter in him said no. Emphatically no. The chance to paint the gardens aside, he would never, not ever, find such a challenging portrait, such a challenge to his talent and skills. To walk away without even attempting it smacked of sacrilege, at least to his painter’s soul.
The man he was said no, very definitely no, too. Jacqueline trusted him; that was implicit in her behavior, in her invitation to him to be her champion, her “witting judge.” She needed him; the situation she faced was perilous, potentially life-threatening. She and her father had been right; with his reputation backed by his ability, he was the only one able to open the doors of others’ minds and free her from the peculiar web ensnaring her.
He stood staring into the night for half an hour more. Would he continue, paint her portrait and free her, accept and embrace the likelihood of falling in love with her, and so risk losing the one thing he valued above all else, his ability to paint?
Behind him in the darkened room, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed, a single bell-like note. With a self-deprecating grimace, he pushed away from the door frame and turned into the room. He was racking his brains to no purpose; his decision had already been made, virtually by default; he was here, so was she—he wasn’t going anywhere. Certainly not now he’d held her in his arms and felt her lips beneath his.
The die was cast, his direction set.
Closing the balcony door, he reached up to tug the curtain across—a movement in the gardens caught his eye.
He looked, and saw the bright glint again.
A spyglass on a tripod had appeared in the room the day after he’d arrived, courtesy of Lord Tregonning; he’d already set it to scan the gardens. Striding to where it stood, he brought it to bear on the area in question, quickly focused.
On Eleanor Fritham.
She walked down the path out of the wood in the Garden of Diana. Her hair caught the moonlight—the glint he’d seen.
“It’s one o’clock. What the devil’s she doing—” He broke off as, scanning ahead of Eleanor, he discovered someone else. Someone in a coat, with broader shoulders, stepping off the highest viewing platform, heading deeper into the gardens further down the valley. Some man, but he was already in denser cover, walking into the dips and shadows of the gardens. Eleanor followed, her steps light.
In seconds, they’d disappeared, dropping lower into areas out of Gerrard’s sight.
He put up the spyglass; he had little doubt of the meaning of what he’d seen. The Hellebore Hall gardens at night, drenched in moonlight, were the perfect setting for a tryst.
Heaven knew, he’d felt the magic himself that afternoon.
Inwardly shrugging, he finished drawing his curtain, and left Eleanor and her beau to themselves.
So tell me—what’s he like?” Eleanor looked into Jacqueline’s face, her own alive with curiosity.
Smiling, Jacqueline walked on. That morning after breakfast, Eleanor had arrived to stroll the gardens and chat, as she usually did every few days. Jacqueline had expected to have to deny her and devote her time to Gerrard, but when she’d looked his way inquiringly, he’d sensed her question and instead excused himself, saying he wished to look over his sketches from yesterday.
He’d headed upstairs, presumably to his studio, leaving her free to stroll with Eleanor, and appease her friend’s rampant curiosity. “You’ve seen him.” She glanced at Eleanor. “You’ve spoken with him. What didyou think of him?”
Eleanor mock groaned. “You know very well that’s not what I meant, but if you want to know, I was taken by surprise—appreciative surprise, I hasten to add. He’s not at all what I’d expected.”
Indeed.Jacqueline stepped down from the upper viewing stage onto the path that led through the Garden of Diana and farther to the Garden of Persephone, and the spot where she and Eleanor most often sat and talked.
“He’s not quiet, not reserved, butcontained, isn’t he?” Eleanor, eyes on the path, ambled beside her. “He watches, observes, but doesn’t react, yet there’s all that energy—all that strength and intensity—you can sense it, almost see it, but you can’t touch it, and it doesn’t touch you.”
She shivered delicately; glancing at her, Jacqueline saw an eager, frankly knowing smile playing about her lips.
Eleanor caught her gaze; her eyes shone. “I’d wager Mama’s pearls he’s afantastic lover.”
Jacqueline felt her brows rise. Eleanor had had lovers—she’d never known who, or if there’d been one or more; Eleanor had freely described her experiences, but only in terms of the feelings, the excitement, the physical sensations.
Through Eleanor, she’d learned more than she would otherwise know, yet only in the abstract. Until now.
He kissed me, and I kissed him.
The words hovered on her tongue, but she drew them back. Held back from sharing that piece of information she knew Eleanor would relish. She could imagine her friend’s subsequent questions: how had it felt, what had he done, was he masterful, what had he tasted like?
Wonderful, he’d opened her eyes, yes, he was masterful, but gentle, too—and male—he’d tasted like the essence of male.
Those would be her answers, but she was reluctant to share them. The incident yesterday hadn’t been intended, not by either of them. He hadn’t played with her hair intending to seduce her into a kiss, of that she was sure. And she…she hadn’t known that after his lips had touched hers once, she’d ache to feel them again—that she’d want, and be so brazen as to invite, so much more.
Yet he had, and she had. She wasn’t yet sure how she felt, or should feel, about either of those happenings.
While Eleanor had always shared the intimate details of many aspects of her life, she had always been more reserved, more circumspect in what she let out. But she knew Eleanor well; she would have to say more.
“Sitting for him has been quite different from what I expected. He’s only done pencil sketches so far, and he’s very quick with those.”
“Do you have to strike a pose? Jordan said he met you and Gerrard in the gardens yesterday, but that he’d finished by then.”
“Not finished—we were in between gardens. We strolled through, trying various spots. It’s not so much striking a pose as just sitting as he tells me to sit, then talking.”
“Talking?” Eleanor drew back to look at her. “About what?”
Jacqueline smiled and kept walking. Their usual bench lay just ahead, set between two flower beds. “Anything, really. The topics aren’t all that important. I’m not even sure he listens to what I say, not to my words.”
Eleanor frowned. “Why talk, then?” Reaching the bench, they sat. “It’s so I’m thinking of something—because of course I have to think of whatever I’m talking about. He’s more interested in what shows in my face.”
“Ah.” Eleanor nodded. They sat quietly for a few moments, then she said, “Mr. Adair’s quite interesting, isn’t he?”
Suppressing a cynical smile, Jacqueline agreed. “He’s the third son of an earl, did you know?”
There followed a largely one-sided discussion of Barnaby’s character and person, with occasional comparisons to Gerrard. Jacqueline interpreted those with the ease of familiarity; as she’d expected, Eleanor found Gerrard the more attractive, an attraction only heightened by his apparent unattainability, his disinterest, but she viewed Barnaby as the easier conquest.
“Gerrard probably reserves all his intensity for his painting—artists can, I believe, be terribly selfish in that way.”
When Eleanor’s pause made it clear she expected a response, Jacqueline murmured, “I suspect that’s
so.”
But he hadn’t been selfish yesterday. He’d been…what? Kind? Generous, certainly. He must be accustomed to dallying with experienced lovers; with her untutored kisses, she was very far from that. Yet he hadn’t seemed disappointed. Or had he just been polite?
Inwardly, she frowned.
“Hmm,” Eleanor purred. She stretched, raising her arms, pushing them up and out.
Glancing at her face, lifted to the sun, Jacqueline noted again the impression she’d gained the instant she’d seen Eleanor that morning. Eleanor’s expression was that of a contented cat stretching languorously in the sunshine.
Jacqueline had seen that expression before; Eleanor had been with her lover last night.
A spurt of some feeling rushed through her, not quite jealousy, for how could one be jealous over something one didn’t know—a yearning, perhaps, to…live a little. Eleanor was only a year older than she, yet for years Jacqueline had felt the gap between them widening. Before Thomas disappeared, they’d seemed much closer in experience, even though Eleanor had already taken a lover, but when Thomas walked away and never came back…from that point on, her life had stalled. Then her mother had died and life had been suspended altogether.
She’d been alive but stationary, going nowhere, learning nothing, not growing, or experiencing any of those things she’d always thought life and living were about.
She was tired of life passing her by.
It would continue to do so—leaving her to experience all that might be only at a vicarious distance—until Gerrard completed her portrait, and forced those around her to see the truth, and start the process of finding who had killed her mother and avenging her death; only once all that had occurred would she be free to move forward and live again.
Restlessness seized her. She stood and shook out her skirts, surprising Eleanor.
“I should get back to the house—I promised Gerrard I would make myself available to sit whenever he wishes, and he must have finished with his sketches by now.”
Contrary to her expectations, Gerrard wasn’t looking for her; he hadn’t sent or come searching for her. Treadle told her he was still in his studio.
She’d told Eleanor that Gerrard had insisted all sittings be private, just her and him, and that he’d made it clear he’d show none of his sketches or preliminary work to anyone; disappointed, but also intrigued, Eleanor had sauntered off, heading home through the gardens.
Jacqueline had returned to the house, only to discover her presence wasn’t required—not by anyone, least of all the ton’s latest artistic lion.
Disappointed—and irritated that she felt so—she found a novel and sat in the parlor. And tried to read.
When Treadle rang the gong for luncheon, she felt hugely relieved.
But Gerrard didn’t appear for the meal. Millicent, bless her, inquired, saving Jacqueline from having to do so; Treadle informed them that Mr. Debbington’s man had taken a tray up to the studio. Apparently his master, once engrossed in his work, had been known to miss mealtimes for days; part of Compton’s duties was to ensure he didn’t starve.
Jacqueline wasn’t sure whether to feel impressed or not.
When at the end of the meal, Millicent asked whether she would join her in the parlor, she shook her head. “I’m going to stroll on the terrace.”
She did, slowly, from one end to the other, trying not to think about anything—especially artists who kept all their intensity reserved for their art—and failed. Reaching the southern end of the terrace, she looked up—at the balcony she knew to be his, then lifted her gaze higher, to the wide attic windows of the old nursery.
Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned.
Muttering an unladylike curse, she swung on her heel and headed for the nearest door, and the nursery stairs beyond.
Gerrard stood by the nursery windows looking out at the gardens—and not seeing a single tree. In his hands, he held the best of the sketches he’d done yesterday. They were good—the promise they held was fabulous—but…
How to move forward? What should his next step be?
He’d spent all day weighing the possibilities. Should he, for instance, insist that Millicent be present through each and every sitting from now on?
His painterly instinct rebelled. Millicent would distract, not just him, but Jacqueline. It had to be just the two of them, alone—in intimate communion, albeit of the spiritual sort.
His problem lay in keeping the spiritual from too quickly transforming to the physical. That it would at some point he accepted, but she was an innocent; wisdom dictated he rein in his galloping impulses to a walk.
A tap sounded on the door. “Come.” He assumed it was a maid sent to fetch the tray Compton had brought up earlier.
The door opened; Jacqueline walked in. She saw him, met his gaze directly, then, closing the door behind her, looked around.
It was the first time she’d been there since the area had been converted for his use. Her gaze scanned the long trestle table and the various art supplies laid out along its length; she noted the stack of sketches at one end, then glanced at the sheets he held in his hand.
Then her attention deflected, drawn to the large easel and the sized, blank canvas that stood upon it, draped in cheesecloth to protect it from dust.
Walking slowly into the room, she considered the sight, then transferred her gaze to him. “I wondered if you wanted me to sit for you.” She halted two paces away, beside the window, and waited.
He looked into her eyes, studied her face, then lightly tossed the sketches he’d been examining—for hours—onto the table; folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the window frame, and looked at her. “No—you wondered what was wrong.”
She eyed him, not so much warily as considering what tack to take.
He sighed, and raked one hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration Vane had broken him of years ago. “I’ve only just met you, yet I feel I’ve known you forever.” And felt compelled to protect her, even from himself.
She hesitated, puzzled. “So…?” “So I’m not sure I can do this.” “Paint the portrait?”
He glanced up, saw consternation and fear fill her face. “Yes—but don’t look at me like that.”
Her eyes locked on his. “How else? Ineed you to paint that portrait. You know that—you know why.” “Indeed, but I also know…” With two fingers, he gestured between them. “About this.”
The careful look returned to her eyes. “This what?”
Exasperated, he waved between them. “This,between us—don’t pretend you don’t understand, that you don’t feel it.”
For a long moment, she met his gaze steadily, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Then she drew a tight breath, and lifted her chin. “If this is about that kiss yesterday—”
“Don’tapologize!” She jumped.
He pointed a finger at her nose. “That was my fault entirely.”
She huffed at him, a derisive sound. “I can’t imagine how me kissing you could be your fault. I wasn’t under any spell, no matterwhat you might think.”
He had to press his lips tight to stop them from curving. He straightened. “I didn’t mean to suggest I’d bespelled you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you thought I was so blinded by your charms I didn’t know what I was doing?”
“No, I didn’t think that, either. I do think I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”
“Why?” She searched his eyes. Her expression grew troubled, sad. She swallowed. “Because of—”
“No!” He suddenly realized what tack her mind had taken; he cut her off with a gesture. “Not because of the suspicion leveled at you—goodGod !” His hand was running through his hair again, thoroughly disarranging the neatly cut locks; he abruptly lowered it. “It’s nothing to do with that.” It was all to do with him and her. “It’s because…”
He looked at her, met her green and gold eyes, let whatever it was that was in him reach for her, let the connection rise…He could almost feel the passion and desire surge to life, rippling between them.
“It’s because of that.This. ” His voice had lowered, deepened; he spoke slowly, clearly. “Whatever it is that’s sprung to life between us.”
She didn’t say anything; eyes locked with his, she was listening, following.
He stepped away from the window, not directly toward her; slowly, he circled her. “It’s because the more I’m with you”—he prowled to stand directly behind her with only an inch separating their bodies—“the more I want to kiss you, and not just your lips.”
Reaching around her, he raised his hands; he didn’t touch her, but sculpted the air less than an inch from her body, slowly, caressingly running his palms over her shoulders, slowly down, over and around her breasts, her waist, her stomach, hips and thighs. His lips by her ear, he murmured, “I want to kiss your breasts, explore every inch of your body, taste every inch of your skin. I want to possess you utterly—” He broke off, drew in a quick breath, censored the too-explicit words that had leapt to his tongue. “I want to know your passion,all of it, and give you mine.”
He could feel desire beating at him with wings of heat; certainly she could feel it, too. Passion roiled about them, an almost palpable vortex drawing them in, down, under.
“I can’t be near you and not want you—not want to lie with you, to share every secret of your body and make it, and you, mine.”
Looking down at her, standing straight and silent before him, listening to and following his every word, he had to fight to lower his hands, to return them to his sides without seizing her.
He succeeded, and let his relief show in a long sigh. Softly, he said, “Doesn’t it scare you?” After a moment, he murmured, “God knows, it scares me.”
For half a minute, she said nothing, then, slowly, she turned and faced him. Only an inch separated her breasts from his chest.
She looked into his eyes; her expression was open, honest, direct—and determined. “Yes, I can feel it, but I fear death, not life. I fear dying without ever living, without ever knowing, without experiencing this—precisely this. Above all,this .”
Her eyes steady on his, she drew breath and went on, “I don’t know what might or might not happen, or come to be, or what dangers or risks are involved, but I don’t care. Because while I’m facing dangers and taking risks, I’ll be living, and not simply existing as I have been for so long.”
Her honesty demanded his. Her determination undermined his good intentions. “Do you know what you’re saying—what you’re inviting?”
“Yes.” Her lashes fluttered, then she met his eyes again. “You’ve been blatantly honest.”
Not honest enough. “I can’t promise…anything. I don’t know what might develop, how much of me I’ll be able to give you. I’ve never…” His lips twisted, but he held her gaze. “Been with a lady like you before.”
A lady who affected him so profoundly, in so many ways, in so intense a fashion. He had no idea how a marriage between them would work.
“I didn’t ask for any promises.”
Her voice remained steady, as did her gaze. He still felt driven to protect her. “Nevertheless, I’ll make you one. If at any time you want to call a halt, to retreat to a safer distance for a time, you need only say.”
He reached for her as the words fell from his lips. Her eyes widened as he gathered her to him, fully into his arms; her hands gripped his upper arms, yet as he lowered his head, she made no attempt to push back.
Instead, she tilted up her face, and their lips met.
And there was no drawing back. Not for him, not for her. The vortex closed around them.
Passion rose, a hot wave, and sighed through them, powerful, yet restrained, the steady pull of an undertow beneath the waves. Restrained enough for the novelty to shine—for them both.
His head spun. This was so completely different from any other time, any other kiss…shewas so completely different from any other woman.
The knowledge rocked him, left him open to a surge of feeling that colored every sensation, that turned her soft lips into a new and enthralling wonderland, transformed her body into a feminine landscape he had to explore—as if it were his first time. Slowly. Savoring every step, every moment.
Jacqueline parted her lips, invited him to take—and gloried when he did. Yet there seemed no rush, no urgency, no overwhelming, grasping passion; this, it seemed, was a time for exploration, for learning.
There was an unadorned, uncomplicated hunger in his kiss; she responded in kind, taking what he offered, taking all she needed. Pushing her arms up, she twined them about his neck, shuddered delicately when his arms tightened in response, drawing her fully against him, tight breasts to the hard wall of his chest, her hips to his rock-hard thighs.
No part of him seemed soft; against her giving flesh, his body was all muscle and bone, powerful, alien—all male. Her rational mind knew she ought to feel frightened, helpless and threatened by that potent strength, yet, bemused, she accepted that she didn’t.
If anything, she delighted in the contrast, his maleness emphasizing the female in her; if anything, she felt
anticipation rise because of the differences, because of their promise.
His hands, long-fingered and strong, spread over her sides, gripping, then easing and moving over her back.
Spreading heat, a distracting warmth that rose even higher, spread even more when he angled his head and deepened the kiss. Eagerly, she pressed closer and followed his lead, tempted and very willing.
One hand moved down to the back of her waist, pressing there, locking her to him. The other glided up to curve over her shoulder, lingered there, close to her throat, warm palm against her exposed skin, then smoothly slid down, tantalizingly tracing the bare skin above her bodice before sliding down and around to close over one breast.
She lost what little breath she possessed, felt something akin to lightning streak down her nerves as he weighed her firm flesh, as he blatantly explored the full curves, expertly caressed, then closed his hand and gently kneaded.
A shudder of pure pleasure racked her; worried he might misinterpret, she pressed closer still, slid her hands from his nape into his hair, held his head steady as she kissed him, and with lips and tongue begged for more.
He understood; she felt his lips curve fractionally, then he accepted her unvoiced invitation, kissed her even more deeply, even more intimately, his tongue surging against hers in a rhythm she’d never known yet at some level recognized.
Her head started to spin; her wits slowly sank into a haze of warm delight.
His hands firmed; the one at her breast fondled, then his clever fingers sought out the peak, and rolled it, squeezed until she gasped through the kiss. Until pleasure bloomed and spread under her skin, like a wave rolling through her, pooling low to pulse between her thighs.
He leaned back against the window frame, drawing her with him; his artful fingers continued to play with her nipple, now tightly furled, while his other hand eased from her waist and slid down, over her hips, over her bottom, caressed, increasingly explicitly fondled, then cupped, closed, kneaded.
Her knees buckled. He held her, helpless, increasingly heated, increasingly wanting. Desire flared and spread under her skin; with hands and mouth, lips and tongue, he fed the conflagration.
She clutched his head, kissed him back, felt an unfamiliar urgency rise— Footsteps pounded on the stairs beyond the door, coming swiftly up.
They broke from the kiss. She heard a muttered curse, realized it wasn’t hers, albeit she agreed with the sentiment.
Gerrard gripped her waist and set her back against the window frame; stepping away, he grabbed a sketch pad and pencil.
The door burst open. Barnaby stood in the doorway, breathing hard, his color high. They blinked at him.
He blinked back, then waved. “Sorry—but…” He looked at Gerrard. “We’ve found a body.”
Iwas out walking—I took the path along the northern ridge.” Barnaby glanced over his shoulder as the three of them hurried along the path through the kitchen garden. “The path cuts through the Garden of Hades—it’s all cypress trees, a small forest of them. I noticed a section of bank higher up the ridge had crumbled away…there looked to be material, and an odd shape, so I climbed up to take a look.”
Insatiably curious—Gerrard had said Barnaby was so. Barnaby glanced back at her. Jacqueline met his worried look with grim determination. “Who is it?” she asked.
Barnaby cast an imploring look at Gerrard, then faced forward. “I couldn’t say. It’s not a…a recently deceased body.”
Her stomach lurched, but she clenched her teeth. They’d had a brief altercation in the studio, when Barnaby had tried to leave her behind. Gerrard had agreed with him, but wisely hadn’t said so; in the end, he’d taken her arm and let her accompany them.
But he wasn’t happy about it.
She set her jaw. This was her home, and if there were bodies buried in the garden, she had to know.
Her heart was thudding uncomfortably, high in her chest; she felt slightly dizzy. Heavy clouds had blown over, turning the breezy, sunny morning into an oppressive afternoon, with the rumble of thunder and the metallic tang of lightning a distant threat. As they left the wooden pergola and toiled up the path through the vines of the Garden of Dionysius, she was glad of Gerrard’s long fingers clamped about her elbow, steadying her.
Barnaby had alerted her father and Treadle before coming to find them. When they crossed into the Garden of Hades, into the dark shade of the cypress trees, they heard voices ahead. Looking up, they saw a group of men standing around a crumbling bank. The head gardener, Wilcox, was there, along with two of his men, armed with shovels. The head stableman, Richards, was there, too, as were her father and Treadle.
She stopped on the path. Barnaby continued, toiling up the slope. Gerrard glanced at her, and waited by her side.
Her father spoke with Barnaby, then turned and saw her. Barnaby looked at her, and suggested something. Her father hesitated, then nodded; carefully, ponderously, he made his way down the bank, Treadle hovering solicitously at his elbow. Barnaby followed a little way behind.
Her father reached the path; pale, a trifle out of breath, he took a moment to straighten his coat, then he leaned—truly leaned—on his cane. “I’m sorry, my dear—this is most distressing.”
She gripped his arm, fingers locking tight. “Who is it?”
Her father met her gaze, then shook his head. “We can’t be certain…” He sighed; raising his right hand, he opened his closed fist. “Mr. Adair wondered if you recognized this?”
She looked down at the fob watch that lay in his palm.
For a long moment, she said nothing, just stared while her lungs constricted and her heart thudded in her throat. Then she reached out—not to take the watch but with one finger to brush the dirt from the engraving on the closed lid.
She leaned nearer, looked. “It’s Thomas’s.”
A rushing roaring filled her ears and her vision went black. 8
She came to her senses, how much later she didn’t know. She was lying on the chaise in the drawing room; Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby stood nearby, talking in hushed voices.
When she struggled to sit up, Millicent saw and rushed over. “You should stay lying down for a while, dear. You were in a dead faint when Mr. Debbington carried you up.”
Jacqueline glanced up at Gerrard, who had come to stand at the back of the chaise. “Thank you.” His expression remained stony. “If you want to thank me, stay where you are.”
Millicent blinked, taken aback by his tone. “Ah…would you like some water, dear?” “Tea would be nice.”
“Yes, of course.” Millicent hurried to the bellpull.
With Gerrard’s gaze on her, Jacqueline made a show of relaxing against the cushions. She looked at Barnaby, standing before the fireplace. “What’s happening?”
Barnaby glanced at Gerrard, then came closer. “Your father’s sent word to the magistrate. Meanwhile, Wilcox and Richards are overseeing the…ah, disinterment.”
A chill slid through her. “Is it possible to know…Can anyone tell when he was killed? Or how?” She focused on Barnaby. “Was he shot?”
Barnaby glanced at Gerrard again. Gerrard sighed and, waving Barnaby to a nearby chair, came around to sit on the end of the chaise. “Perhaps it’s better to discuss it, seeing she’s so determined.”
She shot him a look, but Millicent, taking the other armchair, nodded. “I can see no benefit in pretending we don’t have a dead body in the garden, and that it isn’t that poor boy, Thomas Entwhistle. I’m sure Jacqueline will be more comfortable if we approach the matter sensibly.”
“Yes, precisely.” Thank heaven for sensible aunts. Jacqueline looked again at Barnaby; he seemed to be the one with the information. “Is it known when he…Thomas, died?”
“Only that it was long ago.” Barnaby grimaced. “A year at least, probably more. When was he last seen?”
She thought back, added the months. “Two years and four months ago.”
“In that case, there’s nothing to say he wasn’t killed on that day. He was last seen here, wasn’t he?”
She felt the cold intensifying; slowly, she nodded. “Yes. By me.” She met Barnaby’s gaze, then looked at Gerrard. “I was the last person to speak with him…just like with Mama.”
Barnaby frowned. “Yes, well, that hardly means you killed them, does it?”
His tone, one of dismissive reasonableness, had her—and Gerrard, too—looking at him. Barnaby’s frown deepened. “What?”
Gerrard shook his head. “Never mind that now. What else have you deduced?”
Barnaby grimaced. “Thomas was killed with a rock. A largish one.” With his hands, he outlined an object about twelve inches square. “About that size. Someone picked it up, and smashed it down on the back of his skull.”
Jacqueline swallowed. But Thomas was dead; he’d died long ago, and she needed to learn how. “I walked with him along the path to the stables. We parted just inside the Garden of Hercules and he went on. Why…how did he end up in the Garden of Hades? It’s quite some distance away.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby tapped the chair arm, then glanced at Jacqueline. “You parted just inside the Garden of Hercules—meaning some way before, and out of sight of, the junction with the side path, the one that follows the northern ridge through Hercules, Demeter, Dionysius and so to Hades.”
She nodded. “I wasn’t supposed to go beyond the terrace, but I walked just a little way—the path’s open until the edge of the Garden of Hercules.”
“Right.” Barnaby straightened. “So someone could have met Thomas deeper in the Garden of Hercules without you knowing.”
She frowned. “Yes, that’s true.”
“Would you have heard if he spoke with someone?”
“Not if you mean near the other path—by the time he reached there, I would have been back on the terrace. I wouldn’t have known he’d met someone unless he called out, and possibly not even then—the wind usually blows the other way.”
“I doubt he called out.”
“Why do you say that?” Gerrard asked. “Because…well, Thomas was quite tall, wasn’t he?”
Jacqueline nodded; she glanced at Gerrard. “As tall as Gerrard, but thinner.”
“Yes, well, from the damage to his skull, whoever hit him was standing close behind him, possibly somewhat higher than he. I don’t think that would happen very easily unless that someone was a man Thomas knew.”
Gerrard saw the color drain from Jacqueline’s face. “Aman —not a woman?”
Barnaby blinked. “A woman?” He considered, gaze distant, then shook his head. “I can’t see it—whoever lifted that rock had to be quite strong. Just grasping a rock that size would be difficult for most women. And as Thomas was tall, then even standing above him on the steepest stretch of the path, they’d have had to lift the rock high to bring it down with such force.” He refocused on Gerrard’s face. “A single blow, it was.”
A small, distressed sound escaped Millicent.
Coloring, Barnaby glanced at her. “Sorry. But, well, it couldn’t have been a woman—no ordinary woman, anyway. A giantess might have done it, but unless Thomas was acquainted with one hereabouts, well…” Barnaby smiled apologetically, clearly attempting to lighten the moment.
“You’re saying,” Gerrard reiterated, “that Thomas was killed by a man, almost certainly a man he knew.”
Barnaby nodded. “That seems the only reasonable conclusion.”
The drawing room doors opened. Barnaby and Gerrard rose as Lord Tregonning and an older gentleman they hadn’t previously met came in. Jacqueline swung her legs down; Gerrard gave her his hand and helped her to her feet. He didn’t like her pallor, or the way she stiffened; he wound her arm with his and settled her hand on his sleeve, his hand covering hers. Millicent rose, too, and moved to stand on Jacqueline’s other side.
The gentleman bowed to Millicent and Jacqueline, who curtsied.
Lord Tregonning waved at Barnaby and Gerrard. “This is Mr. Adair, who found the body, and Mr. Debbington, another guest. Sir Godfrey Marks, our magistrate.”
Barnaby and Gerrard shook hands with Sir Godfrey, and exchanged murmured greetings.
Sir Godfrey turned to Jacqueline. “I’m sorry to disturb you, m’dear, but your father showed me this watch, which was found on the body.” Sir Godfrey held out the watch. “Are you sure it was Thomas’s?”
The last vestige of color drained from Jacqueline’s face, along with all expression. She glanced briefly at the watch, then nodded. “I’m sure. Sir Harvey and Lady Entwhistle will recognize it.”
Sir Godfrey paused, searching her face, then he nodded and returned the watch to his pocket. “It’s a pity it’s so long ago now, but just refresh my memory—you walked with him to the stables and parted from him there?”
“No.” Jacqueline lifted her chin; Gerrard felt her fingers tighten on his sleeve. “I walked only a little way along the path—we parted where it enters the Garden of Hercules. Thomas went on, and I returned to the house.”
Sir Godfrey looked at Lord Tregonning, then glanced briefly at Jacqueline; the expression on his face looked suspiciously like pity. “So you were the last here to see him alive?”
Gerrard felt her fingers flutter beneath his, but her chin set; her expression remained impassive.
“Yes.”
Portentously, Sir Godfrey nodded, then turned to Lord Tregonning. “We’ll leave it at that.” His tone was heavy. “I’ll speak to the Entwhistles and let them know. Could have been gypsies or vagabonds, of course. No sense pursuing it—nothing will bring poor young Entwhistle back.”
Lord Tregonning’s face remained set and unresponsive. “As you wish.” His voice was devoid of emotion. He didn’t look at Jacqueline, or any of them, but stiffly returned Sir Godfrey’s nod and turned with him to the doors.
Jaw slack with amazement, incomprehension in his eyes, Barnaby stared at Gerrard, then glanced at Jacqueline. Before Gerrard could react, Barnaby started after the two men; he touched Sir Godfrey’s arm. “Sir Godfrey, about the circumstances of this death—”
Sir Godfrey halted. He frowned fiercely at Barnaby. “I don’t believe we need to delve deeper into that, sir.” He glanced fleetingly at Jacqueline, then met Barnaby’s gaze. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you you’re a guest here. No point creating unnecessary distress—a sad occurrence, but there’s nothing more to be done.”
With that deliberate and emphatic verdict, Sir Godfrey nodded curtly, and departed, Lord Tregonning beside him.
Astounded, Barnaby stared after them.
When the door shut, he turned. “What the devil was that about?” He looked at Gerrard, then transferred his affronted gaze to Jacqueline. “The bounder behaved as ifyou’d killed Thomas! Why on earth would he think that?”
Gerrard felt the stiffness go out of Jacqueline; with a helpless gesture, she sank unsteadily down; he eased her back onto the chaise. “Because,” he said, his tone lethal, cutting, “too many people hereabouts believe Jacqueline killed her mother, so why not Thomas, as well?”
“What?”Barnaby stared at him, past incredulous. Then he looked at Jacqueline. “But that’s ludicrous. You couldn’t have killed your mother.”
Gerrard fleetingly closed his eyes and thanked the gods for Barnaby. Opening them, he saw Jacqueline, color returning to her cheeks, staring at his friend. She’d been taken aback when he’d seen her innocence, but for someone with no real connection or interest in her to so clearly declare it…she was dumbfounded.
Gerrard voiced the question he knew was in her mind. “Why do you say that—why ludicrous? Why couldn’t Jacqueline have killed her mother?”
Barnaby almost goggled at him. “Have you taken a good look at the balustrade on the terrace?” “It’s a stone balustrade, the usual sort of thing.”
Barnaby nodded. “The usual thing—solid stone, a ten-inches-wide stone top, waist-high to a man, midriff-high to a woman of average height, which I understand Lady Tregonning was.
“A woman of average height”—Barnaby bowed to Jacqueline—“couldn’t push, tip or bundle another woman of average height, and, as it happens, greater weight, over such a highand wide barrier. It would be as close to impossible as makes no odds.”
He looked at Jacqueline, consternation and the beginnings of horrified comprehension dawning in his eyes. “When I say you couldn’t have killed your mother, I mean it literally. She had to have been lifted bodily to the top of the balustrade, and then pushed, or more likely thrown, over. I don’t think you could physically have managed it, not alone.” He hesitated, then asked. “They don’treally believe you did, do they?”
It was Millicent who answered. “Yes, they do.”
Briefly, Millicent explained to a flabbergasted Barnaby how matters had fallen out at the time of Miribelle Tregonning’s death.
“And so they all took it into their heads it was Jacqueline.” Millicent humphed. “I never subscribed to such nonsense, but by the time I learned of it, it was the general belief. Most of those in the area regard the notion as unproven fact.”
Barnaby was appalled. “Unproven facts aren’t facts at all!”
Given his belief in the application of logical deduction in solving crimes, Barnaby viewed the making of conjecture into fact as akin to heresy. Gerrard listened as Barnaby questioned, and Millicent elaborated, describing the way local sentiment had evolved, how the notion of Jacqueline as her mother’s murderer had taken root in so many minds.
It was frighteningly simple, yet the outcome was devastating. He glanced at Jacqueline. Not only devastating, but difficult to remedy.
She said little. She appeared to be listening; he wasn’t sure she was. Treadle brought in the tea tray and Millicent poured. Jacqueline accepted a cup and sat back, sipping. Barnaby and Millicent continued their discussion, moving on to consider how to rectify the situation. Jacqueline listened to that, but there was nothing new, nothing she hadn’t already thought of; he watched as her mind turned inward, and her thoughts slid away.
She’d just learned that a young man she’d cared for, and who had cared for her, had been brutally murdered. Even though she wasn’t looking at him, watching her face Gerrard sensed, not her thoughts, but her emotions.
Sadness, and more, too many swirling feelings for him to distinguish; one part of him, the polite gentleman, recoiled from intruding on her grief, another part, the painter, noted and cataloged, while the private man wanted to gather her in his arms and comfort her, to soothe and reassure.
He blinked; looking down, he set his cup on its saucer. He couldn’t recall such an impulse to comfort afflicting him before, not with such poignant force, with such sharp and clear empathy. Empathy was a necessity for an artist, yet it had never before had such a personal edge.
Never pressed him so keenly to act, to share the burden if not make it his.
From beneath his lashes, he glanced at Jacqueline. If he acted, how would she respond?
He hadn’t forgotten that moment in the studio, dramatically interrupted though it had been. They’d moved on, taken a definite step forward together, so where did that leave them—he and she, and what lay between them—now?
She finished her tea. Without glancing at him, she rose. When both he and Barnaby rose, too, Millicent broke off and looked up; Jacqueline smiled fleetingly, distantly. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retire for a while. I’m rather fagged.”
“Yes, of course, dear.” Millicent set down her cup. “I’ll look in on you later.”
With a nod, a wan smile and a fleeting glance at him, Jacqueline turned to the door. Gerrard watched as she walked out; he didn’t like the empty look in her eyes.
He turned back to Millicent and Barnaby.
Barnaby caught his eye. “I’m off to walk the path Thomas must have followed.” He nodded. “I’ll come with you.” He needed air, and he needed to think.
Leaving Millicent in the drawing room, they walked out onto the terrace. They retraced the route Thomas and Jacqueline had taken more than two years before, then went on, turning down the path along the northern ridge, confirming that all Jacqueline had said was true; she wouldn’t have known if someone had met Thomas at the junction of the paths, nor could she have gone so far with him, not with her mother expecting her back.
They walked on through the gardens of Demeter and Dionysius, Barnaby speculating that, if the crime had been committed along the path, given Thomas’s height, it would have occurred at the steepest stretch, where the path dipped into the Garden of Hades. Using Gerrard as a model, Barnaby concluded the murderer was at most three inches shorter, a man Thomas had known well enough to be comfortable having close at his back.
Barnaby pulled a face. “I must engineer a meeting with Lady Entwhistle. Mothers always know who their darlings are consorting with. She’ll know who Thomas considered a close friend.”
They rounded a bend in the path and looked up at the spot where Thomas’s body had lain. “Looks like they’ve taken the body away.” Only Wilcox and Richards remained, the former leaning on a shovel.
Barnaby led the way up the steep slope, clambering over the thick roots of the cypresses clinging to the incline.
Wilcox and Richards straightened as they neared and touched their caps. Gerrard nodded in greeting.
Barnaby dusted his hands. “I was just wondering…you were both here when Entwhistle disappeared, weren’t you?”
“Aye.” Both men nodded.
“Do you recall any gentleman being near the gardens about the time Entwhistle left the house?”
Wilcox and Richards shared a glance, then Richards volunteered, “We’ve all been scratching our heads, trying to remember. Near as we can recall, young Mr. Brisenden was out walking along the cliffs, like he often does. Sir Vincent Perry, another local gentleman, was here calling on Lady Tregonning and Miss Jacqueline—he left the house when young Entwhistle arrived, but he didn’t come to get his horse until sometime later. Howsoever, he often walked down to the little bay—not the cove in the gardens, but the one down past the stables—before he came to fetch his horse. As for others…” Richards looked at Wilcox, who took up the tale.
“Both Lord Fritham and Master Jordan often walk in the gardens—we’re never sure when we’ll see one of them about. And there’d a’ been plenty of local lads out that day—fishing, hunting, it were the season for both. While they don’t normally come into the gardens, they sometimes cut through. Everyone hereabouts knows the paths over the ridges, and how they connect. Fastest way from Tresdale Manor lands across to the cliffs to the north.”
Barnaby pulled a face. “Why would any local lads want to kill Entwhistle? Was he well liked?” “Oh, aye—very amiable young gent, he was.”
“We was all hoping he and Miss Jacqueline might marry—everyone knew that was the way things were heading.”
Barnaby’s gaze sharpened. “So there’s no known reason for anyone to kill Entwhistle, other than, just possibly, jealousy over Miss Jacqueline?”
The two older men exchanged a glance, then nodded. “Aye,” Richards said, “that’s true enough.” Gerrard looked down at the mound of freshly turned earth. “Did you find anything more?”
“Not anything from the poor lad, but”—Wilcox pointed up the slope—“I’d be surprised if that rock there wasn’t what had done for him.”
To the side some yards upslope lay a heavy rock, roughly rectangular and close to the size Barnaby had postulated.
Barnaby scrambled up and across. He hefted the rock, using both hands, then glanced at Gerrard. “This would have done the trick.” He looked around. “That suggests he was killed here, or close by…” Noticing Richards and Wilcox exchanging looks, Barnaby stopped. “What is it?”
“Well.” Richards waved around them. “There aren’t many rocks hereabouts, not big ones like that. It’s the trees knit the bank together—the soil’s not all that rocky.”
“Only place you find rocks like that is up top of the ridge.” Wilcox pointed up the slope. “Up there, it’s all rocks, just like that one.” He indicated the rock Barnaby set down. “We was thinking if young Entwhistle and the blackguard who killed him had climbed to the ridge, then when Entwhistle was struck down, well, he’d roll down to here, most like, and the rock with him.”
“Easy enough then to cover him with old cypress needles.” Richards kicked at those underfoot. “There’s always a carpet of them here. In time, he’d become just part of the bank.”
“Nothing much for my lads to do up this way,” Wilcox added. “The trees look after themselves, and the needles don’t need to be raked.”
Gerrard stared up at the ridge; it rose to a point, an outcrop of weathered rock that crumbled away to the edge of the sea cliffs. “Why would any gentleman go up there?”
“Ah, they all do. A bit of a scramble, it is, but all those who grow up hereabouts know—from there you can see the blowhole. When the sea’s turned just right, it’s a grand sight.”
“Aha!” Barnaby’s eyes lit.
It didn’t take much persuading to get Richards and Wilcox to show them the way—the only way—up to the top of the ridge. From there, it was apparent that the head gardener and head stableman’s conjecture had merit; a body falling down the slope would indeed land amid the cypresses.
“And,” Barnaby said, his eagerness barely contained as, parting from Wilcox and Richards, they strode back to the house, “it accounts for the one point that stumped me—how did the killer bend down and pick up a huge rock without Entwhistle noticing?”
Gerrard glanced at him. “The killer would still have had to pick up the rock, even if they were standing on the ridge…” He broke off as a picture of two men on the ridge formed in his mind.
“Yes, but it would have been easy.” Barnaby’s voice held a note of triumph. “One, Entwhistle was absorbed, watching Cyclops. Two”—Barnaby caught Gerrard’s eyes—“Entwhistle wasn’t standing. You saw the area—what’s more natural if you were chatting with a friend and looking out into the distance than to sit?”
Gerrard’s mind raced. “That means the killer doesn’t have to be tall.”
“No—any height at all.” Barnaby frowned. “Damn! That increases our list of suspects dramatically.” “But he still has to be a he—a man.”
“Oh, yes. The size of the rock—and there’s a good chance it was that very rock—makes that certain. Even with Thomas sitting down, a woman would have had difficulty picking it up—and with a lady, Thomas would have noticed. More, manners would have ensured if she stood, then he would have, too. No.” Barnaby shook his head. “It couldn’t have been a woman.”
They reached the steps to the terrace; with a fleeting grin, Gerrard took them two at a time. “What?” Barnaby asked, eyeing that grin.
Gerrard glanced at him. “There’s another, even more definitive reason why the murderer wasn’t a lady.” Barnaby scrunched up his face, cudgeling his brains, then sighed. “What?”
“Getting onto the ridge—we only just managed without serious damage.” Gerrard pointed to a scuff mark on his boot, and a smudge on his trouser leg. “As Wilcox said, it’s a scramble. No lady in a tea gown could have managed it, then returned to the housewithout being in the sort of state that would have created a furor. Everyone would have remembered that.”
“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.”
She 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 latestnonsense, ” 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 goesfree !”
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 seriousmatrimonial 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 thatis 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. Hecared 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. 9
He 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.
“Mywardrobe ?” 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.” “Atnight ?”
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 ofeau 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.
“No—I don’t want to leave as soon as possible. I want to complete the portrait and free you”—abruptly he gestured—“from all this—the suspicion and the well-meaning prison all around have created for you.”
The expression glowing darkly in his eyes made her heart leap, then thud.Oh seemed redundant. She moistened her lips—watched his eyes trace the movement of her tongue. “I thought”—she sucked in a breath and steadied her voice—“that perhaps, after this last, you might wish to leave—that you might wish you’d never agreed to paint my portrait.”
“No.” What rang in his tone brooked no argument. He held her gaze steadily. “I want you free of this intolerable situation…” His hesitation was palpable, but then he continued, his words precise and clear, “Free so we—you and I—can pursue what’s grown—growing—between us.”
Gerrard saw the“Oh” form in her mind, more tellingly saw her features ease as the control she’d
imposed on them faded. He was searingly aware of an almost overpowering urge to close the distance between them and take her in his arms, to comfort her physically and emotionally, in every way open to him.
Not a good idea.
Dragging in a breath that was too tight for his liking, he forced himself to turn to the fireplace. “So—how do you feel about Thomas’s death?”
Not an easy question to make sound idle, not least because it wasn’t; he definitely wanted to know. He didn’t look at her, but studied the lamp on the mantelpiece. He felt her gaze on him, felt her consider—sensed the change in the atmosphere when she decided to tell him.
She rounded the chair; he turned his head and watched as she smoothed the gown she’d laid over it, then, drawing her robe closed, folding her arms, she paced across the room in a brooding, feminine way. Halting before the windows, she lifted her head and stared out at the dark. “It’s odd, but the point that upsets me most is that I can’t remember his face.”
He leaned back, setting his shoulders against the mantelpiece. “You haven’t seen it for over two years.”
“I know. But that’s a real measure of the fact that he’s gone. That he’s been gone, dead, for a long time, and I can’t change that.”
He said nothing, just waited.
After a while, she drew in a deep breath. “He was a nice…boy, really.” She glanced across the room at him. “He was kind, and we laughed, and I liked him, but…whatever might have been, might have come to be between Thomas and me—that I’ll never know.”
Abruptly, she swung from the windows and came pacing back, her brows knitted, her gaze on the floor. Halting a yard from him, she looked up and met his eyes. “You asked how I feel. I feelangry .”
She pushed back the hair that had swung forward, shielding one side of her face. “I’m not sure why I feel so strongly, and not just on Thomas’s behalf. The killer took something he wasn’t entitled to take—Thomas’s life, yes, but that wasn’t all. He struck because we—Thomas and I—would have had a marriage and a family, andthat the killer didn’t want us to have. That’s why he killed—he wanted to deny us that.”
Her breasts swelled as she dragged in a huge breath. “He hadno right. ” Her voice shook with a medley of emotions. “He killed Thomas and stymied me—locked me into a cage of his making. And then he killed my mother.” Her face clouded. “Why?”
When she refocused on him, Gerrard pushed away from the mantelpiece. “With your mother, it can’t have been jealousy, or any variation of that. Perhaps she learned something the killer didn’t want known, either something about Thomas’s death, or something entirely different.”
She held his gaze. “But it was the same man, wasn’t it?”
“Barnaby will tell you that the odds of having two murderers in such a limited area are infinitesimal.” Her gaze grew distant, assessing. “We have to catch him—expose him and trap him—and we need to
do it soon.”
“Indeed.” His crisp tone drew her attention back to him. “And our first step is to complete the portrait.”
If anything, the discovery of Thomas’s body and their speculation over his death seemed to be hardening her resolve. He remembered thinking that if he were the murderer, he’d be wary of her, of underestimating her strength.
He reached for her arm. “I’m seriously considering painting you in candlelight. Come over here.” He drew her to the end of the mantelpiece and positioned her as before. Retrieving the last gown from the chair—the gown closest in hue to what he wanted—he held it out. “Hold that against you.”
Jacqueline did. She’d cried all her tears for Thomas long ago; it had been comforting to own to her anger, to be able to admit to it—to speak of it aloud and so give it strength. She watched as Gerrard stepped back, studying her with his painter’s eyes. There was an expression in them when he was given over to his art that she was learning to recognize.
That was comforting, too, for it gave her the freedom to think of other things, to acknowledge that he, hearing of her anger—an unconventional response from a young woman over the violent murder of her intended, surely?—hadn’t judged. He’d simply accepted, indeed, he’d seemed to understand, or to at least find nothing startling or shocking in her feelings.
He frowned. “The light’s too even.” He looked at the lamp, then scanned the room. “Candlestick?” “On the dresser by the door.”
He crossed to pick it up and brought it back. He bent to light the wick at the small fire in the grate, then straightened and reached for her right hand. “Here—hold it like that.”
Leaving her clutching the gown to her chest, the candlestick held aloft, he went to the lamp at the far end of the mantelpiece. He turned down the wick; the light faded, then died.
Crossing in front of her, he glanced measuringly at her, then doused the other lamp, too. He looked at her, then adjusted her arm. “Hold it there.”
He stepped back, then back again. His eyes narrowed, scanning, checking; he spoke softly, vaguely, “I promise I won’t make you hold a candle—I’m just trying to get an idea of how it might look if…”
His words faded. She watched him look at her, not as a man but as a painter. Watched the change in his expression, the play of the candlelight on his features, watched a sense of awe slowly seize and grip him.
A silent minute passed, then he refocused on her face. “Perfect.” She smiled.
He blinked. Slowly. His lashes rose, and suddenly she knew he was seeing her no longer as a painter, but as a man. He wasn’t seeing her as his subject, but as a woman, a woman the look in his dark eyes stated very clearly he desired.
Her heart expanded in her chest; it seemed to slow, then start to thud.
A need to explore his desire swept her. The killer had stolen from her any chance of that with Thomas, yet because of the same killer, Gerrard was now here.
That need took root, grew and filled her. Slowly, she closed her fingers, grasped the gown she’d been holding, and lifted it from her, and away. Extending her arm, she opened her hand and let the gown fall unregarded to the floor; his gaze didn’t shift, didn’t move from her to follow the silk as it fell.
His gaze, dark and burning, remained locked on her. At his sides, his hands slowly clenched; his jaw set, rocklike; his lips were a chiseled line.
He wasn’t going to move, to, as she had no doubt he would see it, take advantage of her; he was holding against it, against the impulse she could see flaring in his eyes.
She tilted her head, studying him as brazenly as he did her. She felt his gaze rake slowly down her body, outlined by the glow of the fire behind her. Her flesh reacted, heated, prickled—as physical a reaction as if he’d touched her. More reaction than if any other man had touched her, yet it was only his gaze, and the hunger she sensed behind it.
The clock ticked; for finite instants, desire held them, a force strong enough for them both to feel. To appreciate. She took a moment to savor it, to experience it, but that was all she dared—he was strong enough to break free, if she let him.
She was still holding the candlestick; other than the small fire, it was the sole source of light remaining in the room. To set it down, she would have to turn, to take her eyes from him, and break the spell.
No. The spell was hers, patently there, hers to use if she chose. She chose.
Slowly, she extended her other hand, palm up—an unmistakable invitation.
For one heartbeat, as his gaze fixed on her palm, she wondered if he would decline. But then his eyes lifted and locked on hers, and the silly thought slipped away.
He moved to her, slowly, like the predator she’d sensed from the first he truly was. The ton’s artistic lion in truth, and he was here with her, in her bedchamber, and it was almost midnight.
He closed his hand about hers, engulfing her fingers with the heat and strength of his; as he stepped nearer, he raised her hand to his lips, and brushed a slow kiss over her knuckles.
His eyes, dark in the poor light, hadn’t left hers. He searched them briefly, then turned her hand and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the sensitive skin of her palm.
She felt it like a brand, hot, searing, possessive. She couldn’t breathe as he took the tilting candlestick from her other hand; reaching past her, he set it on the mantelpiece behind her.
He stepped nearer, releasing her hand to fall on his shoulder, gathering her to him. She was excruciatingly aware of the strength in his muscled arms, of his hand as it spread across the back of her waist, of the insubstantial protection of her nightgown and robe.
Their eyes met, in one glance said all there was to say, then he bent his head as she lifted hers, and their
lips met.
Touched, brushed. Fused.
The kiss slid straight into a sea of heat, of pleasured warmth as their lips melded and their tongues twined. She knew this, wanted it, and went forward without reservation, receiving each slow, languorous caress, returning it with abandon and inciting more, inviting even though she had little idea of what, precisely, came next. She wanted to know, wanted to feel; as the kiss deepened, as he angled his head and heat burgeoned, flared and raced through her, spreading under her skin, making her mentally reel until her wits slid away and she gave herself over to feeling, simply feeling, as desire flooded her and grew to a pounding beat, she burned to learn more.
Gerrard sensed the rising tide, the welling of desire, and behind that, a passion that was more—more powerful, more compelling, more enthralling—than any he’d felt before. Her mouth was a haven of feminine delight, soft, giving, beyond tempting; the feel of her body so scantily clad in his arms, leaning into him, sinking against him in naïve surrender, was a potent lure.
With an effort, he lifted his head, broke the kiss enough to look into her face, into her eyes as her lids slowly rose. Enough to realize how rapidly he was breathing, how much his head was spinning…already.
Hauling in a breath, he said, “This is dangerous.”
And was shocked by how gravelly and harsh his voice sounded.
She didn’t blink, but studied his face. He felt her breasts expand against his chest as she drew a steadying breath.
“No.” Her gaze remained level, her lips soft, sheening, slightly swollen. “This is right.” After a moment, she added, “Can’t you feel it?”
He could. Every instinct he possessed was urging him on; not one suggested retreat. If she was willing to move forward, so was he.
She’d been searching his eyes; her lips slowly curved. Her gold-green eyes glowed. “You know it.” Sliding her hands up from where they’d rested until then, passive against his chest, she slid her palms along his face, framing it, then stretched upward and breathed against his lips, “Stop denying it. And me.” Then she kissed him.
He let her, let her coax, then more blatantly invite.
Then he accepted. Stopped denying what he wanted, what he felt compelled to explore. Her. And their passion.
In every imaginable way.
His arms tightened, urging her closer. She responded, pressing her body to his, her hands sliding back through his hair, then away as she locked her arms about his neck and clung. In his mind, he smiled, purely predatory, then eased his hold on her and let his hands roam.
Heard her breathing hitch as he closed his hands over her gorgeous breasts, full and firm, and kneaded. Sensed the surge of unadulterated desire that rose within her as he played, as he teased her senses
awake, as he opened her eyes to sensual pleasure.
Their lips melded, a connection, a communication she clung to; his attention switched from her swollen breasts, from the ruched nipples pressing into his palms, to the succulent delight of her mouth, of her lips and her increasingly educated tongue.
She delighted him, simply and sincerely engaged with him; as he eased his hands from the now tight mounds of her breasts, he gave thanks for her directness, for her straightforward honesty, even in this.
Her clear and unequivocal encouragement wasn’t in doubt; she pressed kiss after increasingly scorching kiss on his lips, pressed close and ever closer, sliding her body, all lush curves and supple grace, against his.
He sent his hands sliding, palms beneath her robe, over the fine fabric of her nightgown, so thin it provided a mere whisper of separation between his skin and hers. He traced the indentation of her waist, let his fingers grip her hips, then ease as he explored, then he gave in to temptation and slid both hands down to cup her bottom. Lifting her against him, into him, he flagrantly molded her hips to him, to the rigid column of his erection.
Her breathing fractured, but she didn’t draw back. Instead, she gripped his face again, and pressed ever more heated, ever more eager kisses on him.
He thrust against her, suggestive yet restrained, and was rewarded with a gasp, smothered between their lips.
Thinking was no longer necessary. Juggling her, he stripped off her robe, left it lying on the floor as he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
They broke from the kiss as he laid her down, yet when from beneath heavy lids her eyes met his, he detected no hint of second thoughts, of hesitation. Only a steady, unwavering purpose he was coming to recognize as intrinsically her.
Her arms, twined about his neck, had eased; now she tightened them, and drew him back to her—drew him down to the bed and her. He went with no more hesitation than she. After a long-drawn, incendiary kiss, one that left his mind reeling, he drew back and shrugged out of his coat, sat up and leaned down to ease off his boots. As the second boot thudded on the floor, he turned back to her, into the arms she held waiting. Stretching alongside her, he leaned over her, brushed back her hair and framed her face with one hand, found her lips with his, and filled her mouth.
Heat and longing poured through Jacqueline; she’d never felt so alive. So energized, so excited. Whatever he would show her she wanted to know, wherever he led, she wanted to explore. The reciprocity of their kisses had fascinated her before; now, the mutual give and take of their exchange had deepened, extending into a landscape she’d never seen, never even known existed—she wanted with all her heart, all the passion she’d held inside for so long, to go forward with him and learn more.
The candle on the mantelpiece across the room guttered. Shadows closed in, gently cloaking. Their eyes had adjusted; they could both see well enough—enough for her to glimpse his fingers as they undid the buttons down the front of her nightgown, for her to see his hand slide beneath the gaping placket. Then he touched her, and her lids fell; for long minutes, her senses condensed to tactile sensation, to experiencing every thrill his knowing caresses lavished on her willing flesh, to communicating through lips and tongue as he fondled, and taught her.
But then he drew back from the kiss. He held her gaze as he reached up and pushed her nightgown off her shoulder, baring her breast. She quelled a shiver, looked down, lost all ability to breathe as she watched his hand return to her breast, fondling knowingly, pandering to her senses.
A minute passed, and she learned to breathe again, then he shifted, kissed her once, thoroughly, then nudged her chin up and trailed kisses down her throat, and on—to her breast. He caressed the swollen curves, then traced a path to one tightly furled nipple. Licked, laved, then took it into his mouth, and suckled lightly.
Sensation, sharp, powerful as lightning, struck; she gasped, arched, her mind scrambling to absorb and acknowledge the sensations. Then his tongue swept her nipple, languorous and soothing. Heat spilled through her and she moaned, arching beneath him, clasping his head, wordlessly inviting more.
Which he gave. Unstintingly.
Caught in the landscape he’d conjured, she remained aware, unafraid—eager to go on. Increasingly desperate, although for what she longed she wasn’t sure, other than it was more.
He seemed to know. To understand the giddy, rushing tide that had caught her and was sweeping her on. Through quick, assessing glances, through sultry, knowing, measuring looks, he kept watch over her and guided her; this was a place he’d been to many times—he knew the ways.
That he enjoyed his role as mentor and guide she had no doubt. Her breasts seemed to fascinate him as much as his fascination with them enthralled her. He seemed addicted to tasting her—her lips, her skin, every curve of her breasts and throat. In the poor light, she couldn’t see the desire glowing in his eyes, yet she felt it; like a flame, it caressed and heated, warmed and reassured. The predatory tension that had infused him, that rode every muscle and turned it to steel, was, she instinctively knew, another sign—there was an aura of leashed aggression in him, one she’d evoked from the first, and increasingly sensed in his response to her.
It didn’t frighten her; it excited her. Almost unbearably.
Seizing his face, she pressed a blatantly inciting kiss on him—and refused to let him go. She demanded he respond; within seconds they were engaged in a heated duel as she wantonly challenged him.
His hand gripped her hip, tensing, then released; she felt his fingers sweep down her thigh, over her knee. Then they slid beneath the hem of her nightgown. Boldly traced upward, lightly brushing the sensitive inner face of her thigh. Heat pooled low within her, throbbing, aching…then he touched the curls at the apex of her thighs.
Every nerve leapt; every sense focused, following his touch, tracking each and every light caress. She shifted beneath him, hips lifting, wanting more.
A sense of urgency welled and flooded her.
Shifting over her, he grasped her knee, pressed it wide, anchored it with his as his tongue plunged into her mouth and hotly plundered.
For an instant she was distracted, then she felt his palm sweep inward along her thigh, and he cupped her.
She felt the touch keenly, so intimate, so knowing. She stilled, expecting to be shocked…instead, desire surged and rushed through her, a hot tide that swept her into a sea of greedy need and wanton delight.
He caressed; beyond thought, totally captured by feeling, she moved against him, wordlessly communing.
He understood her need, her urgency. He intimately explored her as she gasped through their kiss. Left no part of her softness untouched, uncaressed.
And she was spinning, her senses whirling, her nerves coiled tighter than any spring. She wanted to beg for more, to urge him on, but he held her to the kiss, filled her mouth and her senses completely with his maleness, then the kiss eased—as he slid one long finger into her.
She could no longer breathe, no longer think; she could only feel as he explored and learned—and she learned, too. Learned how desperate for his touch she could grow, how hot, how burning, how insistent her need for whatever came next could become.
He knew, and led her unerringly on, until her senses sparked, then ignited, until her nerves unraveled, until her existence fractured and stars rushed down her veins to explode in molten glory.
Spreading pleasure and delight through her.
She found herself floating in a golden sea, physical content lapping over and about her, barely sentient, yet aware that he hadn’t left her.
That he hadn’t…
Gerrard watched completion claim her; he’d never seen any sight so gratifying, so soothing to his male ego. He ached, literally throbbed with the need to take her, to follow their road to its natural end, yet even as he acknowledged the pressure, he knew he wouldn’t—not yet.
Despite her certainty, her unwavering sureness, she was too new to this. Too innocent to simply seize. Easing his fingers from the scorching slickness of her body, he gently drew her nightgown down. He continued to ignore his clamoring demons, and simply watched her.
When her lids finally fluttered, then rose, he leaned down and kissed her, openly possessive, then drew back. Even in the dim light, he could sense her confusion, could feel it in the way her fingers gripped his sleeve. He reached for them; taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingers, then leaned over her once more to brush her mouth. “Not yet.” He murmured the words against her swollen lips, then drew back and sat up.
Her fingers tensed on his. She frowned. “I…don’t understand.”
He let his lips twist wryly. Sliding his fingers from hers, he reached for his boots. “I know. But there’s no need to rush—and going any further now would be rushing.”
That was crystal clear in his mind. Regardless, he was a man, not a saint; he wasn’t strong enough to hold against any entreaties, especially from her, especially now. Boots on, he rose and reached for his coat. “Sleep well—I’ll see you in the morning.”
He forced himself to shrug on his coat, then turn and cross to the door. Opening it, without looking back he went out and quietly shut it behind him.
As he walked to his room, he owned to amazement. His nature wasn’t gentle or understanding; it certainly wasn’t self-sacrificing. In situations such as this, he was commanding and demanding. If a lady offered, he took.
She’d urged him to take her, had wanted him to, her invitation clear and repeated, yet for her, for the sake of what he and she needed to explore, for the sake of what was growing between them, he’d found it, if not easy, then at least possible, more,desirable, to walk away.
Quite what that said of what was growing between them, he didn’t want to think.
Contrary to his expectations, he slept well enough—the sleep of the righteous, no doubt. By the time he walked into the breakfast parlor, he was focused on one thing—pressing ahead with the portrait.
Elements of it were clear in his mind, yet the exact composition still eluded him. Until he had that clear, he couldn’t start.
Immediately after breakfast ended, he commandeered Jacqueline—who seemed perfectly ready to be commandeered—simultaneously rejecting a suggestion from Barnaby that they ought to ride into St. Just and listen to what was being said about Thomas Entwhistle’s murder.
Unperturbed, Barnaby shrugged, and went without them.
Gerrard paced the terrace until Jacqueline joined him, then, her hand locked in his, he towed her into the gardens.
He took her first to the Garden of Apollo, to where the sundial stood in its small section of lawn. Setting down his sketch pad and pencils, he led her to the sundial, and posed her as he wished, standing beside it. He looked at her face; her eyes met his.
For one long instant, they studied each other—he searched for any hint of the maidenly fluster he’d expected but thus far had failed to detect. Last night, she’d bared her breasts to him, let him touch her intimately, writhed and gasped beneath him as he’d brought her to glory; he’d more than half-expected some degree of retreat.
Instead, her customary certainty shone from her eyes. Steady, unwavering, sure. They stood only a foot apart, yet a light smile flirted about her lips…as if she knew what he was looking for and was delighting in confounding him.
He humphed, then bent his head and swiftly kissed her. “Stay there.” Without meeting her eyes again, he turned and strode back to his sketch pad.
That exchange set the tone for their morning. They talked, but their words remained light, their meaning superficial, their true communication carried by looks, glances, fleeting touches. They were both not on edge, but aware—each hyperaware of the other, but also aware of other sensations, like the lilting breeze, the caress of the sun, the perfumes and colors and shifting shade as they moved about the gardens.
The luncheon gong rang and they returned to the house. Millicent joined them; Barnaby had yet to return and Mitchel remained in his office.
Millicent appeared a trifle distracted. “I’m not at all sure how best to handle the inquiries.” Gerrard frowned. “Inquiries?”
“Well…” Millicent waved her fork. “Abody was found in the gardens. That of a young man who disappeared and who we all thought of as Jacqueline’sfiancé. We’ll have a horde of visitors this afternoon, I assure you. The only reason they haven’t appeared yet is that it was probably too late for a morning visit by the time they heard.”
As usual, concentrating on his work had driven all other considerations from his head. He looked at Jacqueline, and sensed her drawing back, sealing herself off behind that inner barrier she’d perfected to deal with her world.
“Can you manage alone?” He looked at Millicent. “I’m afraid I need Jacqueline for the rest of the day. I need to define the exact pose before I can start the portrait—and we clearly need the portrait finished without delay.”
Millicent thought. “Actually, it might be better if Jacquelinewasn’t present.” With a determined air, she turned to Jacqueline. “I wasn’t here when Thomas disappeared, so it’s easier for me to stick to the facts without acknowledging any of the speculation. And without you there, they’ll find it difficult to introduce any suggestion of involvement on your part. No, indeed.” Turning back to Gerrard, she nodded. “By all means devote yourselves to the portrait, and leave me to deal with the rumormongers.”
Gerrard smiled, but glanced at Jacqueline, his question in his eyes.
She met his gaze, chin firm, but then nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, Aunt. The less opportunity they have to air their mistaken beliefs, the better.”
But when he led her back to the gardens, her concern remained. He said nothing; her distance wasn’t an issue as today he was working with her body, her pose, not her face and expressions. Those he was coming to know very well. As for her body…
Her distraction helped, allowing him to concentrate on her figure, on the lines of her body, without evoking in her the sort of awareness that would, in turn, arouse him. Distract him. He took her into the Garden of Poseidon, posing her again at the head of the long pool, some yards before the entrance to the Garden of Night. He positioned her, then stepped back and sketched, not so much her—he merely outlined her body—but the setting.
Exercising a painter’s sleight of hand, he altered the perspective so that in the sketch she appeared to be standing within the entrance, framed by it.
The afternoon light was perfect, illuminating the entrance yet leaving all beyond it in shadow. In the portrait, the scene would be lit by moonlight—the hardest of all lights to use—but today’s clarity gave him all the lines he would need, sharply delineating every vine leaf, every twisting, trailing shoot.
Once he had her outline set within the frame, he waved her to a seat nearby. “I’m working on background. I have all I need of you for the present—you can rest.”
Jerked from her less-than-heartening reverie, Jacqueline inwardly raised her brows. From his tone, definitely his painter’s voice, it sounded more as if she was in his way. Not that she minded; she’d been standing for most of the day. Crossing to the wrought-iron seat set before a thickly planted border, she sank onto it. Leaning on the arm, she looked at him.
She expected her mind to return to wondering how Millicent was coping in the drawing room, and what the attitude of the visiting ladies was. She was very much afraid she knew; they’d assume she was guilty of Thomas’s murder, too. The idea hurt almost as much as her realization, when she’d emerged from deep mourning, that they thought she’d killed her mother.
Such matters certainly intruded, but with her eyes on Gerrard, they failed to capture her mind. Instead, she thought of him—not just of last night, and the pleasure he’d introduced her to, not just of his clear expectation that she would succumb to feminine fluster over it, and might regret it, not of the fact that she hadn’t, and didn’t, but of him. Just him.
The concentration in his face, in his stance, the sense of immense energy he focused on his work, was enthralling. Watching him wield it for her, in the creation of the portrait that by his own words he saw as freeing her from her strange prison, moved her and held her attention completely.
It was, in a way, like watching her champion battle in the lists for her; like any such lady, she couldn’t look away.
Eventually, he looked down, and considered his sketches. The fervor that had held him faded; she sensed he was content with what he’d achieved.
She was tempted, but having been warned, she didn’t ask to see what he’d done.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, he looked at her. He seemed to consider, then he scooped up his spare pencils, tucked them in a pocket, and strolled across to the seat.
He sat beside her; he met her eyes, then looked down and opened his sketch pad. “I want you to see the concept I’m working on.”
Astonished, she shifted to stare at him. “I thought you never, ever, showed your preliminary work to anyone?”
His lips thinned, but his voice remained even, if a trifle irritated. “Normally, I don’t, but in your case, you have a sufficiently artistic eye to understand, to see what I see, what I’m trying to capture.”
She studied his profile, then shifted closer and looked at the sketch pad. “So what are you trying to capture—”
She broke off as he showed her. The first sheet contained a sketch in barest outline—her, her body, poised within the entrance to the Garden of Night. The next contained details of the entrance; those following filled in various sections of the arched entry, and then came a set defining various elements and aspects.
It was apparent why he so rarely showed such preliminary work; she appreciated his trusting her to be able to interpret it, to fuse all the sketches to get some idea of the final work.
“Me escaping the Garden of Night.” Just saying the words, she felt the concept’s power. She looked at the entrance, gilded by the late afternoon sun, but with sultry, shadowy, oppressive gloom lurking behind it.
Watching her face, Gerrard saw that she’d seen and grasped his vision, that she understood. He’d broken his absolute, until-now-invariable rule because he’d wanted her to know that the portrait truly would be powerful enough to shatter all preconceived notions of her guilt, that it would speak of her innocence strongly enough to make people rethink, and revisit, their assumptions. Ultimately, that it would be powerful enough to evoke the specter of the real killer.
Her knowing that, believing that, would be important in making the whole work, in bringing life to the portrait that he was beyond convinced would be his greatest yet.
He hadn’t wanted her opinion, but her approval, and her support.
The thought was almost shocking; he bundled it out of his mind as she looked at him.
“You haven’t yet sketched me in the entrance itself. I’m willing to pose there”—she glanced down at his sketches—“for this.”
He shook his head. “I don’t need you to do that—I’ll pose you in the studio. I want the scene lit by moonlight, and while I’ve done enough landscapes to know how to manage that for the setting, people are harder. I’ll need to work in candlelight, and convert that to moonlight.” He caught her gaze. “Your pose will be difficult as it is—indoors will be bad enough.”
She looked into his eyes, then pulled a face. “Thank you for the warning.” She glanced toward the Garden of Night. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
They both turned as footsteps sounded, swinging down through the Garden of Vesta. “Barnaby.” Gerrard closed his sketchbook.
“I wonder if he’s been up to the house?”
Barnaby emerged from the path and saw them. He grinned and ambled over. “Richards said he thought you were here. I decided, after the exigencies of my morning, that I shouldn’t place any further strain on my temper—according to Richards there’s a platoon of local ladies in the drawing room.”
Subsiding onto the grass before the seat, Barnaby heaved a long sigh, then stretched out, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.
Gerrard grinned; he prodded Barnaby with his boot. “So report—what did you learn in St. Just?”
Barnaby’s features set; it was instantly apparent whatever he’d discovered hadn’t made him happy. “It’s nonsensical. Well, no, I can—just possibly—understand that people do leap to conclusions based on precious little fact, and the only widely known fact regarding Thomas’s disappearance and now death is that the last person to have seen him, and what’s more, to have been in the gardens with him, is Jacqueline.”
Opening his eyes, Barnaby looked at her. “If I hadn’t experienced it myself, I wouldn’t have believed how widespread, or indeed how entrenched, suspicion against you is. As it was, I had to be careful what I said—how much I let out and, most importantly, how I reacted to—” Clearly frustrated, he gestured with both hands. “ ‘Established fact’!”
Looking at Jacqueline, Barnaby assayed a grin. “I assure you, I deserve a medal for discretion.” He glanced at Gerrard, met his eyes. “But it was distressing, and rather unnerving.”
Gerrard frowned. Barnaby didn’t use words like “distressing” and “unnerving” without cause. Indeed, very little unnerved Barnaby.
Lying back, eyes closed, Barnaby refolded his arms, frowning, too. Eventually, Gerrard asked, “What are you thinking?” It was patently obvious something portentous was brewing in Barnaby’s brain.
Barnaby sighed. “I honestly think we have to act now—not leave everything until later, until the portrait’s finished and we can use it to open people’s eyes.” Opening his own, he looked up at them both. “The portrait’s critical to making people rethink their views of your mother’s murder, but Thomas…” His gaze rested on Jacqueline. “That’s another case, and we can’t let them hang the blame on you without cause. If we let it go, let them think what they are without challenging itnow, then we’re going to face a much harder battle to make them open their minds later.”
Barnaby looked at Gerrard. “I think we need to speak to Tregonning—lay before him the clear evidence Jacqueline was in no way involved in Thomas’s murder, and also the facts demonstrating she’s innocent of her mother’s murder, too.”
Jacqueline drew a not entirely steady breath. “Why do we need to convince Papa?”
Barnaby met her gaze. “Because we need to present a united front, first to last, and when it comes to the local gentry, his attitude is the most crucial. Millicent’s, Gerrard’s, and my opinions are all very well, but if your father doesn’t support you, well, you can see how hard it’s going to be.”
Abruptly, Barnaby lay back and shook his fists at the sky. “And it shouldn’t be hard because you’renot guilty !”
He glanced at them both. “Sorry, but I really think we need to recruit Lord Tregonning.” 10
Barnaby was right. If they allowed the discovery of Thomas’s body and the consequent speculation to be used to establish Jacqueline as a disturbed double murderess, then their task of opening all eyes with the portrait would be immeasurably more difficult.
They discussed speaking with Lord Tregonning. Jacqueline vacillated.
“Papa was devastated by my mother’s death.” She glanced at Gerrard. “It’s the pain, the opening up of the wound, that makes him shy away from consideringhow she died. On top of that, he more than anyone is afraid that if he looks too closely, he’ll see that it was me.”
“That’s just it,” Barnaby insisted. “The current situation isn’t about your mother’s death, but Thomas’s.” Gerrard reached out, took Jacqueline’s hand, captured her gaze when she looked at him. “Barnaby’s
right—we should approach your father now, when the principal focus is Thomas’s murder. However”—with one finger he stroked the back of her hand—“I think you’re underestimating your father—he’s already moved to address the question of your mother’s death. He went to considerable lengths to persuade me to paint your portrait.”
He watched her digest that. Eventually, after another glance at Barnaby—who responded with an encouraging, puppy-eager look, making her smile—she looked back at him, and nodded. “Very well. We’ll beard Papa.”
They bearded Millicent first; when they returned to the house, they found her slumped on the chaise in the drawing room. She jerked to life when they entered, but when she saw who it was, she fell back once more.
“My dear heaven, I’ve never met such gossipmongers in my life!” She paused, then added, “Of course, that did make it easier to learn their thoughts and raise the questions we want them to consider. I didn’t have to introduce the subject of the body—that was what they’d come to talk about.”
“How successful were you,” Barnaby asked, “in making them wonder who killed Thomas?”
Millicent frowned. “My success varied, I’m sorry to say, but oddly enough it was Marjorie Elcott who grasped the facts most definitely, which is extremely fortunate as she’s the biggest gossip in the neighborhood.”
“Who else called?” Gerrard asked.
Millicent rattled off a list of names, which included all those local ladies he and Barnaby had met.
“Mrs. Myles and Maria Fritham didn’t seem able to absorb the point that if Thomas couldn’t have been killed by a woman, then Jacqueline obviously wasn’t his killer. Mrs. Hancock and Miss Curtis were more attentive, as was Lady Trewarren, although I fear her ladyship ended simply confused. Others, too, seemed to lose all interest immediately one started talking offacts .” Millicent grimaced. “Still, it was
better than them thinkingI credited the speculation so many of them seem to have swallowed whole.” Sinking onto the chaise beside Millicent, Jacqueline touched her arm. “Thank you, Aunt.”
Millicent humphed and patted Jacqueline’s hand. “I only wish there was more we could do. It was distressing to see how widespread—and deeply rooted—this belief in your guilt is, my dear. Most worrying.” She glanced at Barnaby, whom she’d unknowingly echoed. “I do wonder, you know, if someone—some specific someone—hasn’t been intentionally spreading whispers. Not just recently, but over time. I asked a few of the ladieswhy they thought as they did—I got the same response every time: a blank look, and, ‘But everyone knows…’”
Barnaby grimaced. “That’s a difficult belief to challenge.”
“Especially when they delicately refrain from elucidating preciselywhat everyone knows!”
“Indeed.” Gerrard sat in the armchair facing the chaise. “That’s why we’ve concluded we need to start a more definite campaign now, rather than wait until the portrait is complete.”
Concisely, with a few interjections from Barnaby, he outlined their new tack.
“I agree,” Jacqueline said. “As Mr. Debbington pointed out, Papa has already made an effort to address the question of Mama’s death by commissioning my portrait.”
Millicent nodded. “That’s true.” She looked at Gerrard. “As I mentioned, I haven’t spent much of my life here. Consequently, I don’t know Marcus that well. However, I do know he loved Miribelle, not just deeply but as if she were his sun, moon and stars. She was everything to him, but he also loves Jacqueline. Whoever is behind this—not just the two murders but the casting of Jacqueline as scapegoat—has placed my brother in a dreadful position, one I’m sure has been tearing him apart.
Suspecting Jacqueline of killing Miribelle…” Millicent paused, then gruffly huffed. “Indeed, poor Marcus has been a living and, it seems, quite deliberate victim of this killer, too.”
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.”
They 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 Ididn’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 itmight 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, thenour 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 meanwe 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.”
Lord Tregonning humphed. “Well, I count on you all to make the most of it—I’m not one for conversation, certainly not what passes for such in ballrooms these days.”
“Don’t worry,” Barnaby said. “When it comes to playing social games, Gerrard and I have been trained by experts.”
“Speaking of which,” Gerrard said, “Jacqueline’s gown, her whole presentation, will need to be perfectly gauged.”
Millicent nodded. “We must go through your wardrobe, dear. Perhaps, Mr. Debbington, you could assist us with your opinion?”
Gerrard bowed. “I’d be delighted to oblige, ma’am.” Jacqueline cast him a sharp glance, but he didn’t meet her eyes.
“We’ll need to set the stage with minor appearances before the ball,” Millicent went on. “Maria Fritham’s regular at-home is tomorrow morning—that’s an excellent venue for young and old. And in the afternoon, I believe we should call on my old friend Lady Tannahay. She’s closely acquainted with the Entwhistles—I think we should ensure that they hear our facts. Aside from all else, they deserve a clear accounting of all we know, and Elsie will deliver that for us.”
Gerrard raised a brow at Barnaby, who met it with a resigned look. Gerrard turned to Millicent. “We’ll be honored to escort you and Miss Tregonning, ma’am.”
Manipulating society’s views necessarily meant being socially active. Although he saw painting Jacqueline’s portrait as his primary and most important contribution to rescuing her from the situation, Gerrard believed in the arguments they’d expounded. They had to stem the social tide first, before it swept Jacqueline away.
Thus it was that the next morning, he and Barnaby found themselves engaged in precisely the activity they’d fled London to avoid—doing the pretty by various young misses in some lady’s drawing room.
Lady Fritham’s at-home was well attended. From the sudden hiatus in the conversations and the round-eyed looks cast their way as they entered, the principal topic of interest wasn’t hard to guess.
Millicent led them in, sweeping in confidently, a transparently relaxed smile on her lips.
Rising from the chaise to greet her, Lady Fritham wasn’t quite sure what to make of that smile. “Millicent, dear.” Her ladyship touched cheeks. “I’m delighted to see you.” Lady Fritham drew back, eyeing Millicent searchingly. “And in such good spirits.”
Her ladyship’s gaze deflected to Jacqueline, following Millicent, a similar open and easy expression on her face. Lightly frowning, Lady Fritham looked back at Millicent. “I had wondered if this latest dreadful news would…well,weigh on you, and Jacqueline, too, of course.”
Millicent raised her brows. “Well, dear, while having a dead body discovered moldering in the far-flung reaches of our gardens was certainly a shock, especially when we learned it was that poor boy Thomas, wedid all suspect foul play years ago, when he disappeared, so finally finding incontrovertible proof of that, while admittedly distressing, is hardly the sort of news to knock one prostrate. It’s not as if anyone in the household, nor even the staff, are suspected of the crime.”
Lady Fritham blinked. “They aren’t—no, well, of course they aren’t…”
Millicent patted her hand. “I did explain it yesterday—you must not have heard—but it’s patently clear poor Thomas was struck down by some man while up on the northern ridge. It seems it could have been anyone—any man, that is—that Thomas knew. That’s all we know.”
Millicent turned to Gerrard and Barnaby, who had followed Jacqueline. “Mr. Adair and Mr. Debbington know much more of the details than I—I’m sure they’ll be happy to elucidate.”
As they’d arranged during the drive to Tresdale Manor, Barnaby stepped in to appease the curiosity of the matrons congregated about Lady Fritham while Millicent circulated to spread their news. After exchanging greetings, Gerrard escorted Jacqueline to join the knots of younger callers scattered about the room.
Her hand on his sleeve, she kept her head high and her easy smile in place, yet despite her outward composure, he sensed her tension. This was her first public appearance since Thomas’s body had been found; it was important she strike the right note.
They’d briefly discussed how she should behave, that when addressing Thomas’s or her mother’s death,
she had to stop herself from retreating, from withdrawing behind her inner shields. To all who’d known her previously as an openhearted, extroverted soul, the change in her could too easily be—indeed, had so easily been—misperceived as evidence of a guilty conscience.
Three long double windows stood open to the garden; the younger crew had gathered in fluid groups before them. Guiding her to the first group, he murmured, “Just be yourself—that will be enough.”
She shot him a swift glance, then looked ahead, smiled and greeted Mary Hancock.
Wide-eyed, Mary returned her greeting. “It must have been a horrible shock to learn the body was Thomas’s.”
Jacqueline appeared to consult her feelings, then evenly replied, “I think I was more sad than shocked. We’d always suspected he’d met with foul play, but I had hoped there might be some other explanation.” She drew in a breath and released it in a sigh. “However, that wasn’t the case, and we must now hope that it’ll be possible to find the man who murdered him and bring the miscreant to justice.”
Sincerity rang in her tone. Mary nodded, clearly struck, as was Roger Myles beside her.
Others were not so perceptive; across the circle, Cecily Hancock’s lips thinned, then curled. Gerrard saw a nasty, dismissive comment form on her tongue; she opened her mouth—he caught her eye.
After a moment, she swallowed her comment whole and merely, very quietly, humphed.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to responding to any of the detailed questions they’d agreed Jacqueline should, with proper maidenly reserve, refrain from answering.
Between them, they succeeded in casting doubt on what had been the prevailing if unvoiced suspicion over Thomas’s death.
After that first encounter, Jacqueline relaxed a trifle. By the time they’d spoken with and weathered the group before the second set of windows, she’d settled more comfortably into being herself. Her inner barriers, while still present, were less rigid, less formidable. Less apparent.
He’d thought he’d kept his satisfaction in that last to himself, but as they strolled to the third group, she pinched his arm. “What is it?”
He glanced at her, realized she’d sensed his response; keeping his expression impassive, he looked ahead. “Nothing.”
Eradicating her inner shields, wiping away the fear and distrust that had fashioned them so that she could once again openly be the woman he knew she was, so that not only her innocence, but her generous heart, her courage, her steadfastness of character could shine…that was now a personal goal, one of serious importance to him.
Jordan and Eleanor were in the last group, as was Giles Trewarren. Eleanor and Giles made room for them. They greeted the others, then Jordan smiled at Jacqueline, his attitude supercilious and arrogant as ever, yet he clearly intended to be conciliating. “My dear, don’t let the rumors of the ill-formed distress you—none of us who know you believe anything of the sort.”
The comment fell into a sudden silence. Some of the others colored, while Clara Myles and Cedric
Trewarren, who had chatted earlier with Barnaby, looked confused; they were the only ones in the group who had caught up with recent developments. Gerrard debated stepping in and, as an outsider able to claim complete ignorance, baldly asking what the devil Jordan meant—Jacqueline beat him to it.
She frowned, openly puzzled. “Whatever do you mean, Jordan? What rumors?”
Jordan blinked. He studied her face; his leached of all expression. He glanced around the circle. “I—ah…that is…”
Eleanor, beside Jacqueline, leaned closer and laid a hand on her arm. “What Jordan means”—she lowered her voice—“is that, what with the discovery of Thomas’s body in your gardens, the ill-informed have been indulging in speculation. We just wanted you to know we don’t believe a word of it.”
Jacqueline met Eleanor’s eyes; she held to her puzzled frown for a moment longer, then let it dissolve into an understanding smile. “Dear Eleanor.” She patted Eleanor’s hand. “You’re such a good friend, but truly, now Thomas’s body has been found, the only question in the minds of those who know the details is who the man who killed him was.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. She searched Jacqueline’s face. “Man?”
Jacqueline nodded; she was starting to enjoy this—enjoy tackling the rumors directly. “It seems Thomas went with some man up to the point on the northern ridge, then the man hit him with a rock and killed him. The body rolled down into the garden and the killer covered it with cypress needles.”
Clara shivered. “It’s horrible even to think of.”
“It must have been a shock to realize it was Thomas’s body.” Giles looked politely inquisitive, but there was also understanding in his gaze. “Mama said it was you who identified Thomas’s watch.”
Jacqueline nodded. “It was a shock at the time. Now I just feel sad. It’s terrible to think of some man killing Thomas like that.”
Gerrard listened as she responded to helpful questions, using them to reiterate the facts they wished stressed, steadily dissipating the cloud of, as Eleanor had termed it, ill-informed speculation. Jacqueline referred any who asked for more details to Barnaby.
Jordan and Eleanor exchanged glances; they clearly felt awkward over having commented on rumors that were being so openly debunked. They remained unusually silent, but they listened as the others drew Jacqueline out, and she obliged. She’d grown rock-steady over how to present their case; her assurance and self-confidence increasingly showed.
It was a convincing performance.
By the time Millicent summoned them, declaring herself ready to leave, Gerrard had no doubt that, with steady application, they would lay the killer’s whispers to rest.
They returned to the Hall just in time for luncheon. To their surprise, Lord Tregonning joined them; he was eager to hear the results of their first foray. Mitchel Cunningham was out about the estate, allowing a more relaxed exchange of information. Barnaby was in fine fettle—he actually made Lord Tregonning
laugh.
Gerrard looked at Jacqueline, saw the change in her face, in her eyes, and knew it had been a long time since she’d heard such a sound from her father. She blinked and looked down. After a moment, she patted her lips with her napkin and looked up once more, composed again.
That moment of fleeting emotion prodded Gerrard; he needed to get started on the painting. When they rose from the table, he confirmed that they would leave at three o’clock for Lady Tannahay’s.
In the front hall, he bowed to Millicent and Jacqueline. “I need to sort things out in the studio. I’ll join you here at three.”
“Yes, of course, dear.” Millicent waved him off and swept toward the parlor. Barnaby followed, continuing their conversation regarding the new police force in the capital.
Jacqueline remained. She met his eyes. “Thank you for your support this morning.”
He held her gaze, then, reaching out, took her hand, smoothly raised it to his lips and lightly kissed. “It was entirely my pleasure. I’m glad we made such a good fist of it.”
He released her. Turning, he left her, but was aware that she watched him walk away, until he turned the corner and passed out of her sight.
What ho?” Barnaby strolled through the studio door, and looked around with interest. Gerrard glanced up from the sketches he was sorting, grunted, then returned to his task.
Barnaby drifted about the room, eventually stopping by the window. Leaning his shoulders against the frame, he sank his hands into his pockets and looked at Gerrard. “So—how long do you think it’s going to take?”
“The portrait?” Gerrard replaced one sketch on the table with one of those he held in his hands. Critically examining the series laid out before him, he murmured, “I think I can do it fairly quickly. Some portraits form a lot faster than others—in this case, I already know exactly what I want to show, how the whole has to look. I just need to get to it.”
Head on one side, he studied the sketches. “I’m going to paint the setting first, then pose Jacqueline separately, and place her in it. Given I know how I want to portray both…a month might see it done.”
“Hmm…” Barnaby had been studying him. “I can see you’re keen to get started—there’s no reason you need to act as social escort.”
Gerrard glanced up.
Barnaby struck a pose. “Devoted friend that I am, I’m prepared to make a telling sacrifice and take your place at every blessed afternoon tea.”
Gerrard laughed. “I’m not that gullible. You love gossiping, especially being the center of attention when there’s a murder to discuss. And although the dear ladies might not know it,I know you’re sounding them
out, ferreting about for any little clues they have tucked away under their bonnets.”
Unrepentant, Barnaby grinned. “True. But I meant what I said. If you’d rather stay here and get a start on the portrait, I’ll engage to stick by Jacqueline’s side. Besides, if I understood Millicent correctly, this afternoon will be a private call.”
Perched on his stool, Gerrard stared at his sketches. They called to him, lured him to focus on them, on the painting he would create from them; he was itching to commence. Barnaby’s offer was tempting, except …
He shook his head. “No. I’ll play escort, too. We did well this morning, partly because we could divide and conquer. You’re a dab hand with the matrons, and I can wield my exotic status to good effect with the younger crew. Together, we’re the perfect support for Millicent and Jacqueline.”
And if he wasn’t with them, by Jacqueline’s side, ready and able to ease her path, to ensure no one did anything to damage her emerging confidence…he’d never be able to concentrate on painting, anyway. “Let’s leave things as they are—I can paint at night.”
Barnaby studied his expression, which he kept studiously impassive, then nodded. “If you’re sure.” Barnaby pushed away from the window. “I’ll leave you to it, then—I’ll see you in the front hall at three o’clock.”
Gerrard nodded, and let his sketches claim him once more.
Their call on Lady Tannahay, at nearby Tannahay Grange, proved to be as Barnaby had foreseen, a private call. Millicent sent in her card; within minutes, they were ushered into the presence of her old friend.
Elsevia—Elsie—Lady Tannahay, was a gracious lady a few years senior to Millicent; she greeted them with unreserved friendliness, and a shrewd look in her eye. She waved them to seats in her comfortable drawing room. “Do sit down. You positivelymust tell me all about this strange business of poor Thomas Entwhistle’s body.”
Millicent was only too ready to do so; Gerrard sat back and watched while she, with sterling support from Barnaby, explained all that was now known of how Thomas Entwhistle had died.
By the time they’d taken tea, disposed of a plate of delicious cakes, and their tale was told, Lady Tannahay had dropped all pretense of idle interest.
“Well!”She sat back and regarded them all, then brought her gaze to rest on Jacqueline. “My dear, I do hope you’ll permit me to share this news—all you’ve told me—with Sir Harvey and Madeline Entwhistle. Poor dears, they’ve never been sure what to think, and”—Lady Tannahay’s bright eyes flashed—“I can imagine only too well what that doddering fool Godfrey Marks would have said—or more to the point, not said, if you take my meaning.”
Her ladyship fell silent, apparently pondering the failings of Sir Godfrey, then she refocused on Jacqueline. “While knowing Thomas’s body has finally been found is a relief in itself, knowing more—especially who they don’t have to suspect—will greatly ease Harvey and Maddy’s minds. Please do say I may tell them all you’ve told me?”
Jacqueline smiled, understanding and compassion in her eyes. “Indeed, ma’am, we had hoped you might consent to act as ambassador. We wouldn’t wish to intrude on the Entwhistles at this time, not while the questions that must still be in their minds have yet to be laid to rest.”
Lady Tannahay beamed. “You may leave it to me, child. I’ll ensure the facts as Mr. Adair and others have determined them are conveyedaccurately to Harvey and Maddy.” She set down her teacup, and looked inquiringly at Millicent. “You will be attending the Summer Hunt Ball, won’t you?”
Millicent smiled brilliantly. “Indeed we will. And so will Marcus.”
Lady Tannahay’s eyes widened. “Oh,my !” After a moment, she added, in the tone of one anticipating some excellent entertainment, “How positively delightful.”
11
They returned to Hellebore Hall thoroughly satisfied with their afternoon’s endeavors. The evening passed quietly. After dinner, Gerrard excused himself, leaving Barnaby to convey his apologies and entertain Jacqueline and Millicent in the drawing room. Climbing the stairs, he imagined Jacqueline laughing gaily at one of Barnaby’s tales, and felt something within him stir; as he unlocked the door to the studio and went in, he realized what that something was.
Jealousy.
He stood for a moment, then pocketed the key and closed the door; faintly uneasy, he crossed to the table where the sketches he’d earlier selected lay waiting.
The sight of them helped push his unsettling, uncharacteristic reaction from his mind.
He’d instructed Compton to leave the five lamps stationed about the room alight. The flames had had time to steady; they cast even, un-flickering light across his easel, and the large blank canvas clamped upon it. For long moments, he stood staring at the sketches, absorbing all they conveyed—shape, form, energy. Then he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on a chair. Rolling up his sleeves, he searched through his pencils; selecting one with a lead worn to precisely the right angle, he picked up the first sketch, and turned to the canvas.
He worked steadily, pausing only to exchange one sketch for the next. Each represented another aspect, another layer of the menacing mystery with which he wanted to imbue his setting—the entrance to the Garden of Night. Never had he worked like this before, from the surroundings inward. He was driven by instinct, by unfathomable conviction that that was the way this portrait had to be approached.
It made sense, in a way, although he barely paused to consider it; Jacqueline would be the central and crucial last element—the core, the meaning, the purpose behind the portrait. She would be the life in it; no matter how potent the surroundings, they wouldn’t—couldn’t—overwhelm her.
The clock doubtless ticked, but he remained oblivious, wholly absorbed in his work. Beyond the window, darkness closed in and night fell. On the floors below, the house quieted as the other occupants settled into their beds.
A slumbering silence enshrouded the house.
He sketched on, his pencil flying ever faster as the surroundings took shape, as he sketched in the barest outline of a figure as a future guide. The tones, the shading, formed in his mind, bringing the collection of fine lines to life, at least to his eyes.
The stairs beyond the studio door creaked, the sound sharp enough to penetrate his absorption. He glanced at the door, frowning. Compton knew better than to interrupt, as did Barnaby, not unless there was some desperate reason, something he had to know.
He heard someone moving beyond the door, then a light tap sounded on the panels. Not Compton, not Barnaby.
Even while his mind informed him who his midnight visitor most likely was, the knob turned and the door opened.
Jacqueline looked in.
She saw him; raising her brows, she half smiled. “May I come in?”
He looked at the canvas, at the thousand lines he’d laid down in the past hours; he couldn’t seem to focus. He looked back at her, half expecting her to be fuzzy, but his vision was clear and sharp; every sense he possessed had no difficulty locking on her.
Laying aside the last sketch, he waved her in, and promptly lost all interest in the canvas; he couldn’t drag his eyes from her as she stepped through the door, shut it, then turned and, smiling lightly, came toward him.
She was wearing a heavier robe than last night. This one was of ivory satin, belted at her waist, yet judging from the gauzy glimpses he caught at throat and calf, the nightgown beneath was close to diaphanous.
His mind immediately wanted to find out; his body reacted, not just to the question, but even more to the likely answer.
Dragging his gaze up to her face, fixing his eyes on hers, he stepped away from the easel. Grabbing a sketch pad and pencil in one hand, he grasped her elbow with the other, and turned her down the room. “Since you’re here, you have to let me sketch you.”
She looked at him; amusement flirted about her lips. “I do?”
He nodded; jaw set, he marched her to the window seat. And managed to release her. “Sit there.”
She did, and looked up at him, ivory satin spread about her. Her hair, lit by the lamps, glowed rich and warm and inviting, as were her lips, lush and full, softly sheening…
He forced himself to look around, then lifted his coat from the straight-backed chair and dropped it to the floor. Setting the chair at a safe distance, he sat; placing his ankle on his knee, he balanced his sketch pad—and looked at her. Instructed himself to view her as just another subject—and failed.
He made a swirling motion with one finger. “Swing around and lean one elbow on the sill.”
She did, shifting her hips, lifting one knee onto the padded seat to accommodate the pose.
The robe gaped, both over her breasts, and below her knees. Her nightgown was indeed diaphanous. The glimpses of pale, smooth skin left his mouth dry.
“Just stay there.” His voice had grown gravelly. He shut his lips, and drew—not one of his usual quick sketches but a study, a detailed work of line and shade that showed more, conveyed more.
And captured him fully, in a completely different way than any work before.
Even as he recorded the vulnerable line of her throat, the sirenlike quality of her luscious lips, the provocative curves of breasts, hips and thighs outlined beneath the subtle sheen of satin, he was simultaneously conscious of his own fascination, not, as was usual, with the medium with which he worked, but with his subject.
Conscious of his deepening enthrallment, helpless to resist.
Twenty minutes must have passed, and she made no complaint, but simply watched him steadily with her green-gold eyes. He captured that direct gaze, then studied what he’d drawn—there was no element of challenge in her eyes, but a simple certainty, a reflection of that steadiness of character that had attracted him from the first.
He looked up, and met her gaze. “There’s no need to seduce me.” If she could deal in blatant honesty, so could he.
Her eyes widened slightly, then the curve of her lips deepened. “Isn’t there?”
“No.” After a moment, he added, “You don’t seem to realize how dangerous this could be…to you.” And him. He no longer recognized the landscape into which they’d journeyed; when it came to her, he was no longer sure he recognized himself.
Jacqueline held his gaze, dark and frankly stormy, while she considered his words, his warning. Eventually, she replied, “I have thought of it, but I’ve decided the greater danger lies in inaction.”
He frowned, but she had no intention of explaining further. She had thought, at length; to her, her conclusions were sound. She had no guarantee he would remain in her orbit beyond the completion of her portrait; that evening, Barnaby had told her that that might mean she’d lose Gerrard’s company in less than two months.
Going slowly, carefully, was no longer an option. She wanted to know, to explore fully whatever it was that stirred and flared whenever they were close. He’d made it clear he would make no promises; that was as may be—she still had to know, had to grasp the opportunity fate had handed her, to explore this until now unknown arena.
Who knew when next she’d get the chance? He was the first and only man who’d ever made her feel like this.
Even more critically, what if, by not acting but instead taking the safe road, they missed something—unknowingly passed up an experience that, if given a chance to evolve and bloom, might lead to some vital development for them both?
Beyond doubt, not acting was the greater risk.
Lowering her elbow, she shifted, facing him. His gaze lowered, drawn to her full breasts outlined beneath her robe; his frown deepened, a degree of puzzlement quite clear.
“What is it?” she asked.
Lips thinning, he lifted his gaze to her face. “I was wondering if this was the natural outcome of keeping young ladies like you hidden away until the advanced age of twenty-three.”
She laughed.
Although patently distracted again, he continued, “If so…I can guarantee it’ll become all the rage.”
His eyes openly roamed, then returned to hers. He looked at her; desire burned steadily in his eyes, yet he didn’t move. Gave no sign at all that he would.
She set her feet to the floor, and slowly stood. Paused until her robe and nightgown slithered down, then she walked the few paces to stand before him. Boldly reaching for the sketch pad, she took it; his fingers tightened for an instant, then he let it go.
Turning it, she studied what he’d drawn.
Felt not so much shock as satisfied surprise warm her—was that truly her? There was a quiet sultriness in her face, a sirenlike quality in her gaze. A lush invitation in every line of her body, a body she recognized well enough, but had never before seen as blatantly sexual.
Now she saw through his eyes, understood, and was pleased.
She glanced at him, saw that he’d been tracking her emotions, her thoughts, in her face. “It’s very good.”
She handed the pad back to him. He took it, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. “Accurate, would you say?”
There was something in his eyes that warned her she was standing very close to some edge. She drew breath, found her lungs had constricted, not with fear but anticipation. “Yes.”
He dropped the pad; the pencil rolled away across the floor.
He reached for her, and drew her down onto his lap, into his arms—into a kiss that within a minute had set fires alight everywhere under her skin.
Raising one hand, he cradled her head, and pressed her lips wide. Angling his head, he filled her mouth, and took everything she offered, all she freely yielded. She clutched the fine linen of his shirt, fists clenching tight, then realized…slowly straightening her fingers, she spread her hands.
Over his chest. Beneath her thighs, his felt like rock, solid and un-giving; the arms about her felt like iron bands, not crushing her yet holding her captive. But his chest felt like cushioned stone, warm, unyielding yet comfortable. She sank her fingers into the heavy muscle and pressed closer, drawn by his heat.
By the urge to get closer still. Pushing her arms up over his shoulders, she pressed her already heavy, already aching breasts to his chest—and felt his pulse leap. Sensed the catch in his breathing, then his fingers shifted about her jaw, his lips firmed—and fire and molten heat poured from him, flooded through their fused lips and into her.
Gerrard’s head was spinning. Again. Just being near her when she was thinking sexual thoughts was enough to arouse him. Painfully.
Kissing her was sheer torture. He couldn’t stop.
Yet some part of his mind knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what script he should follow. That he had such a side to him was something of a revelation; more ruthless, more primitive, and passionate, possessive and protective in the extreme, driven by primal instincts and content to be so, such maleness was something he’d associated with Devil and Vane, and the other Cynster males he knew—not him.
Until he’d met her, he hadn’t met this side of himself, hadn’t known it existed. Now he did. Now it felt right, and he embraced it; he had no choice.
He tugged the sash of her robe free, slid his palm beneath the satin, skated over warm skin shielded by filmy silk, then closed his hand firmly about her breast, and provocatively, possessively, kneaded.
Instinct informed him what he wanted her to feel, what he needed the interlude to achieve. Settling her more firmly in his arms, his lips on hers, he set out to educate her senses, to educate the passion he sensed in her.
Jacqueline let herself flow on the heated tide he sent rushing through her. She felt no fear, no hesitation, but gave herself up to the wild and thrilling ride. Eagerness buoyed her, anticipation and expectation were a giddy mix roiling through her veins; excitement flowered and desire burgeoned, powerful and compulsive.
His lips and tongue demanded her attention; his hand on her breast shattered it. His long fingers teased, taunted, then soothed. She gasped through their kiss, gripped his head with both hands and with her lips and tongue urged him on.
She wanted to know all; pressing heated kisses on his firm lips, inviting ever more in return, she made that plain.
She was perfectly certain he understood. His hands, palms and fingers spread, traced her body; her robe hung from her shoulders, wide open, no impediment as he pandered to her senses and, she was sure, his. There was hunger in his touch, quite blatant, an element of desire she’d not before encountered—it sent frissons of mindless anticipation sliding through her.
This and more—she wanted to know it all, to experience all there was, all that might be. When his lips left hers she sighed, floating in the warmth they’d created, wits whirling yet able to follow as he bent his head and, nudging her chin up, set his lips to her throat. Paid homage to the sensitive region beneath her ear, then skated down, tracing the long line to her collarbone, pausing to hotly lave the pulse point above it, then his lips glided over the fine silk covering her breast, and fastened about one tightly budded nipple.
She tensed in expectation of a repeat of the sharp sensation she’d felt before, but his ministrations this time only soothed; he licked, laved, dampening the silk until it clung to her skin, then his tongue swirled and her world shook. Trembled.
Her breasts, full and tight, ached; he switched his attention to the other, repeating the subtle torture, then divided his time until she thought she would scream.
The instant before she did, he lifted his head, covered her lips with his, filled her mouth with his tongue and, like a marauding pirate, plundered. His hands slid lower, outlining her waist, gripping momentarily, fracturing her attention, then gliding lower to sculpt her hips. To learn her form as an artist might; for one moment, she wondered…then his fingers brazenly pressed between her thighs, stroked her curls, pushed past them to reach the throbbing flesh beyond, then pressed further and probed, and she lost all ability to think.
Discovered to her surprise that she could only feel, that there was such a state as being overwhelmed by her senses. Heightened to almost excruciating sensitivity, they commanded every last ounce of her concentration, held her ruthlessly focused on his touch, on the openly predatory way in which he was caressing her. She’d offered, and he was taking. Despite her whirling wits, that fact registered clearly.
She was in complete agreement.
Reassured he was taking the road she’d wished to take, she dragged in a breath, and turned her attention to him. To other aspects she’d yet to explore.
Like his chest. His shirt was of the finest linen; through it she could feel his flesh, feel the muscles shifting beneath her fingers as like a cat she kneaded. But that wasn’t enough; she wanted to feel his skin.
Leaning her elbows on his chest, trying not to think too much about the far too evocative play of his fingers between her thighs, she set her hands to his cravat.
Sensually captured by the tactile wonder of the hot, slick flesh his fingers caressed, Gerrard didn’t realize what she was about until she wrestled his shirt wide, and laid his chest bare.
She wrenched back from the kiss to look—one glance at her face, at the expression that lit her eyes, and he was lost. Slayed by a desire so deep, so complete, it spared no part of him, left no vestige of his self, his soul, free. From that instant, he was hers, no matter she didn’t know it. From beneath heavy lids he watched her face, enthralled by the play of emotions across it, by the directness he’d from the first seen in her, and valued for what it was.
All that it was—the most arousing element in any sexual encounter was the response of the other. With her, he would never need to wonder, not even to think—she lavished her appreciation on him, and in so doing enslaved him.
He let her play as long as he could, as long as he dared. He knew the script—she didn’t; control, his control, was vital. And with that, she wasn’t helping.
Her hands traced down; her expression plainly stated she was fascinated with his ridged abdomen. Fingers spread, she tested, explored; from beneath her lashes, she threw him a sultry glance, then returned to her avid play. His painter’s brain happily re-created the scene in his mind, titled it:Siren Exulting.
She was. The sight held him in thrall.
But when her hands eased and drifted lower, his newfound ruthlessness rose to the fore. Catching her hands, he lifted them to his shoulders, released them there; ignoring her questioning glance, he drew her back to him, back into his arms, back into a kiss expressly designed to render her witless.
To plunge her back into the sea of desire, of heady wanton passion, that had been steadily rising about them.
She went eagerly; grasping his head between her hands, she kissed him back with abandon. An abandon that only made him ache all the more, that only made it harder to do what he knew he should.
He had to break her spell, her increasingly strong grip on his senses.
Before he could change his mind—before she could further weaken his resolve—he lifted her, stood, and carried her to the window seat. She drew back from the kiss; he had to let her. From beneath her long lashes, she looked into his eyes, studied his face; he could read her thoughts easily—see the anticipation, the flare of expectation that flamed in her eyes, brilliant emerald and gold, gilded by the fires of passion.
The nursery was old, the window seat wide and liberally supplied with soft cushions; he tumbled her down onto it, and followed, trapping her half beneath him. She laughed softly, a sound of pure abandon that raked his soul, and racked his desire one notch higher. Reaching for him, she drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, parted in flagrant welcome.
He sank into her mouth, for long moments simply indulged, and wallowed in her clear encouragement, in the honest passion that was so much a part of her. He wanted that—wanted to seize—but experience warned that with her, caution and care were imperative. Steeling himself, he mentally drew back, and turned his mind to executing the strategy instinct drove him to employ.
Jacqueline sensed his attention shift; his lips remained fused with hers, a potent distraction, but then his hands were on her, roaming her body, so scantily clad she might as well have been naked.
She wished she were naked—she wanted to feel his hands on her skin, ached for the greater intimacy, wanted that hurdle crossed so there’d be fewer between her and her goal. His touch had grown harder, more demanding, each caress a blatantly sexual act, an intimate claiming.
He touched her as if she was his, sculpted her flesh as he wished, explored without reserve.
Each caress stoked the fires beneath her skin until she writhed beneath him, insensibly sure she needed even more. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure, but he responded by running his hand from her collarbone down over her breast, squeezing, swiftly kneading, tweaking the nipple to painful erectness before sweeping down, tracing the indentation of her waist, then passing over her stomach, splaying and pressing possessively, then sweeping lower still, stroking her curls, veiled by fine silk, before gliding down the long line of one thigh—to her knee and the hem of her nightgown.
He drew it up, up to her hips, then he tugged and drew it higher still, to her waist. Cool air played over her bare skin as with one knee he nudged her thighs apart; through their kiss, she gasped—she would have pulled back, broken the kiss to drag in air and steady her giddy senses, but he didn’t permit it. He held her to the kiss as the exchange turned scorching, as he set his hand to her bare knee, then ran his palm up, over her thigh, and found her.
Cupped her, then his fingers stroked and he parted her soft flesh, and slid not one but two fingers into her.
She felt the intimate penetration to her soul, felt her body arch, not in protest but in welcome. He stroked, possessive and sure; her every sense locked on the movement. On the sensations he evoked, that he drew from her, pressed on her. She had to cling to the kiss as her world spun; he held her to it, her lips beneath his, feeding her kisses laden with passion, with a desire that burned as bright as her own. More than anything else, that desire, his blatant wanting, buoyed and reassured.
She wanted him, and he wanted her. That seemed totally right.
Gradually, he eased back from the kiss; lifting his head, he looked down at her, studied her face from beneath heavy lids, then his lips quirked in smug, wholly male satisfaction. Between her thighs, his hand worked, knowingly stroking, stoking a need that was already threatening to sweep her away. She sank her fingers into his shoulders and tried to pull him back, but he moved lower, then shifted—with his free hand caught her nightgown hem and raised it higher still, then bent his head.
His mouth, hot and wet, closed over her nipple. She almost screamed, the sound only half smothered; the sensation wasn’t new, but had grown immeasurably sharper. And only swelled more as he feasted, as he made free with all she’d willingly offered. Steadily he drew her, body and senses, into deeper waters, into the hot, surging tide of passion unrestrained.
She went willingly, aware her horizons were rapidly expanding, that she’d lost touch with the world she knew, and would have to rely on him to guide her back.
Her body was no longer hers to command. Her world had reduced to the window seat; she was acutely aware of how her body, all but naked, writhed beneath his experienced caresses, how it rose, responding to every ardent touch, how the lamplight played over the valleys and hollows—how he watched, and saw, and was pleased.
Grimly pleased. She sensed that last as he lifted his head and looked down at her breasts, firm, swollen and aching, nipples tightly furled, skin flushed with desire. He moved lower still, and let his gaze wander, down over her waist, her stomach, to the damp curls one thumb idly stroked, to the junction of her thighs, to where his hand worked, constantly caressing, probing, but never quite pressing as he had once before.
Slowly, he traced his way back to her face, met her eyes, then the light of sheer conquest gleamed in his, and he bent his head.
His lips touched her navel; his tongue swirled, then probed. She shrieked, but the sound came out as a breathless squeak. She felt him chuckle, then he drew back and blew gently on her damp flesh, then touched his lips once more to her skin, and set about trailing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses down over her stomach.
To her curls.
To—
She screamed, but she’d lost her breath entirely—no sound came out at all. She twisted, but he’d grasped her hips, anchoring her while he pleased himself, and pleasured her.
“Gerrard!”She finally managed a shocked whisper.
“Mmm?” He didn’t lift his head, barely paused in his ministrations.
Her wits had spun away; her mind was blank. “You…can’t.” She felt like she was dying, her chest so tight she couldn’t breathe, her every nerve coiled and shrieking.
“I can.”
He demonstrated, and her world shuddered. Closing her fists in the cushions beneath her, she clung for dear life. She’d thought they’d been following the usual pattern of events—the pattern as Eleanor had described it more than once. Butthis had never featured in Eleanor’s experience.
His hands gripped and he lifted her to him.
She felt her body react, felt the intimate surrender to her bones. Felt the mind-numbing pleasure to her toes.
She moaned his name, closed her eyes tight. Gave up the fight to do anything other than give herself to him, to let him do with her as he wished.
And he knew.
He lavished sensation and more upon her, intimacy beyond her wildest dreams, until, quite suddenly, it was all too much. The glory built to an unbearable degree and she broke apart—flew apart in a cascade of pleasure and physical joy, and gold and silver glory.
Heat pulsed through her, flooded her mind and her soul, buoyed her as he lapped, then laid her gently down.
Blindly, she reached for him; after an instant’s hesitation, he came to her, let her draw him to her, but then he settled beside her, his hand soothing her flushed body, gently drawing her back to earth.
Something was wrong. Her body was drowning in the languorous aftermath of the pleasure he’d brought her, yet all he did was draw her nightgown down and lift her robe over her, protecting her cooling skin.
Raising her lids, heavy with satiation, she watched his face, the planes still etched with the desire he’d held back—that he was still holding back.
She waited until his eyes met hers, then simply asked, “Why?”
He couldn’t pretend not to understand. She may be a novice, yet for him to have given her such pleasure, yet taken none for himself…that wasn’t the way things should be.
For a moment, he studied her eyes, then to her surprise, he caught her hands, one in each of his, pressed them to the cushions on either side of her head and leaned over her. Leaned close—his face was inches from hers, his lips a handbreadth away.
He looked at her lips, then lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “I want you. You know I do.”
She did; his desire for her screamed, not just from his eyes, not just in the deepened, roughened tone of his voice, but from the tightly leashed tension that invested every muscle in his large lean body. If that wasn’t evidence enough, his erection rode against her hip, rampant and rigid.
Moistening her lips, she kept her eyes on his. “Why, then?”
“Because…” He searched her eyes. “You’ve offered yourself to me twice. Twice, I’ve given you the chance to step back, to retreat to safer ground.” His gaze lowered to her lips, then again returned to her eyes. “To escape me, and the demands I’ll make of you if I make you mine.”
Her body was still throbbing with the aftermath of what he’d wrought; between them, she could feel not only her own heart, but his, too, thudding. Pounding. “Do you want me to escape?”
His lips lifted, but it wasn’t in a smile. “No. I want to have you.” His head lowered, his lips brushed hers. “But what I want, what I’ll demand and take if you surrender yourself to me, might be more than you’re prepared to give.”
The words feathered over her lips, promise and warning combined.
She met his eyes again, felt herself drowning in their depths. “What, exactly, would you demand of me?”
“Everything. All of you.” He shifted, looking down; his hand brushed the side of her breast, instantly stirring her body to life. “What I’ve taken so far is much less than I want. I want every scintilla of passion you have in you, every iota of desire you have to give.” He paused, then raised his lids and again met her eyes. “I want to, and will, possess you utterly.”
About them, all was silent and still; between them, passion arced, desire burned. The predator in him was starkly evident, in the lines of his face, in the intensity of his gaze.
She knew what she wanted. She opened her mouth—
He kissed her. Kissed her with all the passion he’d held back, ravished her mouth and her senses, plundered and took, giving her a taste—just a taste—of his ravenous hunger, then he pulled back.
“Be in no doubt.” His voice grated, a sexual rumble that rasped her senses. “If you offer a third time, I’ll take, and there’ll be no going back. I won’t play the gentleman and turn you away. I want you—if you tempt me again, you’ll be mine. Every inch of you. With every gasp, every moan, every heartbeat, you’ll be mine.”
Straightening his arms, he lifted himself over her; looking down, he held her gaze. “Think about it.” His eyes searched hers. “If you decide you truly want that, I’ll be here. Waiting.”
Prowling. The energy that crackled beneath his skin was new. Something beyond his experience, as he was beyond hers.
Gerrard paced before the darkened windows of his bedroom, still aching, still driven.
One part of him, the primitive prowling part of him that now gave him no surcease, hadn’t wanted to warn her—had wanted instead to seize and be damned.
But he’d known better. The more sophisticated part of him that had evolved through the years, that had watched and seen and, it now seemed, absorbed, knew the price he was paying for warning her and letting her go—letting her go to make her own decision—was a bargain in terms of what he would gain.
Her. Committed by her own act, not swept into his arms by his more powerful libido.
He knew, to his bones, what he felt for her. Something he’d never expected to feel. He now understood what he never had before—the driven quality behind the protective possessiveness of the Cynster men, especially Devil and Vane, the two whose marriages he’d most closely observed. Devil, being Devil, was forever arrogantly blatant, while Vane was quieter, stubborn and immovable, yet the force driving their behavior was the same. He hadn’t expected to feel the same compulsion, but now he did…his approach would be more subtle.
He knew women, had interacted more closely with them than most—he knew enough to cloak his driving need, to veil his vulnerability by insisting Jacqueline make her own decision to give herself to him, to commit herself through her own, considered act.
Now he’d chosen, fought and succeeded in following that tack, when the time came, she would view the consequences of becoming his as something she’d invited, and, he hoped, accept them without complaint.
His plan was sound, well grounded. It would work.
Smothering an inclination to growl, he swung on his heel and paced across the room. His blood was still coursing too fast through his veins, desire still lashed and passion prodded—leashed, for now.
But not for long.
He was as arrogant as Devil or Vane, enough to feel confident of her decision—of what she’d choose. She’d choose to be his, and then he’d have her.
Without her knowing she’d been seized. 12
The following morning, with Gerrard in attendance, Millicent reviewed Jacqueline’s wardrobe. Jacqueline was unsurprised when her bronze silk sheath was declared most suitable for the Summer Hunt Ball; a present from her mother just before she’d died, it was her most sophisticated and revealing gown, but she’d yet to wear it—apparently, its time had come.
It was the middle of summer; in that corner of the world so distant from the capital, it was customary for the local families to entertain themselves and their youth with some event every few days. Today, Mrs.
Hancock was hosting a picnic, or as she more grandly termed it, an “alfresco luncheon.”
They left the Hall at noon; by the time they reached the Hancocks’ house beyond St. Just, most of the guests had arrived.
Once again, Jacqueline found herself tensing as they emerged onto the Hancocks’ terrace and all eyes swung her way. Some of the guests had been at the Frithams’ yesterday, but there were others who had yet to assimilate their new direction. She held her head high, kept a smile of precisely the right,
unconcerned degree on her lips, and followed Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby’s leads. She was grateful for their support, especially Gerrard’s; as at the Frithams’, he remained by her side.
Somewhat to her surprise, Mrs. Elcott, the vicar’s wife, usually so severe, unbent enough to compliment her on her spring-green muslin. “I’m delighted to see that you’re not hiding yourself away. No doubt the discovery of poor Mr. Entwhistle’s body has caused you distress, but it never does to overindulge such passions. Facing forward is precisely what a young lady of your standing must do.”
Mrs. Elcott pursed her lips, as if holding back further comment, then surrendered to temptation. “Have you spoken with the Entwhistles yet?”
Jacqueline managed to look unconcerned. “Not yet.”
Gerrard smoothly cut in with a distracting remark. A minute later, he drew her away.
“She wanted to know so she could be first with the news.” She allowed him to lead her to the trestle table where refreshments had been laid out.
Reaching for the lemonade jug, he glanced at her. “True, but it seems she’s shrewd enough not to credit the killer’s whispers—or if she has in the past, she’s now willing to run with the truth instead.”
Jacqueline accepted the glass of lemonade he’d poured for her. “To give the devil his due—or in this case the vicar’s wife her due—I’ve never heard her gossip maliciously. She’s simply addicted to being up with the latest, to understanding what’s going on.”
She could relate to the impulse. Over the rim of her glass, she glanced at Gerrard; she wished she knew what, precisely, was going on between them. Last night…once she’d returned to her bed, she’d fallen deeply asleep. She’d assumed she’d have time today to assess his proposition, his veiled ultimatum. She was certain she ought to think before she allowed her, where he was concerned, too impulsive desire to sweep her into his arms. Especially now he’d informed her the step would involve irrevocable surrender, at least on her part.
Unfortunately, it was impossible to consider him and his lionlike propensities while he was beside her, or even in the vicinity, which meant there was nothing to be gained by attempting to think of such things now; she might as well enjoy the moment, and his company.
He was the perfect escort—always there, yet never crowding her. Supporting, guiding, but not directing, he played the perfect foil in helping her project just the right image—the impression, as he’d said, of being herself.
By the time they settled on picnic rugs to sample the delicacies Mrs. Hancock’s cook had prepared, she’d relaxed enough not just to laugh, but to do so spontaneously, without reserve. As Barnaby, the inveterate storyteller, continued his tale, she sipped from the flute of champagne Gerrard had handed her, then glanced at him. He caught her eye, held her gaze for an instant, then raised his flute to hers, clinked, and sipped, too.
Suddenly a touch breathless, giddy as if the champagne had gone to her head, she looked away, at Barnaby, and drew in a tight breath. Her breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown; she felt Gerrard’s warm gaze sweep her exposed skin.
Raising her glass again, she sipped, and fought to slow her pulse; she wished she had a fan.
“You’re such an accomplished raconteur.” Opposite Barnaby, Eleanor bestowed on him an openly inviting smile. “Why, your adventures seem almost legendary.”
Beside Jacqueline, Barnaby stiffened. “Oh, no,” he airily replied. “I’ve just seen a thing or two—inevitable in the capital.”
“Ah, yes, the capital.” Eleanor was not the least deterred by the less than encouraging response. “Do you spend most of your time there?”
Barnaby murmured a noncommittal response, immediately capping it with a general question, drawing the others—Clara, Cedric and Hugo and Thomasina Crabbe—into the conversation. On Jacqueline’s other side, Gerrard shifted, then glibly deflected a question from Eleanor designed to once again fix Barnaby’s attention on her.
Despite the undercurrents—primarily Eleanor’s doing—the mood remained light. Eleanor, Jacqueline knew, was merely amusing herself; she wished to see Barnaby wound about her little finger, but then she would discard him. Aside from her mystery lover, gaining power over the males who hove on her horizon was Eleanor’s chief amusement.
Jacqueline had seen that for years, but she hadn’t, until now, thought much of it. Now…she couldn’t help but feel Eleanor’s behavior wasn’t very ladylike, or kind. Luckily, Barnaby, the male currently in Eleanor’s sights, showed no signs of succumbing.
The picnic consumed, the matrons sat back in the shade and chatted. Everyone else elected to go on a ramble through the adjoining woods. They set off in a large, rambunctious group; before long, they’d strung out along the path.
Whether by luck or good management, she and Gerrard brought up the rear. That didn’t please Matthew Brisenden. He was swept ahead with the others yet, whenever the curve of the path allowed, stared back at her strolling on Gerrard’s arm.
Gerrard was aware—more aware than he liked—of Matthew’s dark looks. The boy was ridiculously possessive; Gerrard recognized and labeled his attitude instantly, and was in no way amused by it. He was also screamingly conscious of Jacqueline beside him, strolling along with, it seemed, not a care in the world. He was pleased that she’d relaxed, that she was more and more able to show her true colors to the world, yet…
Step by step, they fell further behind. She seemed absorbed with the flowers and trees, for which he gave thanks; he wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter. Increasingly, he watched her face, felt himself falling ever deeper under her spell.
“Oh!” She stopped, looking ahead.
He followed her gaze; the rest of the party had disappeared out of sight around the next bend.
She glanced at him; a challenging light danced in her eyes. “There’s a shortcut, if you’re willing to risk it.” He was willing to risk a great deal for a few minutes alone with her. He waved. “Lead on.”
She smiled and turned aside, pushing past a thick bush onto a minor path. “This leads to the stream. The
main path crosses it at a wooden bridge further on, then curves back on the other side, but it’s a long way around.”
“So what’s the risk?”
Even as he voiced the question the bushes before them thinned, and he saw the stream gurgling along the middle of a wide bed and spanned by an old fallen tree.
“Behold.” Jacqueline waved at the tree. “The challenge.”
She started down the slight slope. Gerrard followed. The stream had shrunk to within its summer banks, leaving the lush green of its winter flood plain ten yards wide on either side. Yet the stream was still too wide to jump, and too deep to wade through, and the tree trunk wasn’t large.
Jacqueline turned to him. “Are you game?”
He looked down at her. “Do I get a reward if I succeed?”
Jacqueline studied all she could see in his eyes, and wondered why he and only he made her feel like a siren. She let her lashes veil her eyes and looked back at the tree. “Possibly.”
“In that case”—he leaned down so his words wafted past her ear—“after you, my dear.” To her hyperaware senses, he even sounded like a lion.
She drew breath, took the hand he offered to step up to the narrow bole, paused to catch her balance, then ran lightly across. She’d performed the same feat countless times. Jumping down to solid ground at the other end, she turned—and found Gerrard stepping off the tree immediately behind her.
He caught her; hands locking about her waist, he whirled her, then lowered her until her feet touched earth. For one finite instant, they stared into each other’s eyes, then he drew her—fully—against him. He looked into her eyes, briefly searched, then his gaze lowered to her lips. “Reward time, I believe.”
He swooped, captured her lips with his, and plunged them both into a fiery kiss, one that stirred them both, that sent flames spreading beneath her skin, that left her breasts firm and aching, that spilled heat down her veins to pool low, to pulse with a longing she now understood.
She held tight, fingers clutching his upper arms as their lips and tongues dueled, not for supremacy but for pleasured delight.
The moment spun on, and on.
Eventually, he drew back. They were both breathing too quickly as he looked into her eyes. “Have you made your decision yet?”
Gerrard had told himself he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t ask—but he ached to know.
She tried to frown, couldn’t manage it. “No. I…got the impression I’d be wise to think seriously about…what agreeing would entail.”
Her gaze dropped to his lips. He fought against the urge to kiss her again.
“You should.” He couldn’t keep his voice from deepening. The thought of what would follow her decision—
Footsteps. They both heard the steady crunch of boots heading their way.
Turning to the sound, they stepped apart—just as Eleanor and Matthew Brisenden came into view. “There you are!” Eleanor looked delighted.
Gerrard could quite happily have consigned her to perdition. Along with her companion, who was looking daggers at him.
“I told Matthew you would have taken the shortcut and be waiting for us here.” Patently pleased with her perspicaciousness, Eleanor swept forward, her gaze locked on Gerrard.
Smoothly, he linked his arm with Jacqueline’s. “Just so—we knew the rest of you wouldn’t be long.”
“The others are up on the main path.” Matthew came up, frowning at Gerrard, openly disapproving. “We should join them.”
Gerrard smiled easily. “Indeed. Do lead the way.”
Matthew blinked, but, with tight lips and a curt nod, had to do so. Gerrard steered Jacqueline in his wake.
To his amazement, Eleanor took his other arm.
He stared at her, but she seemed totally oblivious of her impertinence.
“We’ve been talking about the traditional gathering tomorrow.” Eleanor glanced across him at Jacqueline. “Will you come, do you think?”
Jacqueline met her gaze. “Oh, I think so.”
“Well, regardless, Mr. Debbington, you really should attend. It’s almost as much fun as the ball itself. Indeed”—Eleanor’s eyes gleamed as she looked up at Gerrard—“sometimes more.”
“The tradition,” Jacqueline informed him, “is that all the younger people gather at Trewarren Hall in the morning and decorate the ballroom.”
“And the terrace and gardens,” Eleanor put in. Jacqueline nodded.
“So”—Eleanor fixed her gaze on Gerrard’s face—“will you be joining us?”
Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline; he wouldn’t be letting her out of his sight any time soon. Particularly not if Matthew Brisenden would be anywhere near. “I believe I will,” he murmured, addressing Jacqueline. He caught her gaze when she glanced up. “All work and no play will very likely make me a dull painter.”
Her lips quirked; she looked ahead. “Excellent!” Eleanor said.
That evening, at the dinner table, Lord Tregonning shocked them all. Looking down the table, he asked Millicent, “How did your excursion go today?”
Millicent stared at him, then hurried to answer. “It was an excellent outing, Marcus—quite gratifying.” She rattled off a list of the ladies who’d been present. “While I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’ve convinced anyone of anything, I do think we’ve started hares in a good many minds, and set the stage for pushing matters further.”
Lord Tregonning nodded. “Good, good.” He glanced at Jacqueline, Gerrard, then Barnaby. “So everything’s going as planned?”
“Quite smoothly.” Barnaby reached for his wineglass. “I understand there’s a gathering of the younger folk tomorrow, which will be our last event before the ball.”
“Ah, yes—the decorating party.” Lord Tregonning turned a sympathetic gaze on Jacqueline. “Are you comfortable attending that, my dear?”
“Oh, yes. Indeed, I haven’t encountered as much difficulty as I’d imagined, and”—Jacqueline glanced at Gerrard, then across the table at Barnaby—“with Mr. Debbington’s and Mr. Adair’s support, I doubt I’ll encounter any challenge I can’t meet.”
She toyed with her fork, then went on, “While most are a trifle confused at first, all thus far have seemed…receptiveto thinking again. However, I don’t think that would have been so had we not challenged their preconceived notions.”
Lord Tregonning nodded again.
Gerrard noticed the puzzled look on Mitchel Cunningham’s face. He had no notion of what they were discussing; no doubt he’d work it out soon enough. Turning to Jacqueline, Gerrard asked, “What form does the Summer Hunt Ball take?”
“It’s a proper ball with musicians and dancing. As for the rest…” Briefly she described the usual other attractions—a card room, and a salon for conversation. “The terrace and garden walks are lit for the night, too.”
From there, with Barnaby’s help, Gerrard steered the first conversation they’d had over the dinner table at Hellebore Hall into a more general discussion of the amenities of the area.
Later that night, Jacqueline stood at the balcony window of her bedroom, and wondered if Gerrard was painting. Her windows overlooked the orchards of the Garden of Demeter; she couldn’t tell if light was spilling from the windows of the old nursery, yet she felt sure he’d be there, standing before his easel creating the setting in which her innocence would shine.
Even last night, as she’d left the studio she’d glanced back and seen him returning to the easel, to the canvas on it, as if drawn to it.
His devotion to the portrait, to rescuing her, touched her. Buoyed her.
She recalled, very well, all that had passed between them the night before. That he wanted her she didn’t doubt, and she wanted him. Her reasons for grasping the opportunity to learn what that mutual wanting truly meant remained valid, yet his insistence she decide, that she make what would amount to a declaration of unrestricted acceptance…He was right; aboutthat she needed to think.
He’d said he wantedeverything, all she was, to possess her utterly; that was a very wide claim—she wasn’t sure she understood the implications.
To agree to that…to do so, she would need to trust him, to trust that, to whatever extent his “everything” stretched, he wouldn’t hurt or harm her. Not in her wildest imaginings did she think he would, yet in trusting him that much, in specifically and openly acknowledging such trust, as he was demanding, it would help to know why—why had he asked that of her.
Why was he, as he demonstrably was, so deeply interested in her?
The obvious, transparently real answer was that he was fascinated with her as a subject, yet was that the whole answer? Reviewing his absorption with painting her, contrasting that with the intensity he focused on her when he held her in his arms, whether the force that drove him was one and the same she couldn’t tell, and could see no ready way of discerning.
Did she truly care whether his interest in her was driven solely by an artist’s fascination?
The question slid into her mind, and revolved there—yet another question with no easy answer.
Minutes ticked by as she mentally circled. What didshe want of this, of him, of what had flared between them?
Thatshe knew—she wanted experience. Of the physical, the sensual, all the aspects of a woman’s life of which, due to the events of recent years, she remained ignorant. At its simplest, she wanted to know.
Now he’d arrived and unexpectedly offered her the chance to learn, was she going to take it?
All her instincts sang “yes!” yet she clung to caution and the sensible approach. Was there any reason she shouldn’t accept his terms?
Mentally, she looked ahead, thinking of how a liaison with him as he’d described it would affect her life…and discovered a void.
Her future.
Frowning, she tried to bring her expectations into focus, but the emptiness in her mind remained; she had no vision of her future at all.
Staring unseeing at the night, she felt oddly hollow as realization solidified. The killer had stolen her expectations; her future was a blank canvas, and she had no idea of the picture she wished to see upon it.
It was a shock to discover such complete and utter nothingness where surely something should have
been.
She was twenty-three, well dowered and attractive enough, yet she’d been frozen—was still frozen—on the threshold of her life. What dreams she’d nurtured when Thomas had lived had vanished with him; not even a ghostly vestige remained. Presumably once she was free of the nightmare of her mother’s and Thomas’s deaths, her mind would turn from its fixation on the past and present and attend to the future, and sketch in some details. Until then…she had no expectations of her future to guide her.
But Gerrard and his offer were there, before her now; how should she respond?
By agreeing. He’d made it plain he wasn’t asking for her future, but her present; he’d talked in terms of a physical liaison, with no defined strings attached.
If she’d been younger, or felt more a part of the usual round of social life, she might have felt shocked, might have felt she was risking something, might have hesitated. But now?
Given all fate had denied her, given what might yet be denied her forever more, the compulsion to accept his terms burgeoned and grew.
“I want tolive. ” The whisper fell from her lips, a potent exhortation. A direction. If she waited…until when? Once she was an old maid, would such a chance come again?
Conviction welled. Instinct, yes, but that was all she had to guide her. Yet in this arena, she had so little previous knowledge, so little practice in listening to her heart…
Arms folded, lips set, she tapped one slippered toe. She felt a strong urge to have done with thinking, to open her door, slip through the quiet corridors and return to his lair and his arms. She’d never been an impulsive person, yet in this, with him, instinct was urging her on.
Innate caution held her back.
Turning from the window, she paced into the room and stopped, her gaze fixed on the corridor door. For long minutes, she debated: to yield and accept now, or wait for some further sign?
Or, perhaps, ask more questions?
It took effort to turn aside, but she did. Shedding her robe, she climbed into bed, slid under the covers, tugged them up, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.
Not terribly successfully, but she felt rested enough when she joined the others in the breakfast parlor the next morning. She was conscious of the intentness of Gerrard’s gaze on her face, but merely bade him a good morning, and applied herself to tea and toast.
Intentness of gaze didn’t qualify as a sign.
The day was fine. She, Gerrard and Barnaby decided to drive Gerrard’s curricle to Trewarren Hall; his pair needed exercising. They bowled down the lanes toward Portscatho and the cliffs along the Channel. Trewarren Hall lay a few miles back from the cliffs—far enough so the trees in the park grew tall and straight, not bent and twisted by the Channel winds.
Lady Trewarren was briefly taken aback when she realized Gerrard and Barnaby intended joining the group, but she rallied, setting Barnaby to assist with garlanding the ballroom while Gerrard was dispatched with Jacqueline to oversee the stringing of lanterns through the trees.
Two gardeners were waiting with the crate of lanterns; all she and Gerrard had to do was point out the most suitable positions, something Gerrard with his landscape artist’s eye accomplished with barely a thought.
The first half of the morning passed in pleasant endeavor, then other members of the decorating party, having completed their chores indoors and elsewhere, found them. A laughing group comprising Roger, Mary, Clara and Rosa were the first; they paused to comment excitedly, looking forward to the night, before waving and heading off along the path to the lake.
Gerrard watched them go, then arched a brow at her. “I take it the tradition ends with a party by the lake?”
She smiled. “We gather there, in and around the summerhouse, until the gong sounds for luncheon on the terrace.”
The next group of decorators to come down from the house included Cecily Hancock. Pausing beside Jacqueline, she asked Giles Trewarren, also in the group, if the Entwhistles were expected that evening; she ingenuously pointed out that Sir Harvey was Master of the Hunt.
Glancing apologetically at Jacqueline, Giles admitted Thomas’s parents had sent word they would attend, although they’d leave before the dancing.
Everyone looked to see how she’d react. Jacqueline fought not to retreat behind her usual poker face. Sensing Gerrard beside her helped. She met Cecily’s eyes and kept her expression open, allowing her sympathy for the Entwhistles to show. “I’m looking forward to speaking with them. They’ve had so much to bear. What with being in mourning, I haven’t had a chance to talk with them recently, and now with Thomas’s body being found, I do feel for them.”
Glancing at Gerrard, she found encouragement in his gaze. She looked at Cecily. “And, of course, I must introduce Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair, who found the body and discovered so much about how Thomas died.”
Cecily searched her face. A spark of surprise showed in her eyes.
The others, too, were watching her, yet they clearly accepted her words as fact. Giles assured Gerrard he’d make sure his father introduced them to Sir Harvey, then the group made their farewells and headed on to the lake, Cecily subdued, apparently thinking.
Jacqueline felt a surge of satisfaction over that.
Turning back to Gerrard, she found him waiting to catch her eye, approval in his. “You handled that well. Every person who shifts their view is one more the killer has lost his hold over. After tonight, I predict he’ll be cursing and gnashing his teeth.”
She smiled, but sobered quickly. “We can but hope.”
Three more groups trailing down from the house found them. After successfully dealing with Cecily, Jacqueline handled the careful comments—about her joining in the decorating again, about her dancing again after her mother’s death, of the dreadful finding of Thomas’s body and speculation over his death, and his parents’ likely feelings—with aplomb.
Yet every mention of Thomas, of the suspicions that lingered in people’s minds, was a reminder of how widely the poison had spread.
Gerrard saw that realization grow, read it in her more sober demeanor when the others moved on. When the last lantern was up and the gardeners left them, he pulled out his watch. “There’s half an hour left before luncheon.”
All those who’d passed had gone to the lake; they could glimpse it glinting through the trees.
“I could use a moment away from the throng.” Pocketing his watch, he glanced around. “In all these acres, there must be somewhere else we can go for a moment of rustic peace?”
She smiled. “There’s a pond upstream. None of the others will have gone there—they always head for the summerhouse.”
“I’ve a fondness for ponds.” He waved her on.
She led him down a path lined with tall trees; within minutes they were out of sight and sound of the lake. “You’re doing very well.”
She glanced at him, but said nothing. She was growing more comfortable, more consistently leaving her inner barriers down. More consistently and confidently being herself.
That was part of the reason he’d come, to simply be here if she’d needed help. But she’d weathered Cecily Hancock’s malicious spite well; she hadn’t needed him to intervene, yet he’d had to be there.
He glanced at her, very conscious of the other, more major part of his reason for remaining by her side. She hadn’t yet agreed to be his.
He’d thought that by now she would have, or at least would have given him some sign of acceptance, of intent. His strategy dictated he shouldn’t pressure her. He’d weakened once; he remained determined not to do so again.
But…
He glanced briefly at her profile as she walked beside him. That night in the nursery…had he, perhaps, overplayed his hand? He looked ahead, matching his strides to her shorter ones. He’d been so utterly confident she would come to him; last night, even while he was painting, he’d broken off, again and again, to glance past the canvas at the door, and its knob.
Every little sound had had him focusing on that knob, waiting for it to turn. But it hadn’t. Had he read her wrongly?
Two seconds of remembering how she’d writhed under his hands, under his mouth, eliminated that as a possibility. Which meant that something—some thought, some consideration—was holding her back.
Causing her to hesitate, to rethink and assess.
He drew in a breath, felt a tightness reminiscent of desperation close about his chest. Nonsense—it could only be a temporary hesitation. If she needed reassurance, he was willing and able to give it; if it transpired he needed to adjust his approach, to modify his stance, his declared position, he was willing to do that, too.
Perhaps she simply needed a little encouragement?
Jacqueline kept her gaze on the trees ahead, on the path as she led him on, yet she was acutely aware of the glances he threw her, of the way his gaze lingered on her face.
As if he found her as puzzling as she found him. Just as she was so constantly aware of him, he, too, was absorbed with her; his attention, his focus on her, never really wavered.
The trees thinned; the path opened out into a clearing, dividing to encircle a deep pond fed by the stream that ultimately flowed on to fill the lake. The surface of the pond was still, reflecting the surrounding canopies and the sky. Rushes fringed the edge; waterlilies spread in patches, white and pink splotches floating on dark green leaves.
“We’ve circled around—the house isn’t far.” She indicated another path on the far side of the pond, then led the way to a large flat rock on which a stone bench sat, the perfect place to sit and look out over the pool, and reflect.
He paused beside the rock, looking at the other path, then back at the path they’d come down. “I see.” Stepping onto the rock, he waited for her to sit and draw in her skirts, then sat beside her. He pointed across the pond to where in the middle distance water shimmered silver through the trees. “The lake, I take it?”
“Yes.” She managed not to jump when he took her hand. Her nerves flickered, then pulled tight. She shifted to face him as he raised her hand to his lips, turned it and, catching her eye, holding her gaze, pressed an ardent kiss to her palm.
She felt the lingering caress to her toes, had to fight to quell a reactive shiver.
Before she was free of the effect, he shifted and reached for her face. His long fingers curled about her nape, his thumb cradling her jaw as he drew her to him.
Drew her lips to his, and kissed her. Ardently.
Making no secret of his desire for her, or of what he wanted.
Richly textured, his tongue found hers and stroked, caressed, then commanded her response. Demanded it, drew her to him and into their play. Into a passionate exchange, an exploration of another degree, on yet another level of their evolving interaction, of their mutual desire.
Hot, increasingly urgent, hungry, yet contained.
Not restrained yet limited, delimited; there was no sense of being swept away, but of meeting him, matching him, of sharing control.
The kiss drew her in, lured her deeper. Quite how it happened she didn’t know, yet when she managed to lift her head enough to draw in a shallow breath, she discovered he’d leaned back against the stone bench and she was leaning over him, his face clasped between her hands, her lips parted as she looked down into his eyes.
“Why?” She searched his eyes, glowing richly brown beneath the distracting fringe of his lashes. “You want so much from me, but why do you want me to decide?”
Beneath her, he stilled—a stillness that communicated the intent focus of his thoughts. Her question had caught him off balance; he was rapidly searching for an answer.
She resisted the urge to press, to reframe the question; it was clear enough and she knew he understood.
He moistened his lips. His gaze lowered to hers, then his hands firmed about her waist. He didn’t lift her from him, but simply held her, then he raised his gaze to her eyes. “I told you—I want all, everything that’s in you to give.”
“What do you mean by that, and why do you want it?”
“Because…that’s what desire is, between a man and a woman. A wanting.”
“You told me yourself, intimated at least, that what you wanted from me was more. More than the usual, the norm.” Whatever that might be. She waited. And sensed for the first time a degree of uncertainty, of, not confusion but wariness in him.
Why would he be wary of her?
When he said nothing, just ran his large, warm palms up and down her back, she arched her brows. “You’re being very mysterious.”
Something flared in his eyes. “There’s nothing mysterious aboutthis. ”
He must at some point have lifted her; she was half sitting on his lap. She could feel his erection riding against her hip. The growl that had edged his voice, the strength in his hands, only emphasized the aura of danger, of being in the arms of a sexual predator.
Yet she felt no fear, not the slightest lick of trepidation. She looked down into his darkening eyes, and knew that no matter how blatantly he hungered for her, no matter how frankly he displayed his ardor, harming her, hurting her, either physically or emotionally, wasn’t any part of his game.
Why she felt so safe, so secure, sosure when in his arms, she didn’t know, couldn’t explain. She kept her eyes locked on his. “You haven’t answered my question.”
When his lips remained sealed, she reiterated, “Why do you wantmore from me? Why is it important I agree to that?”
He exhaled. His gaze dropped to her lips; his own remained set in a stubborn line.
She leaned closer, boldly skated her parted lips over his. “I’m seriously considering not making my decision until you answer my question.”
She’d breathed the words over his lips; she felt his chest swell, knew she’d succeeded in twisting the rack. Two could play at ultimatums. Pressing closer, she kissed him, held his face between her hands, covered his lips with hers and challenged him to take…
The rustle of leaves was soft. She heard, but didn’t react, too caught up in evoking his reaction, in the promise of his rapacious mouth.
A theatrical gasp had her jerking upright, turning to see—
One hand clamped over her lips, Eleanor stood at the edge of the clearing, eyes wide, locked on her. Beside Eleanor stood Matthew Brisenden, an expression like a thundercloud darkening his face.
Jacqueline could happily have strangled them both.
Biting back an unladylike curse, she tensed to struggle from Gerrard’s arms, to slide from his lap, but his hands firmed, and she obeyed the instruction.
Smoothly, unhurriedly, he lifted her and set her on her feet. Retaining one hand, he rose and stood beside her.
With unshakable savoir faire, he nodded to Eleanor and Matthew. “Miss Fritham. Mr. Brisenden. Have you been down by the lake?”
Gerrard kept his tone polite, faintly bored, as if he was discussing a stroll in the park. A kiss did not qualify as a major indiscretion; he refused to allow them to treat it as such.
Matthew glowered at him. Gerrard quashed the impulse to smile in return. He’d never expected to be thankful to see Brisenden’s disapproving countenance, yet he was. Who knew what he might have revealed if Jacqueline had continued her persuasion?
A gong sounded, resonating through the trees.
“Ah—luncheon.” Setting Jacqueline’s hand on his sleeve, he raised his brows in polite query at Eleanor and Matthew, and waved to the path leading to the house. “Shall we?”
They had no option but to follow as he led Jacqueline up the path; Eleanor did so quite readily; Matthew would, Gerrard suspected, have preferred to call him out, but, still glowering darkly, tramped reluctantly behind them.
Eleanor, unsurprisingly, came up on his other side. Acknowledging her with the most distant of nods, he kept his attention on Jacqueline, instituting a conversation about the various trees they passed; there were times when his hobby was distinctly useful.
Jacqueline responded glibly; far from being embarrassed or trepidatious over being discovered indulging,
he sensed she was irritated, sharply annoyed with her importunate friends. The observation gave him heart; perhaps he’d achieved something today.
Something aside from having attracted Eleanor’s attention in a way he’d up to now avoided.
He’d known his share of predatory females; Eleanor was definitely one. Now that she’d seen evidence of his interest in Jacqueline, specifically the nature of that interest, her blood was up. She thought he was interested in dalliance, and was about to offer her charms.
He was defensively aware of the speculative glances Eleanor threw him as they walked back to the terrace. She didn’t attempt to join his and Jacqueline’s conversation, but eyed him as if she was measuring him to the last inch, and deciding just how to harness him.
She was destined for disappointment, but what intrigued him more was that Jacqueline was aware of Eleanor’s avid interest. He saw it, saw Jacqueline notice Eleanor’s assessing looks, saw comprehension and more in Jacqueline’s eyes.
But she didn’t look at him. Didn’t glance up to see if he’d noticed, or if he was responding. Not a hint of jealousy, or possessiveness, invested her demeanor, but she was watching, noting, nonetheless.
Was she so sure of him, of her hold on his senses? Or did she truly not care?
The latter option bothered him more than he liked. Even more than her earlier question and her threat of waiting for him to answer before she declared herself his. That was definitely not part of his plan.
They were first to the terrace, but to his relief, the others came up in a laughing, chattering throng before they’d finished helping themselves to the cold meats and pastries set out on a table.
Barnaby was among those returning from the lake. Gerrard summoned him with a look; encouraging Jacqueline to draw the younger girls to their table, they endeavored to hold Eleanor at bay.
Temporarily defeated, she joined Jordan’s circle, but she paid scant attention to her brother’s discourse. Her eyes remained fixed on Gerrard, occasionally sliding to Barnaby, but returning, always, to Gerrard. Jordan’s gaze also frequently came his way.
Inwardly, Gerrard swore and remained on guard.
Just as well; as they all left, going down the front steps in a gay, noisy group, exchanging promises and challenges for when they met again that evening, Eleanor maneuvered to come up beside him. He led Jacqueline to his curricle. His grays stamped, unimpressed by the high-pitched voices; a groom held on to their bits, reverently crooning.
Barnaby had gone to the other side of the curricle; it was just roomy enough to accommodate three. Alongside, Jordan’s curricle stood waiting with a pair of showy bays between the shafts.
“I wonder, Mr. Debbington…” Boldly, Eleanor gripped his arm, forcing him to halt and face her. She smiled. “I wonder if I might suggest Jacqueline and I swap places, at least until the turnoff to the manor.”
She let her gaze sweep his horses, then turned her eyes on him. “I’ve a great penchant for powerful beasts. I find them quite fascinating.”
Gerrard resisted the urge to roll his eyes; even more smoothly than she, he replied, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’ve arranged to take an alternative route.”
“Oh?” Eleanor’s gaze and tone sharpened. “To where?”
In a different direction to the one she was heading in; beyond that, Gerrard had no clue. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would so impertinently question him.
Before he could utter the annihilating setdown spontaneously forming on his tongue, Jacqueline’s fingers tightened on his sleeve; leaning forward, she spoke across him. “Mr. Debbington expressed an interest in viewing the church at Trewithian. With luck, we’ll just have time to head that way, then return to the Hall.”
Eleanor deflated. “Oh. I see.”
Jacqueline smiled lightly; reaching out, she lifted Eleanor’s hand from Gerrard’s other sleeve, squeezed it in farewell and released it. “We’ll see you tonight.”
Eleanor nodded, disappointed, but amiable enough. “Yes, of course.”
Gerrard blinked, and hurriedly added an abbreviated farewell; Barnaby, already in the curricle, waved. With not the slightest sign she understood that she’d just been put in her place, Eleanor inclined her head, and turned away.
For one instant, Gerrard stared. Then he inwardly shook himself, turned and helped Jacqueline into his curricle, followed, gathered the reins, sat, and set his horses trotting.
“Phew!” Barnaby leaned back as the wheels rolled smoothly down the drive. “That was a near-run thing.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “Quick thinking, too. You have my heartfelt gratitude for saving us, m’dear.”
“Indeed.” Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, and caught her eyes; they were lightly dancing. “Should I really turn east?”
She looked at the gates, rapidly approaching. “I think we’d better. But it’s a pleasant drive and not that much further. Especially with such”—she gestured to his grays—“powerful beasts.”
Gerrard laughed; so did Barnaby.
Her smile deepening, Jacqueline looked ahead.
Despite the roundabout route, they returned to Hellebore Hall in good time. Gerrard drove straight to the stables, then he, Jacqueline and Barnaby walked across the field toward the house. Pegasus watched over them; Jacqueline smiled as they passed the statue.
Over her head, Gerrard glanced at Barnaby. “Did you learn anything?”
Barnaby had intended subtly sounding out the younger generation over the source of the whispers. He’d questioned Lord Tregonning; thinking back, all his lordship could recall was that after he’d emerged from his grief over his wife’s death, Sir Godfrey and Lord Fritham had both behaved as if everyoneknew that Jacqueline had been responsible. Everyone had behaved in that way, avoiding speaking of the incident, and if they couldn’t, referring to it as an accident. Lord Tregonning had accepted the unspoken verdict; his grief had left him unable to question it, and without detailed knowledge to challenge it.
Only later, when the pall of grief had fully lifted, had he come to find that unspoken verdict hard to swallow.
Barnaby had been hunting, bloodhoundlike trying to track the whispers to their source. Gerrard wasn’t sure it would prove possible, but he was grateful Barnaby was so tirelessly investigating every possible avenue.
Hands in his pockets, Barnaby grimaced. “Only that the whispers have been spread over a long time—no one remembers from whom they first heard the suggestion that Jacqueline was responsible for her mother’s death. The association with Thomas’s death is an extension of that.” After a moment, he went on, “Jordan and Eleanor are the most open in their support.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I gathered they’ve always been quick to take your part.”
She shrugged. “We’re next to siblings—they’re my closest friends.”
Barnaby nodded. “So we’re no further ahead on that front, but the older generation might remember more. Until now, the younger ones haven’t spent much time thinking of the deaths. They weren’t that important to them.”
Wise to his friend’s phrasing, Gerrard asked, “What other snippets have you gleaned?”
Barnaby’s grin flashed. “Not so much gleaned as thought through. I’ve been wrestling with the motive for Lady Tregonning’s murder.” He met Jacqueline’s gaze. “At present, we don’t have one, which is in large part the reason it was so easy to cast suspicion on you—you were the only one with any whiff of a cause, no matter how unlikely.”
Looking ahead, he continued, “If we accept that the same person killed Thomas and Miribelle, and that the reason Thomas was killed was because he was about to become engaged to Jacqueline, then isn’t it likely Miribelle was killed for a similar reason?”
“Such as?” Gerrard prompted.
“What if some gentleman had had his eye on Jacqueline all along, and had approached Miribelle to gain her support for his suit?”
Gerrard turned the notion over in his mind. “The relative timing’s always bothered me, but that…it fits.”
Barnaby nodded. “When Thomas disappeared, you”—with his head he indicated Jacqueline—“went into half-mourning. That stymied the killer for a while, but then, when you were accepting callers again, what more natural than that he should seek your mother’s support?”
Jacqueline briefly glanced at Gerrard, then turned to Barnaby. “You’re suggesting she refused her support, and because of that, he killed her?”
Barnaby pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I think it would have to be more than that—I think she must have flatly rejected the proposal, refused to countenance it, and said so. Declared she would forever oppose the match.That, I think, would have been enough to make someone who’d already committed murder to secure your hand resort to murder again.”
Continuing toward the Garden of Hercules and the house, they reviewed old points from that new perspective.
“Murdering your mother meant you went into mourning for a year,” Gerrard said, “but time passing doesn’t seem to worry this villain.”
Jacqueline nodded. “But now I’m out of mourning again, by a few months.” They were still in the sunshine, yet she shivered.
He caught her hand, engulfed it in his, lightly squeezed. “No one’s asked for your hand lately, have they?”
Without looking at him, she shook her head. “I’m sure Papa would have told me if they had. Other than Thomas, and that hadn’t been done formally, no one has ever asked permission to marry me.”
The Garden of Hercules loomed ahead. Shadows engulfed them as they descended toward the terrace. When they reached the steps, Gerrard stood back to let Jacqueline precede him, but as she took the first step, her hand still in his, he halted her and drew her to face him.
He met her eyes. “If any gentleman should ask for your hand, you will remember to mention it, won’t you?”
She held his gaze, then glanced at Barnaby, before looking back at him. “If any gentleman should ask, you’ll be one of the first to know.” Turning, she started up the steps.
Releasing her hand, Gerrard followed, not at all sure how to interpret that. At face value? Or because, by then, she would be his?
13
It’s one thing to have won over those who know me well,” Jacqueline whispered to Gerrard as, her hand on his arm, they followed her father and Millicent up the front steps of Trewarren Hall. Dragging in a tight breath, she resisted the urge to clamp a gloved hand to her fluttering stomach and plastered a delighted smile on her lips. “Wider society is liable to be another matter entirely.”
“Nonsense.” He smiled at her. “Stop worrying. Just act as you feel you should.” His gaze lingered on hers, then he murmured, “Listen to your heart.”
Difficult when it was thudding. She drew in another breath, aware when his attention shifted to her breasts; she felt warmed by the fleeting touch of his gaze, oddly reassured.
She didn’t need to ask if he would stay by her side; she knew he would. She didn’t need to wonder if his attention would cause comment; in this setting, that was a given. Her mind was racing faster than a bolting pair; she felt starved of breath, yet exhilarated and excitedly expectant.
No wonder her head was spinning.
As they joined the receiving line, she tried not to dwell on the moment in the drawing room when Gerrard had entered in full evening dress. Barnaby had followed him in, but she hadn’t even noticed him for some time. Gerrard in black and crisp white, with a silk waistcoat in subtle swirls of amber and brown, had captured her senses to the exclusion of all else.
The sharp contrast of the black and white emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean, hard lines of his long frame and the austere, patriarchal planes of his face. The harnessed power she’d so often glimpsed in him was tonight on full show, the intensity that was an inherent part of him blatant and unrestrained. Sexuality shimmered, an invisible cloak about him; she could almost taste the raw power and his aggressive brand of passion.
Eleanor was going to swallow her tongue.
They’d never competed for the attention of any gentleman; she wasn’t sure they’d be competing over Gerrard, yet Eleanor’s attempt to monopolize him earlier that day had raised the unwelcome specter in her mind, one factor contributing to the manic frenzy of butterflies swarming in her stomach.
The man beside her—not the gentleman, but the man—was another.
She wasn’t sure of him, either, not now she’d seen him in his true colors. Not now she was standing beside him, her gloved hand on his black sleeve, so very aware of his physical presence—and so very aware of her own.
Since the bronze sheath had been made, she’d gained several inches. One at least in height, which left the hem flirting about her ankles in a decidedly provocative fashion. That was the least of her worries. She’d also gained about her hips and breasts, of all places; if she drew in a large breath too quickly, she might be in serious trouble.
As she infused her smile with even greater brightness and curtsied to Lady Trewarren, she made a mental note to locate the withdrawing room before any disaster could occur, so she would know where to run when it did.
Rising from her curtsy, she saw an arrested look in Lady Trewarren’s eyes, and only just suppressed the urge to glance down and check, but her ladyship’s gaze rose smoothly to her face; her eyes lit with real warmth. They touched fingers and cheeks, then Gerrard led her on in Millicent’s wake.
As predicted, her father’s presence instantly created a stir; guests peered over heads and peeked around others to confirm that yes, Tregonning was there, in the flesh. She was grateful for the distraction he provided.
She was about to glance around when she met Gerrard’s gaze, and realized he’d been watching her.
He leaned closer. “Relax.” His hand closed over hers on his sleeve, a warm and reassuring clasp. “You look superb.” His gaze lazily, and quite brazenly, drifted lower, over her breasts, and down. His lips quirked; fleetingly his eyes met hers again, then he looked ahead. “So nice to be proved right. That color is delectable on you.”
Delectable?Was that why he’d looked, just for an instant in that fleeting glance, as if he’d like to…
She refused to let herself finish the thought; she had distractions enough as it was.
Gerrard knew his role; it was imperative Jacqueline didn’t focus on the whispers, on how people viewed her. Didn’t retreat. Her self-protective shields gave credence to the whispers, hiding what she truly was—a young lady patently incapable of murder.
He was there to distract her; he knew how to do it.
They moved into the throng filling the ballroom. Leaving directly challenging the whispers to Lord Tregonning and Millicent, supported by Barnaby and his deduced facts, they parted from the others; Lord Tregonning and Millicent went one way, Barnaby another. Gerrard turned his attention to keeping Jacqueline absorbed in the whirl of a major ball.
Lady Trewarren had handed all the unmarried young ladies dance cards; the old custom was useful in ensuring, as her ladyship had put it, “No disputes for me to settle.”
“I’ll take the first waltz,” he murmured. “If you’d be so kind.”
She glanced up, met his eyes, then inclined her head. “If you wish.” Catching the tiny pencil attached to the card, she duly inscribed his name on the appropriate line.
“And the supper waltz, too.”
She cast him a glance, but wrote that down, too.
“Jacqueline!” Giles Trewarren appeared out of the crowd. His face was alight with good cheer, and definite approval. “Excellent! I’ve caught you in time. I’d be honored if you would grant me the first country dance.”
In less than a minute, they were surrounded by the unmarried gentlemen of the district, all eager to have their names on her card. Gerrard stood beside her, amused by the surprise he glimpsed in her eyes—she truly had no idea of the effect she, gowned as she was, had on impressionable males.
On less impressionable ones, too.
A certain possessiveness had crept into his manner; he knew it. He said little, but monitored the conversation, ready to step in and redirect it if need be. He didn’t want anyone mentioning Thomas or her mother, and sobering her. Her eyes were alight; she was blossoming, just as he’d known she could.
Matthew Brisenden came up. He cast a dark glance Gerrard’s way, but to Jacqueline his behavior was gentlemanly and deferential; inwardly Gerrard acknowledged it always was. The lad—he had difficulty thinking of Matthew as a peer—continued to act as if he’d elected himself Jacqueline’s champion.
Gerrard quashed the impulse to point out, forcefully, that the position was already filled.
“My dear Miss Tregonning.” A gentleman some years older than Gerrard, well built but tending portly, shouldered through the growing crowd to bow flourishingly before Jacqueline. “You outshine the moon tonight, my dear. Dare I hope to claim the supper waltz?”
Jacqueline smiled and gave the man her hand. Gerrard detected no change in her manner, but to his eyes, the fellow was an aging Romeo.
“Sir Vincent, I would indeed have been delighted, but I fear Mr. Debbington was before you.”
Gerrard recognized the name and was instantly alert. This was the gentleman Millicent had said had his eye on Jacqueline.
Jacqueline glanced at him, then at Sir Vincent. “I don’t believe you’ve met. May I introduce you?”
She did. Sir Vincent Perry eyed him measuringly, but returned his bow. “Debbington.” Sir Vincent turned back to Jacqueline. “Then perhaps you would honor me with the dance after supper, Miss Tregonning?”
Consulting her card, she nodded and wrote in Sir Vincent’s name. “Indeed, sir—the honor will be mine.”
Other gentlemen came and went, joining their circle, securing a dance with Jacqueline, then moving on to meet with other young ladies, but Sir Vincent remained. Jacqueline responded readily to his sallies, but treated him as she did all the others; she did nothing to encourage him.
Gerrard was aware of the increasingly narrow-eyed glances Sir Vincent threw his way.
He ignored them, but kept a mental eye on Sir Vincent while over the heads he tracked the progress of the rest of their party. While crossing the room, Lord Tregonning had paused beside various groups to acknowledge the interest his presence evoked; his attitude, that of a gentleman expecting to be pleasantly entertained without any concern clouding his mind, caused those he spoke with, once he’d moved on, to look at Jacqueline—Gerrard hoped with new eyes.
His lordship had set a steady course for Sir Godfrey, eventually engaging the magistrate; Millicent and Barnaby had swept up in support. Gerrard knew their strategy. Lord Tregonning had introduced Barnaby and his findings, then left it to Barnaby to explain. Barnaby was still explaining. Sir Godfrey seemed to be making heavy weather of absorbing Barnaby’s deductions.
Lord Tregonning excused himself and made his slow, regal way to the cardroom; there, he’d engage the older gentlemen like himself, expressing his shock at the discovery of Thomas’s body and his views on the person responsible, slaying any thought that he entertained the notion that Jacqueline had been in any way involved.
Barnaby and Millicent remained talking, low-voiced and serious, with Sir Godfrey. Then Millicent looked up, clearly exasperated. She pointed to a door, linked her arm in Sir Godfrey’s, and all but forcibly towed him off to the library, there, Gerrard guessed, to lecture him at length and make sure he understood the Tregonnings’ stance. Barnaby followed, quietly determined. Gerrard had every confidence the pair would succeed in clarifying Sir Godfrey’s mind.
“Ah, my dear Jacqueline.”
Jordan Fritham’s arrogant drawl recalled Gerrard to nearer events.
Jacqueline smiled and gave Jordan her hand. “Jordan. Where’s Eleanor? I haven’t sighted her yet.”
“Oh, she’s over there somewhere, busily filling up her dance card.” With a nonchalant wave, Jordan dismissed his sister. “I thought I should come and do my part to fill yours.” Assured, he glanced idly over
the crowd. “The cotillion, I think, if you please?”
Gerrard tensed; Sir Vincent openly bristled. Jordan’s attitude—tone, stance and clear assumption—was so ineffably superior it bordered on the rude. Yet Gerrard was prepared to wager the egotistical prick didn’t even realize; he was considering ways to puncture Jordan’s ego when Jacqueline spoke.
“I’m so sorry, Jordan, but you’re too late.” With a gentle smile, she held up her card. “My card’s already full.”
Stunned surprise filled Jordan’s face; Gerrard had to fight to keep his lips straight, especially when his eyes met Sir Vincent’s.
“Oh.” Jordan blinked; he seemed to be having trouble assimilating the blindingly obvious—that Jacqueline was a popular young lady who didn’t need his patronage to fill her evening with dance partners. He blinked again. “I see. Well, then, I’ll…leave you to it.”
With an abrupt bow, he swung around and walked away.
“Jacqueline, dear.” They turned to see Millicent sweeping down on them, resplendent in lilac bombazine. She smiled at the circle of attentive males, then announced, “Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles have arrived, my dear, and they’d very much like to speak with you. And Mr. Debbington, too, of course.” She flashed a smile at the others. “I’m sure these gentlemen will excuse you.”
They did, with swift bows and intrigued expressions.
Taking Jacqueline’s hand, Gerrard laid it on his sleeve, covering it with his. He looked down at her, encouragement in his eyes. “Just be yourself—that’s all you need to do. Don’t be afraid to let what you feel show.”
He felt her fingers quiver beneath his; she drew in a breath, and stiffened her spine. Her attention was already fixed on their destination, a corner of the room where Lady Tannahay stood beside an older gentleman, tall, imposing, but with bowed shoulders, a smaller, rotund lady by his side. The lady wore dark gray, her gown severely cut.
Jacqueline held her head high; Gerrard’s whispered words echoed in her mind. What she felt for the Entwhistles, for Thomas…As they drew near, she concentrated on that, let her emotions well.
Gerrard halted before Sir Harvey and Madeline, Lady Entwhistle. Jacqueline’s eyes locked with her ladyship’s; she was distantly aware of Millicent introducing Gerrard to Sir Harvey, but Lady Entwhistle searched her eyes—in her ladyship’s face she saw understanding, compassion, and the same sense of loss she herself still felt.
“My dear.” With a wavering smile, Lady Entwhistle reached for her hands.
Jacqueline surrendered them readily, returning the light pressure of her ladyship’s fingers.
“I know you share our loss, my dear—that you’ve grieved for Thomas as have we. He was a dear, dear boy and we miss him every day, but you…” Lady Entwhistle struggled to find a smile and squeezed Jacqueline’s hands. “While finding his body is a shock, I hope you can now leave poor Thomas to rest, and go on with your life. We were very happy when he chose you, but we wouldn’t wish his death to ruin your life. I had no idea until Elsie spoke with us that some had even considered…But with what I hear
these gentlemen”—her ladyship’s gaze shifted briefly to Gerrard and she smiled faintly—“have learned, the situation should be plain to all.”
Lady Entwhistle drew in a steadying breath, and smiled more definitely at Jacqueline. Then she impulsively drew her closer and touched cheeks. “My dear,” she murmured, “I do hope you’ll put all this behind you and go on. I know Thomas would have wanted that.”
Jacqueline drew back; ignoring the tears in her eyes, she smiled at Lady Entwhistle. “Thank you.” Their gazes held. Nothing more needed to be said.
“Ahem.” Sir Harvey cleared his throat. He nodded at Jacqueline. “Good to see you looking so well, m’dear.” He looked at his wife. “I’ve just been talking to Debbington here.”
Gerrard shook hands with Lady Entwhistle, then Sir Harvey continued, “He tells me his friend, Mr. Adair, can explain the details better—ah, here he is now.”
Barnaby, whom Gerrard had beckoned to join them, came up and was introduced to the Entwhistles. Sir Harvey and Lady Entwhistle decided to retire to the library to hear all Barnaby could tell them.
With Gerrard, Jacqueline took her leave of them. As she turned back to the room, Elsie Tannahay caught her eye. “Come walk with me for a little, my dear. It’ll save you from the overly interested, at least until the dancing starts.”
Gerrard offered Lady Tannahay his arm; with a gracious smile, she took it. He offered his other arm to Jacqueline.
Millicent waved them on. “I’m off to talk to that reprobate Godfrey. I want to keep my eye on him.”
They parted. As they strolled down the room, Lady Tannahay relentlessly claimed Jacqueline’s attention, chatting about inconsequential matters; her position in local society ensured that no one attempted to interrupt, but everyone was watching.
Many had witnessed the scene earlier, and had understood the implications; they were now busily explaining to those who hadn’t seen.
Lady Tannahay directed them onto the terrace; they admired the lights strung through the trees. On hearing it was in part Gerrard’s work, Lady Tannahay complimented him on the effect. “Quite a magical creation.”
Music drifted out from the ballroom, summoning the dancers. Accompanying them back inside, Lady Tannahay halted and smiled. “Well, we’ve done our part for the evening’s entertainment—Gertie Trewarren should be thoroughly grateful. Now we can give ourselves over to amusement—enjoy the rest of your evening, my dears.”
With a gracious nod, she moved away.
Roger Myles pushed through the crowd; grinning, he bowed before Jacqueline. “My dance, fairest one.” Jacqueline laughed, and gave him her hand.
Gerrard squeezed the hand that lay on his sleeve and leaned closer to whisper, “Come back to me here
at the end of the dance.”
She cast him a glance, but nodded. He let her go, and watched Roger gaily claim her attention.
Deciding such light relief was precisely what she needed—what would most effectively lighten her mood—he retreated to the side of the room. All was going as planned, and Lady Tannahay had turned up trumps for them. Noting the many ladies and gentlemen who glanced appraisingly at Jacqueline, he felt confident their strategy was working; after tonight, no one would credit any tale of Jacqueline being involved in Thomas’s death.
Barnaby rolled up while the dancers were still whirling. “Sir Harvey’s a shrewd one—he grasped all I had to say immediately. Like Jacqueline, they’ve already mourned Thomas. They have other children, and want to see this put to rest for everybody’s sake. In terms of Jacqueline, they’re definitely in our camp. They’ll help in any way they can in learning who’s behind all this.”
Gerrard nodded, his gaze on Jacqueline twirling down the line of dancers.
Beside him, Barnaby surveyed the nondancers, most of whom were of the older generation. “I’d forgotten what it’s like in the country—the discovery of Thomas’s body is the main topic of conversation.” He caught Gerrard’s eye. “I’m going to circulate and see if, using my status as ignorant outsider, I can draw a bead on who’s behind the whispers.”
Gerrard looked back at the dancers. “Do you think there’s any chance that way?”
“I don’t know, but the more I run up against the effects, the more I realize the whispers have been both subtle and very pervasive. Whoever’s behind it, they have access to a large number of ears.”
With that, Barnaby drifted away. The music came to a triumphant end. Laughing, the dancers halted; the lines wavered, then broke up.
Gerrard saw Jacqueline turn and look for him. Roger Myles went up in his estimation by taking her hand and leading her back. Yet she’d barely regained his side before the musicians struck up again, and Giles Trewarren appeared to claim her hand.
He suffered through that dance, but the next was the first waltz. Meeting Jacqueline and Giles at the edge of the dance floor, he claimed Jacqueline’s hand, chatted with Giles until the first squeak of the violins, then swept Jacqueline into his arms and onto the floor the instant the first familiar strains floated out.
And felt something within him ease as the sensation of having her in his arms once more permeated his brain.
They’d revolved four times before Jacqueline caught her breath. Aware of the subtle shushing of the heavy silk of her gown against his coat, the brush of his long legs against her skirts, the intensity of his gaze as he looked down at her, his attention so focused…she dragged in a huge breath, and gave thanks when his eyes remained locked on her face. “You’re very good at this.”
She didn’t just mean waltzing.
The faint curve of his long lips suggested he understood, but all he said in reply was, “So are you.” Looking up, he whirled them through the turn at the end of the long ballroom, his hand at her back,
heated and heavy, drawing her fractionally closer; when they were precessing once more up the room, he looked down at her once more. “You can’t have been dancing all that much in recent times.”
“No.” Eyes locked with his, she thought back. “Not since before Thomas died.”
And even then, never with a partner so assured, so confident in his ability that she could without a qualm resign all control and simply enjoy the moment, the movement, the indefinable energy of the dance.
“I like to waltz.” The admission slipped past her lips without thought. His eyes held hers. “So do I.”
They’d reached the other end of the ballroom, and an even tighter turn. While others paused and adjusted, he drew her closer still; she sensed his strength as he swept them through and past.
Exhilaration flared, and raced down her veins.
Desire followed, tempted forth by the look in his eyes, by the knowledge of what he was thinking, seeing in his painter’s mind. She studied his eyes, felt herself falling, drowning in the glowing brown—drawn into his vision, under his spell.
A sensual shiver slithered down her spine; her skin flushed, then prickled. Her nipples furled tight. Heat, not from without but within, burgeoned.
“If I dance much more with you, I’ll need to carry a fan.”
He laughed; his eyes glinted. Yet his gaze, to her unscreened, remained passionate and intense, not an invitation but a promise.
A clear statement that between them there would be much more.
She wondered why she wasn’t frightened, not even trepidatious. With him, such emotions had never surfaced, never colored her view of him, or, more particularly, of them. Of what might be…would be, once she agreed.
The music was building to its culmination; his expression grew more serious, his gaze more intense. “Have you decided yet?”
The words were deep, even, but not demanding. More enticing. “No.” She held his gaze as they swirled to a halt. “But I will. Soon.” He studied her eyes for an instant longer, then nodded.
Gerrard forced himself to release her. He led her to the side of the dance floor. Her next partner promptly appeared to claim her hand.
He relinquished it with growing reluctance; he would much rather have led her to some private place where he could spend the next hours convincing her to be his. Instead, mindful of his other goal, he danced with other young ladies, and made sure they had as many of the facts regarding Thomas’s death as he felt they could keep straight.
Then Eleanor came up and made it clear she’d saved a dance for him. Ordinarily, he’d have ruthlessly quashed such presumption, but against the risk of giving her even such minor encouragement, he decided to accept, to see, in light of Jacqueline’s appearance tonight, what Eleanor now thought of the circumstances of Thomas’s death.
But Eleanor wasn’t interested in dead bodies. “It’s all so long ago. I’m sure Jacqueline, poor dear, wouldn’t have had anything to do with it, so there’s really nothing more to be said, is there?” Eyes bright, fixed on his face, she tried to press closer, but he prevented it. Lowering her lids, she favored him with a sultry glance. “I’d much rather talk of moreexciting things.”
He managed to steer her through the rest of the dance without uttering a blistering setdown; releasing her with relief, he wondered that Lady Fritham—who seemed the usual sort of matron—wasn’t aware of Eleanor’s startlingly improper propensities. He might be doing his best to seduce Jacqueline, yet he was quite certain she was a virgin. Eleanor…there was something in her eyes, a blatantness in her behavior, that left him perfectly certain she’d already dipped her toes in Eros’s fountain.
Normally, he wouldn’t hold that against any lady—he wasn’t such a hypocrite—yet in Eleanor’s salacity there was something that repulsed him, and not just him but Barnaby, too. They hadn’t discussed it; they didn’t need to—one shared glance was enough. Neither felt at all attracted to Eleanor, which was mildly strange as she was physically very beautiful.
The thought had him searching the throng for Jacqueline; the sight of her heading his way lightened his mood, even if she was on Matthew Brisenden’s arm. But Matthew was another who failed to see any attraction in Eleanor; unlike Gerrard, he was open in his disapproval, and Eleanor took herself off.
Gerrard swallowed an impulse to thank Matthew, but did catch his eye and incline his head in approval. The evening continued; increasingly guests moved back and forth between the terrace and the gardens, and the ballroom and reception rooms beyond.
At last, the opening bars of the supper waltz sounded; with real relief—real if hopeful anticipation—Gerrard drew Jacqueline into his arms and started them revolving down the floor.
But she smiled, sighed softly and relaxed in his hold, and he didn’t have the heart to press her. Instead, he held her close, but gently, and let his eyes, and their silence, speak.
Between them, that level of communication was growing, deepening, becoming more acute. By the end of the dance, although they’d uttered not a word, Jacqueline’s mind was filled once more with thoughts of him, of them, and the decision she’d yet to make.
Of the sign she’d yet to see, the answer she’d yet to receive.
Gerrard led her into the supper room. Once they’d filled their plates, they were joined at a table by Giles, Cedric, Clara and Mary, and later Barnaby. The conversation was light and breezy; acutely aware of Gerrard beside her, her mind drifted to more private concerns.
They were talking of returning to the ballroom when Eleanor and Jordan came up. Jacqueline smiled at them as they stopped beside the table; it occurred to her that in the past, at any ball, they would have been together. Not tonight; indeed, no longer. Her absence from ballrooms and parties in recent years had meant she and her childhood friends had grown apart. While not so evident when they visited at the Hall, in situations such as this, their divergence was clear.
Jordan and Eleanor joined in the chatter. Then Jordan caught her eye; moving around the table, he came to stand beside her.
Leaning down, he spoke confidentially. “I say, there’s a host of whispers doing the rounds over who killed Thomas—it seems at long last they’ve realized it wasn’t you. Of course, there’s still a lot of
ill-informed nonsense about over your mother’s death, but you may be sure I set all those I heard speculating straight.”
Looking down his nose, he straightened. “Nothing more than gossipmongering, of course—we all know there’s nothing to it.”
Her gaze on his face, Jacqueline was excruciatingly aware of the sudden silence about her. Although Jordan had lowered his voice, he’d still been heard.
She didn’t know how to respond.
Her heart grew colder, and sank. A familiar vise tightened about her chest. Briefly she inclined her head. “Thank you.”
Turning back, she forced herself to glance at the others’ faces. And saw uncertainty, puzzlement, frowns that could have denoted any number of reactions.
The lighthearted atmosphere was gone.
Smiling easily, Gerrard pushed back his chair and stood; Barnaby did the same.
“It’s time to get back to the dancing.” Gerrard closed his hand over hers, gently squeezed. “The musicians are tuning their instruments.”
The others followed his lead with alacrity. Talk erupted on all sides. It sounded false to Jacqueline’s ears, but at least it dispersed the awful silence.
On Gerrard’s arm she walked back into the ballroom. Sir Vincent appeared through the regathering crowd. He smiled delightedly, and swept her a bow in his usual florid fashion. “My dance, I believe, my dear.”
She conjured a smile and gave him her hand, noting that he hadn’t acknowledged Gerrard, as if he wasn’t there. She glanced back as Sir Vincent led her to the floor. Gerrard stood where she’d left him, his gaze locked on her.
Then Eleanor appeared by his side, and slid her hand onto his arm. Gerrard turned to her.
Jacqueline looked ahead, amazed at the sharp feeling that lanced through her, at the sudden tensing of her muscles, and the way her mind reacted. She’d expected Jordan’s words and their effect to claim her, to drag her thoughts back into the uncertain vortex of how people saw her. Instead, while her dance with Sir Vincent did indeed pass in a blur, her mind was wholly occupied with Gerrard.
With what Eleanor was almost certainly doing, and how Gerrard might respond.
With the possibilities, with her decision. With how much of a sign she was waiting for…and why.
The music finally ceased, and she blinked back to her surroundings. They were close by the terrace doors at the other end of the ballroom from where she’d left Gerrard.
“My dear, I wonder if I can claim a few minutes of your time? The next dance won’t start immediately.” Sir Vincent gestured to the doors to the terrace. “Perhaps we could stroll in the quiet—others are out there, too. Quite proper, I assure you.”
The ballroom was stuffy; a few minutes of cooler, fresher air sounded like an excellent idea. She needed to clear her head so she could think. “That would be pleasant.”
On Sir Vincent’s arm, she walked onto the terrace. They paused to look around. Lantern-lit paths led away, crossing the lawn to meander between the shrubs and trees. A light breeze blew, shifting leaves; the lanterns winked and blinked, myriad tiny stars.
Numerous other couples were strolling the terrace and lawns. Glancing along the terrace, Jacqueline felt her heart stop. Gerrard stood at the other end with Eleanor on his arm; from her gestures, she was attempting to entice him down the steps and into the gardens.
She and Sir Vincent stood in relative shadow, but Gerrard and Eleanor were lit by light pouring from the ballroom. Eleanor was facing their way, but hadn’t seen them. Her attention was focused on Gerrard, on…seducing him. Apparently he didn’t wish to be seduced; curtly he shook his head and shifted back, attempting to disengage, but Eleanor brazenly clung to his arm—even more brazenly raised her face to his and tried to step closer still.
Gerrard stepped back. With icy precision, he lifted Eleanor’s arm from his and dropped it. He said something; Eleanor’s face fell.
Turning brusquely on his heel, Gerrard strode back into the ballroom.
“Ahem!” Sir Vincent cleared his throat, and belatedly turned Jacqueline in the opposite direction. “I have to say I did wonder—never do know with London bloods—but Debbington seems to have his head on straight. I wouldn’t mention it normally—I know she’s a friend of yours—but Miss Fritham needs to take a powder.”
They’d reached the end of the terrace. Sir Vincent looked around the corner of the building. “Ah, yes. Just the ticket.”
He continued around the corner. Absorbed with what she’d just witnessed, with her relief that Gerrard had dismissed Eleanor so ruthlessly even though he hadn’t known she’d been watching—and with the kernel of competitive pleasure that was blossoming, nurtured by the thought that he preferred her less fashionable beauty to Eleanor’s—it was an instant or two before Jacqueline registered the oddity in Sir Vincent’s words.
Just the ticket for what?
By then he’d led her, unresisting, to the French doors leading into one of the minor parlors. The doors were unlocked; Sir Vincent opened them wide, and guided her in with his usual courtly suavity…She went, uncertain, suspicions flickering.
The moon shed enough light to see by, but Sir Vincent immediately lit a lamp; the glow spread, easing Jacqueline’s nascent fears. This, after all, was Sir Vincent; despite his occasionally too particular attentions, he’d always accepted her rebuffs like a gentleman. As he turned to face her, his expression resolute, she wondered if perhaps he was going to warn her about the whispers; mentally composing a suitable reply, she waited for him to speak.
To her shock, he threw himself on his knees before her. “My dear!” He grasped her hands.
Stunned, she tugged, but he tightened his grip.
“No, no—don’t fear! You must excuse my intemperate passion, sweet Jacqueline, but I can no longer stand by without speaking.”
“Sir Vincent! Do, please, get up, sir.” Jacqueline cast a glance at the side terrace. Just because no one had been there didn’t mean no one would venture that way, and the lamplight was now shining out through the open doors, a beacon.
Instead of rising, Sir Vincent lifted her hands to his lips and pressed impassioned kisses to her knuckles. “DearJacqueline, you must listen. I cannot allow you to become infatuated with these London bloods—they’re not worthy of you.”
“What?” She stared down at him. “Sir—”
“I’ve waited too long not to speak. At first I thought you too young.” Still holding her hands, Sir Vincent clambered to his feet. “Then came that unfortunate incident with Entwhistle, and then, just as you were going about once more, Miribelle died, and I had to wait again. But I’ll wait no more. My dear, I desire to make you my wife.”
Jacqueline felt her jaw drop. “Ah…” She struggled to marshal her wits. “Sir Vincent, I never dreamed—”
“No? Well, why would you? I’m a man of the world, while you’ve little experience of it, but I’ve had my eye on you for some time—your mama was aware of my intentions. She insisted I wait before addressing you, and so I have.” Stepping nearer, he tightened his grip on her hands and looked down at her. “So, my dear, what do you say?”
Jacqueline dragged in a huge breath. “Sir Vincent, you do me a very great honor, but I cannot agree to marry you.”
Sir Vincent blinked.
She tugged, but he still wouldn’t release her. He seemed to be thinking—too hard for her liking. “Sir Vincent—”
“No, no—I see my mistake. No doubt you have dreams of being swept away by passion.” He pulled her to him.
Her heart rising to her throat, she braced her arms and fought to keep her distance. “Sir Vincent—no!”
“No need to fear, my dear.” Inexorably, he drew her closer. “Just a kiss to show you—” “Perry.”
The single word fell with the crushing weight of a millstone. Clipped, hard, resonant with menace, it shook Sir Vincent to his toes. Jacqueline felt alarm ripple through him; she wasn’t surprised.
Gerrard stepped into the room. “I suggest you unhand Miss Tregonning immediately.” There was a quality to his voice that rendered any “or” redundant.
Sir Vincent blinked, then, as if abruptly coming to his senses, released Jacqueline. She stepped away, closer to Gerrard, flexing her crushed fingers.
Gerrard turned to her. “Did he hurt you?”
She looked into his face; a primitive promise of immediate retribution was etched in the austere lines, unforgivingly hard in the moonlight. She was relieved she could say, “No. I was just…surprised.”
Looking back at Sir Vincent, she saw he was blushing furiously, shaken, embarrassed and, she suspected, annoyed. “Sir Vincent, I repeat, you do me a great honor, but I have no wish to become your wife. Please believe that nothing, no persuasions of any kind, will change my mind.” She thought, but there was nothing more she wished to add. Inclining her head, she held out her hand to Gerrard. “Mr.
Debbington?”
His eyes were locked on Sir Vincent. She waited; transparently reluctant to leave without administering appropriate justice, Gerrard eventually glanced at her face, then, accepting her unspoken edict, he took her hand, set it on his sleeve and, turning, escorted her from the room.
Behind them, she heard Sir Vincent exhale.
Barnaby was waiting by the door. He fell back to let them through.
Once on the terrace, Jacqueline dragged in a huge breath. Beneath her fingertips, the steel that had infused Gerrard’s muscles remained. They walked slowly back to the main terrace. Barnaby strolled beside them.
She sighed, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Thank you. I had no idea he was intending that.” “Hmm.” Barnaby was frowning. “I did hear correctly, didn’t I? He just asked for your hand?”
Jacqueline recalled their hypothesis; she shivered. “Yes. But I can’t believe—” She broke off, remembering.
Gerrard’s gaze raked her face. “What?”
Could it be?“He said he’d told Mama. And he was at the house the last time Thomas called. Sir Vincent left before Thomas…or at least we thought he did.”
Barnaby shook his head. “Your stablemen said he didn’t come to fetch his horse until later—they
assumed he’d been down to the cove.” They reached the main terrace and paused.
“Down to the cove, or in the Garden of Hercules.” Gerrard glanced at Barnaby, then at her. “Who’s to say?”
14
Once back in the ballroom, Barnaby drifted off, intent on pursuing his inquiries. The musicians had finished for the evening, yet the gathering was still in full swing.
Gerrard strolled with Jacqueline, but when they stopped to chat with a group of fellow guests, he realized that wasn’t the sort of diversion she needed. The incident with Sir Vincent and its implications were distracting her, making her appear distant and enigmatic once more.
He inwardly cursed. Except for that moment at supper, she’d done a superb job of being open, transparently herself, of keeping her inner shields down; she didn’t need, courtesy of Sir Vincent, to tarnish her success this late in the night.
Grasping the first opportunity, he excused them and drew her back toward the terrace. “Come and walk in the gardens.” Glancing down, he met her eyes. “We should at least assess our creation.”
She smiled; he saw the relief in her eyes and was content.
It was mild outside; many couples and small groups were still ambling about the paths. They descended the terrace steps and followed a path across the lawn, then took the extension that led to the pond.
Lanterns bobbed overhead. Jacqueline looked about, studying the pattern of glimmering lights through the screening trees. “It’s the best I’ve ever seen it.”
Turning, she smiled up at him.
Lowering his arm, he closed his hand about hers, and they walked on.
The lanterns stopped halfway to the pond; they’d deliberately not lit the clearing, not wanting to encourage anyone to venture close to the deep water at night. Reaching the shadows, they exchanged a glance, then walked on.
The night embraced them. Their eyes adjusted to the silvery moonlight. The moon wasn’t full, but had waxed enough to cast a faint glow over the landscape. When they strolled into the clearing, the pond was a dark, still expanse; the distant trickle of the stream running down to the lake was the only sound to punctuate the silence.
The tall trees ringing the clearing, the shrubs and bushes beneath, created the illusion of a private room in the night, one that was exclusively theirs.
Jacqueline went to the stone bench. Gerrard handed her to it and watched her sit on one end. He didn’t trust himself to sit beside her. Pensive, she looked across the pool; he studied her face, then sank his hands in his pockets and remained where he was, like her, staring at the black water.
The coolness of the stone and the pleasant night soothed Jacqueline’s chaotic thoughts. She’d been keyed up when they’d first entered the ballroom; since then, her feelings had veered through growing confidence in the way she appeared, and the way others responded to her, through the meeting with the Entwhistles, the moment of shared sorrow, then the laying of that sorrow to rest. Lady Entwhistle’s encouragement to look forward and live echoed in her mind. After that…
She’d enjoyed the dancing more than previously. The waltzes with Gerrard had been highlights, moments that had reflected the undercurrent of thoughts, of emotions, that had run beneath all else through the evening. Indeed, through the last days.
Jordan’s comment, albeit intended in support, had disrupted that pleasant and positive train, throwing her back into the uncertainties of before, but then Eleanor’s behavior with Gerrard, and his reaction, had brought her obsession with him racing back.
As for Sir Vincent…
She sighed softly, then drew in a deep breath, enjoying the sweet, night-stock-scented air. Could Barnaby and Gerrard be right? Was Sir Vincent more sinister than he seemed?
She’d known him for most of her life. She honestly couldn’t see him as Thomas’s, let alone her mother’s, killer, yet she hadn’t thought of him as a would-be suitor, either. And there was no gainsaying that the killer was someone she knew.
She paused, feeling her thoughts settle like leaves stirred by a wind; despite the distractions, one subject remained uppermost, most compelling, continually capturing her.
Gerrard.
Only a few minutes had passed since she’d sat, yet all else had slid away, unimportant in a relative sense given he was standing beside her.
Given she’d yet to make her decision, and the declaration he’d demanded.
Facets of the evening resurfaced, flotsam thrown up by her questing mind. When Sir Vincent had hauled her into his arms, when he’d pressed passionate kisses to her fingers, she’d felt nothing beyond mild revulsion. All Gerrard had to do was look at her, meet her eyes andthink —and she responded, ardently, instinctively.
The relief she’d felt when she’d heard his voice, and known he was there, glowed again. How was it that in a mere week he’d come to represent safety and, more, protection, to her?
Was that the sign she was looking for?
And what of his turning from Eleanor? Her friend was unquestionably more beautiful than she, and certainly more experienced in the ways of attracting men, yet he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in any of Eleanor’s offers, even when those offers had grown blatant.
Another sign? Perhaps.
Gerrard watched her thoughts flow over her face. Some he identified, others…
He wanted to know them all, wanted to understand, to know and so be certain of her, in every way. He was a long way from achieving that goal. Standing beside her in the night, he still had no idea if she would agree to be his—his as he wished, as he’d—increasingly he suspected unwisely—stipulated.
It was time, perhaps, to alter his stance.
Looking down, he shifted, drawing her attention. “When we were here this afternoon, you asked me why I wanted a clear decision from you.” He met her eyes, shadowed and unreadable, and selected his words with care. “In the sense of sweeping you off your feet, of sweeping you into bed on a tide of desire—primarily mine…I don’t want to seduce you.”
She blinked.
Ruthlessly, his voice hardening, he went on, “I know I could. That all I need do is push a little harder. But—” He broke off. Looking away, he drew in a breath. “I don’t want just that from you.” He looked back and caught her gaze. “I don’t want what’s between you and me to be like that.”
A seduction driven solely by me.
He didn’t say the words, but Jacqueline heard them. The light was sufficient to limn the planes of his face, to confirm that there was absolutely no lightness in his expression.
From the first, he’d made it clear he couldn’t promise anything, yet equally clearly, he viewed her as different. As something more than just another conquest, one, she knew, of many.
Couldn’tpromise, not wouldn’t.
Looking into his face, hard, unyielding, yet in the soft moonlight perhaps more revealing, she sensed for the first time that behind his confident, polished exterior lay someone with uncertainties, just like her.
What if he couldn’t promise because he didn’t know? Because, no more than she, was he sure of what lay between them, how it might evolve, what it might become?
What if she refused and walked away, and neither of them ever learned the answer?
She rose, all hesitation falling from her. Leaving the bench, she closed the distance between them; he watched her every step of the way, desire and more naked in his face. Drawing his hands from his pockets, he reached for her as she neared. She stopped only when her breasts brushed his chest.
For one moment, feeling his hands slide about her waist, feeling their heat seep through the shot silk, she gazed into his eyes…and found not the slightest change in his stance—no intention to seize, no inclination to step back. He was waiting on her—on her decision.
He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her.
Reaching up, she set her hands on either side of the strong column of his throat, then eased them back; stretching up, she drew his head down to hers, drew his lips to hers, and fused them.
She kissed him, not the other way around, and he let her. Let her press her lips to his, slide her tongue between, and take, let her set the pace, let her explore. He followed, accepting all she gave, offering all she wished in return, angling his head to deepen the kiss when she urged him to do so.
It was intoxicating. To have him at her command, to have him metaphorically by her side, hand in hand, going forward into what she sensed was a landscape as mysterious to him as it was to her.
Desire, warm and now familiar, rose and washed through them, heating, welling, buoying. Beckoning.
He dragged his lips from hers. In the shadowy light, from beneath heavy lids, their eyes met, held. One of his hands had risen to cradle her head; his other arm held her locked against him. “I don’t know where this will lead, but I want to follow the path on, with you.”
With the fingers of one hand, she traced his cheek. “Yes. I need to know, too.”
She sensed more than saw, felt more than knew, that he was no more in control of “this” than she; he wasn’t dictating it, wasn’t directing it—he was searching for answers, driven to it, as was she.
What lay between them was a shimmering temptation, both physical and emotional; he, too, could see it, and its promise, but the whole was as unknown to him as it was to her, and, it seemed, as confusing.
With this, he was no more experienced than she.
That was a potent attraction—to know that if, in going forward, she was taking a risk, then so was he. His breath brushed her lips and she yearned, not just for a kiss but for so much more.
“You know my decision.” Her voice was low, sultry, the siren he and only he evoked coloring her tone. Boldly, she pressed closer, lifting her lips to breathe over his, “Convince me I’m doing the right thing.”
She sensed his impulse to devour, to take her lips in a scorching kiss, but he refrained. Instead, from under heavy lids his eyes held hers as he raised his hands, sliding his palms slowly up until through the heavy silk he cupped her breasts, then his thumbs cruised knowingly over her ruched nipples.
Sensation lanced through her; a silent, tight gasp escaped her. For an instant he played, then he bent his head, took her lips in a long, lingering kiss, while with his hands, his strong fingers, he pandered to her senses.
When he eventually lifted his head, her body was aflame, senses stretched tight, nerves coiled, wanting. Waiting.
“I will.” In the weak light, she saw him grimace. “But not here, not now.”
She blinked, and returned to the real world, to the clearing by the pond. He was right. Not here, not now; they had to go back, had to thank their hosts and bid them farewell, had to journey home in the carriage with the others.
Her lips throbbed, her flesh ached with sweet anticipation. With one finger, she caressed the corner of his lips, then stepped back, out of his arms. “Later.”
She turned; together, they walked back to the house.
The waiting was going to kill him.
Gerrard paced before the windows in his bedchamber, and willed the minutes to tick by. He and Jacqueline had returned to the ballroom, behaved with appropriate decorum, then endured the journey home, opposite each other in the blessedly dark carriage.
Lord Tregonning had parted from them in the front hall. Jacqueline and her aunt had climbed the stairs. With Barnaby, he’d followed; turning his feet toward his room, not hers, had required considerable willpower.
He’d dismissed Compton; the house was slowly settling into slumber. Once it did, he would go to Jacqueline’s room.
How long should he give her to get rid of her maid?
Muttering a curse, he swung around and stalked to the hearth, staring—glaring—at the mantelpiece clock. Not enough minutes had elapsed.
He should have told her not to undress; a great deal of his fondness for her bronze silk sheath revolved about a vision of peeling it from her. He’d give a great deal for the chance to transform that vision to reality, but he doubted she’d realize—
Soft footsteps reached him. An instant later, his door opened and Jacqueline whisked in. She saw him, shut the door, and then she was flying to him—bronze silk sheath and all.
He caught her.
Wrapped his arms about her, lifted her from her feet, straight into an incendiary kiss.
Twining her arms about his neck, she parted her lips, surrendered her mouth, and sank against him.
Without thought, his hands shifted, one splaying over her back below her waist, angling her hips to his, the other rising to cradle her head, holding her steady so he could ravish her mouth.
No holds barred.
He’d warned her; now he could only marvel at his presentiment, for not in his wildest dreams had he imagined it would be like this.
Instant conflagration.
An immediate need more primitive than anything he’d felt before. He was a polished sophisticate, an experienced lover, yet she never seemed to connect with that side of him. The touch of her lips, the feel of her in his arms, the tentative, innocent trace of her fingers along his cheek, and he was lost to all sanity, all gentlemanly dictates, overwhelmed by an urgent and elemental need to make her his.
Totally.
As he’d warned her, completely. In every way.
Jacqueline sensed the passion in him, felt the barriers dissolve before its power, tasted its rapacious urgency on his lips, felt it in the flagrant possessiveness of his hands, of his body hard against hers. The thought of quailing before that elemental hunger never entered her head; instead she exulted, gloried in the knowledge she could provoke him to that, that she, her body, could be desired like that.
Beyond reason. Beyond all words. Where they now were, only deeds spoke, only actions had meaning.
His tongue dueled with hers; surrendering wholly to the moment, she clung to the passionately intense exchange. His hands shifted over her back, a minute later, her bodice loosened. He’d undone her laces.
She drew in a tight breath as his lips left hers; he skated kisses along her jaw, then nudged her head up, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot beneath her ear before dipping his head to follow the long line of her throat to where her pulse thudded at its base. He laved, lightly sucked; heat rose through her and spread in a melting wave beneath her skin.
Flushed, nerves coiling, she felt his palm slide, gliding over bronze silk to cup her breast. His fingers closed, kneaded provocatively, then rose to trace the neckline of her gown; she felt immeasurably grateful when he eased the heavy fabric down. Once clear of her breasts, the silk fell in folds to her waist. The tiny, off-the-shoulder sleeves were mere scraps of gauze across her upper arms. Sliding her arms free, she draped them over his shoulders.
She could barely breathe as he lifted his head and looked down. Her breasts were still screened by her filmy chemise, gathered just above them.
One tug, and the drawstring was loose. He hooked his fingers in the fine fabric and drew it down.
The room was filled with shadows; he hadn’t lit any lamps. Yet there was light enough for her to see his face, to make out his expression as he blatantly surveyed what he’d uncovered.
He’d seen her breasts before; she reminded herself of that, yet as, starved of breath, lungs inexorably tightening, she studied his face, she saw something far more potent than approval in the harsh planes.
Absorbed, he lifted his hand and cupped one breast, weighing, assessing, then he closed his fingers and kneaded knowingly, tightening her nerves still further, then he eased his hold and stroked, not simply observing but learning, as if the texture of her skin was a wonder, as if her tightly ruched nipple was worthy of his most earnest attention.
Enthrallment. She sensed, all but saw him fall under the spell—her spell, the fascination her body, it seemed, held for him.
She stood unmoving, watching him examine her; a feminine power unlike anything she’d known slowly welled within her.
A true sign, surely, that this was right. That this, here and now, was the way forward for her. The joy swelling inside her assured her it was so.
He bent his head and pressed a hot kiss to the upper curve of one breast, and any thought of retreating, of doing anything other than going forward with abandon, slid from her mind. His lips trailed over her now aching and swollen flesh, then he took one tightly furled nipple into his mouth, and lightly suckled.
Then he feasted.
She gasped, let her head fall back. Eyes closed, she clutched his shoulders, then eased her fingers and slid them to his nape, then into the silky wonder of his hair, gripping tight as he pleasured her, thankful that his hard hand pressed to the small of her back held her to him, and kept her upright.
Her senses started to spin; a kaleidoscope of sensations buffeted her mind. There was an emotion in his touch that went far beyond wonder, that was more intense, more ruthless than simple desire, a driven passion that, innocent though she was, she recognized as possessiveness.
Gerrard was far beyond thinking, far beyond disguising his feelings or his intentions in any way. She’d come to him; that was all the agreement he needed, all the encouragement his demons required to slip their leashes and devour.
The only thing holding him back from summarily stripping her, laying her across the bed and sheathing himself in her softness, claiming her, branding her in the most primitive way, was a strange and novel merging of the two halves of himself. The demons of his maleness, driven by passion and rampant possessiveness, were, with her, being directed, not overridden but working in concert with the more subtle demands of his aesthetic mind.
She and only she had ever called to both.
While his demons still slavered, turning his every touch demanding, making every action a command, a seizing, no request, he was conscious of a greater fascination, of a need to go slowly, to fully explore and experience every shred of passion, of desire, that her surrendering herself to him evoked.
To wallow in the physical, to gorge on the sensual. He was more educated than most in both.
When he finally drew his lips from her breasts, she was heated, urgent, driven beyond innocence to make demands of her own. He acquiesced to her tugs, shrugging out of his coat, first one arm, then the other, letting the garment fall unheeded to the floor. His waistcoat followed.
Her hands spread across his chest and he caught his breath, not so much from the touch itself as the urgency behind it. At the feminine desire he glimpsed in her eyes as she reached for his cravat, at the focus in her face as with unsteady hands she unraveled the folds, then drew the long linen strip away.
She dropped it, and stepped closer, eliminating the last inches between them as she boldly tugged his shirt from his waistband and slid her hands, small palms to bare skin, beneath. She touched, then spread her fingers and ran her hands up his chest. Leaning in, she lifted her face; he lowered his head and their lips met. Melded.
For long moments, he savored the taste of her escalating passion, sweet, hot, and exquisitely female. An evocative blend of the innocent and sultry, of untried promise.
His. All his.
His to educate, to awaken. To possess.
Closing his arms around her, he slid one hand down, over her back, down over the curve of her hips, pushing the stiff silk lower, then down.
The gown fell to the floor, sinking about her feet, taking her chemise with it. He closed one hand over her bottom, drew her fully to him, and settled to explore. To arouse her still further. Tracing, fondling, he felt the dew of desire rise to his touch as he caressed the sweet curves, felt her initial shock drown beneath a wave of heated yearning.
Of increasingly urgent desire.
He held her to their kiss, plundered her mouth as he wished, ravaged her senses, and filled his with her surrender. A surrender even more explicit as she sank against him, and let him have his way.
Naked in his arms, held against a body whose very hardness embodied a potent promise, Jacqueline gave up trying to steady her giddy senses and let them whirl. Swirl. They danced to his touch, to the increasingly intimate caresses he pressed on her, to his flagrant exploration, to the rapacious need that, held back, was still evident in every driven touch.
A threat, but not one of pain. Of possession, yes, but she now longed for that.
Ached for it, with an urgency that only grew more desperate, that had her sinking her nails into his sides to urge him on.
The wash of night air over her bare skin left her acutely aware of her naked state; she should have felt unsteady, uncertain—in reality, she didn’t care; she reveled in the shocking intimacy. Reservation, shyness, modesty, all were fading at the edges of her mind, overwhelmed by a need more physical than she’d foreseen, and more powerful. She wanted it all—she wanted him naked, too, wanted to feel his skin against hers, needed that degree of physical closeness, needed him entwined with her.
Now.
Sinking against him, blatantly offering her mouth, yielding to his every demand, she ran her hands, splayed until then across the wide muscles of his chest, down. Over the hot, flickering skin of his abdomen, over the shifting muscles, down to the waistband of his trousers. And further. Briefly, boldly, she traced his erection.
And felt his breath hitch. Sensed the sudden hiatus in his concentration. Pressing her palm to him, she stroked, lingeringly, then reached for the buttons at his waist.
Gerrard dragged in a breath and caught her hands. Shackled them with his, drew them away, to her sides, then released them, broke their kiss and swept her into his arms. He would have preferred to go more slowly, but she’d already rushed ahead.
He carried her the few paces to the bed, knelt and laid her across it. Pausing, he looked down at her, his mind almost blank as he drank in the sight of her naked and heated, flushed with desire and wanting him so blatantly, then he grabbed his shirt, drew it over his head and tossed it away, then stepped back and swiftly dealt with the buttons at his waist.
Toeing off his shoes, he stripped off his trousers and stockings; naked, he joined her, coming down beside her propped on one elbow the better to view her. Intent, she reached for him; again he caught her
hands. Once again shackled them, this time in one of his; shifting, he drew her hands up and anchored them over her head.
She was breathing rapidly. She frowned, opened her lips—
“Don’t speak.” Briefly, he met her eyes, noted how wide they were. “I know what you need.” And what I need.
He looked down, let his gaze roam her body, laid out beside him, a delectable gift. The truth crashed through him. Just taking would be so much less than either of them needed, or deserved.
Her breasts remained swollen, firm and tight, the ruched peaks begging for his attention. Her skin, pearly white, almost glowed, satin soft, tinted with desire, an elementally evocative sight. The indentation of her waist, the teardrop-shaped hollow of her navel, tempted him to taste. Below her taut belly, tawny curls covered her mons, veiling the delicate flesh between her thighs.
His gaze swept her thighs, sweetly curving to her knees, followed the subtle swell of her calf to where it tapered to narrow ankles and finely boned feet. To him that long line held the essence of femininity; he reached out and with his palm sculpted. Caressed.
She shivered.
Returning his gaze to her face, he watched her response as he ran his hand slowly upward, from her calf to her knee, up her thigh and over the swell of her hip, sliding through the curve at her waist to glide over her breast to her shoulder, and on, up the exposed inner face of her arm to her fingers. Then he reversed direction, sweeping his fingers around her face, then spreading his palm, now tingling and hot, below her throat, then running it more heavily, more possessively, down, over the center of her body, fingers trailing over her breasts, over her navel to splay over her taut stomach.
He pressed gently, watched her eyes darken. Watched her moisten her lower lip, lush and swollen from his kisses. He shifted over her, leaning down to take her lips, her mouth, again, while his hand slid lower, fingers spearing slowly through her curls to the slick, swollen flesh beyond.
Her body lifted; her thighs parted, wordlessly inviting. He slid one knee between hers, cupped her fully, evocatively stroked, then slowly pressed two fingers deep, into the lush haven of her body.
She moaned, the sound trapped between their lips. He filled her welcoming mouth with his tongue while between her thighs he pressed her on.
Until she writhed beneath him. Until, heated and desperate, she tugged against his hold, but still he held her hands. He shuddered when, denied them, she used her body, all womanly curves and sweet, flushed skin, to caress his, and tempt him.
He held against her for long moments, then released her hands and moved over her. She spread her hands over his shoulders, his chest, greedily grasping. Inciting.
Yet still he held back. Spreading her thighs, he settled between, yet he wanted, and knew he could have, even more from her.
She broke from the kiss, pressing her head back, panting, gasping. Before she could catch her wits, he
lowered his mouth to her breast.
Jacqueline jerked; the voracious contact sent sensation lancing through her, sharp, passion sweet. She closed her eyes and almost sobbed. The wet heat of his mouth expertly applied to the excruciatingly sensitive peaks of her breasts was both pleasure and punishment. She wanted more, so much more—she knew exactly what.
She could feel the heavy weight of his erection riding against her inner thigh. She wanted that inside her, wanted him to take her.
Wanted to be conscious when he did.
His hand hard about one breast, he suckled more powerfully, simultaneously probed deeply between her thighs.
“Gerrard!”She arched against him, her fingers sinking into his shoulders, the hardness of his body, the crisp, crinkly hairs adorning it, meeting her softer, smoother skin, evocatively abrading it.
Poised above her, his weight, the inherent power in his naked, muscled frame, the ruthlessly intimate touch of his hands and mouth, sent realization of her vulnerability crashing through her. Dragging in a breath, she cracked open her lids. Caught the gleam of his eyes beneath his lashes as he lifted his head.
“Now—please!Take me now.”
The plea fell from her lips on a breathless gasp.
His face was an angular mask, graven with desire; he searched her eyes, then his gaze lowered. He bent his head once more, shifting back to place a hot, openmouthed kiss on her navel.
She sobbed, clutching desperately at his shoulders, thinking he meant to caress her as he had before.
Instead, he rose above her, adjusting his hips between her widespread thighs; bracing his weight on his arms, he nudged into her.
She caught her breath, felt her eyes grow wide as the broad head of his erection pressed into her. Stretching her.
She blinked. For one instant wondered how…
He flexed his spine and thrust in. Inexorably. Hard, deep.
Pain lanced through her—she gasped, closed her eyes. Her breath tangled in her throat; her lungs seized. He held still, embedded within her, impossibly large, impossibly heavy. Totally alien.
So male.
Amazingly welcome…
The sharp sting was already fading; her body eased beneath his. She straightened her fingers from where they’d curled about his biceps, nails biting in in instinctive reaction.
He bent his head, found her lips, breathed over them, “There’s no rush,” then covered them.
But he was wrong. She returned his kiss with all the hunger she possessed. Sliding her hands around his body, she clung; the instant he started to move within her, she knew what she wanted, what she needed. Now.
He thrust deep, and she was with him, rising beneath him, urging him on. Wanting more. Wanting all; if she had to give him that, she wanted the same in return.
And she got it.
He groaned and surrendered, and all control evaporated. They broke from the kiss, gasping, breaths mingling. The dance caught them, trapped them. Heat poured through them, rushed down their veins, pulsed between them. His body moved over hers, into hers, repetitively stroking inside and out; hers seemed to know the rhythm—she moved with him, against him, without conscious thought.
The tempo steadily escalated, a pagan crescendo of motion and searing heat. A constant striving to a fiery climax that for long desperate moments seemed out of reach.
And then they were there.
In the eye of desire’s storm, surrounded by passion’s whirlwind, by flames that left them gasping, nerves coiling, tightening as sensation spiraled and coalesced.
From beneath heavy lids, their gazes met, locked; every nerve she possessed was alive, exquisitely abraded as he drove deeply, powerfully into her, as he moved against her and her body responded, ardent and abandoned.
Beneath him, she rode each thrust, each forceful penetration. Desperately clinging. Then she broke apart.
She cried out, felt perception shatter as her nerves unraveled and her body melted. In one clear instant, she saw him above her, his expression blank as passion claimed him, too, as with her body she claimed his, as with his he’d claimed hers.
Then completion swept her, caught her, buoyed her on, into a golden sea. Satiation swamped her; she felt warmth deep within her as with a groan he joined her, then collapsed across her. She drifted on the waves, his weight surrounding her, holding her, securing her.
In the last instant before she sank into pleasured oblivion, she turned her head and brushed her lips to his temple. “Thank you.”
Into those simple words she let all she felt flow, then surrendered to the tide and let ecstasy claim her.
Thank you.
Her words and the emotions carried in them echoed through Gerrard’s brain; he returned to the living
slowly, savoring them, feeling them sink to his soul, the headiest, most contentment-making balm he’d ever known.
His strategy had worked; the waiting had been worth it. She’d come to him, and now she was his.
Disengaging, he lifted from her, then slumped beside her. He studied her face; he couldn’t truly see but she seemed sunk in bliss. After a moment, he lay back, and gently, carefully, eased her over, into his arms. She came, not quite awake, turning to him, one arm sliding across his waist, her head pillowed on his chest.
He was accustomed to the moment, to the warmth of a boneless female draped over him, yet this time was different, acutely so. He was more aware of her, of her skin, her limbs, of the soft cloud of her hair, the gentle huff of her breathing. Of her weight, her warmth—of all she meant to him—as if through the act of joining they’d created a linkage that ran deeper, and was more tightly meshed, than the norm.
Closing his eyes, he considered that. Wondered if perhaps that was what happened when a man found his mate.
His lips lazily, openly arrogantly, curved. He replayed her words again… He stilled; his lips straightened.Thank you?
He kept his eyes closed, but his mind raced. Why had she thanked him? It was she who’d given herself to him, not the other way around. She who’d accepted him as her lover and husband-elect—shouldn’t he be thanking her?
Abruptly he recalled his earlier errors in assuming how she would think or react. If she’d had the temerity, and the audacity, to judge his ability as a portraitist, there was no telling what tack her mind might take.
He replayed her “thank you” again; a disquieting thought took hold.Surely she knew he intended marrying her—that he saw her coming to his bed as agreeing to their marriage?
Even as his mind posed the question, he knew the answer—it was perfectly possible she didn’t.
His direction was crystal clear tohim. He couldn’t recall when he’d decided, but he’d embraced the path to marriage with absolute commitment regardless of his until recently deeply entrenched antipathy.
Nothing about him had changed; he’d simply seen an undeniable light. His reservations over engaging with love still existed, but were of insufficient weight to turn him from his path, to diminish in any way the compulsion that now drove him.
However,his conversion to the ranks of the matrimonially minded hadn’t come about through any action of Jacqueline’s. His antennae were well honed, well educated in detecting husband-hunting young ladies; he’d detected no sign of such intent in her. Her fascination with him, and with what had grown between them, was innocent and true, free of any calculation.
That was one of the reasons she’d captured him.
Well and good, yet although she was twenty-three, even by the standards of a county backwater she was socially inexperienced. Thanks to Thomas’s and her mother’s deaths, she hadn’t been exposed to
wider society, much less the circles in which he moved. She didn’t appreciate how, in such circles, things were done, how matters were arranged.
She didn’t know the ways.
And with her only close contemporary being Eleanor Fritham…
His lips set. Hardly surprising if Jacqueline hadn’t, yet, understood his tack.
The pleasure thrumming through his veins was slowly fading; sleep beckoned, but his mind ranged on—to what now loomed as his next step.
If she wasn’t yet thinking of marriage, then it clearly behooved him to steer her mind in that direction before he specifically stated his objective. He knew women, at least in general; they preferred to think they made their own decisions in such matters. Jacqueline, he felt sure, would have the same prejudice, so he’d introduce the subject and let her decide—let her see the light as he had—before uttering the formal words and offering for her hand.
The one question remaining was how. His mind circled the problem; sleep fogged his thoughts and drew them down.
One conclusion shone through the veils of slumber.
He had experience aplenty in discouraging young ladies, and none whatever in persuading them to the altar.
Jacqueline’s senses drifted hazily, swirling through mists of pleasure, gradually focusing on the here and now, on her body, on what it felt.
On the hands that so slowly, so skillfully caressed, on the lips that touched her shoulder, lingered, then disappeared.
On the phantom lover who in the dark of the night stirred her to life. Lured her to join him.
She was lying on her side, almost on her stomach; lifting lids languid and heavy, she looked, but even her night-adjusted eyes couldn’t see.
It was the dark depths of the night. The moon had set; there was no light to guide her. Only sensation. Only the hard, hot reality of the man beside her.
And the desire that flared between them.
She turned to him, into his arms. Reached for him.
Found heavy muscle and bone, and, as one blind, traced. Saw through her fingertips, through the palms she smoothed over his upper arms as he loomed over her in the dark, over his broad shoulders as he surrounded her with his strength.
He was anonymous, and so was she, sundered from their identities by the absolute dark, and so free to allow their desires full rein, to give and take as they would, without restraint.
Tactile sensation was their only communion, that and the incoherent sounds of passion. Neither spoke; for her part, she had no need for words. With sight denied her, her other senses expanded, until every caress, every trailing brush of fingers held her complete and unwavering attention. Effortlessly.
He took her further than before, higher, deeper into the realms of physical desire and sensual need. She heard her own gasps echo in the dark, heard the harried sound of her breathing.
She was acutely aware of how her body responded to each explicit caress, to the increasingly intimate knowing. She was aware of how she surrendered herself utterly, to him, to his passion.
He knew the boundaries well; although he pushed her to them, again and again he drew her back. In between, he let her explore, let her learn of him; he allowed her to pleasure him, guided her, taught her the ways.
Eventually, when she was giddy with need and both their skins were slick with desire, he pressed her back into the bed, spread her thighs wide and settled between. And joined them.
And it was different than before, with not even an echo of pain to dim the pleasure. With their skins so alive, their tactile senses so heightened, their passions already so inflamed, the fires roared, and the conflagration consumed them, yet still they clung, breaths mingling as they reached for the peak—and found ecstasy.
It shattered them, flung them far, left them to burn in glory among the stars, until, uncounted heartbeats later, they drifted back to the world, to the rumpled bed, to the sanctuary of each other’s arms. And slept.
15
Gerrard awoke, then mentally cursed, lifted his head and squinted across the room. The clock stated it was nearly six o’clock. Too late to…
Swallowing a resigned sigh, he raised a hand to Jacqueline’s shoulder and gently shook. “Wake up, sweetheart. You have to get back to your room before the maids are about.”
She roused slowly, dreamily, then opened her eyes and blinked up at him. Then she smiled, a cat drunk on cream; before he could restrain her, she stretched against him, angling up to press her lips to his.
With predictable results.
He inwardly groaned, but couldn’t resist the sweetness, the simple unalloyed delight. But when she drew back on a happy sigh, he gritted his teeth and set her from him. “We have to get you back. Now.”
She grumbled, but he held firm; bundling her from the bed, he scrambled into his clothes, then went to lace her gown.
Still floating on the aftermath of pleasure, Jacqueline leaned back against him, thrilled to be able to so brazenly claim the hardness of his body, and its heat. Tilting her head back, she caught his eyes, lifted her lips.
He hesitated, but then obliged…she inwardly exulted; he couldn’t resist, it seemed.
Just as well; after all she’d experienced last night, she feared she was addicted—it would be comforting if he was, too.
The kiss ended and he lifted his head, but only partially. His lips brushed her temple; she sighed and looked forward, relaxed and nearly boneless against him.
“What was your ‘thank you’ for?” His words, soft and deep, floated past her ear. “Just so I know.”
Her smile grew, softened. “For so unstintingly and devotedly showing me so much that I’d wanted to know.”
He straightened, steadying her on her feet; she felt him tightening her laces. “Are you grateful enough to bestow a reward?”
He liked claiming rewards, but…“Assuredly your efforts deserve one, but…” He finished tying her laces. His hands fell away and she turned to face him. “What more could I possibly give that you would want?”
Her gaze reached his face. To her surprise, his expression was unreadable; there was no teasing glint in his eyes.
He held her gaze for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll think of something. But now”—taking her arm, he turned her to the door—“let’s get you safely to your room.”
Gerrard escorted her all the way. They could hear the distant sounds of the household stirring belowstairs, but no staff had yet ventured to the upper floors. At her door, they parted with one last, passionate kiss, then he swiftly retraced his route through the still quiet corridors.
As he’d suspected, she wasn’t thinking of marriage. Regardless, she was going to have to start, and soon. He might not have any experience in influencing females in such a direction, yet how hard could it be to turn an unmarried twenty-three-year-old, gently reared lady’s mind to matrimony?
In her room, Jacqueline stripped off her gown—again—then slumped into bed, and instantly fell asleep.
She woke late. As she hurried through her morning ablutions, it wasn’t the events of the night that claimed her mind, but rather their consequences.
Given the intimacies they’d shared, how should she behave toward Gerrard? Prior to him, she’d done nothing more than kiss a man. Now…
She had no idea; regardless, five minutes later, in a gown of sprig muslin becomingly flounced, she glided into the breakfast parlor.
Seated at his usual place at the table, Gerrard looked up and met her eyes. His expression remained mild, yet his eyes held memories that sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine.
He inclined his head. “Good morning.”
Surreptitiously, she cleared her throat. “Good morning.”
Dragging her eyes from him, she nodded to Barnaby, who returned her greeting with a guileless smile. After helping herself to sustenance, she returned to the table and sat. Millicent poured tea for her; Mitchel passed the cup. Jacqueline took it, sipped, and gathered her wits. So far, so good.
Millicent launched into a review of their various successes at the ball. “I’m still not sure Godfrey has correctly grasped thewider implications.” She, Gerrard and Barnaby filled the minutes trading observations.
“I warn you,” Millicent said, setting down her napkin, “we’ll have a small army of callers this afternoon. They’ll all want to learn more—it would be helpful if you gentlemen could be present to assist.”
“Yes, of course,” Barnaby said.
Gerrard’s agreement came more slowly. With a glance at Jacqueline, he pushed back his chair. “If I’m to spend the afternoon in the drawing room, I must get some painting done. If you’ll excuse me?”
Millicent waved a gracious dismissal. Stifling a twinge of regret, Jacqueline smiled and let him go.
If he was going to spend the morning painting…She turned to Millicent. “I need to check through the linen closets. If you have no special need of me, I’ll do that this morning.”
Millicent agreed. Her aunt engaged Barnaby in a discussion of mutual acquaintances in Bath.
Mitchel Cunningham rose as she did, and accompanied her to the door. “I gather,” he said, “that last night was enjoyable?”
Mitchel occasionally attended such events, but not always; he hadn’t attended last night. She smiled. “It was, more so than I’d expected.”
He hesitated, then asked, “The Entwhistles were there?”
“Yes.” She met his eyes. “It was a relief to be able to speak with them. They’re as determined as we are to find poor Thomas’s killer.”
Mitchel studied her; he appeared perplexed. “I see.” A frown in his eyes, he bowed and they parted.
Wondering—for quite the first time—how Mitchel viewed her, Jacqueline headed for Mrs. Carpenter’s room.
After conferring with the housekeeper, she summoned the appropriate maids and went to attend to the mundane chore of assessing the sheets and towels. That done, she extended her purview to include all the napery.
She was running her eye over a linen tablecloth when the clocks struck twelve, and she realized with some surprise that Eleanor hadn’t turned up for one of their customary walks in the gardens. She couldn’t
recall the last local ball she’d attended after which Eleanor hadn’t appeared the following morning to review, often in salacious vein, the highlights of the previous night.
Uttering a mental thank-you to fate, Jacqueline owned to significant relief. She had no wish to listen to a diatribe against Gerrard for refusing Eleanor’s advances. And while she might privately preen at having captured his attentions herself, she saw no reason to let Eleanor know she had succeeded where Eleanor had failed.
That would not be nice. It also struck her as potentially unwise. Eleanor could be vindictive when thwarted. Although she’d never been the target of Eleanor’s ire, she was relieved not to have their long friendship put to that particular test.
Lunch came, and went, with no sign of Gerrard.
As Millicent had predicted, when the clocks struck three, the callers descended. A veritable horde, they filled the drawing room and overflowed onto the terrace.
Barnaby had joined them just before the rush to glibly lend his aid. Scanning the heads, he paused beside Jacqueline. “I’ll go and fetch Gerrard. I think he’s actually painting, which means he’ll have no notion of the time.”
After last night, she was much more confident of playing her part in their plan; she hesitated, conscious of a wish to have Gerrard by her side, yet also reluctant to interfere with his crucial work on her portrait. “If he’s absorbed”—she looked up at Barnaby—“perhaps we should leave him to paint in peace. I’m sure I’ll be able to manage—and you’ll be here, too.”
Barnaby met her eyes, then smiled. “I doubt Gerrard would agree. With a choice between being by your side in such a situation, and painting your portrait undisturbed in the attic, I suspect he’ll toss his brushes aside without a thought.” His smile deepened. “I’ll slip up and remind him—aside from all else, he’ll have my head if I don’t.”
Jacqueline watched him ease his way through the crowd. Eyes narrowing, she wondered how much he’d guessed.
Wondered if his words were true. He knew Gerrard rather well, after all. “Where’s Mr. Adair off to?”
Jacqueline swung to face Eleanor. She’d arrived with her mother, sullen and sulking, presumably over Gerrard, who, of course, wasn’t present to squirm over her mope. “He’ll return in a moment—he’s gone to fetch Mr. Debbington from the nursery.”
Eyes on the doorway through which Barnaby had gone, Eleanor tilted her head. “Is he painting, then? Mr. Debbington?”
“Yes. He’s commenced the portrait.”
“Have you seen it?” Eleanor turned to study her face.
“No—he doesn’t show his work until it’s completed, even to the subject.”
“How…arrogant.” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed; she glanced again at the doorway. “He refused point-blank to dally with me in the gardens last night—he was quite curt about it, too. Indeed, I’m starting to wonder about Mr. Debbington—about whether he’s a trifle queer.”
“Oh?” Jacqueline heard the defensive note in her voice; she fought to convert it to simple curiosity. “Queer in what way?”
“Well, you know what they say about artists.” Eleanor lowered her voice. “Perhaps he’s one of those who prefer boys rather than women.”
Jacqueline was thankful Eleanor was still looking at the doorway, and so missed her slack jaw. Words of denial leapt to her tongue; she swallowed them just in time. “Ah…surely not.”
How could she defend Gerrard over such a charge—how could she explain how she knew?
Another thought struck. Was this how rumors, damaging whispers without any foundation, started? Just a spiteful, speculative comment, and…
She glanced around, confirming no one else stood close enough to have heard. Lady Tannahay caught her eye and beckoned.
“Come.” Jacqueline wound her arm in Eleanor’s, determined to distract her from her latest tack. “Lady Tannahay wishes to speak with us.”
Ruthlessly, she drew Eleanor with her, away from other, less well informed minds.
Through the open nursery window, Gerrard had heard the chatter of many voices drifting up from the terrace. He’d glanced at the small clock Compton had placed on the scarred mantelpiece, sighed and set aside his brushes, then headed downstairs to change his shirt.
He was striding down the corridor to the gallery when Barnaby appeared, heading his way. “How is it?” he asked.
“Interesting.” Halting, Barnaby waited until he joined him. “They’re all eager to hear more. From the prevailing attitude, I’d say we’re well on the way to ensuring no one suspects Jacqueline of any involvement in Thomas’s murder.”
Turning to walk beside him, Barnaby went on, “As for her mother’s death, some of the ladies are indeed wondering whether that, too, is a conclusion that needs revisiting.”
Gerrard glanced at him. “Have any of them broached the subject?”
“No. It’s more a case of them suddenly being struck by the possibility, but as yet no one is game to openly question the accepted truth.”
Gerrard looked ahead. “So we still need the portrait.”
“Indubitably. The portrait will give them precisely the right opportunity to voice their wonderings aloud.”
Reaching the stairs, they went quickly down. “And that,” Barnaby declared, “is the opening we need.”
They stepped off the stairs, both concealing their resolution behind the affable masks they used to charm. With assured ease, they strolled into the drawing room; exchanging a glance, they parted.
Gerrard saw Jacqueline speaking with Lady Tannahay, Eleanor beside her. Both were facing away; neither had seen him. Deeming Jacqueline for the moment safe, he paused to chat to the numerous other ladies keen to pass the time—to politely inquire about his family, his stay in the area, but most importantly to learn all he knew of Thomas Entwhistle’s death.
Barnaby was similarly engaged on the opposite side of the room. Seated on the central chaise, Millicent held court. The entire gathering, including those who’d stepped out onto the terrace to admire the view—and stare at the cypresses in the Garden of Hades—exuded a significantly different tone to that which had held sway when they’d first set foot in Lady Trewarren’s ballroom. Eyes had been opened, perceptions turned around. Barnaby was right; over the matter of Thomas’s death, they’d succeeded in lifting suspicion from Jacqueline.
Buoyed, Gerrard smiled; reassured, increasingly relaxed, he circled the room to join Jacqueline.
She looked up when he halted beside her, and smiled. Warmth leapt to her eyes and set them glowing; her lips softened. “Hello.”
He met her eyes, inclined his head.
A heartbeat passed, then she blinked, recollected herself and faced forward. “Lady Tannahay has been asking after you—after the portrait.”
“Indeed.” Her lips curving, her eyes twinkling, Lady Tannahay extended her hand.
Gerrard took it and bowed. He answered her ladyship’s queries readily, and was rewarded with her suggestion that he take the two young ladies for a stroll on the terrace. They parted from her ladyship with a bow and curtsies. Gerrard drew Jacqueline closer, his hand at the back of her waist as he turned her toward the French doors.
She looked up at him, that same open, transparently trusting expression softening her countenance; he felt as if he was literally basking in the glow, then he looked past her, to Eleanor Fritham.
Eleanor’s expression had blanked; she looked from him to Jacqueline, then, eyes narrowing, glanced once more at him before turning her attention, now acute and frankly chilly, to Jacqueline. “Ithought —”
“Ladies.” He spoke over Eleanor, drowning her words, deflecting their edge. Smiling charmingly, he took Jacqueline’s arm. “Shall we stroll?”
Smiling in return, Jacqueline nodded, then looked at Eleanor. Over Jacqueline’s head, he met Eleanor’s eyes.
She’d heard the warning in his tone, read the same message in his eyes. She hesitated, then nodded, thin-lipped. “By all means—let’s walk on the terrace.”
He didn’t like her tone, and even less the impression that she was planning to pay him back for his
rejection of her—and his preference for Jacqueline.
But by the time they’d gained the terrace, Eleanor had reverted to her customary friendliness, at least toward Jacqueline. Toward him, she remained watchful and sharp-eyed. Like a stalking cat.
Jacqueline was lighthearted, relaxed, her gaze warming whenever it rested on him. He was certain she wasn’t aware of it, or of how easily Eleanor at least was reading her reaction and, he would swear, interpreting it correctly. Jacqueline’s innate openness left her blind to Eleanor’s two faces.
He was alert, on guard, but they moved through the ladies gathered on the terrace, chatting here and there, and nothing happened. He’d started to relax again when abuptly Eleanor halted and, smiling, turned to Jacqueline.
“Let’s go down and stroll through the Garden of Night.” They were standing before the main garden stairs. Eleanor spread her arms, attracting the attention of other ladies nearby. “It’s a lovely afternoon, and I’m sure Mr. Debbington would like to view the garden with a guide who knows it well.” She focused on Jacqueline. “You haven’t taken him through it, have you?”
He glanced at Jacqueline; her expression had grown stony, rigid—distant. Her inner shields had sprung up.
“No.” The word was flat, expressionless. Her fingers had tightened on his arm.
Eleanor shook her head, smiling in fond exasperation. “I don’t know why you won’t walk there anymore—your mama’s been gone for over a year. You’ll have to venture in there again sometime.”
With a bold, brazen smile, Eleanor reached to take his arm. Jacqueline caught her wrist.
Eleanor jerked, taken aback. Her eyes widened.
Releasing Eleanor, Jacqueline drew a deep breath. Gerrard glanced at her, concerned, and saw her walls come down, saw her deliberately lower them, leaving her emotions exposed, letting what she felt—all she felt—show.
“I will walk there again—someday. But in case you’ve forgotten, my mother didn’tgo —someone flung her to her death, into the Garden of Night. And that someone wasn’t me. Mama died down there, alone. I won’t walk there again until we learn who her killer was, until he’s been exposed, and has paid for what he did. Then, yes, I’ll walk again in the Garden of Night, and perhaps show Mr. Debbington its treasures. Until then…I fear you’ll have to excuse me.”
Her voice had gained strength with every word. Her last sentence was a regal declaration. With a cold nod to Eleanor, Jacqueline turned away. He turned, too, retaking her hand and placing it on his sleeve.
She glanced up at him, determination and resolution clear in her face. “I believe we’ve strolled long enough out here.”
“Indeed.” He glanced over the heads, into the drawing room. “Tea has been served. We should go in.”
She nodded. Head high, she didn’t look back as he steered her over the threshold. About to follow, he glanced back, noting the barely suppressed surprise—and the welling approval—in the eyes of the ladies who’d overheard the exchange. Noted, too, the stunned, utterly dumbfounded look on Eleanor Fritham’s face.
He guided Jacqueline to a quiet spot a little way from the central chaise. Leaving her for a moment, he fetched her a cup of tea. Handing it to her, he smiled—not his charming smile but a private, totally sincere expression. “Bravo!” He kept his voice low as he turned to stand beside her, facing the room. “That was very well done.”
She sipped, then set her cup on the saucer. “Do you think so?”
She didn’t look up, but glanced at the guests—at the ripple of conversation that was spreading from the French doors through the room.
“I would describe it as a command performance, except it wasn’t a performance. You spoke the truth, from the heart—everyone who heard realized how hard that was to do.”
He looked down, caught her gaze as she glanced up. “No matter how annoying Eleanor might be, in this case, she set the stage for you perfectly—and you had the courage to seize the moment and play the most difficult role.”
Jacqueline studied his eyes, drank in the undisguised, patently sincere admiration she read in them. Felt her heart lift. “I thought you said it wasn’t a performance?”
“It wasn’t.” His eyes remained steady on hers. “The role you had to play was you.”
He understood her so well. Far better than any other ever had. Jacqueline had no idea what she’d done to deserve such a boon from fate, but she wasn’t about to refuse it.
Wasn’t about to waste one precious minute she might spend in his arms.
That night, she waited until Holly left her room, counted to twenty, then rose from her dressing stool, tightened her robe’s sash, and all but flew from the room.
To his. To him.
To the pleasure she knew she would find there, and to learn more, to delve deeper into the mysterious realm that had opened between them.
Of that, she wanted to know a great deal more.
On swift, slippered feet, she sped through the gallery. Remembering the fraught scene of the afternoon—the scene she’d not simply suffered through, as until now had been her habit, but had grasped and turned to her advantage, all because Gerrard had shown her the need to be herself, and had convinced her she had the strength to do it, to play that most difficult of roles—she glanced out of the windows, down at the terrace, at the glimmer of marble that was the steps leading down, at the dark conglomeration of canopies that marked the Garden of Night, rustling in the breeze.
Frowning, she slowed, then stopped and stepped to the window. She looked to left and right, confirming that there was no breeze. Not even the tips of the tall, feathery herbs in the Garden of Vesta were stirring.
She looked again at the bushes surrounding the upper entrance to the Garden of Night. They’d definitely moved, but now were as still as the rest of the gardens. She pulled a face. “One of the kitchen cats—must be.”
Turning, she continued along the gallery, her attention reverting to her goal.
See?I told you! She’s off to his room—thetrollop .” “Keep your voice down.”
A long moment passed. Cloaked in the heavy shadows of the entrance to the Garden of Night, the first speaker stirred, and glanced, sharply, at the other. “Did you know he’s started her portrait?”
The other shrugged and made no reply.
“I tell you, it’sserious ! You should hear what the old biddies are saying—how if the portrait shows her as innocent, they’ll have to think again. They’re starting toexpect to have to think again.”
“Are they?” The words were softly uttered. A moment passed. “Now, that won’t do.” “Precisely! So what are we going to do to stop it?”
Another long silence ensued. Eventually, the other spoke, voice flat, even, cold. “Don’t worry—I’ll take care of it.”
“How?”
“You’ll see. Come on.” The larger figure turned into the enshrouding darkness of Venus’s garden. “Let’s go in.”
Jacqueline reached Gerrard’s room and whisked through the door. Shutting it, she looked across the room, and saw him standing by the windows.
He’d been looking out, but had turned. No lamps were lit; cloaked in shadow, he watched as she crossed the room to him.
As she neared, she looked into his face. The planes were hard-edged, angular and unreadable. Impassive and implacable. Boldly, she walked to him. Walked into his embrace as he reached for her; his hands slid around her waist, fingers flexing, grasping, drawing her to him and holding her.
He studied her. After a moment he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
She arched a brow. “Did you think I’d be satisfied with one night?”
His shoulders lifted slightly, but she saw the ends of his lips curve as he bent his head. “It’s an unwise man who claims to read a female mind.”
His lips brushed, then covered hers, and she decided his caution was just as well—her mind held precious few thoughts, and even those were spinning away. She sighed into the kiss, then went to sink against him, but he held her back, keeping a space of inches between them.
She didn’t know why, but followed his lead as he deepened the kiss, parted her lips and claimed her mouth—intently, completely. No quarter, but also no hurry. He took everything he could from the kiss, and left her gasping.
Reeling.
“I think,” he murmured, his eyes dark beneath the screen of his lashes, “that before we go any further we should agree on some rules.”
She blinked. “Rules?”
“Hmm. Such as…you remember I warned you that if you came to me I would expect to possess you—all of you—utterly?”
She was hardly likely to forget. “Yes.”
He drank her answer from her lips in a long, lingering sip.
“There’s a corollary to that rule.” He drew back enough to catch her eyes again. Slowly let his hands slide up until they cupped her breasts. His fingers found the tight peaks and played—delicately, too knowingly.
She could barely breathe. “What?”
“Having agreed to be mine utterly, you can’t rescind that state—you can’t not be mine until I release you, until I let you go.”
He never would. Gerrard waited, watched her fight to hold on to sufficient wit to consider his decree…Releasing her breasts, he loosened her sash, parted her robe and slid his hands beneath. Around, past her waist to slide down, over her hips to possessively caress the lush curves of her bottom.
Her gaze grew more distant, her senses following his wandering hands. “Do you agree?” he prompted.
She refocused on his face, studied his eyes. “Do I have any choice?” He eased her closer, moving deliberately into her. “No.”
Hands rising to his shoulders, she tipped back her head to keep her eyes on his. “Then why ask?” “Because I wanted you to know the answer. To understand how things are…will be.”
“I see.” Jacqueline held his gaze as he drew her against him, quelled a reactive shiver at the strength in his hands, wondered what it was she saw burning behind the rich brown of his eyes. “And now I know…what next?”
“Now you know…” He bent his head. “We go on.”
On. That was precisely where she wanted to go; Jacqueline returned his kiss with fervor, eager to learn what path he’d chosen, what sensual avenue he’d set his mind upon.
He shifted, angling his head; the kiss turned heated, demanding. His arms closed around her, locking her to him, then his hands spread, molding her to him, leaving her in no doubt whatever of his rapacious need.
To her surprise, he drew back from the kiss, unhurriedly, as if he knew she was his and intended taking all the time he wished to savor her. Eventually he raised his head; she lifted her lids and looked up at him. He studied her face, searching, she didn’t know for what.
His hand tightened about her bottom, lifting her to him, blatantly shifting her hips against the ridge of his erection.
“The lamps—do you mind if I light them?”
His tone and the predatory look in his eyes suggested the question had sprung from ingrained manners; it was no true request.
“If you wish” was on the tip of her tongue; she caught it back, asked instead, “Why?”
His roving gaze returned to her eyes. “Because I want to see you.” Smoothly, gracefully, he released her, and clasped her hand. “To view you as I make love to you.”
Her senses leapt; she felt giddy. The heat in his eyes beckoned, caressed—promised all manner of illicit delights.
Eyes locked on hers, he raised her hand, brushed his lips across her fingers, then unfurled them and pressed a burningly hot kiss to her palm.
She swallowed, nodded. “Very well.”
Her voice wasn’t entirely steady. He turned her; she dragged in a breath as he led her across the room to where a pair of bronze lamps stood on either end of a narrow side table. On the wall behind the table hung a rectangular mirror, wide and high within an ornate gilt frame.
He halted before the table. Releasing her, he lit one lamp; she tracked him in the mirror as he crossed behind her to light the other. The flames flared, then steadied; he glanced at her, clearly gauging the golden light bathing her. To her surprise, he turned the lamp lower, checking the level of light, then crossed to adjust the other.
When he turned, she swung to face him. He took her hand; she expected him to lead her to the bed—instead, he moved her back, turning her, positioning her before the center of the table, facing the mirror midway between the lamps. He moved to stand behind her; over her head, he looked into the mirror—at her, her body—then lifted his gaze to her eyes. And smiled.
Not his charming social smile but that slight curving of the corners of his lips that was far more sincere—and infinitely more predatory.
“Perfect.” Reaching for her shoulders, he drew her robe down and away. He tossed it aside, over an armchair, but his eyes never left her; as he stepped closer, his gaze lowered from her face. In the mirror she followed his gaze, and saw what he did, the tight peaks of her full breasts standing proud through the fine lawn of her nightgown.
The gown was virginal white, thin and soft, now gilded by the warm glow from the lamps. She’d fastened the long placket to just above her breasts. His gaze drifted lower, over the indentation of her waist and the flare of her hips, and lower, over her stomach to the faint shadow that was the curls at the apex of her thighs. His gaze lingered, then swept slowly on and down, then unhurriedly returned to her face.
The lengthy perusal had heated her; as he studied her eyes she wondered if it showed. She was tensing to turn and face him when he shifted, and lifted her hair. She’d brushed it out; a thick rippling river, she’d left it running down her back. He speared his fingers through it, then raised his hands and lifted the spread veil forward, over her shoulders.
His face a mask, hard, unreadable, he laid the long tresses down. Shaking his fingers free, he studied the result, then artfully shifted this strand, then that, until he was satisfied.
Until her bright brown hair lay partially over her breasts, an inadequate but distracting screen, burnished by the lamplight.
Before she could comment, he reached for her; sliding his hands about her waist, he closed the last inches between them. She felt his hard warmth at her back and relaxed, but his hold on her waist prevented her from sinking back against him.
Holding her before him, he bent his head; through the strands of her hair, with his lips he found and traced her lobe, then dipped to press a long kiss to the sensitive spot behind her jaw.
“Unbutton your nightgown.”
The words whispered past her ear, distilled seduction. She inwardly smiled; catching his eye as he glanced up, into the mirror, she willingly raised her fingers to the highest button, and slid it free.
His hands rode at her waist, hot and strong, fingers tensing as her hands descended. He watched, unblinking, as she slipped each button free.
“Open it. Wide.”
Gravelly, forceful, the quiet words sent a shiver spiraling down her spine. Her gaze locked on the vision in the mirror, she grasped the sides of the nightgown and slowly lifted them apart, drew them aside, revealing her breasts, full, firm, already tight.
The lamplight flowed over her, highlighting planes and curves, casting others in shadow. His gaze didn’t race, but perused her bared flesh in an intense yet leisurely appraisal; under that blatantly assessing, flagrantly male gaze, her nipples furled into painfully tight buds.
He straightened, lifting his head. Still close behind her, he raised his hands—caught her gaze as he closed the fingers of each about the rucked shoulders of her nightgown, and eased it off, and down.
Glancing down, he ran his hands down her arms, freeing them from the gown’s sleeves. “Put your hands on the edge of the table.”
He looked up, met her eyes as, wondering, she slowly obeyed, leaning forward to place her hands on the wooden tabletop, lightly gripping the edge.
“Don’t shift your hands until I give you leave.”
Give her leave…She was suddenly very certain he was choosing his words deliberately; he was uttering them evenly, as orders, not mere directions. Instructions he expected her to obey…as if she were…his utterly.
His to do with as he pleased.
A shudder racked her, yet she felt no trepidation, not the lightest lick of fear. What she felt was excitement, the dark thrill of wanton desire.
And he was feeding that, scripting the moment—as he wished, perhaps, but why did he wish it? She glanced at his face, the planes austere in the lamplight, his expression stark, not so much impassive as set.
His gaze had left her face to wander down over her breasts, then lower. Her nightgown had gathered in loose folds about her hips. His hands returned, palms sliding bare across her naked skin, warm yet hard, long-fingered, strong as they lightly gripped her waist, then swept, slowly, down.
Over her hips, taking her nightgown with them until it slipped over her thighs and slid to the floor, a soft puddle at her feet.
Leaving her naked, bathed in lamplight.
Her breath caught, her lungs seized. Her nerves coiled tight, every thought, all reaction, frozen as she drank in the sight. Of herself, a golden nymph poised in the lamplight, a faerie being trapped in this world—unreal, ephemeral. Magical.
She recognized her face, her hair, her form. This was her, yet not; what was reflected in the mirror was a truth she’d never seen, a woman she’d never before known.
A siren unveiled.
She felt his gaze, hot as a flame, rove her skin, following her own as, stunned, she examined. Then he looked at her face, studied it; she realized and raised her gaze, met his dark eyes.
He raised his hands, again spanned her waist, then slowly slid them up, palms to her heating skin. Spreading his fingers over her midriff, he gripped and eased her back against him; bending his head, he set his lips to the tip of her shoulder, then traced lightly inward, nudging her head aside so he could lave the pulse thundering at the base of her throat. “Don’t speak, or move. Just look. Watch. And feel.”
She had no choice; fascination held her spellbound, trapped in the fantasy he’d created. A fantasy in which every inhibition had flown, and there was just her, him, and need.
His need to possess her utterly, hers to fulfill that need. Desire.
It welled as his hands rose beneath the curtain of her hair and closed about her breasts. Her head fell back against his shoulder as his fingers flexed, kneaded; her breath shivered, then suspended on a gasp as he found her nipples, and squeezed. Played.
He knew how to make her frantic, how to call to her desire and send it rushing through her, sweeping all reservations away. It thrummed through her veins, heated her skin until her body glowed with its flame.
From beneath lids suddenly heavy, through the tracery of her lashes she watched as he aroused her, then, as if satisfied with some private assessment, he brushed aside the screening veil of her hair to fully expose her breasts, filling his hands.
Possessed. His to savor as he pleased.
He lifted his head, joined her in her rapt contemplation. His hands moved, pandering to her senses, to his desire. The lamplight touched his face, hard and unyielding; it washed over the flushed curves of her body, painting them soft, giving—vulnerable in their nakedness.
One tanned hand left her breast, splayed across her midriff, then moved down, stroking heavily as if savoring the texture of her skin, then angling over her taut stomach and tensing, pressing in.
Pressing her hips, her bottom, against his hard thighs, tilting them so his rigid erection rode against her, an insistent pressure in the small of her back.
Her senses swelled, her breaths were short, shallow; her head was whirling. The promise of pleasure was so potent she could taste it. Briefly she studied his face, wondered again why he wanted her like this. She could sense the control he was exerting, the grim determination that held him back from simply having her, that allowed him to take her along this road, into an illicit paradise.
It was a type of bondage, one with no physical chains, yet the chains were there—Gerrard knew it. He sensed her gaze on his face, sensed the question forming in her mind. He lowered his gaze, lowered his hand, felt her attention shift, leaving his face to lock on his questing fingers.
He speared them through the tawny curls, caught a few between his fingertips and rubbed, as if gauging their texture. Then he fluffed the curls, and noted she’d stopped breathing. He paused, fingertips poised over the shadowed hollow at the apex of her thighs, to knead her breast, to again squeeze her nipple, tight, then tighter, until her concentration fractured. Until she gasped. Writhed.
All but begged. Her hips angled forward, lifted, her curls brushing his fingers in open entreaty.
He accepted the invitation. Slid two fingers into the heated hollow, stroked, found the sensitive pearl throbbing beneath its hood and swirled, then pressed deeper and probed.
She started to shift, to part her thighs to give him better access. “No. Don’t move. Remain exactly as you are.”
Panting lightly, eyes wide, pupils distended, she obeyed. With her thighs together, he couldn’t penetrate more than an inch past the slick, swollen lips of her sheath.
Far enough for his purpose, far enough to reduce her to desperation. Ruthlessly he wound her tight, gave her just so much and no more…
Abruptly, she dragged in a breath and caught his eyes. “What do you want from me?” “More.”
“More how?”
Suddenly, he knew. It was as if her question had opened a door in his mind; he’d intended to show her her own sensual nature—it seemed that in doing so, she would teach him of his own. The vision that formed in his mind stole his breath; her lips were parted, her skin already flushed, yet she waited…for his answer.
To learn what he truly wished of her.
“I want to watch you reach ecstasy. Here, with the lamplight pouring over you. I want you to let me view you as I push you over the peak.”
Three heartbeats passed; her eyes locked on his, she knew exactly what he asked. Even, perhaps, why he asked.
She nodded. “All right.”
Again she shifted to part her thighs. “No. Not like that.”
She looked up at him, her question in her eyes.
He released her breast, spread that hand over her stomach and drew her hips back; still gripping the table’s edge, she had to lean further forward. Releasing her, he gripped her hip, anchoring her before him, then withdrew his fingers from the hot haven beneath her curls, shifted back, reached beneath the sweet swell of her bottom, into the dark hollow between the backs of her thighs, and slid his fingers deep into her sheath.
She gasped, spine tensing, head arching back; his hand clamped about her hip, he held her in place as he worked his fingers deep. Her slickness scorched; the musky scent of her rose to tease him.
He ignored it. Gave all his attention to pleasuring her, to watching her while he did. He found the right rhythm, the perfect angle, the correct length of penetration; stroking in and back, blatantly intent, he set about driving her on.
She responded, skin suffused, muscles fluidly shifting as she rode his fingers. She’d understood what he desired, and was unstinting in yielding all he’d wished for, bringing his wild, illicit vision to life.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, had to fight to dissociate his mind from the firm and giving softness of her body, from the hot slickness of her sheath, from the scent of passion that wreathed about them and
tried to draw him in. He found desire fracturing as like a man parched he drank in the beauty of her shifting form, of the naked desire she so freely let show.
Despite giving herself up so completely to passion, despite the physical absorption, she still watched him; he caught the glint of her bright eyes under her lowered lids, and realized she wasn’t the only one exposed.
She seemed steady on her feet. He released her hip, then stepped back and to the side—so she lost any contact with him beyond his hand buried between her thighs, so he could with greater detachment better view her body as she responded.
Without reserve.
She raised her head and shook back her hair. Her eyes met his, her breasts thrust forward, nipples proudly erect. With his free hand he reached out, slid his fingers around one pert peak, and played.
Pushed her further.
For long moments he pandered to her need, and watched her scale the peak. Her eyes closed, her knuckles tightened on the table; inexorably he drove her on.
Until she was almost there. She gasped, opened eyes dark and wild and found his. “Come with me. Now.”
An unbelievably evocative plea—half sob, half command. He hadn’t intended it, yet the lure of the visual, of all she’d allowed him to see, the allure of her body, so female and flushed with desire, the evocative lines and even more evocative scent of passion, coalesced like a net and dragged him in. Detachment was beyond him.
His fingers were flicking open the buttons at his waist as he moved to stand directly behind her. Awareness of all he’d blocked out rushed back. He was rigid, aching; it was an inexpressible relief to withdraw his fingers from her body, and replace them with that part of his anatomy he’d been ignoring for the last hour.
Untold relief to sink his throbbing staff into the heated heaven between her thighs.
He groaned, the sound revealing more than he’d expected. He cracked open lids that had fallen closed, and in the mirror found her eyes. Still watching him.
A small, slight smile curved her lips.
He tightened his hands about her hips, lifted her up, onto her toes, drew back, and plunged in.
She asked for no quarter, neither with words, sobs or moans; if anything, she pressed back against him, meeting his thrusts and urging him on.
He rode her deep, hard, unrestrained, freed from the shackles of the conventional—by her. By her willingness to give him all he wished, by her openness, her unlimited honesty in this, in the enjoyment she took, the pleasure she found, in engaging in sex with him, in taking him into her body, and lavishing pleasure on him.
Her face showed it all, eyes now closed, a witchy little smile curving her parted lips, a small, luscious indent between her brows as she concentrated, her senses wholly focused on where they joined.
On the hot pleasure of his filling her.
The peak beckoned, loomed ever nearer, then she was there. He thrust harder, deeper, prolonging the moment, with her through every panting gasp—then the rippling contractions of her surrender caught him; she tightened about him, and took him with her.
Over the edge and into sheer delight.
He had no idea how he managed to keep them upright, but eventually he withdrew from her, swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He went back to douse the lamps, then stripped and joined her beneath the covers.
She murmured, a soft, sleepy declaration of contentment; lips still curved, she settled in his arms.
He lay back, listening to the heavy beat of his heart as it slowed from the thundering cadence of a sexual adventure that had extended far beyond his expectations. He’d set the stage, his aim crystal clear; she’d accepted his challenge, yielded all he’d asked, but then something else had overtaken them.
It wasn’t the first time that had occurred. With no other woman had he found himself, not out of control yet under the direction, or so it seemed, of some power greater than himself.
Not that he was complaining.
Closing his eyes, he sank into the mattress, felt deep and complete satiation claim him, and let his own lips curve. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do—to create sexual, sensual chains between them, and bind her to him. The concept was primitive, frankly possessive, but that suited his mood. Even more importantly, with her and him, the chains were real; they would work. Because she was so freely ardent, so open and honest in her passions, he could bind her through her senses’ delight. Through pleasure.
Through the very act of possession—hers…and, it occurred to him, his. The realization drifted across his mind as sleep slipped in and drew him down.
16
If she was bound to him, then,ipso facto, he was equally bound to her. Gerrard wondered why he hadn’t seen that before. He was even more astonished that, having now realized, he didn’t actually care.
After rising early, then eventually escorting a sated and sleepy Jacqueline back to her room, he’d felt too awake, too alive to return to bed. He’d dressed and come down for an early breakfast.
To his surprise, Barnaby joined him.
“What ho?” Strolling into the parlor, Barnaby headed for the sideboard. “Is it your devotion to the painting that has you up so early, or did something else disturb your slumber?”
Refusing to react to the none-too-subtle glint in Barnaby’s eyes, Gerrard shook his head. “I can’t paint
in the morning—the light’s too deceptive. I was thinking of going for a walk to refresh my memory of the Garden of Night.”
Plate in hand, Barnaby came to the table. “Are you using it as the setting, then?” “Yes, the lower entrance. It’s appropriate, therefore evocative.”
Engaged with a sausage, Barnaby nodded his understanding.
When they’d both satisfied their hunger, they rose and ambled out onto the terrace. The air was cool, but held the promise of warmth; the gardens lay before them, serene and inviting.
“Just think what we’d be doing if we weren’t here.”
As they strolled, they tossed comments back and forth, the usual banter about acquaintances and events that would have filled such an interlude in the capital. They were very much men-about-town, as distinct from country squires.
Reaching the north end of the terrace, they eschewed the path to the Garden of Hercules, opting for the pleasanter path through the orchards of the Garden of Demeter, then from the wooden pergola angling along the upper boundary of the Garden of Apollo, lying basking in the early morning sunshine, and so through the Garden of Poseidon to the lower entrance to the Garden of Night.
Barnaby dawdled. Hands in his pockets, with his eyes he followed the line of the tinkling brook as it ran through the Garden of Poseidon and then down the valley; lifting his gaze, he squinted toward the cove.
Leaving him observing, Gerrard walked on toward the Garden of Night. Ten paces from the entrance, heavily wreathed in creepers, he paused to examine the layering of the leaves and branches.
He’d captured the effect correctly on his canvas; satisfied, he walked on. Halting just before the arched entrance, hands on his hips, he looked up, head back as he studied the detail of the leaves.
Unmoving, he ran his eyes down, confirming the way the different creepers intertwined. Noticing a new shoot, pale, almost white, thrusting up through the densely packed leaves just above the ground, he lowered his arms and crouched to examine it.
Whizz—rustle—crump!
He tensed to spring up, but before he could an arrow tumbled out of the vines and fell at his feet. “Go inside!”
He swiveled to see Barnaby frantically waving him into the Garden of Night. Then Barnaby pelted off back up the path in the direction from which the arrow had come.
For one second, Gerrard remained frozen, then, the arrow in his hand, he smoothly rose and walked into the humid enclosure of the Garden of Night.
Rampant growth solidly screened the area; no one could shoot at him while he was inside, not without him seeing them. And whoever it was didn’t intend being seen, which most likely meant he had met them.
Gerrard paused by the grotto’s pool, deep in the garden, half overhung by the terrace. He felt decidedly odd. Detached. There was no doubt in his mind that had he not bent down to examine the new creeper shoot, the arrow would have lodged in his back.
Would he have died? Possibly. There was a good chance he’d have lost the ability to paint—for him, another, potentially worse death.
Chilled, he turned and sat on the stone coping edging the pool. Leaning his elbows on his thighs, he studied the arrow, twisting it between his hands. It was well made, decently fletched, and carried a killing point, one that would have sliced through muscle, deflected off bone, and lodged deep. The sort of point used to slay deer.
His jaw set. He was sure Barnaby wouldn’t see anyone, let alone catch them. The arrow could have come from a considerable swath of the gardens along the northern slope. Still…he waited for Barnaby to return.
His gaze wandered across the clearing before him, the central portion of the Garden of Night. The grotto behind him was the principal focus of interest, drawing the eye; the stream filled the pool, then ran underground beneath the clearing to the winding path, then along a rocky culvert beside it, eventually emerging into the sunlight as the path entered the Garden of Poseidon.
Without conscious direction, his artist’s eye noted the lines, measured distances; in his mind, a plan of the garden took shape, much as the designer would have laid it out. Sitting on the pool’s edge, swinging the arrow between his fingers, he looked across the clearing, and frowned.
For balance, there should have been something there—a statue in an alcove or some such thing. Instead, the side opposite the pool was a dense mass of creeper…or was it?
He rose and crossed to look more closely. Once within arm’s reach of the apparently dense mound, he saw it was in fact two weeping trees, their canopies overgrown by the vines; it was easy to push aside the creeper veil and look in…to what had clearly been intended as a serene and pleasant bower in which to sit and observe the fountain in the grotto pool.
Gerrard glanced back and forth, checking the angles. He felt sure he was right; that was what the original design had been. Now, however, the creepers had grown rampant and converted the bower to a green chamber, secret and concealed…and in use.
The moss planted there had withered long ago, but there was a thick cushion of straw covered by a layer of soft, dried moss, with dried flowers, heads of lavender and other herbs mixed in.
It was a trysting place.
The flowers and herbs weren’t that old, and the thick layer of moss had recently been disturbed. Footsteps sounded on the path, heading his way. Barnaby.
Gerrard let the creeper curtain fall. He could guess who used the green chamber to meet with her lover after dark.
Barnaby came through the archway. He grimaced. “No luck.”
Gerrard’s lips twisted. “It was a long chance.”
“Indeed.” Crossing to the pool, Barnaby sat. As Gerrard neared, he reached for the arrow; Gerrard handed it over.
Barnaby examined it; his expression grew grimmer. “I’m seeing a pattern here.” “All those the killer has targeted have…” Gerrard paused.
“Loved Jacqueline?” Assessing the arrow point, Barnaby nodded. “True, but I don’t think that’s it—or not all of it.”
Gerrard let Barnaby’s description pass; taking exception would be too revealing, as well as pointless—Barnaby knew him well. “If not that, what?”
“Murdering you and Thomas because you’d grown close to Jacqueline I can understand, but why kill her mother?”
“We’ve already answered that.” Gerrard started to pace.
“Perhaps, but we have to remember what’s commonly known.” Barnaby looked up. “From that, what links you to the others is that you’reprotecting Jacqueline.”
Gerrard met his eyes. “Which means you, too, are at risk.”
“Possibly, but I’m not the most urgent threat to this killer. You are.” Barnaby locked eyes with him. “You’re also the key to Jacqueline’s freedom—without you, there’ll be no portrait and no revision of the accepted truth.”
Gerrard halted. Gazing at Barnaby, he thought through all he knew; he wasn’t convinced the killer hadn’t targeted him purely because he’d grown close to Jacqueline.
Barnaby studied his expression, then grimaced. “Regardless, we need to return to London.” Gerrard blinked. “London? Why?”
Barnaby told him. Initially he made much of the danger to Gerrard. He dismissed that. “It’s safe enough here now we’re on guard.”
“Yes, and no—what if the killer doesn’t truly care if he kills you, only that he stops you from completing the portrait?” Barnaby held his gaze pointedly. “There are many more ways to accomplish that, which will make it that much harder to prevent. Are you sure you want to risk it?”
His imagination ran wild; he could instantly envisage any number of ways of halting the portrait—burning down the house, harming Jacqueline.
Barnaby’s expression set. “No matter what arguments you make, one fact remains. Without your completing her portrait, Jacqueline is trapped. Only you, with it, can free her.”
Gerrard stared into Barnaby’s steady blue eyes. Then he hauled in a huge breath, and nodded. “You’re
right. London it is. Us, Millicent and Jacqueline.”
“When?” Barnaby stood. “Can you finish the portrait there?”
Gerrard nodded. “Once I finish the setting, it’ll be easier—and faster—to do the sittings in my studio. As things stand…if I do nothing but paint for the next two days, we can leave after that.”
“Two days from now?”
Gerrard nodded, suddenly eager to have Jacqueline safe in his own territory. He and Barnaby started back toward the house.
“I’d suggest,” Barnaby said, “that there’s no benefit in scaring the ladies.” He caught Gerrard’s eye. “We’ll square things with Tregonning, and then cast it as a jaunt to the capital.”
“That,” Gerrard declared, “will be easy. I’ve already paved the way for taking Jacqueline to town—she needs a new gown for the portrait.”
Barnaby grinned, grimly determined. “Excellent.” Reaching the steps to the terrace, they went quickly up.
Jacqueline spent the next two days in what seemed a constant whirl. Not since her mother’s death had the household been plunged into such frenetic activity.
They were going to London—her, Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby. So her father had informed them at luncheon on the second day after the ball. Apparently Gerrard had spoken to him about the need for a new gown for the portrait, and her father had agreed, not only to the trip but to Gerrard’s completing the portrait in his studio in town.
She’d only been to Bath before, never to the capital. Now, courtesy of Gerrard, she and Millicent could look forward to at least two weeks, most likely more, in which to sample fashionable life.
All but dizzy contemplating the possibilities, she and Millicent had much to do to prepare for both the journey and their stay, all in the day and a half her father and Gerrard had allowed them. Males both, they didn’t seem to comprehend how much time it required to sort, freshen and pack a wardrobe, select and pack hats, shoes, gloves, shawls, reticules, stockings, jewelry and all the other accessories necessary for putting on a creditable show in town.
On that both she and Millicent were determined. They were clearly destined to meet at least some of Gerrard’s fashionable relatives; they had no intention of appearing as provincials, insofar as they could avoid it.
And then there were the household duties to delegate.
She was almost glad that Gerrard retreated to the old nursery. After the announcement, he didn’t appear again, not for dinner, nor for breakfast or lunch the next day.
Of course, at night, she visited his room. On the first night, discovering him absent, she’d quietly climbed
the stairs, avoiding Compton’s room to open the nursery door.
The night had been warm and sultry. Clad only in breeches, his feet bare, he’d stood poised before the canvas. But his gaze had deflected to her. As before, she’d sensed the complete shift in his attention, the total distraction she was to him, and had hidden a wholly feminine smile.
She’d gone in and closed the door. He’d run his hand through his hair, then, as she walked to him, he’d set his palette down. And turned to her.
Later, she’d dozed on the window seat, her flushed skin protected from the cool night air by her robe and his shirt. She’d watched him paint, bare-chested, muscles shifting in the steady light thrown by six lamps turned high.
In those moments, his concentration had been absolute, focused on his work. Powerful, potent. Intense.
It was the same intensity, both physical and mental, that he brought to their lovemaking, but then, as its object, she couldn’t so clearly observe and appreciate. What she’d seen as he’d painted had made her shiver. Deliciously.
When they were together, all that was hers.
He’d returned to her when the sky was lightening, stirring her awake as the shades shifted through blues to grays before the soft pastels of dawn. Kneeling on the window seat, straddling him, under his direction sinking down and taking him deep inside her, she’d seen the reflection of the dawn on the sea, just as he drove her to glory.
Later, she’d slipped away and left him sleeping. That day, he didn’t appear at all.
She caught Compton in the corridor and learned that when in a painting frenzy, his master slept through the morning when the light wasn’t strong, waking before midday to pick up his brushes again. Instructing Compton to ensure adequate food and drink were provided, and if at all possible, consumed, she returned to the myriad tasks awaiting her.
She’d expected Eleanor to appear for one of their walks, expected to tell her of their trip then. But Eleanor didn’t appear. Recalling their last exchange, Jacqueline inwardly shrugged. She and Eleanor had fallen out before, always over some action of Eleanor’s; eventually, Eleanor always came around, even if she never apologized.
So Eleanor would learn of their departure for London after the fact.
The following morning at eight o’clock sharp, Gerrard escorted Millicent and herself down the steps to her father’s traveling coach. The four horses stamped and shifted; harness jingled as the coachman climbed up. Her father, who’d been waiting by the carriage, kissed her cheek. “Send me a letter when you’re settled.”
She promised, kissed him, and he handed her up. Millicent followed, then Gerrard; he took the seat opposite, with his back to the horses.
Her father exchanged a look and a nod with Gerrard, then shut the door. The coachman flicked the reins
and the coach jerked, then ponderously rolled on. Barnaby would be just behind, in the curricle driving Gerrard’s grays. Sometime later, Compton would set out with Gerrard’s luggage, including his equipment and the all-important portrait.
She felt a thrill of excitement course through her veins. Her anticipation showed in her face; she knew from the affectionate light in Gerrard’s eyes as he watched her.
Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The journey was not nearly as exciting as she’d hoped. Gerrard slept for most of the time, doubtless catching up on all the sleep he’d gone without over recent days. In truth, there was no point doing otherwise; in the carriage with Millicent, in the inns at which they stopped both at midday and at night, there was precious little opportunity for dalliance.
Still, she was going to London. Eventually, they arrived.
Gerrard had explained, and convinced her father and Millicent, that it was perfectly acceptable for her and Millicent to stay in his house in Brook Street. He, it transpired, didn’t live there, but in lodgings nearby; he’d bought the house for the attics, which now housed his studio, and kept the house, too large for a single gentleman, for family members when they came up to town.
There were two older ladies currently in residence, Gerrard’s aunt Minnie, Lady Bellamy, and her lady companion, known to all as Timms.
By the time the heavy coach rolled into Brook Street, Jacqueline felt that her eyes had grown so round they’d never be normal again. There’d been so much to see as they’d entered the capital—the shops!—the people!—Hyde Park and the carriages of the fashionable, the nattily dressed gentlemen riding along Rotten Row. Gerrard had leaned forward and pointed out the sights to her. Millicent had sat back, smiling, taking it all in her stride.
The coach slowed, then rocked to a halt. Gerrard didn’t wait for the footman, but opened the door and stepped down to the pavement, then turned, took her hand, and helped her down.
She looked up at the town house before her. It was large, two stories above the street, one below, and attics with dormer windows high above. The stonework was in excellent repair, the woodwork neatly painted, with a bright brass knocker on the forest-green front door. A short set of steps led up to the front porch.
Barnaby had driven ahead that morning; the front door opened and he looked out. He waved and came quickly down, smiling. “There’s a reception committee waiting.”
She heard the sotto voce warning, intended for Gerrard; he didn’t look at all surprised. Indeed, he looked resignedly amused. Barnaby helped Millicent out. With a brief, bolstering smile, Gerrard set Jacqueline’s hand on his sleeve and turned her to the door.
It swung wide as they climbed the steps.
“Good afternoon, sir.” An ancient and imposing butler stood at attention, ready to bow them in. Gerrard grinned. “Good afternoon, Masters. I gather the ladies are lying in wait?”
“Indeed, sir. As are Mrs. Patience and Mr. Vane.”
“Ah. I see.” His smile deepening, Gerrard turned to her. “This is Miss Tregonning. She’ll be staying here with my aunt and her aunt”—he included Millicent as she joined them—“also Miss Tregonning. This is Masters—he’s Minnie’s butler, and will organize anything and everything as if by magic.”
Straightening from his very correct bow, Masters accepted the tribute without a blink. “Miss, ma’am—both myself and Mrs. Welborne will be honored to assist you in any way.”
“I take it tea will be served in the drawing room?” Gerrard asked.
“Indeed, sir.” Masters directed a footman to close the front door. “Our orders were for as soon as you arrived, to refresh you after the long journey.” He turned to Millicent and Jacqueline. “Mrs. Welborne has your rooms prepared. I’ll have your boxes taken up straightaway.”
They murmured their thanks.
“I’ll take the ladies in.” Gerrard glanced at Barnaby. “Are you staying?” Barnaby grinned. “In the interests of experience, I rather think I will.”
Gerrard raised his brows, but made no reply. He led the way to a pair of double doors, opened them, then stepped back and ushered Jacqueline and Millicent in.
Beside Millicent, Jacqueline stepped into an elegantly proportioned room, its walls hung with dusky pink paper warmed by the late afternoon sunshine pouring in through long windows left open to a flagged terrace; beyond, the green of lawns and shrubs was patterned with splashes of summer blooms.
The furniture was lovely—wooden, none of it spindly, yet equally none of it overly ornate. Much of it was rosewood, and glowed with a luster that screamed of care. It took an instant for her eyes to travel to the long chaise further down the room, set at an angle to the hearth. A smaller chaise and three armchairs completed the grouping. Two older ladies sat on the larger chaise, avidly watching them. Another lady, younger and beautifully gowned, sat in one armchair; a gentleman, handsome and severely elegant, uncrossed his long legs and rose from its mate.
Even as, a polite smile on her lips, she went forward with Millicent to meet Gerrard’s family, something—some observation—nagged at Jacqueline’s mind. Just before she reached those waiting, it came clear; there was a clock on the mantelpiece and two statues made into lamps flanking the terrace windows, but beyond that, other than an ancient tatting bag resting beside the feet of one of the older ladies, there were no ornaments, and no signs of habitation—no journal or playbill lying on a table, no softening touches. The room seemed strangely sterile.
Gerrard didn’t live there, so it lacked any evidence of him. Despite its elegance, the lovely furniture and the attractive paper, curtains and upholstery, the room felt rather cold, not neglected physically but lacking a certain energy. Lacking life.
Reaching the long chaise, Gerrard introduced Millicent, then Jacqueline, to his aunt, Lady Bellamy.
“Good afternoon, my dear—I’m so very glad to meet you.” Lady Bellamy, with curly, white hair, many chins and bright if faded blue eyes, reached for Jacqueline’s hand, clasping it between hers. “I hope you and your aunt will excuse me if I don’t rise—my old bones aren’t what they were.”
Her smile growing warmer, Jacqueline bobbed a curtsy. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
Lady Bellamy beamed, but wagged a pudgy, beringed finger. “Everyone calls me Minnie, my dear, and I hope you and Millicent will do the same. No need to stand on ceremony.”
Jacqueline smiled her acquiescence; Gerrard had told her about his aunt. She was of an age where guessing her years was impossible; she was over sixty, but how far over was anyone’s guess.
“And,” Minnie said, patting her hand before releasing it, “this is Timms. No one calls her anything else, either.”
“Indeed.” Her gray hair pulled back from her plain-featured face, Timms took Jacqueline’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. Her gaze was warm, friendly and disconcertingly direct. “Very glad you needed to come to town, else no doubt we’d have developed a reason for jauntering down to Cornwall. Not that I have anything against Cornwall in summer, but such a journey at our age…well, better not.”
Jacqueline felt her smile deepen, felt all reserve slide from her. “Indeed, it’s a very long way. I’m glad we needed to visit.”
Timms grinned and released her. Taking her arm, Gerrard steered her to the other lady, who had risen and was speaking with Millicent.
Millicent glanced around as they neared, smiled and stepped back, allowing Gerrard to introduce her. “Miss Jacqueline Tregonning—my sister, Patience Cynster, and her husband, Vane.”
Jacqueline went to curtsy, but Patience caught both her hands.
“No, no—as Minnie declared, we need no ceremony.” Patience’s hazel eyes met Jacqueline’s gaze with greater warmth than she’d expected; when, after an instant studying her, Patience again spoke, there was no doubt of the sincerity behind her words. “I’m so very pleased to meet you, my dear.”
Echoing the sentiment, frankly amazed at how truly welcome she did indeed feel, Jacqueline turned to the gentleman, who, lips curving, smoothly lifted her hand from his wife’s grasp and elegantly bowed over it.
“Vane Cynster, my dear.” His voice was deep, sonorous. “I trust the journey down wasn’t overly fatiguing?”
The question encouraged an answer; in less than a minute, Jacqueline found herself seated on the end of the smaller chaise, engaged in a surprisingly easy exchange with Patience and Vane. Gerrard hovered beside her. Millicent, next to her, was chatting animatedly with Minnie.
Jacqueline had never felt so unreservedly welcomed, so warmly accepted; reassured, she relaxed.
Gerrard watched her, pleased to see that her inner reserve hadn’t materialized, not at all. As far as she knew, none of his family were aware of the circumstances of her mother’s death; she clearly found no difficulty in engaging openly with them.
That was something of a relief; the same would no doubt hold true when she met the rest of the clan, and the members of wider society who, once it became known she was here, staying in his house under Minnie’s aegis, would make it their business to meet her.
Which meant he could relax, and concentrate on painting. She would take his London acquaintance by storm; he was looking forward to observing the action from a safe, if watchful, distance.
The tea trolley arrived. Patience did the honors. Barnaby and Gerrard ferried the cups, then Barnaby joined Millicent, Minnie and Timms in discussing which of London’s many sights were most impressive and thus not to be missed.
Gerrard drew up a chair beside Vane. While Patience talked with Jacqueline, comparing country life in Cornwall and Derbyshire, where his and Patience’s childhood home lay, he picked Vane’s brains over what had occurred in their mutual business circles over the weeks he’d been away.
Sipping his tea, he made a firm if silent vow not to, under any circumstances, divulge the name of the modiste to whom he intended to take Jacqueline the next morning.
He tried, but failed. At eleven the next morning, Millicent, Patience, Minnie and Timms accompanied him and Jacqueline to Helen Purfett’s salon.
The salon was in unfashionable Paddington, in a narrow house on a street leading north from the park. Minnie, Timms and Patience exchanged glances as Patience’s carriage rocked to a halt on the cobblestones outside. Gerrard had led the way, driving his curricle and grays, Jacqueline on the seat beside him, transparently excited, her eyes enormous as she glanced about.
Her reaction soothed his already abraded temper. He reined it in as he handed Patience and the three older ladies to the pavement. He wasn’t surprised when, after looking about her, Minnie asked, “Are you sure this dressmaker is suitable, dear?”
“Helen isn’t a modiste in the sense of making ball gowns. She specializes in making gowns for artist’s models.”
Four pairs of lips formed an “Oh.”
With a wave, he herded them all up the steps to the door. Helen would be expecting him and Jacqueline; he hoped she’d cope with the unexpected crowd.
He’d painted all night in his studio in the attic; only when it was too late—the small hours of the morning—and he realized Jacqueline hadn’t arrived, did he recall he’d forgotten to tell her how to access the attics from the lower part of the house. The conversion had made the attics into separate quarters, reached by stairs from the alley alongside. There was a connecting door and stairs from the house proper, but they were concealed.
He sincerely hoped she hadn’t gone wandering about in the night, trying to find her way up. Minnie was a frighteningly light sleeper.
There was nothing to be done but paint on; he hadn’t thought to ask which room she’d been given. So he’d returned to laying the last layer of detail into the creepers and vines about the entrance to the Garden of Night.
Due to the appointment with Helen, he hadn’t been able to sleep for long this morning. Consequently, he was in no good mood to deal gently with the sort of feminine helpfulness with which he coped when necessary, but more normally avoided like a pinching boot.
He loved Patience, Minnie and Timms, but he didn’t need their “help” in this instance.
Helen blinked when they all trooped into her salon upstairs, but she recovered well. After he’d introduced her, she showed the four observers to a long sofa before the front windows, ordered tea and scones for them, then, with a smile, excused herself, Gerrard and Jacqueline, and whisked them into a smaller, more cluttered workroom.
“Better?” She raised a questioning brow at Gerrard.
He sighed, and nodded. “Yes, thank you. Are these the satins?” He picked up a stack of fabric swatches.
Jacqueline, Helen and he stood at her worktable; Helen and he discussed lines and made sketches while Jacqueline quietly listened, but when, design and drape agreed, they turned to choosing the fabric, she joined in with decided views of her own.
Her eye for color was as good as his, and she had a sound appreciation of what suited her. They all quickly agreed that a certain brassy bronze shot-silk shantung was perfect.
“See—with the drape, it’ll catch the light differently, so you’ll get all the curves highlighted, especially in lamplight.” Helen draped a long swatch of the material over Jacqueline’s shoulder, angling over her breasts to her waist, then stood behind her and pulled the material tight. “There.” Reaching forward, Helen adjusted the silk. “What do you think?”
Gerrard looked; his lips slowly curved. “Perfect.”
They made arrangements for fittings over the next four days, then Gerrard led Jacqueline out to join their now thoroughly bored supporters. In a much better mood than when they’d arrived, he ushered them out to the carriages.
He drove Jacqueline back to Brook Street, only to find an unmarked black town carriage waiting outside his house, with a too familiar groom in attendance.
“Her Grace?” he resignedly asked Matthews, one of Devil Cynster’s grooms. Matthews grinned sympathetically. “The Dowager and Lady Horatia, sir.” Heaven help him. He loved them all,but …
Beneath all else, he was just a tad worried that Jacqueline would find his female connections, especially en masse, too overpowering, and take flight. Yet as he squired her inside and into the drawing room, he reminded himself that this—her introduction to his extensive family circle before he asked her to marry him—was only fair. If she accepted him, she’d be accepting them, too.
He’d debated mentioning marriage before they’d left Cornwall, but he’d only just started his campaign to illustrate the benefits of matrimony sufficiently for the idea to occur to her before he broached it; he was perfectly sure she’d yet to start thinking along his required lines. The visit to the capital would provide both settings and circumstances to extend his campaign beyond the sensual—he intended her to see and appreciate what life as his wife would be like—but he hadn’t until now considered how she, used to being very much alone, would react to a family framework in which ladies were never alone, but part of a large familial group whose members frequently visited, openly shared experiences and were perennially interested.
In everything.
Evidence of that last gleamed in two pairs of aging but still handsome eyes as he guided Jacqueline to the chaise on which the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Horatia Cynster sat, waiting to greet them.
“I am enchanted, my dear, to meet with you.” Helena’s eyes danced as, releasing Jacqueline’s hand, she raised her pale eyes to his face. “Gerrard—such a happy circumstance that Lord Tregonning chose you to paint this so important portrait,n’est-ce pas ?”
He returned a noncommittal murmur; it was never wise to give the Dowager more information than strictly necessary. That was the rule the family’s males had learned to live by; unfortunately, there was very little the Dowager’s pale green eyes missed—and even less that her exceedingly sharp mind failed to correctly interpret.
Lady Horatia Cynster, Vane’s mother, the Dowager’s sister-in-law and most frequent companion, was less overtly intimidating, but almost equally dangerous. “I remember meeting your mother, my dear, many years ago at a ball. She was exceedingly beautiful—there’s much I can see in you that I remember in her.”
“Really?” Eyes lighting, Jacqueline sat in the armchair before the chaise. “Other than from Lady Fritham, our neighbor who was Mama’s childhood friend, I’ve never heard much of Mama before she married Papa.”
“Ah, I remember.” The Dowager nodded. “It caused quite a stir, that marriage—that she, such a diamond, chose to leave the ton so completely and retire to Cornwall. Horatia, do you recall…”
Between them, Helena and Horatia recalled a number of stories of Jacqueline’s mother during the short time she’d graced the capital’s ballrooms. Leaning forward, asking questions, Jacqueline eagerly absorbed all they said.
Gerrard found himself redundant. Found himself swallowing a certain surprise at how easily Jacqueline had found her feet with such ladies.
He wasn’t, of course, at all surprised by their eager embracing of her.
From the moment Barnaby had suggested visiting London, he’d known he’d have no chance of disguising his interest in Jacqueline as purely professional. Within the family, it wasn’t even worthwhile
making the attempt; they’d see right through him, and laugh and pat his cheek—and tease him even more unmercifully.
It was bad enough when Horatia turned from the conversation to smile up at him, and say, “Dear boy, such excitement! The whole tale is so romantic. Of course, none of us will breathe a word, not until the deed is done and all settled, but you’ve certainly enlivened what was shaping up to be a deathly dull summer.”
Her eyes twinkled up at him; he inclined his head—she could have been talking about the portrait and his rescuing Jacqueline, or about his impending nuptials—it was impossible to tell. To his relief, sounds of an arrival heralded the return of Patience, Minnie and Timms, and spared him having to answer. They all bustled in, ready to tell Helena and Horatia about their visit to the unusual dressmaker—and even more eager to quiz Jacqueline on all that took place in Helen’s workroom.
The level of feminine chatter rose, blanketing the room. Minnie called for tea; Gerrard seized the opportunity to make his excuses and escape.
Before he could, Patience stopped him with a raised hand. “Dinner tonight,” she informed him. “Just the family.” She saw the look in his eyes and smiled, understanding, yet in no way relenting. “It’s so quiet at present, everyone is only too glad to have an excuse not to eat at their own board.”
By “the family” she meant any of the wider Cynster clan in town; during the Season, most lived in London, but during the summer, they came and went as business and family affairs dictated.
He could refuse, citing his work on the portrait, but…He glanced at Jacqueline, then looked back at Patience and nodded. “Usual time?”
She smiled, an all-knowing older sister. “Seven, but you might come a trifle earlier and visit the nursery. There have been complaints regarding your absence.”
The thought made him grin. “I’ll try.”
With a general nod, he turned away, and made good his escape. Within that circle, Jacqueline clearly needed no protection.
He, on the other hand, needed to protect his sanity. Climbing the stairs, he took refuge in his studio. 17
Later that night, Jacqueline stood in Gerrard’s studio, and watched him sketch her into the portrait. Everyone else had retired to their beds.
In the front hall when they’d returned from dinner, he’d explained the routine he intended to follow, working through the nights as the scene was set in moonlight, then sleeping through the morning before rising to reassess and prepare through the afternoon, so that at night he could paint again. His clear aim was to complete the portrait as soon as possible.
Everyone understood why that was desirable. On the journey to town, they’d discussed and agreed that while there was no need to bruit the purpose behind the portrait to society at large, it was necessary that Gerrard’s family understood both the urgency and importance behind the work. As he’d explained, their discretion could be relied on, and their knowing would ensure that no vestige of scandal attached to her
because of her attendance in his studio, whatever the hours, regardless of the privacy.
Having met his family,she now fully understood. It was comforting knowing they were so supportive, indeed, so interested and determined that all would go well for Gerrard and their endeavor, and her, too.
He’d posed her beside a plaster column, her right hand raised, palm placed lightly to the column’s surface; in the portrait, the column would be the side of the archway that was the lower entrance to the Garden of Night. Her hand would be holding aside a piece of creeper.
He’d shown her what he’d done so far; she could see the effect he was aiming for. It would be powerful, evocative. Convincing.
All she needed the portrait to be.
She stood unmoving, her gaze fixed as he’d instructed, to the left of where he worked behind his easel; her mind roamed, to all else she’d seen and learned that day.
The visit to Helen Purfett’s salon had been interesting; they would return tomorrow afternoon, and the three afternoons after that, for fittings, but it would be just the two of them. Millicent, Minnie, Timms and Patience had lost interest in the process, although they were still exceedingly keen to see her in the finished product.
She hesitated, then remembered Gerrard was not yet sketching any details, just the lines of her body, her limbs. He’d promised tonight would be a short session, a training for the hours that would come; for now she could let her expression relax—let her lips curve as she recalled the rest of her day.
During their journey, she’d wondered whether she would find his relatives, especially the ladies, intimidating; they were, after all, members of the haut ton, and had been all their lives. Admittedly, she wasn’t all that easily intimidated, yet the transparently warm welcome they’d accorded her, and the ease with which she’d found herself relaxing into, as it were, the bosom of his family, had not just surprised her, but left her feeling amazingly buoyed.
Not just reassured, but more—as if she was one of them, accepted and embraced.
Millicent, too, seemed happy and gratified. Her aunt had already formed a bond with Minnie and Timms; they were much of a kind, absorbed with observing the lives of those around them.
By the time she’d gone up to dress for dinner, she’d lost every last trepidatious reservation. She’d looked forward to the prospect of his family dinner with genuine anticipation.
To her surprise, he’d arrived at the house while she was dressing. He’d paced in the drawing room, then whisked her into his carriage the instant she was ready, leaving Millicent to follow later with Minnie and Timms. They’d driven to Patience’s house in Curzon Street—and gone straight to the nursery.
Her smile deepened. She hadn’t until then thought of Gerrard with children, but the trio who’d yelled and come pelting toward him had been totally sure of their reception. With, it had proved, complete justification. He’d devoted half an hour to them. After quelling their rowdy greetings, he’d introduced her; the children had smiled and accepted her in the same, trusting manner their parents had—as if, because she was with Gerrard, she was beyond question a rightful member of their circle.
He’d filled their ears with tales of the gardens of Hellebore Hall. She’d sat quietly and listened; the little
girl, Therese, had climbed onto her lap with sublime confidence that she would be welcome. She’d smiled and settled the warm bundle of soft limbs and body, then rested her cheek on the child’s head and listened to Gerrard paint her home as she’d never seen it.
Yet she recognized it. That was his talent, to see and be able to convey the magic in landscapes, in the combined creations of nature and man.
When they heard the gong summoning them downstairs, she’d been as reluctant to leave as the children had been to let them go. To her surprise, Therese had kissed her cheek and solemnly informed her she had to come with Gerrard when next he visited.
Touched, she’d smiled. Leaning down, she’d brushed a kiss to Therese’s forehead, then lightly ruffled her golden curls. A strange feeling, warm and appealing, had bloomed inside her—even now, reliving it, she wasn’t sure what it had meant.
They’d gone down to dinner. It should have been an ordeal, a test she’d had to face. Instead, it had been a relaxed and entertaining affair with much laughter, conversation unlimited, and goodwill on all sides.
She hadn’t expected the men to be so charming. No one had had to tell her that they wielded considerable power, not just in society but in wider spheres. Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, was the head of the family, a mantle he’d been born to and carried with flair. He was impressive, yet he’d smiled and teased her; his duchess, Honoria, had dismissed her powerful husband with a haughty wave and welcomed her warmly.
Yet despite their outward ease, in the drawing room after dinner she’d noticed the men—Devil, Vane and Horatia’s husband, George—gathering around Gerrard with their port glasses in hand. The subject of the discussion had been serious; she was certain she knew what it had been.
Unconditional, instinctive support—that’s what had been behind that purposeful discussion. From the corner of her eye, she focused on Gerrard, still wielding his pencil, absorbed; she wondered if he knew how lucky he was to have a family like that. Not just behind him but all around him.
Always there to lend a hand.
He looked up, caught her eye, then he looked back at his work; a moment later, he stepped back. Head tilted, he glanced from it to her and back again, then he sighed, waved her to him, and turned aside to lay down his pencil.
She lowered her hand, worked her arm back and forth as she walked to him.
He met her before she rounded the easel, caught her waist and steered her back from the canvas. “There’s not enough there to make sense of yet.”
From a distance of inches, she met his eyes, searched them. “I can pose for longer—I’m not that tired.” He shook his head. His gaze dropped to her lips. “I don’t want to overtax you.”
He bent his head and his lips found hers; as he whirled her senses into the flames, she wondered if her potential tiredness had prompted him to call a halt, or whether the strength of his desire—which apparently had escalated over five nights of abstinence—wasn’t instead the principal force driving him.
Regardless, he wanted her—here, now, as desperately as, within mere seconds, she wanted him. Their desire was mutual, wonderfully so, freeing them both from any hesitation. She offered her mouth, willingly offered her body; she was his to possess.
Gerrard knew it; her eager surrender was pure joy, the vital element that again and again reassured him, that soothed his primitively possessive soul—that side of his nature only she connected with. Only with her had he experienced it; only with her could he explore it and, it seemed, be whole, complete in a way he never had been before.
Between them, passion rose, heated and demanding. Without breaking the kiss, he stooped and swung her up into his arms. Her hands clutching his shoulders, urgently gripping, he carried her down the long narrow room. Ducking a shoulder between the tapestry hangings screening the room’s end, he walked through—to the wide boxed bed set under a pair of dormer windows on the western end of the house. If he’d been painting all night and couldn’t face the short walk home, this was where he collapsed.
Compton had made up the bed; with clean sheets, white pillows and a green satin comforter, it sat waiting.
Lifting his head, he waited for Jacqueline’s eyes to open, held her gaze for an instant, then smiled, wickedly, and tossed her on the bed.
She half swallowed a shriek, then laughed as, in a froth of skirts, she sank into the soft mattress; he’d had her pose in the gown she’d worn to dinner. Eagerly she looked to right and left, noting the sparse furniture in the alcove. He shrugged out of his shirt, then bent and eased off his boots, watching her all the while.
By the time her gaze returned to him, he was unbuttoning his trousers. She watched, her gaze steady, direct, then she lifted her eyes to his, and raised her hands to the buttons of her bodice.
Undid them, not shyly but with the sultry deliberation of a siren.
His lips curved, not in a smile but in blatant expectation. He stripped off his trousers. Naked, he stood at the end of the bed and flipped her skirts up to her hips. Reaching out, he let his fingertips glide down the fascinating curves of her legs, tracing, then he caught one garter and rolled it down, removing it, her stocking and slipper in one smooth caress. He repeated the action on her other leg, paused for a moment to admire the result, then joined her on the mattress. Pushing her skirts to her waist, he straddled her thighs, and reached for the gown’s shoulders as, on her elbows, she struggled to slide her arms free.
Between them, they managed it; he drew the gown off over her head and tossed it aside.
Before he could, she tugged the drawstring of her chemise loose, and drew the fine garment up and off.
He had no idea where it landed, had no eyes for anything except her. Here, naked in his bed beneath him. He leaned forward, covered her lips and kissed her with all the passion in his soul, then he closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her.
Sitting back, he set her down straddling his thighs; he didn’t need to urge but simply guide her as she shifted forward, over his erection, then sank down and took him deep.
Into the heavenly heat of her body. Their eyes locked, held, and he felt as if she drew him into her soul.
He thrust in, deeper, nudging her womb. Her sheath was a velvet clamp, tight yet giving, slick and scorching as it contracted about his rigid length.
She spread her knees wider, pressed lower, then, satisfied she’d taken him all, she leaned forward; hands splaying, needy and greedy across his chest, she licked one nipple.
He caught his breath, then bent his head and nudged hers up. Their lips met, and the intimate fusion they both craved began.
Without reservation. Without restriction.
Hotter, harder, more intense, ultimately more primal, more primitive and powerful. It was as if with every day that passed they grew closer, learned more of the other, appreciated and thus knew there was yet more they could ask, more they could give. More they could give that the other would want. Would value.
In the last gasping moments when from under heavy lids, their gazes met and desperately clung, that last was beyond obvious. This was special, to them both unique. With no other could they give this much; no other could touch and take, no other would so wantonly seize.
No other could desire to this reckless extent.
They crested the peak in a tumultuous rush; blinded by glory, together they fell, swirling and sinking through their fragmented senses into the void of earthly bliss. Together, still, wrapped in each other’s arms they lay as the waves of satiation lapped about them.
The truth had never been so starkly clear. For each of them, there was no other.
He left her slumped, exhausted in the bed, and returned to the portrait. Jacqueline had no idea where he got the strength, yet, as she reviewed recent events, she could possibly understand his inspiration.
Staring up at the segment of sky visible through the dormer windows, she tried to think, convinced she should, about their liaison—about how it had evolved, its all-consuming fire—but sleep wouldn’t be denied, and she succumbed.
He stirred her awake when the sky was still dark, when stars still sparkled, diamonds scattered by a god’s hand. He was a dark god, a shadow blocking out the stars as he rose above her, a night god claiming her, swift, certain, and sure, devastating and divine. In the dark of the night, he demanded and drove her; she sobbed, surrendered, and gave all he asked. Everything he desired. All she wanted.
Pleasure thrummed, hot and sweet through her veins, down her nerves, then completion took her and she shattered.
Later, when dawn was coloring the sky, he led her down to her room. He kissed her, then turned and went back up the hidden stairs. A silly smile on her lips, she watched until he disappeared, then waltzed across the room, and fell into bed.
As she’d arranged, no maid came to wake her until she rang. She slept until midday, then, thoroughly refreshed, rose and prepared for her day.
While Gerrard reviewed his work and planned what he would paint that night, she had a luncheon to attend, then he and she would visit Helen Purfett, after which she, Millicent, Minnie and Timms had been invited to a select afternoon tea at the Marchioness of Huntly’s London home.
That day proved a pattern card for those that followed. Other than for the fittings at Helen Purfett’s salon, she didn’t see Gerrard until he joined them for dinner. After that, he accompanied them to whatever evening engagement they’d accepted, but at ten o’clock, when the summer twilight had faded from the sky, he and she returned to Brook Street and his studio.
Her sessions posing beside the column grew steadily longer. Their bouts of lovemaking grew progressively more intense. More intensely intimate.
The brassy bronze gown was completed; clad in it, she stood beside the column. Courtesy of what he’d already painted, she could readily imagine she stood poised on the threshold of the Garden of Night.
About to step free of its cloying embrace.
When she needed a rest, he had her sit on a stool, her face at the same angle as when she was posed, and talk to him of the past—of her mother and Thomas, all she’d felt about their deaths and the hurt of the whisper campaign against her.
It no longer bothered her to speak of it, yet when she did, she could feel the old emotions rising through her—knew that was why he needed her to talk of it, so he could capture those feelings, all that showed in her face, for his canvas.
Increasingly, far more than she’d expected, the portrait became a shared enterprise; she hadn’t imagined that painter and subject could work together in such a way, yet with him and her, between them, they did.
She grew steadily more familiar with his work, more critically appreciative of his genius. For genius it was; the figure that took shape on the canvas was so vibrantly alive, every time she looked at it, it was a shock to realize it was her.
Since the day they’d arrived in London, she hadn’t seen Barnaby, but one evening at the end of the first week, he sought her and Gerrard out as they were strolling between the guests at Lady Chartwell’s soirée.
“There you are!” Joining them, Barnaby looked around the room. “You know, town’s not so bad in summer after all—despite the heat, it’s a dashed sight more comfortable than any damned house party.”
“And whose house party have you been attending?” Jacqueline asked.
Barnaby grimaced. “M’sister’s.” He met Gerrard’s eyes. “And she had, indeed, invited the dreadful
Melissa.”
Gerrard grinned. “How did you escape?” “Silently, in the dead of night.”
Jacqueline laughed.
Barnaby placed a hand over his heart. “Word of honor.” “But why did you go?” she asked.
“I was chasing m’father. Ran him to earth there, and dashed if he didn’t join me in my clandestine bolt to the capital. He’s holed up in Bedford Square, swearing not to venture forth other than on official business. Useful, as it happened—I had plenty of time to bend his ear while on the way to town.”
“What did you learn?” Gerrard asked. Barnaby’s father, the Earl of Sanford, was one of the committee of peers overseeing the newly established metropolitan police force.
Barnaby glanced around, confirming that no one else stood near enough to overhear. “The pater thinks as we do—he’s rather impressed by your talents, incidentally.” Barnaby grinned briefly, then sobered. “But more to the point, he agreed I should talk to Stokes.”
“Who’s Stokes?” Jacqueline asked.
“An investigator—I understand his title will now be inspector—with Bow Street. He’s more or less a gentleman, but rather more importantly, he’s made a name for himself solving convoluted crimes of the sort we’re dealing with.” Barnaby met Jacqueline’s eyes. “I can vouch for his discretion, but given we can’t, at this stage, lay any formal complaint, all I’m hoping to get from him is some indication as to which direction his experience suggests we look in for our murderer.”
Barnaby fell silent, his gaze on Jacqueline. Understanding what Barnaby wanted—why he’d sought them out—Gerrard asked, “Are you comfortable with Barnaby discussing all we know and believe with Stokes?”
She refocused on Barnaby. “Yes. If he can help, or suggest who might be behind the murders, then of course, do speak with him.”
“Just let us know what he says,” Gerrard added.
Barnaby grinned. “Righto. I don’t plan on going back to the Hall until you’re ready with the portrait. I’ll be skulking around the traps. Send for me if you need me.”
With a snappy salute, he left them. Within minutes he was making his excuses to a disappointed Lady Chartwell.
Ten minutes later, her ladyship’s clocks struck the hour—ten o’clock. Gerrard steered Jacqueline to her ladyship’s side, and with his customary charm, excused them without, in fact, giving any real excuse.
Lady Chartwell smiled, patted Jacqueline’s hand, and let them go. His town carriage was waiting; in minutes, they were on their way back to his studio.
Days passed. Jacqueline posed, Gerrard painted, and the portrait came to life.
It increasingly absorbed him, all but obsessed him. The only distraction capable of disrupting its hold was its subject, Jacqueline herself.
She commanded his attention on a level that effortlessly overrode all else, even his need to paint. How it had happened he didn’t know, but she, her nearness, knowing she was his, had become vital, the linchpin of his existence, the very essence of his future. Even while he threw his energies into her portrait, that vulnerability nagged. He hadn’t yet secured her—hadn’t yet offered for her hand and been accepted.
Time and again, he thought of mentioning it, doing the deed so it was over and done. Accomplished.
Time and again, he remembered she was, in a fashion, in his debt in terms of the portrait—she needed him and his talents to win free, to win back her life. The idea she might feel obliged to accept his offer because of that filled him with creeping horror.
If he asked her now, before the portrait was completed, how would he know, or ever be sure of, her reasons for accepting him?
Which left him facing the single, central source of his uncertainty—he still couldn’t guess what she thought. What she truly felt for him, how she saw him. For a man who’d imagined he’d understood women well, it was a humbling situation.
My dear, I’m soglad Gerrard has chosen you.”
Jacqueline blinked. She stared at the extremely old, distinctly vague but sweet old lady she’d only met five minutes before.
Aunt Clara reached out, and with her ancient claw lightly patted Jacqueline’s hand. “It’s always such a relief when our young men makesensible decisions—they’re all suchgood boys, but they do sometimes seem to drag their heels…”
It was the middle of their third week in London; Jacqueline and Millicent had found their social feet. This afternoon they were attending a tea party at St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square.
In introducing Jacqueline to Aunt Clara, who was very, very old, a Cynster by birth, Honoria had whispered that the old lady’s mind, while lucid enough, did occasionally wander. So Jacqueline smiled and, leaning closer, whispered, “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood. Gerrard and I aren’t betrothed.”
Swallowing a sip of tea, Aunt Clara nodded. “No, no—of course not. Quite right.” She set her cup on its saucer, then serenely continued, “Not that we have many betrothals in this family—quite rare, in fact. While they do drag their heels, once they make up their minds, they tend to want everything settled yesterday—and their chosen wife warming their bed, you see.”
An indulgent smile curved the old lady’s lips. Fascinated, Jacqueline studied it.
“Quite besotted, they become. And in this case, of course, what with this dreadful business hanging over
your head, and dear Gerrard working day and night on the painting, all to free you, I daresay the notion of a betrothal just now isn’t his primary concern. Indeed”—Aunt Clara leaned closer and lowered her voice to a quavery whisper—“all things considered, I very much doubt a betrothal of any length will find much favor with him at all.”
Jacqueline realized she’d failed to make her point. “Actually—”
“I heard Patience say just yesterday that she wouldn’t be surprised if, after you and Gerrard leave to take the painting down to Cornwall to put all right down there, the next time she saw you, you’d be married.”
Patience said?Jacqueline stared. Her mind froze, then abruptly raced, in no specific direction. After a moment, she drew in a deep breath, focused again on Aunt Clara’s lined face, and carefully asked, “What do the others think?”
Clara made a noise that was half laugh, half snort. “My dear, if we weren’t ladies, there’d be wagers exchanged.Nothing so delights us as a new marriage in the family. Why”—she waved one crabbed hand to indicate the entire room—“everyone has their own view of the when, and of course we all hope there’ll be a wedding to attend, but even if not, and it’s done by special license—and I have to say that’s very common in this clan—then you may rest assured we’ll still have a celebration.”
Clara met Jacqueline’s eyes and smiled, sweetly charming. “I’m so glad, dear, that you’ll be joining us.” Jacqueline smiled weakly, and held her tongue.
She should have been paying more attention from the first. Later that day, as afternoon edged into evening, Jacqueline paced in her room, agitated yet determined to set things right.
Aunt Clara’s comments had opened her eyes. Mentally revisiting all her interactions with Gerrard’s family, especially the female members, reinterpreting what had transpired in light of Clara’s words had made it perfectly clear Clara’s assumptions were shared by many, if not all.
If she’d paid more attention, if she hadn’t been so thrilled by their ready acceptance of her, if she’d had more experience of large families, especially tonnish families…but she hadn’t. She now faced a serious misinterpretation, on a major scale, one honesty let alone honor demanded she correct.
But how to do that?
She racked her brain, yet there seemed only one way forward.
Halting her pacing, she consulted the clock. It wasn’t yet time to dress for dinner. Millicent was taking a nap. Minnie and Timms hadn’t accompanied them today, but had remained at home; they would have napped earlier. At this hour, they were usually to be found in the back parlor.
They were there, Timms tatting as always, Minnie sitting in a chair in the waning sunshine. They looked up as she entered, smiling in greeting.
Halting before them, she pressed her hands tightly together and drew in a deep breath. “I wonder if I might speak with you both for a moment.”
They exchanged a quick glance, then Minnie beamed. “Of course, dear. Sit beside Timms there—we’re all ears.”
“You have our undivided attention,” Timms confirmed, although her fingers never slackened.
Jacqueline sank onto the chaise. Minnie’s faded eyes fixed on her; anticipation lit her face. Now she was here…“I’m really not sure where to begin.”
“Try the beginning,” Timms advised. “That usually works best.”
“Yes, well…you’ve all been so kind, to both myself and Millicent, so welcoming. I’m so grateful—you’ve made coming up to town so much easier for us both.”
“But of course, dear.” Minnie’s eyes twinkled.
“Yes, well, you see…” Jacqueline drew in another breath and plunged on. “I’ve just realized that there seems to be some confusion over the…ah,connection between myself and Gerrard.” She looked from Timms to Minnie; no comprehension yet showed in their eyes. “Gerrard is helping me break free of my problems at home, helping to rescue me if you will, but his reasons for doing so—for painting my portrait—are, well,professional, and of course he’s motivated to assist a lady as a true gentleman should. That’s all that connects us, yet I fear an…anexpectation has arisen that’s based on the notion that there’s some link of a morepersonal nature between him and me.”
Both Minnie and Timms were frowning, but lightly, as if her pronouncement merely puzzled them. “Do you mean,” Timms asked, “that you aren’t thinking of marrying him?”
Jacqueline stared at her; she couldn’t think of any way to answer but equally bluntly. “No. That is,” she quickly amended, “it’s not a question of my wanting to marry him so much as there’s never been any suggestion of marriage between us. We’ve never discussed it.”
“Ah.”Timms turned to exchange a look denoting some deep understanding with Minnie.
Minnie’s smile returned, brighter than ever. “I wouldn’t let that worry you, dear. They—our men—are chronically backward in coming forward, at least when it comes todiscussing matrimony.” Her gaze grew considering. “Indeed, I can’t, off the top of my head, remember one who ever has…”
After a moment, Minnie returned her gaze to Jacqueline’s face, her expression unquenchably cheery. “But don’t let it trouble you, dear. We’ve known Gerrard from the cradle, and he definitely intends to marry you.”
She managed not to show any sign of exasperation—or of the strange panic slowly brewing inside. She kept her gaze fixed on Minnie’s twinkling eyes. “Indeed, ma’am, I do assure you there’s nothing like that between us. Gerrard is merely interested in me in terms of the portrait.”
“Pfft!”Timms caught her eye. “Nonsense.” Her sharp eyes studied Jacqueline’s face, then she gruffly continued, “However, I can see that you believe it, which perhaps isn’t surprising, stubborn nodcock that Gerrard can be—supercilious and arrogant, too, although I suspect he’ll have hidden that side of himself, at least from you. Humph!” She paused to tug a piece of yarn free. “Regardless, I’d strongly advise you to start thinking of how you’ll answer when he asks whether you want a big wedding, or if you’d rather be married by special license. Incidentally”—Timms caught Jacqueline’s eye—“we’ll all be most
disappointed if you opt for the special license.”
She couldn’t simply smile weakly and retreat, and leave things as they were. Jacqueline opened her lips—
“Indeed, dear.” Minnie leaned forward and patted her hand. “I do understand that perhaps, from your point of view, we’ve jumped the gun a trifle, and I can quite see that coming from the country, you wouldn’t have immediately realized, and it’s very sweet of you to think to explain now, but I do assure you that in reading Gerrard’s intentions toward you we haven’t made any mistake.”
Jacqueline stared into Minnie’s steady blue eyes. “He isn’t thinking of marrying me.”
“Oh, yes he is,” Timms averred. “I’ve known him since he was a squalling infant, and he’s definitely set his sights on you.” She met Jacqueline’s eyes, and grinned. “Mind you, given he’s done such an excellent job of hiding his intentions from you, I wouldn’t want to be in his boots when he finally asks for your hand.”
Minnie chuckled. “Indeed, not.”
Jacqueline looked from one to the other; both were clearly enjoying imagining Gerrard’s difficulties when he proposed. But he wasn’t going to…
It was hopeless. She sighed and sat back, then rose and excused herself. They let her go with fond smiles, and reassurances that all would be well—she would see.
She returned to her room; she spent the hour before dinner bathing—and thinking.
It was impossible not to wonder, just for a moment, if they could be right and she wrong. Minnie, Timms and Patience—and the rest of them—indisputably knew Gerrard, knew gentlemen of his ilk, much better than she; they all had much more experience in correctly interpreting male behavior.
That was all very well, yet in this case…
Head back on the edge of the tub, steam wreathing about her face, she closed her eyes and thought back to all she and he had ever said on the subject. She couldn’t be sure she recalled his words verbatim, but he’d insisted he could make no promises. She’d accepted his attentions on that basis; he’d said nothing since to suggest he’d changed his mind.
Yet Minnie, Timms and Patience were convinced…and they didn’t even know of the interludes in the alcove off Gerrard’s studio.
Didn’t know of all that had grown between them.
Cocooned in the warm water, veiled by the steam, detached from the world, she looked inward. And asked herself, in light of all that had evolved between them over the past weeks, what she wished now. She thought, considered, weighed as well as she could the connection, the link, the indescribable communion that between them transformed the physical act into an emotional, almost spiritual experience. A transcendent moment of glory, for which she now yearned.
She’d wanted to know, to learn, and he’d shown her, taught her, and more. He’d given her all that; she was more grateful than she could say. Simply thinking of the feelings that welled and spilled through her
when they joined was wonderful. Joyous. He’d shown her that—all a woman could be.
She was grateful, happy, and would gladly sup further at his table. For herself, yes, she would accept any extension of their time together, and take full pleasure in all they could share, but would she go so far as marriage?
To that, no ready answer sprang to mind. She hadn’t considered the concept, not for years; she was no longer sure how she felt in that regard.
Yet with regard to him, how he felt, sheknew he’d accepted the commission to paint her because of the professional challenge, and he’d stuck with it because of a chivalrous determination to see her free. He hadn’t seduced her—she’d insisted on it. As her portraitist, he’d wanted to learn more of her, all he could of her; that their interaction had subsequently evolved to its present extent wasn’t something she could, or wished to, lay at his door.
It had simply happened. It simply was.
She couldn’t hold him responsible. To her mind, there was no justification to even mention the subject of marriage, let alone expect him to be thinking of it. Even if, on reflection, she decided marriage to him might suit her, it wouldn’t, to her mind, be honorable to even raise the matter, much less expect him to agree.
The water had grown cold. Rising, she stepped onto the rug spread before the hearth, and reached for the towel the maid had left ready. Drying herself, she followed her thoughts. Between them, all seemed clear and straightforward. However…
She couldn’t leave the ladies who’d been so kind to her, who’d so openly taken her to their hearts, believing there was a wedding in the wind. That would be deceitful, and she’d never been that—Eleanor’s province, not hers.
Yes, she’d tried to correct their mistake, and yes, they’d routed her comprehensively, but that didn’t absolve her from doing all she could to convince them that she wasn’t, as they clearly supposed, Gerrard’s intended, his fiancée in all but name.
So how was she to convince them they were wrong?
Proof. She needed some words, action or evidence that clearly indicated he wasn’t thinking of marrying her. Something actual, factual…
She brightened; crossing to the bellpull, she rang for the maid. After dinner, they were to attend a party, with dancing, at Lady Sommerville’s. Collecting suitable, citable evidence in such a venue shouldn’t be too hard.
18
One of the great attractions of a trip to London was the chance of visiting the very best modistes. With Millicent, Jacqueline had taken full advantage of the capital’s amenities; when, that evening, she climbed Lady Sommerville’s staircase on Gerrard’s arm, she felt positively glowing in a gown of amber silk surprinted with a delicate dark bronze tracery.
She’d donned the new gown to bolster her confidence; she also hoped it would make her task that evening easier by attracting the attention of other gentlemen.
During their evenings’ entertainments, Gerrard always hovered by her side, presumably to ensure she remained untroubled, and so he could whisk her away when the clocks struck ten. She was his subject; naturally, he wanted her in the right frame of mind to pose for him. There was nothing more behind his attentiveness, his hovering, than that. They were lovers, true, and he was possessive in that sphere, but in general in society, she could see no reason for him to be so.
Not unless he was thinking of marrying her, which he wasn’t. That was what she needed to prove.
After greeting Lord and Lady Sommerville, she and Gerrard swept into the ballroom. It wasn’t a huge room, and this wasn’t, she’d been told, a large party, yet she was pleased to note numerous dark coats dotted amid the bright satins and silks.
Gerrard steered her in Millicent’s wake; they eventually stopped beside a chaise on which Lady Horatia Cynster sat. Exchanging pleasantries, Millicent settled beside her ladyship; with Gerrard, Jacqueline moved to stand to one side of the chaise.
Intent on her plan, she lifted her head and eagerly scanned the guests.
Gerrard seized the moment to less than approvingly scan her. Where the devil had she gotten that gown? The silk hugged her figure, clung to her breasts, outlined the quintessentially feminine curve of her waist and the evocative flare of her hips. As for the long line of her legs that always transfixed him, the fine material flirted and seduced, first revealing, then concealing as she moved. Worse, whenever she moved, the light corruscated over the complex fabric, drawing the eye to her delectable curves.
And not just his eye.
Mental alarm bells rang. Glancing around, he inwardly swore. It was summer. The crowd was small and commensurately more select—and of quite a different caliber to that of a ball during the Season. There were few bright young things in evidence; they were all attending country house parties in the hope of snaring a husband. Likewise, the younger gentlemen had in the main been hauled off by their fond mamas, to either do their duty by their sisters, or to look over the field, also at those same house parties.
The vast majority of those left in town, including all those strolling or prowling through Lady Sommerville’s ballroom, weren’t interested in snaring a husband or wife. They were, however, definitely interested in members of the opposite sex.
Too many of the gentlemen had already noticed Jacqueline.
He used the term “gentlemen” generically; many of the males present were wolves of the ton. He knew them; on the rare occasions he could be persuaded to attend such affairs, he was normally classed among their number.
Some dark emotion, one that made him feel like snarling, rose when he saw one of his peers cast his eye assessingly over Jacqueline. This would definitely be the last time she wore that gown in public, at least not until they were married, and perhaps not even then.
The intrigued gentleman noticed his hard stare; they locked eyes. After a moment, the gentleman’s lips
curved; he inclined his head and moved on. Just as well.
Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, then surreptitiously drew out his watch and checked. It was just nine o’clock; he had an hour to endure before he could legitimately whisk her away. The obvious alternative tempted, but Horatia was there. Patience’s mama-in-law, she regarded him as a cross between a nephew and a grandson; she would notice any change in his schedule and report it.
Beside him, Jacqueline shifted; she slid her hand onto his arm. “Let’s stroll. Most others are.”
She started walking; he fell in beside her, not at all sure mingling with his strutting peers was a wise idea. But she was on his arm; he could steer her clear of any—
Halting, she half turned and smiled, inviting the attention of a couple nearby. “Good evening.” Gerrard looked, and inwardly groaned.
Two unquestionably eager steps brought Perry Somerset, Lord Castleton, to Jacqueline’s side. Beside Perry, rather more reluctantly, came Mrs. Lucy Atwell, Perry’s current paramour.
Tall and stylishly handsome, Perry reached for Jacqueline’s hand, and threw Gerrard a glance. “Do introduce us, old chap.”
Inwardly gritting his teeth, he did; Perry bowed elegantly. Lucy and Jacqueline exchanged polite nods.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Tregonning.” Lucy’s fine eyes roved Jacqueline’s gown. “I must compliment you on your attire—Cerise?”
“No, Celeste.”
“Ah.” Lucy flashed him a measuring look. “I’ve heard Mr. Debbington has been burning the midnight oil—literally—in painting a fabulous portrait of you. Do you find his demands difficult to meet?”
“Not at all.” Jacqueline’s smile was transparently assured. “I quite enjoy it.”
“Indeed?” Lucy’s brows arched; the look she threw him was arch, too. She knew that prior to Jacqueline, he’d only painted people he was close to; she was searching for some reason—the most obvious reason—as to why he was painting Jacqueline, but had refused to paint her, stunning though she was.
Before he could steer the conversation into safer, less ambiguous waters, Perry asked if they’d visited Kew Gardens.
That was such a strange question to hear coming from Perry, a rakehell who rarely saw the sun, both Gerrard and Lucy stared at him.
“No,” Jacqueline brightly replied. “But I’ve heard they’re impressive.”
“I’ve heard the same about the gardens at your home,” Perry said. “Perhaps you’d like to view Kew one afternoon, to compare?”
“No.” Gerrard laid his hand over Jacqueline’s on his sleeve. “I’m afraid we don’t have time—the sittings are quite arduous.”
Jacqueline looked at him. “But I don’t sit in the afternoons.” He met her eyes. “You will be, starting tomorrow.” “But—”
“And the very last thing we need is more freckles.”
She stared at him; she didn’t possess a single freckle, not anywhere, and he knew it. The squeak of violins cut through the room.
“Perhaps some other time,” Perry said cheerily. “Meanwhile, if you would grant me the honor—”
“I’m afraid I’m before you, old boy.” Gerrard clamped his fingers about Jacqueline’s hand; catching her eye, he raised her fingers to his lips. “My dance, I believe?”
She thought—activelythought —about refusing him. He saw it in her eyes. What she saw in his—the emotion that flared in response—apparently convinced her to acquiesce with good grace.
He returned his gaze to Lucy and Perry. “If you’ll excuse us?”
“Of course.” Lucy was looking daggers at Perry, who hadn’t yet noticed.
Gerrard led Jacqueline to the dance floor, then swung her into his arms and stepped into the swirling throng. If he was wise, he wouldn’t make any comment. After all, what could he say?
“Why this sudden urge to consort with strangers?” Even to his ears, the question sounded ludicrous; worse, his tone registered as aggrieved.
He wasn’t surprised when she looked at him, her eyes wide. “What on earth do you mean? They’re other guests. I thought we should be sociable.”
Why?He bit his tongue and looked over her head, steering her into a turn. The soft shush of her skirts against his trousers, the feel of her supple body, pliant under his hand at her back, soothed his unexpected irritation. What was he so agitated over? A few words?
Or because she’d sought Perry’s attention?
He didn’t like the answer. Drawing her fractionally closer, he immersed himself in the dance, gave himself up to the predictable pleasure of waltzing her around the room. The whirling left them cocooned in time and space, alone in the middle of a crowd.
Alone with her—that was how he preferred to be. Until now he’d thought himself a social animal, at least when he wasn’t painting, but with her, when it came to her, he was discovering new aspects of
himself every day.
Jacqueline remained silent, content to whirl safe in his arms while she thought through what had just occurred. Eventually, she looked up at Gerrard. “Is there an understanding between Lord Castleton and Mrs. Atwell?”
His lips thinned. “Yes.”
“Ah. I see.” She looked away. In stopping Castleton from claiming her hand, Gerrard had been steering her clear of stepping on Mrs. Atwell’s toes. Very properly. He hadn’t been acting possessively but protectively; it was sometimes difficult to tell.
She revisited her plan; it still seemed viable, but she clearly needed to make a few adjustments. Next time, she would have to find someone to entertain Gerrard, someone he was willing to be entertained by.
At the end of the dance, by mutual accord they resumed their stroll.
Finding someone she could be certain Gerrard would be willing to be entertained by wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped, but by dint of steady application, she finally set eyes on the perfect group.
“Mrs. Wainwright, what a pleasure to see you.” She smiled at the stylish matron and bobbed a curtsy, then exchanged greetings with the lady’s two unmarried daughters, Chloe and Claire. Jacqueline had met the trio at a number of afternoon engagements, and at a musicale.
The family knew Patience and Gerrard well; their home lay near Gerrard’s estate in Derbyshire. Gerrard shook hands and bowed. Chloe and Claire’s eyes lit; they responded warmly, and asked after his horses.
Delighted to have found such young ladies, of suitable age and perfectly sensible, to keep Gerrard company, Jacqueline turned her smile on the last member of the group—a handsome, well-dressed gentleman whose features declared him to be Chloe and Claire’s older brother, Rupert. Jacqueline recalled some mention of him.
“Hello!” Smiling, she gave him her hand. “You must be Rupert.”
“I confess I am.” With a delighted smile, Rupert bowed, all long-limbed grace. His eyes twinkled as he straightened. “Whatever tales they’ve told of me are probably true.”
She laughed.
“I heard you’re in town sitting for Gerrard—that’s quite a coup. Have you had time to see much of London?”
“A little—not perhaps as much as I’d have liked, but…”
Gerrard chatted with the Wainwright girls, simultaneously monitoring Jacqueline’s exchange with Rupert. He knew Rupert, knew his propensities, but Rupert was behaving himself—as usual when under his mother’s eagle eye.
Confirming that Mrs. Wainwright did indeed have her eye on Rupert, Gerrard relaxed, and gave his attention to Chole and Claire; he’d known them all their lives.
He didn’t see the danger, until it was too late.
“There’s the musicians again.” Rupert swept Jacqueline a bow. “Can I tempt you onto the floor, Miss Tregonning?”
Gerrard whipped around—but he’d danced the last dance with Jacqueline.
“Thank you.” Jacqueline smiled gloriously and gave Rupert her hand. “That would be delightful.”
No, it wouldn’t be.Gerrard inwardly swore; Mrs. Wainwright tensed, and shifted nervously. In something close to mounting panic, he watched Jacqueline, oblivious, smile and chat to Rupert as he led her to the floor…
Turning to Chloe, he reached for her hand. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Miss Wainwright?” He barely waited for her agreement before leading her in her brother’s wake.
The music swelled as they reached the floor; he swung Chloe into his arms, his gaze fixed on Jacqueline. They started revolving; he steered them as close to Jacqueline and Rupert as he could.
Chloe sighed. “Nothing will happen until the end of the dance.”
When he looked down at her, she rolled her eyes resignedly. “He uses the dance to butter them up—you know what he’s like. When the music ends, she’ll be curious to see whatever it is he’s invented this time, but still convinced he’s perfectly trustworthy.”
“As most of us know, he’s not.”
“Indeed. But there’s nothing you can do until the dance finishes, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop staring at them, and pay attention to where we’regoing !” Chloe tugged at his shoulder; they barely avoided another couple.
Gerrard colored. “Sorry.” He hadn’t blushed in decades.
He tried to comply with Chloe’s edict—he knew she was right—but logic couldn’t prevail against the dark impulses surfacing; time and again, he darted glances at Jacqueline as, laughing and smiling gaily, she circled the floor in Rupert’s expert arms.
Jaw clenched, his teeth almost grinding, Gerrard waited for the waltz to wind to its conclusion.
Whirling around the room, Jacqueline wondered if any other man was ever going to meet, let alone eclipse, the standards Gerrard had set. Her senses assessed Rupert, and despite his obvious expertise, found him wanting. In just what way, she couldn’t say, but it was simply not the same as waltzing with Gerrard. Inwardly sighing, she continued to respond to Rupert’s conversation. He certainly had a glib tongue. They’d touched on various topics; he’d now steered the conversation to gardens.
Why they all thought she must be interested in gardens she had no idea. Yes, the gardens of Hellebore Hall were fantastic, but she’d grown up with them; she took their extravagant beauty and power largely for granted.
As if sensing how mild was her interest, Rupert shifted the conversation to statuary, specifically statues of Greek and Roman gods.
“I say.” His hazel eyes lit. “There’s a fascinating statue in the library here. Have you seen it?” She shook her head. “This is only the second time I’ve visited here.”
“Ah, well—this is not to be missed. I’m sure Lady Sommerville, if she’d thought of it, would have suggested you view it. Coming from a house surrounded by gardens devoted to various gods, you’ll appreciate it—it’s a fabulously lifelike depiction of a thoroughly remarkable naked god. I’ve never been able to decide which one—perhaps you could hazard a guess.”
The music slowed; their feet halted. Rupert took her hand. “Come—let me show it to you. I assure you, it’ll take your breath away.”
He looked so eager, she hadn’t the heart to argue, let alone refuse. Especially as Rupert was helping her prove her point. She glanced back as he led her out into a corridor; she couldn’t see Gerrard. When last she’d glimpsed him, he’d been waltzing with Chloe.
The sight had caused her an unexpected pang, yet if, as she contended, his interest in her derived solely from her being his subject, and not at all because he saw her as his intended bride, then naturally, given the right opportunity, his attention should wander.
If she spent the next hour with Rupert and other gentlemen, quite apart from Gerrard, while he spent that time enjoying the company of some other lady or ladies, then surely she could cite that as tangible evidence—as factual, actual proof—that he didn’t see her as his future wife.
Rupert halted, threw open a door and waved her through. Crossing the threshold, she heaved an inward sigh. She felt certain that if Gerrard did see her as his bride, he wouldn’t allow her to be alone with Rupert.
Yet he had. So…here she was, in a darkened library. Actually alone with Rupert. She’d assumed the room would be open to guests, with lamps lit and maybe a few older gentlemen snoozing in armchairs. Instead, it was deserted, the dark shadows thrown by packed bookcases and heavily curtained windows encroaching on a desk and chairs grouped in the room’s center.
Rupert closed the door, plunging the room into deeper darkness. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
She looked about, swiveling to scan the room. “Where’s the statue?”
Rupert drew near. “Well, my dear, just give me a few minutes, and I’ll create it—to your abundant satisfaction.”
His tone warned her; clearly she’d made a serious error in judgment. Swinging to face him, she stared. “What?”
Rupert shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the desk. He smiled, his hands rising to his cravat. “Confess. You didn’treally think there was a statue, not one of marble, did you?”
His attempt at a seductive purr grated on her nerves. “Yes! I did!” She glared at him. “And here—” Grabbing his coat, she thrust it at him. “Put that back on.”
Rupert waggled his eyebrows. “No.” His cravat half undone, he undid his waistcoat and tugged his shirt from his waistband. “I promised you a naked god, and I always keep my promises.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, then nodded. “Very well. But I never promised I’d stay and watch.” She darted to the side, intending to slip past him and race to the door.
He was quick, too quick; stepping sideways, he blocked her path. Then he smiled, cynical yet still stupidly eager, and moved nearer. Pressing her, herding her, back toward the desk.
He took her out this way.” Gerrard stalked into the corridor, towing Chloe behind him. He wanted a witness, especially one of Rupert’s family, so there’d be someone who’d know the reason for him thrashing Rupert to within an inch of his life.
“Are you sure?” Chloe asked, her tone beyond resigned.
“Yes.” Gerrard paused and looked up and down the corridor. “Where the devil have they gone? There’s no rooms open this way.”
“Rupert won’t be looking for anopen room.”
Gerrard swore, and headed down the corridor, Chloe’s hand in his. “Your brother’s incorrigible.” “You’re one to talk.”
“Me? Idon’t waltz young ladies out of ballrooms.” “Precisely.”
Chloe’s tone was tart. Gerrard threw her a warning glance, which she met with a sour look. “Ooooow!!” Crash!
The commotion came from a room further down the corridor. Gerrard dropped Chloe’s hand and ran. “No!”
As he flung open the door, he realized it was Rupert shrieking. “Stopit! That’s enough. Put the damned thing down!”
The sight that met his eyes brought Gerrard up short. Rupert, his shirt hanging open and cravat askew, was on the floor, on his arse, desperately scrabbling backward from Jacqueline, a virago wielding a long wooden ruler.
Protecting his head with his raised arms, Rupert wasn’t escaping.
“Youfiend !” Jacqueline laid into him, slapping the ruler against his thigh. “Youwitless …” Words failed her. Dragging in a breath, she brandished the ruler. “Put your clothes back on this instant! Do you hear me?Now! ”
Gerrard had known she had a temper; he hadn’t previously seen it totally unleashed.
Her eyes blazed as, unimpressed with Rupert’s bumbling attempts to find his buttonholes, she stepped nearer and raised her arm.
“No,no —see, I’m dressing—Iam !”
“Good!” She stood over him and glared. “Don’t you ever—ever!—try such a thing with any other young lady. If you do, I’ll hear of it, and I’ll…I’ll—”
“I have a horsewhip you can borrow.”
Jacqueline jerked her head up, stared at Gerrard as he calmly—too calmly, with far too much control—strolled into the room. Snapping her mouth shut, she straightened, and slipped the ruler behind her, into the folds of her skirts. “Ah…” She really didn’t like the feral look in Gerrard’s eyes, which were fixed unwaveringly on Rupert. “Rupert had an accident.”
Gerrard’s lips curved, not in a smile. “I know just what sort of accident Rupert had. What, incidentally, caused the crash?”
“He fell over a stool.”
After she’d pushed him, then whacked him with the ruler. “How unfortunate.”
Gerrard’s drawl was deepening—worsening.
“Yes, well…” Jacqueline blew out a breath, puffing aside a lock of hair her tussle with Rupert had loosened. “As you can see”—she went to gesture at the cowering Rupert, then realized she had the ruler in that hand and switched to using her other—“he’s…getting himself together again.”
Much as she was tempted to leave Rupert to whatever fate Gerrard might mete out, it was, in a way, at her instigation that Rupert had come to be alone with her. She’d never imagined he’d do anything so patently silly, but…He was nearly finished buttoning his shirt. He didn’t seem able to look away from them, his eyes wide, resting first on her, then on Gerrard; he looked like he was struggling not to whimper. “And then he’s leaving,” she pointedly said, hoping he’d take the hint and go with all speed.
“Oh, he’s definitely leaving.”
Gerrard took one step, grasped Rupert’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “Here! I say, old chap—”
Resisting the urge to shake Rupert, Gerrard marched him to the door. “Just be thankful there are ladies present.”
Rupert goggled at Chloe, a silent martyr in the doorway, and shut up.
Chloe stepped back. Gerrard thrust Rupert, still struggling to tuck his shirttails in, through the door, then nodded to Chloe. “If you’ll excuse us?”
No real question; he shut the door on Chloe’s suddenly interested face and turned back into the room.
Jacqueline watched Gerrard stalk, slowly, toward her. While he’d been occupied, she’d tossed the ruler back on the desk, and quickly smoothed down her skirts. Pressing her hands together, she lifted her chin.
“What thedevil were you thinking, going off alone with Rupert?” Gerrard halted immediately before her, his expression hard, a definite scowl in his eyes. His tone was harsh, rather flat.
She tilted her chin higher, and suppressed an answering frown. “He said there was a special statue in here. I had no idea he had such a…a salacious scheme in mind.”
“Well, he did.” Gerrard’s eyes bored into hers; his accents were exceedingly clipped. “Indeed, I think it safe to say most of the gentlemen you’ll meet in this season will be entertaining salacious thoughts of you. Most, however, won’t act on them, not unless you encourage them—for instance, by going apart with them in a setting such as this!”
He paused; she saw something—some emotion—roiling behind his eyes. Instead of giving voice to it, lips compressing, he reached for her hand, turned and headed for the door. “I would be exceedingly grateful if in the remaining few days we’re in town, you could refrain from consorting with other men.”
Towed behind him, she almost tripped. “No.” She pulled back on his hand, then almost tipped backward as with a low growl, he swung to face her. “What I mean,” she hastily amended, eyeing his harsh expression, “iswhy ?”
For a moment, he said nothing, just stared at her. Then, “In case it’s slipped your mind, we’re lovers.”
His tone had grown dangerous again; for one fanciful instant she felt as if she was in a darkened room with a large wild animal. Her nerves flickered. Her eyes locked on his, she carefully said, “Yes, but that’s…private. Just because we’re lovers shouldn’t mean I don’t dance or speak with other gentlemen. No one else knows we’re lovers—it looks odd if I cling to your arm all the time.”
And you cling to mine. People are getting quite the wrong idea…But she didn’t wish to be quite so forthright. He might feel obliged to marry her if society expected it, but once the portrait was finished, she’d return to Cornwall, and society would be irrelevant.
She could see thoughts shifting behind his eyes.
His expression hardened, his jaw set. “We’ll only be in town for a few more days—any additionaloddity will be neither here nor there.”
Turning, he started towing her to the door again.
Her grand plan lay in shreds, and if he adhered to his pigheaded edict and insisted she remain by his side, she’d never be able to correct the mistaken impression they’d given the ladies of his family—and possibly everyone else.
They were nearing the door. She dug in her heels and tugged back. “No. What you don’t understand—”
He halted; his chest swelled, then he rounded on her. His eyes blazed; his features resembled a granite mask. The air between them shimmered with aggression, and poorly concealed possessiveness. “Do you recall”—his voice had lowered, his diction precise, his tone a dark warning—“agreeing to be mineuntil I released you ?”
She had to nod. “Yes, but—”
“I haven’t released you.” His eyes burned, holding hers. “Until I do, you’re mine—and—no—other’s.” She stared at him, stunned; she’d never imagined he’d draw such a line.
Apparently believing her silence denoted agreement, he continued in a fractionally less domineering vein as he turned and opened the door, “Specifically, you will not encourage any other gentlemen—you won’t seek their company, nor encourage them to seek yours.”
Drawing her through the door, he reached back, shut it—and to her continuing dumbfounded astonishment went on as he led her back to the ballroom, “And most importantly, you will not go anywhere alone with cads like Rupert—”
She shook aside her astonishment; it was doing her no good. “How thedevil was I to know he was a cad?” Her temper rose. “If you want my opinion, Rupert’s a handsome lackwit. For the good of young ladies everywhere he should be locked up in Derbyshire—”
“If you’d remembered your promise—” “Ididn’t promise you my every hour!”
“I have news for you. You did.” His voice had gone dangerously flat. The gaze he bent on her was hard and unyielding. “Even if you didn’t mean it, I’m claiming exactly that—every last hour of every day.”
She searched his eyes; her jaw fell.
He held her gaze for a pregnant instant, then looked ahead and whisked her into the ballroom.
Jacqueline snapped her mouth shut, bit her tongue, swallowed her scream of frustration; too many pairs of eyes had fastened on them.
Setting her hand on his arm, Gerrard led her through the guests; only she was aware of his glamour, the contradiction between his outward languid elegance as he nodded to others, and the tension in the muscles beneath her fingers, the rampant possessiveness in the hand covering hers on his sleeve.
She plastered a light smile over her clenched teeth. Bloody-minded, arrogant,obstreporous man ! She was only trying to make all right with his family—
It hit her. Suddenly, just like that, in the middle of Lady Sommerville’s ballroom.
The scales fell from her eyes with a resounding crash. She halted abruptly, almost swaying from the shock.
Gerrard smoothly shifted; long fingers closing about her elbow, he propelled her on. “We’re leaving.” “Now?” A species of panic clutched at her stomach. She looked for Millicent. “But it’s not yet ten.” “Close enough. Millicent will know we’ve left. Horatia will drive her home.”
It was a routine they’d followed for the last week, but…She needed to think. Desperately needed time to straighten her tangled thoughts.
Her frighteningly dizzying novel thoughts.
In no mood to brook any resistance, Gerrard escorted her out of the ballroom and down the stairs. In the foyer, they waited while his carriage was summoned, then he handed her in and joined her. The door was shut, the horses given the office. The carriage rattled out along the road, and they were alone, sitting side by side in the warm dark.
Teeth gritted, he held his demons down, soothed them with the fact that she was with him, beside him, unharmed, and would remain so, with him, from now on. Until he’d finished the portrait, extricated her from the web of suspicion in Cornwall—and carried her off and married her.
That was his plan, and it was set in stone. Immutable, not open to modification.
Thank heavens Timms had, in her inimitable fashion, warned him. If she hadn’t met him in the corridor that evening and twitted him over allowing Jacqueline to remain in ignorance of his intentions, if Timms hadn’t mentioned the conversation she and Minnie had had with Jacqueline, he’d never have guessed what Jacqueline was about, what was behind her seeking to spend time with other men—and his reaction would have been a great deal less controlled.
Given how fraught, how provoked he’d still felt, even guessing her reasons, the gods only knew what horrors Timms and her teasing had averted.
Sitting in the carriage as it rocked along, excruciatingly aware of Jacqueline beside him, warm, feminine, the perfect answer to his every desire, no matter how deep or dark, guilt seeped through him; the blame for her uncertainty over his intentions lay squarely at his door.
He’d shied away from speaking—of his wish to marry her and even more of hisneed to marry her—and part of that, definitely, had been a craven wish to protect his own heart, by not acknowledging it, to conceal the vulnerability he felt over loving her.
Be that as it may, he still couldn’t speak, not until the portrait was finished, and she—her winning free of the suspicions over her mother’s death—no longer depended on him, on his talents, and his exercising those in her cause. Waiting was still the honorable way forward.
Imagining it—putting his proposal to the test, laying his future at her feet—sent apprehension snaking down his spine. To him his future might be immutable, but it would only be so if she agreed.
He still had no real idea of her feelings, felt no certainty over how she would react. Did she love him? He still didn’t know.
Drawing in a breath, he shifted to glance at her. She’d been staring straight ahead, unusually silent. The
flare from a street lamp fleetingly lit her face. Her expression looked…unreadable.
He frowned. “I expect the portrait to take two, possibly three, more days to complete. After that, I suggest we return to Cornwall with all speed. We set the stage before we left—no sense delaying and letting the questions we successfully raised fade from people’s minds.”
Through the gloom, Jacqueline studied his face. “Only three days?” She hadn’t seen the portrait in the last day or so, hadn’t realized he was so close to finishing it.
He nodded, and looked ahead. “I’d appreciate it if you could remain at the house over that time. In case I need to check a line or adjust the shading.”
She felt her expression harden. “And you’ll be able to concentrate better if you know I’m in the house, and not gallivanting about falling prey to gentlemen cads?”
His jaw tightened. A fraught moment passed, then he nodded. “Precisely.”
He glanced, sharply, at her; even through the dimness she felt the lancing quality of his gaze. “Three days, and the portrait will be finished…” His voice faded; he cleared his throat and looked away. “As for what’s between us, we’ll talk of that later.”
She narrowed her eyes, glared through the gloom, but he was looking out of the window.Later? Damn him! Hewas intending to marry her.
Just thinking the words left her shaken, as if the earth had tilted beneath her feet. In some ways it had. Everyone else had seen it; only she hadn’t.
She wasn’t at all sure how she felt about that.
The carriage rocked to a halt in Brook Street. He descended to the pavement and handed her down, then escorted her up the steps and into the front hall.
Masters shut the door behind them. Jacqueline smiled at him. “Aunt Millicent will return later. I doubt she’ll be late.”
“Indeed, miss—she rarely is.” Masters bowed and retreated.
Gerrard took her arm. Grasping her skirts, she climbed the stairs beside him.
In the gallery, she paused. Drawing breath, she faced him. “I’m really not feeling all that well—a bit…unsteady.” True enough; her wits were whirling giddily. “I know you’re in a rush to complete the portrait, but I wonder if you can manage without me for tonight.”
The lamps were turned low, yet even in the weak light, the concern that filled his eyes, his whole face, was visible. His grip on her arm firmed, as if he thought she might faint. “Damn! I knew I was pushing you too hard. You should have said.”
That last was uttered through gritted teeth, but there was enough self-censure in his tone for her to let it pass; he was irate with himself, not her.
“Come—let’s get you to bed.” He glanced at her as he steered her along the corridor. “It isn’t something you ate?”
She shook her head. It was something she’d heard, something she’d realized. “I’m just…overtired.” And she needed time alone to think.
His lips set; he opened her door and guided her in. She’d expected him to ring for her maid and leave her. Instead, he led her to her dressing stool, sat her gently down, and proceeded to pull the pins from her hair.
She stared at him in the mirror. “Ah…my maid can do that. You should go to the studio.” He shook his head. “I want to see you settled.”
She tried twice more to get him to leave, to no avail. Then, to her even greater astonishment, after tucking her into bed, he hesitated, frowning down at her, then shrugged out of his coat. “I’ll sleep with you for a while. The portrait will go faster if I take a break, and without you…”
The suspicion that he knew she wasn’t truly ill and was calling her bluff, as it were, occurred only to be dismissed; the look on his face was a transparent medley of concern and worry.
Guilt jabbed at her, but she desperately needed time to think. How she was to accomplish that with him lying naked beside her…
He slid under the covers and reached for her. She half expected him to make love to her; instead, he gathered her gently into his arms, settling her against his warmth. He bent his head, searched for her lips, but there was no passion in his kiss, only gentleness.
“Go to sleep.”
With that order, he relaxed beside her, around her, sinking deeper into the soft mattress. He fell asleep in minutes.
She didn’t.
Listening to his breathing, she turned her mind to all she had to sort through—the observations, the revelations, the inescapable conclusion.
He did, indeed, intend to marry her.
That much was now beyond doubt. Viewing his behavior from that perspective, there was no contradiction, no reason to question the conclusion everyone, it seemed, had reached.
What was in question was how she felt, not just about his wanting to marry her, but about his failure to mention the matter despite having opportunities aplenty.
She felt she should be angry, yet that seemed too simple, too superficial a response. Decisions on marriage were too serious, too important, to be governed by such reactions.
Timms had warned her to think of her answer; that was assuredly sound advice. Yet in evaluating him,
and his desire for her, the one uncertainty she even now could not resolve was the element that had, from the first, been a complicating factor between them. Was his interest in her, passionate and intense though it was, primarily a painter’s fascination, something that would dissipate once he’d painted her enough to satisfy his obsession—or was there something deeper, more enduring, behind it?
She couldn’t answer that question, no matter how she examined, analyzed and thought. Unless he told her which alternative was the truth, she wouldn’t see it, not until it was too late. Without him telling her, without him being willing to reveal that much to her, she wouldn’t be able to answer him.
Stalemate. She turned her mind to the other aspect she had to resolve. He hadn’t said anything, had given not the slightest indication he wanted her for his bride, yet it wasn’t hard to see that should she wish to refuse him, her position—thanks to him—was now seriously weak.
She glanced at him, lying slumped beside her, one heavy arm thrown over her waist. He was lying on his stomach, his face by her shoulder…She had to resist a sudden urge to run her fingers through his heavily tousled hair.
He’d manipulated her. She was increasingly sure that was true. Increasingly sure that he’d made the decision to marry her relatively early in their acquaintance, perhaps even before he’d taken her to his bed. At her insistence, true enough, yet she wasn’t sure, any longer, just who had been inciting whom.
It was patently obvious he’d realized she hadn’t read his direction, that she hadn’t understood his ultimate aim. Studying his profile in the dimness, she wasn’t the least bit amused by what was in effect deceit by omission. Admittedly, he, and many others, too, would consider his actions as being “for her own good”; that in no way excused them, not to her.
Almost as if he could feel her disapproval, even in his sleep, he stirred, heavy and warm beside her. His arm tightened about her as if checking…with a soft gusty sigh, all tension left him and he slipped into deep sleep again.
Even asleep, he was possessive. And protective.
She looked at him, felt him half surrounding her. A warm feeling, part elation, part simple joy, rose within her, spread, then flooded through her, slowly subsiding.
How was she to answer him when he asked?
Was she prepared to cut off her nose to spite her face?
Was she prepared to live her life without him, without experiencing that warm feeling in the night, that elation—that simple joy?
The answer to that wasn’t one she needed to search for; it was there, in her mind, clear and shining, unequivocally true.
Was that love? Did she love him?
She still wasn’t entirely sure. She would think more on that, yet for now, how was she to manage this—manage him? How was she to cope?
She sighed and turned her mind to that—and fell asleep.
19
Jacqueline walked into the breakfast parlor the next morning—and found Gerrard seated at the table, working his way through a plate of ham and sausages. He met her gaze, and murmured a greeting.
She returned it; wondering, she went to the sideboard.
The older ladies didn’t come down for breakfast; normally she was the only one there. Gerrard had been gone from her bed when she’d woken. Given the shifting landscape between them, she felt rather odd taking the chair opposite him at the otherwise empty table and nodding to Masters as he poured her tea. Almost a preview of how things might be.
Masters stepped back. Lowering his coffee cup, Gerrard caught her eye. “I received a message from Patience this morning. She, Vane and their brood are returning to Kent this afternoon. Given I’m not sleeping away the morning, I thought I’d go around and bid them farewell. I wondered if you were free to accompany me? You did promise Therese, and she won’t forget.”
Jacqueline’s expectation of a boring morning spent indoors evaporated. “Yes, thank you. I will come.” Aside from all else, it would give her a chance to reassess Patience’s view of her and Gerrard; his sister knew him better than anyone.
They left after breakfast, as soon as she’d changed her gown. The day was fine and sunny; they elected to walk the few blocks to Curzon Street.
Bradshaw opened the door to them. The atmosphere within the house was one step away from bedlam. Piles of boxes were already growing on the hall floor; footmen and maids were scurrying frantically.
“There you are!” From the gallery, Patience waved and came hurrying down the stairs. “What a blessing!” She embraced Gerrard, then Jacqueline, with equal fervor.
“We thought we’d come and bid the monsters adieu,” Gerrard said.
Patience put her hand over her heart. “If you can distract them for half an hour, I’ll be forever in your debt. They want tohelp, but they’re driving the staff demented.”
Smiling, Jacqueline turned to the stairs. “Are they in the nursery?”
“Yes—do go up. You know the way.” Patience turned away as her housekeeper bustled up. Gerrard joined Jacqueline on the stairs and together they went up.
They spent nearly an hour with the children, Gerrard on the floor with the boys, drawing and talking of manly activities, Jacqueline with Therese in her lap, sitting in the window seat telling stories of princesses and unicorns, and playing with ribbons.
Retying Therese’s ribbons for the third time, Jacqueline watched Gerrard deal with the two boys. He was clearly first oars with them. And with Therese, but the little girl seemed determined to redirect her attention to Jacqueline, demanding acknowledgment in return, totally assured, as if convinced she had the right.
As if she saw Jacqueline as the female half of Gerrard.
Jacqueline would have dismissed the thought as reading too much into the actions of a small child, but she couldn’t. Therese’s certainty shone in her big blue eyes…and she hadn’t even seen Gerrard and Jacqueline in any social setting. Was it truly that obvious, even to babes?
Eventually, two nursemaids came to take the children down for luncheon. They made their good-byes, boisterous on the part of the boys, more dignified from Therese.
“And you’ll come with Uncle Gerrard when he visits us in the country.”
Crouching down, Jacqueline smiled and tweaked Therese’s ribbons. “I’ll come if I can, but that might not be possible.”
Therese frowned. Gerrard came to say good-bye. Brightening, she waved her arms; he obliged, and swung her up.
Jacqueline rose. Therese wrapped her arms tight about Gerrard’s neck and whispered something into his ear. His eyes shifted to Jacqueline, then he looked back at Therese as she eased her hold and leaned back.
He smiled. “All right. But…” He tickled Therese and she squealed. “You’re a devil’s imp, I’m sure.”
Therese giggled and squirmed. Gerrard set her down, and watched her hurry to join her waiting nursemaid. In the doorway, Therese blew kisses to both Jacqueline and him, then ran off; her laughter echoed back along the corridor, then faded.
Gerrard took Jacqueline’s arm. She glanced at his face; he was still smiling. “What did she ask?” He met her eyes, then shrugged. “Just about when I’ll next come down to visit them.”
She wanted to press for details, but wasn’t quite game; she didn’t want to precipitate a decision she hadn’t yet made.
Downstairs, they found Patience and bade her farewell; clearly distracted, she hugged them both. “We’ll see you at the summer celebration.”
The comment was general; Jacqueline made no response. She’d heard of the summer gathering of the Cynster clan held at the ducal estate.
They found Vane in his study, up to his ears in investment reports. He smiled, rose and shook their hands; his gaze rested on her warmly, as if he, too, saw her as someone rather closer than a friend.
Indeed, as Gerrard followed her from the study, leaving Vane to his work, she realized no one would describe her as Gerrard’s “friend.” That label had never fitted, but just what she was…
What she might be, what she would consent to be, she hadn’t yet decided.
They strolled back to the front hall. Gerrard paused amid the chaos. He glanced around, then took her hand. “Come—I want to show you something.”
He led her into the dining room, yet to be stripped of its plate and cocooned under Holland covers. Guiding her around the table, he halted before the hearth, looking up at the picture hanging over the mantelpiece.
It had already commanded her eyes, her attention. It was a portrait of Patience, seated, with her three elder children gathered about her. Who had painted it was not in doubt.
Jacqueline stared, her gaze drawn again and again to Patience’s face as she gazed down at her children. The emotion that glowed there was remarkable; it tugged at the heart, soothed the soul—reassured that the world was right, would be right, as long as such encompassing, all-powerful feeling existed within it.
“Of all the portraits I’ve done with children, this meant the most to me.” Beside her, his gaze on the portrait, Gerrard spoke quietly. “Patience was my surrogate mother for years—for me, painting this was the final step in growing up. As if in recognizing and bringing to the canvas what she feels for her children, the infinite depth that isn’t duplicated in any other relationship, I let her go.” His lips quirked. “And possibly let her let go, too.”
She said nothing, but looked again at the evocative portrait.
He shifted. “I have to admit, in painting that, I learned a great deal about motherhood.”
After a moment, he wound her arm with his; they left the room, and with a good-bye to Bradshaw, quit the house.
They walked briskly back. Gerrard glanced at her as they turned into Brook Street. “I’m going to the studio—I’ll want you to pose this afternoon, and then through the evening. You’ll have to cry off any engagement.” He frowned, looking ahead, not waiting for any agreement. “I’ll need the next two evenings entire from you to complete it as it should be.”
She could hardly argue; she nodded and climbed the front steps beside him. “I’ll tell Millicent.” And then send cards to the ladies whose entertainments they’d agreed to attend.
He paused before the door, met her eyes. All lightness had flown from his. After a moment, he murmured, “It won’t be long now.”
She nodded; Masters opened the door and they went in. The portrait would soon be finished—and then, between them, they’d have to face whatever was destined to be.
He was a font of ambiguous comments, utterances she could interpret in at least two ways, if not three.
That afternoon, Jacqueline posed beside the column in the studio, while Gerrard, with complete and utter absorption, painted her onto his canvas.
He’d let her peek before she’d taken up her position; there wasn’t that much more to do, but these final stages would be crucial to the overall quality and impact of the work.
She’d learned to be silent, to let her mind wander while keeping absolutely still, keeping her hand raised, her head tilted just so. Her expression didn’t matter; her face and features would be the last things he would paint, working from the multitude of sketches he’d already done. So she didn’t have to guard her
thoughts. At present, his interest was fixed on her raised hand.
His focus had always intrigued her; it reached deeper, signified far more than mere concentration. Devotion and dedication were the concepts that sprang to mind, along with ruthless, relentless determination. He brought all three to the task, driven, quite clearly compelled.
From the corner of her eye, she glanced at him, briefly let her gaze drink in the sight of him standing poised behind his easel in shirt-sleeves, breeches and boots, wielding his brushes with consummate skill.
In arranging to have him paint her portrait, she hadn’t been searching for a champion, but she’d got one. He’d driven up and claimed the position, just like a knight of old, sworn to defend her honor, her reputation, against the world. That was the commitment he brought to her portrait; she no longer questioned that for him—as with the portrait of Patience and her children—this work meant more. He was painting it for her, in defense of her, yet the doing of it gave something to him, too.
The ability to vanquish those who’d dared threaten her.
Her gaze rested on him; now her eyes had been opened, she could see so much more. A chivalrous protectiveness he might feel for any lady, but the possessiveness that in her case went hand in hand with a protectiveness that was rigid, absolute, and knew no bounds, made it impossible to imagine that, success achieved and her dragons vanquished, he would simply shake her hand and drive away.
She hadn’t looked for marriage, not to him or any other, yet it seemed he was intent on bringing that to her, too.
As her successful champion, he could request a reward. Shifting her gaze, she wondered when he would ask. Of what he would ask, she no longer had any doubt.
How she would answer, she still didn’t know.
It all hinged on whether she loved him.
She felt like a Shakespearean heroine, gazing at the moon, asking: What is love?
Two nights had passed since the morning they’d farewelled Patience, since Gerrard had informed her he would be painting for longer hours. She’d posed through the afternoon and into the late evening of both days. He’d retired with her to the bed in the alcove, but later had returned to his canvas.
This morning, when at dawn he’d walked her back to her room, he’d told her he wouldn’t need her again. He was painting her face, her features; not only didn’t he need her for that, but he’d explained he didn’t want the distraction of setting eyes on her during the process.
She’d borne her banishment with good grace, but she’d grown accustomed to being awake at dawn. To being with him through the dark watches of the night.
Restless, she’d come to her window, to stare at the waning moon and ask the ancient question. Much good had it done her.
The lamps were still burning in the attics; she could see the reflection in the glasshouse panes. He was
still working…Lips setting, she straightened. If he was, he needed to rest. He’d been painting almost around the clock for more than two days.
The night was hot and sultry; a thunderstorm grumbled in the distance as she slipped through the shadows of the upper corridor and eased open the door to the hidden stair. The boards didn’t creak as she quietly climbed; at the top, she opened the door to the studio, and peered in.
He wasn’t in front of the canvas. She looked around, then slipped in and closed the door. He wasn’t in the main section—but the portrait was.
It was complete, finished; she didn’t need him to tell her so.
It was remarkable, powerful. It drew her. She stood before it and stared, transfixed. The woman in the painting was her, yet a her with so much on show, so much plainly at stake, emotion welled and blocked her throat.
Amazing.She would never have believed he’d seen all that, much less that he could with mere paints depict it—her inner fears, the sense of imprisonment that had dogged her for the past year, her desperation to escape it, to flee. To leave it all behind, knowing, simultaneously, that she couldn’t.
He hadn’t painted simple innocence, although innocence was plainly there, but the emotions that gave innocence its credibility. Loss, confusion, and a sense of betrayal that had sunk to the soul.
She shivered; despite the heat, she wrapped her arms about her and clutched her wrapper close.
The setting was potent, frightening. Even safe in London in the attics of his house, she could taste the danger, the suffocating tension. Raw menace seeped from the dark leaves of the garden, trying to engulf her and draw her back, into the shadows. The moonlight was faint, a mere suggestion of illumination, not strong enough to light the path ahead.
Darkness predominated, not mere black but a palette of shifting colors, not passive but active evil, alive, still hungry, still wanting her.
The woman in the painting desperately needed someone to reach out and haul her free of the cloying web that miasmalike held her trapped.
The woman in the portrait was her.
She let out a shuddering breath. Drew another in, and looked away, slowly stepped away, out of the portrait’s hold. Beyond evocative, it would free her. Looking around, she searched for its creator.
For her champion who would succeed. She found him in the alcove, asleep.
Stripped, he’d sprawled facedown across the bed. Standing in the gap between the tapestries, she let her gaze roam, over his muscled shoulders, over the sweep of his back, the indentations below his waist, the swell of his buttocks, the long, muscled lines of his legs.
Moving inside, she let the tapestry close behind her, shutting off the lamplight. Moonlight fell softly, illuminating the scene as she paused by the bed and let her wrapper fall. Raising her hands, she undid the
ties of her loose nightgown, and let it slide down to puddle at her feet. Stepping free, she lifted one knee to the bed and crawled across it, to him.
He knew her touch; he didn’t wake when she set her palm to his side, and slowly, lovingly, ran it down. She didn’t stop to think, to question her heart; instead, she let it guide her, and followed it to its desire.
Gently, she urged him onto his back; obligingly he rolled over, still asleep.
Gerrard awoke to sensation. To the touch of her lips, to the heat of her mouth as she closed it around him. To the caress of her hands on his bare hip, on his balls. To the scent of her in the steamy night. To the swish of her hair like silk across his thighs, across his groin.
To the knowledge that she was there, naked, kneeling between his spread thighs, ministering to him. Evocatively. Devotedly.
The shuddering breath he drew in wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to steady his whirling head. Blindly, he reached down, touched her head, helplessly slid his fingers into the thick locks and clutched as his hips rose, thrusting to her tune.
To the music that rose about them.
Pleasure cascaded through him; eons passed as she played, then at his fevered urging rose up, straddled him, and took him in.
She rode him through the night, swept high on the wild winds of ecstasy, through a storm of passion while desire rained down and swamped them. Swirled, built, then dragged them under.
He rose and flipped her over, thrust deep and filled her.
Their bodies merged, slick and heated, in the relentless primal dance. Total surrender.
It came on the moonlight, whispered through them both, and took them. Racked them.
At the last drew back and left them, sated and exhausted, together in the tangled ruins of his bed.
He woke the next morning with sunshine on his face. Pleasure in his mind. Memories washing through him.
He lay on his back, sprawled naked beneath the dormer windows. He’d never felt so decadently alive.
His lips curved, then he smiled, lifted his head and looked around.
She was no longer there, but her scent lingered. Her taste was still on his lips. He had a vague recollection of her whispering that she had to go back to her room, but that he should remain, and sleep.
In the hours prior to that they’d forsaken slumber, too hungry for each other. The minutes had spun out, desire drenched, stoked with passion. In the heat of the night, they’d burned. Soared. Shattered.
The pleasure of her abandoned loving had been soul-shatteringly sweet.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he sat up. He ran his hands over his face, then remembered, rose and walked through the tapestries into the studio. To the portrait that sat, complete in its last detail, on his easel.
It was done, and it was, as he’d always known it would be, the finest thing he’d yet accomplished.
Triumph welled, yet it wasn’t solely the triumph of achievement, of pride in a painting well done. It went deeper than that, ranged on a more fundamental plane.
After last night, he knew what she felt for him. There’d been a joy and a rightness in their joining that she’d seen and acknowledged, that she’d openheartedly embraced as strongly as he.
All the necessary pieces were falling into place. She loved him. She would marry him.
All he had to do was take the portrait back to Cornwall, slay the specters of her past, expose the murderer if they could and win her free.
The future thereafter would be, not his, but theirs. Turning, he strode to the bellpull and rang for Masters.
Jacqueline slept late. After rising and donning a new gown of sprigged muslin, she consumed a late breakfast in her room, then went downstairs.
Minnie, Timms and Millicent were in the drawing room, heads together, discussing their arrangements for the evening. When they’d learned that the portrait would be completed that day, and that Gerrard was set on returning to Cornwall with it as soon as possible, Millicent, urged on by Minnie and Timms, had declared they would hold a farewell dinner for all those of his family who had helped and supported them during their stay.
And, of course, have a private unveiling of the portrait, in reward as it were.
Gerrard had grimaced, but to her surprise agreed. To her, he’d admitted, “I’m curious to see how they’ll react.”
Patience and Vane had already left town, but most of the others who’d rallied around, encouraged Gerrard and lent her countenance, were still there, although most were, indeed, planning to leave for their estates any day.
Jacqueline confirmed that Gerrard hadn’t yet appeared downstairs. She listened to the guest list, made a few suggestions as the three older ladies wrestled with their seating plan, then excused herself and slipped
away.
Going upstairs, she wondered if Gerrard was still sleeping. But as she climbed the hidden stairs to the studio, she heard voices. Looking up, she saw that the studio door had been left ajar.
In the same moment, she recognized Barnaby’s voice. “Stokes was most exercised over the incident with the arrow.”
Arrow?Jacqueline halted on the last step, a yard from the door.
“Like us,” Barnaby continued, “he thinks the murderer attempting to killyou is an indication that the entire series of murders revolves about Jacqueline herself. She’s the only common link between the victims.”
Jacqueline stilled; she stared at the door, unseeing.
Barnaby went on, “Unlikeus, Stokes doesn’t think it’s anything as simple as a jealous suitor.” Jacqueline heard a swishing sound; Gerrard was cleaning his brushes.
“What does Stokes think?”
The question was flat; his tone held a menacing quality.
“Oh, he acknowledges thepossibility of a jealous suitor, but as he points out, none have stepped forward to claim Jacqueline’s hand.”
“Except Sir Vincent.”
“True, but Sir Vincent’s behavior doesn’t suggest any deep and desperate passion. After Jacqueline refused him, he hasn’t shown his face again, hasn’t attempted to press his suit.”
After a moment, Gerrard prompted, “So?”
“So Stokes suggests we look further—what if the motive behind the murders is not for the murderer to marry Jacqueline himself, but to stop her marrying at all? She’s Tregonning’s heiress, after all.”
Gerrard grunted. “I checked. If she dies without issue—or is condemned for murder—on her father’s demise the estate entire goes to a distant cousin in Scotland. Said cousin hasn’t been south of the border for decades, and is, apparently, unaware of his potential good fortune.”
Jacqueline’s jaw dropped.
Silence reigned, then Barnaby asked, his tone reflecting the same stunned amazement she felt, “How the devil did you learn all that? I thought you’ve been painting nonstop?”
“I have been. My brother-in-law, and others, haven’t been.”
“Ah.” After a moment, Barnaby added, “I wish I knew how they ferreted out such things.”
A dark smile colored Gerrard’s voice as he said, “Remind me to introduce you to the Duke of St. Ives.”
“Hmm, yes, well, none of that gets us any further, unfortunately. Whoever it is who wants Jacqueline free of any potential husband is still lurking around Hellebore Hall, waiting for her to return.”
“It’s interesting, don’t you think, that they haven’t followed us to town?”
“Indeed—which is another reason to think it isn’t Sir Vincent. He’s known about town, and could have come up easily enough.”
“Matthew Brisenden couldn’t have.”
“True, but I’ve never seen him as our murderer.”
Gerrard sighed. “I hate to agree with you, but Jacqueline says he’s protective of her, and I think she’s right.”
Outside the door, Jacqueline set her lips. How kind of him to agree with her, but why hadn’t he told her someone had shot an arrow at him? When?
As to why…
“Regardless of our villain’s identity, our way forward is clear.” Gerrard’s voice held steely determination, and a quiet, unshakable resolution. “The portrait is both the key and the bait. We take it back to Hellebore Hall, arrange to show it, and wait for him to strike.”
Jacqueline heard footsteps, Barnaby walking around.
A pause ensued, then he said, “You know, I didn’t entirely believe you could achieve this with a portrait. Damned if it isn’t as good as a real clue. Everyone seeing it will know—and start thinking of who the real murderer might be. And yes, you’re right—it’s bait. He’ll come for it—if at all possible, he’ll destroy it.”
Barnaby’s voice strengthened as he swung around. “But he’ll also come after you.”
“I know.” Gerrard’s voice held a note of imperturbable anticipation. “I’ll be waiting for him.”
Jacqueline stood on the stair, those words revolving in her head. Gerrard and Barnaby discussed the dinner that evening, then the logistics of returning with all speed to Cornwall; she paid little attention, too absorbed with their earlier revelations.
Then Barnaby made to leave. He hadn’t come through the house; he must have used the external stairs. On a spike of relief, she heard them both moving across the studio to the outside door.
Quietly, she turned, and slipped down into the house.
Gerrard gave her precious little time to straighten her tangled thoughts, to steady her whirling head.
Fifteen minutes later, he found her in the back parlor where she’d taken refuge to think without distraction.
She stopped thinking the moment he walked in.
He smiled, all his effortless charm to the fore, a light that was solely for her glowing in his eyes. That private warmth, the intimate connection, brought memories of the past night crashing back.
She’d thought, last night, that she’d discovered what love was—a surrender, a selfless giving, a devotion that could edge into worship.
From her position on the chaise, she watched him cross the room to her, and it was crystal clear she had a great deal yet to learn.
She drew a tight breath. “Is it completely finished?”
He nodded. “Yes.” He halted a few paces before her, standing easily, his hands sliding into his pockets as his eyes, still glowing brown, searched her face. “I—”
“I’ve been thinking.” She cut across him without compunction. It was imperative she take control of this interview; she knew it was important to keep her gaze steady on his face, but she had to fight to do it. “Millicent and I can take the portrait back—now it’s finished your commission is completed. There’s no need for you and Mr. Adair to trouble yourselves with the long journey back and forth.”
His face changed; in the blink of an eye, his expression turned to stone, his warm gaze to one sharp as a surgeon’s knife.
The silence lengthened, then he said, his tone even and deceptively mild, “I came to ask for your hand—to ask you to be my wife.”
The words were a blow in the center of her chest. Her eyes started to close, to shut out the pain; she forced them open, forced herself to meet and hold his gaze. “I…haven’t, don’t, think of marriage.”
A moment passed, then he said, “I know that initially, when we first became lovers, you weren’t thinking of marriage, not at all. But since then, since coming to London…I think if you consult your memories, you’ll see that you have been, if only instinctively, considering the prospect for some time.”
A straightforward denial leapt to her lips; her gaze trapped in his, she held it back. She recalled Minnie and Timms’s meddling; if they’d prodded her, how much more likely were they to have prodded him? And in doing so accurately informed him of her state. Those two saw far too much.
“I won’t marry you. I don’t wish you to return to Hellebore Hall.” She sat on the chaise, her hands clasped in her lap, and looked up at him steadily. He remained standing, studying her; the intensity of his gaze held her caged.
Love, it seemed, sometimes demanded sacrifice, even after surrender. If that was how it was, then for him, she would be strong enough, even for that.
His eyes narrowed; his gaze didn’t waver. “Was it a dream then, last night? And early this morning? I thought it was you, the angel who visited me in my bed beneath the stars.” Abruptly he moved, a predator circling before her, his eyes never leaving her, never releasing her. “You who took me into her mouth, into her body—”
“Don’t.” She shut her eyes, seized the moment to breathe in and out. “You know it was me.” Opening her eyes, she met his gaze, now darkly burning. “It changes nothing. It won’t happen again.”
The ends of his lips lifted, the half-smile wholly intent. “Oh, but it will—again, and again. Because you love me—and I love you.”
She rose to her feet, opened her mouth, but no words came. Nothing good enough to challenge the knowledge in his eyes.
Her hesitation was all the confirmation Gerrard needed; the look in her eyes, as if she was desperately casting about for some argument to counter his, and failing, placed the matter of their mutual state beyond doubt. A weight lifted from his shoulders; relief was a heady draft coursing through his veins. That much, then, was as he’d thought. What remained a mystery was the reason for her sudden—and if he were truthful, unnerving—tack.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined his proposal would go. He stepped closer, close enough for their senses to flare.
She locked her eyes on his, narrowed them. Her jaw tightened. “I willnot marry you—you can’t make me say yes. And under no circumstances are you to return to Hellebore Hall.”
He held her gaze, slowly arched one brow. “How do you plan to stop me?” She frowned.
He went on, “I’ve no intention of letting you refuse my suit. I’ll keep after you, keep seducing you—you’ll have to agree in the end.” Resolution rang in his tone; to him there was no other option. “As for returning to the Hall, either with you in your father’s coach, or ahead of you in my curricle—either way, I’ll be there to hand you down.”
Still frowning, she looked down, staring at his waistcoat. A moment ticked past, then she looked up and met his eyes. “I won’t agree to marry you—I won’t acknowledge that I love you in any way. I can’t stop you from returning to the Hall, but I can speak with my father and make him understand why he must turn you away, and insist you return to London.”
The stony determination he saw in her eyes chilled him. “Why don’t you explain that to me?”
Her features tightened. “Very well. Think of this—I’ve loved, and lost twice to this murderer. First with Thomas, a young girl’s love, which was bad enough, and then with Mama—and that was devastating.” Her voice shook, her lashes flickered, but she drew breath and went on, lifting her eyes to his, the green and gold burning with a fire he took a moment to place, to recognize, “Now there’s you. This murderer is waiting at the Hall—we both know that. To love and lose a third time…”
Dragging in a breath, she shook her head. “No—I won’t risk it. If you understand at all, you won’t ask that of me.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then quietly replied, “I do understand.” He reached for her hand, let his fingers slide over hers, then twine. Lock. “But I’m not asking you to love and lose a third time. I’m asking you to love, and have the courage to embrace it and fight for it, with me.”
She opened her mouth—he squeezed her fingers to silence her. “Before you argue, consider this—whatever you say, whatever you do, no longer matters. I know you love me—you’ve shown me you do—and I love you. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if need be, and badger you until you accept me as your husband.”
Her eyes searched his, then he sensed her inner sigh. “I know he tried to kill you—I know about the arrow.”
“Ah.” He held her gaze as perception swung, revolved, then settled again. He remembered the door to the stairs, left open by the footman who’d come to remove his shaving water; he’d been on his way to shut it when Barnaby had knocked on the other door. Suddenly all was clear.
She tried to tug her hand from his; when he didn’t let go, she glared at him. Belligerently. “When were you going to tell me? Never? But if we’re considering things, then you ought to consider this—ifI loved you,I’d move heaven and earth to keep you from this madman.”
He searched her eyes, then he smiled.
Jacqueline’s heart melted; there was no charm in the gesture, no artful seduction, just an overflowing understanding, acceptance, and love. It glowed in the rich brown of his eyes, a light she couldn’t mistake, a light he made no effort to conceal.
He raised his free hand and cradled her cheek, tipping her face up so he could study her eyes more closely. When he spoke, it was with awe, as if he’d made some great discovery. “It’s not your heart you’re trying to shield by denying you love me—it’s me. You’re trying to protect me.”
Of course.“Perhaps. But—”
His smile deepened; he bent his head and kissed her.
She tried to hold aloof, apart, tried desperately to simply exist and not be swayed…and failed. A shuddering sigh escaped her, and she sank into his arms, parted her lips and welcomed him in.
And felt, again, the power rise between them, felt it swell and whirl and cocoon them. Felt it bind them, hold them, fuse them until they were not the same separate beings they once had been.
When he lifted his head, she was defeated—not by him, but by that power. He, too, seemed caught. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, gravelly. “I thank you for the thought, sweetheart.” He brushed a kiss to her knuckles, then met her eyes. “But that’s not how it’s going to be.”
For a long moment, she felt as if she was drowning in his eyes, then he said, “Timms said something, not long ago, when she was twitting me about love and my attitude to it. I can’t remember her words, but I remember her meaning: when it comes to love, what will be will be—it’s not up to us to decree.”
Those words were patently, self-evidently true. There was no point arguing. However…“I won’t agree to marry you.”
He held her gaze, then nodded. “Very well. If you insist, we won’t make the announcement yet.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. He met her look blankly. Unyieldingly. But she could be unyielding, too; if she gave in, even to a secret betrothal, he would use it to, as he would see it, protect her. “No, I amnot
agreeing. Not yet. Once we’ve exposed our madman, you can ask me again.” A memory stirred. “Knights who champion ladies can’t claim their reward until after the dragon is slain.”
His eyes narrowed; the look in them held more than a touch of hard arrogance, of his customary ruthlessness. His lips thinned, but then he nodded. “Very well.” He drew a deep breath, his chest swelling against her breasts. “We’ll take the portrait back to Hellebore Hall and, hand in hand, side by side, wait for the murderer to appear.”
But first they had a family dinner to attend, all the while concealing the complex web of emotions that, it seemed, hour by hour steadily grew, wove and twined more tightly, linking them ever more incontrovertibly.
He, of course, encouraged it, and she was helpless to prevent it.
They’d arranged to show the portrait in the drawing room; it stood in pride of place before the empty hearth. Before any others arrived, Minnie, Timms and Millicent stood in a semicircle in front of it—and simply stared.
Then Minnie turned to Jacqueline, and took her hand. “My dear, I confess I had no idea matters were quite so bad.” She glanced back at the portrait. “But I can see they are.” She looked up at Gerrard. “Dear boy, this is the best you’ve ever done—and for more than one reason.”
Timms gruffly concurred. “It conveys so much—there’s so much of you both in it—hopefully it’ll accomplish all you need.”
The doorbell pealed; guests started to arrive. Without exception, all were amazed and somewhat stunned by the portrait. Jacqueline’s head spun with all the comments, but she’d met everyone before, knew them, felt comfortable in their company, felt at home within their circle.
Despite all the portrait so eloquently revealed, although she did indeed feel her emotions exposed, she didn’t feel vulnerable. In part it was a matter of trust—of trusting all those around her—but it was also a reflection of the strength she drew from the light in Gerrard’s eyes when they rested on her, from the touch of his fingers lightly trailing her arm as he passed by.
Nothing occurred to mar the evening. The conversation about the dinner table was all about the portrait, of what others saw in it, of their hopes for it. Of the situation that awaited her, Gerrard, Millicent and Barnaby at the Hall, and how they planned to resolve it.
Warm wishes flowed all around them, but in the glances the men shared, Jacqueline read a seriousness, and a readiness to support in whatever manner was required, that was almost medieval. A rallying to the clarion call, a warriorlike response from elegant gentlemen who were clearly only one small step removed from their sword-wielding ancestors.
It was obvious that Gerrard was cut from the same cloth.
None of the men dallied about the table; all rose and followed the ladies back to the drawing room, back to the portrait. Powerful and evocative, it dominated the gathering.
“It takes my breath away.” Amelia stood before it, examining it anew. “But not in a pleasant way.”
Jacqueline had met the twins, Amanda, Countess of Dexter, and Amelia, Viscountess Calverton, at a number of functions. They were a few years older than she, but so full of life she’d been immediately drawn to them. Their husbands, both tall, handsome men, cousins in fact, stood nearby; they’d been teased over the dinner table about their rivalry over who would fill their nursery first—both twins had given birth to firstborn sons within a month of each other, then, later, to daughters, again within the space of a month.
“It gives me the shivers.” Standing beside Amelia, Amanda realistically demonstrated. She turned to Jacqueline. “I hope that whatever that represents”—she pointed to the louring, threatening Garden of Night—“is defeated and behind you.”
Jacqueline looked at the painting. “Not yet.” She met the twins’ eyes. “We hope it soon will be.”
“Humph!” Amanda swung to Gerrard. “All I can say is, if you can see all that well enough to paint it, you’d better be intending to take her hand and pull her out of there.”
Gerrard’s lips curved in a relaxed and open smile. “Rest assured, I fully intend to do just that.” He shot a glance at Jacqueline. “And, indeed, lead her rather further.”
Into a new life.His eyes stated that clearly; for a moment, Jacqueline was lost in the promise that glowed in his brown eyes.
Amelia made a strangled sound, smothering some comment. Both Jacqueline and Gerrard looked to see the twins exchanging glances, then Amanda shook her head with mock severity at Amelia, and took her sister’s arm. “No—don’t say a word. Whatever word we do say will be taken amiss, so…let’s retire and leave these two to their own devices.”
With smiles that could only be construed as regally smug, the twins swept off to join their husbands. “Grandes damesin the making,” Gerrard muttered.
Another Cynster lady Jacqueline had grown close to was Flick—Felicity—Demon Cynster’s wife. Demon Harry was Vane’s younger brother, an ex-hellion if ever there was one. The resemblance between him and Vane was not strong physically, but Jacqueline saw it in myriad little things. Like the hard glint in Demon’s blue eyes when he paused beside Gerrard to discuss their return to Hellebore Hall.
Flick tugged her hand, distracting her. “You must promise to come to Newmarket later in the year.” She held up a hand, imperious for all she was a slip of a thing. “With Gerrard or without him, regardless, I’ll expect to see you.”
She could only smile, and agree. Dillon Caxton, Flick’s cousin and, as Jacqueline understood it, Demon’s protégé in many ways, joined them. He was startlingly handsome in Byronic fashion; his manners were assured, his address polished, but Jacqueline sensed he held himself back, behind an inner wall of reserve.
Nevertheless, he was a close friend of Gerrard’s; after chatting easily with Flick and herself, Dillon turned to Gerrard and asked if he would introduce him to Barnaby. “Demon mentioned his hobby. There’s a little matter at Newmarket that I think might interest him.”
Gerrard raised his brows, but readily agreed.
He left her with Flick, but returned within minutes, much to Flick’s amusement.
The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant whirl. The last guests to depart were Horatia and her husband, George.
“Take care, dear.” Horatia touched cheeks. “And we’ll see you later in the month.”
Without waiting for a response, Horatia turned to Gerrard. “Whatever you need to do in Cornwall, don’t take too long about it. We’ll expect to hear the end of this story when we see you both at Somersham.”
Gerrard innocently swore he wouldn’t drag his heels.
Jacqueline narrowed her eyes at him; another of his ambiguous comments, or so she suspected.
When, later, he joined her in her bed, when, later, she was lying pleasured witless and at peace in his arms, she realized she’d started seeing her—their—future from his family’s perspective. And coveting what she saw.
Yet…
Gerrard shifted, then pressed a kiss to her temple. “What is it?”
She hesitated; when the words came, she let them fall as they would—nothing but honesty between them. “I haven’t had a future for so long, I’m finding it hard, difficult, to believe in what might be.”
“Us?”
That simple little word encompassed so much. “Yes.”
She wondered if he would reassure her with the obvious phrases. Instead, after some minutes, he murmured, “It’s as Timms said: what will be will be. All we can do is go forward, together, and see what lies along our path—what fate has in store for us.”
If she’d had any doubt that he was following her thoughts accurately, they were banished when his voice hardened.
“But first, together, we have to catch a murderer.”
The next day they set out to do just that with single-minded focus. Gerrard seemed even more driven than over painting the portrait in the first place; his impatience infected her.
The day flew with preparations. By evening, all was ready for their departure early the following morn. Barnaby, of course, was to join them. If it hadn’t been for the distance, Minnie and Timms would have come, too.
“You’ll have to tell useverything when you return.” Minnie drew Jacqueline down, kissed her cheek, patted her hand, then released her.
She and Millicent retired early.
Later, Gerrard came to her room. To her bed. To her.
There were no longer any shields, any doubts, any questions between them. Only the unvoiced threat of a murderer.
That only made them more determined, more open and defiant in their ardor. Their bodies twined, their hearts soared, their senses steeped in the pleasure of the other, giving, taking, lavishing, receiving, until the world shattered, and the glory took them.
And their souls flew, hand in hand, side by side. 20
We were thinking of a ball,” Millicent said. She drew a deep breath, then added, “Here.” “Here?” Lord Tregonning shot her a startled look, then returned to studying the portrait.
Gerrard exchanged a glance with Jacqueline, then Barnaby. They hung back in a semicircle in the drawing room. They’d arrived that afternoon, and decided to hold this, the first display of the work, before dinner.
Eventually, Lord Tregonning nodded. “Yes. You’re right. A ball held here will bring out the entire county.”
Millicent let out the breath she’d been holding. “Precisely. And with this on show”—with an extravagant gesture she indicated the portrait—“they’ll beavid to see it. We won’t need to do anything more.”
“Indeed.” Lord Tregonning turned to Gerrard, and held out his hand. “I had hoped, but I never imagined it could be this…impressive.So unquestionably the truth.”
Mitchel Cunningham had joined them. He stood a little back, but he, too, was staring at the portrait. Recalling her earlier suspicion that Mitchel hadn’t believed in her innocence, Jacqueline moved to stand beside him; when he glanced her way, she nodded at the portrait. “What do you think?”
He looked again at the canvas, then his expression grew grim. “Frankly, I owe you an apology.” He glanced at her. “I was never sure…but now.” He looked at the portrait, shook his head. “This slays all doubt.”
Jacqueline smiled. She wouldn’t have called Mitchel a sensitive soul, yet the portrait had shaken him. “I’m hoping others will see that as clearly.”
“I’m sure they will.” Mitchel continued to stare at the painting. “Indeed, this leaves them no choice.”
Treadle appeared to announce dinner. Gerrard, who’d been speaking with her father and Millicent, motioned to Compton, standing unobtrusively by, to remove the portrait, then turned to look for her.
Still smiling, she went to join him. Together, they headed for the dining room, discussing how best to manage the portrait’s public unveiling.
Millicent was adamant it had to be kept hidden until the ball. “If we let it be seen before, rumors will abound. Some will judge it before they see it, and seek to sway others with their opinions, and so on. After all the effort put into its creation, we should ensure we use it to greatest advantage.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby paused in eating his soup. “I have to say I’m still amazed by its power—it’ll drive home our point in dramatic fashion.”
“Lady Tannahay is one we should invite to a private showing.” Gerrard set down his spoon. “Are there any others we need on our side?”
Everyone agreed on the Entwhistles, but when Lord Tregonning suggested Sir Godfrey, Millicent was emphatic in excluding him. “Best we give him the shock of his life in a social setting. Privately, he’ll dither, and not be sure what to think.”
Her tone was caustic; the rest of them exchanged glances, and let the matter of Sir Godfrey lie. “How soon?” his lordship asked. “One can hardly organize a ball in one day.”
“Three days,” Millicent declared. “Three nights from now, we’ll throw open the doors and invite everyone to admire Jacqueline’s innocence, and think of what that means. If anything’s going to rattle our murderer, knowing everyone will be wondering who he is should do it.”
Their plans filled the following hours; they retired at eleven. At half past the hour, Jacqueline slipped into Gerrard’s room, and into his arms.
She was late leaving the next morning. Deeming it easier to explain her presence wandering the corridors in nightgown and robe if he wasn’t by her side, she insisted he let her return to her room by herself. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the way.
Her caution proved wise; she met Barnaby within twenty feet of Gerrard’s door. She blushed, but Barnaby greeted her without a blink, explaining he was on his way for a walk in the gardens. Then she encountered two maids in the corridor; they blushed—for her, she presumed. Glancing in a wall mirror, she saw her eyes were slumbrous, her hair beyond disarranged, her lips subtly swollen. No point pretending how she’d spent her night. Crossing the gallery to the other wing, she saw Treadle in the hall below—and he saw her. That was what came of succumbing to reckless passion.
Not that she regretted it.
Reaching her room, she decided she didn’t care what anyone thought. If the murderer had taught her one thing, it was to grab love with both hands and enjoy it. Celebrate it when it was there, offered to her.
What will be will be.Timms was very wise.
Given her recent activities, she ought to have been exhausted. Instead, she felt energized—fired by impatience to identify her mother’s murderer. Thomas’s murderer. He who had held her life in thrall for too long.
She rang for Holly. As she washed and dressed, she felt confidence well. Not since Thomas died had she felt so positive, so eager to face the day. She felt as if, after a long night, the sun was finally rising once more on her world—and she had Gerrard to thank for it.
Her champion. She grinned, gave her curls a last tweak, then headed for the breakfast parlor.
Gerrard was already seated, along with Mitchel. Barnaby had arrived just ahead of her. He held the chair beside Gerrard for her, then sat alongside.
The three of them chatted, tossing ideas back and forth about the ball. Considering all that had to be done. Mitchel was subdued. After cleaning his plate, he rose and bid them a good day. Barnaby asked if he would be around later, in case they needed assistance with arrangements for the ball.
Mitchel shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ll be out for most of the day—we’ve the rotation of crops to organize.”
Nodding, Barnaby raised a hand in acknowledgment. Jacqueline smiled; Mitchel bowed and left.
She, Gerrard and Barnaby fell to organizing with a vengeance, expecting Millicent to join them any minute.
But Millicent didn’t appear.
Jacqueline had just registered that her aunt was unusually late when Millicent’s maid peeked into the parlor. Jacqueline saw her. “Gemma?” The maid looked shaken. Jacqueline pushed back her chair. “Is anything wrong?”
Gemma edged into the room, bobbing a curtsy. “It’s Miss Tregonning, miss. I don’t rightly know where she is.” Gemma’s eyes were wide. “Have you seen her?”
A chill touched Jacqueline’s heart, then spread. She rose. Chairs scraped as Gerrard and Barnaby rose, too.
It was Barnaby who spoke, calmly, evenly. “She must be somewhere. We’ll come and help look.”
It didn’t take long to find her.
Gemma and another maid had already searched upstairs. Gerrard asked Treadle to gather the footmen, then went with Jacqueline and Barnaby out onto the terrace, to look, and then to plan.
They walked to the main steps leading down to the gardens, searching the various areas they could see. Jacqueline called; Gerrard filled his lungs and shouted, “Millicent!” but there was no answering wave, no reply.
Beside Jacqueline, he halted at the top of the steps. Glancing down, he saw marks, dirt streaked across the pale marble.
There’d been a light shower during the night. He looked down the steps, confirming that the well-worn
patch of path at the bottom was damp. There were similar, small, telltale streaks all the way up the steps.
“Barnaby.” He wasn’t sure if it was his artist’s imagination running amok, but…when Barnaby looked at him he pointed to the streaks.
Barnaby crouched down, with his eyes followed the trail up the steps, then swiveled and looked along the terrace. The faint streaks led on, smudged here and there, but then ended—where the balustrade overlooked the Garden of Night.
Gerrard felt his face harden; Barnaby’s was grim as he rose. “What is it?” Jacqueline asked, looking from one to the other. Gerrard pressed her arm. “Wait here.”
Quickly, he went down the steps, and turned into the Garden of Night. Barnaby was on his heels.
Jacqueline froze. In her head, a voice screamed,No! It was a battle to get her limbs to work, to move. Gripping the balustrade, she forced herself forward; step by step, she followed the men down.
Her gaze locked on the entrance to the Garden of Night, not the one Gerrard had painted, but the upper one. The entrance she’d stood at over a year ago, and seen her mother lying dead, flung like a broken bird, her legs trailing in the pool, her back broken on the stone coping.
The archway drew nearer. Nearer. Then she was standing in it, within the cool touch of the garden’s shadows.
Gerrard and Barnaby were bending over the body of her aunt. As with her mother, her aunt lay half across the coping. White as death. One hand trailed, fingers lax, on the gravel.
A choked sound escaped her. She wanted to scream, to call for help, but she couldn’t get her throat to work. Her lungs felt as if they were caving in.
Gerrard heard; he turned and saw her. He said something to Barnaby, then rose and swiftly came to her. She pressed both hands to her lips. Couldn’t form the words to ask. Asked with her eyes instead. “She’s alive.” Gerrard gathered her to him, hugged her reassuringly. “Unconscious, but alive.” He lifted
his head, yelled, “Treadle!”
An instant later, the butler appeared at the top of the steps. “Sir? Miss? What…?” “Send for the doctor, then send some footmen down here with a door.”
Alive. Millicent was alive. Jacqueline’s legs gave way. Gerrard swore, and tightened his arms about her.
She rested her head against his chest, forced her lungs to work, dragged in a huge breath. Gulped. “I’m sorry.” She hauled in another breath, then locked her legs and lifted her head. “Go back and stay with her. She’s badly hurt. I’ll wait here.” She sensed his hesitation. “I’ll be all right. Truly. The best help you
can give me is to help her—I can’t. I can’t go in there.”
He understood; she saw it in his eyes. He steadied her against the end of the balustrade. “Stay there—don’t move.”
She nodded. He turned and plunged back into the Garden of Night.
Millicent was carried up to her room and laid on her bed. Lord Tregonning was informed; Sir Godfrey was summoned.
The doctor arrived. He was taken straight up to Millicent. When he entered the drawing room half an hour later, he looked grave.
“She’s unconscious, but she was lucky. A branch broke her fall. It broke off beneath her and prevented her spine or skull from cracking. Her arm’s broken, but will mend well enough. However, she did hit her head. How long she’ll be unconscious I can’t say.”
“But she’ll live?” Jacqueline leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap.
“God willing, I believe so. But we can’t take that for granted, I’m afraid. She’s still with us, but we’ll need to take one day at a time—she’s not young, and the fall was—”
“Horrific.” Lord Tregonning was pale, stunned; his knuckles showed white as he gripped his cane.
“I’ve made her as comfortable as I can. Mrs. Carpenter knows what to do. I’ll call again this afternoon to see if there’s any change, but it may well be a day or more before she regains consciousness.”
Barnaby shifted; he spoke in an undertone to Lord Tregonning. His lordship nodded, then focused on the doctor. “I’d appreciate it, Manning, if you kept this entire episode under your hat. At least until we know more.”
The doctor hesitated, then nodded; his gaze flicked to Jacqueline for the briefest of moments, then he bowed and left.
Barnaby stared, all but openmouthed, after him; the instant the door shut, he flatly stated, “I don’t believe it.”
Gerrard forced his hands to relax from the fists they’d curled into. “Believe it.” His growl sounded feral. “But this time, that’s not how things are going to be.”
He turned to Jacqueline; he didn’t like the empty look in her eyes. “When she regains consciousness, Millicent will tell us who flung her over the balustrade, but we can’t sit and wait until then.” He looked at Lord Tregonning. “The murderer thinks Millicent’s dead—if he realizes she isn’t, but is unconscious, he’ll be desperate to silence her. We need to keep her safe.”
Lord Tregonning’s eyes widened. He had Barnaby summon Treadle, and they quickly conferred. Footmen would guard Millicent night and day. Barnaby suggested and all agreed that the most useful way forward was to behave as if nothing untoward had occurred. Treadle assured them the staff would keep
mum; he withdrew to ensure it.
“It’ll confuse the blackguard, and the portrait is bait enough.” Barnaby looked at Gerrard. Who nodded. “Indeed. But nevertheless, we need to piece together what happened.”
Barnaby met Gerrard’s eyes, then turned to Lord Tregonning. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to interview the staff before Sir Godfrey arrives.”
Lord Tregonning met his gaze, then nodded. His jaw setting, he looked at Jacqueline. “Whatever permission you need, consider it given.” He moved to sit beside Jacqueline, awkwardly taking her hand and patting it. “My dear, do you think we might go up and sit with Millicent? When she wakes, I think she’d like us to be there.”
To Gerrard’s relief, Jacqueline focused on her father, then nodded. They both rose. He escorted them to Millicent’s room, saw them settled, then returned to Barnaby, still standing in the drawing room, a determined frown on his face.
Barnaby glanced up as he shut the door. “We arenot going to allow this incident to be obscured by people trying to protect others.”
“My thoughts precisely. What do you suggest?”
“That we take charge. That we gather all the facts, then present them to Sir Godfrey so there’s no chance of him sidestepping logic.”
Gerrard nodded. “What’s first?”
Barnaby raised a brow at him. “Establishing when Millicent went outside, and if we can, why, and then making sure we can, if need be, prove Jacqueline was elsewhere between that time and dawn.”
Gerrard held his friend’s gaze, then said, “She was with me.”
Barnaby grinned. “I know. I met her leaving your room this morning—I heard the door and thought it was you, so I came out…but it was her. And she must have been seen by others. So—when did she arrive?”
“About half past eleven.”
“Good—so we have that fixed. Now let’s see what that maid can tell us.”
Shocked, but now growing angry on her mistress’s behalf, Gemma was very ready to tell them all she knew. “She always fussed over getting ready for bed—creams, potions, and I had to put her hair in curling rags every night. It was after midnight that I left her room, and she wasn’t in bed even then. She was restless—old ladies often are, you know. They don’t settle easy, so they often walk about. If it was clear, she’d go down to the terrace—since we’ve been back here anyways—I’ve seen her walking there in the moonlight.”
Gemma was very clear on all the details; she could list the various duties she performed every night for Millicent.
“It’s obvious Millicent couldn’t have left her room under an hour after she retired,” Barnaby concluded, “and at eleven, she was going up the stairs with the rest of us.”
Next they spoke with Treadle; expression bland, he confirmed that he and two maids had seen Jacqueline on her way to her room at close to seven o’clock that morning. He added, staring at the wall, that Jacqueline’s maid could also confirm that Jacqueline’s bed hadn’t been slept in.
When Treadle departed, Barnaby glanced at Gerrard. “I didn’t think to ask, but you are intending to marry her, aren’t you?”
Gerrard stared at him as if he’d grown two heads. “Of course!” Then he waved. “No, no, I understand why you asked. Yes, I’ve asked her to marry me, but she wanted to put off any formal acceptance until after this matter was resolved, and she was free of suspicion and the murderer caught.”
Barnaby nodded. “Entirely understandable. Now, let’s take another look at those marks on the terrace.”
They were hunkered down, studying the streaks where they ended by the balustrade, when Treadle escorted Sir Godfrey out.
The man looked thoroughly shaken. “What’s this?Millicent pushed over the edge, too?” His color was high; he was almost gabbling. “Well, I—”
Rising, Barnaby held up a hand. “No, wait. Just listen to what we can prove so far.” Concisely, Barnaby outlined Millicent’s movements from the time she went upstairs until she was walking on the terrace. “Then, for some reason, she went down the steps and into the Garden of Night. How far in we don’t know, but at least as far as the archway. That’s where she got mud on her slippers.
“But then”—dramatically Barnaby pointed to the streaks—“some man grabbed her, and while keeping her from screaming, dragged her back up the steps, and flung her—not pushed, butflung her—down into the Garden of Night. There was a branch beneath her when we found her; the doctor confirmed it had broken off beneath her and saved her from death. If you go into the garden and look up, you can see where the branch broke off—it’s plain as daylight Millicent wasn’t pushed, but flung.By some man. ”
Sir Godfrey had paled, but he’d followed all Barnaby had said. “Man?” he asked. “Indubitably,” Barnaby replied. “No woman could possibly have done it.”
At Gerrard’s suggestion, they retired to Lord Tregonning’s study and poured Sir Godfrey a brandy. He’d been deeply shocked, but now rallied.
Gerrard, watching him, picked his moment. “Sir Godfrey, you’re a man of the world—I know we can rely on your discretion. Miss Tregonning and I intend to wed once this affair is settled. Consequently, she was with me throughout the night, from before Millicent’s maid left her in her room, until seven o’clock this morning. Quite aside from my word on the matter, there are a number of staff who can verify that.”
Sir Godfrey blinked at him, then waved his hand. “Complete discretion, I assure you. Anyway…” His tone hardened, his grip tightened on the brandy glass and he drained it. “This wasn’t Jacqueline, but some man—some bounder, some blackguard who’s been leading us a merry dance through murder after murder, and laughing up his sleeve because we’ve been afraid it was Jacqueline. That’s not going to
happen this time—this time,we’re going to catch the devil.”
“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 thinkMiribelle 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?”
“Whocould 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.”
At 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.”
They 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. Whodie. ” 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.
Beyond physical intimacy, beyond desire and passion, beyond, it seemed, the earthly realm, the power swelled, shone, and claimed them.
Accepting their worship, their devotion—ultimately accepting their surrender.
As night deepened and the shadows turned black, Jacqueline lay in Gerrard’s arms, listening to his heart beating steadily beneath her ear while the strength and devotion carried in that connection surrounded and closed about them.
She wondered what the next fraught days would bring, knew he was thinking the same. Heard in her mind Timms’s fateful words, suspected he did, too.
What will be will be.
There was nothing they could do but accept, and follow the path on. 21
They gathered about the breakfast table late the next morning. Jacqueline had checked on Millicent; there’d been no change in her aunt’s condition. Millicent lay straight and still under the covers, her eyes closed, gently breathing, looking far more fragile than she normally did.
Gerrard squeezed Jacqueline’s hand when she slipped onto the chair beside him; she smiled weakly in return, then gave her attention to her father and the details of the ball.
Mitchel had breakfasted earlier and gone out about the estate, as he often did; breakfast was long finished, the trays cleared away, and they were discussing the best location for the portrait when he returned.
They all looked up when he strode in, alerted by the heavy deliberation in his stride.
Deathly pale, he halted at the end of the table. He looked at them all—Gerrard, Jacqueline and Barnaby—then his gaze settled on her father. “My lord, I have a confession to make.”
The comment started hares in all their minds—confused hares; none of them saw Mitchel as the murderer. They exchanged glances, wondering.
“Ah…” Her father waved to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down, my boy, and explain?”
Jaw set, Mitchel drew out a chair and dropped into it. Leaning on the table, he fixed her father with an unfaltering gaze. “I’ve betrayed you, and failed in my duty.”
What followed was not a confession to murder; it was a disturbing tale nonetheless.
“I believed”—Mitchel’s jaw clenched—“or rather was led to believe that my feelings for Eleanor Fritham were returned. More, I was encouraged by Jordan to think that I could win Eleanor’s hand—I
see now that they were both deceiving me, leading me on.” Mitchel’s gaze darkened; he met her father’s eyes steadily. “They wanted information from me, and I gave it.”
From his tone, that appeared to be the extent of Mitchel’s crime. “What information?” Gerrard asked.
“Details of Lord Tregonning’s estate and business dealings.” Mitchel spread his hands. “I didn’t see all that much harm in it at the time.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I arrived here after your mother died. I believed everything Jordan told me about her death—that you were disturbed and needed to be kept at home, and that Jordan would eventually marry you and gain control of your fortune and Hellebore Hall—”
“What?”Jacqueline’s stunned exclamation was drowned out by more violent expostulations from her father and Gerrard. She waved them to silence; dumbfounded, she stared at Mitchel. “Jordanintended marrying me?”
Mitchel frowned. “That’s what hesaid. Whether it was true—” The doorbell pealed. Not once, but continuously.
“What thedevil …?” Lord Tregonning glared, then the pealing ceased.
Treadle hurried past the open parlor door on his way to the front hall. A second later, a cacophony of voices spilled into the hall, too many voices to distinguish. Gerrard and Barnaby pushed back their chairs. They stood; Mitchel rose, too. They all looked out to the corridor.
Abruptly, Treadle appeared in the doorway, looking harassed and rather desperate. “My lord, they won’t—”
He got no further; Mrs. Elcott thrust him aside and swept in. A veritable wave of neighbors poured after her, Lord and Lady Fritham, Matthew Brisenden, Lady Trewarren, Mrs. Myles, Mr. and Mrs. Hancock, and Sir Vincent Perry among them. Of the crowd, only Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles, who looked frankly taken aback, had been invited.
Lady Trewarren headed for Lord Tregonning. “Marcus, we’ve just heard the sad, sad news! It’s thoroughlydreadful ! We didn’t know what to think, but of course we’re here to support you and Jacqueline through this latest ordeal.”
Lord Tregonning had reached the end of his patience. “Whatordeal?”
Lady Trewarren halted; she blinked at him. “Why, the ordeal of Millicent’s death, of course. You can’t possiblynot call that an ordeal, surely. Why—”
The chatter rose again, threatening to drown out all else. “Millicent isn’t dead!”
Lord Tregonning’s roar led to immediate silence.
Gerrard seized the reins. “From whom did you hear that Millicent had died?”
Mrs. Elcott stared at him as if she wasn’t sure he was sane. “But she isn’t dead—or is she?” Gerrard hung on to his temper. “No, she isn’t, but it’s important we learn who told you she was.”
Lady Trewarren exchanged a glance with Mrs. Elcott, then looked at Gerrard. “Why, I heard it from my staff, of course.”
Others nodded.
“It’s all over St. Just,” Matthew volunteered. “My father had it from the innkeeper—Papa will be along shortly.”
Lord Tregonning looked at Lady Tannahay. “Had you heard anything?” Mystified, Lady Tannahay shook her head. Beside her, the Entwhistles did, too.
“But we’re from further afield, Marcus,” Lady Entwhistle pointed out. “This sounds like a rumor that’s only just begun.”
Lord Tregonning looked at Treadle.
So did Gerrard. “Any chance any of the staff spoke to anyone—or more likely, that someone visited here, and got the wrong idea?”
“No, sir, m’lord.”Treadle drew himself up. “Mrs. Carpenter and I will take an oath on it—none of the staff have left the house nor talked to anyone at all, and no one has visited here. Not until”—with his head he indicated the crowd in the room—“just now.”
Gerrard looked at Mitchel.
Equally puzzled, Mitchel shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to anyone about Millicent.”
Gerrard turned to Lord Tregonning. “The only person who would have thought Millicent was dead…”
Lord Tregonning nodded. “Indeed.” He looked at the others. “We need to identify who started this rumor.”
Matthew had been following the exchanges closely. “On my way out, I spoke to our gardener. He heard of it last night in the tavern—he said the head gardener from Tresdale Manor told him.”
“My maid had it from her young man.” Lady Trewarren glanced at Lady Fritham. “He’s your junior stableman, Maria.”
Lady Fritham looked confused. “My maid told me, too—I gathered all the staff knew.”
“Ihad it from my maid Betsy this morning.” The portentous note in Mrs. Elcott’s voice had everyone turning to her. She nodded, acknowledging their attention. “Betsy lives with her parents and comes in every day. She heard the news from her sister, who’s parlormaid at the manor—she, the sister, told Betsy that Cromwell, the butler at the manor, had overheard Master Jordan telling Miss Eleanor that Miss Tregonning was dead, and there was no more to be done.”
All eyes swung back to Lady Fritham. She blinked, puzzled. “But Jordan didn’t say anything to me. Hector?” She looked at Lord Fritham; nonplussed, he shook his head. Confused, Lady Fritham turned to Lord Tregonning. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Damn!” Barnaby had stood quietly by, absorbing information; he suddenly leaned forward and spoke to Lord Tregonning. “My lord, I meant to ask earlier—has any man applied to you for Jacqueline’s hand?”
Lord Tregonning frowned, started to shake his head, then stopped. His expression blanked, then he shifted and glanced at Jacqueline. “I’m sorry, my dear—I suppose I should have mentioned it, but indeed, it was such a…well,insulting offer, couched as it was. As a sacrifice, in fact—as he had no wish to marry any other young lady, he was willing to assist our family by marrying you and ensuring you stayed here, safely out of sight, kept close at home for the rest of your life.”
“When was this?” Barnaby asked.
“About five months ago.” Lord Tregonning’s lip curled. “Even though at that time I wasn’t sure…it was still a dashed stomach-curdling offer. I dismissed it, of course—told him I appreciated the thought, but it wouldn’t be honorable to accept such a sacrifice on his part.”
“He who?” Barnaby pressed.
Lord Tregonning blinked at him. “Why, Jordan, of course. Who else?”
“Who else, indeed,” Barnaby muttered. Aloud, he asked, “And no other man applied for Jacqueline’s hand?”
Lord Tregonning shook his head.
“Marcus?” Lady Trewarren had lifted her head; she was glancing up and around. “I hate to mention it, but I smell smoke.”
Others started sniffing, turning around.
Treadle, eyes widening, met Gerrard’s gaze, then stepped back and hurried out of the room.
“I’m really very sensitive when it comes to smoke,” Lady Trewarren went on, “and I do believe it’s getting stronger—”
“Fire!”
It was a maid who screeched from somewhere upstairs.
The crowd in the parlor tumbled out into the hall. The smell was more distinct, but there was no other evidence of flames. Everyone stared up at the gallery; with a thunder of feet, a group of footmen raced across, heading into the south wing.
“All the ladies into the drawing room.” Barnaby started herding them in that direction. Some protested, wanting to see what was afire; Sir Vincent smothered an oath and went to help.
Treadle appeared at the head of the stairs. He came hurrying down. “It’s the old nursery, sir.” He glanced at Gerrard. “And your room, Mr. Debbington. The drapes have caught well and truly there. We’re ferrying pails up the service stairs, but we’ll need all hands possible.”
“I’ll help.” Matthew Brisenden started up the stairs. The other men exchanged glances, then swiftly followed.
Jacqueline hung back. As Barnaby and Sir Vincent hurried back from the drawing room, she put a hand on her father’s arm. “I’ll check with Mrs. Carpenter, then return to the drawing room and make sure the ladies remain safely there.”
Gerrard had dallied on the stairs to hear what she intended; he caught her eye, nodded, then turned and took the stairs three at a time.
Her father patted her hand. “Good girl. I’ll go and see what’s to do.”
She watched him start slowly up the stairs. Confident Treadle would keep him from any harm, she headed for the kitchens.
As she’d expected, pandemonium reigned. She helped Mrs. Carpenter calm the maids, and organize them to help the stablemen lug pails from the well to the bottom of the south wing stairs. A chain of grooms and footmen hurried the pails up, some to the first floor, others to the attics.
Mrs. Carpenter looked grim. Once the maids were occupied, she drew Jacqueline aside. “Maizie found the fire in Mr. Debbington’s room. She said it was arrows—arrows with flaming rags around them—that were tangled in the curtains. That’s how the fire started. She was babbling on about how we shouldn’t think it was coals dropping from the grate and her to blame—I told her no such thing, but thought you and his lordship should know.”
Jacqueline nodded. Arrows. An arrow had been shot at Gerrard, and now there were more arrows. She hadn’t heard the details of how Gerrard had been shot at, but the only way an arrow could have hit Gerrard’s curtains was if it had been fired from the gardens, and she knew the gardens well. Knew there was no close, clear line to Gerrard’s windows; the archer would have had to be a good way off, and skilled enough to allow for the cross breeze.
It was quiet living in the country; the local youth had plenty of time to perfect their archery skills, yet only a few were skilled enough to have made those shots, especially if, as seemed likely, they’d shot to the attics, as well. As she hurried back through the house, she considered the possible culprits.
Reaching the green baize door, she pushed through, into the back of the hall. “Jacqueline!”
She whirled.
Eleanor, hair tumbling down, gown crumpled, frantically beckoned from the end of the north wing corridor. “Come quickly! There’s another fire broken out along here! They said to fetch you. We’re struggling—we need every hand.” She didn’t wait, but plunged back down the corridor.
Jacqueline’s heart stopped, then she picked up her skirts and raced after Eleanor.
Millicent’s room was in the north wing.
She swung into the corridor just in time to see Eleanor dash into a small parlor nearly at the end of the wing—below the room in which Millicent lay. Jacqueline ran faster. She would have to call some of the stablemen from the kitchens—she’d look first, then she’d know—
She rushed into the parlor.
No flames. No smoke. No footmen beating out a fire. She skidded to a halt. Behind her, the door closed.
She whirled.
Jordan stood two paces away, watching her, his gaze cold, contemptuous—calculating. She stared. Was ithe …?
Her heart thudded; her breath clogged her throat. Looking into Jordan’s eyes, she reminded herself that people who loved her were the ones at risk—she’dnever been—still wouldn’t be—in danger.
And her mother’s murderer, Millicent’s attacker, could be only one man—Eleanor’s lover. Eleanor moved away from the door, drawing her attention.
Dragging in a breath, Jacqueline took a step back.
Eleanor came to stand by Jordan’s side, close, just behind his shoulder. Then she put a hand on his arm, sank closer still, and smiled—sweetly, yet patently—openly—insincerely.
The blood chilled in Jacqueline’s veins. The hair at her nape lifted.
She stared into Eleanor’s eyes; this was not the friend she’d known for years…She looked at Jordan. He appeared much as he always did, arrogant, superior, supercilious. Cold dread was creeping over her. Moistening her lips, she asked, “Where’s the fire?”
Jordan held her gaze, then evenly replied, “What fire?” Then he smiled.
Eyes wide, Jacquelineknew —suddenly saw what none of them had—knew what her mother must have stumbled on, why she’d looked so haggard, why she’d been killed, why Millicent had been flung over the balustrade, why Thomas had been coldbloodedly murdered all those years ago.
It came to her in a heartbeat.
She hauled in a breath and screamed.
Aaargh!”
With two footmen, Gerrard heaved the huge bundle of paint-spattered drop cloths out of the nursery window. They fell to the terrace below, out of reach of any embers.
Catching his breath, his back to the window, he paused, taking in the charred rafters and smoldering walls. They’d smothered the flames just in time, before they could take hold in the roof and spread.
A woman’s scream, faint but distinct, abruptly cut off, wafted past the window, carried on an updraft from far below. For one fleeting instant, it sliced through the stamping and thumping, the oaths, the noisy chaos as footmen and gardeners used sacking to beat out the last flames.
Gerrard’s senses pricked. He swung back to the window. He’d rushed to the attics, leaving Barnaby to see to his bedroom; he knew more about the dangers of paint-spattered wood and cloths, and the other deathtraps that lurked in artists’ studios.
Dense smoke billowed out of his bedroom below, but it was thinning; the crackle of flames had subsided.
They’d saved the house.
It must have been a maid who’d screamed, but why now? Why from outside?
The premonition of wrongness intensified. He hesitated, staring unseeing down at the gardens, then he swore. “Wilcox!”
The head gardener looked up from where he was beating out glowing embers. “Yes, sir?” “Round up your men and get down to the terrace. Something’s happening down there.”
Leaving the footmen to finish damping down the attics, Gerrard flung through the door and pelted down the stairs.
Behind, he heard Wilcox rallying his men. “C’mon, you lot—downstairs. Look sharpish!”
Gerrard hit the corridor and ran. His chest felt tight—from smoke, and nascent fear. He raced to his room, barreled through the open door, spared barely a glance for the charred mess, not as bad as in the nursery. Leaping over debris, he saw Barnaby and pointed to the balcony. The telescope stood where he’d left it, safe and untouched on its tripod in the corner; he grabbed it, swung it up and pushed past the milling figures onto the balcony.
“What?” Barnaby asked, reaching his side.
“Some woman screamed—from the gardens, I think.” Working frantically, Gerrard set up the tripod, then readjusted the telescope and focused. “Send someone to check if Jacqueline’s in the drawing room.”
He felt Barnaby’s start, but his friend didn’t question him. A footman was dispatched, urgency stressed.
Gerrard swept the gardens. Even from this vantage point, not all the areas were visible; he scanned in arcs, hoping to pick up some movement—
“There!” He looked up, checked the direction, then looked through the telescope again. “There’s someone rushing through Poseidon, heading into Apollo. Three people…” He refocused. “Jordan, Eleanor—andJacqueline .” He swore. “They’re holding her between them.”
He tensed to straighten; Barnaby’s hand clapped down on his shoulder. “No. Keep them in your sights—keep tracking them.”
He did. “They’re in Apollo now, hurrying further away. Where the devil are they taking her?” Matthew Brisenden appeared beside him, gripping the rail, staring out.
Sir Vincent joined them. “Did I hear aright? The young Frithams are running off with Jacqueline?” Gerrard nodded. “They’re headed down the gardens—God knows why.”
“They’re kidnapping her!” Gripping the railing, Matthew turned his way. “They have to get to the stone viewing platform before they can take the path up through Diana, over the ridge to the manor.”
Gerrard swore. “He’s right. That’s how they get back and forth without using the front door.”
“Not this time.” Barnaby leaned over the balustrade and called to Wilcox, now on the terrace with a bevy of gardeners. In a few short phrases, he explained; Wilcox and his men turned as one, and raced along the terrace, then poured down into the gardens, taking the most direct route through Athena into the garden of Diana to block the route to the manor.
“They’ll see,” Matthew said, “and go the other way. If they can reach the stables—” “Or even the other cove,” Sir Vincent put in. “There’s a rowboat there.”
Matthew was already turning. “I saw Richards below. I’ll find him and get his men out on the paths along the northern ridge, so they won’t be able to go that way, either.”
“I’ll help.” Sir Vincent followed Matthew out.
Gerrard kept the telescope trained on the trio hurrying through the gardens. They were still in Apollo, crossing the bridge over the stream. Jacqueline was gagged; from the way Jordan and Eleanor were holding her between them, her hands were bound, too.
Behind him, he heard movement; Lord Fritham, Sir Harvey Entwhistle and Mr. Hancock appeared. They’d been assisting in putting out the flames. One glance at Lord Fritham’s stunned expression told Gerrard he’d heard the latest developments.
So had the others. “Come on, old chap.” Grim-faced, Sir Harvey dropped a hand on Lord Fritham’s shoulder. “We’d best get down there and find out what that whelp of yours thinks he’s about.”
Lord Fritham nodded; he looked numb. The three older men turned and went out. Barnaby returned to Gerrard’s side. “Where are they now?”
“In Apollo, still some way from the second viewing stage.” He paused, then added, “Jacqueline keeps
stumbling. She’s slowing them down.” His voice flattened, grew quieter. “Jordan just hit her.” A moment later, he went on, “That hasn’t helped—she’s slumped on the ground and refusing to get up.”
Barnaby gripped his shoulder harder. “Stay with it a bit longer. We need to see where they go once they reach the viewing platform.”
Gerrard slammed a door on his rising emotions, far beyond anger or simple protectiveness. Rage, fury, cold, deep and potent; Jacqueline washis, his to protect, but he could see the sense in Barnaby’s tack. Gritting his teeth, he kept the telescope trained; in his head, he warned Jacqueline to take care, urged her to be careful. Cursed Jordan Fritham to hell and beyond.
Simultaneously prayed.
The older gentlemen came out on the terrace. Lord Tregonning was with them. They called up to Barnaby for directions, then headed off as fast as they could into the gardens.
Wide, long, densely planted, the gardens weren’t designed for rushing through, for easy traversing. Quite the opposite. The action unfolded slowly; Gerrard took his eye briefly from Jacqueline to confirm that the gardeners had reached the higher reaches of the Garden of Diana—there’d be no escape for the Frithams that way. The stablemen, Matthew and Sir Vincent weren’t as far advanced on the northern ridge, but they’d be in place before the Frithams could divert in that direction.
He swung the telescope back to Jacqueline—and watched Jordan and Eleanor hustle her toward the stone viewing platform at the end of the Garden of Apollo.
Jacqueline all but sobbed with relief when Jordan reached up and yanked his kerchief from her mouth.
“There!” His eyes were flat, hard and cold. “We’re too far from the house. You can scream all you like—there’s no one to hear.” He glanced back at the house; a mocking smile curved his lips. “They’re all too busy putting out the flames, and no doubt bemoaning the loss of that bloody portrait.” His fingers tightened about her arm. “Now come on!”
He hauled her on. She dragged and stumbled as much as she dared, but she wouldn’t put it past Jordan to knock her unconscious and carry her—it would be faster; she didn’t want to provoke him to the point he realized that.
Eleanor, pale, tight-lipped, had hold of her other arm; she, too, pulled her on. They were both taller and stronger than she; together, they could almost lift her from her feet.
She knew the portrait was safe; it hadn’t been in either Gerrard’s room or the makeshift studio. Her father had taken possession; Compton and Treadle had carefully stowed the framed picture in her father’s study.
Now didn’t seem the time to mention that.
She’d almost managed to catch her breath, to shake off the effects of those terrible moments in the parlor, worse than any nightmare she’d ever dreamed. She’d never forget the sheer evil she’d sensed; the sun on her face assured her she was in the real world, yet…She dragged in a breath, fought to steady her voice. “Where are you taking me? What on earth do you hope to gain by this?”
“We’re abducting you,” Jordan coldly informed her. “Your sluttish behavior with that damned artist left us no choice.” His tone suggested it was entirely her fault. “They’re going to think we’re on our way to Gretna, but in reality, I’ve a nice little inn down the coast in mind.”
He glanced at her. “A few nights alone with me, and I’m sure your father will see the sense in agreeing to our betrothal.”
She was certain she knew the answer, but still asked, “Why do you want to marry me? You don’t even like me.”
“Of course not. Innocents have never attracted me.” He glanced at Eleanor, and smiled—a secret smile Jacqueline wished she hadn’t seen—then he looked ahead, after a moment continued, “No doubt your artist has taught you a thing or two—it’ll be interesting to find out how far he’s taken your education.
However, beyond the necessity of bringing about our marriage—no, I have little personal interest in you. All I want is Hellebore Hall.”
“Why?”
He frowned, jaw tightening; he didn’t look at her. “Because it should be mine. I need it more than you.”
The stone viewing platform loomed before them; they forced her up the steps, Eleanor going ahead and tugging, Jordan pushing from behind. Once on the platform, they turned to the path leading to the Garden of Diana, their usual route between the Manor and the Hall.
Jordan thrust her before him; she stumbled into Eleanor and out onto the path. “We’ve horses saddled and waiting—we’ll be away before they realize—”
“Jordan.” Eleanor had halted. Staring up at the ridge, she pointed. “Look!”
Jacqueline lifted her head, and saw figures, still too far away to recognize but their number suggested they were gardeners or grooms, running along the higher paths out along the ridge. They were already pouring into the upper reaches of the Garden of Diana; there was no way Jordan and Eleanor, even alone and racing, could reach the path out.
Relief slid through her; she sagged, staggered back a few steps to lean against the side of the platform. “Untie me.” She held out her hands, bound with laces. “There’s no point going any further—you’ll have to go back and explain—”
With a snarl, Jordan turned on her. “No!I won’t let you go—won’t let the Hall slip through my fingers.” He seized her arm again, fingers biting. “We’ll just go the other way.” He jerked her upright. “Back inside.”
He hauled her back up the steps, then out onto the path leading up the garden to the wooden pergola from which paths led on to the northern ridge and the stables. “We’ll take horses from your stables.”
They’d gone twenty yards, out into the open, when Jordan abruptly halted. Head up, scanning ahead, he swore. “They’re up there, too.”
Jaw clenched, he towed her around and propelled her before him, shoving her back to the stone platform. Once under the wooden roof, he halted; still gripping her arm, eyes wide, a touch wild, he
looked first one way, then the other.
Eleanor was looking, too. Even paler than before, breathing rapidly, she turned to Jordan. “What now? We can’t get out.” Her gaze shifted to Jacqueline. “She’s all we have to bargain with, but I haven’t a knife or anything to threaten her with—have you?”
Jordan patted his pockets, then pulled out a penknife. He flicked it open; the blade was less than two inches long.
“That’s no use!” Incipient hysteria rang in Eleanor’s voice.
Jordan was silent, staring down at the blade, then he drew in a huge breath, lifted his head and looked down the gardens.
Jacqueline had no idea what he saw, but calmness enveloped him.
The wild look in his eyes faded, and he smiled. Coldly. “It’ll do for what we need if combined with something else. Something more dramatic and final. And so very apt.”
He tightened his grip on Jacqueline’s arm, ruthlessly shook her. “Come on. I know just how to make your father and all the rest agree to everything I want.”
Going down the steps, he hauled her after him, then set out, striding rapidly along the path into the Garden of Mars, heading toward the cove.
Gerrard swore. Releasing the telescope, he swung around, ducked into the smoke-blackened room and headed for the door. “They’ve taken the path to the cove.”
“The cove?” Barnaby followed. “But there’s no escape that way.”
“No escape,” Gerrard ground out. “But something better. A gun to hold to our heads.”
“Gun?” Barnaby kept pace as Gerrard ran down the corridor, then went quickly down the stairs. “What gun?”
Gerrard strode onto the terrace. “It’s called Cyclops.”
By the time Jordan dragged her up the steps of the last viewing platform, Jacqueline had solved his cryptic utterance; she knew where he was going.
She’d slowed them as much as she’d dared; she had a stitch in her side, her breathing was quite genuinely labored, and her legs wobbled alarmingly. She wanted nothing more than to collapse on the seat and recover. Jordan, who walked the gardens so often, appeared unaffected by their race down the valley. Eleanor, however, was flagging badly, as exhausted as she.
Seizing the moment when Jordan paused to note how close their pursuers were, Jacqueline dragged air into her lungs, straightened her shoulders, tried to ease the ache in her bound arms.
Jordan tightened his painful grip on her arm. “Come on.” His tone was tight. “We’ve got to get there ahead of them.”
He thrust her down the steps, following closely, jerking her upright when her ankle threatened to give way. He snarled, “Don’t youdare slow us down.” His eyes met hers, flat, cold—deadly.
How had she ever imagined him a friend, even a superior, aloof one? She was nothing to him, just a means to an end. As for Eleanor…Jacqueline looked at the woman whose nails bit into her other arm as she ruthlessly tugged her on. She’d never truly seen her before, but the Eleanor who’d stood beside Jordan in the parlor had dropped all pretense and contemptuously flaunted the truth. Recalling the lascivious details Eleanor had delighted in telling her over the years about her activities with her lover turned Jacqueline’s stomach, but she now knew the truth.
She knew who Eleanor’s lover was. 22
The last section of the path leading to the cove descended sharply through a wide curve. There were steps along the way, interrupting their headlong dash, forcing Jordan and Eleanor, despite their growing urgency, to slow.
Lungs burning, arms aching, Jacqueline stumbled on between them, searching for some means of delay. She could hear voices drawing nearer, lots of them. It was no part of Jordan’s plan for her to die—not yet, at any rate—yet as she grappled with the enormity of all he’d done so far in his quest to own Hellebore Hall…she had no faith that if thwarted, he wouldn’t sacrifice her out of revenge.
He couldn’t be entirely sane.
She glanced sideways. On her right, Eleanor was nearing the end of her resources. Unlike Jordan, she looked frightened, increasingly panicky.
Jacqueline looked ahead; her gaze fell on the plantings bordering the path. They reached the next bend; three steps led down. Eleanor started down, her fingers locked about Jacqueline’s arm, tugging her down, too. Jordan released Jacqueline to glance back up the path.
She let herself fall, dropping her shoulder, breaking Eleanor’s grip, butting hard into Eleanor’s side. Stepping down, already off balance, Eleanor lost her footing. She shrieked, flailed, then fell backward off the step into the bed alongside.
It was filled with large cacti.
Eyes wide, her mouth open, Eleanor froze, then she hauled in a breath andscreamed . She thrashed; the cactus spines dug in, caught her skirts, caught everywhere.
Jordan stared, horrified—helpless to help her. Then he rounded on Jacqueline.
She’d stumbled, but kept her feet. “She pulled me—I tripped.”
His face contorted. She saw the blow coming, but couldn’t duck in time; the back of his hand cracked across her cheek. She reeled, then fell to her knees, gasping, struggling to catch her breath.
Behind her, Jordan tried to calm Eleanor, tried to stop her from becoming more entangled. He grasped her hands and tried to pull her loose; Eleanor shrieked. The cacti had speared her in too many places, trapping her and her clothes securely.
“It’s all right.” Jordan let go. “It doesn’t matter if you stay here—they won’t hurt you. I have to get to Cyclops and make them agree to all we want. Once they’ve put it in writing, we’ll be the victors here—we can have and do whatever we want.”
Jacqueline staggered to her feet. She was too exhausted to run.
Jordan cast her a vicious, vindictive glance. “Later,” he said quickly to Eleanor, “you can have your revenge on her—take a whip to her, do whatever you like. You can make her pay, again and again—tie her up and make her watch us. She’ll be your slave. We’ll be together and no one will be able to stop us. But I have to get her to Cyclops to win.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened; she reached out, grasping his hands. “No—don’t leave me!”
Jordan’s contemptuous exasperation returned. “I’ll come back!” Glancing up the path, he shook off her hands. “I have to go—now!”
Eleanor howled. Jordan ignored her. He moved swiftly, ducking his shoulder, hefting Jacqueline up. Locking his arm about her legs, he headed as fast as he could for the cove. And Cyclops.
Jacqueline bounced on his shoulder. Unconsciousness threatened; she fought it off, managed to raise her arms and brace them against Jordan’s back.
He was swearing continuously. As he bounded down the last section of path, she glimpsed figures above, some stopping by Eleanor, others streaming on. There were two paths that led to Cyclops, but the other, along the southern ridge, was longer.
Gauging the distance, Jacqueline accepted that Jordan, even carrying her, would reach Cyclops before any rescuers could reach them.
She’d done her best. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, smelled the salty tang of the sea—thought of Gerrard; she knew he’d come for her. Reaching deep, she marshaled her reserves. Whatever came next, she was going to need them.
Gerrard and Barnaby came to a precipitous halt on the path above the cove. Behind them, a group of gardeners was untangling a sobbing Eleanor Fritham from a bed of cacti.
Before them, high on top of Cyclops, Jordan Fritham stood, holding Jacqueline teetering on the edge of the blowhole.
Everyone else had gathered on the path, staying off the rock itself. In the center of the group, his neighbors supporting him, Lord Tregonning stood, leaning heavily on his cane; even from this distance his face was ashen.
Lord Fritham’s pallor was even worse.
The bend in the path screened Gerrard and Barnaby from Jordan’s sight. Through breaks in the foliage, they watched as he bargained with Jacqueline’s life.
Higher up the garden, Mitchel Cunningham had passed them, racing back to the house for pen and paper. Sent back by Lord Tregonning in response to Jordan’s demand, Mitchel had rapidly filled them in.
Jordan had threatened to disfigure Jacqueline, to put out her eyes then and there if they didn’t meet his demands. If any rushed him, he’d drop her into Cyclops.
He’d asked for a deed to be written and signed by Lord Tregonning, and witnessed by everyone there, ceding Hellebore Hall and the estate to him outright, giving Jacqueline to him in marriage, and absolving him of all and any crimes they might think to lay at his door.
Gerrard was beyond swearing; Barnaby wasn’t. “Shush,” Gerrard said. “Listen.”
Lord Fritham was pleading with his son. “There’s no need for any of this.”
“Need?” Jordan’s contempt-laden sneer reached them, carried on the sea breeze. “This can all be laid at your feet, old man—thanks to you, all I have isneed . You and Mama have squandered what little inheritance I might have had, what with your entertainments, always trying to pretend you were as wealthy as your neighbors. The Manor is mortgaged to the hilt—don’t you think I know? So what’s left for me? I had to take steps to find myself a future. With Jacqueline’s money, Eleanor and I will live in London—where we always should have stayed. No more being buried in the country. We’ll live like kings in the capital, and leave youdamned down here.”
The last words rang with furious resentment.
Gulls wheeled; the swoosh of the waves on the rocky shore of the cove lent an eerie backdrop to the fraught scene.
The tide was coming in; Cyclops had yet to start gushing in earnest, but the hem of Jacqueline’s gown was wet. The blowhole chamber emitted a low, steadily building grumble, more definite with every set of waves that rolled in.
“I wonder how much time we have before Cyclops really blows,” Barnaby whispered. “In about half an hour it’ll start to gush.”
It was Matthew who’d spoken; Gerrard turned as he and Sir Vincent joined them. The older man was panting heavily.
Matthew’s eyes had locked on the unfolding drama. “It’ll be an hour before Cyclops reaches full strength. Regardless, if he drops her in now, there’s no way she’ll escape. She’ll either drown, or be battered to death.”
On Cyclops, Jordan was speaking again. “As soon as that fool Cunningham brings paper and pen, all
you have to do is write what I tell you, and sign it.” A smile curved his lips. “I know you all—you’re ‘men of their word.’ You’ll do exactly as I ask so I won’t be forced to let go.” Jordan eased the arm about Jacqueline’s waist—her feet immediately started to slip inward on the sloping side of Cyclop’s funnel-like hole.
Everyone gasped, started forward, then stopped as Jordan laughed and hoisted her up again. “Just so.” He brandished the knife close to her cheek. “Don’t forget—stay back. I’m sure Cunningham will be here soon.”
No one moved. No one said anything.
“Is Jordan insane?” Barnaby asked. “No one’s going to feel obliged to honor a promise given under such duress.”
“He’s not insane.” Sir Vincent looked grim. “Just think of the scandal fighting a written and fully witnessed deed will cause—for everyone.”
“Oh, God!” Matthew grabbed Gerrard’s arm; he pointed out to sea. “Look!”
A summer squall was sweeping in. A stormy, churning dark gray curtain, it steadily advanced, eating up the previously blue sky, the waves changing to slate before it, white crests rising, kicked up by the winds running before the front.
“It’s coming this way.” Matthew’s voice was rising. “It’ll drive the waves before it.” He looked at the two figures on Cyclops, their backs to the approaching danger. “Jordan doesn’t know. Cyclops will blow much sooner than he expects, and much harder. What if he loses his grip?”
Sir Vincent swore. “We’ll have to tell him—”
“No.” Barnaby was staring at Jordan. “If you force him to move away from Cyclops…It’s his weapon. Without it, with just that little knife and a threat, he’ll be vulnerable. He’s liable to panic.”
“He’ll panic anyway,” Matthew said. “I know what happens in storms. Cyclops erupts suddenly, without any gradual build—”
Gerrard clamped a hand on Matthew’s arm, enjoining silence while his mind raced. “While Jordan holds Jacqueline over Cyclops, we can’t do anything, so we’re going to do something to change that—something Jordan won’t expect.”
“What?” Barnaby asked.
Gerrard met his eyes. “I need you and Sir Vincent to go out there and support Lord Tregonning, but not in silence. Jordan is vain—he thinks he’s the victor here. Ask him about the previous deaths, get him to tell you how clever he’s been—you know how to lead men like him to fill the time.” Gerrard glanced at Sir Vincent. “Most importantly, between you, I need you to keep Jordan’s eyes onyou —on your faces. Don’t let him look at the others.”
Barnaby frowned. “Why?” Suspicion laced his tone.
Gerrard held up a hand. He looked back up the path, beckoned to one of the men surrounding Eleanor.
It was the senior undergardener. He came quickly. “Sir?”
“We need you to keep Miss Fritham there, and keep herdown —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.”
Like 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— whydid 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, andyou 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…”
Standing 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.
“The deed first.” Barnaby looked at Lord Tregonning. “What’s the legal name of the estate?” Jordan looked at Lord Tregonning, then looked further. His head moved as he scanned the faces. He started to turn, to glance behind.
Gerrard exploded into a sprint, then launched himself in a flying tackle across the open hole.
Jordan saw him; stunned, he swung to face him—and let Jacqueline go. She screamed, twisted as she started to slide.
Gerrard slammed into her.
He grabbed her about her waist, yanked her to him and let his momentum carry them on. Jordan lunged for them, stabbing with the knife—missed.
Gerrard juggled Jacqueline as they fell, cushioning her against him as they landed heavily and skidded across the stone.
They were facing the hole when they landed. Both saw what happened next.
Jordan had assumed Gerrard would come for him. He’d braced, then, realizing his error, lunged forward to strike at them. Too late.
He overbalanced and toppled into the hole.
They saw his face as he went in, eyes wide, incredulous that any such fate would come to him. His mouth opened in a scream, then he was gone.
The scream abruptly cut off, smothered beneath the cauldron of surging waves in the blowhole chamber.
For an instant, there was no sound beyond the crashing symphony of the sea and the eerily distant call of gulls.
Then exclamations exploded all around. Men rushed onto the rock, clustered around the hole. Someone called for rope, but they were a mile from the house.
Lying on their backs on the rock, catching their breaths, Gerrard and Jacqueline sensed the gathering roar before anyone else. They turned their heads, met each other’s eyes, then Gerrard reached for her, wrapped her in his arms, kissed her temple.
She clung, wept, relief and joy, sorrow and loss intermingling.
He held her close, then slowly gathered himself and rose, lifting her with him as the roar built. And broke.
Water gushed five feet above the hole as all the men leapt away. “Good God!”
“Dear Lord in Heaven.”
Numerous other horrified exclamations fell from shocked lips as everyone stared at the small fountain. At what it contained.
A high-pitched, unearthly scream rang out. Eleanor had fought free; she raced out onto the rock. She flung herself at the hole.
They caught her, restrained her.
Jacqueline’s last sight of her was Eleanor kneeling, keening as sea-water stained with her brother’s—her lover’s—blood spread out on the rock about her.
The squall hit, raged briefly, then swept on, leaving them and the gardens drenched, cleansed. The majority trudged back up the paths, shaking their heads, shocked but relieved.
Gerrard’s feet were so badly cut, he couldn’t put on his boots, much less walk back to the house. He sat on the rocks edging the rising bed bordering the path.
Jacqueline crouched before him, examining the damage. “I can’t believe you did this.”
She repeated the horrified comment three times, increasingly choked, before Sir Vincent, one of the gentlemen discussing Gerrard’s predicament over his head, bethought himself of the rowboat in the next cove. Matthew volunteered to hie over and row it around; Gerrard decided he would have to appreciate Matthew and Sir Vincent as they deserved from now on. Richards left to saddle up a steed to carry him up to the house once they reached the cove.
Jacqueline, of course, took charge.
She’d been horrified by the state of his feet; when she saw his hands, when he winced as she turned his right wrist, the one he’d landed on, she was so upset she couldn’t speak—not even to upbraid him.
Wise enough—experienced enough—in the ways of women to understand she felt she should, and that that in no way diminished her appreciation of his rescue, Gerrard kept his lips manfully shut and lapped up every ounce of her solicitous care.
By the time the boat arrived and they rowed around to the cove, and he rode slowly back to the house with Jacqueline, Matthew and Richards walking alongside, his feet had healed enough to hobble up the steps, across the porch and onto the blessedly cool tiles of the hall.
There, the ladies were waiting, to exclaim over them, roundly condemn Jordan and Eleanor, comment quietly, with real feeling, over the terrible legacy left to the elder Frithams, and to impart good news.
Millicent had awoken and was entirely herself, in full possession of her wits. In the same way burnt feathers brought some out of a faint, the smoke from the fires had revived her.
Jacqueline firmly cited his injuries as an excuse to cut the ladies’ time short; she determinedly bore him upstairs.
At his suggestion, they looked in on Millicent, and found Sir Godfrey sitting beside the bed holding Millicent’s hand.
Seeing them, Millicent quickly retrieved it, but her cheeks were pink, indeed, glowing; there seemed no
doubt of her return to health.
“I stayed here,” Sir Godfrey told them. “There are some things it’s better for me not to see, if you take my meaning.”
Gerrard did. But as it had transpired, he hadn’t laid a finger on Jordan Fritham. Jordan had sowed the seeds of his own destruction, and reaped the bitter harvest.
Leaving Millicent and Sir Godfrey to learn the full story from the crowd milling downstairs, Jacqueline insisted Gerrard let her tend his wounds.
His room was wrecked; she took him to hers.
They didn’t return downstairs that evening. Their own company was all they desired. All they needed. But need they did.
Needed to reassure, to celebrate, to simply live.
To love. To take joy in each other, in what they’d found, to reaffirm all that had grown, so strong and vital, between them.
Jacqueline knew what he’d risked for her—not just his life but his ability to live. He was a painter; painting was his soul, yet he’d climbed Cyclops knowing that one too-deep cut, one slice in the wrong place, could have stopped him from gripping a brush or pencil again.
Her tears fell as she bathed the angry wounds, too choked to give voice to the emotions buffeting her; he leaned close, found her lips and gently kissed her, assured her his fingers still worked, that he could close them around hers.
She raised her head, returned the kiss—simply accepted. There was nothing else she could do.
Gerrard lay back and let her tend his cut hands, his lacerated feet. Let her tend to him as she wished. Let her restore him body and soul, let her lavish devotion, worship and love upon him.
Later, he returned the gift in full measure, let the power rise, take them and bind them forever.
In the depths of the night, he asked, and was granted his reward. For being her champion, for freeing her to live, all he asked for was her life, and she pledged it gladly. Joyously.
What will be will be.
As always, Timms was right. EPILOGUE
April 1832
The Grange, Derbyshire
Summer waned, the year turned, and spring came again. Gerrard sat on the shaded terrace overlooking his gardens, and watched Jacqueline, his wife, stroll amid the flowers. She stopped here and there, admiring this bloom, then that. In his eyes, none could match her beauty.
He wasn’t the only one who thought so. Her portrait, shown at his hugely successful winter exhibition, had garnered not just praise, but awe. He’d been credited with setting a new standard for portraiture; while the accolades had been sweet, the secret smiles they’d shared had been his nectar.
The true meaning of the portrait, the reason it had been painted, had been shared with few. There’d been no need, in the end, to make a point of it.
Jordan was dead, Eleanor locked away. Lord and Lady Fritham had disappeared, too shattered to remain in the area that had for so long welcomed them. Months later, Barnaby had traced them to a village outside Hull; they were settling in there. All sincerely pitied them and wished them well; they had known nothing of their offsprings’ aspirations, let alone their perversions.
Marcus had emerged from his seclusion to give away both Jacqueline and, a month later, Millicent. Now he knew the truth of the deaths at Hellebore Hall, and all his neighbors did, too, the shadow of darkness, of lingering evil, had lifted from him, and from the house and the gardens, too. That little corner of Cornwall was emerging into sunshine once more.
There’d been considerable discussion over what to do about the Garden of Night. Jacqueline and their children would ultimately inherit the estate; she loved it and most of the gardens, but couldn’t bear to go into the Garden of Night. Quite aside from having seen her dead mother and then Millicent there, like him, she’d guessed that Jordan and Eleanor had used the bower for their frequent trysts. Hardly surprising she couldn’t stomach the garden as it was, yet it was an integral part of the whole.
Driven to slay every last dragon that plagued her, he’d unearthed the original plans for the gardens in the Hall library. He’d shown them to Wilcox, who’d agreed with his suggestions. Over the winter, the garden had been remodeled and replanted; he’d stuck with the original design, but by changing species, the new garden would be a celebration of love in the brightest and best sense, no longer steeped in the darker shades of passion.
Jacqueline’s birthday was in May. She didn’t yet know of the work on the garden; they were all planning it as a surprise gift when he and she traveled down to spend a week with her father.
And Millicent; she and Sir Godfrey had taken up residence at the Hall to keep Marcus company. The household was now relaxed, more easygoing and happy than any could have imagined it might be.
Gerrard watched as Jacqueline stooped to sniff a crimson rose. As she straightened, her hand drifted to her belly, to the slight, very slight mound there. Her face was that of a happy madonna, her expression one of wonder, of joyful anticipation.
The exact opposite of the expression he’d painted in the portrait to free her.
He stared, drank in the sight, his hand reaching for his sketch pad and pencil, as ever by his side. Without taking his eyes from Jacqueline’s face, he started to sketch.
Poured all he saw into the lines. Let his eyes see, acknowledge, let his fingers faithfully record.
In the months since they’d wed—by ducal command at Somersham Place during the Cynster summer gathering—the connection between them had developed and evolved, until it was more than tangible, until the link was so solid it would, they both knew, withstand any test on the physical plane.
They both counted themselves blessed.
And he’d finally fully understood what Timms had meant.
Love wasn’t a happening one decided on—to indulge or not, to partake or not. To feel or not. When it came, when it struck, the only decision left to make was how to respond—whether you embraced it, took it in, and made it a part of you, or whether you turned your back and let it die.
Love was something humans experienced, not made happen. It wasn’t in anyone’s control.
Beneath his fingers, his sketch came to life. His next portrait, better, more revealing, than any he’d done before.
He already knew its title, what it would show, what he would paint into it. The Truth About Love.
ANNOUNCEMENT OF
The Bastion Club #4 A Fine Passion
TO BE RELEASED IN SEPTEMBER2005
1
Early May
Avening Village, Gloucestershire Apple blossoms in springtime.
Julius—Jack—Warnefleet, Baron Warnefleet of Minchinbury, reined in at the top of the rise above the valley of Avening and looked down on the pink and white clouds surrounding Avening Manor. His first sight of his home in more years than he cared to count couldn’t, he felt, have been more apt.
Apple blossoms always reminded him of brides.
Regarding the sea of blossoms with a jaundiced eye, he twitched his reins and set his gray gelding, Challenger, ambling down the long hill.
Everything, it seemed, was conspiring to remind him of his failure—of the fact he hadn’t found a bride.
Avening Manor had been without a lady for most of his life. His mother had died when he was six years old; his father had never remarried.
He’d spent the last thirteen years fighting for king and country, almost all of those years behind enemy lines in France. His father’s death seven years ago had brought him briefly home, but only for two days, just long enough for the funeral and to formally place the running of Avening into the hands of old Griggs, his father’s steward, before he’d had to slip back over the Channel, back to the varied roles he’d played in disrupting French shipping and commercial links, draining the life blood from the French state, weakening it.
Not the sort of battles most people imagined a major in the Guards engaged in.
Along with an elite group of fellow officers, he’d been seconded to work under a secretive individual known as Dalziel, who’d been responsible for all covert English operations on foreign soil. Neither Jack nor any of the six colleagues he’d recently met were sure how many operatives Dalziel had commanded, or how widespread their activities had been. What they did know was that those activities had been legion, and had directly contributed, indeed, been crucial, to the final, ultimate defeat of Napoleon.
But the wars were now over. Along with his colleagues, Jack had retired from the fray and finally turned his mind to picking up the reins of civilian life. The previous October, he and his six colleagues, all gentlemen blessed with title, wealth and the consequent responsibilities, and therefore all sorely in need of wives, had banded together to form the Bastion Club—their haven against the matchmakers of the ton, their castle from which they would sally forth, do battle with society’s dragons, and secure the fair maid they required.
That, at least, had been their plan. Matters, however, had not fallen out quite that way.
Tristan Wemyss had stumbled across his bride while overseeing the refurbishment of the house that was now the Bastion Club. Shortly after, Tony Blake had, even more literally, stumbled across his bride along with a dead body. Charles St. Austell, fleeing the capital and his too-helpful female relatives, had found his bride inhabiting his ancestral home. And now Jack was fleeing the capital, too, but not because of female relatives.
The rattle of carriage wheels reached him. Through the screening drifts below, he glimpsed the black roof of a carriage smoothly bowling along the lane from Cherington. The carriage crossed the junction with the Tetbury lane down which Jack was descending, and continued west toward Nailsworth.
Jack idly wondered who the carriage belonged to, but he’d been away so long, he had no idea who might be visiting whom these days.
On returning permanently to England, he’d had to decide which of his responsibilities to attend to first. He was an only child; his father’s death had set Avening in his lap with no one else to watch over it, but he knew the estate from the ground up—he’d been born and raised there, in this small green valley on the northwest slope of the Cotswolds. Avening had been in sound hands; he trusted Griggs as his father had. Much more pressing had been the need to come to grips with the varied investments and far-flung properties he’d entirely unexpectedly inherited from his great-aunt Sophia.
His mother had been the daughter of an earl and his father the grandson of a duke; an eccentric spinster, Great-aunt Sophia had been a twig somewhere on his paternal family tree. Her hobby had been amassing
wealth; although Jack could only recall meeting her—briefly—twice, on her death two years ago Great-aunt Sophia had willed a sizable portion of her amassed wealth to him.
By the time he’d returned to England, various decisions associated with that inheritance had become urgent. Learning about his new holdings and investments had been imperative. He’d duly suppressed a deep-seated longing to return to Avening, to reassure himself it was all as he remembered—that after all his years away, after all he’d had to do, witness and endure, his home was still there, as he remembered it—and instead had devoted the last six months to coming to grips with his inheritance, welding the whole into one workable estate.
Although his estate now boasted numerous elegant country houses, to him, Avening was still the centerpiece, the place that held his heart.
That was why he was here, slowly ambling down the lane, letting his jaded senses absorb the achingly familiar sights and sounds, letting them soothe his abraded temper, his less than contented mood, and the dull but persistent ache in his head.
Temper and mood were due to his failure to find a suitable bride. He’d accepted he should and had bitten the bullet; while in London organizing his inheritance he’d applied himself to looking over the field. Once the Season had commenced, he’d assumed suitable ladies would be thick on the ground; wasn’t that what the marriage mart was all about? Instead, he’d discovered that while sweet and not so sweet young ladies littered the pavements, the parks and the ballrooms, the sort of lady he could imagine marrying had been nowhere to be found.
He would have said he was too old, and too finicky, but he was only thirty-four, prime matrimonial age for a gentleman, and from experience he knew he had no physical preference in women. Short, tall, blond or brunette were all the same to him: it was the fact they were female that counted—soft perfumed skin, feminine curves and, once they were beneath him, those breathy little gasps falling from luscious, parted lips. He should have been easy to please.
Unfortunately, he’d discovered he couldn’t bear the company of young ladies for longer than five minutes; he inevitably grew so bored he had difficulty remembering their names. For reasons he didn’t comprehend, they had no power whatever to focus, let alone fix his attention. Inevitably, within five minutes of being introduced, he’d be looking for an avenue of escape.
He was good at escaping. Or so he’d thought.
Until he’d met Miss Lydia Cowley and her gorgon of an aunt.
Miss Cowley was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist, her aunt distantly connected to some Midlands peer. Jack had, as usual, found little in Miss Cowley to interest him. He, however, had been of great interest to Miss Cowley and her aunt.
They’d tried to entrap him. His mind elsewhere, he hadn’t seen the danger until it was upon him. But the instant he did, his well-honed instincts sprang to life, the same instincts that had kept him alive and undetected through thirteen long years of living with the enemy. They’d thought they’d cornered him alone with Miss Cowley in a first-floor parlor, yet when her aunt swept in, with Lady Carmichael in the role of unwitting witness by her side, the parlor had been empty. Devoid of all life.
Put out, confused, the aunt had retreated, leaving to look elsewhere for her errant niece.
She hadn’t looked out on the narrow ledge outside the parlor window, hadn’t seen Jack holding Miss Cowley locked against him, her eyes starting above the hand he’d clapped over her lips.
He’d held her there, silent and deadly, precariously balanced two floors above the basement area, until the parlor door closed and the retreating footsteps died, then he’d eased the window open again and swung her inside. And released her.
One wide-eyed look into his face and she couldn’t get out of the parlor fast enough. He hadn’t tried to hide his understanding of what had happened, or his reaction to that, and her. She’d stumbled through a garbled excuse and fled.
He’d canceled all further social engagements and retreated to the club, there to brood over his situation. But then Dalziel had sent word that Charles had needed assistance down in Cornwall. The information had seemed godsent; he’d finished dealing with his inheritance, and, he’d decided, he was also finished with searching for a wife. With Gervase Tregarth, who had also been staying at the club, he’d ridden away from London, back to a world he understood.
While the action in Cornwall had ultimately ended in success, he’d suffered a crack on the head that had been worse than any he’d received before. Once the villain had been dispatched and Charles back in his own fort, he’d returned to London, head still aching, for Pringle to check him over. An experienced battlefield surgeon the members of the Bastion Club routinely consulted, Pringle had informed him that had his skull not been so thick, he wouldn’t have survived the blow. That said, there was nothing seriously amiss, and no damage a few weeks of quiet rest wouldn’t repair.
He’d stayed at the club for a few more days, finalizing his business, letting the club’s majordomo, Gasthorpe, look after him, then he’d headed down to Cornwall for Charles’s wedding.
That had been two days ago. Leaving the wedding breakfast, he’d ridden across Dartmoor to Exeter, then the next day had taken the road to Bristol, where he’d rested last night. Early this morning, he’d set out along the country lanes on the last leg of his journey home.
It had been seven years. Seven years since he’d set eyes on the limestone façade of the manor, and watched the westering sun paint it a honey gold. He knew just where to look to glimpse the manor’s gables through the trees lining the lane and the intervening orchards. The scent of apple blossom wreathed about him; for all it meant bride, it also meant home. His heart lifted; his lips lifted, too, as he reached the junction of the Tetbury lane and the Nailsworth-Cherington road.
To his left lay the village proper. He turned Challenger to the right; head rising, he touched his heels to the big horse’s flanks and cantered down the road.
He rounded the bend, heart lifting with anticipation. A phaeton lay overturned by the side of the road.
The horse trapped in the traces, panicked and ungovernable, attempted to rear, paying no attention to the lady clinging to its bridle, trying to calm it.
Jack took in the scene in one glance. Face hardening, he dug his heels in, pushing Challenger into a gallop.
Any second the trapped horse would lash out—at the lady.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
She heard the thunder of approaching hooves and glanced fleetingly over her shoulder.
Watching the trapped horse, Jack came out of his saddle at a run. With hip and shoulder, he shoved the lady aside and lunged for the reins—just as the horse lashed out.
“Oh!” The lady flew sideways, landing in the lush grass beyond the ditch.
Jack ducked, but the iron-shod hoof grazed his head—in exactly the same spot he’d been coshed.
He swore, then bit his lip, hard. Blinking against the pain, weaving to avoid being butted, he grabbed the horse’s bridle above the bit, exerted enough pressure to let the animal know he was in the hands of someone who knew, and started talking. Crooning, assuring the animal that all danger had passed.
The horse, a young bay gelding, stamped its hooves and shook its head; Jack hung on and kept talking. Gradually, the horse quieted.
Jack shot a glance at the lady. Riding up, all he’d seen was her back—that she had a wealth of dark mahogany hair worn in an elegantly plaited and coiled chignon, was wearing a plum-colored walking dress, and was uncommonly tall.
On her back on the bank beyond the ditch, she struggled onto her elbows. Across the ditch, their gazes locked.
Her face was classically beautiful.
Her dark gaze was a fulminating glare.
👁 :11
April 17, 1820
Morwellan Park, Somerset Disaster stared her in the face. Again.
Seated at her desk in the library of Morwellan Park, Alathea Morwellan gazed at the letter she held, barely seeing the precise script of her family's agent. The substance of the missive was burned into her
brain. Its last paragraph read:
I fear, my dear, that my sentiments concur with yours. I can see no evidence that we have made any mistake.
No mistake. She'd suspected, virtually expected that that would be the case, yet…
Exhaling, Alathea laid the letter down. Her hand shook. A youthful cheer reached her, borne on the breeze wafting through the long windows. She hesitated, then stood and glided to the French windows standing open to the south lawn.
On the rolling expanse separating the terrace from the ornamental lake, her stepbrothers and stepsisters played an exuberant game of catch. Sunlight flashed on one fair head— Alathea's eldest stepbrother, Charlie, leaped high and snatched the ball from the air, denying Jeremy, only ten but always game. Despite his emerging elegance, Charlie, nineteen, was good-naturedly caught up in the game, indulging his juniors, Jeremy and Augusta, just six. Their older sisters, Mary, eighteen, and Alice, seventeen, had also joined in.
The entire household was currently in the throes of preparing to remove to London so Mary and Alice could be introduced to the ton. Nevertheless, both girls threw themselves into the game, ringlets framing innocently happy faces, the serious business of their come-outs in no way dampening their joy in simple pleasures.
A whoop from Charlie signaled a wild throw—the ball flew over all three girls and bounced toward the house. It struck the flags of the path and bounced even higher, clearing the shallow steps to land on the terrace. Two more diminishing bounces, and it tumbled over the library threshold and rolled along the polished boards. Raising her skirt, Alathea placed one foot on the ball, stilling it. She considered it, then looked out to see Mary and Alice racing, laughing and gasping, toward the terrace. Stooping, Alathea scooped up the ball; balancing it on one palm, she strolled out onto the terrace.
Mary and Alice skidded to a halt before the steps, laughing and grinning. "Me, Allie, me!"
"No! Al-a-the-a! Sweet Allie—me!"
Alathea waited as if weighing her choice while little Augusta, left far in the rear, panted up. She stopped some yards behind the older girls and raised her angel's face to Alathea.
With a grin, Alathea lobbed the ball over the older girls' heads. Open-mouthed, they watched it soar past. With a gurgling laugh, Augusta pounced, grabbed the ball, and raced away down the slope.
Flashing Alathea conspiratorial grins, Mary called after Augusta, Alice cheered, and both set out in pursuit.
Alathea remained on the terrace, the warmth suffusing her owing nothing to the bright sunshine. A movement beneath a large oak caught her eye. Her stepmother, Serena, and her father, the earl, waved from the bench where they sat indulgently watching their children.
Smiling, Alathea returned the wave. Looking back at her stepsiblings, now headed in a wild melee toward the lake, she drew in a long breath, then, lips firming, turned back into the library.
Crossing to the desk, she let her gaze dwell on the tapestries gracing the walls, the paintings in their gilded frames, the leather-bound, gilt-encrusted spines lining the shelves. The long library was one of the
features of Morwellan Park, principal seat of the earls of Meredith. Morwellans had occupied the Park for centuries, from long before the earldom's creation in the fourteenth. The present gracious house had been built by her great-grandfather, the grounds expertly landscaped under her grandfather's exacting eye.
Regaining the large carved desk, hers for the last eleven years, Alathea looked at the letter lying on the blotter. Any chance that she would crumple in the face of such adversity as the letter portended was past.
Nothing—no one—was going to steal the simple peace she'd sacrificed the last eleven years of her life to secure for her family.
Gazing at Wiggs's letter, she considered the enormity of what she faced, too practical not to recognize the difficulties and dangers. But it wasn't the first time she'd stood on the lip of the abyss and stared ruin—financial and social—in the face.
Picking up the letter, she sat and reread it. It had arrived in reply to an urgent missive from her dispatched post haste to London three days before. Three days before, when her world had, for the second time in her life, been rocked to its foundations.
While dusting her father's room, a maid had discovered a legal document stuffed inside a large vase. Luckily, the girl had had the wit to take the paper to the housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Figgs, who had immediately bustled into the library to lay it before her.
Satisfied she'd missed nothing in Wiggs's reply, Alathea set his letter aside. Her glance strayed to the left desk drawer where the wretched document at the heart of the matter lay. A promissory note. She didn't need to read it again—every last detail was etched in her brain. The note committed the earl of Meredith to pay upon call a sum that exceeded the present total worth of the earldom. In return, the earl would receive a handsome percentage of the profits realized by the Central East Africa Gold Company.
There was, of course, no guarantee such profits would ever materialize, and neither she, nor Wiggs, nor any of his peers, had so much as heard of the Central East Africa Gold Company.
If any good would have come of burning the note, she would happily have built a bonfire on the Aubusson rug, but it was only a copy. Her dear, vague, hopelessly impractical father had, entirely without understanding what he was about, signed away his family's future. Wiggs had confirmed that the note was legally sound and executable, so if the call was made for the amount stipulated, the family would be bankrupt. They would lose not only the minor properties and Morwellan House in London, all still mortgaged to the hilt, but also Morwellan Park, and everything that went with it.
If she wished to ensure that Morwellans remained at Morwellan Park, that Charlie and his sons had their ancestral home intact to inherit, that her stepsisters had their come-outs and the chance to make the marriages they deserved, she was going to have to find some way out of this.
Just as she had before.
Absentmindedly tapping a pencil on the blotter, Alathea gazed unseeing at the portrait of her great-grandfather, facing her down the long length of the room.
This wasn't the first time her father had brought the earldom to the brink of ruin; she'd faced the prospect of abject poverty before. For a gentlewoman reared within the elite circle of the haut ton, the prospect had been—and still was—frightening, all the more so for being somewhat beyond her ken. Abject poverty she had no more than a hazy notion of—she had no wish for either herself or, more importantly, her innocent siblings, to gain any closer acquaintance with the state.
At least, this time, she was more mature, more knowlegeable—better able to deal with the threat. The first time…
Her thoughts flowed back to that afternoon eleven years before when, as she was poised to make her come-out, fate had forced her to stop, draw breath, and change direction. From that day, she'd carried the burden of managing the family's finances, working tirelessly to rebuild the family's fortunes, all the while maintaining an outward show of affluence. She'd insisted the boys go to Eton, and then to Oxford; Charlie would go up for the autumn term in September. She'd scrimped and saved to take Mary and Alice to town for their come-outs, and to have sufficient funds to puff them off in style.
The household was eagerly anticipating removing to London in just a few days. For herself, she'd anticipated savoring a subtle victory over fate when her stepsisters made their curtsies to the ton.
For long moments, Alathea stared down the room, considering, assessing—rejecting. This time, frugality would not serve her cause—no amount of scrimping could amass the amount needed to meet the obligation stipulated in the note. Turning, she pulled open the left drawer. Retrieving the note, she perused it again, carefully evaluating. Considering the very real possibility that the Central East Africa Gold Company was a fraud.
The company had that feel to it—no legitimate enterprise would have cozened her father, patently unversed in business dealings, into committing such a huge sum to a speculative venture, certainly not without some discreet assessment of whether he could meet the obligation. The more she considered, the more she was convinced that neither she nor Wiggs had made any mistake—the Central East Africa Gold Company was a swindle.
She was not at all inclined to meekly surrender all she'd fought for, all she'd spent the last eleven years securing—all her family's future—to feather the nest of a pack of dastardly rogues.
There had to be a way out—it was up to her to find it.
Chapter 1 « ^ » May 6, 1820
London
Swirls of mist wreathed Gabriel Cynster's shoulders as he prowled the porch of St. Georges' Church, just off Hanover Square. The air was chill, the gloom within the porch smudged here and there by weak shafts of light thrown by the street lamps.
It was three o'clock; fashionable London lay sleeping. The coaches ferrying late-night revelers home had ceased to rumble—an intense but watchful quiet had settled over the town.
Reaching the end of the porch, Gabriel swung around. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the stone tunnel formed by the front of the church and the tall columns supporting its facade. The mist eddied and swirled, obscuring his view. He'd stood in the same place a week before, watching Demon, one of his cousins, drive off with his new wife. He'd felt a sudden chill—a premonition, a presentiment; perhaps it had been of this.
Three o'clock in the porch of St. Georges—that was what the note had said. He'd been half
inclined to set it aside, a poor joke assuredly, but something in the words had tweaked an impulse more powerful than curiosity. The note had been penned in desperation, although, despite close analysis, he couldn't see why he was so sure of that. The mysterious countess, whoever she was, had written simply and directly requesting this meeting so she could explain her need for his aid.
So he was here—where was she?
On the thought, the city's bells tolled, the reverberations stirring the heavy blanket of the night. Not all the belltowers tolled the night watches; enough did to set up a strange cadence, a pattern of sound repeated in different registers. The muted notes faded, then died. Silence, again, descended.
Gabriel stirred. Impatient, he started back along the porch, his stride slow, easy.
And she appeared, stepping from the deep shadows about the church door. Mist clung to her skirts as she turned, slowly, regally, to face him. She was cloaked and veiled, as impenetrable, secret, and mysterious as the night.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. Had she been there all along? Had he walked past her without seeing or sensing her presence? His stride unfaltering, he continued toward her. She lifted her head as he neared, but only slightly.
She was very tall. Halting with only a foot between them, Gabriel discovered he couldn't see over her head, which was amazing. He stood well over six feet tall; the countess had to be six feet tall herself. Despite the heavy cloak, one glance had been enough to assure him all her six feet were in perfect proportion.
"Good morning, Mr. Cynster. Thank you for coming."
He inclined his head, jettisoning any wild thought that this was some witless prank—a youth dressed as a woman. The few steps she'd taken, the way she'd turned—to his experienced senses, her movements denned her as female. And her tone was soft and low, the very essence of woman.
A mature woman—she was definitely not young. "Your note said you needed my help."
"I do." After a moment, she added, "My family does."
"Your family?" In the gloom, her veil was impenetrable; he couldn't see even a hint of her chin or her lips. "My stepfamily, I should say."
Her perfume reached him, exotic, alluring. "Perhaps we'd better define just what your problem is, and why you think I can help."
"You can help. I would never have asked to meet you—would never reveal what I'm about to tell you—if I didn't know you could help." She paused, then drew breath. "My problem concerns a promissory note signed by my late husband."
"Late husband?"
She inclined her head. "I'm a widow." "How long ago did your husband die?"
"Over a year ago."
"So his estate has been probated."
"Yes. The title and entailed estate are now with my stepson, Charles." "Stepson?"
"I was my husband's second wife. We were married some years ago—for him, it was a very late second marriage. He was ill for some time before his death. All his children were by his first wife."
He hesitated, then asked, "Am I to understand that you've taken your late husband's children under your wing?"
"Yes. I consider their welfare my responsibility. It's because of that—them—that I'm seeking your aid."
Gabriel studied her veiled countenance, knowing she was watching his. "You mentioned a promissory note."
"I should explain that my husband had a weakness for engaging in speculative ventures. Over his last years, the family's agent and I endeavored to keep his investments in such schemes to a minimum, in which endeavors we were largely successful. However, three weeks ago, a maid stumbled on a legal paper, tucked away and clearly forgotten. It was a promissory note."
"To which company?"
"The Central East Africa Gold Company. Have you heard of it?" He shook his head. "Not a whisper."
"Neither has our agent, nor any of his colleagues." "The company's address should be on the note."
"It's not—just the name of the firm of solicitors who drew up the document."
Gabriel juggled the pieces of the jigsaw she was handing him, aware each piece had been carefully vetted first. "This note—do you have it?"
From beneath her cloak, she drew out a rolled parchment.
Taking it, Gabriel inwardly raised his brows—she'd certainly come prepared. Despite straining his eyes, he'd caught not a glimpse of the gown beneath her voluminous cloak. Her hands, too, were covered, encased in leather gloves long enough to reach the cuffs of her sleeves. Unrolling the parchment, he turned so the light from the street lamps fell on the single page.
The promissor's signature—the first thing he looked at—was covered by a piece of thick paper fixed in place with sealing wax. He looked at the countess.
Calmly, she stated, "You don't need to know the family's name." "Why not?"
"That will become evident when you read the note."
Squinting in the poor light, he did so. "This appears to be legal." He read it again, then looked up. "The investment is certainly large and, given it is speculative, therefore constitutes a very great risk. If the company had not been fully investigated and appropriately vouched for, then the investment was certainly unwise. I do not, however, see your problem."
"The problem lies in the fact that the amount promised is considerably more than the present total worth of the earldom."
Gabriel looked again at the amount written on the note and swiftly recalculated, but he hadn't misread. "If this sum will clean out the earldom's coffers, then…"
"Precisely," the countess said with the decisiveness that seemed characteristic. "I mentioned that my husband was fond of speculating. The family has for more than a decade existed on the very brink of financial ruin, from before I married into it. After our marriage, I discovered the truth. After that, I oversaw all financial matters. Between us, my husband's agent and I were able to hold things together and keep the family's head above water."
Her voice hardened in a vain attempt to hide her vulnerability. "That note, however, would be the end. Our problem in a nutshell is that the note does indeed appear legal, in which case, if it is executed and the money called in, the family will be bankrupt."
"Which is why you don't wish me to know your name."
"You know the haut ton—we move in the same circles. If any hint of our financial straits, even leaving aside the threat of the note, was to become common knowledge, the family would be socially ruined. The children would never be able to take their rightful places in our world."
The call to arms was a physical tug. Gabriel shifted. "Children. You mentioned Charles, the youthful earl. What others?"
She hesitated, then said, "There are two girls, Maria and Alicia—we're in town now because they're to be presented. I've saved for years so they could have their come-outs…" Her voice suspended. After a moment, she continued, "And there are two others still in the schoolroom, and an older cousin, Seraphina; she's part of the family, too."
Gabriel listened, more to her tone than her words. Her devotion sounded clearly—the caring, the commitment. The anxiety. Whatever else the countess was concealing, she couldn't hide that.
Raising the note, he studied the signature of the company's chairman. Composed of bold, harsh strokes, the signature was illegible, certainly not one he knew. "You didn't say why you thought I could help."
His tone was vague—he'd already guessed the answer.
She straightened her shoulders. "We—our agent and I—believe the company is a fraud, a venture undertaken purely to milk funds from gullible investors. The note itself is suspicious in that neither the company's address nor its principals are noted, and there's also the fact that a legitimate speculative company accepting a promissory note for such an amount would have sought some verification that the amount could indeed be paid."
"No check was made?"
"It would have been referred to our agent. As you might imagine, our bank has been in close touch with him for years. We've checked as far as we can without raising suspicions and found nothing to change our view. The Central East Africa Gold Company looks like a fraud." She drew in a tight breath. "And if
that's so, then if we can gather enough evidence to prove it and present such evidence in the Chancery Court, the promissory note could be declared invalid. But we must succeed before the note is executed, and it's already over a year since it was signed."
Rerolling the note, Gabriel considered her; despite the veil and cloak, he felt he knew a great deal of her. "Why me?"
He handed her the note; she took it, slipping it once more under her cloak. "You've built something of a reputation for exposing fraudulent schemes, and"—lifting her head, she studied him—"you're a Cynster."
He almost laughed. "Why does that matter?" "Because Cynsters like challenges."
He looked at her veiled face. "True," he purred.
Her chin rose another notch. "And because I know I can entrust the family's secret to a Cynster." He raised a brow, inviting explanation.
She hesitated, then stated, "If you agree to help us, I must ask you to swear that you will not at any time seek to identify me or my family." She halted, then went on, "And if you don't agree to help, I know I can trust you not to mention this meeting, or anything you deduce from it, to anyone."
Gabriel raised both brows; he regarded her with veiled amusement, and a certain respect. She had a boldness rarely found in women—only that could account for this charade, well thought out, well executed. The countess had all her wits about her; she'd studied her mark and had laid her plans—her enticements—well.
She was deliberately offering him a challenge.
Did she imagine, he wondered, that he would focus solely on the company? Was the other challenge she was flaunting before him intentional, or…?
Did it matter?
"If I agree to help you, where do you imagine we would start?" The question was out before he'd considered—once he had, he inwardly raised his brows at the "we."
"The company's solicitors. Or at least the ones who drew up the note—Thurlow and Brown. Their name's on the note."
"But not their address."
"No, but if they're a legitimate firm—and they must be, don't you think?—then they should be easy to trace. I could have done that myself, but…"
"But you didn't think your agent would approve of what you have in mind once you discover the address, so you didn't want to ask him?"
Despite her veil, he could imagine the look she cast him, the narrowing of her eyes, the firming of her lips. She nodded, again that definite affirmation. "Precisely. I imagine some form of search will be required. I doubt a legitimate firm of solicitors will volunteer information on one of their clients."
Gabriel wasn't so sure—he'd know once he located Thurlow and Brown.
"We'll need to learn who the principals of the company are, and then learn the details of the company's business."
"Prospective business." He shot her a look, wishing he could see through her veil. "You do realize that any investigating risks alerting the company's principals? If the company is the sham you think it, then any hint of too close interest from anyone, particularly and especially me, will activate the call on promised funds. That's how swindlers will react—they'll grab what they've got and disappear before anyone can learn too much."
They'd been standing for more than half an hour in the mausoleumlike porch. The temperature was dropping as dawn approached; the chill of the mists was deepening. Gabriel was aware of it, but in his cloak he wasn't cold. Beneath her heavy cloak the countess was tense, almost shivering.
Lips tightening, he suppressed the urge to draw her closer and ruthlessly, relentlessly stated, "By investigating the company, you risk the note being called in and your family being made bankrupt." If she was determined to brave the fire, she needed to understand she could get burned.
Her head rose; her spine stiffened. "If I don't investigate the company and prove it's a fraud, my family will definitely be bankrupt."
He listened but could detect no hint of wavering, of anything less than informed but unshakable resolution. He nodded. "Very well. If you've made the decision to investigate the company, then yes, I'll help you."
If he'd expected gushing thanks, he'd have been disappointed—luckily, he'd had no such expectation. She stood still, studying him. "And you'll swear…?"
Stifling a sigh, he raised his right hand. "Before God, I swear—" "On your name as a Cynster."
He blinked at her, then continued, "On my name as a Cynster, that I will not seek to identify you or your family. All right?"
Her sigh fell like silk in the night. "Yes." She relaxed, losing much of her stiff tension.
His increased proportionately. "When gentlemen reach an agreement, they usually shake hands." She hesitated, then extended one hand.
He grasped it, then changed his hold, fingers sliding about hers until his thumb rested in her palm. Then he drew her to him.
He heard her in-drawn breath, felt the sudden leaping of her pulse, sensed the shock that seared her. With his other hand, he tipped up her chin, angling her lips to his.
"I thought we were going to shake hands." Her words were a breathless whisper.
"You're no gentleman." He studied her face; the glint of her eyes was all he could see through the fine black veil, but with her head tipped up, he could discern the outline of her lips. "When a gentleman and a lady seal a pact, they do it like this." Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers.
Beneath the silk, they were soft, resilient, lush—pure temptation. They barely moved under his, yet their inherent promise was easy to sense, very easy for him to read. That kiss should have registered as
the most chaste of his career—instead, it was a spark set to tinder, prelude to a conflagration. The knowledge—absolute and definite—shook him. He lifted his head, looked down on her veiled face, and wondered if she knew.
Her fingers, still locked in his, trembled. Through his fingers under her chin, he felt the fragile tension that had gripped her. His gaze on her face, he raised her hand and brushed a kiss on her gloved fingers, then, reluctantly, he released her. "I'll find out where Thurlow and Brown hang their plaque and see what I can learn. I assume you'll want to be kept informed. How will I contact you?"
She stepped back. "I'll contact you."
He felt her gaze scan his face, then, still brittlely tense, she gathered herself and inclined her head. "Thank you. Good night."
The mists parted then reformed behind her as she descended the porch steps. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the shadows.
Gabriel drew in a deep breath. The fog carried the sounds of her departure to his ears. Her shoes tapped along the pavement, then harness clinked. Heavier feet thumped and a latch clicked, then, after a pause, clicked again. Seconds later came the slap of reins on a horse's rump, then carriage wheels rattled, fading into the night.
It was half past three in the morning, and he was wide awake.
Lips lifting self-deprecatingly, Gabriel stepped down from the porch. Drawing his cloak about him, he set out to walk the short distance to his house.
He felt energized, ready to take on the world. The previous morning, before the countess's note arrived, he'd been sitting morosely over his coffee wondering how to extract himself from the mire of disaffected boredom into which he'd sunk. He'd considered every enterprise, every possible endeavor, every entertainment—none had awakened the smallest spark of interest.
The countess's note had stirred not just interest but curiosity and speculation. His curiosity had largely been satisfied; his speculation, however…
Here was a courageous, defiant widow staunchly determined to defend her family—stepfamily, no less—against the threat of dire poverty, against the certainty of becoming poor relations, if not outcasts. Her enemies were the nebulous backers of a company thought to be fraudulent. The situation called for decisive action tempered by caution, with all investigations and inquiries needing to remain covert and clandestine. That much, she'd told him.
So what did he know?
She was an Englishwoman, unquestionably gently bred—her accent, her bearing and her smooth declaration that they moved in similar circles had settled that. And she knew her Cynsters well. Not only had she stated it, her whole presentation had been artfully designed to appeal to his Cynster instincts.
Gabriel swung into Brook Street. One thing the countess didn't know was that he rarely reacted impulsively these days. He'd learned to keep his instincts in check—his business dealings demanded it. He also had a definite dislike of being manipulated—in any field. In this case, however, he'd decided to play along.
The countess was, after all, an intriguing challenge in her own right. All close to six feet of her. And a lot of that six feet was leg, a consideration guaranteed to fix his rakish interest. As for her lips and the
delights they promised… he'd already decided they'd be his.
Occasionally, liaisons happened like that—one look, one touch, and he'd know. He couldn't, however, recall being affected quite so forcefully before, nor committing so decisively and definitely to the chase. And its ultimate outcome.
Again, energy surged through him. This—the countess and her problem—was precisely what he needed to fill the present lack in his life: a challenge and a conquest combined.
Reaching his house, he climbed the steps and let himself in. He shut and bolted the door, then glanced toward the parlor. In the bookcase by the fireplace resided a copy of Burke's Peerage.
Lips quirking, he strode for the stairs. If he hadn't promised not to seek out her identity, he would have made straight for the bookcase and, despite the hour, ascertained just which earl had recently died to be succeeded by a son called Charles. There couldn't be that many. Instead, feeling decidedly virtuous, not something that often occurred, he headed for his bed, all manner of plans revolving in his head.
He'd promised he wouldn't seek out her identity—he hadn't promised he wouldn't persuade her to reveal all to him.
Her name. Her face. Those long legs. And more. "Well? How did it go?"
Raising her veil, Alathea stared at the group of eager faces clustered about the bottom of the stairs. She had only that instant crossed the threshold of Morwellan House in Mount Street; behind her, Crisp, the butler, slid the bolts home and turned, eager not to miss any of her tale.
The question had come from Nellie, Alathea's maid, presently wrapped in an old paisley bedrobe. Surrounding Nellie in various stages of deshabille stood other members of Alathea's most stalwart band of supporters—the household's senior servants.
"Come now, m'lady, don't keep us in suspense."
That from Figgs, the cook-housekeeper. The others all nodded—Folwell, Alathea's groom, his forelock bobbing, Crisp, joining them, carrying the rolled promissory note she had handed him for safekeeping.
Alathea inwardly sighed. In what other tonnish establishment would a lady of the house, returning from an illicit rendezvous at four in the morning, meet with such a reception? Quelling her skittish nerves, telling herself that the fact he'd kissed her didn't show, she set her veil back. "He agreed."
"Well—there now!" Thin as a rake, Miss Helm, the governess, nervously clutched her pink wrapper. "I'm sure Mr. Cynster will take care of it all and expose these dreadful men."
"Praise be," intoned Connor, Serena's severe dresser.
"Indeed"—Alathea walked forward into the light thrown by the candles Nellie, Figgs, and Miss Helm were holding—"but you should all be in bed. He's agreed to help—there's nothing more to hear." She caught Nellie's eye.
Nellie sniffed, but buttoned her lip.
Alathea shooed the others off, then headed up the stairs, Nellie on her heels, lighting her way.
"So what happened?" Nellie hissed as they reached the gallery.
"Shh!" Alathea gestured down the corridor. Nellie grumbled but held her tongue as they passed Alathea's parents' rooms, then Mary's and Alice's, eventually reaching her room at the corridor's end.
Nellie shut the door behind them. Alathea untied her cloak, then let it fall—Nellie caught it as she stepped away.
"So now, my fine miss—you're not going to tell me he didn't see through your disguise?"
"Of course he didn't—I told you he wouldn't." He wouldn't have kissed her if he had. Sinking onto her dressing table stool, Alathea pulled pins from her hair, freeing the thick mass from the unaccustomed chignon. She normally wore her hair in a knot on the top of her head with the strands about her face puffed to form a living frame. It was an old-fashioned style but it suited her. The chignon had suited her, too, but the unusual style had pulled her hair in different directions—her scalp hurt.
Nellie came to help, frowning as she searched out pins in the silky soft mass. "I can't believe after all the years you two spent rollin' about the fields that he wouldn't simply look at you, veil and cloak or no, and instantly know you."
"You forget—despite the years we spent 'rollin' about the fields,' Rupert has barely seen me for over a decade. Just the odd meeting here and there."
"He didn't recognize your voice?"
"No. My tone was quite different." She'd spoken as she would to Augusta, her tone warm and low, not tart and waspish as when she normally spoke with him. Except for those few breathless moments… but she didn't think he'd ever heard her breathless before. She couldn't recall ever feeling so nervous and skittish before. With a sigh, she let her head tip back as her hair finally fell loose. "You're not giving me sufficient credit. I'm a very good actress, after all."
Nellie humphed but didn't argue. She started to brush Alathea's long hair.
Closing her eyes, Alathea relaxed. She excelled at charades; she could think herself into a part very well, as long as she understood the character. In this case, that was easy. "I kept to the truth as far as possible—he truly thinks I'm a countess."
Nellie humphed. "I still can't see why you couldn't simply write him a nice letter, asking him to look into this company for you."
"Because I would have had to sign it 'Alathea Morwellan.'" "He would have done it, I'm sure."
"Oh, he wouldn't have refused, but what he would have done was refer it to his agent—that Mr. Montague. Without telling Rupert why it's so desperately needful to prove this company a fraud, it wouldn't have seemed important—important enough to stir him personally to action."
"I can't see why you don't just tell him—"
"No!" Eyes opening, Alathea straightened. For an instant, the lines between mistress and maid were clear—there in the matriarchal light in Alathea's eyes, in her stern expression, and in the suddenly wary look in Nellie's face.
Alathea let her expression ease; she hesitated, but Nellie was the only one with whom she dared discuss her plans, the only one who knew them all. The only one she trusted with them all. While she suspected that meant she was trusting the entire little band downstairs, as the others never presumed to mention it, she could live with that. She had to talk to someone. Drawing in a breath, she settled on the stool. "Believe it or not, Nellie, I still have my pride." She shut her eyes as Nellie resumed her brushing. "Sometimes, I think it's all I truly have left. I won't risk it by telling even him all. No one knows just how close to ruin we came—what depth of ruin we now face."
"He'd be sympathetic, I should think. He wouldn't noise it abroad."
"That's not the point. Not with him. I don't think you can imagine, Nellie, just how rich the Cynsters are. Even I have trouble assimilating the sums I know he regularly deals with."
"Can't see why it matters, meself."
Alathea felt the familiar tugs as Nellie started braiding her hair. "Let's just say that while I can cope with fraudulent companies and imminent disaster, the one thing I really don't think I could face is pity."
His pity.
Nellie sighed. "Ah, well, if that's the way it must be…" Alathea sensed her fatalistic shrug. After a moment, Nellie asked, "But how'd you get him to agree to help if'n you didn't tell him about the family all but being rolled up if that wretched company asks for their money?"
"That—Alathea opened her eyes—"was the main point of my masquerade. I did tell him. All of it. I could hardly expect him to help without knowing the details, and he certainly wouldn't have helped if there hadn't been a real family and a real threat. He's never been easy to stir to action, but he is a Cynster and they always respond to certain prods. He had to be convinced of both the family and the threat, but the way I told it, it's the countess's family. I cast my father as my dead husband, with me as the countess, his second wife, and all the children as my stepchildren, instead of my stepbrothers and stepsisters. Serena I made into a cousin."
She paused, remembering. "What happened?"
Alathea looked up to see Nellie regarding her in concern.
"It's no use telling me something didn't go wrong—I can always tell when you look like that."
"Nothing went wrong." She wasn't about to tell Nellie about that kiss. "I just hadn't thought of names for all the children. I used Charles for Charlie—it's a common enough name after all—but I hadn't expected Rupert to ask me about the others. When he did… well, I was so deep in being the countess, I couldn't really think. I called them to mind and had to put names to them instantly or he would have grown suspicious."
Dropping her completed braid, Nellie stared at her. "You didn't go and call them by their real names?" Rising, Alathea stepped away from the table. "Not exactly."
Nellie started unlacing her gown. "So what did you call them?" "Maria, Alicia, and Seraphina. I skipped the others."
"So what happens the first time he finds himself in a room with one of those books that list the lot of you? All he'll have to do will be to look up the earls—you being a countess—and it'll jump off the page at him. And he'll know who you are then, too." Straightening, Nellie helped her out of her gown. "Wouldn't want to be in your shoes then, miss—not when he finds out. He won't be pleased."
"I know." Alathea shivered, and prayed Nellie thought it was because she was cold. She knew exactly what would happen if luck dealt against her and Rupert Melrose Cynster discovered she was his mysterious countess—that she was the woman he'd kissed in the porch of St. Georges.
All hell would break lose.
He didn't have a temper, any more than she did.
Which meant he didn't appear to have one, until he lost it.
"That's why," she continued, head emerging from the nightgown Nellie had thrown over her, "I made him swear not to try and identify me. The way I have it planned, he need never learn the truth."
She knew he wouldn't appreciate having the wool pulled over his eyes. He had a deep, very real dislike of any form of deception. That, she suspected, was what lay behind his growing reputation for unmasking business frauds. "For now, everything's perfect—he's met the countess, heard her story, and agreed to help. He actually wants to help—wants to expose these men and their company. That's important." Whether she was reassuring Nellie or herself she wasn't sure; her stomach hadn't relaxed since he'd kissed her. "Lady Celia's forever complaining about him being too indolent, too bored with life. The countess's problem will give him something to work on, something that interests him."
Nellie snorted. "Next you'll be saying being gulled will be good for him."
Alathea had the grace to blush. "It won't hurt him. And I'll be careful, so there's no reason to think he ever will know that he's been 'gulled,' as you put it. I'll make sure he never meets the countess in daylight, or in any decent illumination. I'll always wear a veil. With heels to make me even taller"—she gestured to the high-heeled shoes she'd discarded by the dressing table—"and that perfume"—another wave indicated the Venetian glass flacon standing before her mirror—"which is nothing like anything Alathea Morwellan has ever worn, I really do not see that there's any danger of him knowing me."
Alathea glided to the bed; Nellie bustled ahead, turning down the covers and removing the copper warming pan. Slipping between the sheets, Alathea sighed. "So all is well. And when the company's exposed and her family saved, the countess will simply"—she waved gracefully—"disappear in a drift of mist."
Nellie humphed. She shuffled about, tidying things away, hanging up Alathea's clothes. From the wardrobe, she looked back at Alathea. "I still don't see why you couldn't simply go and see him, and tell him to his face what this is all about. Pride's all very well, but this is serious."
"It's not only pride." Lying back, Alathea gazed at the canopy. "I didn't ask him to his face because he very likely would not have helped me, not personally. He'd have directed me to Montague as fast as he politely could, and that simply won't do. I—we—need his help, not the assistance of his henchman. I need the knight on his charger, not his squire."
"I don't see that—he'd have helped, why wouldn't he? It's not as if you two don't go back near to all your lives. He's known you since you was in your cradle. You played as babies and all through the years, right up until you was fifteen and ready to be a lady." Her tidying done, candle in hand, Nellie
approached the big bed. "If you was just to go to him and explain it all, I'm sure he'd help."
"Believe me, Nellie, that wouldn't work. While he'll extend himself to help the mysterious countess, he would never do the same for me." Turning onto her side, Alathea closed her eyes and ignored Nellie's disbelieving sniff. "Good night."
After a moment, a soft, grumbling "Good night" reached her. The candlelight playing on her eyelids faded, then the door clicked as Nellie let herself out.
Alathea sighed, sinking deeper into the mattress, trying to relax the muscles that had tensed when he'd kissed her. That was the one development she hadn't foreseen but it was hardly serious, presumably the sort of sophisticated dalliance he practiced on all likely ladies. If she could start her charade again, she'd think twice about making herself a widow, one already out of mourning, but it was done—the masquerade had begun. And while she might not be able to fully explain it to Nellie, her charade was absolutely essential.
Rupert Melrose Cynster, her childhood playmate, was the one, perfectly armed knight she'd had to win to her side. She knew his true mettle—what he could accomplish, would accomplish, once he was fully committed to a cause. With him as her champion, they would have a real chance of triumphing over the Central East Africa Gold Company. Without his aid, that feat had appeared close to impossible.
Knowing him of old—so well, so thoroughly—she'd known that to secure his commitment, she would need to fully engage his ofttimes fickle interest. She needed him to focus on her problem, willingly bringing his considerable abilities to bear. So she'd invented the countess and, cloaked in beguiling mystery, had set about recruiting him, body and soul, to her cause.
She'd won her first battle—he was ready to fight beside her. For the first time since Figgs had placed the wretched promissory note before her, she allowed herself to believe in ultimate victory.
As far as the ton would see, the Morwellans were in town as expected to allow the younger daughters to make their curtsies to society and for Charlie to make his bow. She, the eldest daughter, now an
ape-leader, would hug the shadows, assisting with her stepsisters' come-outs, in her spare moments donning cloak and veil to masquerade as the countess and remove the sword presently poised over her family's future.
She smiled at such melodramatic thoughts. They came easily to mind—she knew precisely what she was doing. She also knew precisely why Rupert wouldn't have helped her as he would the countess, although it wasn't something she was eager to explain, even to Nellie.
They disliked being in the same room, certainly not within ten feet of each other. Any closer proximity was like wearing a hair shirt. The peculiarity had afflicted them from the age of eleven and twelve; since then, it had been a constant in their lives. What caused it remained a mystery. As their younger selves, they'd tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn't there, but the relief they'd both felt when her impending ladyhood had spelled an end to their all but daily association had been too real to ignore.
Of course they'd never discussed it, but his reaction was there in the sharpening of his hazel gaze, the sudden tensing of his muscles, in the difficulty he had remaining near her for more than a few minutes. Uncomfortable wasn't an adequate description—the affliction was far worse than that.
She'd never been able to decide if she reacted to him as he did to her, or if her aggravation arose in response to his. Whatever the truth, their mutual affliction was something they'd learned to live with, learned to hide, and ultimately, learned to avoid. Neither would unnecessarily precipitate a prolonged encounter.
That was why, despite growing up as they had, despite their families being such close neighbors, he and she had never waltzed. They had danced—one country dance. Even that had left her breathless, waspish and thoroughly out of temper. Like him, she wasn't given to displays of temper—the only one able to provoke her, all but instantly, was he.
And that—all of that—explained why the countess had walked the porch of St. Georges. While she could not, absolutely, know his mind and thus be certain he would not have personally helped her, she imagined his instincts would have prompted him to help, but his reaction to her would have mitigated against it. Dealing with the company for her would mean seeing her frequently, often alone, which usually made the affliction worse. They'd met briefly only a few months ago—their affliction was stronger than ever. They'd reduced each other to quivering rage in under three minutes. She couldn't believe, if she asked for his help, that he'd break the habit of years and readily spend hours in her company—or, if he did, that it wouldn't drive them both demented.
More to the point, she hadn't been able to risk finding out. If she'd presented her problem to him as herself, only to have him send her to Montague, she couldn't then have appeared as the countess.
No choice.
He would never forgive her if he ever found out—ever learned she was the countess. He would probably do worse than that. But she'd had no choice—her conscience wasn't troubling her, not really. If there'd been any other sure way of getting him to help her without deceiving him, she would have taken it, but…
She was halfway asleep, drifting in the mists, her mind revisiting bits and pieces of their rendezvous, revolving more and more about that unnerving kiss, when she started awake. Blinking, eyes wide, she stared up at the canopy—and considered the fact that their decades-old mutual affliction had not reared its head that night.
Chapter 2
« ^ »
"Ala-the-aaa. Whoo-hoo! Allie! Can you pass the butter, please?"
Alathea focused—Alice was pointing across the luncheon table. Bemusedly glancing in that direction, her brain belatedly caught up with reality; lifting the butter dish, she passed it across.
"You're in a brown study today." Serena was sitting next to her, at the end of the table.
Alathea waved dismissively. "I didn't sleep all that well last night." She'd been so keyed up, primed to play the countess, desperate to secure Rupert's aid, that she'd rested not at all before her three o'clock appointment. And afterwards… after her success, after that kiss, after realizing… she shook aside the distraction. "I'm still not used to all the street sounds."
"Perhaps you should move to another room?"
Glancing at Serena's sweet face, brow furrowed with concern, Alathea clasped her stepmother's hand. "Don't worry. I'm perfectly happy with my room. It faces the back gardens as it is."
Serena's face eased. "Well… if you're sure. But now Alice has woken you up"—her eyes twinkled—"I wanted to check how much we can afford to spend on the girls' walking dresses."
Alathea gladly gave Serena her attention. Short, plump, and fashionably matronly, Serena was gentle and retiring, yet in the matter of her daughters' come-outs, she'd proved both shrewd and well up to snuff.
With real relief, Alathea had consigned all the details of their social lives, including their wardrobes, to Serena, more than content to play a supporting role in that sphere. They'd been in town for just over a week and all was on track for a pleasant Season all around.
All she had to do was prove the Central East Africa Gold Company a fraud, and all would be well.
The thought returned her mind to its preoccupation—and to the man she'd recruited last night. She glanced around the table, viewing her family as if through his eyes. She and Serena discussed materials, trimmings, and bonnets, with Mary and Alice hanging on every word. At the table's other end, her father, Charlie, and Jeremy discussed the more masculine entertainments on offer. Alathea heard her father muse on the attractions of Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon, a prospect guaranteed to divert both Charlie as well as his precocious younger brother.
Leaving Serena, Mary, and Alice debating colors, Alathea turned to the youngest member of the family, sitting quietly beside her, a large doll on her lap. "And how are you and Rose today, poppet?"
Lady Augusta Morwellan raised huge brown eyes to Alathea's face and smiled trustingly. "I had a lovely time in the garden this morning, but Rose here"—she turned the doll so Alathea could inspect her—"has been fractious. Miss Helm and I think we should take her for a walk this afternoon."
"A walk? Oh, yes! That's a lovely idea—just what we need." Having settled her sartorial requirements, Mary, all bouncing brown ringlets and glowing eyes, was ready for the next excitement.
"I'm starting to feel hemmed in with all these houses and streets." With fair hair and doelike eyes, Alice was more serious and contained. She smiled at Augusta. "And Augusta won't want us disturbing Rose with our chatter."
Augusta returned the smile sweetly. "No. Rose needs quiet." Too young to share in the excitement that had infected the rest of the family, Augusta was content to stroll the nearby square, her hand in Miss Helm's, and stare, wide-eyed, at all the new and different sights.
"Is there somewhere else we can go—other than the park, I mean?" Alice looked from Alathea to Serena. "We won't have our new dresses until next week, so it's probably better we don't go there too often."
"I would prefer that you didn't haunt the park anyway," Serena said. "Better to appear only a few times a week, and we were there yesterday."
"So where shall we go? It has to be somewhere with trees and lawns." Mary fixed her glowing gaze on Alathea's face.
"Actually…" Alathea considered—just because she'd successfully recruited her knight didn't mean she had to sit on her hands and leave all the investigating to him. She refocused on her stepsisters' faces. "There's a particular park I know of, quiet and pleasant, cut off from all the noise. It's very like the country—you can almost forget you're in London."
"That sounds perfect," Alice declared. "Let's go there." "We're going to Bond Street!" Jeremy pushed back his chair.
Charlie and the earl did the same. The earl smiled at his womenfolk. "I'll take these two off for the afternoon."
"I'm going to learn to box!" Jeremy danced around the table, thrusting his fists through the air, dealing summarily with invisible opponents. Laughing, Charlie caught Jeremy's fists, then half-waltzed,
half-wrestled him out of the room. Jeremy's piping protests and Charlie's deeper amused taunts faded as they progressed in the direction of the front door.
Mary and Alice rose to follow. "We'll get our bonnets." Mary looked at Alathea. "Shall I fetch yours?" "Please." Alathea rose, too.
The earl stopped by her side, his fingers light on her arm. "Is everything all right?" he asked quietly.
Alathea looked up. Despite his age and the troubles resting heavily on his shoulders, her father, two inches taller than she, remained a strikingly handsome man. Glimpsing shadows of pain and regret in his eyes, she smiled reassuringly; she caught his hand and squeezed. "Everything's going well."
He'd been devastated when he'd learned about the promissory note. He'd thought the sum pledged was much smaller—the wording of the note was such that arithmetic was required to determine the total sum. All he'd intended was to gain a few extra guineas to spend on the girls' weddings. She'd spent some time comforting him, assuring him that although the situation was bad, it was not the final end.
It had been hard for him to carry on as if nothing had happened so the children wouldn't suspect. Only the three of them—he, she and Serena—knew of the latest threat or, indeed, of the perilous state of the earldom's finances. From the first, they'd agreed that the children were never to know that their future hung by such a slender thread.
Despite the fact she had spent all her adult life putting right the problems her father had caused, Alathea had never been able to hold it against him. He was the most lovable, and loving, man—he was simply incapable when it came to money.
Now he smiled, a sad, forlorn smile. "Is there anything I can do?"
She hugged his arm. "Just keep doing what you've been doing, Papa—keep Jeremy entertained and out of mischief." She drew back. "You're so good with them—they're both a real credit to you."
"Indeed," Serena agreed. "And if Alathea says there's nothing to worry about, then there's no sense worrying. She'll keep us informed—you know she always does."
The earl seemed about to speak, then muffled cries and thumps came from the front hall.
The earl's lips twitched. "I'd better get out there before Crisp hands in his notice." He touched his lips to Alathea's temple, stooped to kiss Serena's cheek, then he strode out to the hall, squaring his shoulders and lifting his head as he crossed the threshold.
With Serena, Alathea followed more slowly. From the dining room doorway, they watched the melee in the hall resolve itself under the earl's direction. "He's really a wonderful father," Serena said as the earl ushered his sons out of the front door.
"I know." Alathea smiled at his departing back. "I'm really very impressed with Charlie." She glanced at Serena. "The next earl of Morwellan will hold a candle to all comers. He's an amazing amalgam of you both."
Pleased, Serena inclined her head. "But he's also got a very large dose of your commonsense. Thanks to you, my dear, the next earl of Morwellan will know how to manage his brass!"
They both laughed, yet it was true. Not only was Charlie handsome, unruffleably good-natured, never high in the instep, and always game for a lark, but he was, largely due to Serena, thoughtful, considerate and openly caring. Thanks to the earl's influence, he was a gentleman to his toes and, as he also spent at least one session a week with Alathea in the estate office, and had for some years, he was at nineteen in a fair way to understanding how to successfully manage the estate. While he still did not know the level to which the earldom's coffers had sunk, Charlie now knew at least the basics of how to keep them filling up.
"He'll make an excellent earl." Alathea looked up as Mary and Alice came clattering down the stairs, bonnets on, ribbons streaming, her own bonnet dangling from Mary's hand. Augusta had slipped out earlier; Alathea glimpsed her littlest stepsister heading out to the garden, her hand in Miss Helm's.
Charlie, Jeremy, Mary, Alice, and Augusta—they were the ultimate reasons she'd invented the countess. Even if he discovered her deception, Alathea couldn't believe her knight would disapprove of her motives.
"Come on!" Alice waved her parasol at the door. "The afternoon's winging—we've already ordered the carriage."
Accepting her bonnet, Alathea turned to the mirror to settle it over her top knot.
Casting a critical eye over her daughters, Serena straightened a ribbon here, tweaked a curl there. "Where do you intend going?"
Alathea turned from the mirror as the clop of hooves heralded the carriage. "I'd thought to go to Lincoln's Inn Fields. The trees are tall, the grass green and well tended, and it's never crowded."
Serena nodded. "Yes, you're right—but what an odd place to think of." Alathea merely smiled and followed Mary and Alice down the steps.
Gabriel discovered the bronze plaque identifying the offices of Thurlow and Brown along the south face of Lincoln's Inn. Surrounding a rectangular cobbled courtyard, the Inn housed nothing but legal chambers. Its inner walls were punctuated with regularly spaced open archways, each giving access to a shadowy stairwell. On the wall beside each archway, bronze plaques bore witness to the legal firms housed off the stairway within.
After consulting a book listing the solicitors of the Inns of Court, Montague had directed Gabriel to Lincoln's Inn, describing the firm as small, old, but undistinguished, with no known association with any matter remotely illegal. As he climbed the stairs, Gabriel reflected that, if he'd been behind the sort of swindle it seemed likely the Central East Africa Gold Company was, then the first step he'd take to lull gullible investors would be to retain such a firm as Thurlow and Brown. A firm stultifyingly correct and all but moribund, unlikely to boast the talents or connections that might give rise to unanswerable questions.
Thurlow and Brown's rooms were on the second level, to the rear of the building. Gabriel reached for the knob of the heavy oak door, noting the large lock beneath the knob. Sauntering in, he scanned the small reception area. Behind a low railing, an old clerk worked at a raised desk, guarding access to a short corridor leading to one room at the rear, and to a second room off the reception area.
"Yes? Can I help you?" The clerk clutched at the angled desktop. Frowning, he flipped through a diary. "You don't have an appointment." He made it sound like an offense.
His expression one of affable boredom, Gabriel shut the door, noting that there were no bolts or extra
latches, only that large and cumbersome lock.
"Thurlow," he murmured, turning back to the clerk. "There was a Thurlow at Eton when I was there. I wonder if it's the same one?"
"Couldn't be. His nibs"—the clerk waved an ink-stained hand at the half open door giving off the reception area—"is old enough to be your dad."
"That so?" Gabriel sounded disappointed. Clearly "his nibs" was out. "Ah, well. It was really Mr. Browne I came to see."
Again the clerk frowned; again he checked his book. "You're not down for this afternoon…" "I'm not? How odd. I was sure the pater said two."
The clerk shook his head. "Mr. Brown's out. I'm not expecting him back until later."
Letting annoyance flash across his features, Gabriel thumped the reception railing with his cane. "If that isn't just like Theo Browne! Never could keep his engagements straight!"
"Theo Brown?"
Gabriel looked at the clerk. "Yes—Mr. Browne." "But that's not our Mr. Brown."
"It isn't?" Gabriel stared at the clerk. "Is your Browne spelled with an 'e'?" The clerk shook his head.
"Damn!" Gabriel swung away. "I was sure it was Thurlow and Browne." He frowned. "Maybe it's Thirston and Browne. Thrapston and Browne. Something like that." He looked questioningly at the clerk.
Who shook his head. "I'm sorry I can't help you, sir. Don't know of any firms with names like that. Mind you, there is Browne, Browne and Tillson in the other quad—might they be the ones you're after?"
"Browne, Browne and Tillson." Gabriel repeated the name twice with different inflections, then shrugged. "Who knows. Could be." He swung to the door. "The other quad, you say?"
"Aye, sir—across the carriage road through the Inn."
Waving his cane in farewell, Gabriel went out, closing the door behind him. Then he grinned and strolled down the stairs.
Regaining the sunshine, he strode across the cobbles. He'd seen enough to confirm Thurlow and Brown's standing—precisely as Montague had said, stuffily, dustily dull. He'd learned which room was whose, and through the open doors he'd seen the locked client boxes lining the walls of both partners' rooms. They didn't lock the boxes away somewhere else. They were there, within easy reach, and the only lock between the landing and the boxes was the old wrist-breaker on the main door.
There had also been no sign of any junior clerk. There'd been only one desk, and little space outside the partners' rooms—no area for a clerk or office boy to spend the night.
Entirely satisfied with his afternoon's work, Gabriel saluted the gatekeeper with his cane and strode through the secondary gateway into the adjoining Fields.
Before him, a small army of old trees, like ancient sentinels, spread their branches protectively over gravel walks and swaths of lawn. Sunlight streamed down. The breeze ruffled leaves, shedding shifting shadows over the green carpets on which gentlemen and ladies strolled while waiting for others consulting in the surrounding chambers.
Gabriel paused in the cobbled forecourt beyond the gate, gazing unseeing at the trees.
Would the countess be impatient enough to contact him that evening? The possibility tantalized, even more so as the realization sank in that her impatience could not possibly match his. While with her, he'd felt he knew her, knew the sort of woman she was; away from her, he'd realized how little he knew of the real woman behind the veil. Learning more, quickly, seemed imperative—he especially needed to learn how to put his hand on a woman who thus far had been a phantom in the night.
Unfortunately, he couldn't learn more until she contacted him—at least now, when she did, he'd have something to report.
Shrugging off his distraction, he settled on Aldwych as his best bet for a hackney and set out along the south side of the Fields. Halfway along, he heard himself hailed.
"Gabriel!" "Over here!"
The voices coming from the Fields were assuredly feminine, equally assuredly young. Halting, Gabriel scanned the shaded lawns; two sweet young things, their parasols tilted at crazy angles, were bobbing up and down and waving madly. Squinting against the sunlight, he recognized Mary and Alice Morwellan.
Raising his cane in reply, he waited until a dowager's black carriage rolled soberly past, then started across the narrow street.
Alathea saw him coming, and had to fight down an urge to screech at her sisters—what had they done! She'd seen him walk through the gates of the Inn and pause. Her attention locked on him, she'd assured herself that he wouldn't notice her in the shadows, that there was no reason for her heart to gallop, for her nerves to twitch.
He'd remained safely ignorant of her presence—she'd been surprised he'd acted so swiftly on the countess's behalf. That was, she presumed, why he was here—if she'd known, she would never have risked coming. Having him find her anywhere near any location he would associate with the countess had formed no part of her careful plans. She needed to keep her two personas completely distinct, especially near him.
As he'd walked along the street, cane swinging, broad shoulders square, sunlight had gleamed on his chestnut hair, gilding the lightly curling locks. Her thoughts had slowed, halted—she'd completely forgotten Mary and Alice were with her.
They'd seen him and called—now there was no escape. As he crossed the grass toward them, she drew in a breath, lifted her chin, tightened her fists about her parasol's handle—and tried to quell her panic.
He couldn't recognize lips he'd kissed but not seen, could he?
Smiling easily, Gabriel strode into the trees' shadows. As he neared, Mary and Alice stopped jigging and contented themselves with beaming; only then, with his eyes adjusting and with their dancing parasols no longer distracting him, did he see the lady standing behind them.
Alathea.
His stride almost faltered.
She stood straight and tall, silently contained, her parasol held at precisely the correct angle to protect her fine skin from the sun. Not, of course, waving at him.
Masking his reaction—the powerful jolt that shook him whenever he saw her unexpectedly and the prickling sensation that followed—he continued his advance. She watched him with her usual cool regard, her customary challenge—a haughty watchfulness that never failed to get his goat.
Forcing his gaze from her, he smiled and greeted Mary and Alice, veritable pictures in mull muslin. He made them laugh by bowing extravagantly over their hands.
"We were utterly amazed to see you!" Mary said.
"We've been to the park twice," Alice confided, "but that was earlier than this. You probably weren't about."
Refraining from replying that he rarely inhabited the park, at least not during the fashionable hours, he fought to keep his gaze on them. "I knew you were coming to town, but I hadn't realized you were here." He'd last met them in January, at a party given by his mother at his family home, Quiverstone Manor in Somerset. Morwellan Park and the Manor shared a long boundary; the combined lands and the nearby Quantock Hills had been his childhood stamping ground—his, his brother Lucifer's, and Alathea's.
With easy familiarity, he complimented both girls, fielding their questions, displaying his suave London persona to their evident delight. Yet while he distracted them with trivialities, his attention remained riveted on the cool presence a few feet away. Why that should be so was an abiding mystery—Mary and Alice were effervescent delights. Alathea in contrast was cool, composed, still—in some peculiar way, a lodestone for his senses. The girls were as bubbling, tumbling streams, while Alathea was a deep pool of peace, calm, and something else he'd never succeeded in denning. He was intensely aware of her, as she was of him; he was acutely conscious they had not exchanged greetings.
They never did. Not really.
Steeling himself, he lifted his gaze from Mary's and Alice's faces and looked at Alathea. At her hair. But she was wearing a bonnet—he couldn't tell whether she was also wearing one of her ridiculous caps, or one of those foolish scraps of lace she'd started placing about her top knot. She probably was concealing some such frippery nonsense, but he couldn't comment unless he saw it. Lips thinning, he lowered his gaze until his eyes met hers. "I hadn't realized you were in London."
He was speaking directly to her, specifically of her, his tone quite different from when he'd spoken to the girls.
Her lashes flickered; her grip on her parasol tightened. "Good afternoon, Rupert. It is a lovely day. We came up to town a week ago."
He stiffened.
Alathea sensed it. Her stomach knotted with panic, she looked at Mary and Alice and forced herself to smile serenely. "The girls will be making their come-outs shortly."
After a fractional hesitation, he followed her lead. "Indeed?" Turning back to Mary and Alice, he quizzed
them on their plans.
Alathea tried to breathe evenly, tried to hold her sudden lightheadedness at bay. She refused to let her gaze slide his way. She knew his face as well as her own—the large, heavily hooded eyes, the mobile lips given to wry quirks, the classic planes of nose and forehead, the uncompromisingly square chin. He was tall enough to see over her head—one of the few who could do so. He was strong enough to subdue her if he wished, and ruthless enough to do it. There was nothing about him physically that she didn't already know, nothing to set such a sharp edge to her usual tension.
Nothing beyond the fact that she'd seen him last night in the porch of St. Georges, while he hadn't seen her.
The memory of his lips covering hers, of the beguiling touch of his fingers beneath her chin, locked her lungs, tightened her nerves, set her senses leaping. Her lips tingled.
"Our ball will be in three weeks," Mary was telling him. "You'll be invited, of course." "Will you come?" Alice asked.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world." His gaze flicked to Alathea's face, then he looked back at the girls.
Gabriel knew exactly how a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way felt—precisely how he always felt near Alathea. How she did it he did not know; he didn't even know if she had to do anything—it simply seemed his inevitable reaction to her. He'd react, and she'd snap back. The air between them would crackle. It had started when they were children and had grown more intense with the years.
He kept his gaze on the girls, ruthlessly stifling the urge to turn to Alathea. "But what are you doing here?" "It was Allie's idea."
Blithely, they turned to her; gritting his teeth, he had to do the same.
Coolly, she shrugged. "I'd heard of it as a quiet place to stroll—one where ladies would be unlikely to encounter any of the more rakish elements."
Like him.
She'd chosen to live her life buried in the country—why she thought that gave her the right to disapprove of his lifestyle he did not know; he only knew she did. "Indeed?"
He debated pressing her—both for her real reason for being in the Fields and also over her impertinence in disapproving of him. Even with the girls all ears and bright eyes before them, he could easily lift the conversation to a level where they wouldn't understand. This, however, was Alathea. She was intractably stubborn—he would learn nothing she didn't wish him to know. She was also possessed of a wit quite the equal of his; the last time they'd crossed verbal swords—in January, over the stupid Alexandrine cap she'd worn to his mother's party—they'd both bled. If, eyes flashing, cheeks flushed with temper, she hadn't stuck her nose in the air and walked—stalked—away from him, he would quite possibly have strangled her.
Lips compressed, he shot her a glance—she met it fearlessly. She was watching, waiting, as aware of the direction of his thoughts as he. She was ready and willing to engage in one of their customary duels.
No true gentleman ever disappointed a lady.
"I take it you'll be accompanying Mary and Alice about town?"
She went to nod, stopped, and haughtily lifted her head. "Of course."
"In that case"—he smiled disarmingly at Mary and Alice—"I'll have to see what amusements I can steer your way."
"There's no need to put yourself out—unlike some I could mention, I don't require to be constantly amused."
"I think you'll discover that unless one is constantly amused, life in the ton can be hellishly boring. What, other than boredom, could possibly have brought you here?"
"A wish to avoid impertinent gentlemen."
"How fortunate, then, that I chanced upon you. If avoiding impertinent gentlemen is your aim, a lady within the ton can never be too careful. There's no telling precisely where or when she'll encounter the most shocking impertinence."
Mary and Alice smiled trustingly up at him; all they heard was his fashionable drawl. Alathea, he knew, detected the steel beneath it; he could sense her increasing tension.
"You forget—I'm perfectly capable of dealing with outrageous impertinence, however unamusing I might find such encounters."
"Strange to say, most ladies don't find such encounters unamusing at all."
"I am not 'most ladies.' I do not find the particular distractions to which you are devoted at all amusing."
"That's because you've yet to experience them. Besides," he glibly added, "you're used to riding every day. You'll need some activity to… keep you exercised."
He raised eyes filled with limpid innocence to hers, expecting to meet a narrow-eyed glance brimming with aggravation. Instead, her eyes were wide, not shocked but… it took him a moment to place their expression.
Defensive. He'd made her defensive. Guilt rose within him.
Hell! Even when he won a round with her, he still lost.
Stifling a sigh—over what he did not know—he looked away, trying to dampen what he thought of as his bristling fur—that odd aggression she always evoked—and act normally. Reasonably.
He shrugged lightly. "I must be on my way." "I dare say."
To his relief, she contented herself with that small barb. She watched as he bowed to the girls, setting them laughing again. Then he straightened and deliberately caught her gaze.
It was like looking into a mirror—they both had hazel eyes. When he looked into hers, he usually saw his own thoughts and feelings, reflected over and again, into infinity.
Not today. Today all he saw was a definite defensive-ness—a shield shutting her off from him. Protecting her from him.
He blinked, breaking the contact. With a curt nod, which she returned, he swung on his heel and strode off.
Slowing as he neared the edge of the lawn, he wondered what he would have done if she'd offered her hand. That unanswerable question led to the thought of when last he'd touched her in any way. He couldn't remember, but it was certainly not in the last decade.
He crossed the street, wriggling his shoulders as his peculiar tension drained; he called it relief at being out of her presence, but it wasn't that. It was the reaction—the one he'd never understood but which she evoked so strongly—subsiding again.
Until next they met.
Alathea watched him go; only when his boots struck the cobbles did she breathe freely again. Her nerves easing, she looked around. Beside her, Mary and Alice blithely chatted, serenely unaware. It always amazed her that their nearest and dearest never saw anything odd in their fraught encounters—other than themselves, only Lucifer saw, presumably because he'd grown up side by side with them and knew them both so well.
As her pulse slowed, elation bloomed within her. He hadn't recognized her.
Indeed, after the total absence of his typical reaction to her when he'd met the countess last night, combined with the strong resurgence of it in the last hour, she doubted he'd ever make the connection.
This morning, she'd woken to the certain knowledge that it wasn't her physical self that he found so provoking. If he didn't know she was Alathea Morwellan, nothing happened. No suppressed irritation, no sparks, no clashes. Blissful nothing. Cloaked and veiled, she was just another woman.
She didn't want to dwell on why that made her feel so happy, as if a weight had suddenly lifted from her heart. It was clearly her identity that caused his problem—and it was, she now knew, his problem, something that arose first in him, to which she then reacted.
Knowing didn't make the outcome any easier to endure, but…
She focused on the wrought iron gates through which he had emerged. They were open to admit coaches to the courtyard of the Inn. She could see the Inn's archways and the glint of bronze plaques—it wasn't hard to guess the purpose of the plaques.
He'd seemed satisfied and confident when he'd strolled away from the gates.
Drawing in a determined, fully recovered breath, Alathea smiled at Mary and Alice. "Come, girls. Let's stroll about the Inn."
Evening came, and with it a strange restlessness.
Gabriel prowled the parlor of his house in Brook Street. He'd dined and was dressed to go out, to grace
the ballroom of whichever tonnish hostess he chose to favor with his presence. There were four invitations from which to choose; none, however, enticed.
He wondered where the countess would spend her evening. He wondered where Alathea would spend hers.
The door opened; he paused in his pacing. His gentleman's gentleman, Chance, pale hair gleaming, immaculately turned out in regulation black, entered with the replenished brandy decanter and fresh glasses on a tray.
"Pour me one, will you?" Gabriel swung away as Chance, short and slight, headed for the sideboard. He felt peculiarly distracted; he hoped a stiff brandy would clear his mind.
He'd left Lincoln's Inn buoyed by his small success, focused on the countess and the sensual game unfolding between them. Then he'd met Alathea. Ten minutes in her company had left him feeling like the earth had shifted beneath his feet.
She'd been part of his life for as long as he could remember; never before had she shut him out of her thoughts. Never before had she been anything but utterly free with her opinions, even when he'd wished otherwise. When they'd met in January, she'd been her usual open, sharp-tongued self. This afternoon, she'd shut him out, kept him at a distance.
Something had changed. He couldn't believe his comments had made her defensive; it had to be something else. Had something happened to her that he hadn't heard about?
The prospect unsettled him. He wanted to focus on the countess, but his thoughts kept drifting to Alathea.
Reaching the room's end, he swung around—and nearly mowed Chance down.
Chance staggered back—Gabriel caught his arm, simultaneously rescuing the brimming tumbler from the wildly tipping salver.
"Hoo!" Chance waved the salver before his unprepossessing visage. "That was a close one." Gabriel caught his eye, paused, then said, "That will be all."
"Aye, aye, sir!" With cheery insouciance, Chance headed for the door. Gabriel sighed. "Not 'Aye, aye'—a simple 'Yes, sir' will do." "Oh." Chance paused at the door. "Right-oh, then. 'Yes-sir,' it is!"
He opened the door, and saw Lucifer about to enter—Chance stepped back, bowing and waving. "Come you right in, sir. I was just a-leaving."
"Thank you, Chance." Grinning, Lucifer strolled in. With unimpaired serenity, Chance bounced out—then remembered and returned to shut the door.
Closing his eyes, Gabriel took a large swallow of brandy.
Lucifer chuckled. "I told you it wouldn't simply be a matter of a suit of clothes."
"I don't care." Opening his eyes, Gabriel regarded the exceedingly large quantity of brandy in the tumbler, then sighed, turned, and sank into a well-stuffed armchair to one side of the hearth. "He'll become
something employable if it kills him."
"Judging by his progress to date, it might kill you first."
"Quite possibly." Gabriel took another fortifying swallow. "I'll risk it."
Standing before the mantelpiece checking his own stack of invitations, Lucifer shot him a look. "I thought you were going to say you'd 'chance' it."
"That would be redundant—I am 'chancing' it. Precisely why I named him that."
Chance was not Chance's real name—no one, including Chance, knew what that was. As for his age, they'd settled on twenty-five. Chance was a product of the London slums; his elevation to the house in Brook Street had come about through his own merit. Caught up in the stews while helping a friend, Gabriel might not have made it out again but for Chance's aid, given not for any promise of reward, but simply in the way of helping another man with the scales weighted heavily and unfairly against him.
Chance had, in a way, rescued Gabriel—Gabriel, in turn, had rescued Chance.
"Which have you chosen?" Lucifer looked from his invitations to the four lined up on Gabriel's side of the mantelpiece.
"I haven't. They all seem similarly boring."
"Boring?" Lucifer glanced at him. "You want to be careful of using that word, and even more of giving way to the feeling. Just look where it got Richard. And Devil. And Vane, too, come to think of it."
"But not Demon—he wasn't bored."
"He was running, and that didn't work, either." After a moment, Lucifer added, "And anyway, I'm sure he is bored now. He's not even sure they'll come up for any of the Season." His tone labeled such behavior incomprehensible.
"Give him time—they've only been married a week."
A week ago, Demon Harry Cynster, their cousin and a member of the group of six popularly known as the Bar Cynster, had said the fateful words and taken a bride, one who shared his interest in
horse-racing. Demon and Felicity were presently making a prolonged tour of the major racecourses. Nursing his brandy, Gabriel mused, "After a few weeks, or months, I dare say the novelty will wear off."
Lucifer threw him a cynical look. They were both well aware that when Cynsters married, the novelty did not, strange as it seemed, wear off at all. Quite the opposite. To them both, it was an inexplicable conundrum, however, as the last unmarried members of the group, they were exceedingly wary of having it explained to them.
How on earth men like them—like Devil, Vane, Richard, and Demon—could suddenly turn their backs on all the feminine delights so freely on offer within the ton, and happily—and to all appearances contentedly—settle to wedded bliss and the charms of just one woman, was a mystery that confounded their male minds and defied their imaginations.
Both sincerely hoped it never happened to them.
Resettling his cloak, Lucifer selected one gilt-edged card from his stack. "I'm going to Molly Hardwick's." He glanced at Gabriel. "Coming?"
Gabriel studied his brother's face; anticipation glinted in the dark blue eyes. "Who'll be at Molly Hardwick's?"
Lucifer's quick smile flashed. "A certain young matron whose husband finds the bills before Parliament more enticing than she."
That was Lucifer's speciality—convincing ladies of insufficiently serviced passions that permitting him to service them was in their best interests. Considering his brother's long, lean frame and rakishly disheveled black locks, Gabriel raised a brow. "What's the odds?"
"None at all." Lucifer strolled to the door. "She'll surrender—not tonight, but soon." Pausing at the door, he nodded at the glass of brandy. "I take it you're going to see that to the end, in which case, I'll leave you to it." With a wave, he opened the door; an instant later it clicked shut behind him.
Gabriel studied the dark panels, then raised his glass and took another sip. Transferring his gaze to the fire burning in the grate, he stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, and settled down for the evening.
It was, he felt, a telling fact that he would rather wait out the hours until midnight here, safe and comfortable before his own hearth, than risk his freedom in a tonnish ballroom, no matter how tempting the ladies filling it. Ever since Demon's engagement had been announced nearly a month ago, every matron with a daughter suitable in any degree had set her sights on him, as if marriage was some poisoned chalice the Bar Cynster was handing around, member to member, and he was the next in line.
They could live in hope, but he wasn't about to drink.
Turning his head, he studied the pile of journals stacked on a side table. The latest issue of the Gentlemen's Magazine was there, yet… he'd rather consider the countess—all six feet of her. It was rare to meet a lady so tall…
Alathea was nearly as tall.
Three minutes later, he shook aside the thoughts that, unbidden, had crowded into his mind. Confusing thoughts, unsettling thoughts, thoughts that left him more distracted than he could ever remember feeling. Clearing his mind, he focused on the countess.
He enjoyed helping people—not in the general sense but specifically. Individual people. Like Chance. Like the countess.
The countess needed his help—even more, she had asked for it. Alathea didn't, and hadn't. Given how he felt, that was probably just as well. His gaze fixed on the flames, he kept his mind on the countess—on plotting the next phase in their investigation, and planning the next stage in her seduction.
Chapter 3
« ^ »
At twenty minutes past midnight, Gabriel stood outside the oak door guarding the offices of Thurlow and Brown and studied the old lock. He'd seen no one while crossing the quiet courtyard. Light had shone from a few windows, where clerks were presumably laboring through the night; the rooms directly below were occupied, but no one had heard him slip past on the stair.
He felt in his pocket for the lockpick he'd brought, one capable of dealing with such a large lock. Simultaneously, without thought, he tested the door, turning the knob—
The door eased open.
Gabriel stared at the door, at the lock that had been unlocked, and tried to imagine the old clerk shutting up and going home without locking up.
That scenario wasn't convincing.
He could see no light through the crack between door and jamb. He eased the door further open. As earlier in the day, it opened noiselessly. The reception area and the room off it were in darkness. In the room at the end of the corridor, however, faint light gleamed.
Shutting the door, Gabriel eased the bolt home. Leaning his cane beside the door, he paused, letting his eyes adjust to the denser gloom, noting again the position of the wooden gate in the railing of the reception area through which clients were admitted to the chambers beyond.
That, too, opened noiselessly.
His footfalls muffled by the runner, he made his way silently along the corridor and wondered if it was remotely possible that Mr. Brown without an "e" was working late. The occasionally pulsing light presumably came from a lamp turned very low; the lamp was also partially screened, the light thrown back into the room, away from the windows, presumably toward Brown's desk. Pausing at the threshold, Gabriel listened—and heard the steady flick of pages being turned. Then came the soft thump of a book being closed, then papers were shuffled. That was followed by a different sound—he eventually placed it as papers and books being placed into a tin box, and the box shut.
Another box was opened. A second later came more flicking—steady, even, purposeful. It didn't sound like Mr. Brown.
Beyond curious, Gabriel stepped over the threshold into the shadowed gap created by the half-open door and looked around its edge.
A tall cloaked and hooded figure stood before the large desk, rifling the papers she'd lifted from one of the boxes stacked on the desktop. Her gloved hands gave her away, as did the curve of her jaw, fleetingly revealed when she tilted her head, angling a document so that the light fell more definitely on it. The lamp stood on the desk to her left, a tall ledger propped around it to act as a screen.
Conscious of the tension leaving muscles he hadn't been aware he'd tensed, Gabriel leaned against the bookshelves and considered.
He waited until she'd methodically searched the contents of the now open box and restacked the papers. Then he reached out and pushed the door.
It squeaked.
She gasped. Papers scattered. In a furious flurry she flicked down her veil and whirled, so quickly that, despite watching closely, he failed to catch even a glimpse of her face. One hand at her breast, the other clutching the edge of the desk against which she'd backed, the countess stared at him, as deeply incognito as she'd been in Hanover Square.
"Oh!" Her voice wavered as if uncertain of its register, then, with an obvious effort, she caught her breath
and said in the same low tone he recalled, "It's you." He bowed. "As you see."
She continued to stare at him. "You… gave me quite a start."
"I would apologize, but"—he pushed away from the bookshelves and advanced upon her—"I hadn't expected to find you here." Halting before her, he studied the glint of eyes behind her veil, and wished the veil were thinner. "I thought I was supposed to locate Messrs. Thurlow and Brown. How did you know they were here?"
She was breathing rapidly, her gaze locked on his face, then she looked away. With a sliding step, she slipped out of the trap between him and the desk, smoothly turning so she faced the desk again. "I chanced upon them." Her voice was very low; it strengthened as, collecting the scattered papers, she went on, "I had to visit our family solicitor in Chancery Lane and on impulse I strolled into the Inn. I saw the plaques, so I wandered about—and found them."
"You should have left it to me. Sent a note and stayed safely at home while I did this." Why he was so annoyed, he couldn't have said. She was, after all, a free agent—except that she'd asked for his help.
She shrugged. "I thought, as I'd found them, I'd see what I could discover. The sooner we locate the company, the better. All we need is their address."
Gabriel inwardly frowned. Had his kissing her made her regret approaching him? If so, too late—she had. Her breathless skittishness reached him clearly, but he knew women too well to confuse resistance with rejection. If she wasn't seriously tempted, she wouldn't be skittish. "How did you get in? The door was unlocked…" Only then did he notice that the boxes she'd been searching were padlocked. Only one was presently open, but… "You can pick locks."
She shifted. "Well—yes." She gestured briefly. "It's a small talent I have."
He wondered what other talents she was concealing. "As it happens, it's a talent I share." He reached for one of the boxes she'd yet to search. Each was labeled but only with a surname. The one he held was labeled "Mitcham." He looked at the small lock.
"Here."
He glanced up. One delicate hand, gloved in the finest Cordovan leather, offered a hairpin. "It's just the right size."
His hand surrounded hers as he plucked it from her fingers. He had the box open in a trice; setting back the lid, he picked up the mass of papers within. "Have you stumbled on any details yet—names or other references to the company?"
"No. Nothing. There's no box here or in the other room with the company's name on it, but there must be a box for them, surely? If they're a client, they would have a box, don't you think?"
"So one would imagine." Gabriel glanced around the room. It confirmed his impression of the firm's incumbents. "Messrs. Thurlow and Brown appear staunchly conservative—if the company's a client, they'll have a box."
Side by side, they searched swiftly but thoroughly. An hour ticked by. Eventually, the countess sighed.
Setting the papers back in the last box, she closed it, and pushed the box to Gabriel to relock. "Nothing."
"We've still got Thurlow's room. This will only have been half the practice." Replacing the locked box on the top of the last shelf, Gabriel returned, picked up the lamp, and waved her on.
She'd already closed and replaced the ledger she'd used as a screen; now she gave the desk one last, comprehensive glance, checking all was as it had been, then she preceded him out of the door.
"Was this ajar?"
"Yes." She glanced back and nodded at how he'd left the door. "Like that."
In Thurlow's room, they arranged their workplace—the desk cleared, the lamp set and screened as before—then set to. It was slow, demanding work, scanning document after document, looking for any mention of the Central East Africa Gold Company. If anything, Thurlow's room held more boxes than Brown's; the bookshelves were taller.
Gabriel was halfway through yet another box, when he heard a strangled "Oh!" He looked up—just in time to drop the papers he held, cross the room in two strides, and catch the stack of boxes teetering over the countess's head.
She was tall enough to reach the top shelf but, in this room, she hadn't been able to grip the boxes, only touch them. At full stretch, she'd coaxed a stack of boxes to the edge of the shelf; they'd tipped, then started to slide…
He reached over her head and grabbed them, his arms outside hers, his shoulders enclosing hers. They both froze, gripping the tin boxes, desperate not to let them clatter to the floor.
There was less than an inch between them.
Her perfume rose, wreathing his senses; her womanly warmth, clothed in soft, sensual flesh, teased them. The urge to close that small gap, to feel her lean against him, waxed strong.
He sensed the leap of her pulse, the sudden fluster that gripped her. He heard her indrawn breath, sensed her uncertainty—
Tilting his head, he touched his lips to her veiled temple. She stilled—the tension that gripped her changed in a flash from physical to sensual; from clinging to a physical pose, she was now teetering on a sensual precipice. He shifted, closing the gap between them until she stood stretched upward against him, touching but not pressing. Sliding his lips from her temple, caressing the line exposed by her backswept hair, he dipped his head and traced the whorl of her ear, then slid his lips lower to tease and tantalize the sensitive spot below her lobe.
Skillfully he tempted her to ease her locked muscles and lean against him. The silk veil shifted beneath his lips, a secondary caress. She caught her breath on a shaky sob and held it; he bent his head and traced the long line of her throat until, at last, she exhaled. Tentatively, ready to take flight at the slightest sign, she let her shoulders ease against his upper chest.
Inwardly smiling in triumph, he angled his head upward, pressing gentle kisses into the hollow of her throat, encouraging her to raise her chin until finally her head tipped back against his shoulder. The warm curves of her back sank more definitely against him.
He wanted much more, but their hands were locked on the boxes still held high and he didn't dare break the spell. She was sweetly responsive but oh-so-skittish, like a mare never gentled to a man's hand. So
he kept each caress simple, direct, unthreatening, and as each moment passed, she sank more definitely against him. The subtle warmth of her flowed over his hardness; he was aroused but held the pain at bay. It flashed into his mind that she was a castle he intended storming; his present victory was much like watching her drawbridge come down.
Eventually, she was leaning fully back against him. A fine tension still gripped her, but that derived more from fascinated anticipation than resistance. He pressed a firmer kiss in the hollow beneath her ear, and heard her shivery breath. A tremor shook her, followed by a shaky gasp.
"I'm going to drop these boxes."
He raised his head and looked, and stifled a sigh. Her arms were quivering. He straightened—instantly, she did, too. She drew in a breath and held it. He eased back. Very carefully, she shifted her hands and gripped the lower two boxes, allowing him to lift the upper three away.
Lowering her arms, she stepped sideways, then turned and, spine poker straight, unmistakable resolution in every line, carried the two boxes back to the desk.
Leaving him with three tin boxes and a definite ache.
Jaw setting, Gabriel carried the boxes to the desk, stacking them atop hers. She'd already opened one box. Without glancing at him, she lifted the papers from it and started flicking through them. Eyes narrowing, he considered simply hauling her into his arms; the stiff, abrupt way in which she was turning pages argued against it.
Gritting his teeth, he picked up the pile of papers he'd been searching. He sent her a hard-edged glance. If she saw it, she gave no sign.
They continued to search in silence.
Just as he was wondering if, perhaps, he'd been wrong, and the Central East Africa Gold Company for some unknown reason had not merited a box, the countess straightened.
"This is it."
Gabriel glanced at the box; it was labeled "Swales."
Holding a stack of papers to the lamplight, the countess swiftly studied each in turn. He shifted to stand behind her so he could read over her shoulder. "Those are documents the company would need for registration to conduct business in the City of London." He scanned the sheet she held. "And the company is a formal client of Thurlow and Brown."
"Because all these list Thurlow and Brown as the contact?"
"Yes. The firm must have been hired when the company first entered the City. That means there'll be very few pieces of legal paper listing the company's address."
'There must be one, surely?" She looked up at him over her shoulder; her lips were outlined by her veil. His gaze locked on them and she froze, then a fragile shiver shook her. She looked away and breathlessly asked, "Or will we need to search some government office to find it?"
She didn't see the subtle smile that curved his lips. "There should be at least two documents listing the company's address. One is the main registration of the company, but that will in all likelihood be with the
company. The other, however, is a document all solicitors prepare, but which many clients don't know about."
Reaching out, he tugged at the last sheet in the stack; she let him draw it free. He held it up, and smiled. "Here we are—the internal instructions for the firm on how to make contact with the client."
"Mr. Joshua Swales," she read. "Agent of the Central East Africa Gold Company, in the care of Mr. Henry Feaggins, 142 Fulham Road."
They reread the names and address, then Gabriel returned the sheet to the box. Taking the sheaf from the countess's hands, he rifled through it.
"What are you looking for?"
"I wondered if we'd be lucky enough to find a list of investors… or a list of promissory notes the firm's prepared… but no." Frowning, he restacked the papers. "Whoever they are, the company are certainly careful."
She held the box as he set the papers back in, then he closed and relocked it. Carrying the other boxes, she followed him back to the shelf. He restacked the boxes in the right order, then turned to discover her already back at the desk, setting it to rights, straightening the blotter, realigning the inkstand.
Completing a last visual scan of the room, he lifted the lamp. "Where did this come from?" "The little table out here."
She led the way. Gabriel set the lamp down on the side table she indicated, then waited until she passed through the gate in the railings before turning the wick down. The light died. "Let's hope," he murmured, moving around the clerk's desk to the gate, "that the clerk is not the sort to keep a careful eye on the level of his lamp oil."
She returned no comment, but waited by the door.
Retrieving his cane, he opened it. She stepped through. He followed, shutting the door, then crouching down to turn the heavy tumblers of the lock. Not a simple task. They finally fell into place. "How on earth did you manage it?" he asked as he straightened.
"With difficulty."
Certainly not with a hairpin. Stifling his curiosity, he followed her down the stairs. Her heels clicked on the stone. Crossing the cobbles silently would be impossible. At the bottom of the stairs, he took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. She looked up at him—he assumed in surprise. "I presume your carriage is waiting?"
"At the far corner of the Fields."
"I'll escort you to it." In the circumstances, she could hardly argue, yet he knew she considered it. If she'd tried, he would have informed her that, courtesy of five tin boxes, she now had more chance of flying to her carriage than of dismissing him with nothing more than words.
There were rules to all engagements, in seduction as in war; he knew them all and was a past master at exploiting them for his own good. After the first clashes, every lady he'd ever engaged with had decided his exploitation had been for her good, too. Ultimately, the countess would not complain.
They set off, openly crossing the courtyard. He felt her fingers on his sleeve flutter nervously, then settle. He glanced at her veiled face, then let his gaze skate down her cloaked form. "You appear to be a recently bereaved widow who could thus have good reason for visiting the Inn late."
She glanced at him, then gave a slight nod and lifted her head.
Approving the imperious tilt to her chin, Gabriel looked ahead. She was no mean actress—there was now not a hint of trepidation to be seen. If he had to have a female partner, he was glad it was she. She could think, pick locks, and carry off a charade—all definite positives. Despite his irritation on first finding her here, he now felt in considerable charity with her role.
He would, of course, put his foot down and ensure she engaged in no more midnight searches, but that would have to wait until after they got past the porter nodding in his box by the gate. Head up, spine straight, the countess walked past as if the porter didn't exist. The man touched his fingers respectfully to his cap, then yawned and slouched back on his stool.
They walked on. In the shadows cast by the huge trees of the Fields, a small black carriage waited, the horses' heads hanging. As they neared, the coachman glanced around, then hunched over his reins.
Halting by the carriage, Gabriel opened the door. The countess put out her hand. "Thank you—"
"In a moment." Taking her hand, he urged her into the carriage. He felt her puzzled glance as she complied. As she settled on the seat, he glanced at her coachman. "Brook Street—just past South Molton." With that, he followed the countess into the carriage and shut the door.
She stared at him, then scooted further over as he turned and sat beside her. The carriage rocked into motion.
After an instant's fraught silence, she said, "I wasn't aware I had offered you a ride."
Gabriel considered her veiled face. "No doubt you would have—I thought I'd save you the trouble."
He heard a small spurt of laughter, instantly suppressed. Lips curving, he faced forward. "After all, we need to consider our next move." He'd already mapped out several; all could be attempted in a closed carriage rolling through the night.
"Indeed." Her tone was equable.
"But first, a point I should have made plain at the outset. You asked for my help and I agreed to give it. You also asked for my promise not to seek out your identity."
She stiffened. "Have you?"
His lightheartedness evaporated. "I promised. So no. I haven't." Each word was clipped, each sentence definite. "But if you want me to play your game any further—if we're to continue our alliance and save your stepfamily from ruin—you'll have to promise to abide by my rules."
Her silence lasted for a good fifty yards. Then, "Your rules?"
He could feel her gaze on the side of his face; he continued to look forward. "And what are they? These rules of yours."
"Rule number one—you must promise never again to act without my knowledge." She stirred slightly. "Your knowledge!"
Gabriel hid a cynical smile; he'd dealt with women long enough not to label it "permission."
"If you and I act independently, especially in such a delicate affair as this, there's a good chance we'll cross tracks to disastrous effect. If that happens, and we reveal our interest to the company too early, then all you've worked for will go for nought. And you are not sufficiently au fait with how matters are dealt with in the City to appreciate all the ramifications of what we might learn, which is, after all, why you sought my help in the first place."
She had none of her sex's usual wariness of silence; again, she claimed it to calculate, to consider. As they swayed around a corner, she asked, "These rules—what are the others?"
"There are only two—I've told you one." "And the second?"
He turned his head and looked at her. "For each piece of information we gather, I get to claim a reward." "A reward?" Wariness had crept into her tone.
He suppressed a wolfish smile. "Reward—a customary token of gratitude given in return for services rendered."
She knew precisely what he meant, her knowledge clear in the fine tension that gripped her. After a moment, she cleared her throat. "What reward do you want?"
"For locating Thurlow and Brown—a kiss."
She went still—so still he wondered if he'd shocked her. But she could hardly be surprised—she knew very well who and what he was. From behind her veil, she stared at him, but if she was flustered, there was no sign of it—her hands, folded in her lap, remained still. "A kiss?"
"Hmm." This time, he couldn't stop his lips curving, couldn't suppress the seductive purr that entered his voice. "Without the veil. Take it off."
"No." Calm—absolute. Arrogantly, he raised his brows.
She shifted on the seat. "No. The veil… I…"
He sighed resignedly. "Very well." Before she could think of some pretext on which to refuse the kiss altogether, he framed her face with one hand, his thumb under the edge of her veil, lifting it from her lips as he covered them with his.
Her lips had parted on a startled exclamation—as he caught them, she stilled. She didn't freeze, didn't panic—she simply sat, warm and alive, and let him fashion his lips to hers. He tilted her chin slightly; her face moved easily—she wasn't stiff. But there was no response as he pressed the caress upon her.
He wasn't having that, but he knew when to be patient.
He kissed her lightly, gently shifting his lips on hers, artfully dallying, waiting…
Her first surrender was a shiver—piercingly sweet, a ripple of pure sensation. He sensed the hitch in her breathing, the increasing tension in her spine.
Then her lips moved, firming under his, still not giving, but alive. It was as if she was a statue coming to life, cool marble slowly heating, stone carapace melting, giving way to flesh, blood, and life.
He held her face steady and increased the pressure of the kiss. Acutely focused on her, he knew when she lifted one gloved hand from her lap, raising it to where his hand cupped her face. Her fingers hovered, an inch from his hand, then, very gently, almost as if she wasn't sure he—his hand—was real, she touched her fingertips to the backs of his.
The hesitant touch rocked him—it held a wondering innocence that captivated and held him.
Her leather-encased fingertips trailed, tracing the back of his hand; they hesitated for one quivering instant, then settled.
Like a butterfly on the back of his hand.
Her fingers didn't grip, didn't tug—they simply touched. He drew breath—drew her perfume deep—and deepened the caress. Asking—for once in his life, not demanding.
And she gave. Of her own accord, she tipped her face further, swaying toward him as she offered her lips.
He swooped like a conqueror and took, claimed—but immediately reined back when he sensed her sudden skitter. She was unused to being kissed. Strange as that seemed, he knew it for fact—he didn't ponder the cause but set himself to ease her, tease her, encourage her.
She was a quick study—soon she was kissing him back, gently but without reserve. He longed to draw her into his arms, but experience warned against it. Her nervousness was now explained—for whatever reason, she wasn't used to this. His lips on hers, his hand about her face, seemed, at this moment, all she could assimilate, so he set himself to work with that.
Set himself to cajole and tease, to lead her to yield more, to seek more. When she hesitantly parted her lips, he felt he'd won a siege, but he was careful, this time, of taking advantage too quickly—which meant he savored every sweet moment of her surrender, the whole extended like a necklace of precious, individual gems of sensation.
When she tentatively touched his tongue with hers, then slowly, sinuously, caressed him in return, his head very nearly spun.
She was like fine wine—best savored slowly.
He finally drew back as the carriage rumbled around a corner. Chest swelling, he studied her lips, briefly illuminated by a street flare. They were full, deeply rosy, slightly swollen. "Now, for learning Swales's address…"
Her lips parted—whether in protest or invitation he didn't wait to learn. He covered them again; they molded easily, this time, to his, and parted fully the instant he touched them with his tongue.
Brook Street couldn't be much farther. The thought spurred him to drink more deeply, to take all she offered—then seek, search, and tempt her further.
She gave—not so much easily as willingly, taking hesitant steps along a path he instinctively knew she'd never trod. She'd never before been passionately kissed, never been awakened in this way. He had to wonder about her late husband, and whether she'd been awakened at all.
He held her steady, urging her on, his lips ruthless, just this side of hard. He would have taken her further, much further, but tonight they'd run out of time.
The carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt.
Reluctantly, he released her lips. For one instant, as their breaths mingled, he was tempted… then he drew away his hand and let her veil fall. She would reveal herself to him of her own accord. That was one moment he intended to fully savor.
He straightened. She sank against the seat. She tried to speak and almost choked; clearing her throat, she tried again. "Mr. Cynster…"
"My name is Gabriel."
Despite her veil, their gazes locked. She stared at him, her breasts rising and falling beneath her cloak. "I thought you had to consider our next move."
His gaze didn't waver. "Believe me, I am."
He waited; when she made no reply but continued to stare at him, he inclined his head. "Until our next meeting." He reached for the door. "Incidentally, when will that be?"
After a moment, she managed, "I'll contact you in a day or two."
She was still breathless; he hid a triumphant smile. "Very well." Deliberately, he let his gaze harden, pinning her where she sat. "But you will remember what I said. Leave Swales to me."
Although it was no question, he waited. Eventually, she nodded—one of her usual crisp nods. "Yes. All right."
Satisfied, he opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. Shutting the door, he signaled to the coachman. The reins flicked; the coach rumbled on.
He watched it roll away, then turned and climbed his steps, a great deal more than merely satisfied with the achievements of the night.
Chapter 4
« ^ »
She'd never felt so breathless in her life.
One elbow propped on the dining table, Alathea toyed with her toast and struggled to bring some order to the chaos of her mind. Not a simple task with her senses still reeling.
How naive she'd been to ignore the portent of that first, oh-so-innocent kiss. Sealing a pact, indeed! It hadn't occurred to her that, with no prickly reaction to stop him, he would most assuredly kiss her again. So now here she was, in a totally unexpected, never-before-experienced fluster. Just the thought of last night's kiss—series of kisses—was enough to addle her brain. One conclusion, however,
was horrifyingly clear. Her errant knight believed she was a married woman—an experienced married woman—one with whom he could freely dally. But she wasn't. Thus far, he hadn't suspected that fact, but how far could she travel his road of rewards without giving herself away?
Without having to give herself away?
All that was bad enough, but to top it all, he'd filched the reins from her grasp. God alone knew where her carefully laid plans were now headed.
She should have foreseen his move to take control; he'd always been the leader in their childhood games. But they were no longer children, and for the last ten years she'd been accustomed to command; being summarily relegated to the rank of follower was a little hard to take.
About her, the rest of her family talked, ate, laughed; sunk in her thoughts, she barely heard them. Picking up her toast, she crunched, and decided she'd have to allow at least the appearance of him being in charge. His Cynster self would settle for nothing less; it was pointless beating her head against that wall. That didn't mean she had to meekly let him make all the decisions, only let him think he was. Which led to the question of how she could ensure that he didn't forge on and simply leave her in ignorance.
She would have to meet with him regularly, a prospect that made her edgy. Organizing their next meeting was logically her next step, but she'd yet to recover from their last. She'd counted on his deep vein of chivalry in enticing him to her aid—not in her wildest dreams had she imagined he'd extrapolate so fiendishly as to claim a reward.
Even that word was now forever altered in her mind. Now it instantly evoked something illicit. Something exciting, thrilling, tempting—
Seductive.
Her thoughts whirled; her lungs seized. Simply recalling that moment in the carriage when, with typical highhandedness, he'd set his lips to hers still made her dizzy. Remembering what had followed sent color rushing to her cheeks.
Instantly, she banished the mental visions, and the remembered sensations as well. If anything, the latter were worse. Lifting her teacup, she sipped and prayed no one had noticed her blush. She hadn't blushed in the last five years, possibly not in the last ten. If she suddenly started coloring up over nothing, questions would be asked—speculation would be born. Quite the last thing she needed.
Ruthlessly burying all memories of the drive to his house, she told herself she had no reason to berate herself; she couldn't have avoided it—any of it—without raising his suspicions. There was no point considering it further, beyond sending heartfelt thanks to her guardian angel—she'd very nearly blurted out his name when he'd released her. "Rupert" had hovered on the tip of her tongue; she'd only just managed to swallow the word. Uttering it would have spelled an immediate end to her charade; she was the only female younger than his mother who persisted in calling him by his given name. He'd told her so himself.
Why she was so stubborn about it she didn't know—it was like clinging to a simpler time long gone. She'd always thought of him as Rupert.
My name is Gabriel.
His words rang in her mind. Gazing at the windows, she pondered; he was right—he was Gabriel now, not Rupert. Gabriel contained the boy, the youth, the man she'd known as Rupert, but also
encompassed more. A greater depth, a greater spectrum of experience—a deeper reserve.
After a moment, she mentally shook herself and finished her tea. As the countess, she would have to remember to call him Gabriel, while Alathea still dubbed him Rupert.
And she would have to find a way to limit the rewards Gabriel would, without doubt, attempt to claim.
"I think we should call on Lady Hertford this morning." Checking the day's invitations, Serena looked consideringly at Mary and Alice. "She's giving an at-home, and I think, if you wear those gowns that were delivered yesterday, it would be a useful venue at which to be seen."
"Oh, yes!" Mary exclaimed. "Do let's start going about." "Will there be other young ladies there?" Alice asked.
"Naturally." Serena turned to Alathea. "And you must come, too, my dear, or else I'll have to spend all my time explaining your absence."
That was said with a sweet but determined smile; Alathea smiled back. "Of course, I'll come, if nothing else to lend support."
Mary and Alice brightened even more. Amid serious discussion of ribbons, bonnets and reticules, they all retired upstairs to prepare for the projected excursion.
It was, indeed, very like a military sortie. An hour later, standing at the side of Lady Hertford's drawing room, Alathea hid a grin. Serena had led the metaphorical charge into her ladyship's arena, positioning her troops with keen eye and shrewd judgment. Mary and Alice were engaged with a group of similarly young and inexperienced damsels, chattering animatedly, all initial shyness forgotten. Serena was sitting with Lady Chelmsford and the Duchess of Lewes, both of whom also had under their wings young ladies making their come-outs. Alathea would have wagered a tidy sum that the talk had already veered to which gentlemen might be expected to unearth handkerchiefs to drop this Season.
For herself, she stood quietly at the side of the room, although she knew she'd been noted by all. As Serena had remarked, if she hadn't appeared, her whereabouts would have been questioned, but now that the matrons present had confirmed that the earl's eldest daughter—unmarried, which was a mystery, but quite an ape-leader now—was in no way out of the ordinary and was quite comfortable with her stepsisters and stepmother—well, with no grist for the gossip mill to be found, she'd been dismissed from their collective consciousness.
That suited her very well.
Finishing her tea, she glanced around for a table on which to set her cup. Spying one beyond the chaise on which her hostess sat chatting to one of her bosom-bows, Alathea glided along the wall, passing behind the chaise to set her cup down. She was about to retreat when the words "Central East Africa Gold Company" froze her where she stood.
She stared at the back of Lady Hertford's frizzy red head.
"An absolutely certain return, my cousin said, so naturally I told Geoffrey. I gave him the name of the man in charge, but Geoffrey's been hemming and hawing, dragging his feet." Leaning closer to her friend, Lady Hertford lowered her voice. "You may be sure I pointed out that what with the unexpected costs his heir has incurred at Oxford, he should be eager to better his current standing—I told him plainly that this year, Jane would need not just better gowns but more in her portion as well. But would he be moved?"
Lady Hertford sat poker straight, disapproval for her errant spouse in every line. "I'm convinced," she hissed, "that it's only because my dearest cousin Ernest suggested it, and Geoffrey's never liked Ernest."
Her friend murmured sympathetically, then turned the conversation to their offspring. Alathea moved away. Clearly, Lord Hertford shared her reaction to the Central East Africa Gold Company—in his case, if her ladyship was to be believed, because of who was "in charge."
From across the room, a turbaned dowager beckoned; Alathea obeyed the summons. With a serene smile firmly in place, she withstood an intensive inquisition on her obsession for the country and her spinster state. Not, of course, that the words "unfashionable recluse" or "husband" ever featured in the conversation.
Invincible serenity and an adamant refusal to be drawn finally won her her release from Lady Merricks, who snorted and waved her away. "Unconscionable—that's what it is, miss! Your grandmama would have been the first to say so."
With that observation ringing in her ears, Alathea gravitated back to the side of the room, and wondered if she dared broach the subject of the Central East Africa Gold Company with her hostess. One glance at Lady Hertford's round and ruddy countenance put paid to that idea. Her ladyship was unlikely to have any information beyond what she'd already divulged. More to the point, she would be amazed by Alathea's inquiry. Ladies of her ilk, young or otherwise, should have no interest in such matters—ladies of her ilk were not supposed to know such matters existed.
Which was a definite hurdle, for she could not, on the same count, beard his lordship, either.
Alathea glanced at the door. Did she dare slip out and search Lord Hertford's study? She debated the likelihood of finding anything helpful; if learning the name of the man behind the company had been enough to cool his lordship's interest, it seemed unlikely he would have needed to write it down.
The probable return did not seem worth the risk of getting caught searching Lord Hertford's study. She could just imagine the scandal that would provoke, especially if her reasons for searching ever came out.
And what if Gabriel learned of it?
No. She'd have to be patient. The very word chafed—she trenchantly repeated it. In the matter of the Central East Africa Gold Company, she was the countess and the countess had put her trust in Gabriel.
Patience and trust were all very well, but such virtues did nothing to ease her curiosity or allay the conviction that, if she left him too much to his own devices, Gabriel would either solve the entire matter and then present himself before her expecting to claim some impossible reward, or he'd become mired in some distracting detail and lose the thread entirely. Either was possible. If he had always been the leader, she had always been his eminence grise. It was time to reclaim that position.
They were attending an evening party at Osbaldestone House. Standing by the chaise on which Serena sat conversing with Lady Chadwick, Alathea scanned the crowd gathered to celebrate Lady Osbaldestone's sixtieth birthday. For her purpose, the setting was perfect.
Two days had passed since their unplanned meeting at Lincoln's Inn, two days in which Gabriel should have investigated the company's agent and his place of business. It was time for the countess to ask for a report.
Before her, the flower of the ton mingled and met. There was no dancing, just a string quartet installed in
an alcove, vainly striving to be heard over the din. Talk—gossip and repartee—were the primary occupations of the evening, activities at which the guest of honor excelled.
Lady Osbaldestone was sitting on a chaise facing the room's center. Alathea glanced her way. The old lady thumped her cane on the floor, then pointed it at Vane Cynster, currently standing before her. Vane stepped back as if taking refuge behind the willowy figure of his wife. Alathea had met Patience Cynster in the park a few days before. Patience curtsied with unruffleable calm before her ladyship.
Alathea wished she had a little more patience—her eyes strayed to the clock for the third time in ten minutes. It was not yet ten o'clock; the party had barely begun. Guests were still arriving. Gabriel was already here, but it was too early for the countess to materialize.
The Cynsters were here en masse, Lady Osbaldestone being a connection. Alathea was watching two beauties presently holding court under Gabriel's oddly unimpressed eye when long fingers wrapped about her elbow.
"Welcome to town, my dear."
The fingers slid down to tangle with hers and briefly squeeze. Alathea turned, a smile lighting her face. "I wondered where you were." She ran an appreciative glance over the tall, dark-haired, dark-garbed figure beside her. "Now what am I supposed to call you—Alasdair? Or Lucifer?"
His smile flashed, the pirate beneath the fashionable facade showing briefly. "Either will do." Alathea raised a brow. "Both accurate?"
"I do my poor best."
"I'm sure you do." She looked across the room. "But what's he doing?" Lucifer followed her gaze to his brother. "Guard duty. We take turns." Alathea studied the girls and caught the resemblance. "They're your cousins?"
"Hmm. They don't have an older brother to watch over them, so we do. Devil's in charge, of course, but he's not often in town these days. Very busy taking care of the ducal acres, the ducal purse, and the ducal succession."
Alathea's gaze shifted to the tall, striking figure of the Duke of St. Ives. "I see." Devil was paying amazingly close attention to a haughtily commanding lady standing by his side. "The lady with him…?"
"Honoria, his duchess."
"Ah!" Alathea nodded; Devil's intent gaze was now explained. She'd met all Gabriel's and Lucifer's male cousins occasionally over the years; she had no difficulty picking them out from the crowd. The family resemblance was definite, their general handsomeness a byword, although they were all identifiably distinct, from Devil's striking, piratical looks, to Vane's cool grace, to Gabriel's classical features and Lucifer's dark beauty. "I can't see the other two." She scanned the crowd again.
"They're not here. Richard and his witch are resident in Scotland." "His witch?"
"Well, his wife, but she truly is a witch of sorts. She's known as the Lady of the Vale in those parts."
"Indeed?"
"Mmm. And Demon's busy escorting his new wife on a prolonged tour of the racetracks." "Racetracks?"
"They have a shared interest in racing Thoroughbreds."
"Oh." Alathea checked her mental list. "That leaves only you two still unwed." Lucifer narrowed his eyes at her. "Et tu, Brute?"
Alathea smiled. "Merely an observation."
"Just as well, or I might be tempted to point out that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."
Alathea's smile didn't waver. "You know I've decided marriage isn't for me." "I know you've told me so—what I've never understood is why."
Shaking her head, she looked away. "Never mind." Her gaze returned to the two blond beauties chatting gaily, studiously ignoring Gabriel's lounging, deliberately intimidating presence mere yards away. "Your young cousins—are they twins?"
"Yes. This is their second Season, but they are only eighteen."
"Eighteen?" Alathea glanced at Lucifer, then back at the girls, confirming the modish gowns a touch more elegant than permissable for a girl in her first Season, the more sophisticated hairstyles, the assurance in the girls' gestures. Considering Gabriel watching over them like a potentially lethal avenging angel, Alathea shook her head. "What on earth does he—you—think you're doing? If they're eighteen… why"—she swung to look at Mary and Alice talking in a group nearby—"Alice is only seventeen."
"She is?" Lucifer turned to stare at Mary and Alice. "Good Lord—I didn't notice they were here." He frowned, then glanced across the room at his cousins. "If you'll excuse me?"
Without waiting for an answer, he swooped on Mary and Alice. With effortless charm, he detached them from their circle. One on each arm, he bore them across the room. Alathea watched, the question of what he was doing fading from her mind as the answer presented itself. He introduced her sisters to his cousins—a moment later, he slipped away from the enlarged circle now containing all four young ladies surrounded by a bevy of exceedingly safe, exceedingly careful young gentlemen.
The pleased-with-himself look on Lucifer's face as he slid into the crowd had Alathea shaking her head, not in wonder so much as resignation. She'd been the recipient of the protectiveness of Cynster males often enough to recognize the impulse. Knowing she was supposed to approve, although she wasn't at all sure she did, she smiled in reply to Lucifer's questioning glance.
Lucifer headed for Gabriel. Smoothly, Alathea joined the circle about Serena's chaise. From the comer of her eye, she watched Lucifer explain his new arrangement; Gabriel nodded and passed the watch to Lucifer. Lucifer pulled a face but acquiesced, taking Gabriel's place by the wall.
Alathea darted a glance at the clock. Perfect. Lucifer's maneuvers were going to prove unexpectedly helpful; for the next hour she felt sure she could rely on him and his fair cousins to keep Mary and Alice
happily occupied. And any minute now…
Majestic, yet blending into the glittering scene, Lady Osbaldestone's butler cleaved through the crowd. He stopped before Gabriel and presented a silver salver. Gabriel lifted a note from the salver, dismissing the butler with a nod. Opening the folded sheet, he scanned it, then refolded it and slipped it into his pocket.
The entire proceedings had taken no more than a minute—unless one had been watching Gabriel specifically, in the crush, nothing would have been seen. Not a flicker of expression betrayed his thoughts—on anything.
Trusting he'd respond to the instructions in the note, Alathea looked away, giving her attention to Serena and her neighbors until it was time for her next move.
She reached the gazebo five minutes early, already slightly breathless. She told herself it was because she'd hurried, because she'd kept trying to watch in every direction at once to make sure no one saw her slip away. The vise locked about her lungs owed nothing to the fact that she was soon to meet Gabriel—not Rupert, but his far more dangerous alter ego—once more in the dark of night.
Folwell had been waiting as instructed in the thick bushes lining the carriage drive. He'd brought her cloak, veil and high-heeled shoes, and her special perfume. Drawing in a deep breath—steeling herself—Alathea let the exotic scent wreathe through her brain. She was the countess.
In her disguise, she actually felt like someone else—not Lady Alathea Morwellan, spinster, ape-leader. It was as if her anonimity and the seductive perfume brought out another side of her—she had little difficulty sliding into her role.
The gazebo stood tucked away at the end of the shrubbery—she'd remembered it from years ago. It was far enough from the house to be safe from the risk of others chancing by, and so overhung by trees and rampant shrubs that she need not fear any stray beam of light, a pertinent consideration as she'd been unable to change her gown.
Outside, gravel crunched. A sudden thrill shot through her; tingles of excitement raced over her skin. Facing the archway, she drew herself up, head erect, hands clasped before her. Anticipation slid, insidiously compelling, through her veins. Ruthlessly quelling a reactive shiver, she drew in a tight breath. Tonight, she was determined to hold her own.
He appeared, a black silhouette filling the doorway, her sworn knight come to report. He was a dark presence, intensely masculine, achingly familiar yet so unnervingly unknown. Pausing on the threshold, he located her in the dark; he hesitated—she felt his gaze rake her, felt an inexplicable urge to turn and flee. Instead, she stood still, silent and challenging.
He strolled forward. "Good evening, my dear."
She was a creature of night and shadow, discernible only as a darker shape in the dense gloom within the gazebo. Her height, her veil and cloak—Gabriel could see nothing beyond that, but his senses had abruptly focused; he was sure it was she. Halting directly before her, he studied her, very conscious of the alluring perfume that rose from her flesh. "You didn't sign your note."
Despite not being able to see it, he knew she raised a haughty brow. "How many ladies send you messages to meet them in dark gazebos?"
"More than you'd care to count."
She stilled. "Were you expecting someone else?"
"No." He paused, then added, "I was expecting you." Not here at Osbaldestone House, under his very nose, but he hadn't imagined she'd calmly sit in her drawing room and wait for a week before contacting him again. "I expect you'd like to know what I've learned?"
He heard the purr in his voice, and sensed her wariness.
"Indeed." She lifted her chin; he could feel the challenge in her gaze.
"Swales doesn't live at that address on the Fulham Road—it's a public house called the Onslow Arms. Henry Feaggins is the proprietor. He holds the mail for Swales."
"Does Feaggins know where Swales lives?"
"No—Swales simply stops by every few days. There was no mail to be collected, so I sent a letter—a blank sheet. Swales came in this morning and picked it up. My man followed him—Swales went to a mansion in Egerton Gardens. It seems he lives there."
"Who owns the mansion?" "Lord Archibald Douglas." "Lord Douglas?"
He looked sharply at her. "Do you know him?"
She shook her head. "Could Lord Douglas be the chairman of the company?"
Her question effectively answered his. "Unlikely—Archie Douglas cares for nothing beyond wine, women, and cards. Spending money is his forte, not making it. However…" He paused, considering how much to reveal. Looking at her veiled face, upturned to his, he inwardly admitted that it was her investigation as much, if not more, than his. "If Swales is the company agent and he's using Archie's home as his base, then there's a very good chance—better than even money—that a good friend of Archie's, who also happens to be in residence at this time, is the real power behind the Central East Africa Gold Company."
"And who is this friend?"
"Mr. Ranald Crowley." The name hung heavy on the air, laden with dislike. "You know him." It wasn't a question.
"We've never met. We have, however, crossed swords, financially speaking, and I know a great deal of his reputation."
"Which is?"
"Not good. He's a black-hearted scoundrel. He's been thought to have been involved in a number of less-than-straightforward dealings, but whenever the authorities show any interest, the venture simply evaporates. There's never been any proof against him, but in the… shall we say, underworld of business, he's well known." He hesitated, then added, "And well feared. He's said to be cunning and dangerous—few doubt he would balk at murder if the gain was sufficient."
She shivered and wrapped her arms about her. "So he's a clever, black-hearted scoundrel." A moment later, she said, "I overheard that Lord Hertford declined to invest in the company purely because of'the man in charge.'"
Focused on her, Gabriel waved dismissively. "Don't worry about Crowley—I'll look into the situation."
He reached for her—she was in his arms before she knew it. Amazed to find her hands resting on his chest, she looked up. "What—?"
He heard the fluster in her voice, sensed the anticipation that flashed through her. Inwardly, he grinned. "My reward for locating Swales."
She hauled in a rushed breath. "I never said anything about rewards."
"I know." Tightening his arm about her, he brushed her veil aside and lowered his lips to hers, touching them lingeringly once, twice… she quivered, then surrendered. He caught his breath as her supple, womanly warmth sank against his much harder frame—a tentative, evocative caress. His lips a mere whisker from hers, he murmured, "You'll need to pay nevertheless."
She made no effort to deny him—he claimed his due, his lips firming, then hardening on hers. She met him, not proactive but ready to follow his lead, her reactions a mirror reflecting his desire, her giving a reflection of his need. Inch by unconscious inch, her hands stole upward, eventually sliding over his shoulders. She angled her head, inviting him to deepen the kiss.
He did. She sank into his embrace and he tightened his arms, and his hold, on her. Her perfume sank into his brain.
All he asked for, she gave, not just willingly but with an openhearted generosity that was an invitation to plunder. So he plundered, but with no sense of seizing anything that wasn't freely given. If he wanted, she gave—readily, easily, as if she delighted in the giving. Which only made him want more.
He pushed her veil back; with her head tipped up, there was no need to hold it. Sliding his hand down, he found the opening of her cloak. With her arms over his shoulders, he couldn't flick the cloak up and over hers. Instead, he parted it, sliding his palm over the silk of her gown, around to the back of her waist. Supporting her there, he transferred his other hand beneath the heavy cloak; closing both hands about her hips, he drew her nearer.
She obliged without a murmur of dissent—she was so tall, they were nearly hip to hip, her thighs against his, the hollow at their apex a cradle for his erection. If she was aware of it, she gave no sign, not that he gave her time to think. His lips remained on hers, commanding her senses while his sought wilder pleasures.
When he closed his hand about her breast, he wondered if he'd gone too far—the shock that lanced through her was very real. He instinctively soothed, distracting her with his lips, his tongue, with increasingly explicit kisses, but he didn't remove his hand. Moments later, she drew in a shaky breath. Beneath his hand, her breast swelled; against his palm, he felt the furling of her nipple. Only then did he caress the soft flesh, feeling it heat and firm. She was wearing nothing more than two layers of fine silk; the temptation to do away with them, to lower his head and set his mouth to her sweet flesh, grew with every second, with every shared breath.
He let the compulsion grow, caressing, teasing, taunting, kneading, stroking until he knew her breasts were aching, longing for more. Only then did he slip the tiny buttons closing her bodice free. Sliding his
fingers across her silken shoulder, he searched, and found the ribbons of her chemise.
She knew what he was doing. Her awareness, focused, heightened, followed his fingers; the fine tension investing the supple muscles along her spine tightened—then locked as he tugged. The tiny bow unraveled; the ribbons slid free. He paused, deliberately easing back from their kiss, giving her a chance to stop him if she would. He knew very well she wouldn't. He searched, found, and tugged again. Her breath shivered against his lips. Smoothly, he drew her chemise down, deliberately dragging the silk over her sensitized flesh.
Then, deliberately, he pressed aside the heavier silk of her bodice and closed his hand, skin to petal-soft skin, about her breast.
Her breathing fractured. His fingers firmed and she gasped.
He took her lips again, too hungry, too needy, even while his senses feasted. She'd never been touched, not as he was touching her, caressing her until she whimpered and clung. Her flesh was warm, her nipples tight buds as she gave herself up to his touch. She was a sensual innocent, as generous with her body as she had been with her lips, every bit as instinctively giving. The hot mounds of her breasts were a sensual delight far too tempting to ignore.
She murmured incoherently when he drew his lips from hers, nudging her head back so he could trace the line of her throat, remembering just in time not to mark her. The sweet flesh filling his hand beckoned; he lowered his head and heard her stifled cry.
It was a warning, one he was too experienced not to heed. He was driving too fast, pushing her relentlessly along a path she'd never trod. So he slowed, introducing her to each sensation, letting her assimilate the glory of each before moving on to the next. Only when she was fully prepared did he draw one aching peak into his mouth. Her fingers sank into his shoulders; she arched in his arms, but not to pull away. She was hot and malleable under his hands, the very essence of sensual woman in the night.
She was fascinating, a houri, a woman of endless temptation—he basked in her warmth, feasted on her bounty, secure in the knowledge that she would eventually be his. Not tonight, but soon. Very soon.
When, at last, he lifted his head, she pressed herself to him, her body afire, helpless in her need. He took the lips she offered, glorying in her eagerness. He sent his hands roaming over her hips, over the smooth swells of her derriere, tracing the hemispheres, then artfully caressing until she shifted her hips sensuously against his, searching instinctively for ease.
He gave her none—not tonight. She might be wondrously responsive, gloriously giving, but tonight would be too far, too fast. She was sensually naive, definitely untutored, even if she could not be precisely innocent. Having known only a much older husband who had clearly failed to appreciate her, that was obviously the case. She was following his lead blind; he knew it. He, however, knew precisely what they were about, knew very well how the timing went, how the play should pan out. And even though he'd restructured the script and advanced her lessons to the point where her ultimate surrender was imminent, that time was not yet.
Thus spake the coldly calculating mind of a highly experienced rake. His body, unfortunately, was far from cold and didn't want to listen; most of his mind was similarly enthralled with the wonder in his arms.
It took iron will and every ounce of his determination even to think of letting her go, to accept that this interlude filled with burgeoning sensuality and such gloriously heady promise had to come to a close. An unfulfilled close. Even when his mind was finally won over, convincing his lips, tongue, arms and hands to
comply was a battle.
He finally succeeded in lifting his head. Drawing in a huge breath, feeling her breasts hot and firm against his expanding chest, he stole just one more minute to revel in the feel of her against him, in the trusting way she leaned into him, the soft huff of her breath against his jaw, the heady temptation of her perfume. And her.
She sighed—a shivery exhalation laden with arousal, her breath caressed his check.
His arms, about to relax, tightened instead; he turned his head, his lips seeking hers, his script forgotten—
She stopped him with a hand on his cheek. "Enough."
For an instant, he teetered on the brink, her injunction at odds with the way she lay, supple and enticing in his arms.
As if she sensed the clash of will and desire, she repeated, "You've had reward enough."
He caught her hand, held it—unsure even in his own mind what he would do next. Then he drew breath, turned her hand, and placed a kiss in her palm. "For now."
He straightened, setting her on her feet, supporting her until she was steady.
Her first movement was to raise her hand and—weakly—flip down her veil. He could now see her outline clearly; transparently dazed, she looked down at her gaping bodice. He reached for her. "Here—let me."
She did. He drew her chemise up, tied the ribbons loosely, then closed her bodice. Her nervousness grew. The instant the last button was secured, she resettled her cloak, then glanced around. "Ah…" She was clearly having trouble reassembling her wits. Drawing in another breath, she waved—weakly still—to the house. "You go back first."
Despite having found her here, he wasn't about to leave her here, alone in the dark. "I'll walk you to the edge of the shrubbery, then I'll go on ahead."
For one instant, he thought she'd argue, but then she nodded. "Very well."
He offered his arm and she took it; pacing slowly, he led her out of the gazebo.
She said nothing as they strolled the winding walks, leaving him to reflect on how at ease in her company he felt, and how, despite the sensual flickering of her nerves, she was confident enough, reassured enough, not to invoke conversation's protective screen. Now he thought of it, she'd yet to make an aimless remark. Meaningless patter was not the countess's style.
They reached the last hedge and she stopped. He scanned her veiled face, then inclined his head. "Until next time."
Turning, he strode across the lawn.
Her pulse still galloping, her head still whirling, Alathea watched her broad-shouldered knight cross to the house, saw him silhouetted by its blazing windows. He went up the terrace steps and in through the open doors without once looking back.
Shrinking back into the darkness, she waited for long minutes while her fevered skin cooled, while her
heartbeat steadied, while the exhilaration that had gripped her—the daring, the compulsion, and that frighteningly wild and wanton desire—waned. She tried to think but couldn't. Finally, hugging the shadows, she made her way around to the carriage drive.
Folwell was waiting; she handed him her cloak and veil, and changed her shoes. He slipped away, taking her disguise back to the carriage. Once more herself—at least in appearance—she reentered the house by a side door, then made her way to the withdrawing room.
Luckily, the event wasn't a major ball; the withdrawing room was quiet. Sitting before a table provided with a mirror, she ordered warm water and towel and set about bathing her wrists, temples, and throat, removing all trace of the countess's exotic scent. Then she asked for cold water, dipped in a corner of the towel, and when no other lady was looking, held the cold compress to her swollen lips.
She didn't dare peek, but she was sure he must have marked her. Scalded her, or so it had felt. Thank God nothing showed above her neckline. Just the thought of his mouth on her breasts sent heat rushing to them. She could feel his hands caressing her—she wished they still were.
In the mirror, she met her own eyes. She looked deep for long minutes, then grimaced. Looking down, she dipped the towel into the cold water; after a surreptitious glance around, she reapplied it to her still rosy lips.
She wasn't in the habit of deceiving herself—there was no point pretending that she hadn't known he would claim a reward if he'd uncovered any new facts, and that the likelihood of his having done so had been high. She'd gone to the gazebo knowing her protests would very likely prove too weak to stop him claiming all he wished.
She'd been right about that, but it was too late for regrets. In truth, she wasn't sure she harbored any. That, however, did not alter the fact that she was now in deep trouble.
He thought they were playing a game—one at which he was an acknowledged expert but which she had never played before. She knew some of the rules, but not all of them; she knew some of the moves, but not enough of them. She'd initiated the charade, but now he'd taken control and was rescripting her role to suit his own needs.
To suit his own desires.
She tried to summon a suitable degree of annoyance; the thought that he desired her wouldn't let annoyance form. The very concept intrigued her, lured her. No serpent had ever been so persuasive; no apple so tempting.
No knight so invincibly demanding.
That last made her sigh—changing direction was impossible. She'd started the charade; she'd have to play her part. Her options were severely limited.
She studied her reflection, then, with her usual deliberation, decided: While alone with him, she wasn't Lady Alathea Morwellan but his mysterious countess. It was the countess he'd kissed and the countess who'd responded.
Not her.
There'd been no harm done; none would be done.
She lowered the towel. He'd seemed to find her kisses—and the rest of her—quite satisfactory as a reward. She'd sensed his hunger—his appetite; she was certain that was not something he would fabricate. Their interaction was in no way harming him, and while it might be unsettling—even eye-opening—it wasn't hurting her.
And the fact that her kisses were enough to satisfy one of the ton's most exacting lovers was an invisible feather she'd proudly wear in her spinster cap—the cap she'd wear for the rest of her life.
Refocusing on the mirror, she critically surveyed her face and lips. Almost normal.
Her lips twisted wryly. Impossible to play the hypocrite and pretend that she hadn't enjoyed it—that she hadn't felt a thrill, an excitement beyond anything she'd previously known. In those long minutes when he'd held her in his arms, claiming her, she'd felt a woman whole for the first time in her life.
Indeed, he made her feel like a woman other than herself—or did he simply make her feel things she shouldn't, compulsions she'd had no idea she could experience. She was twenty-nine, on the shelf, very definitely an old maid. In his arms, she hadn't felt old at all—she'd felt alive.
Driven by necessity, she'd set aside all hope of ever knowing what it was to be a woman with a man. She'd had her longings, but she'd locked them away, telling herself they could never be fulfilled. And they never could be—not all of them, not now. But if, in protecting her family again as she was, the chance was offered to experience just a little of what she'd had to forgo, wasn't that merely justice?
And if she knew she was playing with fire? Tempting fate beyond the bounds of all sanity? Setting down the towel, she stared into her eyes, then she stood and turned toward the door. She couldn't turn her back on her family, which meant she couldn't walk away from Gabriel. Whether she wished it or not, she was trapped in her charade.
Chapter 5
« ^ »
Heathcote Montague's office looked down on a small courtyard tucked away behind buildings a stone's throw from the Bank of England. Standing before the window, Gabriel stared down at the cobbles, his mind fixed on the countess.
Who was she? Had she been a guest at Osbaldestone House, lips curving with secret laughter as she waltzed past him? Or, knowing he, together with all the Cynsters, would be there, had she slipped in uninvited, waited in the garden until their meeting, then slipped away through the shadows again? If so, she'd taken a considerable risk—who knows whom she might inadvertently have met. He didn't like her taking risks—that was one point he fully intended to make clear.
But only after he'd made love to her—after he'd had his fill of her feminine delights and pleasured her into oblivion.
He had a strong suspicion she didn't even know what sexual oblivion was. But she would—just as soon as he had her alone again. After last night, that much was certain—he'd already had his fill of restless nights.
"Hmm. Nothing here."
It took him a moment to return to the present, then he turned.
Heathcote Montague, perennially neat, precise but self-effacing, set the three notes he'd just received to one side of his desk and looked up. "I've heard back from nearly everyone. None of us, nor any of our clients, have been approached. Precisely what one would expect if the Central East Africa Gold Company is another of Crowley's crooked schemes."
"Us" referred to the select band of "men of business" who handled the financial affairs and investments of the wealthiest families in England.
"I think"—deserting the window, Gabriel started to pace—"given it is Crowley behind it and he's avoiding all knowledgeable investors, then we can reasonably conclude the scheme's a fraud.
Furthermore, if the amounts involved are comparable to that on the promissory note I saw, this scheme's going to cause considerable financial distress if it runs its course."
"Indeed." Montague leaned back. "But you know the law's view as well as I. The authorities won't step in until fraud is apparent—'
"By which time it's always too late." Gabriel faced Montague. "I want to shut this scheme down, quickly and cleanly."
"That's going to be difficult with promissory notes." Montague held his gaze. "I assume you don't want this note you saw executed."
"No."
Montague grimaced. "After last time, Crowley's not going to explain his plans to you."
"Not that he explained them to me last time." Gabriel returned to the window. He and Ranald Crowley had a short but not sweet past history. One of Crowley's first ventures, floated in the City, had sounded very neat, looked very tempting. It had been poised to draw in a large number of the ton, until he had been asked for his opinion. He'd considered the proposal, asked a few pertinent but not obvious questions, to which there were no good answers, and the pigeons had taken flight. The incident had closed many doors for Crowley.
"You're probably," Montague observed, "one of Crowley's least favorite people." "Which means I can't appear or show my hand in any way in this case. And nor can you." "The mere mention of the name Cynster will be enough to raise his hackles."
"And his suspicions. If he's as cunning as his reputation paints him, he'll know all about me by now."
"True, but we're going need details of the specific proposal made to investors to secure their promissory notes in order to prove fraud."
"So we need a trustworthy sheep." Montague blinked. "A sheep?"
Gabriel met his gaze. "Someone who can believably line up to be fleeced." "Serena!"
Together with Serena, seated beside her, Alathea turned to see Lady Celia Cynster waving from her barouche drawn up beside the carriageway.
Waving in reply, Serena spoke to their coachman. "Here, Jacobs—as close as you can."
Spine poker straight, Jacobs angled their carriage onto the verge three carriages from Celia's. By the time Alathea, Mary, and Alice had stepped down to the grass, Celia and her girls were upon them.
"Wonderful!" Celia watched her daughters, Heather, sixteen, and Eliza, fifteen, greet Mary and Alice. The air was instantly abuzz with chatter and innocent queries. The four girls had the years of their shared childhoods to bind them in much the same way as Alathea, Lucifer, and Gabriel. Celia gestured at her offspring. "They insist on coming for a drive, only to become bored after the first five minutes."
"They have yet to learn that social chatter is the… comme ca va?—oil that makes the ton's wheels go around?"
"Oil that greases the ton's wheels." Celia turned to the speaker, a strikingly beautiful older lady who had strolled up in her wake.
Alathea curtsied deeply. "Your Grace."
Serena, still seated in the carriage, bowed and echoed the words.
Smiling, Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, put out a gloved hand to tip up Alathea's face. "You grow more attractive with the years, ma petite."
Through her frequent visits to Quiverstone Manor, the Dowager was well known to the Morwellans. Alathea smiled and rose; the Dowager's brows rose, too. "Not so petite." Catching Alathea's eye, she lifted one brow even higher. "Which makes it even more of a mystery why you are not wed, hein?"
The words were uttered softly; Alathea smiled and refused to be drawn. While she was used to such queries, the intelligence behind the Dowager's pale green eyes always left her with the uncomfortable feeling that here was one who suspected the truth.
The carriage rocked as Serena rose, clearly intending to join them. Helena waved her back. "No, no. I will ascend and we can chat in comfort." She gestured at Celia and Alathea. "These two must stretch their legs in the service of propriety."
Alathea and Celia looked in the direction of Helena's nod; the four girls, heads together, arms linked, were already strolling the lawn.
Celia sighed resignedly. "At least we can stroll together and chat."
Leaving Helena settling in beside Serena, Alathea and Celia followed the four girls, but with no intention of joining them. They only needed to keep the girls in sight, leaving them free to talk without reserve.
Celia immediately availed herself of that freedom. "Have you spoken to Rupert since coming up to town?"
"Yes." Alathea mentally scrambled to recall the meeting—the one with Rupert, not Gabriel. "We met briefly while the girls and I were out walking."
"Well, then. You'll have seen. What am I to do with him?"
Alathea swallowed the observation that no one had ever been able to "do" anything with Rupert Melrose
Cynster.
He was as malleable as granite and always on guard against manipulation. As for Gabriel… "I saw nothing unusual. What worries you so?"
"Him! He!" Celia's fists clenched on the handle of her parasol. "He's even more infuriating than his father. At least, by his age, Martin had had the good sense to marry me. But will Rupert turn his mind to the same task?"
"He's only thirty."
"Which is more than old enough. Demon has married, and Richard, too—Richard's only a bare year older than Rupert." A minute later, Celia signed. "It's not so much the marrying as his frame of mind. He doesn't even look at ladies properly, at least not with a view to any legitimate connection. And even the other sort of connection—well, the reports are hardly encouraging."
Alathea tried to keep her lips shut, but… "Encouraging?"
Ahead, the four girls burst out laughing; glancing their way, Celia explained, "It is apparently common knowledge that Rupert is cold—even with his mistresses he remains distant and aloof."
"He always was…" About to say "reserved," Alathea reconsidered. "Guarded." That was much closer to the mark. "He always keeps his feelings under very close control."
"Control is one thing—true disinterest is another." Celia's concern shadowed her eyes. "If he can't catch fire even in that arena, what chance is there for any acceptable lady to set tinder to his wick?"
Alathea fought to keep her lips straight. By any standard, their conversation was exceedingly improper, but she and Celia had a decade-long habit of discussing her sons—Alathea's childhood companions—with a frankness that would have made their subjects' ears burn. But Rupert cold? It wasn't an adjective she'd ever associated with him, not as Alathea Morwellan and even less as the countess. "Are you sure you're getting the true picture? Mightn't you be hearing solely from those ladies he hasn't been…"—she gestured—" 'interested in?'"
"Would that that were so. But my information has frequently come from disgruntled ladies he has been 'interested in'. One and all, they've despaired of making any serious impression on him. If half the tales told are true, he barely remembers their names!"
Alathea's brows rose. Rupert being vague over a name was a sure sign he was not paying attention, which meant he was not truly "interested" at all. "Perhaps," she said, steering the conversation away from her nemesis, "Alasdair will marry first."
"Hah! Don't be fooled by all that easygoing charm. He's even worse than Rupert. Oh, not that he's cold—quite the opposite. But he's feckless, footloose, and overindulged. He's busy enjoying himself without any long-term ties—he's developed a deep-seated conviction he doesn't need any shackles on his freedom." Celia's humph was the definition of disapproving. "All I can do is pray some lady has what it takes to bring him to his knees." She looked up, checking the girls still strolling ahead.
After a moment, she murmured, "But it's really Rupert who worries me. He's so detached. Uninvolved."
Alathea frowned. Gabriel hadn't treated the countess as if he were detached or uninvolved. Far from it, but she could hardly reassure Celia with that news. It seemed odd that the portrait Celia was painting was so different from the man she knew, let alone the man she was discovering, the man who had held her in his arms last night.
Celia sighed. "Put it down to a mother's concern for her firstborn if you will, but I can't see how any lady is going to break through Rupert's defenses."
It was possible if one had known him for years and knew where the chinks were. Nevertheless, Alathea inwardly admitted that she could easily see him steadfastly refusing to let any lady close, not in the emotional sense. He didn't like close—he didn't like emotional. He and she had been emotionally close all their lives, and look how he reacted to that. If Celia was correct, she was the only female he had ever allowed within his guard…
Everything within her stilled. Had his experience with her, of her, hardened him against all women?
Then she remembered the countess. With the countess, he was intent, attentive, certainly not distant and cold. Perhaps distant and cold came later? After…?
Inwardly frowning, she shook aside her thoughts. Looking ahead, she saw the four girls nearing a group of budding dandies. "Perhaps we'd better catch up."
Celia looked; her gaze sharpened. "Indeed." Where in London was he to find a suitable sheep?
Leaving Lucifer and the friends with whom they'd lunched in the smoking room of White's, Gabriel scanned the occupants of the rooms through which he passed. None fitted his bill. It had to be someone with no obvious connection to the Cynsters, yet someone he could trust. Someone sharp enough to play a part but appear vacuous. Someone willing to take orders from him. Someone reliable.
Someone with money to invest and some hope of appearing gullible.
While he had contacts aplenty who would qualify on most counts, that last criterion excused them all. Where was he supposed to find such a someone?
Pausing on the steps of White's, he considered, then strolled down and headed for Bond Street.
It was the height of the Season and the sun was shining—as he'd expected, all the ton and their relatives were strolling the fashionable street. The crowd was considerable, the traffic snarled. He ambled, scanning the faces, noting those he knew, assessing, rejecting, considering alternatives—trying to ignore the female half of the population. He needed a sheep, not a tall lady.
Even if he saw the countess, he doubted he'd know her. Other than her height and her perfume, he knew so little of her. If he kissed her, he'd know, but he could hardly kiss every possible lady on the off-chance she was his houri. Besides, he'd already determined that the fastest way to get the countess precisely where he wanted her was to learn more about the company—and that necessitated finding a sheep.
He was halfway along the street when, immediately ahead, four ladies stepped out of a milliner's shop and congregated on the pavement. In the instant he recognized the Morwellans, Alathea raised her head and looked directly at him. Serena, Mary, and Alice followed her gaze—their faces promptly lit with smiles.
There was nothing for it but to do the pretty. Sliding into his fashionable persona, he shook Serena's hand, exchanged nods with Mary and Alice, and lastly, more stiffly, with Alathea. As all four ladies stepped free of the throng by the shop windows, closer to the curb so they could converse more easily, Alathea hung back, then took up a position a good yard away from him, so that they both had their backs to the congested carriageway with Serena, Mary, and Alice strung between, facing them.
"We met your mother and your sisters only this morning," Serena informed him. "In the park," Mary added. "We strolled—it was such fun."
"There were some silly gentlemen about," Alice said. "They had monstrous cravats—nothing like yours or Lucifer's."
He responded easily, in truth without thought. Even though Serena, Mary, and Alice ranked high on his list of people to be kind to, with Alathea three feet away, his senses, as always, slewed to her.
And prickled, and itched.
Even though he'd barely glanced at her, he knew she was wearing a lavender walking dress and a chip bonnet that covered her haloed hair. Under the bonnet, he was certain, would lurk one of those scraps of lace he found so offensive. He couldn't comment, not even elliptically, not with Serena before him… on the other hand, if he caught Alathea's eye, she would know what he was thinking.
With that in mind, he glanced her way.
The carriage horse behind her reared, kicking over the traces—
He grabbed Alathea and hauled her to him, swinging around, instinctively shielding her. A hoof whizzed past their heads. The horse screamed, dragged the carriage, then tried to kick again—the rising knee caught him in the back.
He jerked, but stayed upright.
Pandemonium ensued. Everybody yelled. Men ran from all over to help. Others called instructions. One lady had hysterics—another swooned. In seconds, they were surrounded by a noisy crowd; the driver of the green horse was the center of attention.
Gabriel stood motionless on the curb, Alathea locked in his arms. His senses were reeling, his wits no less so. At the edge of his awareness, he heard Serena, Mary, and Alice shrilly scolding the driver—they were incensed but not hysterical. Everyone around them was watching the melee in the road, temporarily ignoring him and Alathea.
He tried to catch his breath, and couldn't. A host of emotions poured through him, relief that she was unhurt not the least. He hadn't been gentle—he'd slammed her against him, then held tight; she was plastered to him from shoulder to knee. She'd gasped, then gasped again as his body had jolted with the horse's kick.
Her gaze was fixed over his shoulder, but from her fractured breathing, he suspected she saw nothing. A light, flowery fragrance rose from her breasts, crushed to his chest; soft whorls of hair peeked from under her bonnet, mere inches from his face.
He felt her catch her breath; a slight shiver went through her. She gathered herself—he could feel steel infuse the fine muscles in her back—then she turned her head and looked into his face.
Their gazes met and held—hazel drowning in hazel. Hers were clouded, so many emotions chasing each other across her eyes that he couldn't identify any of them. Then, abruptly, the clouds cleared and one emotion shone through.
He recognized it instantly, even though it had been years since last he'd seen it. Concern poured from her eyes and warmed him—he'd forgotten how it always had.
"Are you all right?" Her hands, trapped between them, fisted in his coat. 'The horse kicked you."
When he didn't immediately reply she tried to shake him. Her body shifted against his. He caught his breath. "Yes, I'm all right." But he wasn't. "Only the knee connected—not the hoof."
She stilled in his arms, open concern for him filling her face. "It must hurt."
All of him hurt—he was so aroused he was in agony.
He knew the instant she realized. Flush against him, she couldn't help but know. Her gaze flickered, then her lashes lowered—her gaze fell to his lips, then to his cravat. An instant later, she sucked in a small breath and wriggled—just a little. It was a long ago sign between them; she wasn't attempting to break free—she knew she couldn't—she was asking to be let go.
Forcing his arms to unlock, then setting her back from him was the hardest physical labor he'd ever performed. She immediately fussed with her skirts and didn't look at him.
He felt flustered, awkward, embarrassed… he swung on his heel to view the disaster in the road, praying she hadn't noticed the color in his cheeks.
Alathea knew the instant his gaze left her. She couldn't breathe; her wits were reeling so crazily she felt disorientated as well as dizzy. Straightening, she pretended to watch as the fracas was resolved, grateful when it required Gabriel's intervention. Rigid, she waited on the pavement, stiffly inclining her head when the gentleman who'd been in charge of the young horse approached with profuse apologies.
In her mind, she repeated a single refrain: Gabriel hadn't realized. Not yet.
The question of whether he would suddenly see the light kept her stiff as a poker. Then Serena bustled up, all matronly concern, both for her and her protector.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Uninhibited by age or elegance, Serena grabbed Gabriel's arm and made him swing around.
Alathea allowed herself a fleeting glance at his face as Serena brushed off his coat.
He frowned and all but squirmed. "No harm done." Freeing himself from Serena's grasp, he gathered Mary and Alice with a glance. "It would be wise to retreat." He hesitated, then asked Serena, "Is your carriage close?"
"Jacobs is waiting just around the corner." Serena waved back along the street.
For the first time since he'd let her go, Gabriel looked directly at her; Alathea immediately waved Mary and Alice before her, then turned in the direction of the carriage. The last thing she needed was to stroll on his arm.
He offered his arm to Serena; she was very ready to lean on his strength. She filled the distance back to the carriage with sincere and copious thanks for his prompt and efficient action. Safely separated from him by Mary and Alice, Alathea murmured her agreement, allowing her stepmother's praise to stand in place of her own.
She was grateful—she knew she should thank him. But she wasn't game to get too close to him, not when she'd so recently been in his arms. She had no idea what might trigger a fateful convergence of
memories; holding her head high, she walked to the carriage, apprehension crawling along her spine.
By lengthening her stride, she reached the carriage first and climbed in without waiting for his assistance. He shot her a hard glance, then handed the others up. He stepped back and saluted; Jacobs flicked his reins.
At the very last, Alathea turned her head—their gazes met, held… she inclined her head and looked forward.
Gabriel watched the carriage rattle away down the side street, his gaze locked on Alathea's chip bonnet, on her shoulders encased in lavender twill. He watched until the carriage disappeared around a corner, then, his expression turning grim, he headed back to Bond Street.
Rejoining the bustling throng, he walked along, his gaze fixed ahead, unseeing. He still felt stunned—poleaxed to be precise. To be so aroused by Alathea. He couldn't understand why it had happened, but he could hardly pretend it hadn't—he was still feeling the definite effects.
He was also feeling rocked, off balance, and hideously uncomfortable. He'd never felt that way about her—they'd always been such close friends, that had never raised its head.
He walked on; gradually, his mind cleared.
And the obvious answer presented itself, much to his intense relief.
Not Alathea—the countess. He'd spent all last night plotting the how and where of her ultimate seduction, teasing himself with all the details; this morning, he'd set out to implement his plan. Then fate in the guise of a horse had flung Alathea into his arms. Obvious.
It was hardly surprising that his body had confused the two women—both were tall, although the countess was definitely taller. They were both slender, willowy—very similar in build. They both had the same fine, supple muscles in their backs, but that, he assumed, was to be expected of any very tall, slender woman—an architectural necessity.
The physically obvious, however, was the limit of their similarity. If he dared kiss her, Alathea would tear a verbal strip off him—she certainly wouldn't melt into his arms with that gloriously seductive sensual generosity the countess displayed.
The thought made him smile. His next thought—of what Alathea would make of his reaction once she'd had time to consider it—eradicated all inclination to levity. Then he recalled her long-standing opinion of him and his rakish lifestyle; once again, he smiled. She would doubtless put his reaction down to unbridled lust—and she wouldn't be wrong. But it was the countess he lusted after, his houri of the night.
He wanted her intensely. Somewhat to his surprise, that want went further than the physical. He actually wanted to know her—who she was, what she enjoyed, what she thought, what made her laugh. She was mysterious and intriguing, yet, oddly, he felt very close to her.
She was a puzzle he intended solving—taking apart at every level.
To do that, he needed to press on with his plan… Lifting his head, he refocused on his surroundings. He'd nearly reached the end of Bond Street. Crossing the road, he started back, once again scanning the crowds. He still needed a sheep. There had to be someone—
"Gracious! And what's got into you?"
The query and the cane levelled at his navel jerked him to attention.
"Going about with your nose in the air in Bond Street! Why, you don't even know who you're cutting."
Looking into a pair of bird-bright eyes in an old, soft face, Gabriel smiled. "Minnie." Brushing aside her cane, he dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.
"Humph." Minnie's tone was unmollified but her eyes twinkled. "Remind me to tell Celia about this, Timms."
"Indeed." The tall lady beside Minnie lost her fight to keep her lips straight. "Quite unconscionable, going about Bond Street without due regard."
Gabriel bowed extravagantly. "Am I forgiven?" he asked as he straightened. "We'll consider it." Minnie looked around. "Ah! Here's Gerrard."
Gabriel watched as Minnie's nephew, Gerrard Debbington, brother to Patience, Vane's wife, crossed the street, the bag of nuts he'd clearly been dispatched to fetch in one hand.
"Here you are." Handing the bag to Minnie, Gerrard smiled easily. Gabriel returned the smile. "Still keeping watch on Minnie's pearls?"
"No more threat, thank goodness. I'm staying with Vane and Patience, but I stop by to take a stroll with Minnie now and then."
Although just eighteen, Gerrard appeared older, his assurance in part due to his brother-in-law's influence; it was Vane's elegant hand Gabriel detected behind Gerrard's fashionable town rig. At close to six feet, Gerrard had the height and breadth of shoulder to carry the austere lines. The rest of his appearance, his easygoing demeanor, his directness and self-confidence, could largely be laid at his sister's door; Patience Cynster was the very epitome of directness.
Gabriel opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. He needed to think. Gerrard was, after all, only eighteen, and there were risks involved. And he was Patience's brother.
"We're going to look in at Asprey's." Minnie fixed him with an innocent look. "Perhaps there's some little thing you need from there?"
Gabriel returned the look with one equally innocent. "Not at present." The image of the countess drifted through his mind. Perhaps, after she'd rewarded him, he would reward her. Diamonds would look well on such a tall woman. Filing the thought away, he bowed. "I won't keep you." With a humph softened by a smile, Minnie nodded.
Timms took her arm and they moved on. With a grin and a nod, Gerrard turned to follow. Gabriel hesitated, then called, "Gerrard?" Gerrard turned back. "Yes?"
"Do you know where Vane is at present?"
"If you want him, try Manton's. I know he was going to meet Devil there sometime this afternoon." With a brisk salute, Gabriel headed for Manton's.
"It'll have to be August." Devil extended his arm and pulled the trigger. His shot was an inch off the center of the target.
Vane squinted down the alley. "That seems awfully close. Is Richard sure?"
"As I understood it, it's Catriona who's sure. Richard, at this stage, isn't sure of anything." Moving past Devil to take his shot, Vane grimaced. "I know the feeling."
"What's this?" Lounging against the partition wall, Gabriel fixed them with a look of mock dismay. "A lesson for expectant fathers?"
Devil grinned. "Come to learn?" "Thank you, no."
Grimly, Vane sighted down the long barrel of his pistol. "You'll come to this, too." Gabriel grimaced. "Someday perhaps, but spare me my innocence. No details, please."
Both Honoria, Devil's duchess, and Patience were pregnant. While Devil was displaying the detachment of one who'd been through the wringer before, Vane was already edgy. He pulled the trigger. As the smoke cleared, they saw his bullet had barely nicked the target.
Devil sent the attendant to get another pistol, then turned to Gabriel. "I assume you've heard that our mothers have determined on a special family gathering to welcome Catriona into the family?"
"She's definitely coming down, then?"
Devil nodded. "Mama had a letter from her yesterday. Catriona's decreed she can travel until the end of August.
What with Honoria due early July and Patience later that month, it'll have to be August for this celebration of theirs."
Gabriel blinked, replaying Devil's words. "Don't tell me Richard's joined your club."
"He has indeed." Vane grinned evilly. "Now all it needs is for Demon and Flick to get back from their wanderings with Flick blooming, so to speak, and just think where that'll leave you come August."
Gabriel swore. "I'd better warn Lucifer. Mama is going to be impossible." "You could, of course, cheer her up."
The look Gabriel leveled at Devil was that of a man betrayed. "That is a truly horrible thought."
Devil laughed. "Strange to say one gets used to the state." One black brow arched suggestively. "There are compensations."
"There'd have to be," Gabriel muttered.
"But if you didn't come to discuss our impending paternity, what brings you here?" Vane, too, settled his shoulders against the wall.
"A swindle." Briefly, Gabriel outlined Crowley's scheme, avoiding all mention of the countess.
"Crowley." Devil cocked a brow at Gabriel. "Wasn't he the one with the investment in some diamond mine?"
Gabriel nodded.
"You exposed that one, too, didn't you?" Vane asked.
Again Gabriel nodded. "Which is why I need help this time, and not from you or the others." He looked at Vane. "I need someone not obviously connected."
Vane looked puzzled; Gabriel quickly explained the necessity of learning the precise details of the offer made to investors.
"And…?" Vane prompted.
"What do you think about using Gerrard Debbington?" Vane blinked. "As your sheep?"
"I haven't been seen about with him, and if he gives Minnie's address rather than yours, then there's no reason anyone will immediately connect him with any Cynsters. I know Crowley's not au fait with the ton—he uses Archie Douglas as his source in that arena, and Archie wouldn't know Gerrard from Adam."
"True."
"And even if Archie did ask around, checking Gerrard's background, all he'd hear is that Gerrard is reasonably wealthy and owns a nice manor in Derbyshire. He wouldn't think to ask after Gerrard's connections, or Gerrard's sister."
"Or Gerrard's guardians."
"Precisely. Gerrard appears distinctly older than he is."
Vane considered. "I can't see any reason why Gerrard couldn't develop an interest in gold mining." He looked at Gabriel. "Provided, of course, that we don't tell Patience."
"I hadn't imagined doing so."
"Well, then." Vane straightened away from the wall as the attendant slipped back into the alley. "I'll explain the matter to Gerrard, if you like, and see what he thinks. If he's agreeable, I'll send him to see you."
Gabriel nodded. "Do." Picking up the extra pistol the attendant had brought, he hefted it. "So what's the score?"
They fired ten rounds. Gabriel beat the others easily, a fact that made him frown. "Marriage," he observed, "has dulled your edges."
Vane shrugged. "It's just a game—hardly important. Marriage has a way of rescripting your priorities."
Gabriel stared at him, then looked at Devil, who merely looked back, making no attempt to correct Vane's strange thinking.
Reading his thoughts in his eyes, Devil grinned. "Start thinking about it, for as sure as August follows July, your time will come."
The words froze Gabriel, just as they had at Demon's wedding; again, a tingle of presentiment glissaded down his spine. He managed to suppress his reactive shiver. Adopting an easy expression and his usual debonair manner, he accompanied the other two outside.
At five o'clock, Gabriel was idly scanning the Gentleman's Magazine when someone knocked on his door. Listening, he heard Chance's footsteps all but dance up the hall; smiling, he returned to the magazine.
A minute later, the parlor door opened. Chance stood in the doorway. "A Mr. Debbington to see you, m'lord."
Gabriel inwardly sighed. "Thank you, Chance, but I'm not a lord." Chance's brow furrowed. "I thought as how all the Quality was lords." "No."
"Oh." Catching a glimpse of Gerrard, waiting at his elbow to get past, Chance stepped aside, and all but shooed Gerrard over the threshold. "Well, here you are. Do you want me to pour you some brandy?'
"No. That will be all."
"Very good, sir." With commendable aplomb, Chance bowed himself out, and remembered to shut the door.
Gerrard stared at the closed door, then looked questioningly at Gabriel.
"He's in training." Gabriel waved Gerrard to a chair. "Would you like some brandy?"
Gerrard grinned. "No. Patience would be sure to notice." Once at ease in the chair, he met Gabriel's gaze. "Vane told me about this swindle you're trying to expose. I'd be happy to help. What do you need me to do?"
Omitting all mention of the countess, Gabriel outlined his plan.
Chapter 6
« ^ »
At noon the next day, Gabriel descended the steps of the Burlington Hotel, well satisfied with the arrangements he'd made. His plan was in motion and developing nicely. Soon the countess would be his.
Turning into Bond Street, he looked ahead. His steps slowed.
Alathea stood on the corner of Bruton Street, hanging back by the shop facade, her gaze on the crowd surrounding a nut vendor.
She'd always been particularly partial to nuts—and she was clearly debating pushing into the crowd to secure a bag. At this hour, the rowdy crew about the vendor's stall was composed of young sprigs and boisterous bucks.
Lips setting, Gabriel had crossed the street before he'd even thought of what he was doing—or going to do. The memory of his last encounter with Alathea flashed—too hotly—into his
mind. His jaw set more firmly. Perhaps a bag of nuts would go some small way toward mending his fences with her.
He could hardly excuse his reaction to her by explaining he'd confused her with another lady.
Alathea eyed the circle of male backs between her and the source of the wonderful smell of roasting nuts. That succulent smell had lured her from the doorway of the modiste's where Serena, Mary, and Alice were engaged in making last-minute adjustments to their ballgowns. The salon had been airless and cramped, so she'd come down to the street, intending to simply wait.
That smell had made her stomach growl. Pushing into the crowd, however, would very likely expose her to a score of impertinent remarks. Still… her mouth was watering. Deciding she could not exist a minute longer without a bag of nuts, she stepped forward—
"Here."
A strong hand closed about her elbow and drew her back—her heart nearly leaped free of her chest!
Without meeting her eyes, Gabriel moved past her. "Let me."
She did, for the simple reason that she dared not move—her legs had turned to jelly. Her latest plan for survival dictated she avoid him at all costs—she'd intended to do just that. She'd been doing just that—she was in Bruton Street at noon, for heaven's sake! What was he doing here? She'd never have left the safety of the salon if she'd known he was about.
She clung to her irritation—undoubtedly wiser than surrendering to her panic. Gabriel turned back to her, a brown paper bag in his hand. "Here."
She took the bag and busied herself opening it. "Thank you." She popped a nut into her mouth, then offered the nuts to him.
He took a handful, his gaze on her face. "What are you doing here?"
She met his eyes fleetingly. "I'm waiting for Serena and the girls." She gestured down Bruton Street. "They're at a fitting."
Looking down, she took her time selecting another nut. If she gave him absolutely no encouragement, perhaps he would go away. She was acutely aware that the longer she was alone with him as herself, the greater the danger of his recognizing his countess.
Then her conscience prodded—hard. Damn! She didn't want to, but… Lifting her head, she fixed her gaze on his right ear. "I have to thank you for yesterday. I would have been kicked if you hadn't…"
Grabbed her, held her—been aroused by her.
She quickly ended her sentence with a gesture, but her consciousness must have shown in her eyes. To her amazement, from under her lashes, she saw color trace his cheekbones. He was embarrassed? Good lord!
"It was nothing." His accents were clipped. After a moment, he added in a low voice, "I'd rather you forgot the incident entirely."
She shrugged and turned to stroll back to the modiste's. "If you wish." Dare she suggest he do the same?
He fell into step beside her—there seemed little point suggesting he leave her to walk the street alone. Luckily, the bag of nuts gave her a perfect reason for not taking his arm; touching him again would be inviting disaster. As it was, she could stroll with a good two feet separating them—reasonably safe. She flourished the bag of nuts between them, inviting him to help himself as they strolled. It felt like feeding tidbits to a potentially lethal leopard to keep him distracted while she strolled to the cage door.
Thankfully, the door of the modiste's wasn't far. She stopped beside it, contemplating handing him the almost empty bag in lieu of her hand. "Thank you for the nuts." She met his gaze and realized he was frowning.
She froze—apprehension locked her lungs. Had she said something? Done something?
"You don't happen to know…" His tone was diffident. He glanced away. "Have you met a countess, one recently widowed—?"
Gabriel broke off. What was he doing! One glance at Alathea's face confirmed he'd said enough. Her expression was deadpan, her eyes blank.
"No."
He mentally kicked himself. She knew him well enough to guess why he'd asked. A spurt of resentment surfaced; she'd always turned aside any reference to Lucifer's conquests with an amused glance, but she'd never extended the same leniency to him.
He frowned. "Forget I asked."
She looked at him, blank still. "I will." Her voice sounded odd.
He was about to step back, make his excuses, and leave, when the rowdy crew from the nut vendor's stall came barrelling past. One jostled his shoulder. He turned, stepping closer to the shop front, closer to Alathea, instinctively shielding her once more. The group streamed past, then were gone. Turning back to Alathea, his farewells froze on his tongue. "What's the matter?"
She'd paled—she was breathing quickly and leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes had been shut—now they flew open.
"Nothing. Here!" Alathea thrust the nut bag at him, then whirled and opened the modiste's door. "Serena will be wondering where I've got to."
With that, she fled—there was no other word for it. She dashed into the small foyer, grabbed up her skirts and flew up the stairs to the salon. She didn't care what he thought of her departure—she simply couldn't bear to be so near him—not anymore. Not as Alathea Morwellan.
Two days later, Alathea stood at the window of her office, sunk in thought. Wiggs had just left. In light of his worry over the promissory note, she'd felt compelled to reveal that she'd engaged the services of Gabriel Cynster. Wiggs had been impressed—and hugely relieved. He'd recalled that the Cynsters were their neighbors in Somerset. Luckily, she'd remembered to suggest that, given the necessary secrecy surrounding their investigations, Wiggs should not communicate with Mr. Cynster other than through her.
The rotund man of business had gone off much happier than when he'd arrived. She'd asked him to clarify the procedure for approaching the Chancery Court to have the promissory note declared invalid once they'd secured proof of fraud. She hoped the matter could be dealt with via a petition direct to the bench, avoiding any mention of the family name in open court and the added expense of a barrister.
In the matter of their investigations, all was proceeding smoothly; she wished she could feel as comfortable over the way matters were proceeding between her and Gabriel.
For the past two days, she'd done all she could to avoid meeting him. Not seeing him, however, didn't ease the guilt she felt over his embarrassment. It was doubtless irrational but the feeling was there.
Lurking in her mind was the recognition that he always stepped forward whenever she needed him; incidents like the horse in Bond Street, the crowd about the street vendor—those were not unusual, not for him and her. Despite their difficulty—indeed, in the teeth of it—he'd always helped her whenever he'd known she needed help. He was helping her now, even if, this time, he didn't know it was her he was helping.
He deserved better from her than deceit, but what could she do?
She sighed and concentrated, forcing herself to deal with the latest twist in her charade. For a start, she would make an effort to reinstitute their old relationship and behave normally toward him so he'd forget his embarrassment. As herself, beyond that moment in Bond Street, she'd barely touched his sleeve over the past decade—surely she could get through the next weeks without touching him more than that?
And secondly, regardless of all else, no matter the struggle, she would not allow—could not allow—the susceptibility that had overcome her in Bruton Street to surface again. If he came close, she would suffer in stoic silence. That much, she owed him.
She frowned, realizing she now thought of him by his preferred name. Then she shrugged. Better to think of him as Gabriel—Gabriel was the man she had to deal with now. Perhaps, if she bore that in mind, the hurdles she kept encountering might not be quite so surprising.
Gazing at the shifting greens beyond the window, she set aside her resolutions and turned to her next problem: how to learn of his plans. That he had plans, she didn't doubt. He'd told her to leave Crowley to him; it was tempting to simply do so. Unfortunately, as he didn't know her family's identity, that course was too risky. And she needed some control over his capacity to claim rewards.
That was another hurdle. While she desperately wanted to arrange another meeting to ask what he'd learned, what he was doing, what he had planned, justifying the likely indiscretion was not easy. It was perfectly possible he'd discovered something new, some significant fact—what reward would he claim if he had?
Her experience was insufficient to provide an answer. And she wasn't sure she trusted herself—not while in his arms.
That was the part she understood least. While with him as the countess, she seemed to occupy a position in relation to him that had never been available to Alathea Morwellan, despite the fact she knew him so well. It wasn't only the illicit nature of their interaction, but some different, deeper linkage, a sharing more profound. A sharing she coveted but knew she couldn't have.
She'd never been the sort to throw her cap over the windmill; she'd never been the least bit wild. Yet while she was the countess and he treated her as someone different, she'd started thinking and feeling
differently, too.
Her charade had taken on new and dangerous dimensions.
A knock fell on the door. She turned. Folwell, her groom, looked in. He saluted respectfully; she smiled and waved him forward, returning to the desk. "Anything to report?"
"Nothing today, m'lady"—Folwell halted before the desk—"but that Chance… he's a right talker, he is. With due respect, m'lady, I had to put him right—tip him the wink. He talks far too free about Mr. Rupert. That's not how it's done, m'lady, as you know."
"Indeed, but in this case, Chance's talkativeness has been useful."
"Oh, he still chatters to me and Dodswell, of course. But we don't want him chattering to no one else."
"Quite so." Alathea restrained a smile at Folwell's instructing Gabriel's odd new gentlemen's gentleman. She'd already received a highly colored account of how Chance had come into his position; all she'd subsequently heard had made her quite keen to meet him. The eccentricity Gabriel had displayed over Chance was both familiar and endearing. As she'd told Celia, Gabriel wasn't cold, but rather, controlled. She was prepared to wager Celia didn't know about Chance.
"Mr. Rupert's not met with Mr. Debbington again?"
"No, m'lady. Just that one meeting like I mentioned. Mr. Debbington hasn't been back." "No notes or letters?"
"There was one note last night, m'lady, but Chance doesn't know who it was from. Mr. Rupert read it and seemed pleased, but he didn't say anything to Chance, of course."
"Hmm." Celia's complaints wafted through Alathea's brain; she considered Folwell. "What about ladies? Have there been any women visiting? Or has he gone out…?" With her back to the window, Folwell couldn't see her blush.
"No, m'lady. No one. Dodswell says there's been no females in the house for an age—weeks, at least. He says Mr. Alasdair's hunting a new one"—it was Folwell's turn to blush—"but Mr. Rupert's been staying quiet at home, except for going to family gatherings and to meet some mysterious person. That'd be you, m'lady."
"Yes—thank you Folwell." Alathea nodded. "Keep stopping by every day, but try to avoid Mr. Rupert's notice."
"I'll do that, m'lady." Folwell ducked his head. "You can count on me."
After he'd gone, Alathea considered the picture that was emerging of Gabriel's life. Celia had always given the definite impression that there was a constant stream of ladies going through the Brook Street house. Admittedly, there were two of them, Lucifer as well as Gabriel, but it certainly seemed that at present, Gabriel was not pulling his weight. Not, at least, in that arena.
Pencil tapping absentmindedly, she pondered that fact.
Augusta, Marchioness of Huntly, held a grande balle two nights later. What distinguished it from other balls, Alathea could not have said; it was just as crowded, just as boring. She'd never had much time for balls; the Hunt Ball and one or two others through the year were quite enough for her. To be forced to
endure a major ball every night was fast becoming her personal definition of torture. However, the Marchioness was the Dowager's sister-in-law, a Cynster by birth; there'd been no question of declining her invitation.
At least the ball gave her an opportunity to keep an eye on her nemesis; it was possible his plans included meetings at balls. From the side of the ballroom, to which she doggedly clung, she watched him prowl.
She was tall enough to see him easily, but she was careful not to fix her gaze. In her mind, she repeated her latest resolution: She would avoid him if possible, but if they were to meet, she would behave as she always had, as if she'd never stood locked in his arms in Bond Street—or anywhere else.
Thankfully, he was heading away from her, broad shoulders shifting under a coat of walnut-black. The brown tint in the material turned his hair to burnished brown; the stark simplicity of the cut only emphasized his stature and intensified the predatory aura he exuded.
After a moment, she unfocused her gaze and shifted it to the crowd between them. Then she glanced at the walls. Their crepe decorations caught her eye. She fell to considering how to reduce the cost of decorating the huge ballroom at Morwellan House while still achieving a satisfactory result. The ball at which Mary and Alice would make their formal curtsies to the ton was all too rapidly nearing.
"Why the devil can't you leave those wretched things at home? Or better yet, fling them in the fire."
Alathea whirled; her heart leaped to her throat. She'd been so absorbed, he'd been able to walk right up to her. Her eyes searched his—he was watching her, waiting… her resolution rang in her ears. "I'm twenty-nine, for heaven's sake!"
"I know precisely how old you are."
She lifted her chin. "People expect me to wear a cap."
"There's no more than ten people in this room who can even see the horrendous thing." "It is not horrendous—it's the very latest style!"
"There's a style in horror? Amazing. Nevertheless, it doesn't suit you." "Indeed? And why is that?" Heat flooded her cheeks. "Its color, perhaps?"
The cap was the exact same shade as her gown of pomona green silk, an exceedingly fashionable hue that suited her to perfection. Eyes narrowed, she dared him to suggest otherwise; they were right back to normal, no doubt about that.
His gaze swept her face, then returned to his aversion. "It could be solid gold, and it would still be tawdry."
"Tawdry?"
Up to then, their conversation had been conducted in muted tones; Alathea nearly choked trying to preserve her outward calm. Her gaze on his face, she drew in another breath and in tones of unswerving defiance stated, "As I so choose, I will wear a cap for the rest of my life, and there's not one thing you can do about it. I therefore suggest you either grow accustomed to the fact or, if that's too much to ask, keep your opinions to yourself."
His jaw clenched; his gaze swung down to lock with hers. Eyes hard, lips compressed—all but toe to toe—they stood by the side of the Huntlys' ballroom, each waiting for the other to back down
first.
"Oh, Allie!"
The anguished tone had them both turning. Alice materialized from the crowd. "Look." Woebegone, she lifted her skirt to show the trailing flounce. "That stupid Lord Melton trod on it during the last dance, and now my lovely new gown is ruined!"
"No, no." Alathea put her arm around Alice and hugged her. "It's no great problem. I've pins in my reticule. We'll just go to the withdrawing room and I'll pin it up so you won't miss the rest of the dances, and then Nellie can mend it as good as new when we get home."
"Oh." Alice looked at Gabriel, blinked and gave him a watery smile. Then she looked at Alathea. "Can we go now?"
"Yes." Alathea threw a haughtily dismissive glance at Gabriel. "We've concluded our conversation."
There was heat in his eyes when they met hers, but by the time his gaze reached Alice, his expression was mild. "Flounces rip all the time—just ask the twins. They rip one every second ball."
Alice smiled sweetly and glanced expectantly at Alathea.
"Come along. The withdrawing room will be just along the corridor." As she led the way, Alathea could feel Gabriel's gaze on her back. He'd been carping about her caps for the last three years, ever since she'd first started wearing them. The cause of his vehement dislike was a mystery, to him, she suspected, as much as to her—and nothing had changed, thank God.
They were back to what passed for normal for them.
As Alathea walked out of the ballroom, Gabriel heaved an inward sigh of relief and turned away. Good! Everything was back as it used to be—the concern that had nagged at him for the past few days literally evaporated. After his blunder in Bruton Street, the need to set matters straight with Alathea and reestablish their habitual interaction had distracted him, even impinging on his concentration on his plans for the countess.
But all was now settled. Alathea had clearly harbored a similar wish—she'd been ready to revert to their customary behavior as soon as he'd offered the opportunity; he'd seen that consideration flash through her eyes before she'd first snapped at him.
The sense of release he felt was very real—now he could turn his attention fully to the matter that, increasingly, called to his warrior's soul. The countess and her seduction—now all his energies could be focused on that.
The torn flounce took five minutes to fix. In no rush to return, Alathea called for a glass of water and sipped; the exchange with Gabriel had shaken her more than she cared to admit. She was finding it increasingly hard to rip up at him, to keep her voice sharp and shrewish, and not let it soften to the countess's tone—the tone she used privately to those she loved.
Yet another difficulty when she had difficulties enough.
Ten minutes later, she reentered the ballroom in Alice's wake. Gabriel was nowhere in sight. Alice returned to her circle of very young ladies and equally youthful gentlemen. Alathea strolled;
scanning the crowd, she located Gabriel. Unobtrusively, she took up a position beside the wall opposite
him, this time near a protective pillar. Not, it seemed, that anything could protect her from the attentions of Cynsters—Lucifer strolled up almost immediately.
"Torn flounce?"
Alathea blinked. "Yes. How did you know?" "The twins try that all the time."
"Try it?
"Try to use the excuse to slip away. Mind you, the flounce or ruffle or whatever usually is torn, but if one was to accept that the plethora of injuries their wardrobes sustain was due to the clumsiness of their partners, you'd expect the entire male half of the ton to be clod-footed."
Alathea didn't smile. "But why do the twins try to slip away?"
"Because they have fantasies of meeting with unsuitable gentlemen if only they could escape from our sight."
Alathea checked; Lucifer's expression was perfectly serious. He scanned the crowd, then glanced her way. "But you know what it's like—I saw you keeping watch over young Alice."
"I wasn't keeping watch over her—she'd never ripped a flounce before and didn't have pins, or know how to pin it up. I was simply helping her."
"Maybe so, but you know the ropes—you were watching over her as well."
Alathea had had a surfeit of male Cynsters that evening. Drawing in a breath, she held it for a moment, then turned to her companion. "Alasdair."
That got his attention. He glanced her way, one brow rising.
"You and your equally misguided brother have got to put an end to this ridiculous obsession. The twins are eighteen. I've met them; I've conversed with them. They are sensible and level-headed young ladies, perfectly capable of managing their own lives, at least to the extent of interacting with suitable gentlemen and selecting their own consorts."
Lucifer frowned. He opened his mouth—
"No! Be quiet and hear me out. I've had quite enough of arguing with Cynsters this evening, and you may tell your brother that, too!" She flashed him a darkling glance. "You must both understand that your constant surveillance is driving the twins demented. If you don't give them the space to find their stride, they'll kick over the traces, and then you'll be left trying to make a poor fist out of some unholy mess.
How would you feel if you were cabin'd, cribb'd and confin'd every time you set foot in a ballroom?"
"That's different. We can take care of ourselves." Lucifer searched her face, then he sighed. "I'd forgotten you haven't spent much time in London." His smile flashed, the essence of brotherly condescension. "There are all sorts of bounders drifting through the ton—we couldn't possibly leave the twins unwatched. It would be like staking out two lambs and then walking away and letting the wolves have at them. That's why we watch. And you needn't worry about Mary and Alice—it's as easy to watch four as it is to watch two."
He was in earnest. Alathea considered a heartfelt groan. "Has it ever occurred to you that the twins just
possibly might be able to take care of themselves?"
"In this arena?" Glancing at the subjects of their discussion, Lucifer shook his head. "How could they possibly? And you must admit, when it comes to sweeping ladies off their feet, we are the reigning experts."
Alathea resisted rolling her eyes to the skies. She was determined to puncture, or at least dent, their Cynster egos. Scanning the ballroom, she searched for inspiration.
And saw Gerrard Debbington stroll up to Gabriel, who was chatting with an acquaintance. Gerrard nodded easily. Gabriel nodded back. Even from across the room, Alathea could sense the sudden focusing of his awareness.
"You see," Lucifer said, shifting closer, "take the case of Lord Chantry, currently sniffing around Amelia's skirts."
"Chantry?" Alathea's gaze was fixed across the room. The gentleman who'd been conversing with Gabriel departed, leaving him alone with Gerrard. Instantly, the tenor of the conversation changed. Gerrard shifted; she could no longer see his face.
"Hmm. He's supposed to have a nice little estate in Dorset and is a thoroughly charming fellow, as far as the ladies can see."
"Really?" Alathea could tell from the intensity of Gabriel's expression that whatever Gerrard was saying was extremely important.
"However, there's another side to Chantry."
She had to get closer so she could overhear; they were obviously discussing something vital. "He's in dun territory. All but rolled up."
About to move, Alathea focused nearer to hand—and found herself face to face with Lucifer. "What?"
"He's under the hatches and looking for a quick wedding with a nice bit of brass tied to the bouquet." "Who?"
"Lord Chantry." Lucifer frowned at her. "I've been telling you about him so you'll understand why we watch over the twins. Haven't you been listening?"
Alathea blinked. Pushing past Lucifer, hurrying across the crowded ballroom, and somehow getting close enough to Gabriel to overhear what was being said was impossible. Aside from anything else, Lucifer would be at her heels. "Umm… yes. Tell me more."
She shifted so she could keep Gabriel in view.
Lucifer eased back. "So that's Chantry. And of course Amelia's been smiling sweetly at him for the last week. Silly puss. I tried to tell her but would she listen? Oh, no. Stuck her nose in the air and insisted Chantry was amusing."
Alathea considered telling him Amelia was probably encouraging Chantry simply to tease him and Gabriel.
Gabriel looked up. As if summoned, Devil, the object of Gabriel's glance, detached himself from Honoria's circle and made his way to join the conference.
Something major was being planned.
"Another perfect example of a bounder is Hendricks—there—to Amanda's right. He's even worse than Chantry."
Letting Lucifer's monologue roll past her, Alathea watched the meeting taking place across the room. Vane strolled up as if just passing by; he, too, joined the discussion.
Ideas—arrangements?—were batted back and forth; that much was clear from the shifting glances, the occasional gestures. At last, a decision was made. Whatever it was, it involved Gerrard Debbington. Gerrard and Gabriel. Devil and Vane appeared to be advisers, less involved in the details of whatever was planned.
She had to learn the plan.
"So, you see, that's why we watch over them. Do you understand now?"
She refocused on Lucifer. What was the right answer? Yes? No? She sighed. "Never mind." The twins would have to fight their own battles. Putting a hand on his arm, she eased him back. "There's a waltz starting—come and dance. I need distraction."
"I can't—I'm on watch."
"Gabriel's free—signal to him. He can take over." Lucifer did, and Gabriel did, and she got her distraction. Much good did it do her.
By the time she was in the carriage rolling home through the deserted streets, she'd accepted the fact that she would have to meet with her knight again. Cudgeling her brains, she tried to devise some way for the countess to meet him in safety. Somewhere that would inhibit him from claiming any further reward.
He'd had reward enough.
She couldn't, in all conscience, allow him to claim anything more, not even if he'd learned further facts. He'd taken liberties enough as it was.
But how to prevent his taking more?
Chapter 7
« ^ »
"Good morning, Mr. Cynster."
Gabriel halted and turned; the countess was walking toward him. Along the pavement of Brook Street in broad daylight.
She was, as usual, fully cloaked and veiled. Gabriel arched a brow. The hunter in him recognized her
strategy, but if she thought to deny him all reward, she'd yield something else, instead. No veil was impenetrable in daylight.
Then she stopped before him, her face high, and he saw the black mask she wore under the veil. He wondered if she played chess.
"Good morning…" He let his greeting die away for want of a name or specific title; as he straightened from his bow, he amended, "Madam."
He sensed her smile, concealed beneath the mask, then she gestured in the direction he'd been heading. "May I walk with you?"
"By all means." He offered his arm and she laid her gloved hand on his sleeve. As they strolled in the direction of Bond Street, he was intensely aware of her height. He could see over the heads of most ladies; it was consequently easy to largely ignore them even when they were on his arm. Ignoring the countess was impossible; she impinged on his awareness in so many ways.
It was just past midday and the ton was slowly stirring, gentlemen emerging from their doors as he had to seek refuge or congenial company in the clubs around St. James.
"I assume," his companion said, her voice, as ever, soft and low, "that you're proceeding with the matter of the Central East Africa Gold Company?"
"Indeed." Swiftly considering, he continued, "In order to prove fraud, it's imperative we have witnesses to and evidence of the precise details of the proposal the company representatives present to prospective investors. My man of business has made discreet inquiries, but none of the more wealthy, experienced investors, nor their men of business, have been approached by the company. That being so, we'll need to send the company a potential investor."
She looked down. They crossed South Molton Street before she asked, "Who do you have in mind for the role?"
"A young friend by the name of Gerrard Debbington. He has the presence to pass as over twenty-one, although in fact he's a minor. That, of course, gives him a perfect and valid reason to not, after the company's presentation, sign any promissory note himself."
"His guardians would have to sign."
"Quite. But he's not going to mention them until the end of the interview." She looked up. "What interview?"
His expression impassive, Gabriel considered the bright glint that was all he could see of her eyes. He didn't know their color, yet he suspected they wouldn't be blue. Brown? Green? "Gerrard has spent the last few days ambling about in all the right places, making vague noises about finding something better to do with his brass than buy up more fields."
"And?"
"Yesterday, Archie Douglas just happened to bump into him." "And?"
The repeated word held a note of impatience; Gabriel kept his lips straight. "Archie chatted about the Central East Africa Gold Company. When Gerrard showed the right sort of interest, a meeting with the company's representatives was mooted."
"When?"
"Archie had to confirm the details with his friends, but Gerrard, as per instructions, suggested tomorrow evening at the Burlington Hotel."
"Do you think the company representatives, by which I assume you mean Crowley, will agree?"
"I'm quite sure they'll agree. Archie wouldn't have approached Gerrard if Crowley hadn't already singled out his mark."
"But…" Anxiety colored the word. "I believe Gerrard Debbington is a connection of yours. Of the Cynsters. Is that wise?"
Gabriel inwardly frowned. Who was she? "He is, but the connection isn't obvious, at least not in this sense. Archie Douglas is not highly regarded by the ton's hostesses; he won't know of the connection. Crowley's scrutiny will focus on Gerrard's background, which shows he's a wealthy young gentleman from the shires. If the company was in the habit of more prudently checking their marks, they wouldn't have bothered with your late husband."
"Hmm."
His fair companion sounded less than convinced. "Put it this way, if Crowley had any inkling that Gerrard Debbington was in any way associated with me, Gerrard would never have been approached."
Her head lifted. She gave one of her distinctive nods. "Yes, that's true. So… you think Gerrard Debbington can effectively pass himself off as a gullible investor?"
"I'm sure of it. I'll drill him in what we need to know, and give him pointers—a primer, if you will—so he'll know the most useful questions to ask, all couched in language appropriate for a young gentleman fancying himself the next Golden Ball."
"Yes, but do you think he'll be able to carry off the" she waved—"characterization, as it were? If he's only eighteen…"
"He does a very good job of appearing less intelligent than he is. He simply stares vaguely—vacuously—at whoever's talking. He has an innocent-looking face with large eyes and one of those charmingly youthful smiles. He appears as open as a book at all times—that doesn't necessarily mean he is." Gabriel glanced at the countess. "I don't know if you're aware, but he's a budding painter, so even in the most social of settings he's usually considering the line of people's faces, their clothing, coloring, and so on, even while he's supposedly engaged in conversation."
The countess looked him in the eye. "I see."
So she did play chess, but he was a master. "So Gerrard will meet with the company's representatives tomorrow evening. I've chosen the Burlington as it's the sort of place at which someone like Gerrard's supposed self would stay. He'll have a suite, and while he speaks with whoever arrives to make the presentation in the sitting room, I'll be listening from the adjoining bedchamber."
"Do you expect Crowley to appear?"
"Impossible to be sure. There's no reason he needs to show himself but, based on how he's behaved in the past, I suspect he'll be there. He seems to take delight in personally gloating over those he swindles."
"I want to attend—to listen in on this meeting." Gabriel frowned. "There's no need for you to be there."
"Nevertheless. I'd like to hear for myself what the Company offers and, ultimately, it means we'll have an extra witness to the presentation if need arises."
Gabriel frowned harder. "What about Gerrard? If you want to preserve your anonymity, surely you won't want him to know of your existence. While I might respect your request not to discover your identity, Gerrard is, after all, only eighteen and possesses an artist's eye."
She stopped. "He doesn't know that you're investigating the company at my behest?"
"As I've investigated other companies purely through my own inclination, there was no need to advance any reason for my interest in the Central East Africa Gold Company. Particularly not with Crowley at its helm."
She fell silent; he could almost hear her mind working. Then she looked up. "Will Mr. Debbington actually be staying at the Burlington?"
"No. He'll arrive about half an hour before the meeting's due to start." "Very well—I'll arrive before him. I assume you'll be there?" Gabriel set his lips. "Yes, but—"
"There'll be no danger to me personally, or to my anonymity, if I secret myself in the bedchamber before Mr. Debbington arrives, hear the presentation, and then wait until after he's left to do the same."
Gabriel held her veiled gaze. "I cannot fathom why you should be so set on senselessly exposing yourself—"
"I insist."
Chin angled imperiously, she held his gaze. Lips thinning, he let the moment stretch, and stretch, then grudgingly gave way. "Very well. You'll need to arrive at the Burlington no later than nine."
He sensed the triumph that flooded her—she thought she'd won a round. Under her mask, she was no doubt beaming. He kept his lips compressed, his frowning gaze on her veiled face.
"I'll leave you now." Withdrawing her hand, she looked back up the street.
He glanced around and saw a small black carriage, presumably the one that had driven him home from Lincoln's Inn, drawn up by the curb behind them. "I'll walk you to your carriage." Before she could blink, he recaptured her hand and trapped it on his sleeve. She hesitated, then acquiesced, somewhat stiffly.
Gabriel raked the carriage as they neared, but it was an anonymous affair—small, black and unadorned—identical to the second carriage most large households maintained in the capital. Used to ferry their owners about discreetly, such carriages carried no insignia blazoned on the door, or identifying detail worked into the body. No hint of the countess's identity there.
The horses were nondescript. He glanced at the coachman; he was hunched over the reins, his head sunk
between his shoulders. The man wore a heavy coat and plain breeches—no livery. The countess had thought of everything.
He opened the carriage door and handed her in. Pausing on the step, she looked back at him. "Until tomorrow evening at nine."
"Indeed." He held her gaze for an instant, then let her go. "I'll leave a message with the porter to conduct you to the suite." Stepping back, he shut the door, then stood and watched the carriage drive away.
Only when it had rumbled around the corner did he allow his victorious smile to show.
He was waiting in the best suite at the Burlington when, at five minutes to nine o'clock the next evening, she knocked on the door. He opened it and stood back, careful not to smile too intently as, inevitably veiled and cloaked, she swept past him.
Shutting the door, he watched as she scanned the room, taking in the two lamps on side tables flanking the hearth, spilling their light over the scene. Two armchairs and a sofa were drawn up in a comfortable arrangement around a low table before the hearth. Heavy curtains screened the windows; the fire dancing in the grate turned the scene cozy. A well-stocked tantalus stood within reach of one of the armchairs.
When she turned to face him, he got the distinct impression she approved of his stagecraft. "When will Mr. Debbington arrive?"
Gabriel glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Soon." He nodded at the door opposite the hearth. "Perhaps you'd care to inspect our vantage point?"
Her skirts swirled as she turned; he followed as she crossed the room. Pausing beyond the threshold, she looked around. "Oh, yes. This is perfect."
Gabriel thought so, too. In the cavelike gloom created by the heavy curtains, a huge four-poster bed sat in stately splendor. It possessed a goodly number of plump pillows and the mattress was thick. He'd already confirmed it met his standards; the countess would have no reason to cavil.
She, of course, paid no attention to the bed; her comment was occasioned by the convenient gap between the half-closed door and its jamb, a gap that gave anyone standing behind the door a perfect view of the seats before the sitting room fireplace.
She was squinting at them when another knock fell on the door.
Gabriel met her questioning glance. "Gerrard. I'll need to rehearse his lines—he won't know you're here."
He spoke in a whisper. She nodded. Leaving her, he crossed to the door.
Gerrard stood in the corridor looking sleekly debonair, his youth revealed only by the expectant light in his eyes. "All ready?"
"I was about to ask you the same question." Waving him to the seats by the fire, Gabriel shut the door. "We should go over your lessons."
"Oh, yes." Gerrard made himself comfortable in what was clearly the host's chair. "I hadn't realized how much there was to learn about giving people money."
"Many don't, which is precisely what men like Crowley count on." Gabriel walked to the other armchair, then hesitated. Then he walked to the wall, picked up a straight-backed chair, and carried it over to face Gerrard. "Better to play safe…" Sitting, he fixed Gerrard with a keen glance. "Now…"
He led Gerrard through a catechism of terms and conditions, couched in popular investing cant. At the end of twenty minutes, he nodded. "You'll do." He glanced at the clock. "We'd better speak in whispers from now on."
Gerrard nodded. His gaze drifted to the tantalus; he rose and poured himself a small amount of brandy, swirling it around the glass to make it appear there'd been more originally. He met Gabriel's gaze as he resat, cradling the balloon in his fingers. "I'll offer them a drink, don't you think?"
"Good idea." Gabriel nodded at the glass in Gerrard's hand. Gerrard grinned.
An aggressive knock fell on the door.
Rising, Gabriel held up a hand to stay Gerrard, then picked up his chair and silently returned it to its place against the wall. After one last glance about the scene, he crossed to the darkened bedchamber and stepped behind the door.
Gerrard set down his glass, then stood, straightened his sleeves, and strolled to the door. Opening it, he looked out. "Yes?"
"I believe you're expecting us." The deep booming voice carried clearly to the two behind the bedchamber door. "We represent the Central East Africa Gold Company."
Gabriel took up his position behind the countess. In the darkened bedchamber, she was no more than a dense shadow, her veiled face lit by the weak light shafting between door and jamb. Slightly to one side of her, Gabriel watched Gerrard greet his visitors with earnest affability.
After shaking hands, Gerrard waved the two men to the sofa. "Please be seated, gentlemen."
Gabriel struggled to block out the countess's perfume and concentrate; this was his first view of Crowley. Although he'd only been able to hear the names exchanged, he had no doubt which of the two was he.
He was a bull of a man; comparing his height with Gerrard's, Gabriel pegged him at just on six feet. Six feet of muscled bulk; Crowley would easily have made two of Gerrard. Heavy black brows, thick and strong, slashed across his face, overhanging deep-set eyes. His face was fleshy, his features as coarse as the black hair that curled thickly over his large head.
That head appeared sunk directly into hulking shoulders; his arms were heavily thewed, as were his legs. He was wide and barrel-chested; he looked as strong as an ox and probably was. The only weakness Gabriel could discern was that he moved heavily, with no suppleness to his frame; when Gerrard offered a drink just as Crowley was about to sit, he had to turn his entire body toward Gerrard to answer, not just his head.
He was a distinctly unlovely specimen, but not specifically ugly. His thick lips were presently curved in an easy smile, softening the pugnacious line of his jaw and lending his otherwise unprepossessing countenance a certain charm. Indeed, there was raw energy—an animal magnetism—conveyed in the brilliance of his gaze and in the sheer strength of his movements.
Some women would find that attractive.
Gabriel glanced at the countess. Her attention was riveted on the scene in the sitting room. He looked back to see Crowley lean back on the sofa, completely at ease now he'd seen Gerrard. The expression on his face reminded Gabriel of a cat about to start playing with a mouse—anticipation of the kill oozed from Crowley's pores.
A soft sound reached Gabriel. He glanced at the countess, and realized he'd heard her swiftly indrawn breath. She'd tensed; as he watched, she almost imperceptibly shuddered.
Looking back at the scene playing out before them, Gabriel could understand. At his vacuous best, Gerrard was chatting amiably with the other man; he wasn't looking at Crowley's face. Yet Gerrard, sensitive and observant, wouldn't be—couldn't be—unaware of Crowley's potent menace. Gabriel's respect for the younger man grew as, with every evidence of artless innocence, Gerrard turned to Crowley.
While Gerrard engaged Crowley in banal preliminaries, asking about the basic nature of the company's business, Gabriel studied the other man, Swales, the company's agent.
He was average in almost every way—average height, average build, common in his coloring. His features were indistinguishable from those of countless others, his clothing likewise anonymous. The only thing that set Swales apart was that while his face with its bland expression seemed like a mask, his eyes were never still. Even now, although there was no one in the room bar Gerrard and Crowley, Swales's gaze darted constantly, now here, now there.
Crowley was the predator, Swales the scavenger.
"I see." Gerrard nodded. "And these gold deposits are in the south of Africa, you say?"
"Not the south." Crowley smiled patronizingly. "They're in the central part of the continent. That's where the 'Central East' in the company's name comes from."
"Oh!" Gerrard's face lit. "I see now, yes. What's the country's name?" "There's more than one country involved."
Gabriel listened, occasionally tensing as Gerrard artfully probed, but Patience's brother possessed a real knack for pressing just so far, then sliding away into patent and unthreatening ignorance one word before Crowley tensed. Gerrard played his part to perfection, and played Crowley just as well.
The countess was equally on edge, equally concerned; she tensed at precisely the same moments he did, then relaxed as Gerrard once again played out Crowley's line. Crowley was the one hooked on the lure, being artfully reeled in, not the other way about.
By the end of an hour, when Gerrard finally allowed Swales to show him the promissory note, they had heard all they could hope to hear, and that from Crowley's lips. He'd named the locations of three of the company's mining claims, and also cited towns where he said the company had a workforce and buildings established. He'd dropped a host of names supposedly of African officials backing the company, and of African authorities from whom permissions had been received. Under subtle prompting, he'd revealed figures aplenty, enough to keep Montague busy for a week. He'd also twice mentioned that the company was close to commencing the next phase of development.
They'd learned what they needed to know, and Gabriel was exhausted by the constant ebb and flow of helpless tension. The countess was sagging, too. Gerrard, on the other hand, was positively glowing.
Crowley and Swales saw it as enthusiasm; Gabriel knew it was suppressed excitement at his triumph.
"So you see"—Swales leaned closer to Gerrard, pointing to the lower portion of the promissory note, now unrolled on Gerrard's knees—"if you just sign here, we'll be all right and tight."
"Oh, yes. Right-ho!" Gerrard started rerolling the note. "I'll get it signed right and tight, and then we'll all be happy, what?" He grinned at Crowley and Swales.
There was an instant of silence, then Crowley said, "Get it signed? Why can't you sign it now?"
Gerrard looked at him as if he'd admitted to lunacy. "But… my dear man, I can't sign. I'm a minor." Having dropped his bombshell, Gerrard looked from Crowley to Swales and back again. "Didn't you know?"
Crowley's face darkened. "No. We didn't know." Shifting forward, he held out a hand for the note.
Gerrard grinned and held onto it. "Well, there's no need to worry, y'know. M'sister's my main guardian and she'll sign whatever I tell her to. Well, why wouldn't she? She's got no head for business—she leaves that to me."
Crowley hesitated, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Gerrard's innocent countenance. Then he asked, "Who's your other guardian? Do they have to sign, too?"
"Well, yes—that's how things usually are if there's a female involved, don't y'know. But my other guardian's an old stick—bumbling old fool—my late pater's old solicitor. He lives buried in the country. Once m'sister signs, then he will, too, and all will be right as a trivet."
Crowley glanced at Swales, who shrugged. Crowley looked back at Gerrard, then nodded. "Very well." He stood, slowly bringing his bulk up off the sofa.
Gerrard unfolded his long limbs with the effortless grace of the young and held out his hand. "Right then. I'll get the deed done, the note signed, and get it back to you forthwith."
He shook hands with Crowley, and then with Swales, then accompanied them to the door. As they reached it, Crowley paused. Gabriel and the countess shifted, craning to keep them in sight.
"So when can we expect to get the note back?"
Gerrard grinned, the epitome of foolish vacuity. "Oh, a few weeks should do it." "Weeks!" Crowley's face darkened again.
Gerrard blinked at him. "Why, yes—didn't I say? The pater's old solicitor lives in Derbyshire." When Crowley continued to glower, Gerrard's brows rose, his expression degenerating to that of a child fearing denial of a promised treat. "Why? There's no tearing rush, is there?"
Crowley studied Gerrard's face, then, very gradually, drew back. "As I said, the company's close to commencing the next phase of operations. Once we reach that point, we won't be accepting any more promissory notes. If you want a share in our profits, you'll need to get the note signed and returned to us—you can send it to Thurlow and Brown, of Lincoln's Inn."
"But if you don't get it to us soon," Swales put in, "you'll miss out."
"Oh, no chance of that! I'll get m'sister to sign and get it off tomorrow. If I send it by rider, it'll be back before we know it, what?"
"Just make sure it is." With one last intimidating glance, Crowley hauled open the door.
Swales followed him into the corridor. Gerrard stopped on the threshold. "Well, thank you, and good-bye."
Crowley's growled farewell rumbled back to them, drowning out Swales's reply.
Gerrard stood at the door, watching them depart, his silly smile still in place, then he stepped back, closed the door, and let his mask fall.
Gabriel closed his hands about the countess's shoulders. She sagged back against him—for one blissful moment, from shoulder to hip, she caressed him—then she remembered herself and stiffly straightened. Smiling in the dark, Gabriel squeezed her shoulders, then released her. Leaving her behind the door, he went out to Gerrard.
He put a finger to his lips as Gerrard faced him. Gerrard dutifully held silent. They both waited, listening, then Gabriel signaled Gerrard to open the door and look out.
Gerrard did, then stepped back and closed the door. "They're gone." Gabriel nodded, scanning Gerrard's face. "Well done."
Gerrard smiled. "It was the longest performance I've ever given, but he didn't seem to suspect."
"I'm sure he didn't. If he had, he wouldn't have been anywhere near as accommodating." Crossing to the escritoire by the windows, Gabriel drew out paper and pen. "Now to the last act. We need to write down everything we heard, and sign and date it."
Gerrard drew up a chair. Together, they recounted the conversation, noting down names, locations and amounts. With his sharp visual memory, Gerrard was able to review the conversation, verifying Gabriel's recollections and adding further snippets. An hour had passed before they were satisfied.
Gabriel pushed back from the escritoire. "That gives us a lot to check, a lot to verify—more than enough chance to prove fraud." He glanced at Gerrard, just as Gerrard yawned. "Now it's time you were off home."
Gerrard grinned and rose. 'Tiring work, acting, and I'm driving to Brighton with friends tomorrow, so I'd best turn in."
Gabriel followed Gerrard to the door. Gerrard stopped by the sofa. "Here—you'd better take this, too."
"Indeed." Gabriel accepted the rolled promissory note. "It's absolute evidence that this meeting took place."
Reaching the door, Gerrard looked back. "Are you coming?"
Stowing the note and their account of the meeting in the inside pocket of his coat, Gabriel shook his head. "Not just yet. We shouldn't be seen together. You go ahead—I'll follow later. Duggan is waiting for you, isn't he?" Duggan was Vane's groom.
Gerrard nodded. "He'll drive me back to Curzon Street. Let me know how it goes." With a salute, he went out of the door, shutting it softly behind him.
Gabriel considered the closed door, then walked across and snibbed the lock. He surveyed the room, then strolled to the lamp beside the fireplace, turning it, then its mate, very low, shrouding the room in
shadows. Satisfied, he headed for the bedchamber, for the epilogue to the evening's performance.
Chapter 8
« ^ »
The countess was waiting, no longer behind the door but seated on the end of the bed. A dark shadow, she rose as he neared.
"Do you really think there are mining claims in those places—Kafia, Fangak, and Lodwar?"
"I'd be greatly surprised if there's anything there at all. Towns or villages, maybe, but no mining. We'll check." He couldn't see her other than as a denser figure in the gloom; the already dark room had darkened even further with the dimming of the light from the sitting room. So he had to rely on his other senses—they told him she was still absorbed with Crowley's revelations. "He gave us more than enough facts, not only names and places but also figures and projections. I've got it all down. To get the company's notes declared invalid all we need do is prove some of those claims false, not all of them."
"Still"—he heard the frown in her voice—"it won't be easy to prove what really is happening in deepest Africa. Did you recognize any of the places he mentioned?"
"No, but there must be someone in London who will."
"He also stated that they were close to commencing the next stage of development—surely that's his way of saying that they plan to call in the promissory notes soon."
"He's not at that stage yet. Unless something triggers the call, he'll wait to see how many more gullible gentlemen up from the shires for the Season he can lure into his net."
Silence ensued. Her gnawing anxiety reached him clearly. He stepped closer. "It's a significant victory to have got that much detail from him."
"Oh, indeed!" She looked up. "Mr. Debbington was quite splendid." "And what about the eminence grise behind the scenes?"
He knew precisely when she realized—realized she was alone with him in a very dark bedchamber with a very large bed a mere foot away. Her spine straightened, her chin tilted higher; a fine tension gripped her.
"You've been very… inventive."
He slid one arm about her waist. "I intend being a great deal more inventive yet."
He drew her against him. After only the slightest resistance, she permitted it, settling breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, as if she belonged there.
"You've been very successful." Her tone was slightly breathless.
His lips curved. "I've been brilliant." He found the edge of her veil. Slowly, he lifted it. All the way up. She caught her breath, one hand rising, hovering… but she allowed it. The room was so dark he couldn't possibly distinguish her features. Then he bent his head and set his lips—to the lips that were waiting for him.
Waiting, yearning, ready to pay his price—he knew she had no idea how precious, how heady, he found her lack of guile, her open generosity, the way she yielded her mouth at his demand, the way she sank against him, into him. The way she gave without restraint.
There was power in her giving. As before, it caught him, captured him, and held him in thrall. He had to have more—know more—of her. His fingers found the ties of her cloak; a minute later, it slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor at their feet. A curved clip across the crown of her head anchored her veil; he slid one hand under the veil, past her throat, and encountered the heavy weight of her hair, coiled at her nape. Soft as silk, it caressed the backs of his fingers; without conscious direction, they searched. Her pins pattered on the floor; her hair spilled over his hands, both the one at her throat and the one at her waist. Her hair was long and so soft; he caught strands between his fingers and played, enthralled by the texture.
He sensed the hitch in her breathing. Closing his fist in her hair, he drew her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Blind in the dense darkness, he slid his lips from hers to trace the supple line and find the spot where her pulse beat hotly. He laved it, then sucked—her breath hitched again. Her fingers had speared through his hair; they spread over his skull as he shifted his hold and closed his hands over her breasts.
Already firm, they swelled and filled his palms, heated flesh begging for his attention. Straightening, dragging in a swift breath, he caught her lips again. She kissed him back—avidly, greedily, as ravenous as he. When he rotated his thumbs about her already ruched nipples, she gasped. Without thought, he backed her until she came up against the wall. Inwardly, he tried to shake his head to clear it of the miasma of lust fogging it. He'd just moved her away from the bed, a patently silly move. Now he'd have to move her back again.
Later.
Trapping her lips with his, he pinned her to the wall and set his fingers to her laces.
He couldn't think—he hadn't planned, although he'd tried to. He rarely embarked on a seduction these days, especially not one he was particularly intent on, without some idea of what would work best, what possibilities were most likely, what avenues held most promise of fulfillment. In thinking of how he would have the countess, he hadn't been able to get past the need to touch her, to know her.
A surprisingly simple need for such an experienced lover as he, and one surprisingly compelling.
He had her laces free, her gown loose, in the space of a heated minute. Using his weight to immobilize her, he reached up and dislodged her hands from his hair. Drawing her hands and arms down, he leaned into their kiss—she drew him deep, then played havoc with his senses. For one definable instant, he lost his will entirely and simply existed, utterly in thrall, then the hot pressure of her breasts against his chest recalled him to his urgent need.
He had to touch her, caress her—feel her. If she wouldn't allow him to see her, he would have to learn her by touch, by having her against him, skin to bare skin, heat to heat.
Without any veils, any cloaks, any barriers between them. He needed to know her.
Releasing her hands, he reached for her shoulders and swiftly drew her gown down, pushing the sleeves down her arms, deftly freeing her breasts. He sensed her hesitation, the tremor of uncertainty that shook her; capturing her lips, her attention, in a searing kiss, he left her gown in folds about her hips and cupped
her breasts, now covered only by the thin silk of her chemise.
Her hesitation evaporated. She gripped his face with both hands and kissed him back, every bit as urgent as he. Through the silk, her skin burned; the ripe swells tipped by nipples hard as pebbles beckoned. Her chemise was fastened by a row of tiny buttons. He ravaged her mouth as he swiftly undid them. He was already aching, rigid with need, but more than anything he wanted to savor each moment, each revelation. Each bit of her as he uncovered it.
Her breasts were a delight. Firm and full, they filled his hands, generous, hot and heavy. Pushing the open halves of her chemise wide, he kneaded and heard her moan. The evocative sound sent another, unnecessary rush of blood to his loins. Dragging his lips from hers, he ducked his head, trailing
open-mouthed kisses over her throat, her collarbone, to where her flesh mounded in his hands. Then he feasted.
She moaned, and panted, and even sighed his name as he tasted, licked, and suckled. He had to be marking her; although he couldn't see, the thought sent a surge of sheer possessiveness through him. He drew one peak deep into his mouth; she cried out. Her knees buckled. He leaned into her, holding her up, his erection hard against her lower belly, his balls cradled between her thighs.
Her softness flowed around him as she slid her arms about his shoulders and clung; her perfume, evocative as sin, wrapped about them.
He lifted his head and found her lips again, swollen and hot and needy. She drew him in, tongue tangling with his, boldly inciting. He slid his hands down to her hips, then further, tracing the smooth lines of her flanks. Her nipples, hard and tight, were twin points of flame surrounded by the fire of her breasts, crushed against his chest as he pressed her to the wall. Her hips tilted into his.
He wasn't even thinking when he grasped the folds of her gown in both hands and pushed them from her hips. His senses didn't register the sibilant "swoosh" as he shifted and the silk slithered to the floor. His senses had seized.
She was like hot, supple silk, alive, enchanted, all his. Her limbs, all but naked, shifted sensuously against him, not to push him away but to enclose him more sweetly. If he'd ever dreamed of a houri, then she was here, in his arms, nubile, nearly naked, ready to fulfill his every want, ready to kill him with pleasure. He couldn't catch his breath, mentally or physically; lust closed like a fist about his gut and shut off his brain. His hands dove beneath the hem of her chemise to close possessively about the globes of her bottom.
Her kiss only grew hotter, sweeter, headier. She tasted like the elixir of the gods.
She levered herself up, tightening her arms about his shoulders. His legs had been outside hers, trapping hers; now he supported her and shifted, pressing one long thigh between hers. She murmured, an incoherent sound lost between their lips. He set her down; she balanced on her toes, held high by her hold on him and pinned by his chest. Shifting, he released her luscious derriere and slid both hands forward, caressing the sweet indentation where hip met thigh before moving on to the front of her naked thighs. With his thumbs, he found the crease at the top of each thigh; pressing lightly, he slid both thumbs slowly inward.
Her breathing fragmented; their kiss turned desperate as his thumbs tangled in her silky curls. He played, teasing, being tantalized, then, skillfully plundering her mouth, he sent one hand upward, fingers splaying over the delicate skin of her stomach, caressing, then kneading evocatively. In almost the same breath, he let the fingers of his other hand drift down, gently pressing in, searching through her heated softness to
find her.
If he hadn't been kissing her, he sensed she would have gasped. She was slick, swollen, and so hot. Her breasts strained against his chest; he held her steady and gently probed, then stroked, soothed, only to take further liberties.
The intimacy was new to her—he knew that in his bones. Her late husband must have been a clod. Yet she was flowering sweetly for him; her nectar burned his fingers as he circled her entrance, then drew back to caress the nubbin of flesh now tight and throbbing with need.
She quivered, her fingers digging into his upper arms as she arched her head away. He allowed her to break the kiss and catch a shattered breath, then he deliberately reached deeper and circled her entrance again…
She shivered. He was asking and she understood—after a fractional hesitation, she bent one knee, sliding her slender calf around his leg. Opening herself for him.
The only thing he managed to remember after that was that she hadn't been pleasured like this before. So he penetrated her slowly, letting her feel every tiny increment as he slid one finger into her sheath. She was scalding hot; he wasn't surprised to discover she was tight as well. Her experience of intimacy appeared miniscule. She clamped firmly about his finger, her breath shivering in his ear. He turned his head, found her lips, and soothed her with a long, slow kiss. As he withdrew his finger, her hips instinctively tilted, her body begging for more. He gave it to her, clinging to the reins of his impulses, howling to have her, urgent and ravenous. He was too experienced a lover not to know what would be best for her; with his lips on hers, reassuring, distracting, and inciting in turn, he set himself to show her what could be.
And when her fingers bit deep and she pulled back from their kiss as her body shattered in glory, he felt like a conqueror, victorious, triumphant, with the spoils of his conquest in his arms. Her released passion washed over him in waves, surge after surge of heat and fierce delight. The soft moan that escaped her, one of fulfillment laced with residual need, the waft of her ragged breaths against his cheek, the thundering of her heart pressed close to his, the evocative muskiness that rose from where his fingers filled her to combine with her perfume and drive him mad—all urged him on.
She was ready, so gloriously tall, and he was desperate.
It was the work of seconds to release his straining staff, to lift the leg she'd crooked about his knee to his hip. To draw his fingers from her hot wetness and set the head of his erection to her entrance. Gripping her hips, he caught her lips and plunged into her mouth, and into her heat.
She screamed.
The sound, trapped between their lips, reverberated through his head. Then she tensed, like a vise, about him.
He gasped, breaking their kiss, grimly fighting for control. It couldn't be—yet it was. Had been. The shock shook at least a few of his wits into place. After a fraught second in which he tettered on the brink of madness, he managed to block out the physical long enough to ask, "How?"
He had barely enough air in his lungs to form the word, but with her face close by his, she heard. "I…"
Her voice quavered; she was, it seemed, as shocked as he, if not for the same reason. That, he could
understand. If this was her first time… he was buried to the hilt inside her.
She gulped in air. Her words came in a shaky whisper by his ear. "I was a child bride. My husband… he was much older. And ill. He wasn't able to…" She released her grip on his arm to gesture. The movement caused her to shift upon him—she caught her breath on a fractured gasp.
"Shh. Gently." He found her lips and soothed her with a kiss while he struggled to take it in. A child bride left virginal by her aging husband? No doubt it did happen, although it had never before happened to him. Her unexpected innocence, however, raised a most pertinent question. Had she known he would…?
It took all his effort, and the last shreds of his will, to force himself to ask, "Do you want me to stop?"
Hardly elegant phrasing, but it was all he could manage with her clamped, the tightest, hottest, wettest dream he'd ever had, about him.
Her answer was a long time coming. His teeth were gritted, every muscle straining against the driving need to have her. With what little wit he still possessed he fought to ignore the warmth of the lush body in his arms, the constantly fluctuating pressure against his chest as she breathed rapidly, raggedly. He was so aware of her breathing, he knew when she reached her decision and drew in a deeper breath to deliver it.
He steeled himself to accept it—and prayed. She shook her head. "No."
He exhaled. "Thank God." "What—?"
He kissed her deeply, reassuringly, then lifted his head. "Don't think, just do as I say." He hesitated, wishing for the hundredth time that he could see, then added, "It'll feel a lot better very soon." He could only guess what she was feeling—he couldn't remember the last virgin he'd had. But she was still very tense; every muscle below her waist was locked tight. She was certainly not comfortable; she might even be in pain.
Withdrawing from her and repairing to the bed would have been the simple option. Unfortunately, with her tensed as she was, withdrawing from her would probably cause her more pain. But the bed was a must. "Raise your other leg—wrap it about my waist. I'll hold you." When she hesitated, he brushed her lips with his. "Trust me. I'll carry you to the bed."
She drew in a breath, and lifted her other leg, moving more confidently when she felt his hands shift and he took her weight. Locking her legs about him, sliding her arms about his shoulders for balance, she levered herself up a little, easing herself from him.
He gripped her hips. "That's enough." Grimly denying the impulse to surge back into her, he turned and carried her the few feet to the bed. Carefully, he laid her down with her hips close to the edge. As he'd expected, she relaxed just a little on finding the bed beneath her. Just enough for him to ease out of her a fraction more as he straightened, not fully but so he leaned over her, his weight on his locked arms.
Keeping his hips still, he found her face and brushed back the strands of gossamer soft hair that had fallen across her cheek. Her veil was still in place, still brushed back—he left it as it was. That, one day, she would remove for him, when she was ready to trust him with her name. Tonight, she was trusting him
with her body—for tonight, that was enough.
Framing her jaw, he leaned forward and kissed her. For a moment, she lay passive, then responded. Once she was kissing him back freely, he flexed his hips and pressed into her again, filling her, stretching her even more than before. She sucked in a breath and tensed, but then eased. He drew back and pressed in again, then repeated the movement, his action steady and even. He kept the tempo slow until her muscles relaxed, until her legs were loose about his hips, her hands lax, fingers trailing on his sleeves, her body open and accepting and starting to stir, starting to lift and surge with his rhythm.
Mildly triumphant, he drew back. "Don't move. Just wait." Then he straightened completely. Reaching around, he felt for her shoes, and removed them. Tracing her long legs upward until he encountered her garters, he stripped them and her stockings off. Her chemise was the merest wisp of fine silk—he decided to ignore it for the moment. Shrugging out of his coat, he heard the crackle of the promissory note and their lists; he tossed the coat toward where he'd seen a chair. His waistcoat and shirt followed in short order, then he toed off his shoes and stripped off his trousers.
The lamps in the sitting room had gone out; the darkness was intense. He couldn't see her—only feel her, hear her, sense her. And she couldn't see him.
"What…?"
He reached for her, sliding his hands along her flanks, up over her sides. "Just trust me." He joined her on the bed, rolling and lifting her as he did, moving them back so their long legs weren't hanging over the edge.
She gasped as he rose over her again, her hands clutching wildly as, palms flat on either side of her, he braced his arms and held himself above her. Wedging his hips between her widespread thighs, he surged and filled her until she was full. Then he lowered his head, searching for her lips. Her fluttering hands found his face, then her lips joined with his. She offered them, and her mouth, willingly, lovingly. He took both as he rocked her, rocked into her, until she was once again easy, accepting the smooth slide of his staff into her sheath with gratifying eagerness.
Pulling back from the kiss, he held himself above her and changed the tenor of their joining. He kept the rhythm slow, but rolled his hips as he entered her, encouraging her to spread her thighs wider, raise her knees higher.
Then her fingertips hesitantly touched his chest, another of her butterfly caresses. He bit his lip and concentrated on keeping to his slow beat. His muscles flickered and twitched as her fingers delicately traced over his chest, his waist, his flanks. Stifling a gasp, he thrust deeper. "Wrap your legs around me like before."
She obeyed instantly, locking her legs about his hips. "Now what?" She couldn't see his smile. "Now we ride."
They did. Together.
He'd purposely darkened the room to ease her fear of revealing herself, her identity, to him. In doing so, he'd unwittingly created a sensual situation beyond even his ken. Making love in total darkness emphasized the tactile sensations and amplified the soft, intensely sensual sounds. It was a new and very different experience, loving a woman blind.
He was aware of every square inch where they touched, aware of the screening quality of her silk
chemise, nowhere near as fine as the skin beneath it. He heard every little hitch in her breathing, every soft sound she made; he was attuned to every moan, every gasped, incoherent entreaty. He knew her perfume, but it was another scent that wreathed his brain, that of her and her alone. In his arms, in the dark, she became the epitome of woman, in truth the houri he'd labelled her. She was the essence of joy and the essence of madness; she was the ultimate challenge.
His senses were full of her, focused most completely on where they joined. The heightened sensations left him reeling.
He'd never before had a woman to equal her. That was borne in on him as they rode on, through their sensual landscape, scaling higher and ever higher peaks. She matched him—not just physically, although that was wonder enough; she clung, gasped, shattered, then rose again to ride on. But she was there, with him, urging him on, daring and challenging, joyously inviting him to dive into the sensual whirlpool her body had become. A whirlpool of giving.
He demanded and she gave—not just generously but with a wild abandon that shattered his control. He couldn't get enough of her; he drank greedily, yet her well was never dry.
She gave him joy and delight and pleasure unimaginable, and in the giving received the same. When the end finally came and their ride ended in soul-shattering glory, he was, for the first time in his life, utterly beyond this world.
One thought drifted past: He'd been the first to have her.
A second later, that deeply buried part of him he rarely let loose growled a correction: The only one to have her.
Holding her close, feeling her soften beneath him, he shut his eyes and drifted into pleasured bliss.
She woke slowly, her senses gradually returning, her scattered wits reassembling in fits and starts. The first thing she was aware of was that there were tears in her eyes. They weren't tears of regret but of joy—a joy too deep, too intense to find expression in word or thought.
So that was what lay between a woman and a man. The thought brought a surge of giddy delight, followed immediately by a rush of gratitude—to him who had demonstrated so well.
Her lips kicked up at the ends. She'd heard for years that he was an expert in that sphere—she could now attest to the fact. He'd been gentle and tender, at least once he'd realized she was a novice, but later… she didn't think he'd held back.
She was glad—glad of the experience, glad it had happened. Especially glad it had happened with him. That last made her frown.
Even though it was dark and had been throughout, so that he'd been no more than a phantom, kissing her, caressing her, she'd always known it was he.
Him. Her senses focused on the heavy body lying upon her, the heaviness within her, filling her, stretching her…
The realization jolted her fully awake.
Her immediate thought was that this wasn't she—or not the same she. She had a naked man in her arms and they were joined; she was changed forever physically. And emotionally; she couldn't forget how she'd writhed beneath him, wanton and wanting. She was incontrovertibly altered—she could
never go back to who she'd been.
She waited for the recriminations to start, the dire prophecies, the hysterical outpourings. Nothing came. Instead, she remained at peace, filled with a warm glow she'd never known, never even imagined existed. And she couldn't regret it.
It had been no one's fault; she hadn't imagined it could happen against a wall, not with them both upright. Her feet had been firmly on the floor. Her head, of course, had been wholly in the clouds, her wits swept away on a tide of pure desire.
The thought brought the experience back to her—the burgeoning excitement, the scintillating thrill, the pure, unadulterated joy. This, here, with him, would be the only chance she'd ever have of experiencing it—the true magnificence of being a woman, a woman joined with a man. There was no one she was hurting; no one in her life to care. No one who would ever know. She'd been condemned by circumstance to die an old maid; what harm could there be in this, her one taste of glory? It would have to last her the rest of her life.
Although he'd been inside her before she'd realized his intention, she'd known precisely what she was doing when she'd told him not to stop. She'd had plenty of experience in making decisions; she knew how it felt when she'd decided right. It felt like this.
In the same way she'd never looked back, never regretted turning her back on London and her Season all those years ago, she would not regret this. No matter what complications arose, she'd experienced and enjoyed—and lusted.
A gurgle of inner laughter welled up inside her. Sternly quelling it, she tried to shift, only to find it impossible. The movement once more focused her senses on the hard male body pressing hers into the bed. He was heavy, yet oddly, she rather liked the feeling of his weighted limbs pressing her into the mattress. She wasn't uncomfortable, indeed, quite the opposite, strange though that seemed. Her legs had relaxed from about his waist but were still tangled with his. One of her arms was draped over his shoulder; her other hand lay against his side.
Him. She couldn't take it in; her mind kept shying from the thought, from allowing his image to form. In the dark, he'd simply been a magnificent male, one she trusted so deeply the thought that he might physically hurt her had simply not occurred. She'd given herself to him and he'd taken her, swept her up in his arms and introduced her to delights she could still only barely comprehend.
Yet she knew who he was. Didn't she?
Frowning, she slipped her hand from his side and, very gently, touched his shoulder. When his breathing continued deep and even, she let her fingers wander, tracing the wide bone, the sleek muscle bands.
Spreading her fingers, she explored the side of his chest, then his back, sensing the power in the steely muscles beneath the smooth skin.
She'd seen his naked chest years before; even then, it had fascinated her, although she'd told herself she was merely curious. Now she could indulge; letting her hands wander, she filled her senses with him.
Her skin came alive, all over. The sudden rush of sensation made her breath hitch; he was so warm, so male, so vibrantly real. A tide of heady feeling welled and surged through her. The wave reared and crashed—and rocked her, tore her from her moorings and tossed her into a turbulent swell. She caught her breath, quivering, helplessly adrift on an emotional sea whipped by sudden turmoil.
Rupert?
No—Gabriel.
The reality struck to her bones. He was deeply familiar in so many ways, yet in truth he was a man she'd only recently met. She could feel his hands on her, still holding her even in sleep. Those strong, clever hands had loved her, caressed her, brought her untold joy and delight. Their touch was burned into her memory, as was the empty ache that had swept her, the ache only he evoked and only he could ease.
Shifting her head, she peered at his face, but the darkness defeated her. All she knew was his warm weight, the touch of his hands, and the stream of feeling that welled and poured through her, from her, leaving her shaking inside.
It took a minute to catch her breath, to steady herself, to reground herself in reality and let the fantasy—and that exultation that left her so vulnerable—fade away.
He'd be horrified if he knew, if he realized it was she. So why was every instinct she possessed screaming that this was right, so right, when she knew, logically, it was all wrong?
As she stared into darkness, confusion reigning in her mind, he stirred.
Then he shifted; she realized he was turning toward her, then the pressure on her chest eased. His warmth was still close, her lower body still pressed heavily into the bed. It took her a moment to realize that he was resting his weight on his elbows.
She remembered her veil. Propelled by sudden panic, she started to reach… then realized he was as blind as she. The darkness was so intense, even though she knew his face was mere inches from hers, she couldn't see it.
"That was quite a ride, countess."
The lazy, gravelly words drifted down; his breath wafted across her cheek. His lips followed, searching and finding hers, then settling for a long, slow, exceedingly thorough kiss. When he finally brought it to an end and released her lips, she could tell his were curved.
"How do you feel?"
Stretched. Still full of him. "Alive." How true. Her skin was heating again. How could that be? As if he could read her thoughts, his lips returned to hers, and he was smiling even more definitely.
Another lengthy kiss left her close to conflagration; ending it, he murmured, "Are you game for another gallop?"
He pressed inward, and she realized that he definitely was. Her hips tilted, inviting him deeper; she concluded she must be, too. She tightened her arms about him, wordlessly urging him closer. He settled upon her, settled his lips on hers, and sank deeply into her—into her mouth, into her body.
This time, he was in no hurry. Before, he'd been reined, restrained; this time, he savored her, rocking her deeply, pleasuring her well. The heat inside her grew until her bones melted. She drew back from their kiss to drag in a breath. His lips slid down her throat, then, to her surprise, she felt him shift, pull back.
He withdrew from her, leaving her suddenly, achingly empty. Sliding lower, he fastened his mouth leisurely over one nipple.
The scalding heat was a shock; she gasped, then relaxed, then tensed again as he artfully played. The
sound she made when he rasped her nipple with his tongue reminded her of a cat; when he grazed the tortured bud with his teeth, she nearly died.
"Gently."
The word was a soothing sigh feathering over her heated flesh as he turned his attention to her other breast, to the neglected peak that was already aching for his touch. When it came, she arched like a puppet whose strings were in his hands. His warm chuckle rewarded her.
"How old are you?"
His lips drifted lower, skating over her midriff. "Umm… late twenties."
"Hmm." He slid lower, his lips trailing a hot path to her navel. "You've got a lot of catching up to do." "I have?"
He reached one hand up to fondle her breasts; the other slid down and around, stroking over her bottom and along the backs of her thighs. "Oh, yes."
He sounded very sure.
"You may as well start now."
She didn't argue. She was sensing him, seeing him anew—and it was a fascinating insight. This tenderly passionate seducer set a completely new dimension to this male she'd never, it now seemed, completely known. She'd never met him as the sensual adult male—in that guise, he was an enticing creature, cloaked in darkness, maybe, but oh so tempting.
The world slid away; reality faded as his hands wove their magic. "What should I do?"
He lifted his head from where he was nibbling his way across her stomach, the skin taut and flickering. Her nerves were similarly afflicted.
"Just lie back." She could hear a certain male smugness in his voice. "Lie back, relax, and let the pleasure take you."
She had no strength, no motivation to do otherwise, so she did. If she'd had any inkling of what he had in mind, she would have summoned strength from somewhere. But she didn't. So she indulged her senses, and indulged herself with the indescribable pleasure of indulging him.
The warm, vibrant body arching beneath him held Gabriel's attention more completely, more effectively, than any woman before. Than anything in his life before.
Nothing had ever been this compelling. Never before had he experienced such total and abject surrender to the moment, to the worship of shared pleasure. There was something more here, something deeper, more powerful, more fascinating. The connoisseur was enthralled; the man was captivated.
Whatever new caress, whatever outrageous delight he pressed on her, she accepted—eagerly, gratefully—and, in return, she ravished him with her body, lavished upon him an unrestricted, unrestrained invitation to take, to plunder, to enjoy.
To search, to plumb, to discover—to know. Completely, absolutely, without barriers or guile. There was no part of her she hid from him, no part of her she denied him. He only had to reach, to wordlessly ask, to be invited to take, to touch, to sate his hunger in her.
Her generosity was not limited to the physical. He sensed no reticence, no emotional distance, no private core of feeling she kept screened. Even as he steered her toward the culminating climax, he could sense the vulnerability she didn't try to hide.
It was that that ensnared him, focused his attention so completely. He'd opened sensual doors for her; in return, she'd opened a door he'd never imagined existed, a door into a realm of deeper intimacy, far more explicit, more dangerous, more exciting. An abject innocent, she'd shown him how much more there could be in this sphere—a sphere in which he'd thought he'd known it all.
He'd never known this—this all-consuming passion. She was open, honest, and soul-shatteringly courageous in her giving. Without conditions, she offered the ultimate satiation—something deep inside him shook as, driven, he reached to claim it.
And then it was his, and they were caught in the tide, buffeted by the glory. The intense release swelled, rose, then washed through them, and he was drowning in the bottomless well of her giving, in the ultimate ecstasy.
His last thought as he slid beneath the wave was that she was his. Tonight—and forever.
He woke in the depths of the night. For one instant, he savored the fluid stillness that held them, then reluctantly he disengaged, lifting from her and untangling their limbs, then sinking down beside her and gathering her to him. He would have liked to simply lie there, sharing the contentment, the aftermath of pleasure still warm in their veins, but she woke, too, and turned skittish. Not with any false modesty but with anxiety.
"I must go." A reluctance to match his resonated in her words, colored her determination. That last, however, was strong.
She pushed away and he let her go, shaken by the spike of need that drove him to pull her back. He'd never been possessive; it was, he told himself, simply that he'd enjoyed her so well, that the experience of her was so new to him.
He listened as she slipped from the bed, tracking her by sound as she rounded the bed to grope by the wall for her gown.
Rising, he found his trousers, pulled them on, then padded into the sitting room. He returned a moment later, having relighted both lamps. She was in her gown, her veil already down; she was struggling to redo her laces.
"Here." Strolling up, he caught her about the waist and turned her. "Let me."
Expertly, he did them up, noting the fine tension that had gripped her the instant he'd touched her. He left her drawing on her stockings in the semi-darkness, and quickly finished dressing. By the time he shrugged into his coat, she was fully cloaked and veiled. He wasn't surprised by her sudden bolt back into secrecy, but he was very tired of that veil.
She glanced at him. "I'll see myself out." The words were slightly breathless. "No." Strolling forward, he stopped by her side. "I'll see you to your carriage."
She considered arguing; he could sense it in her stance. But then she acquiesced with an inclination of her head. Not haughty, but careful.
Without another word, he escorted her from the room, down the stairs, and through the foyer. The sleepy doorman let them out with barely a glance, too busy stifling a yawn.
Her black carriage was waiting just along the street. He handed her in, then she turned back to him. He felt her gaze search his face, lit by a nearby street flare, then she inclined her head again.
"Thank you."
The soft words feathered his senses, leaving him very sure that it was not his efforts regarding the company for which she was thanking him.
She settled into the dark of the carriage; he shut the door and nodded at her coachman. "Drive on."
The coach rattled away. Filling his chest with a slow, deep breath, he watched it turn the corner, then he exhaled and headed home. The sense of achievement that suffused him was profound and intensely satisfying. Intensely gratifying.
Everything—everything—was going very well.
Chapter 9
« ^ »
"Well, miss, and what's got into you?"
Alathea snapped to attention. Reflected in the dressing table mirror before her, she saw Nellie shaking out her pillows and airing her bed.
Nellie caught her eye. "You've been staring at that mirror for the past five minutes, and seeing nothing is my guess."
Alathea gestured, brushing the query aside, praying she wouldn't blush, that her face showed no evidence of her thoughts. Heaven forbid.
"That meeting of yours last night must have been a long one—four o'clock again before you got in. Jacobs said you was in there for all those hours."
Alathea picked up her brush. "We had to discuss what we'd learned."
"So you've found something out about this wretched company—you and Mr. Rupert?"
"Indeed." Setting the brush to her hair, Alathea forced her mind to that aspect of the night. "We've learned enough to frame our case. All we need do now is assemble the right proofs, and we'll be free."
Easier said than done, no doubt, but she was convinced last night had set their feet on the road to success. Despite her careful words to Gabriel, she'd felt buoyed by their first real gain, the first scent of ultimate victory.
She'd been careful to hide her elation, aware he'd sense it and take advantage.
He'd taken advantage anyway. So had she.
"Here, let me." Nellie lifted the brush from her slack grasp. "Good for nothing, this morning, you are." Alathea blinked. "I was just… thinking."
Nellie shot her a shrewd look. "Well, I dare say there are lots of facts from this meeting you need chew on."
"Hmm." Facts. Sensations, emotions—revelations. She had a lot to think about.
Throughout the day, her mind wandered, considering, pondering, reliving the golden moments, carefully fixing each in her memory, storing them away against the cold years ahead. Again and again, she was jerked back to the present—by Charlie asking after one of their tenants, by Alice wanting her opinion on a particular shade of ribbon, by Jeremy frowning over a piece of arithmetic.
Finally, in the quiet of the afternoon when, after luncheon, all the females of the family repaired to the back parlor for a quiet hour before driving in the park or attending an afternoon tea, Augusta climbed into Alathea's lap, sitting astride her knees. Placing her soft hands on Alathea's cheeks, Augusta stared into her eyes. "You keep going away—far away."
Alathea looked into Augusta's large brown eyes. Augusta searched hers. "Where is it you go?"
To another world, one of darkness, sensation, and indescribable wonder.
Alathea smiled. "Sorry, poppet, I've got lots on my mind just now." Rose had been dumped in her lap between them; Alathea lifted the doll and studied her. "How is Rose finding London?"
The distraction worked, not for her but for Augusta. Fifteen minutes later, when Augusta slipped from her lap and went to play with Rose in a splash of sunlight, Alathea exchanged a fond and, she hoped, undisturbingly mild glance with Serena, then quietly left the room.
She sought refuge in her office.
Standing arms crossed before the window, she forced herself to concentrate on the company's plans, all that Crowley had disclosed the previous evening. Despite her senses' preoccupation, there was nothing requiring thought in all the rest. It had happened—she'd seized and enjoyed the experience, but that was all there was to it. She wouldn't rescue her family from destitution by dwelling on such matters—on the substance of dreams. Her only major worry arising from her interlude with Gabriel was the difficulty she would experience in facing him as Alathea Morwellan. Knowing him in the biblical sense, and knowing he knew her in the same way but didn't know it was she, wasn't going to make her life any easier.
Despite her charade, she was not a naturally deceitful person; she'd never imagined having to deceive him in this way.
If he ever found out…
Dragging in a breath, she turned from the window. Sensibility was not her strong suit—whatever leanings she'd had in that direction had been eradicated eleven years ago. Determinedly, she focused on
the company and Crowley. It took mere minutes to concede that she could not, no matter how much she wished it, proceed without Gabriel. Quite aside from the fact that dismissing him would probably be more difficult than summoning him in the first place, she could see no way forward without him.
She couldn't break in, or even organize to have someone else break in, to Douglas's mansion. She'd had Jacobs drive her around Egerton Gardens; Folwell had chatted to a street sweeper and discovered which of the large, new houses belonged to Douglas, but breaking in was too risky. Although they might find some of the proofs they needed, the chances of Crowley or Swales realizing their records had been searched and, as Charlie would phrase it, getting the wind up, was high. Then they'd call in the promissory notes and she'd be too busy beating off creditors to press any claim in court.
And she didn't like Crowley. The thought of meeting him at night alone and cut off from help was the substance of nightmares. He was evil. She'd sensed it very clearly, watching him as he'd watched Gerrard Debbington, seeing the cruel gleam in his eyes. Gabriel had said Crowley liked to gloat over his potential victims, but it was more than that. He viewed people as prey. There was viciousness and real cruelty beneath his semicivilized veneer.
She wanted him as far away from her family as possible.
All things considered—and she did mean all—the only sensible way forward was to find the needed proofs without delay. Then Crowley would no longer be a threat, and the countess could fade into the mists.
"Fangak. Lodwar. What was the other one?" Sitting at her desk, she drew a sheet of paper onto the blotter and reached for a pen. "Kafia—that was it."
She wrote the names down, then settled to list all the names and locations she could recall Crowley mentioning.
"Mary? Alice?" Alathea peeked into Mary's bedchamber, where her elder stepsisters often repaired when they were supposed to be resting. Sure enough, both were lolling on the bed wearing identical expressions of disgusted boredom. They both lifted their heads to look at her.
Alathea grinned. "I'm going to Hatchard's. Serena said you could come if you wished." Mary sat bolt upright. "They have a lending library, don't they?"
Alice was already rolling from the bed. "I'll come."
Alathea watched them scramble into shoes, struggle into spencers, grab bonnets, casting only the most perfunctory of glances at their reflections. "There is a lending library, but before you go looking for Mrs. Radcliffe's latest, I want you to help me find some books."
"On what?" Alice asked as she joined her at the door. "On Africa."
"That was boring." On a long-drawn yawn, Jeremy sank deeper into the seat of the hackney and leaned against Alathea's shoulder. "I thought they would have known about digging up gold. All they wanted to talk about was melting it."
"Hmm." Alathea grimaced. She'd thought the gentlemen at the Metallurgical Institute would have known about mining, too. Unfortunately, the academy, whose sign she'd glimpsed when walking with Mary and Alice, had proved to focus solely on refining metals and the subsequent workings. The good gentlemen
had known less than she about gold mining in Central East Africa. Despite reading late into the night, she knew virtually nothing about the subject.
Alathea glanced at Augusta, snuggled on her other side with Rose propped on her lap. At least Augusta was happy, unconcerned with mining gold. "How's Rose?"
"Rose is good." Augusta looked at Rose's face, then turned her once more to the window. "She's seeing more of the city—it's crowded and noisy, but she feels safe in here with me and you."
Alathea smiled, closing her hand around the small fingers snuggled trustingly into hers. 'That's good. Rose is growing up—she'll be a big girl soon."
"But not yet." Augusta looked into her face. "Do you think Miss Helm will be all better when we get back?"
Miss Helm had developed the sniffles, which was why Alathea had Augusta with her. "I'm sure Miss Helm will be recovered by tomorrow, but you and Rose must be very good with her this evening."
"Oh, we will." Augusta turned Rose's face to hers. "We'll be specially good. We won't even say she has to read to us before bed."
"I'll come and read to you, poppet." "But you have to go to the ball."
Alathea stroked Augusta's hair. "I'll come and read to you first—I can go on later in the other carriage."
"I say!" Jeremy jerked upright, staring out of the window. "Look at that!"
Alathea did—it took a moment before she realized what she was looking at. "It's a pedestrian curricle—at least, I suppose that's what it is."
She'd heard of the contraptions. Both she and Jeremy leaned close to the window, with Augusta pressing between; they all watched the gentleman in a natty checkered coat balanced precariously above the large wheel weave in and out of the traffic until he disappeared from view.
"Well!" Eyes alight, Jeremy sank back. Alathea looked at his face. "No."
Her tone was absolute; Jeremy's face fell. "But, Allie—just think—" "I am—I'm thinking of your mother."
"I wouldn't fall off—I'd be extra specially careful."
Alathea met his eye. "Just like you were extra specially careful when I allowed you to drive the gig?" "I only got tipped in the river—and anyway, that was old Dobbins's fault."
Alathea held her tongue. The hackney rolled on, taking them back into the fashionable district. As they turned into Mount Street, she glanced again at Jeremy's face. He was still dreaming of the dangerous contraption; she knew he wouldn't let go of his dream until he'd experienced it, or something worse. He was adventurous, the sort who simply had to try things out. It was a compulsion she understood.
"Pedestrian curricles have been around for some years." Her musing comment had Jeremy turning, his eyes lighting. She met his bright gaze. "I'll ask your mama. Perhaps Folwell can find one—"
"Whoopee!"
"On one condition."
Jeremy stopped bouncing on the seat, but his eyes still glowed. "What condition?"
"That you promise not to use it in town at all, but only once we're back at Morwellan Park." Where the lawns were thick and cushioning.
Jeremy considered for only a moment. "All right. I promise."
Alathea nodded as the carriage rocked to a stop before Morwellan House. "Very well. I'll speak with your mama."
Propping up the wall at yet another ball, Alathea stifled a yawn. She blinked her eyes wide, struggling to keep them open; she'd spent the past two nights reading into the small hours after the rest of the household was abed. It was the only time she had to herself to wade through the tomes she'd found on Africa.
Central East Africa, however, continued to elude her. What little she could find on the region was largely speculative, and exceedingly scant on detail.
A familiar head of burnished chestnut hove into sight above the masses. The most peculiar thrill shot through her; she immediately looked for cover. There was not a palm or shadowy alcove anywhere near. Besides, that might not be wise. Getting trapped with him in the shadows was likely to scramble her wits.
Beneath her skirts, she bent her knees and sank just enough so that she was no longer so readily detected by her height. Through gaps in the horrendous crush, she caught glimpses of Gabriel as he prowled the room.
For some peculiar reason, at least viewing him from a distance, he seemed like a different man. She could see, appreciate, aspects of him she hadn't truly noticed before, like the perfection of his restrained elegance, and the subtle aura of leashed power that cloaked his tall frame. And his reserve, that distance, apparently unbreachable, that he maintained between himself and the world.
He was bored—truly bored. She could see why Celia and the ladies of the ton despaired. They were right in thinking he didn't see them at all; from the way his face was set, the steadiness of his gaze, she would have wagered Morwellan Park that he was thinking more of Central East Africa than of a glittering ballroom in Mayfair.
One lady braved his detachment and put her hand on his sleeve. He smiled, urbanely charming; gracefully, he lifted her hand and bowed over it. Straightening, he exchanged a light word, some quip to set the lady laughing, hoping… only to be disappointed as with no more than that superficiality, he smoothly moved on.
He was a master at sliding through a crowd, refusing to be anchored, ineffably polite, arrogantly assured, and utterly impossible.
"Alathea! Good gracious, my dear—what peculiar fetish do you have with walls?"
Abruptly straightening, Alathea looked around—into Celia Cynster's startled eyes. "I was…
just easing my legs."
Celia gave her a hard, inherently maternal stare, but was distracted by a glimpse of her firstborn through the crowd. "There he is! I made him promise to attend—he's been to hardly any balls this entire Season—well, only family affairs. How on earth does he expect to find a wife?"
"I don't think securing a wife is uppermost in his mind."
Celia nearly pouted. "Well, he had better get started on the matter—he's not getting any younger." Alathea kept her lips sealed.
"Lady Hendricks has been dropping hints that her daughter Emily might suit."
An image of the lovely Miss Hendricks popped into Alathea's mind. The young lady was sweet, modest, and excessively quiet. "Don't you think she's a little too timid?"
"Of course she's too timid! Rupert wouldn't know what to do with her—and she certainly wouldn't know what to do with him."
Alathea hid a smile. "Are you really entertaining any hope that some lady will be able to influence Rupert? He's the least easy to influence person I know."
Celia sighed. "Believe me, my dear, the right lady could do a great deal with Rupert, because, you see, he'd let her."
"Lady Alathea!"
Blinking, Alathea refocused on Mary and Alice, strolling with Heather and Eliza ahead of her on the lawns. It was clearly not they who had called. Looking around, she discovered two blond beauties rushing to catch her up. Both held on to elegant bonnets, ribbons streaming in the breeze; profusions of golden ringlets danced on their shoulders.
Recognizing the twins, Alathea halted. She'd been introduced to them at a ball, but they hadn't had a chance for any lengthy chat.
Gaining her side, the twins waved at their cousins, then turned beaming smiles upon her as they flanked her. Alathea got the distinct impression she'd been captured.
"We wondered if we might speak with you," one began.
Alathea smiled, a shrewd suspicion of what was to come dawning in her mind. "You'll have to take pity on me—I can't remember which of you is which."
"I'm Amelia," the one who'd spoken testified.
"And I'm Amanda," the other said, making it sound like a confession. "We wondered if you'd mind giving us your opinion."
"On what subject?"
"Well, you've known Gabriel and Lucifer since they were young. We've decided that the only way we'll be able to escape them and find our own husbands is for them to get married, so we wanted to ask if you could give us any pointers."
"Any hints as to who might be suitable—
"Or characteristics to avoid, like being hen-brained." "Although that does narrow the candidates."
Alathea looked from one bright face to the other—they were earnest, eager, and totally serious. She stifled a gurgle of laughter. "You want to marry them off so they'll no longer be in your way?"
"So they'll no longer guard us like the crown jewels!"
"We've heard," Amelia said darkly, "that some gentlemen won't even come near us, simply because of the ructions that might ensue."
"They actually cross us off their lists, right from the first, all because of those two!" Amanda all but shook her fist at her absent cousins. "How on earth can we reasonably assess all the possibilities—"
"And make sure they've assessed us properly, too—" "If our watchdogs are forever snarling—"
"And they always snarl loudest at the most interesting gentlemen!"
"Well," Amanda went on, "you know what gentlemen are like. If there's the least hurdle, then they simply won't bother exerting themselves."
"Well, they don't need to, do they? There's always so many other ladies about for whom they need exert themselves not at all."
"So you see, when it comes to eligibility, we're laboring under an unfair disadvantage."
"Oh, dear." Alathea fought to straighten her lips. "You know, I really don't think Gabriel and Lucifer would like you to think of them as an 'unfair disadvantage'." She suspected they'd be hurt, their male egos bruised.
Amanda kicked at the grass. "Well, we don't plan on telling them, but that doesn't excuse the fact. They
are a disadvantage." "And they are unfair, too."
Alathea didn't argue—she thought the same. They were being pigheadedly unfair, refusing to see that Amanda and Amelia had any modicum of sense and, regardless of all else, had every right to choose their own husbands. The way Gabriel and Lucifer had always treated her—as an equal companion—stood in stark contrast to how they treated the twins. Although they'd always interposed themselves between her and any threat, they hadn't tried to stop her from encountering those threats.
Looking up, she checked her charges ambling ahead; all four girls were engrossed in some avid discussion. Alathea glanced at the twins—at Amanda, scowling at the grass as she walked, then at Amelia, softer of face but with the same determined set to her chin. "Why do you think their marrying will help?"
Amanda looked up. "Well, it has with all the others. They're no longer a problem."
"All you have to do is look, and you'll see it. Why, Devil was the worst, but he's so much easier now."
"Once they marry, it's as if all their attention is focused on the lady they wed." "And their families."
Alathea pondered that.
"We think we should concentrate on Gabriel first."
"Simply because he's the elder." Amelia glanced at Alathea. "Do you think that's the right tack?"
Alathea considered the picture of Gabriel trying to maintain his repressive watch over the twins while simultaneously fending off ladies the twins themselves introduced. He wouldn't have time to cause her any problems. "I think… that your aunt Celia could give you some names."
Amanda brightened. "That's a thought."
"There would be no need," Alathea mused, elaborating on the picture in her mind, "to be overly subtle. The ladies won't care as long as they gain some time by his side, and he'll know what you're up to from the first, so there's no need to be careful on that count."
Amelia stopped dead. "He'll be trapped." She swung to face Alathea and Amanda, her eyes alight. "He won't be able to escape—
"Except"—Amanda concluded with great relish—"by leaving us alone."
Hookhams Lending Library in Bond Street was Alathea's port of call the next morning. Unfortunately, their section on Africa was almost nonexistent. Nevertheless, she borrowed all four books; old and rather tattered, they held out little promise. Juggling them under her arm, she stepped down to the pavement.
The biggest book slipped—her shoe skidded off the last step— "Careful!"
Hard hands gripped her arms and righted her. Jerking her head up, Alathea stared—into Lucifer's face. She swallowed her sigh of relief, and struggled to calm her thudding heart. For one moment, with the sun behind him, she'd thought him his brother. "Ah…"
"Here—give me those."
He didn't, of course, give her any choice. "Oh—yes!" Alathea drew in a quick breath. "Have you been riding this morning?"
He looked at her. "In the park? No. Why?"
She shrugged. "I just wondered… I'd love to go for a ride, but it's so impossible here—only being allowed to amble in the park."
"If you want to ride"—he tucked her books under one arm and fell in beside her—"you'll need to organize an excursion to the country."
Alathea grimaced. "I may as well wait until we return home." Her only hope was to keep him talking, to hold his attention so he didn't glance at the books. Africa was an unusual topic, certainly an odd one for her to be studying in depth. Given that Lucifer shared Gabriel's house, and she knew how they tossed tidbits and observations back and forth… she drew in a breath. "But the Season's still got weeks and weeks to go."
"Indeed, and those weeks are crammed with more balls than ever." Lucifer frowned at the pavement. "And now here's Gabriel threatening to eschew all but compulsory family events."
"Oh? Why?"
"The damned twins have gone on the offensive." "Offensive? What do you mean?"
"Last night, they swarmed up to Gabriel on three separate occasions with a different lady each time, and cornered him."
Alathea wished she'd seen it. "Couldn't he get away?"
"Not easy with one of the twins hanging on his arm and refusing to let go." "Oh, dear."
"Oh, dear, indeed. You know what will happen, don't you?" She looked at him questioningly.
"He'll wash his hands of the hussies." "Leaving you in the firing line." Lucifer stopped dead. "Good God."
She managed to keep him grumbling about the twins all the way to where her carriage waited. Deftly dropping a kiss on his cheek, she snagged her books from under his arm.
He frowned at her. "What was that for?"
"Just for being you." Safe in the carriage, the books on the seat beside her, she smiled gloriously. He humphed, shut the carriage door, and waved her away.
She was still smiling when she crossed the threshold of Morwellan House; she nodded brightly to Crisp as he held the door. Stacking her books on the table beneath the mirror, she reached up to remove her bonnet.
"There you are, dear."
Serena stood in the drawing room doorway. Placing her hat on top of the books, Alathea crossed the hall. "Do we have guests?" she whispered.
"No, no. I just wanted to speak with you." Serena stepped back into the drawing room. "It's about your father."
"Oh." Following her and shutting the door, Alathea raised her brows.
"He's in one of his states." Serena raised her hands helplessly. "You know—under the weather but not ill."
"Has anything happened?"
"Not today. He was a little quiet when he came in yesterday, but he didn't say anything. You know he would normally be at White's by now, but instead he's sitting in the library."
They looked at each other, concern mirrored in their faces. Then Alathea nodded. "I'll go and speak with him."
Serena smiled. "Thank you—he always listens to you."
Alathea hugged her stepmother. "He always listens to you, too, but we talk about different things."
Her smile strengthening, Serena returned the hug. "Have you learned anything more about this promissory note?"
Alathea nodded. "I think we've found a way—a legal way—to have the note declared invalid, but I don't want to get anyone's hopes up yet."
"That's probably wise. Just tell us when we're free."
They exchanged quick smiles, then Alathea headed for the library.
The door opened noiselessly; she slipped in, noting that the curtains were open, the room bright, not shrouded in gloom. A good sign. While her father did not make a habit of succumbing to the blue devils, he had, she knew, been inwardly berating himself over the wretched promissory note. He'd put on a brave face for her sake and Serena's, but he would feel the sense of failure, of self-reproach, deeply.
Sitting in his favorite armchair, the earl was looking out over the back lawn. Mary and Alice were cutting roses, each girl as delicately beautiful as the blooms they laid in their baskets. Beyond them, Charlie was teaching Jeremy the rudiments of cricket while Augusta and Miss Helm were seated on a rug in the sunshine, reading a book. The garden was enclosed by stone walls, visible here and there between trees and thick bushes. The scene could have been a painting depicting fashionable family life, but it wasn't a figment of anyone's imagination—it was real, and it was theirs.
Empowering certainty filling her, Alathea touched her father's shoulder. "Papa?"
So engrossed had he been, he hadn't known she was there. He looked up, then his lips curved ruefully. "Good morning, my dear."
Catching her hand, he squeezed it; he continued to hold it as she sat on the arm of his chair. Alathea leaned her shoulder against his, comforted by the solidity beneath his coat. "What is it?"
He sighed, the sound deep and defeated. "I really hoped you'd be wrong about that company—that the Central East Africa Gold Company would ultimately turn out to be legitimate. That I hadn't made yet another mistake."
He paused; Alathea held his hand firmly and waited.
"But you and Wiggs were right. It was all a hum. Chappie I met at White's yesterday told me so. He was from those parts—Central East Africa. He knew the company. Condemned it as a racket set up to gull simpletons into parting with their brass." He grimaced. "I could hardly disagree."
"You couldn't have known…" Alathea blinked. 'This man, who was he?" "Sailor fellow—a Captain something. Didn't catch his last name." "What did he look like?"
At the sudden tension in her voice, the earl turned to meet her gaze. "He was of middle height, rather portly. Had great grizzled whiskers down both cheeks. His domes marked him as a seaman, senior rank—there's always a nautical air to such men." He searched Alathea's face. "Why? Is he important?"
Alathea reined in her excitement. "He could be. Wiggs and I think there's a legal way of overturning the promissory note, but we need to learn more about the company's business. A man like this captain could be very helpful." She gripped her father's hand. "Was he with anyone you knew?"
Her father shook his head. "No. But if it's important, I can ask around."
"Do, Papa—it could be very important. And if you should stumble across him again, promise me you'll bring him home."
Her father's brows quirked, but he nodded. "Right, then. I suppose I'd better get on to White's and see if I can track him down."
"Oh, yes!" Alathea bounced to her feet as he rose. "This could help us enormously, Papa. Thank you!" She swooped at him and kissed him on the cheek.
Catching her within one arm, he hugged her. "Thank you, my dear." He looked into her face, then placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Don't ever think I don't appreciate all you've done—I don't know what I did right to deserve you. I can only be glad you're mine."
Alathea blinked rapidly. "Oh, Papa!" She hugged him quickly, then broke away, glancing through the window. "I must get Jeremy off to his lessons or he'll play cricket all day."
Still blinking, she hurried out.
Chapter 1O
« ^ »
That evening at Lady Castlereagh's ball, Alathea found herself plagued by gentlemen. With but little help from her, the number of mature bachelors who considered her an agreeable dance partner had been steadily growing as the Season progressed. Despite Celia's conviction that she hugged the walls, she was too astute to do so constantly. True anonymity meant doing nothing to make herself remarkable; she therefore duly danced and waltzed, not every dance but enough to ensure no one saw need to comment on her abstention.
Indeed, she enjoyed waltzing, although there were few men tall enough to meet her requirements. Yet despite the hurdle of her unusual height, the ranks of her admirers, as Serena insisted on terming them, had somehow swollen to the legion.
Which made life exceedingly awkward when, after two dances, she wanted to slink into the shadows, the better to consider her current difficulties. The principal one was present, garbed in severe walnut-black, his locks burnished, his manner ineffably urbane. He'd extended himself to dance the same two dances she had, but was now ambling, deliberately aimlessly, through the crowd. If he could dispense with the need to do the pretty and converse, she felt it only fair that she could, too.
"I'm afraid, dear sirs"—she beamed a smile at the gentlemen surrounding her—"that I must leave you for the present. One of my stepsisters…" With an airy wave, she led them to believe she'd
been summoned across the room. As joining Mary and Alice meant braving a gaggle of youthful damsels, none of the gentlemen offered to accompany her. They bowed and begged for promises of her return; she smiled and glided away from them.
The crush was unbelievable. Lady Castlereagh was one of the senior hostesses—her invitations could not be declined. That, Alathea suspected, accounted for the presence of most of the Cynsters, Gabriel included. Using the crowd to her advantage, she made her way to a narrow embrasure occupied by a pedestal topped by a bust of Wellington. She took refuge in the lee of the pedestal, screened from at least half the room.
Thankfully also screened from some of the noise—it was hard to hear her own thoughts. Across the room, she saw Gabriel, with obvious reluctance, relieve Lucifer of his watch on the twins. Taking up a position almost directly opposite her, Gabriel looked wary.
Alathea grinned. She searched the throng for the twins. Even using Gabriel's gaze for direction, she still couldn't see them. With an expectant sigh, she settled back, almost against the wall but not quite. Anyone seeing her would assume she was waiting for some gentleman or a youthful charge to return to her side.
Thus concealed, she settled to ponder how to tell her knight on a white charger where he should look for their relief. She'd issued the summons; he'd come galloping to her aid—now she was stuck with him and his notion of rewards. Dealing with him further was going to prove difficult, but she couldn't proceed without him.
Coming up with the captain, stumbling upon him in the crowd on a dance floor, was beyond unlikely—his sort stuck to the clubs, not the park or the ton's entertainments. The captain was effectively out of her reach. She didn't dare pin all her hopes on her father appearing one day for luncheon with the captain in tow.
She had to tell Gabriel about the captain, and as soon as possible. Who knew how long a seagoing captain would remain ashore? He might already have sailed, but she refused to consider the possibility. Fate couldn't be that cruel. But how to tell Gabriel in safety?
A letter had seemed possible until she'd drafted one. Even though she'd included her father's description of the captain verbatim, the letter lacked life, and reeked of cowardice. She couldn't even sign it other than as "The Countess." Instead of sending it off, she'd torn it up and resumed her pondering.
If she didn't see Gabriel face to face, she would have no way of knowing how he reacted to her news, nor could she question him over what he'd learned—she was quite sure he wouldn't have been idle in the five days since they'd last met.
At the Burlington Hotel.
The mere name sent a wave of uncertainty through her; she immediately blocked it off. She couldn't afford to let her emotions rule her, or dictate her moves. What had Gabriel learned? Had Crowley done anything more? These were questions to which she needed answers; she would get answers only if she met Gabriel face to face, of that she was absolutely sure.
But the thought of being private, alone with him in the dark, made her shiver—and not with dread. The fact only increased her wariness and made her question her arguments. Were they merely rationalizations?
Standing in the pedestal's shadow, she examined, dissected, and reassembled her thoughts—and got nowhere. The situation irked; her inability to make up her mind rasped her temper.
Then he moved. She'd been watching him from the corner of her eye. As he forcefully handed the twins' watch back to Lucifer, then stepped into the crowd, she straightened. A clamp slowly closed about her lungs. There was, she told herself, no reason he should stroll her way, no reason he even knew she was there.
She'd underestimated the power of her cap.
It drew him like a lodestone. He cleaved through the crowd so efficiently that, once she realized she was indeed his target, she didn't have time to beat a retreat. He halted beside her.
Trapped, she raised her chin and fixed him with a glare. "Don't say a word."
His eyes held hers for a pregnant moment; she inwardly quivered, and told herself he couldn't see through her disguise. That he'd never see the woman who'd lain naked in his arms in the lady who now stood before him.
Lips thinning, Gabriel nodded curtly. "There's obviously no need, although I can't see why you bother—your hair will go gray soon enough."
Alathea's eyes flashed, but instead of ripping up at him, she smiled. Acidly. "I'm quite sure you'll have gray hairs aplenty if you persist in acting like a dog with a bone over your young cousins."
"You know nothing about the matter, so don't start."
"I know the twins are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves." He snorted derisively. "Which shows how much you know."
"I would have thought"—her tone had him tensing—"that any females capable of routing one of the Cynsters, capable of detecting the chink in his armor and plotting and acting to press their advantage, and succeeding, would be thought capable of managing even the ton's most notorious rakes." Her gaze slid around to his face. "Don't you?"
Gabriel felt his eyes narrow; his temper surged. He would infinitely have preferred impassivity, but with her, that always seemed beyond him. He transfixed her with a glittering glance. "You told them."
He didn't need the artful lift of her brows to tell him that was the truth.
"They approached me with their problem—I merely made an observation." "You are the cause of their current obsession with finding me a suitable bride."
"Now, now"—she wagged a finger at him—"you know perfectly well I couldn't be responsible for that. You're the one who's yet to marry. You're the one in need of a wife. The twins are merely trying to be helpful."
What he muttered in response was far from polite; Alathea merely smiled. "They're trying to be helpful in exactly the same way you're trying to help them."
"And what way is that?"
She looked him in the eye. "Misguidedly." He blinked.
When he didn't immediately respond, she looked away. "I rather wondered how you'd react if the shoe was on the other foot."
"You knew damned well how I'd react." He gritted his teeth. "You only suggested it to plague me." Her lips quirked, very briefly but enough to set his temper soaring. "I know Lucifer attempted to explain the need for our watch on the twins—he clearly didn't succeed. So perhaps a demonstration's in order"—he lifted his gaze to the cap covering her soft hair—"to drive the point through your demonstrably thick skull."
Her head whipped around. She was frowning. He shifted closer, crowding her into the nook between the pedestal and the alcove wall. Clamping one hand on the pedestal's top, he caged her into the small space.
Meeting her gaze, fell intent in his, he was surprised to see her eyes flare—surprised to see how far into the gap between the pedestal and the wall she'd backed herself.
Her gaze falling to his chest, mere inches from hers, Alathea swallowed and wrenched her gaze back up to his face. She fought against the urge to press one hand to her breast in a vain effort to calm her leaping heart. Oh, God! In situations like this, she would customarily slap a hand to his chest and shove—she wouldn't hesitate, wouldn't stop to consider any possible impropriety. And although her strength couldn't possibly shift him, if she shoved, he'd move.
But she didn't dare touch him.
Couldn't guarantee what her hands would do if she did.
Gracious heavens! What on earth was she to do? She could already see puzzlement dawning in his eyes.
Senses reeling—he was far too close!—she stiffened her spine, drew herself up to her full height, and made a passable attempt at looking down her nose at him. "I do wish you'd think!" Her gaze locked with his, she did—frantically. "Protecting them from real threats—threats that actually materialize—is all very well, but in this case, your"—she gestured, using her wave to make him lean back—"constant hovering is actually limiting their opportunities. It's not fair."
"Fair?" He snorted. To her immense relief, he eased back, letting go of the pedestal and turning to glance to where she imagined the twins must be. "I can't see where fairness comes into it."
"Can't you?" Able to breathe again, she dragged in a breath. "Just think. You never used to stop me from… oh, riding neck or nothing with you and Alasdair—you wouldn't stop me doing it now."
"You ride like the devil. There's no need to stop you—you'd be in no danger."
"Ah, but if there was something dangerous in my path—if, for instance, I'd jumped a fence into a field with an enraged bull. Wouldn't you come racing to save me?"
The look he shot her was disgusted—disgusted she'd even asked. "Of course I would." After a moment, he added more softly, "You know I would."
She inclined her head, a very odd knot of emotion in her stomach; as children, he'd always been the first to interpose himself between her and any danger. "Yes—and that's precisely what I mean about the way you're suffocating the twins."
Deliberately, she fell silent. She sensed his reluctance; it poured from him in waves. He didn't want to
hear her theory, didn't want to canvass the possibility that he, his brother, and his cousins might be wrong, might be overreacting. Because if he did, he'd have to rein in his Cynster protectiveness, and that, she well knew, was very hard to do.
Eventually, he shot her a far from encouraging glance. "Why suffocating?"
She looked away, across the sea of heads. "Because you won't let them spread their wings. Rather than letting them ride wild, stepping in only if they're threatened, you're making sure they're not threatened in the first place by ensuring they never ride at all." He opened his mouth; she held up a placating hand. "A perfectly valid approach in other contexts, but in this arena, it means you're blocking off all chance of their learning to ride—all chance of their succeeding. Well"—she gestured across the room—"just look at them." She couldn't see them, but he could. "They may be surrounded by ten gentlemen—"
"Twenty."
"How ever many!" Her terse tone had him meeting her gaze. "Can't you see they're the wrong men?" Gabriel looked at the teeming masses around the twins, and tried to tell himself he couldn't see it at all.
"Can you seriously imagine any of those innocuous gentlemen married to the twins? Or is it more accurate to say you—all of you—have been carefully avoiding imagining the twins married at all?"
She was like his conscience, whispering in his ear. Like his conscience, he couldn't ignore her. "I'll think about it," he growled, unwilling to even meet her eyes. All he would see was the truth, his own truth reflected back at him.
He dragged in a breath, chest swelling against the usual constriction, the constriction he always felt when around her. Lord, she made him uncomfortable. Even now, when they weren't tearing strips off each other but having what was, for them, a rational discussion, his insides felt scored, like claws had dragged down from his throat over his chest, then locked about his heart, his gut.
She'd shaken him, too. Again. Why the devil had she looked at him like that—eyes wide with what!—when he'd backed her against the wall? The sight had rocked him; even now, his skin was prickling just because she was close.
His impulse, as always, was to verbally lash at her, to drive her away even though, if she was in the same room, he would compulsively head for her side. Stupid. He wished he could tell himself that he disliked her, but he didn't. He never had. Keeping his gaze from her ridiculous cap—the sight would assuredly set him off—he drew in another breath, scanning the nearer guests, about to bow and excuse himself—
He narrowed his eyes. "What the devil…?"
The muttered question went unanswered as Lord Coleburn, Mr. Henry Simpkins and Lord Falworth, all smiling easily, strolled up.
"There you are, my dear lady." Falworth swept Alathea an elegant bow.
"We thought you might need rescuing," Henry Simpkins stated, his gaze sweeping over Gabriel before coming to rest on Alathea's face. "From the crush, don't you know?"
"It is indeed horrendous," Alathea smoothly returned. She waited for Gabriel to excuse himself and move on; instead, he remained planted like an oak at her side. With Wellington immediately to her left, she
couldn't escape; her would-be cavaliers were forced to deploy themselves in a semicircle before her and Gabriel. As if they were on trial. Heaving an inward sigh, she introduced him, quite sure the others would know him at least by reputation.
That last became rapidly apparent. By dint of various subtle quips, Coleburn, Simpkins, and Falworth all made it plain they thought Gabriel would find better entertainment elsewhere. Alathea was not at all surprised when he shrugged their suggestions aside, looking for all the world as if he was fighting a yawn. He probably was. She certainly was. If she'd wanted to stand by the wall and converse with a gaggle of gentlemen, Coleburn, Simpkins, and Falworth would not have been her choice. She would rather converse with the Devil himself, presently on her right; at least, with him, she was never in danger of mentally drifting away and losing track of the conversation.
Despite the lack of stimulation, she was distinctly relieved that Gabriel did not decide to enliven proceedings by surgically dissecting Simpkins, who seemed intent on putting himself first in line with his studied and not-quite-nonchalant quips. Lady Castlereagh would not appreciate blood on her ballroom floor.
"And so Mrs. Dalrymple insisted we ride on, but the oxer at the end of the fourth field forced her to retire. Well"—Falworth spread his hands—"what could I do? We had to do a Brummel and take refuge in a nearby farmhouse."
The other gentlemen seemed mildly intrigued by Falworth's description of his aborted outing with the Cottesmore. All except Gabriel, who was doing a remarkable imitation of a marble statue. An utterly meaningless smile on her lips, Alathea inwardly sighed and let Falworth's words flow past her.
Beyond their little circle, a tall gentleman, as tall as Gabriel, strolled nonchalantly by. His idle gaze passed over them, then halted. He stopped, noting Gabriel, then his gaze slid back to her.
The gentleman smiled; Alathea nearly blinked. Charming did as charming was, but this was something rather more. Her lips had curved in reply before she'd even thought. The gentleman's smile deepened; he inclined his head. His gaze on her face, he approached with the same easy, loose-limbed prowl that characterized the Cynsters and, Alathea surmised, certain of their peers.
Gabriel's reaction was immediate and intense. Alathea barely had time to consider the why before the wherefore was bowing before her.
"Chillingworth, my dear. I don't believe we've met." Gracefully straightening, he flicked a glance at Gabriel. "But I'm sure I can prevail upon Cynster here to do the honors."
Gabriel let his silence stretch until it was just this side of insulting before grudgingly saying, "Lady Alathea Morwellan—Chillingworth, earl of."
Arching a warning brow at him, Alathea gave Chillingworth her hand. "A pleasure, my lord. Are you enjoying her ladyship's offerings?" There was a string quartet laboring somewhere, and a busy cardroom,
"To be honest, I've found the evening a mite dull." Releasing her hand, Chillingworth smiled. "A little too tame for my liking."
Alathea raised a brow. "Indeed?"
"Hmm. I count myself lucky to have spotted you in this crowd." His gaze was filled with appreciation, especially of her height. His lips curved. "Fortunate, indeed."
Alathea stifled a gurgle of laughter; beside her, Gabriel stiffened. Eyes dancing, she essayed, "I'm
engaged in planning a ball for my stepmother. Tell me, what entertainments would best entice gentlemen such as yourself?"
The look Gabriel shot her was unmitigatingly censorious; Alathea ignored it. So did Chillingworth. "Your fair presence would greatly entice me."
She met his gaze with a blank look. "Yes, but beyond that?"
He nearly choked trying to swallow his laugh. "Ah… beyond that?"
"Come now, Chillingworth. I'm sure, if you concentrate, you'll remember what it is that brings you to these affairs." Gabriel's languid drawl deflected the earl's attention.
Chillingworth's brows rose. Leaning one arm on the pedestal's top, he frowned. "Let me think." Gabriel snorted softly.
"Not hordes." Catching Alathea's eye, Chillingworth continued, "I can't think why the cachet of exclusivity isn't more widely appreciated."
His gaze on the guests shifting and shuffling before them, causing the three other gentlemen, now relegated to the outer ranks, to have to constantly give way, then struggle back, Gabriel humphed in agreement. "God knows why they imagine literally rubbing shoulders all evening to be fun."
"Because no hostess is game to call the ton's bluff, so we're all left to suffer." Alathea swept the gathering with a resigned eye.
"At least," Gabriel muttered, "we can see reasonably well. It must be worse for those who can't."
"I'm sure it is," Alathea returned. "Mary, Alice, and Serena seem to spend half their time trying to find their way about."
Chillingworth had been watching them, taking in this exchange. "Hmm. As to other requirements, while gentlemen such as I—and Cynster here—might be partial to sonatas and airs in their place, having a set of screeching violins set up in a comer merely constitutes unwarranted distraction."
"Distraction?" Alathea glanced at him. "Distraction from what?"
The direct question made Chillingworth blink. He slid a glance at Gabriel. Alathea's lips quirked. "From your customary pursuits?"
Chillingworth straightened; Gabriel merely threw her a resigned glance. "Don't mind her," he advised Chillingworth. "Although perhaps I should warn you it only gets worse."
Alathea favored him with a haughty look. "You can't talk."
Glancing from one to the other, Chillingworth stated, "You know each other."
Alathea waved dismissively. "From birth—our association was decided for us, not by us." Gabriel's brows rose. "Nicely put."
The puzzled look in Chillingworth's eyes didn't entirely evaporate, but he settled beside Alathea again. "Where were we?"
"The amenities you prefer for your customary pursuits."
Alathea was enjoying herself; both Chillingworth and Gabriel sent repressive glances her way.
"Very well." Chillingworth accepted the challenge. "Not a dance schedule that includes only two waltzes. Apropos of that, my dear, I believe the orchestra is about to make itself useful and indulge us with a waltz." Straightening, he smiled, both charming and challenging. "Can I tempt you to brave the floor with me?"
Alathea returned the smile, perfectly ready to take up his challenge, equally ready to give Gabriel a chance to slope off. They'd been in each other's company without descending into cutting sarcasm for nearly half an hour; there was no sense in stretching their luck.
She held out her hand. "Indeed, my lord—I'd be delighted."
Gabriel gritted his teeth, held his breath, and willed himself to stillness. God knew, he didn't want to waltz with Alathea—the mere thought sent itching heat washing over his skin like a rash. But… he didn't want her waltzing with Chillingworth. Or anyone else, but Chillingworth was, typically, the worst choice she could have made of all the gentlemen in the room. Not that she hadn't chosen quite deliberately; she might be twenty-nine but she still possessed a healthy vein of minxlike tendencies, victim to a strain of considered recklessness.
He watched as Chillingworth led her to the floor, then took her lightly in his arms. She laughed at some quip and they began to revolve; as they whirled down the room, Gabriel inwardly snorted. There she went, tempting fate with her eyes wide open.
Shifting his gaze, he saw Lucifer, still on guard but chatting with two friends while the twins danced. Gabriel located them, each in the arms of a suitably innocuous gentleman.
Alathea's words rang in his head; he inwardly humphed. He'd think about it. His gaze drifted over the dancers, and settled again.
The waltz was nearly over before Alathea identified the peculiar sensation afflicting her. It had started not when Chillingworth first took her into his arms but later, as they'd commenced their second revolution around the room.
She'd enjoyed the waltz. Despite his predilections, Chillingworth was charming, witty, and a gentleman to his toes. He was very like Lucifer and his Cynster cousins; she'd treated him as she would them—he'd responded in like vein, with a bantering air. She'd relaxed.
That was when the other sensation had made itself felt, like an intent gaze fixed directly between her shoulder blades. Its very intensity was what finally identified its source.
When Chillingworth gallantly returned her to the spot beside Wellington's bust, she was smiling and quietly simmering.
One look at Gabriel's face, into his hard hazel eyes, and her temper surged. She'd successfully reached through his armor to prick him about the twins; he was paying her back by watching her instead, simply to discompose her. Sliding into the space beside him, she muttered, "Don't you have anything better to do?"
He looked at her blankly. "No."
It was impossible to shift him, so there he stayed; by the end of the evening, she was ready to commit
murder. But in the carriage home, she had to bottle up her spleen and listen encouragingly to Mary and Alice prattle happily of their doings. To her considerable satisfaction, both had found their feet and were attracting the right sort of attention. As they left the carriage and climbed the steps to the front door, Alathea exchanged a speculative glance with Serena. Their campaign was progressing well.
She was doing less well. By the time she gained her room and Nellie had shut the door behind her, she felt like a human volcano.
"One of these days," she informed Nellie through clenched teeth, "he's going to come up to me when I have a dangerous weapon in my hands, and then I'll end in the Tower, and it'll all be his fault!"
"The Tower?" Nellie was totally confused.
"Imprisoned for murdering him!" Alathea let the reins of her temper fly free. "You should have seen him! You can't imagine!" She fell to pacing before the hearth. "He was more impossible than even I would have believed, even for him. Just because I told him—and convinced him, too—that he was wrong to so suffocate the twins, he left off suffocating them, and suffocated me, instead!"
"Suffocated…?"
"Watched over me as if I was his sister! Tried to menace and chase away any entertaining gentleman." She swung about, her skirts shushing furiously. "At least he didn't succeed with Chillingworth, thank God! But all through supper—!" Words failed her; she threw a rapier-edged glance at the door. "I have never felt so much like a bone with a large dog, teeth-bared, standing over me. And you should have seen his performance over the second waltz! I'd already danced the first with Chillingworth, and saw no reason why I shouldn't indulge him with the second as well—he is nicely tall, which is such a blessing in a waltz—but Gabriel behaved like a… a bloody archbishop! You'd have thought he'd never waltzed with a lady himself in his life!"
Arms folded, she paced on. "It wasn't as if he wanted to waltz with me himself—oh, no! He's never waltzed with me in his life! He just wanted to be difficult! And he's so hard to counter! I sincerely commisserate with the twins, and can only be glad if I've shaken him to his senses over them."
She scowled. "Except that he now seems focused on me." She pondered that, then shrugged. "Presumably he was only doing it for tonight, just to pay me back. Whatever, I've had quite enough of the arrogant ways of Mr. Gabriel Cynster."
"Who?"
Alathea plonked herself down on the stool before her dressing table. "Rupert. Gabriel's his nickname."
Nellie let down her hair and started brushing it. Alathea let the familiar, rhythmic tug-and-release soothe her. Her mind reverted to the problem that had earlier consumed her, the problem she'd largely forgotten in the heat engendered by Gabriel's behavior in the ballroom.
When she'd been Alathea Morwellan.
That had been bad enough. His behavior when she was the countess seemed even further beyond her control.
"This has gone on long enough—I need to take charge." "You do?"
"Hmm. All very well for him to take the reins, but that's clearly too dangerous. It's my problem—he's my knight—I summoned him. He's going to have to learn to do my bidding, not the other way about. I'm going to have to make that point plain."
She—the countess—was going to have to see him again. Alathea frowned. "I need to tell him about the captain."
What happened at the Burlington would not happen again. That had simply been an opportunistic event, a combination of location, opportunity, and elation—and her weakness—that he'd sensed, seen, and seized.
She'd let him seize. She wouldn't, she swore, be so weak this time. Be so easily swept off her feet and onto a bed.
No. But it was senseless to take any chances. "I can't risk another meeting in daylight."
"Why not? He can't see your face even then, not if you wear that mask under your veil." "True. But he'll look more closely, and there'll be enough of my face showing…"
He might guess. He'd seen her at close quarters frequently enough in the past weeks. His powers of observation were acute when he concentrated, and after their last meeting at the Burlington, she was quite sure he'd be concentrating on the countess. Especially if she proved intent on keeping him at a polite distance.
Yet distance, polite or otherwise, was imperative.
"I've got to meet with him again." Frowning, she drummed her fingers on the dressing table. If she could devise a meeting where opportunity was lacking, so he got no chance to seize anything at all, she'd be safe.
"A letter for you, m'lord—er, sir." With a flourish, Chance placed the silver salver he'd taken to wielding at every opportunity on the breakfast table at Gabriel's right.
"Thank you, Chance." Setting aside his coffee mug, Gabriel picked up the folded sheet of heavy white parchment and looked for the letter knife.
"Oh—ah!" Chance jigged and searched his pockets. "Here." He brandished a small rusty knife. "I'll do it."
"No, Chance, that's quite all right." Gabriel held on to the note. "I can manage." "Right-ho." Swiping up the salver, Chance departed.
Gabriel broke the seal with his thumbnail. Lips thinning, he opened the note.
He'd been expecting it for the last four days. He was more than a trifle aggrieved that the countess had taken so long to summon him to another meeting. The delay lay like a blot on his record, an adverse reflection on his skill. At least the note had finally come.
He scanned the few lines within, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling. A carriage!
He sighed. Well, she had been a virgin, so what could he expect? She was plainly a novice at arranging lovers' trysts.
Chapter 11
« ^ »
It was a moonless night. The wind soughed and sighed in the trees lining the carriage drive close by the Stanhope Gate. Waiting impatiently in the shadows, Gabriel resisted the urge to shake his head.
Midnight at the Stanhope Gate was only a marginal improvement on three o'clock in the porch of St. Georges. The countess had been reading too many gothic novels. In this case, she'd either forgotten that the park gates were locked at sunset, or was counting on him exercising his peculiar talents on the padlock that had secured the wrought iron gates. He'd done so and left the gates wide. It wasn't unheard of for an open gate to be forgotten.
At least there wasn't any mist, only layers of shadows spreading over the parkland, shifting and drifting with the wind. There was just enough light to see by, to make out shapes but not their detail.
In the distance, a bell tolled, the first note in the midnight chorus. He listened as the other belltowers joined in, then the count was done, and the last note died into the brooding night. Silence returned, and settled.
The rattle of a carriage wheel was his first intimation that his wait was at an end. There were carriages aplenty rolling around Mayfair, but they were far enough away to ignore. The steady rattle continued, punctuated by the clop of hooves, then the small black carriage, lamps unlit, rolled between the gate posts into the gloom of the park.
Gabriel stepped onto the verge. The coachman redirected his horses; the carriage slowed and halted. Gabriel opened the door and climbed into a darkness even denser than had prevailed in the bedchamber at the Burlington.
He sat and felt leather beneath him, and sensed a warm presence beside him. "Mr. Cynster."
Gabriel grinned into the dark. "Countess."
She gasped as she landed in his lap. It took only an instant for his fingers to find her veil, and then his lips were on hers.
It was a searing kiss—he made sure of that. A kiss to steal her wits, to make her senses reel. A kiss to light her fires, and his.
Her lips softened the instant his firmed; they parted the second he traced their contours. She melted in his arms as he grew more rigid; he didn't lift his head until she was dazed and dizzy, too breathless to utter the words her whirling mind couldn't begin to form.
He hesitated only a moment, their heated breaths mingling in the dark, the rhythm of their breathing already fragmented. He sensed her yearning, sensed the swollen, parted, hungry lips less than an inch from his.
Closing the distance, he sealed her fate. And his.
This time, however, he was determined to remain in control, to orchestrate their play until the very end. He'd plotted and planned and fantasized. After he'd had his wicked way with her and treated her to the full spectrum of sensations an experienced lover could evoke, he would wager his hard-won reputation that she wouldn't wait days to return to him.
His lips on hers, he quickly dispensed with her cloak and set her veil fully back. Drawing back from their kiss, he let his fingertips linger over the delicate skin of her forehead, the arch of her brows, the sweep of her cheeks. Her jaw was firm and finely wrought, her throat long, slender… elegant.
At the base of her throat, her pulse beat hotly. The scooped neckline of her gown revealed the upper swells of her full breasts. His fingers traced; his memories strengthened. Need burgeoned.
Her breath shivered on his lips; she quivered in his arms. "Your coachman. What instructions did you give?"
She drew in a shaky breath; he sensed her struggle to think. "I told him to drive slowly around the avenue… until we'd finished our meeting."
"Perfect." Reaching up, he rapped on the carriage roof. A second later, the carriage lurched, then ponderously rolled forward.
She straightened. "I—"
Her breath caught on a hitch as, lowering his arm, he closed his hand possessively about one breast. He kneaded and she shuddered. Nudging her head up, he took her lips again, and set himself to cast her wits to the wind.
It wasn't difficult; she put up no resistance to speak of. She seemed a natural in this sphere, a deeply sensual woman, her consciousness surrendering willingly to the moment, to the physical thrill, the sexual excitement, the indescribable delight of give and take.
At first, it was he who took and she who gave, then he mentally drew back, inwardly reasserted control, then deliberately embarked on his script, his carefully plotted plan to bind her to him with sensual chains.
His lips on hers, he reached for her laces.
Divesting her of her gown was no great feat, not to one of his extensive experience. But he accomplished the deed slowly, savoring every inch of her curves as he exposed them, much to her shivering delight.
Not that she was cold. Thick curtains sealed the carriage windows. With their heated bodies enclosed within the small space, she would be in no danger of taking a chill despite the totality of his plans. That was just as well as, with her warm weight across his thighs, her luscious curves filling his arms and her hungry lips under his, he was in no state to rework them. Tonight, fate was on his side.
Lifting her, he eased the soft gown past her hips, then set her down, the bare backs of her thighs, exposed beneath her short chemise, in direct contact with his trousers. Through their kiss, he sensed the heightening of her tension. He set out to heighten it some more.
Deepening the kiss, he held her steady, one arm about her. Closing his hand on her bare thigh, he brushed her gown down by caressing her long limbs, first down one leg, then the other. Swiping up the gown, he tossed it on the seat beside him, and caught her foot. He slipped her shoe off, surprised to note
its weight. As he dispensed with the other, he realized the heels were high. Skimming his hand up one leg, he located her garter, a few inches above her knee.
He toyed with the band. On? Or off? He reviewed his plan. Her lips shifted under his; she struggled to draw breath, to surface from the fog of desire in which he was deliberately shrouding her. He stilled her with a searching, ravishing kiss, and quickly rolled her stockings down and off, sending them to join her gown.
Leaving her clad only in her silk chemise.
He drew her to him, deeper into his embrace; tipping her head back, he plundered her mouth. She responded ardently, caught up in the hot tangle of their tongues, the melding of their lips.
His quick fingers slipped the tiny buttons closing her chemise free, all the way to her navel. The instant the last slipped its mooring, he closed his fist in the fine garment; pulling back from the kiss, he drew the chemise up and over her head in one movement.
"Oh!" She grasped, not the chemise, but her veil.
His steadying hand now on bare skin, he grinned into the dark. Discarding the chemise, he reached for her face, touching gently, then framing her jaw. "Your veil's still there." That was part of his plan, having her totally naked except for that damned veil.
Her hands fluttered; the fingers of one touched the back of his hand as he drew her face nearer. He touched her lips with his tongue and they parted; he surged in, then retreated, settling to nibble, tantalize, tease… until she shifted on his thighs, trying to press her own demands, unsure what those demands should be.
He knew. Urging her hands, her arms, over his shoulders, he drew her around. Clasping one bare calf, savoring the smooth skin, he drew the limb up, lifting that leg over his thighs as he turned her, then released her, leaving her, blissfully naked but for her veil, sitting astride his long thighs.
Oh, yes. Before she had time to even try to think, he reached for her face with both hands, holding her steady for an incendiary kiss, one that left them both gasping, chests heaving, bodies heated and urgent. Hers had softened; his had hardened. Their panting breaths mingled. He slid his fingers under the back of her veil, finding the pins that anchored her hair. As they rained on the floor, their lips met again. Heat welled, swelled, grew.
Her hair cascaded down her back, long strands curling on her shoulders. He kissed her long and hard, then drew back.
She tried to lean closer, to follow his lips with hers, but he closed his hands about her shoulders. "No." Even though he couldn't see, could only feel with his senses at full stretch, he knew she was dazed, wanting but not yet frantic, her wits disengaged but her senses still aware. "Not yet."
They'd only just begun.
"Sit still, and concentrate on what you feel."
She shuddered lightly, but did as he asked. He hadn't expected an argument—she was far beyond that—yet he went slowly; he had no intention of overwhelming her—not yet.
Curving his hands about her shoulders, he trailed his fingers lightly down, over the long sweeps of her arms, over her elbows and forearms, down to her wrists, then slid his fingertips along her palms, drawing
them out across her fingers. Fingertip to fingertip, he held her arms out from her sides, then let them fall.
She was mesmerized; he knew that as he reached out again, and touched her breasts. They were already swollen, the peaks hard, begging for his attention. For long, heated moments he touched only with the pads of his fingers, listening as her breathing grew increasingly ragged. Then, leaning forward, he cupped one warm mound in his hand and took the peak into his mouth.
A cry died in her throat; her body arched convulsively. He suckled, one hand closing on her knee, the other lifting her flesh to his lips. When that nipple was aching and throbbing, he changed hands and tortured the other.
Her head fell back, her hair a gossamer curtain, its end brushing her hips, her bare bottom and his knees. Her spine bowed, every nerve drew taut; like the master he was, he let them tighten, and tighten, until she couldn't breathe, until she quivered, as fragile as spun glass, then he released her breast and leaned back.
He sensed the huge, shaky breath she drew in. Leaving his hand on her knee, more to reassure than to hold her, he gave her only a moment of surcease, then lifted his hand again.
To her ribs, tracing the fine skin over the smooth bones, then trailing his fingertips down to her waist. Releasing her knee, he closed both hands about her waist, circling her almost completely. Splaying his fingers over the supple muscles in her back, he touched, stroked, caressed.
She eased a little; his lips curving in a smile she couldn't see, he let his hands slide to caress her derriere, then sent them smoothly gliding over her flanks. And away.
For one instant, he left her there, posed on his knees in her naked glory. Then he reached out and touched her again.
He splayed his hand over her taut stomach. She shuddered, but her spine was so rigid she only swayed slightly, then tensed even more as he gently kneaded. She caught her breath on a sob. "I—"
"Don't talk." He waited a heartbeat, then added, "Just feel."
He waited until her senses refocused, then removed his hand. Clasping her knees, he slid his hands up, fingers gliding over the long, taut muscles of her outer thighs, his thumbs grazing the quivering inner faces. At the tops of her thighs, he ran his thumbs over and up, following the creases between thigh and torso outward. Then he removed his hands again.
Again he waited, leaving her quivering expectantly in the dark. Then, with one hand, he reached out again.
And touched her between her widespread thighs. Her breath shook; she quaked.
"Shh."
He traced the swollen folds, exposed and open to him. He suspected she hadn't realized, modestly shrouded by the dark.
She realized now; she reached out—he felt her fingers brush his sleeve. "No. Leave your hands at your sides."
She didn't immediately obey, but as he continued to caress her, the slow, steady stroking reassured her,
and she let her arms fall.
Her breathing was shallow, racing with her heart. He didn't want to speak again, to risk breaking the spell. She was hot and wet, his fingers slick with her dew. He found the tight nubbin concealed between her folds and circled it, but that wasn't his target. He waited until she'd steadied, until she'd stabilized on a narrow ledge one step away from the peak, then zeroed in.
The long slide of his finger entering her, spearing in, inexorably penetrating and filling her softness, sent her into spasm. Every muscle locked, so tight she was shivering, every fragment of awareness focused, waiting for the final touch that would shatter her.
He didn't administer it; the time was not yet. His finger buried in her sheath he held still, blocking all awareness of the heated softness that gripped him, the supple strength of her inner muscles, the hot honey that dampened his hand, the evocative scent that wreathed his brain.
Then she stabilized again, and the peak had moved away, one step further on. He knew, but doubted she did. He started to caress her again.
How long he prolonged the delicious torture, how many times he brought her almost to the peak, then let it shift away, he didn't know, but she was wild, sobbing in her need, her fingers clenched on his arms, her lips burning his, when he finally thrust deep and let her fly.
She came apart in his arms.
Cursing the darkness that stopped him from seeing it, from reaping the reward of his expertise, he gathered her to him, letting her cling, then cradling her as she collapsed completely.
He drew her closer, sensing her heartbeat, feeling it thunder, then slow. Then she stirred. "I want you."
His lips curved against her hair. "I know."
Her breath was a soft huff against his neck as she shifted, and reached, and found him. "How?" Her fist closed, and he shook. "Ah…"
Fingers as quick as his slipped the buttons on his waistband, brushed aside his shirt. Slim digits dipped, then stroked, caressed…
Words were superfluous. He drew her hips nearer, sliding his own to the edge of the seat. They met—it was she who sank down, a long-drawn sigh shattering in her throat. It was all he could do to stifle his groan as she closed hotly about him. After that, he lost touch with the world as she became his reality, the hot, wet, generous woman who loved him in the dark.
She was everything he craved, mysterious, giving, intensely feminine; in some sensual way, she held a mirror to his soul. She filled his senses until he recalled no other, until he knew nothing beyond her luscious heat and the primal need that gripped him.
He sank into her and she wrapped herself about him; at his urging, she shifted her legs, awkward for a moment as she repositioned them, locking them around his hips. When she sank fully onto him again, she gasped. Gripping her hips, he lifted her, thrusting upward as he lowered her.
She sobbed, then found his lips. They clung, and loved, gave and took and gave again. The horses
plodded slowly on.
The gloom inside the carriage became a heated cave, filled with lust, desire, and so much more. Hunger, greed, joy, and delirium ail spun, a kaleidoscope in the dark. Then she flew high and he followed, soaring beyond the stars. The end left them shattered, broken and destroyed, reborn in each other's arms.
The gentle swaying of the carriage slowly drew them back to earth, yet they lay still, letting the long, achingly sweet moments wash over them, neither ready to lose the soul-deep communion.
His lips at her temple, her hair silk against his cheek, Gabriel dragged in a breath. His chest swelled, shifting her warm weight. He locked his arms around her; he didn't want to let go. Didn't want to lose the peace she'd brought him—she and she alone.
Never had he reached this state, this depth of feeling. Beyond sensation, beyond the world, a sea of unnameable emotion still lapped him. He wanted to deny it, shrug it aside. It frightened him. But it was a drug—he feared he was already addicted.
She stirred, first again. Sitting up, she sighed and shook back her hair. "I meant to tell you…"
He got the distinct impression she'd intended to say, "before you started this," and, what's more, in a censorious tone. He was too sated to do more than smirk in the dark. He was still buried to the hilt inside her. "What?" Reaching for her, he drew her back into his arms.
She acquiesced, then relaxed; despite her resolution, she was still dazed. "My stepson… he overheard a conversation at White's—between a Captain Something and another man. The captain was dismissing the Central East Africa Gold Company."
He frowned, "I thought your stepson was too young for White's."
"Oh, he is. This was on the steps—he was walking in St. James Street." "Who was the captain talking to?"
"Charles didn't know."
"Hmm." It was difficult to think with her warm weight snuggled against him, with her body intimately clasping his. That last, and his resurging vigor, prompted him to say, "A captain recently returned from Africa shouldn't be impossible to trace. The shipping lists, the Port Authority, the major merchant lines. He'll be known somewhere."
"If we have a witness like that, we'd be able to petition the court immediately."
But then there'd be no reason for them to meet, and he'd yet to learn her name. He frowned, grateful for the dark. "Perhaps. It depends on how much he knows." Turning his head, he squinted down at her, but still could see nothing. "I'll look into it."
"Have you heard anything else?"
"I have contacts in Whitehall sounding out the African authorities over the company's mining claims, and there are others I'm hunting up who might know of the company's presence in those particular towns." Shuffling higher on the seat, he glanced upward. "Now—tell your coachman to roll back, slowly, to Brook Street."
She sat up, still clutching his coat, and cleared her throat. "Jones?"
The carriage slowed, then halted. "Ma'am?" "Brook Street, please—you know where." "Aye, ma'am."
Taking advantage of her uptilted head, Gabriel pressed his lips to her throat. She fought to stifle a giggle, then sighed.
Then her breath caught. A moment later, she asked, slightly dazed, "Again?" "I'm hungry."
So was she. They devoured each other at speed, reckless and driven, reaching the bright pinnacle before the carriage even left the park.
It wasn't, unfortunately, all that far to Brook Street. Wrapping her in her cloak, Gabriel shifted her to the seat beside him. He righted his clothes, then leaned over her to press a long kiss to her swollen lips.
The carriage halted; he drew back. From over his shoulder a street flare shone in, laying a narrow swath of light across her face. She was exhausted, her eyes shut—he could just see the edge of a crescent of dark lashes lying on one pale cheek. The strip of light illuminated only that cheek, her earlobe framed by a strand of soft brown hair, the edge of her jaw and the corner of her lips.
Not enough to identify her.
Gabriel hesitated, then he shifted and his shoulder cut off the light. "Sweet dreams, my dear." Her murmured "Good-bye" was soft and low, a lover's farewell.
Descending to the street, Gabriel watched her carriage roll away; it was all he could do not to call it back. Turning, he climbed his steps, frowning as he reached for his latchkey.
He'd seen her face before. The line of her jaw was familiar. She was one of his circle.
Who?
Letting himself in, he went up to bed.
Sniff.
Alathea battled to lift her heavy lids, and lost.
Sniff.
Stifling a sigh, she tried again and managed to see through a slit. "Nellie?"
Sniff. "Yes, m'lady," came in dolorous tones. Sniff.
Alathea struggled onto her back and raised her head. And saw Nellie, red-nosed with watering red eyes, shaking out her cloak. Alathea dragged in a breath. "Nellie Macarthur! You go straight back to bed. I do not want to see you, or hear of you being about on your feet, not until you're better." Fixing her old maid with a pointed glare, Alathea summoned strength enough to deliver the words "Do you hear?" in appropriately intimidating tones.
Nellie sniffed again. "But who'll see to you? You've got to go to all these balls and parties, and your stepmama rightly says—"
"The tweeny will do for me for the nonce—I'm not entirely helpless." "But—"
"Doing my hair in a simpler style for a few nights will be a relief. No one will think anything of it." Alathea glared again. "Now go! And don't you dare sneak about downstairs—I'll be speaking with Figgs immediately I get up."
"All right," Nellie grumbled, but Alathea could see from her lethargic movements that she was seriously under the weather.
"I'll tell Figgs to make you some of her broth." Alathea watched Nellie open the door. "Oh—and don't bother to send up the tweeny. I'll ring for her when I'm ready."
With barely a nod, Nellie shuffled out.
The instant the door closed, Alathea dropped back on her pillows, closed her eyes, and groaned. Feelingly.
Her thighs would never be the same again.
Chapter 12 « ^ » "Allie?"
Blinking, Alathea refocused. Concern in her eyes, Alice peered at her across the breakfast table. "Are you coming out into the garden with us?" Mary, beside Alice, looked equally worried.
Alathea summoned a quick smile. "Just wool-gathering. I'll get my hat—you go on ahead."
She rose with them and parted from them in the hall to go up to her room to fetch her gardening hat. Nevertheless, it was half an hour later before she reached the garden.
Mary and Alice hadn't waited for her but had started weeding the long border. Although they looked up when she neared and smiled welcomingly, it was plain they'd been exchanging confidences, whispered comments on their hopes, their dreams. Returning their smiles, Alathea surveyed their endeavors, then looked around. "I'll start on the central bed."
Leaving them to their dreams, she went off to contend with hers.
The central bed circled a small fountain, a water sprite caught in the act of springing free showering droplets back into a wide bowl. Spreading her raffia mat by the bed, presently filled with pansies, Alathea knelt, tugged on her cotton gloves, and set to.
About her, her family went happily about their morning routines. Jeremy and Charlie appeared from around the house, dragging dead limbs cut from overgrown bushes. In half an hour, Jeremy's tutor would arrive, and Charlie would change into his town rig and go out to spend the day with his Eton chums. Miss
Helm and Augusta, clutching the ever-present Rose, came out and sat on a wrought iron seat; from what Alathea could hear, they were engaged in a simple botany lesson. After an hour or so, she, Mary, and Alice would retire to wash, change, and prepare for their morning's excursion—whatever Serena had organized. Inside, Serena would be sifting through the invitations, sending notes, plotting their best course through the shoals of the Season. Alathea was content to leave the strategies to her; it was bad enough that she had to weed.
The fiction they'd concocted to hide the fact that they could not afford a second gardener, one to take care of the beds and borders at the Park and the garden of the London house, was that Alathea enjoyed planting and weeding and Serena felt it right that her daughters, too, became knowledgeable in the art of creating a stunning border. And, of course, all gentlemen should have some understanding of landscaping. Luckily, landscaping, borders, and beds were all the rage, although ladies and gentlemen generally only oversaw such projects, a fine distinction the earl, Serena, and Alathea had omitted to mention.
As she reached for a blade of grass cheekily poking up between clumps of pansies, Alathea inwardly sighed. She would much rather never see a weed again, but… With a yank, she uprooted the interloper and dropped it on the grass beside her. Parting the pansy leaves, she searched for more.
Of course, as soon as her hands were mindlessly busy, her thoughts drifted…
She could never meet with him privately again. Not ever. The countess was going to have to retreat; she couldn't yet disappear. Despite the fact she'd enjoyed last night hugely, she couldn't possibly risk such a meeting again.
In a carriage. She still couldn't quite believe it. If she hadn't been there… Was there anywhere he couldn't… wouldn't…
Minutes later, she shook her head. Struggling to hide a smile, she looked down.
Thankfully, no one knew. She'd gathered enough strength to instruct Jacobs to drive around Grosvenor Square while she'd scrambled into her chemise, stockings, shoes, and gown. Her hair she'd had to leave down. Goodness knows what Jacobs had made of the pins he would by now have discovered on the carriage floor. Concealed beneath her veil and cloak, she'd been safe from Crisp's eyes. Other than Jacobs, who'd been busy with his team, only Crisp had been awake when she'd returned. She'd given strict instructions that not even Nellie was to wait up for her on pain of her considerable displeasure.
She'd done the same the night she'd gone to the Burlington; she could only thank her stars she had.
So no one knew of her fall from grace. Her lips kicked upward. It had, to her, felt more like an elevation. A revelation certainly, an induction into a realm of earthly bliss. She was not of a mind to wallow in senseless regrets—she'd lived, all but died, and exulted last night, and for that she could only be glad.
Even now, she wasn't free of the lingering spell. She hadn't imagined that the activities theoretically restricted to the marriage bed could result in such an interaction—a voyage into another dimension of feeling where the world fell away and emotion reigned. She'd had her first inkling of that joyous state during their night at the Burlington. Last night, they'd journeyed much further, through landscapes of unutterable delight.
And it had been they, not just she. He'd been there, with her—had it been her inexperience, or had he been as stunned by the glory as she? Whatever, they'd shared it all—the journey, the discovery, the overwhelming satiation, followed by their plunge into that well of deep peace.
It had been the most glorious night of her life.
Her lips quirked. She had to wonder what he'd thought he'd been about, holding her naked on his knees. She assumed it had been part of some plan—he was always planning. She strongly suspected he'd intended her to feel in his power. She had to smile. He couldn't know that she'd sat there, naked before him, and gloried in the power she'd wielded over him.
For power there'd been—those dark, illicit moments had been charged with it—but for every tithe of power he'd held over her, she'd held the same measure over him.
She'd startled him with her statement that she wanted him. Other ladies would not have been so bold. But he hadn't been at all reluctant—oh, no. If she hadn't taken him, he'd have taken her.
Warm memories washed over her, through her—kneeling in the sunlight, she drifted away.
A conspiratorial giggle from Alice drew her back; she blinked—and saw the pansy plant she was holding, roots dangling, in one hand.
With a muttered curse, Alathea plunged it back into the hole from which she'd pulled it and quickly tamped it down. Then she checked her pile of "weeds." Two more pansies were rapidly returned to the soil. She could only hope that if they died, they wouldn't leave a hole in her border.
Inwardly sighing, she sat back on her heels, ignoring the twinges in her thighs. She had to stop thinking of last night. She had to determine how on earth she was going to proceed after last night. It seemed she would be safe only on a crowded street in broad daylight, and she'd have to wear a mask under her veil as well.
It would be easy for her to communicate with him by letter, but she couldn't see any way he could reply. And she knew him too well to beard the tiger; if she cut off all contact entirely, he'd come after her. Not trying to discover her identity, but trying to discover her. He'd be very intent, very focused; in such a state, he'd be unstoppable.
And where would that leave her? She didn't like to think.
No. Folwell would keep her informed of Gabriel's movements. She would send him notes if necessary until they discovered something more, then she'd meet him in Grosvenor Square.
That brought her to the question of what more she could do to further their investigations. A vague recollection of Lady Hester Stanhope's diaries had her turning to scan the long border.
Rising, she dusted her gloves, then stripped them from her hands. Strolling to the long border, she made a show of evaluating the progress made, then nodded. "We've done enough for today." She met Mary's and Alice's bright eyes. "I want to visit Hookhams again. Would you like to come?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Now?"
Alathea turned to the house. "Just a quick visit—I'm sure your mama won't mind."
She found what she was after in the biography of an explorer—a bona fide map of Central East Africa showing more than the major towns. The map told her Fangak, Lodwar and Kingi—Kafia Kingi, to be precise—were indeed towns, albeit small ones.
Leaning back in the chair behind the desk in her office, Alathea pondered her discovery. Was it good? Or discouraging?
About her, the house was peaceful and still. The lamp on her desk shed light onto the open book. In the grate, embers gleamed, warming the night. She'd stolen every moment she could throughout the day to wade through the stack of biographies and diaries she'd borrowed from Hookhams. At last, she'd uncovered something—something real.
The information was good, she decided—at least it gave them something to check. Surely they'd be able to find someone other than the mysterious captain who knew the area, now she knew where the area was.
On the stairs, the long-case clock chimed the hour. Three o'clock, the beginning of a new day. Stifling a yawn, Alathea closed the book and rose. It was definitely time for bed.
The next day, she spent the afternoon within the hallowed halls of the Royal Society.
"Unfortunately," the secretary informed her, peering at her through a thick pair of pince-nez, "there are no lectures presently scheduled on Central East Africa."
"Oh. Can the society recommend any expert on the area with whom I could consult?"
The man pursed his lips, stared at her, then nodded. "If you'll take a seat, I'll check the records."
Retreating to a wooden bench along the wall, Alathea waited for fifteen minutes, only to have the man return, shaking his head and looking rather peeved.
"We do not," he informed her, "have any expert on East Africa listed. Three who could speak with authority on West Africa, but not the East."
Alathea thanked him and left. Pausing on the steps, she considered, then headed for her carriage. "Where can we find the city's map makers, Jacobs?"
Along the Strand, was the answer. She inquired at three separate establishments, and got the same answer at all three. For their maps on Central East Africa, they relied on explorers' notes. Yes, their present maps of the area were extremely short on detail, but they were awaiting confirmation.
"It wouldn't do, miss," one rigidly correct gentleman lectured her, "for us to publish a map on which we showed towns we weren't absolutely positive were there."
"Yes, I see." Alathea turned to leave, then turned back. "The explorers whose notes you're waiting to confirm—are they in London?"
"Regretfully no, miss. They are all, at present, in Africa. Exploring." There was nothing to be done but smile, and leave. Defeated.
Alathea returned to Mount Street feeling unaccustomedly weary.
"Thank you, Crisp." She handed the butler her bonnet. "I think I'll just sit in the library for a while." "Indeed, miss. Do you wish for tea?"
"Please."
The tea arrived but did little to alleviate the feeling of helplessness that dragged at her. Every time she thought she was on the brink of substantiating some solid fact, the proof evaporated. Her hopes would soar, only to be dashed. Meanwhile, the days were passing. The day Crowley would call in his promissory notes was inexorably approaching.
Doom leered at her through Crowley's eyes.
Alathea sighed. Setting aside her empty cup, she flopped back in the armchair and closed her eyes. Perhaps, if she rested just for a few minutes…
"Are you asleep?"
Realizing she had been, Alathea blinked her eyes wide, then smiled—a spontaneous smile of real joy—at Augusta's little face. "Hello, sweetling. Where have you been today?"
Taking the question for the invitation it was, Augusta climbed into Alathea's lap and settled herself so she could see Alathea's face. Wedging Rose between them, she proceeded to distract Alathea with a detailed account of her day. Alathea listened, putting a question here and there, making understanding or sympathetic comments as required.
"So, you see," Augusta concluded, hugging Rose to her chest and snuggling closer, pressing her head to Alathea's breast, "it's been a frightfully busy day."
Alathea chuckled; raising a hand, she smoothed Augusta's hair. Small arms, small body tucked close to her side, she felt a warm, emotional tug; Augusta was the daughter she wished she could have had. She banished the thought immediately; she was obviously overtired. Too much investigating.
Too many meetings.
Then Augusta wriggled and sat up. "Hmm-mmm." She sniffed at Alathea's throat. "You smell extra nice today."
Alathea's answering smile froze on her face as she realized the significance of Augusta's remark. She was wearing the countess's scent.
Good God! She closed her eyes. What would have happened if she'd run into Gabriel? She'd been in the city and, earlier, not far from St. James, his habitual haunts.
Drawing in a breath, she opened her eyes. "Come along, poppet. I need to go upstairs and wash before dinner." Before anyone else noticed she was not quite the same woman she had been.
Two evenings later, Alathea was sitting with Jeremy in the schoolroom, Augusta in her lap, a detailed atlas from Hookhams open on the table, when the little tweeny appeared, breathless, at the door.
"If you please, Lady Alathea," she piped, "but it's time for you to get dressed, m'lady."
Noting the way the little maid was wringing her hands and at a loss to account for it, Alathea looked at the mantel clock.
Then she understood the agitation.
"Indeed." Lifting Augusta and settling her on the seat with a fond kiss, Alathea met Jeremy's eyes. "We'll continue this tomorrow."
Only too glad to escape the shackles of African geography, Jeremy grinned and turned to Augusta. "Come on, Gussie. We can play catch before dinner."
"I'm not Gussie." The tone of Augusta's objection boded ill for the peace of the evening. "Jeremy…" From the door, Alathea fixed him with a matriarchal eye.
"Oh, very well. Augusta then. Anyway, do you want to play or not?"
Leaving them in reasonable harmony, Alathea hurried to her room. By the time she reached it, she was even more agitated than the tweeny. They were to dine with the Arbuthnots, then attend the ball their old friends were giving to formally introduce their granddaughter to the ton. It was a major function; all the senior hostesses would be there. Being late for such a dinner without some cataclysmic excuse would sink one beyond reproach.
But the tweeny, who had thus far only helped her get ready for balls without dinners preceeding them, had not realized the earlier hour involved. Not until she'd noticed Serena, Mary, and Alice were all busy dressing.
Oh, God! Alathea stilled the panic that gripped her as her gaze swept her room and found no evidence of any chemise or stockings, let alone her gown, gloves, reticule… Nellie always had everything ready, but with the tweeny she had to specify every item.
For one instant, Alathea considered developing a horrendous headache, but that would leave old Lady Arbuthnot with an odd number about her table. Stifling a sigh, she waved the maid forward. "Quickly. Help me with these laces." At least her hot water was ready and waiting.
As she stripped off her gown and quickly washed, she issued a steady stream of orders for all the items she required to appear presentable. From the corner of her eye, she kept watch on the little maid, making sure each item was correct before asking for the next.
Getting dressed in a scramble was one of her worst nightmares—she hated being rushed, especially for such a major event where she could count on her appearance being scrutinzed by the sharpest eyes in the ton.
Blotting her face with the towel, Alathea shook her head. "No—not those. My dance slippers. The ones with no heel."
Hurrying to the bed, she stripped off her linen chemise, then slipped into the welcoming coolness of silk. At least with the present fashions, she didn't have to bother with petticoats. Throwing her gown of amber silk crepe over her head, she tugged it down, settled it, then whirled and let the tweeny tie the laces. The instant the last was secured, she rushed to her dressing table, plunked herself on the stool, and plunged her hands into her hair.
Pins flew. "Quickly—we'll have to braid it." There was no time for a more sophisticated style.
It was only as the maid reached the end of the long braid that Alathea realized she needed two plaits to make a coronet. "Oh." For one moment, she simply stared, then she waved the tweeny aside and grabbed the braid. "Here—if we do it like this, it should pass muster."
Underrolling half the thick braid, she bunched it at her nape, then used the long end to circle and bind it. Pushing pins in right and left, up and down, she frantically secured what would pass for a braided chignon.
"There!" Moving her head, she confirmed the mass was anchored, then quickly eased the strands pulled back from her face so they formed a softer frame. One more quick check, then she nodded. "Now…"
Opening a drawer in the table, she rummaged through her caps. Freeing a fine net heavily encrusted with gold beads, she grimaced. "This will have to do." Setting it over her hair so the lower edge curved about the braided bun, she pinned it in place.
Beyond her door, Mary's and Alice's voices rang, then their quick footsteps hurried for the stairs. Alathea quelled an impulse to look at the clock—she didn't have time. "Jewelry." Flinging open her jewelry box, she blinked. "Oh." Her hand hovered over the contents, all neatly arranged.
"I took the liberty of tidying, miss. Nellie said as how I had to dust and tidy every day."
After one stunned glance at the tweeny's hopeful face, Alathea looked back at the box. "Yes—well. That's all right."
Except that now she hadn't a clue where her pearl earrings were, let alone the matching pendant. Spearing her fingers into the piles, scattering and disarranging as she went, Alathea unearthed the earrings. Standing, she leaned closer to the mirror and quickly fitted them.
"Allie? Are you ready?"
"Open the door," Alathea instructed the maid. As soon as the door swung wide, she called, "I'm coming!" And fell to ransacking her jewelry box again.
In one corner, she noted the Venetian glass flacon that contained the countess's perfume. After her recent mistake, she'd decided to take no further chances—the flacon was one of an identical pair. The other bottle contained her customary perfume; she'd left that out on the table. Her searching fingers finally touched the gold chain she sought; drawing the gold and pearl pendant free, she held the chain around her neck. "Hurry."
The tweeny's fingers were sure; the clasp closed as Mary came rushing to the door. "The carriage is pulling up! Mama says we have to go now!"
"I'm coming." Grabbing the flacon on her table, Alathea liberally sprinkled, then whirled—"Oh, no! Not that reticule—the small gold one!"
The tweeny dived for her armoire; shawls and reticules went flying. "This one?" Grabbing her shawl from the bed, Alathea headed for the door. "Yes!"
Waving the reticule, the tweeny chased her down the corridor. Settling her shawl over her elbows, Alathea grabbed the reticule, checked it contained a handkerchief and pins, then lengthened her stride, took the stairs two at a time, raced through the tiled foyer, out the door Crisp held wide, pattered down the steps and dove into the carriage.
Folwell shut the door behind her, and the carriage lurched into motion.
The crowd in Lady Arbuthnot's ballroom was unbearably dense. Having arrived as late as he dared, Gabriel inwardly girded his loins, then stepped off the stairs and plunged in. Prevented from propping his shoulders against the wall—there was no spare wall left—he circulated through the crowd, keeping an eagle eye out for those who most wished to see him, intent on seeing them first, and avoiding
them.
High on his list of people to be missed were ladies such as Agatha Herries. He didn't see her early enough; she placed herself directly in his path. With no alternative offering, he halted before her. She smiled archly up at him and laid a hand on his sleeve.
"Gabriel, darling."
He nodded. "Agatha."
His tone was the very essence of unencouraging. Despite that, Lady Herries's smile deepened. Calculation gleamed in her eyes. "I wonder if, perhaps, we might find a quiet spot."
"For what?"
She studied him, then let her lids veil her eyes and slowly stroked her hand down his arm. "Just a little proposition I'd like to put to you. A personal matter."
"You can tell me here. In this din, it's unlikely anyone will overhear." The idea didn't suit, but she knew him too well to push.
"Very well." She glanced around, then looked up at him. "It seems you're destined to choose a wife soon. I wanted to make sure you were fully acquainted with all your options."
"Indeed?"
"My daughter, Clara—I dare say you might remember her. She's been well trained to be an accommodating wife, and while our estate and lineage might not measure up to that of the Cynsters, there would, of course, be compensations."
The purr in her voice, the lascivious gleam in her eyes, left no doubt as to what those "compensations" might be.
Gabriel looked at her coldly, then he let his mask slip, let his contempt and revulsion show. Lady Herries paled and stepped back—then had to apologize to the lady she'd backed into.
When she looked back at Gabriel, his expression was impassive once more. "You were misinformed. I am not presently searching for a wife." He inclined his head. "If you'll excuse me."
Stepping around Lady Herries, Gabriel continued on his way, searching, not for a wife, but for a widow. When he found her, after he'd wrung her neck and administered a few other physical torments, he'd turn his mind to marrying her.
First, he had to find her.
She ought to be here. Almost everyone of note was. She was of his circle—that he did not doubt—so where was she?
Behind his elegantly aloof facade, he felt decidedly grim. He'd been sure he'd get one of her countessly summonses the evening following their midnight drive. But he hadn't. He'd spent the whole evening with Chance popping in and out of the parlor like a Jack-in-the-box, wondering why he'd stayed in. Reining in his impatience—not easy after that midnight interlude and the tempest of emotions she'd unleashed—he'd waited at home the following night, with no greater success.
Now he was hungry—ravenous—not just for her, but even more to know she was his, to know where she was, to know he could put his hand on her whenever he wished. He was tense, wound tight with a need to possess far greater than any he'd previously experienced in all the years of his rakish career. He had to find out who she was, where she lived, where she was.
His copy of Burke's Peerage had started to exert a hypnotic tug. He'd caught himself considering the leather bound tome on a number of occasions. But he'd promised… given his word… the word of a Cynster.
He'd spent all last night, alone again, trying to devise some way around that promise. His Aunt Helena would know who the countess was—she always knew who was whose son, who had recently died, who married a young bride. Unfortunately, Helena would immediately inform his mother of his inquiry, and that he could do without. For hours he'd toyed with the notion of throwing himself on Honoria's mercy and asking for her aid. She'd give it, but it would come at a price; nothing was more certain. The present duchess of St. Ives was not one to pass up a never-to-be-repeated advantage. It was a measure of his desperation that he even contemplated asking her.
In the end, he'd concluded that his promise—the promise the countess had so artfully phrased—bound him too tightly and left him no room to manuever. Thrown back on his own devices, he had come here tonight for the sole purpose of tracking her down.
Her—his houri—the woman who had captured his soul.
Raising his head, he scanned the room. The one feature she could not conceal was her height. There were a number of tall ladies present, but he knew them all—not one was an elusive countess. Alathea, he noted, was presently on the dance floor, partnered by Chillingworth. He looked away. At least the dance was only a cotillion, not a waltz.
"There you are. At last!"
Lucifer struggled free of the crowd. Gabriel raised a questioning brow. His brother stared at him. "Well, the twins, of course!"
Gabriel looked around, and spotted his fair cousins on the dance floor. "They're dancing."
"I know that," Lucifer stated through his teeth. "But it's more than time for you to take the watch."
Gabriel studied the twins for one second more, then looked back at Lucifer. "Not anymore. They don't need watching. Just as long as we're here if they need us."
Lucifer's jaw nearly dropped. "What? You can't be serious."
"Perfectly. They're halfway through their second Season. They know the ropes. They're not ninnyhammers."
"I know that—God knows, they're sharp as tacks. But they're female."
"I'd noticed. I've also noticed that they don't appreciate our endeavors." Gabriel paused, then added, "And they might have reasonable cause to accuse us of excessive interference in their lives."
"Alathea's spoken to you, hasn't she?" "She's spoken to you, too."
"Well, yes…" Lucifer turned and surveyed the twins. After a minute, he asked, "Do you really think it's safe?"
Gabriel considered the two bright heads spinning in the dance. "Safe or not, I think we must." After a moment, he glanced at Lucifer. "I don't know about you, but I have other fish to fry."
"Indeed?" One of Lucifer's black brows quirked. "And here I thought your exceedingly unmellow mood was due to enforced abstinence and an overfamiliarity with your own hearth."
"Don't start," Gabriel all but snarled. His exceedingly thin facade threatened to crack. Lucifer sobered. "Who is she?"
With a definite snarl, Gabriel swung away, moving into the crowd, leaving Lucifer with his brows riding high and real concern in his eyes.
Whoever she was, she had to be here somewhere. Clinging to that conviction, Gabriel started to quarter the room.
Alathea was taking the long way back from the withdrawing room whence she'd retreated to escape her increasingly persistent cavaliers, when she came upon Gabriel in the crowd. As making any headway through the throng required constant tacking, despite being so tall, neither had any warning of the other's approach.
Suddenly, they were face to face—and very close.
They both jumped, tensed, Gabriel with his habitual reaction to her, instantly masked. Alathea saw it and prayed that he thought her reaction merely simple surprise, not the ground-shaking shock it had been.
Her breathing had seized; her eyes had flown wide. She kept them locked on his. They were so close, she could sense his strength through every pore, could almost feel the shocking heat of that large body against hers. Wrapped intimately about hers, sunk deep into hers. She swayed slightly toward him, then caught herself. Heaven help her! Would it always be like this from now on?
His eyes narrowed. Dragging in a desperate breath, she stiffened her spine and lifted her head. His gaze rose to her beaded hairnet; she tilted her chin even higher and clung to her customary haughtiness.
"It might be gold, but…"
Temper came to her rescue. "It is not tawdry. If you dare say it is…" She held his gaze for an instant longer—long enough to realize that she had to get away. "I have nothing to say to you—I doubt you have anything civil to say to me. I have better things to do than stand here crossing swords with you."
"Indeed?"
That was accompanied by an infuriating lift of one brow. "Indeed—and I don't wish to hear your opinion of anyone else, either." "Because it might be true?"
"Regardless of their accuracy, to me, your opinions are neither here nor there." With that, she tried to step around him but the crowd was so tight-packed she couldn't get past unless he gave way.
He didn't immediately. His gaze skimmed her face, searching—she prayed not seeing. Then he
inclined his head and shifted. "You will, as always, go to the devil in your own way."
She bestowed a look of regal indifference upon him, then pushed past. Her breast brushed his arm, one thigh touched his. The tremor that rocked her nearly buckled her knees. Lungs locked, she held her spine rigid and forged on and away. She didn't dare look back.
Inwardly shaking his head, Gabriel waited for the muscles that had seized at her touch to relax. They'd touched little over the years but her effect on him hadn't waned. As his chest eased, he dragged in a huge breath—
She was close.
Instantly, he scanned the surrounding crowd. Not one woman in sight was tall enough, but he couldn't mistake that perfume. It was the essence of her, the scent that wreathed his dreams. He breathed in again. The perfume was still strong, but dispersing. She'd been very… close…
His muscles locked like stone. Slowly, he turned, and stared at the slender back of the exceptionally tall woman who had, just a moment before, stood very close to him.
It couldn't be.
For one finite moment, his mind flatly rejected what his senses were screaming. Then reality fractured.
Alathea felt Gabriel's gaze on her back, like a knife between her shoulder blades. Her lungs seized; panic clutching her stomach she shot a glance behind.
He was tacking through the crowd in her wake. His eyes met hers, their expression primitive. For an instant, the sight paralyzed her. Then she whirled and tried to go faster, to slip through the crowd and escape.
The crowd only got denser. Lady Hendricks called and waved—Alathea had to stop, smile, touch fingers. Then she was on her way again, breathlessly dodging, weaving, desperately seeking an easier path through the crush—
Hard fingers locked around her elbow.
She froze. In the instant her panicked wits reengaged, he bent his head and murmured, "Don't bother."
His lips brushed her ear. Suppressing a shiver, she stiffened. He stood at her right shoulder, her elbow in a viselike grip; even without his warning, she knew that grip would be unbreakable. And he was furious. Past furious. The anger pouring from him scorched her. What had given her away?
"This way."
He'd been looking over the sea of heads; now he steered her toward one side of the room. She forced her feet to move. She could not cause a scene, not here. In his present mood he was capable of anything, even picking her up, tossing her over his shoulder, and stalking off with her. His temper once aroused was a force to contend with; challenging it now would be foolhardy. As they moved toward one wall, she struggled to marshal her wits, her arguments, her denials, bracing herself for what was to come.
She didn't see the door until they stood before it; he opened it and marched her into an unlit and thankfully uninhabited gallery. He didn't stop until they were at the end where a long window, curtains
wide, poured moonlight into the narrow room.
Placing her directly in the silver beam, he swung to face her.
His gaze raked her face, devoured her features as if he'd never seen them before. His face was chiseled, harder than stone, every edge sharp. Lips compressed, his jaw set, his heavy lids too low for her to see his eyes, he studied her. His gaze lingered on her jaw, then he lifted his lids and looked into her eyes. For a long moment, he held her gaze, hazel to hazel. Tense beyond bearing, her nerves stretched tight, she wondered what he could see.
"It was you."
Although laced with wonder, his tone brooked no argument. She raised her brows. "What on earth are you on about?"
His brows rose but his expression didn't waver. "Denial? Surely you can do better than that?"
"I dare say if I knew what misbegotten notion you've taken into your fevered brain I could more specifically address it, but as I don't, denial seems the safest option." She looked away, too afraid that if she continued to meet his eyes she would see his knowledge of her—his physical knowledge of her—blazoned in the hazel. Then she'd remember, too, and vulnerability would sweep her—and he'd pounce.
The touch of long fingers curving about her face nearly brought her to her knees. His grip firmed; deliberately, he turned her head until her eyes met his again.
"Oh, you know—there's no point denying it." His words were clipped; fury raged beneath them. He hesitated, then added, "Your perfume gave you away."
Her perfume? The tweeny. Tidying. Emptying her jewelry box onto the table. Then putting everything back in. Two identical flacons, one in, one out.
Her expression had blanked; her lips started to form an "Oh." Alathea caught herself and glared. "What about my perfume?"
He smiled, not with amusement. "Too late."
"Nonsense!" She lifted her chin from his fingers. "It's simply a particular blend—I dare say many ladies use it."
"Perhaps, but none so tall. So… accomplished."
When she merely raised a weary brow, he supplied, "So capable of picking locks."
Alathea frowned. "Am I to understand that you're searching for some woman—a tall woman—who wears the same perfume as I and can pick locks?"
"No—you're to understand that I've found her."
His ringing certainty had her looking up—he trapped her gaze. His eyes narrowed, then his gaze dropped to her lips. Insidious, mesmeric attraction flared between them…
He stepped closer. Alathea's breath caught in her throat. Eyes widening, her gaze fixed on his hard face, she quivered—
The door from the ballroom opened; other guests ambled in. Gabriel glanced around.
Alathea sucked in a breath. "You're completely and absolutely mistaken."
His head snapped back, but she'd already stepped around him. She swept past the other guests with a regal nod. Head high, in a glide just short of a run, she escaped back into the ballroom.
Chapter 13
« ^ »
A waltz was just starting. Alathea's mad dash nearly sent her into the dancers. She teetered on the edge of the dance floor—
A hard arm collected her, sliding about her waist, swinging her forward, then expertly steadying her. She swallowed a shriek, then fought to catch her breath—and her balance, and her scattered wits, only to lose all three as Gabriel locked his arm around her, trapping her from breast to thigh against him. One hand held fast, he whirled her down the room.
Her body instantly came alive. Her breasts swelled. She fought to hold herself stiffly, but her body molded to his, thighs brushing evocatively at every turn. Their hips swayed together; memories churned.
Within seconds, she'd softened. She refused to meet his eyes, too busy struggling to master her whirling wits, to gather her resolution, to find some way forward. Her composure was all she had left; desperately, she clung to it.
He was holding her very close. As her head continued to whirl, as her body continued to heat with every revolution, she fixed her gaze over his shoulder, and hissed, "You're holding me too close."
Gabriel looked at her face, so achingly familiar yet… had he ever truly seen it before? His temper was up and running, his emotions rioting; he had no idea what he thought or felt. He could barely believe the truth in his arms. His hold on his impulses was tenuous as he let his gaze roam the long slender lines of her throat, the creamy expanse of skin above her neckline, over the rounded swells, now firm, hot and tight, pressed against his chest. "I've held you closer, if you recall."
The gravelly rasp of his words affected them both; she shot him a shocked, breathless, scandalized glance, then looked away.
She said nothing more; her feet followed his, her body flowing with his, fitting so neatly, so totally attuned they could both have waltzed for hours without thought. Gabriel grabbed the moments to bring some order to the chaos in his brain. He frowned as he noticed the difference in her height, then recalled the high heels he'd dropped to the carriage floor three nights before.
Glancing down as they whirled through the next turn, he confirmed his guess. "You never normally wear heels."
Her breasts swelled as she drew in a tight breath. "What are you talking about? You're making less sense than poor Skiffy Skeffington!"
His hold on his temper snapped. "Indeed? In that case, I suppose there's no point in asking how long
you'd thought to carry on your charade, or in inquiring as to its purpose. You can understand, however, that that last exercises me greatly." He spoke through clenched teeth, his voice sharpened steel. He let his gaze rake her face; he saw only red. "Did you think to trap me into marriage? Is that what this is about? Surely not—" He tightened his hold as she tried to free her hand until he knew he was crushing her fingers. "You know I'd make your life a living hell, so why? Was it the challenge?" Already stiff, she went rigid. He glanced at her set face. "That sounds nearer the mark."
He looked up as they circled, then laughed mirthlessly.
"God, when I think of it!—Lincoln's Inn Fields, Bond Street, Bruton Street." He paused, then demanded, "Tell me, in Bruton Street, did you flee into the modiste's because you couldn't contain your laughter?"
She reacted—her hand, crushed in his, jerked, the fine tendons in her neck tensed—but she kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder and her lips pressed stubbornly tight.
"Why did you do it?" She gave him no answer.
"As the cat's caught your tongue, let me see if I can guess… you missed your chance with your own Season, but given you had to come to London to give Mary and Alice their turn, you thought to enliven your stay by taking a shot at me. Thanks to my fond mama, I'm sure you know my reputation." His tone lashed. "Is that what you thought? That bringing me to my knees as the mysterious countess would be just the thing to enliven your stay?"
Pale, her expression stony, she refused to look at him, to meet his eyes, refused to assure him that he'd got it all wrong, that she'd never betray him like that.
Betrayed was what he felt—not just by her but by her alter ego, too. No matter his devotion, no matter his patience and skill, no matter how deeply he'd come to worship her, the countess would never have revealed her identity to him. As for his dreams…
Bitterness welled, then swelled even higher. She'd struck much deeper than mere dreams. She'd struck straight to his core, just as she always had; she'd stripped away his armor, found his most vulnerable spot and laid it bare. He hadn't even known he possessed such a weakness until she'd uncovered it. He could only curse her for it—she was the very last woman on earth he would willingly reveal any vulnerability to.
But even that was not the worst. The most vital wound, the one that left him bleeding inside, was that, despite knowing him so well, she hadn't trusted him.
That, of it all, hurt the most.
"I always wondered when you'd get tired of your life in the country. Tell me, now I've opened your eyes to the pleasures to be experienced in the capital, are you thinking of—" He didn't even hear what he said, as, element by element, he dismembered her character. Many considered his tongue too sharp for safety; he used it like a surgeon's knife to cut at her, to make her bleed, too. Just as she knew where to strike at him, he knew all her most sensitive spots. Like her height, like the fact she believed herself plain. And too old. He touched on each vulnerable point, savagely rejoicing when she stiffened, when her jaw locked.
He'd salvaged a tiny portion of his pride by the time the music slowed, and the red mist that had clouded
his brain and his vision lifted enough for him to see the tears that stood in her eyes.
The music ended. They halted. She stood silent and still in his arms, her expression unyielding yet her whole being vibrating with suppressed emotion.
She met his gaze unflinchingly. Beyond the sheen of her tears, he saw his fury and hurt reflected back at him, over and over again.
"You do not have the first idea what you are talking about."
Each word was distinct, carefully enunciated, underscored with emotion. Before he could react, she pulled roughly from his arms, caught her breath, turned, and swept away.
Leaving him alone in the middle of the dance floor. Still furious. Still hurt.
Still aroused.
Alathea sat at the breakfast table the next morning in a state of deadened panic. She knew the axe would soon fall, but she couldn't summon the strength to run. She felt physically drained; she'd barely slept a wink. Maintaining an outward show of calm was imperative, yet it was all she could do to smile at her family and pretend to nibble her toast.
Her stomach felt hollow but she couldn't eat. She could only just manage to sip her weak tea. Her head felt steady enough, yet at the same time strangely vacant, as if blocking out all Gabriel's hurtful words had blocked off her own thoughts as well.
She knew she couldn't think—she'd tried for hours last night, but every attempt had ended in tears. She couldn't think of what had happened, much less of what might.
Picking at her toast, she let her family's cheery talk wash over her and drew a little comfort from its warmth.
Then Crisp paused beside her and cleared his throat. "Mr. Cynster is here, m'lady, and wishes to speak with you."
Alathea looked up. Here! No—he wouldn't. "Wh—" She stopped and cleared her throat. "Which Mr. Cynster, Crisp?"
"Mr. Rupert, miss." He would.
Serena waved a plump hand. "Do ask him if he's breakfasted yet, Crisp."
"No!—I mean, I'm sure he would have." Rising, Alathea placed her napkin by her plate. "I'm sure he's not thinking of ham and sausages."
"Well, if you're sure…" Serena frowned. "But it seems an odd time to call." Alathea caught her eye. "It's just a little business matter we need to discuss." "Oh." Serena mouthed the word, and immediately turned back to her family.
Slipping out of the breakfast parlor, Alathea reflected that her last words were no deception. All that Rupert—Gabriel—wished to speak about had occurred because of their "little business matter."
That wasn't going to make the coming interview any easier.
Crisp had shown Gabriel into the back parlor, a quiet room overlooking the rear gardens. On sunny days, the girls liked to gather there, but today, with the clouds closing in and drizzle threatening, it would be a quiet, and private, haven.
It was unlikely they would be disturbed.
Alathea considered that and grimaced. She'd dismissed Crisp and come alone. Hand on the doorknob, she drew in a breath, gathered her wilting strength, and refused to think of what she would face on the other side of the door.
Outwardly calm, she turned the knob and walked in.
His head turned instantly; their gazes locked. He'd been standing by the windows looking out. He considered her unblinkingly, then, in a low voice said, "Close the door. Lock it."
She hesitated.
"We don't need any interruptions."
She hesitated a moment more, then turned, shut the door, and snibbed the lock. Facing him again, she lifted her head, straightened her spine, and clasped her hands before her.
He continued to study her, his face unreadable. "Come here."
Alathea considered, but she felt the tug, the compulsion. The threat. She forced her feet to carry her forward.
It was the most difficult thing she'd done in her life—crossing the wide parlor under his eye. She kept her head up, her spine rigid, but by the time she reached his side and the light fell full on her face, she was inwardly shaking, her reserves of strength, of resolution, seriously depleted. As she stopped beside him and met his hard gaze, she realized that was precisely as he'd intended.
He searched her face, his gaze sharp, acute, his features warrior-hard. "Now," he said, "what the devil's going on?"
Barely leashed anger vibrated behind the words. Drawing her gaze from his, she fixed it on the lawn and the enclosing trees. "You know most of it." She drew in a breath, to gain time, to gain control. "All that I told you as the countess is true, except—"
"That your supposed late husband is in fact your father, that the youthful Charles is Charlie, Maria is Mary, Alicia is Alice, and Seraphina is Serena. That much I'd guessed."
"Well, then." She shrugged. "That's it."
When he said nothing more, she risked a quick glance. He was waiting—he caught her gaze and held it.
A moment passed. "Try again."
His temper reached her clearly. There would be no escape. "What do you want to know?" If she could cling to the straightforward, the matter-of-fact, she might just survive his inquisition.
"Is the earldom in as dire straits as you portrayed?" "Yes."
"Why did you create the countess?"
Straightforward. Matter-of-fact. She returned her gaze to the vista outside. "If I'd written to you or visited you with the story of a suspect note without telling you of the family's financial plight, would you have undertaken the investigation yourself or handed it to Montague?"
"If you'd told me the whole story—"
"Put yourself in my shoes. Would you have told you the whole story? How close to ruin we stood? Still stand."
After a moment, he inclined his head. "Very well—I accept that you would have avoided telling me that. But the countess…?"
She lifted her chin. "It worked."
He waited, but she was too used to silence, to being silent with him, for the ploy to have any effect. His realization rang in his tone. "I take it your father and Serena are not aware of your masquerade."
"No."
"Who does know?"
"No one—well, only the senior servants." "Your coachman… that was Jacobs?" She nodded.
"Who of the others?"
"Nellie. Figgs. Miss Helm. Connor. Crisp, of course. And Folwell." She paused, then nodded. "That's all."
He swore under his breath. "All?"
She shot him a frown. "They're devoted to me. There's no need to imagine anything will come of it. They always do precisely as I say."
He looked at her, then one brow quirked higher. "Oh?" His tone had dropped to a whisper. Signaling her to silence, he crossed to the door, then flipped the lock and hauled it open in one movement, revealing Nellie, Crisp, Figgs, Miss Helm…
Alathea simply stared. Then she stiffened and glared. "Go away!"
"Well, m'lady." Nellie cast a wary glance at Gabriel. "We were just wondering—" "I'm perfectly all right. Now go!"
They shuffled off. Gabriel closed the door, relocked it, then returned to the window.
"All right. So much for your masquerade." He stopped beside her; shoulder to shoulder, they looked out at the trees cloaked in dull shadow. "You can now tell me why you took it upon yourself to rescue your family."
"Well—" Alathea stopped, seeing the trap. "It seemed most sensible."
"Indeed? Let's see. A maid found the promissory note, which your father signed but somehow forgot about, and then you, your father, and Serena put your heads together, and they decided and agreed to let you pursue the matter—a matter that might destroy their lives—by yourself. Is that how it went?"
She regarded the trees stonily. "No." "Well?"
The word hung in the air, insistent, persistent… "I usually handle all the business affairs." "Why?"
She hesitated. "Papa… isn't very good with money. You know how… well, gentle he is. He really has no idea—none at all." She met his gaze. "My mother managed the estate until her death. My grandmother managed it before her."
He frowned. After a moment, he asked, "And so you now handle all the estate business?" "Yes."
His eyes narrowed. "Since when?"
When she looked back at the trees and didn't answer, he stepped between her and the window, leaving them all but nose to nose. His eyes bored into hers. "When did your father cede his authority to you?"
Still she said nothing. He searched her eyes. "Would you rather I asked him?" If it had been any other man, she'd have called his bluff. "Years ago."
"Eleven years ago?" She didn't reply.
"That's what it was, wasn't it? That was the reason you left town. Not chicken pox—I never did believe that—but money. Your father had brought the earldom to point non plus; somehow, you found out and took up the reins. You cut short your first Season before it had begun and went home." He paused. "Is that what happened?"
Her expression set, she shifted her gaze, staring out over his shoulder. "Tell me the details. I want to know."
He wouldn't rest until he knew. She drew in a tight breath. "Wiggs came to the house one afternoon. He
looked… desperate. Papa saw him in the library. I went to ask if Papa wanted tea brought in. The library door was ajar. I overheard Wiggs pleading with Papa, explaining how deeply in debt the estate was, and how the expense of giving me my Season would quite literally run us aground. Papa didn't understand. He kept insisting that all would be well, that far from ruining us, my Season would be the earldom's salvation."
"He was counting on you making a good marriage?" "Yes. Foolishly so."
"It might have worked."
She shook her head. "You haven't considered. I would have had no dowry—quite the opposite. Any successful suitor would have had to rescue the earldom, and the debts were mountainous. I had nothing at all to recommend me except my lineage."
"There are more than a few who would disagree."
She glanced at him, then looked back at the trees. "You forget—this was eleven years ago. Do you remember what I looked like at eighteen? I was painfully thin, even gawky. There was absolutely no chance I would make the sort of match required to save my family."
When she said nothing more, he prompted, "So?"
"When Wiggs left in despair, I went in and talked to Papa. I spent the night going over the estate records Wiggs had brought." She paused, then added, "The next morning, we packed and left London."
"You've been protecting your family—saving them—ever since?" "Yes."
"Even though it cost you your life—the life you should have had." "Don't be melodramatic."
"Me?" He laughed harshly. "That's the pot calling the kettle black. But if the shoe fits…" He caught her eye. "And it fits you." He stood directly before her, his gaze locked on her face. "You knew what it would mean from the very first—eleven years ago. If you'd shut your ears to your family's plight and seen out your Season, it's more than likely you would have married well—not, I grant you, well enough to save the earldom, but well enough to save yourself. You would have had a home, a title, a position—a chance to have your own family. All the things you'd been raised to expect. Your own future was there for the taking. You knew that, yet you chose to return to the country and struggle to resurrect the family fortunes, even if it meant you'd become an old maid. After your aborted Season, your family couldn't afford to have you come up again—couldn't afford to let anyone even guess. They certainly couldn't afford a respectable dowry, a point in itself too revealing, but you knew how it would be. So it all fell to you. You sacrificed your life—all of it—for them."
He sounded angry. Alathea set her chin. "You're making too much of it." He held her gaze mercilously. "Am I?"
She couldn't avoid his eyes, the understanding lighting the hazel depths. The sacrifice of the years swept over her, the loneliness, the pain borne alone in the depths of the country. The mourning for a life she'd never had a chance to live. Dragging in a too-shallow breath, she fought to keep her gaze steady. When
she was sure she had her voice under control, she said, "Don't you dare pity me."
His brow quirked in that way that was quintessentially his. "It hadn't occurred to me. I'm sure you made the decision yourself—you set out to do precisely what you've done. I see nothing to pity in that."
The dry comment gave her sensitivity, her vulnerability, the shield she needed. After a moment, she looked away. "So now you know it all."
Gabriel studied her face and wished that were true. In the hours since he'd learned the truth, he'd been buffeted, shaken, rocked to his soul by a tempest of emotions. Anger, raw fury, a desperate hurt, quenched pride; those were easily identified. Other passions, darker, more turbulent, much harder to define, had swelled the tumult to an ungovernable tide that had scored and ripped its way through him.
Now, in the aftermath, he felt, not empty, but cleared, as if the inner temple he'd built to house his soul had been smashed by the torrent, swept from its foundations and the bricks left scattered by the subsiding flood. Now he faced the task of building his inner house again. He could choose a simpler structure, one without the posturing, the false glamor, the boredom of which he'd grown so tired in recent months. Which bricks he chose to fashion his future was up to him, but the fact that he had a choice to make was due to her.
Only she could have caused such an upheaval.
His life from now on depended on what he did next, what he chose next. He'd come here, his anger still raging, fully intending to ring a peal over her. Now that he'd learned the whole story and finally understood what she'd been doing all along, his anger had resolved into something quite different, something intensely protective.
"What's the current state of the earldom's finances?"
She shot him a glance, then grudgingly offered a figure. 'That's the underlying security. The income from the farms adds to that."
"What's that amount to per year?"
Bit by bit he drew the details from her, enough to confirm that not even his genius, not even Devil's touch with management, Vane and Richard's experience, not even Catriona's power could have done more to bail out the Morwellans.
I wish you had come to me earlier—all those years ago. Thus spake his heart; he knew better than to utter the words.
"So there's nothing more that can be done there. Your family's as secure as it can be in the circumstances." He ignored her offended stare. "What about this man of yours—Wiggs? Is he reliable?"
"I've always found him so." Stiffly, she added, "If it hadn't been for his intercession with the banks, we would have sunk long ago."
That had to be true. "What's he think of your masquerade—or haven't you told him?" She didn't meet his eye. "He was very relieved when I told him I'd consulted you."
"So he doesn't know you've been consulting in disguise." He caught the look she threw him. "I need to
know—I'm bound to meet the man sometime over this." She blinked, arrested; at first, he didn't understand, then he did.
His jaw set. He felt like throttling her. "I am not going to walk away and leave you to deal with this alone."
Her relief was obvious, even though, sensing his reaction, she tried to hide it. The look in her eyes as they searched his made it clear she didn't understand his response.
Neither did he—not entirely. It was one of the long, vital list of things he didn't yet know, along with what he felt for her. Even now, standing no more than a foot from her, he had no idea what his feelings truly were. He had no intention of touching her—not yet. He couldn't yet contemplate dealing with the force that he knew would be unleashed when next he did, when next he took her in his arms. The time would come, but not yet, not until he'd realigned his mind and his senses to the new reality. The reality where he could stand so close to her and sense nothing beyond her warmth, a sensual, womanly, highly tempting warmth. No overtense, flickering nerves, no prickling uncomfortableness disturbed him. Their decades-old affliction had died last night when he'd hauled her into his arms and waltzed her down Lady Arbuthnot's ballroom.
While he hadn't yet got a firm hold on what he felt, he had even less idea of what she felt about it all. Some hint of what was in his mind must have shown in his eyes. Hers widened; sudden uncertainty flared.
He held her gaze ruthlessly; he made no attempt to hide his thoughts. She'd given herself to him, albeit in disguise. She was going to have to cope with the outcome.
"What are you thinking?" Deliberately, he raised a brow.
She actually blushed. Her eyes widened even more, frantically searching his.
"I suggest," he said, the words clipped and precise, "that given the seriousness of the threat the Central East Africa Gold Company poses we set aside further discussion of the ramifications of your masquerade until we've successfully dealt with the company."
He could almost see her feathers subside. A moment later, she nodded. "Agreed." She turned away. "Not that there'll be any ramifications."
He shot out a hand and shackled her wrist. She froze. The eyes that met his when he turned his head were wide. "Don't pretend." After a moment, he continued, his tone less forceful, "I said we'd defer discussion of the matter, not that we'd ignore it."
"There's nothing to ignore." Her tone was breathless; her other hand rose to her breast.
Turbulent emotion swelled, threatening to sweep him away. Jaw set, he held it back, but allowed it to infuse his eyes. "Don't tempt me."
The words, dark and low, vibrated with a power Alathea could sense; it gripped her, shook her, then held her, but lightly. If she tried to fight, the grip would tighten, would seize and pin her. For now, he was content to simply hold. Dragging in a shaky breath, she forced herself to look away.
She was immeasurably grateful when, an instant later, his fingers slid from her wrist.
"Have you learned anything since last we discussed the matter?"
The question gave her something to cling to, to respond to sensibly. "Wiggs." Dragging in another breath, she lifted her head. "I asked him to find out the legal procedure involved in getting the note declared invalid. He sent a message yesterday saying he had an appointment with one of the Chancery Court judges tomorrow morning to discuss the possibilities."
"Good. Anything else?"
She grew calmer. "I've been looking for maps of the area to check the locations Crowley mentioned." "Detailed maps of that area are hard to find."
"True, but I finally found one in a biography. It shows those three towns Crowley mentioned—Fangak, Lodwar, and Kafia. They're small, but there."
"What did the biographer say about them?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. I didn't read the text." He sighed through his teeth.
"I will! I only found it two days ago. Anyway, what have you been doing? Have you located the captain?"
"No." Gabriel frowned. "It's not that simple. He's definitely not with any of the major shipping lines. There are scores of others to check, so we're checking. I've nosed about White's but no one remembers him.
Incidentally, who saw him—Charlie?"
"No, Papa. But he doesn't remember anything beyond what I've told you. And I've made him promise to bring the captain home if he sees him again."
"Hmm. I've got people searching, but it's possible he's no longer in London. Most of the senior seamen come ashore, then head off to visit family, often out of London, returning only a day or so before they're due to sail again."
"So we might not see the captain again."
"Not if we simply wait to see him. There are other possibilities I'm following up." He glanced at the mantelpiece clock. "Speaking of which, I have to be elsewhere." He met Alathea's gaze. "Are we agreed that we'll pool all information so we can settle this business as expeditiously as possible?"
Alathea nodded.
"Good." He held her gaze for an instant, then he raised his hand.
Alathea's breath suspended; lost in the hazel depths of his eyes, she inwardly quivered as his fingers traced, then cradled her jaw. The pad of his thumb brushed slowly over her lips. She felt her eyes flare, her lips soften. Her wits whirled.
"And then," he stated, "we'll settle the rest."
She was tempted to raise a brow; caution stepped in and prevented it. When she simply held his gaze, he nodded.
"I'll call on you tomorrow."
She'd never been afraid of Gabriel; after careful consideration, Alathea concluded she still wasn't. It wasn't fear that tightened her nerves when she caught sight of him while strolling in the park; it was anticipation, but of what she wasn't sure.
Together with Mary, Alice, Heather, and Eliza, she'd been strolling for twenty minutes. Lord Esher and his friend Mr. Carstairs, of the Finchley-Carstairs, young gentlemen of impeccable credentials, had joined the group, his lordship to chat with Mary, while Mr. Carstairs manfully engaged the others, although his gaze strayed frequently to Alice's face.
Ambling in the rear, Alathea had watched the budding romances with an approving eye, until she saw Gabriel approaching. After that, she saw nothing beyond him, severely elegant in morning coat, buckskin breeches, and Hessians, the breeze ruffling his chestnut locks. His expression easy, he greeted her sisters and his with brotherly familiarity, appraised the suddenly tense young men, and nodded his approval.
Then his gaze slid to her. Deserting the younger crew, he strolled to her side.
Alathea locked both hands on her parasol handle and prayed he wouldn't commandeer one.
His eyes met hers, then his brow quirked. "I don't bite," he murmured, as he halted beside her. "At least," he amended, voice deepening, "not in public."
Awareness swept her; she felt her blush rise. He viewed the sight, his brow quirked again, then he turned and surveyed the group moving far ahead of them. "I suppose we'd better keep them in sight."
"Indeed." Alathea stepped out; he fell in beside her. "Have you heard from Wiggs yet?"
"No—his appointment was scheduled for eleven." It was only just past noon. "Will you be at the Clares' ball tonight?"
"Yes."
"Good—I'll meet you there."
Alathea nodded. That was one benefit of the countess's unmasking; they could now easily meet to exchange information. "I read that explorer's book, at least the relevant parts."
As she jiggled her parasol and dug into her reticule, she felt Gabriel's gaze on her face. "Burning the midnight oil?"
She flicked him a glance. She didn't need him to tell her she had rings under her eyes. "When else would I get time to read?"
The tartness of the reply had no discernible effect. "Running yourself ragged isn't going to help. What's this?" He took the sheet she thrust at him.
"That's the description the explorer gave of those three towns."
He perused it as they strolled; his brows gradually rose. "How very interesting. When was this explorer in these parts?"
"Only early last year. The book's just been published." Alathea leaned closer, peering at the sheet. She tapped one paragraph. "As I recall, Crowley said the company had purchased a large building in Fangak from some French government agency to house the workers involved in the construction of the company's mines. According to the explorer, Fangak is 'a collection of flimsy wooden huts far from civilization'."
"Crowley also said Lodwar was on a major road. Instead, it appears to be a tiny settlement halfway up a rugged mountainside, 'well away from the beaten track'."
Alathea glanced at his face. "It's evidence, isn't it?"
He looked at her, then nodded. Folding the note, he slipped it into his pocket. "But we'll need more." He looked at the group ahead of them. "How's that shaping?"
"Promisingly. Esher becomes more definite by the day, while Carstairs…" Tilting her head, Alathea considered the young gentleman. "I think he's trying to screw his courage to the sticking point, but is having a hard time believing that it's actually happened to him."
Gabriel snorted. "Poor bugger." Alathea pretended not to hear.
They strolled on, following the others, then Gabriel halted. "I'll leave you here."
Alathea turned to him, only to feel his fingers close about hers. He raised her hand and considered it, slim fingers trapped by his. Then he lifted his gaze to her eyes.
She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He was close; because of her height, her parasol shaded them both, creating an illusion of privacy in the middle of the park. They never exchanged the routine pleasantries, touching hands, bowing, but now he held her hand, and her, too; she wondered what he meant to do.
His lips twisted, wry and taunting both. "I'll see you tonight."
He pressed her hand briefly, then released it. With a nod, he left her.
Alathea stood still, breathing evenly, and watched him stride away. Part of her mind noted that he'd left just before their ambling stroll would have brought them into view of the carriage drive, presently lined with the carriages of the ton's matrons, including those of his mother and aunt. The rest of her mind was engrossed with the burning question of what he thought he was about, what tack he intended to take with her.
The situation between them had changed, yet he still wanted her, even though he now knew who she was. He still intended to have her, to continue their illicit liaison; amazing though that seemed, that much was clear.
Very little else was.
With the countess's unmasking, all control of their interaction had passed to him. She was completely in his power, a power she knew better than to imagine he wouldn't, if provoked, wield.
The little group she was watching were drawing ahead. Straightening her parasol, she set out in their wake.
What he had in mind she couldn't begin to guess, any more than she could be sure of his motives. Given
their encounters in Bond Street and Bruton Street, let alone the rest, he might well wish to punish her. His present conduct might be a facade, adopted to ease their way while they pursued the company. He was more than honorable enough to put aside his own feelings until they'd dealt with the threat. Then he might consider retribution.
Luckily, he rarely held a grudge. By the time their investigations were complete, it was possible, even likely, that his interest in her would have waned, that he would have grown bored and shifted his sights to his next conquest.
A frown in her eyes, Alathea climbed the slope to the carriage drive, and wondered why the prospect of him growing bored with her and thus abandoning any notion of retribution did not bring her any sense of ease.
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Lady Clare's ball was yet another unrelenting crush.
The Season was in full swing and everyone simply had to be seen at all the major events. Finally gaining Alathea's side, Gabriel cast a malevolent glance over the jostling throng. "Manic," he muttered.
Lord Montgomery, presently holding Alathea's attention, thought the jibe aimed at him. He bristled. Smiling serenely, Alathea pretended she hadn't heard. "Have your mama and sister come up to town this year?"
Faced with such unequivocal interest, his lordship's hackles subsided. With a disdainful glance at Gabriel, he intoned, "Indeed, indeed! They are, naturally, concerned as to the future of the estate. Why—"
Recently afflicted with a conviction that she would be just the wife for him, his lordship droned on. Alathea let her smile glide over the other eager faces, but did not linger long enough to encourage any to interrupt with his own tale. Completing her circuit brought her glance to Gabriel; he caught it, irritation behind his hazel eyes. He hesitated, then, to her surprise, reached out and took the hand she hadn't thought to offer him. He held it, waiting with studied patience until Lord Montgomery's monologue rolled to a close, then he bowed. As he straightened, Alathea, off-balance and mystified, saw concern color his expression.
"My dear, you're rather pale."
My dear? She nearly goggled.
Gabriel anchored her hand on his sleeve, drawing her within his protective orbit. "Perhaps a stroll outside… before you faint from the stuffiness."
She'd never fainted in her life. Her gaze trapped in his, Alathea waved a hand weakly before her face. "It is rather hot in here."
His brow quirked; one corner of his lips did, too. "The doors to the terrace are open…"
The suggestion was greeted with numerous offers to accompany them; obedient to the fingers squeezing hers, Alathea smiled wanly. "The noise…" She gestured limply. "A few moments of absolute quiet would help, and then I'll be able to return to you."
With that, they had to be content. Gabriel excised her from the circle and steered her down the room. Alathea hoped it appeared that he was dragging her off in brotherly fashion—for her own good—but the speculative frowns in too many eyes made her itch to box his ears. Next, he'd have the scandalmongers watching them avidly, and God only knew what they might see.
They gained the flagged terrace along which a number of couples were strolling. She tried to slide her hand from his sleeve to put greater distance between them. His fingers tightened; she knew better than to tug. "You'll start people talking," she hissed as, acquiescing, she continued to glide close beside him.
"No more than they're talking already of you and the aspirants to your charms. Why on earth do you surround yourself with them?"
"I assure you it's not by choice!" After a moment, she added, "I suspect Serena's been busy on my behalf, despite the fact I made it plain that this was Mary's and Alice's Season and I have no interest in attracting a husband. Well"—she gestured to her braided cap—"how much clearer can I make it? Can't they see?"
Eyeing the cap with savage dislike, Gabriel bit back the words "Probably not." Her caps offended him at some elemental level. There was, now he thought of it, one sure way of getting rid of them once and for all. Considering the prospect of never seeing another cap covering her hair, he guided her toward the shadowy end of the terrace, presently deserted. "Did Wiggs report on his meeting with the judge?"
Reaching the balustrade at the end of the flags, they surveyed the thick bushes beyond the stone barrier, then turned and leaned against it, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, in oddly companionable comfort.
"Yes. It seems we can ask for a decision declaring the note invalid through a petition directly to the bench, without evidence or deliberations being heard in open court."
"Good. That'll make things easier."
"The judge said the speed at which a decision would be given will depend on the quality of our evidence. The more detailed and complete the evidence, the quicker the judgment. If the case was cut and dried, a decision could be formalized in a matter of days."
Gabriel nodded. "When we're ready, I'll alert Devil. He'll make sure it gets immediate attention." Alathea's sudden grin caught his eye. "What?"
She glanced at him. "Just the way you operate." She waved. "Just like that—throw a duke into the equation."
He shrugged. "If one has a duke to throw…"
Her grin fading, Alathea asked, "Have your people learned anything more?"
"No grand revelations, but Montague is making headway with all those figures and projections Crowley spouted. Needless to say, they don't add up. My contacts in Whitehall are still checking the claims he made about various foreign government departments and officials, and the permissions he said the company had already received. The more things that are false, the wider the front on which the company's claims are disproved, the easier it will be to convince the court."
"But a witness—an eyewitness as it were—would be the definitive proof. Have you heard anything more about the captain?"
"Yes and no. Mostly no. There are so many shipping lines, and at too many I have no contact from
whom I can discreetly inquire. We can't risk any overt search, not even for the captain. Crowley's too powerful. He may well have contacts who'll report any unusual queries in all shipping lines dealing with his present area of interest."
"Is he that omnipotent?"
"Yes. Don't underestimate him. He may not have attended any recognized school, but he knows how to play his connections well. Witness Archie Douglas." After a moment, Gabriel stated, "Whatever we do, we must never forget Crowley."
The words disturbed Alathea. Frowning, she shook them aside. "There must be some register of the ships and their captains, surely?"
"There is—it's kept by the Port Authority. There are two registers we need to look at—the log which lists all the ships as they enter the Pool of London along with their captain, and the main register of vessels, which shows which shipping line a particular ship sails for. Unfortunately, there was a scandal involving the last port registrar. Consequently, his successor is exceedingly resistant to the idea of allowing anyone access to either the log or the register."
"Exceedingly resistant?"
"Short of an order from the Admirality or the Revenue, there's no way to view those books." "Hmm."
Gabriel glanced at Alathea. "Don't even think of breaking in."
She focused on him. "Why? Because you've already considered it?"
"Yes." His lips twisted. He looked back along the terrace, then straightened. "The office is manned around the clock. At present, searching the log and register is impossible."
Following his gaze to Lucifer, strolling through the shadows toward them, Alathea murmured, "Nothing's impossible when you're twelve years old."
Gabriel shot her a look as Lucifer, brows high, joined them. "What are you two doing out here?"
What do you think? burned Gabriel's tongue. He hadn't yet had time to steer their interaction into the arena he'd intended.
Alathea waved at him. "He's looking into something for me. An investment."
Turning his head, Gabriel looked at her; her gaze fixed on Lucifer's face, she ignored him.
Lucifer was looking at him. "I think the twins have noticed. They're bubbling and fizzing and exchanging glances like fury. God knows what they'll do once they realize it's true."
"Once they realize what's true?" Alathea asked.
Lucifer turned his dark gaze on her. "When they realize he's not watching them anymore."
"He's not?" Alathea looked at Gabriel. He'd developed a consuming interest in his manicured fingernails.
The damned man had listened to her. Listened, and allowed her to influence his direction. She felt slightly giddy.
"He's not. And, at the moment, I'm not, either." Belligerently disapproving, Lucifer looked from her to Gabriel and back again. "I just hope you know what you're doing. That bounder Carsworth's sniffing about their skirts."
Gabriel looked up. "Has he approached either of them?" The question was mild, the underlying tone anything but. "Well, no," Lucifer admitted.
"Have either of the twins encouraged him?" Alathea put in.
Lucifer's expression turned mulish. "No. He intercepted Amelia—not overtly approaching her, just happening to come upon her in the crowd."
"And?"
His reluctance was palpable, but eventually he conceded, "She put on an act like Aunt Helena. Looked him down, then up, then stuck her nose in the air and swanned past without a word."
"Well, there you are." Straightening, Alathea slipped an arm through his. "They've been very well trained. They're perfectly capable of managing, if you'll only let them."
"Humph!" Lucifer let her turn him up the terrace. Arm in arm, they strolled back toward the open doors spilling light and noise across the flags. Although she spared him not a glance, Alathea was intensely aware that Gabriel prowled very close on her other side.
"Carsworth's a worm—no real threat." Over her head, Lucifer exchanged a glance with Gabriel. "But what happens when they try that trick with someone with a bit more"—he gestured—" savoir faire!"
Gabriel shrugged. "So they'll learn."
"Learn what?" Alathea asked as they stepped back into the ballroom.
"Learn what would happen if a lady tried such a ploy on, say, one of us," Lucifer replied. Alathea raised a brow at Gabriel.
He considered her, then flicked a glance at Lucifer. Confirming his brother's attention had wandered, he looked back, into her eyes. "Try it—and you'll see."
There was something in his eyes that reminded her forcefully of a tiger; the purr in his voice underscored the connection. Recalling what had happened the last time she'd tried, nose in the air, to brush past him, Alathea stiffened her spine and lifted her head. "The twins will manage perfectly well."
Lucifer, scanning the crowd, humphed again. "Well, if you refuse to watch, then I may as well put my time to better use." One black brow arching, he glanced at Gabriel, then, with an elegant nod to Alathea, he shouldered his way into the crowd.
If anything, the crush had worsened. Alathea felt Gabriel's fingers close about hers, then her hand was on his sleeve as he steered her out of the ebb and flow before the doors. The tack he took was in the
opposite direction to where they'd left her cavaliers.
"Can you see Mary and Alice?" Why she felt so breathless she couldn't understand.
"No." His lips were close to her ear, his breath a warm caress. "But, like the twins, they'll manage."
So would she, she vowed, as he found them a few square feet of space in which to stand comfortably. Although they were surrounded, they might as well have been alone for all the notice their neighbors took, too caught up in their own conversations.
"Now tell me, what did you mean about being twelve years old?" Gabriel trapped her gaze as she glanced up at him. "In case it's escaped your notice, neither you nor I are."
The meaning in his eyes was quite different from the subject of their discussion. Alathea reined in her skittering wits. "I wasn't referring to us."
"Good."
The subtle easing of his lips did quite peculiar things to her nerves. She dragged in a breath. "I meant—"
"My dear Lady Alathea."
Alathea turned to see the earl of Chillingworth emerging from the crowd. He swept her a necessarily abbreviated bow. "Such solace to discover a divine delight in this unholy crush." He sent a measuring glance Gabriel's way. "So nice to know one's evening won't be a complete waste of time."
Gabriel didn't respond.
Ignoring the burgeoning menace at her elbow, Alathea smiled and gave Chillingworth her hand. "I believe the musicians her ladyship has hired are quite exceptional."
"If only one could hear them," Chillingworth replied. "Are your sisters enjoying their Season?" "Indeed. Our ball will be held next week—dare we hope you'll attend?"
"No other hostess," Chillingworth avowed, "will have any hope of enticing me elsewhere." His gray gaze roved Alathea's face, then settled on her eyes. "Tell me, have you seen the latest production at the Opera House?"
"Why, no. I had heard—" Alathea broke off as the sea of guests suddenly wavered, then parted. As the clamor of voices dimmed, the opening strains of a waltz filtered through.
"Ah." Chillingworth turned to her. "I wonder, my dear, if you would do me the honor—" "I'm afraid, dear boy, that this waltz is mine."
Gabriel's languid drawl did nothing to conceal the steel beneath his words. Chillingworth looked up; over Alathea's head, gray eyes clashed with hazel. Turning, Alathea stared at Gabriel's face, noting the hard edge fell determination lent his features. Relinquishing Chillingworth's gaze, he met hers. "Shall we?"
He gestured to the rapidly clearing dance floor, then his arm shifted beneath her fingers and his hand closed about hers. His gaze flicked to Chillingworth. "His lordship will excuse us."
Giddy, slightly stunned by what she'd glimpsed in his hooded eyes, Alathea smiled apologetically at
Chillingworth. The earl bowed easily. Without more ado, Gabriel led her forward. A second later she was in his arms, whirling down the floor.
It took a full circuit before she caught her breath. He was holding her too close again, but she wasn't going to waste what breath she had protesting that point. "I don't suppose there's any sense in pointing out that this waltz wasn't, in fact, yours to claim."
He met her gaze. "Not the slightest."
The look in his eyes stole her breath. She mustered her wilting temper for protection. "Indeed? So whenever you feel like waltzing, I'm to expect—"
"You misunderstand. Henceforth, all your waltzes are mine."
"All?"
"Every last one." He expertly twirled her around the end of the room; as they joined the long line going back up the ballroom, he continued, "You may dance any other dance with whomever you please, but you'll waltz only with me."
All inclination to argue, to protest, evaporated. Don't tempt me. He'd warned her once—the words were again in his eyes. They rang in her head. When she finally managed to draw in another breath, Alathea looked over his shoulder and tried to gather her wits and focus on his motives.
Only to fall victim to her senses, to the seductive shift and sway of their bodies, their long limbs twining, sliding, separating, then coming together again. He waltzed as he did all physical things—effortlessly, expertly, with an inherent grace that only emphasized the leashed power behind every move. He held her easily, his strength palpable, surrounding her, guiding her, protecting her.
She'd waltzed with others but none with his matchless authority, founded as it was in his knowledge, physical and sensual, of her. He knew she couldn't resist, that while in his arms she was helpless. That her heart beat unevenly, that her skin heated, that she would go wherever he led. He had her trapped in a web, one she had helped fashion, of passion, of yearning, of desire slaked by sensual reward. She was his and he knew it. What he meant to do with the knowledge, with her, remained an unsettling unknown.
The music ended and they slowed, then halted. She studied his face, the hard planes unyielding, uninformative, and inwardly sighed. "I should find Serena."
Releasing her, he placed her hand on his sleeve, and protectively steered her through the crowd.
The following evening, Alathea left her bedchamber once again in a tearing rush. Heading for her office, she flung the door wide and dashed for her desk. Sitting, she pulled a sheet of paper free, settling it on the blotter as she flicked open the inkwell.
"You wanted me, m'lady?"
"Yes, Folwell." Alathea didn't look up. Dipping a pen in the ink, she industriously scribbled. "I want you to deliver this note to Brook Street."
"To Mr. Cynster, m'lady?" "Yes."
"Now, m'lady?"
"As soon as you get back from driving us to Almacks."
A minute passed, the only sound in the room the scritch-scratch of the pen. Then Alathea blotted her missive, folded it, and scrawled Gabriel's name on the front. She dropped the pen and stood. Waving the note, she crossed the room to Folwell. "There won't be an answer."
Folwell slipped the note into his coat pocket. "I'll drop it off on the way back from King Street."
Alathea nodded. Lips compressed, she strode for the front hall where Serena, Mary, and Alice were waiting.
A minute later, she was in the carriage, rolling across the cobbles to the holy portals of the patronesses' dreary rooms. Almacks! She hadn't liked the place the first time she'd seen it, when she'd been a gawky eighteen. She sincerely doubted she'd enjoy her evening, but… her sweetly loving stepmother had turned stubborn.
She'd expected to remain home that evening and arrange some discreet rendezvous to discuss her urgent news with Gabriel. Instead, over dinner, Serena had announced that Emily Cowper had made special mention of hoping to see her that evening, having missed her in the park that afternoon. That afternoon, when she'd been off on an excursion to see just how much a twelve-year-old could pry from the otherwise impregnable Port Authority.
Jeremy's success had left her giddy. She desperately wanted to see Gabriel. She'd marshaled all her arguments against Almacks and spent the half hour after dinner laying them out, but Serena had stood firm. That happened so rarely, she'd been forced to acquiesce, which had left her little time to dress. Thankfully, Nellie was fully recovered; despite the rush, her hair was elegantly coiffed, her gloves, reticule, and shawl the correct accessories for her gown of pale green silk.
Not that she cared. Given Gabriel wouldn't be there, her evening would be a complete waste of time. Still, tomorrow morning was, logistically speaking, no different from tonight.
That conclusion rang in her mind the next morning—mockingly. Scrambling to her feet, dusting earth from her cotton gardening gloves and quickly stripping them off, she told herself it didn't matter what he thought, how much he saw.
She looked up as he reached her. "I didn't expect you this side of eleven."
His brow quirked as he calmly took possession of one of her hands. "You said as early as possible."
One long finger stroked her palm. Alathea tried to stiffen. "I thought, for you, as early as possible would be close to noon."
"Did you? Why? I didn't go out last night, remember?" "Didn't you?"
"No." After a moment, he added, "There was nowhere I wanted to go."
Her gaze locked with his, Alathea felt unaccountably giddy. He couldn't possibly mean… Was he flirting with her? Abruptly, she cleared her throat and waved vaguely at her stepsiblings. "We like to spend a little time in the garden every morning. Exercise."
"Indeed?" His shrewd gaze swept the garden. He responded to Mary's and Alice's cheery greetings with an easy smile, to Charlie's familiar "Hoi!" with a wave. Jeremy, helping Charlie lug a branch to the bottom
of the garden, bobbed his head. Gabriel grinned, his gaze moving on to Miss Helm, who colored when he bowed. Beside the little governess, Augusta sat, Rose clutched in her arms, her wide-eyed gaze riveted on Gabriel.
"I can't recall seeing Jeremy since he was a babe in arms," he murmured. "And I don't believe I've met your youngest sister at all. What's her name?"
"Augusta. She's six."
"Six?" He looked back at her. "When you were six you gave me chicken pox." "I'd hoped you'd forgotten. You promptly gave it to Lucifer."
"We three were always good at sharing." A moment passed, then he said, "Speaking of which…" She waved at the house. "If you'd like—"
"No need to interrupt your endeavors." He looked down. "The grass is dry." So saying, he sat beside her mat, her hand still in his. Looking up at her, he tugged. "You can tell me your news here."
Alathea only just managed not to glare. She subsided with passable grace, settling once more on her knees, tugging her gloves back on. "You know I hate gardening."
His brows rose; from the corner of her eye, she could see him recalling. "So you do. How very devoted of you, to keep your sisters company." A moment passed, men he asked, "Is that why you do it?"
"Yes. No." Her gaze on the pansies, Alathea could feel her cheeks heating. Drawing in a breath, she reminded herself that he already knew more than enough to guess the truth. "They think I love gardening, and Serena insists that they should understand the basics of borders and beds from the ground up, so to speak."
She felt his gaze sweep her face, then he looked out over the lawns. "I see. And Charlie and Jeremy are the pruning specialists?"
"More or less."
He said nothing for a moment, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, one arm draped over his raised knee. Then he turned again to her. "So what have you learned?"
Alathea yanked out a clump of grass. "I've learned that being twelve years old can open the register at the Port Authority."
His gaze switched to Jeremy. "It can?"
"I took Jeremy on an excursion to learn about how ships are managed in and out of the Pool of London. The harbor master was extremely accommodating—he has a young boy of his own. Of course, being the son and daughter of a belted earl helped."
"I dare say. But all we had was the captain's description. How on earth did you manage to learn more discreetly? I take it you have."
"Indeed! I primed Jeremy—he has an excellent memory. I described the captain as Papa had seen him, and explained what we needed to find out. We decided it would be best to ask about the information in the log and register, and then ask what it might be useful for. That allowed us to suggest that it could be used to find out which shipping lines carried goods to different parts of the world. At that
point, I suitably vaguely remembered a friend of ours, a Mr. Higgenbotham, who—" "Wait! Who's Higgenbotham? Does he exist?"
"No." Alathea frowned. "He's just part of our tale." She yanked up another weed. "Where was I? Oh, yes—this Mr. Higgenbotham had dropped by with a friend of his, a captain whose ship recently docked from Central East Africa. That, of course, was Jeremy's cue to challenge the harbor master to see if his log and register would tell us who the captain sailed for."
"And the harbor master obliged?"
"Of course! Men always like to demonstrate their abilities before an appreciative audience, especially one composed of a female and a youthful pup. It took him twenty minutes—there were quite a few ships to cross-check—but we think the captain must be one Aloysius Struthers who sails for Bentinck and Company. Their office is in East Smithfield Street. The harbor master recognized the description and is certain Struthers is our man."
Gabriel resisted the urge to shake his head. "Amazing."
"Jeremy," Alathea decreed, plonking another weed onto her pile, "was simply magnificent. Even had you been the harbor master, you would have happily searched the log for him. He played his hand just right."
Gabriel raised a brow. "He's obviously like you—he must have inherited the same thespian tendencies."
He waited, but Alathea pointedly ignored the comment, reaching instead for another weed. After a moment, she asked, "So what's next?"
Gabriel looked across the lawns to where her stepbrothers were wrestling with a thick branch. "I'll visit Bentinck and Company this afternoon."
Alathea frowned at him. "I thought you said any open inquiry was too dangerous?"
Completing his scan of the garden, Gabriel returned his gaze to her face. "Surely you don't think you're the only one who can assume a disguise?"
Her lips twitched. "What will you be? A merchant from Hull looking for a fast ship to carry his whitebait to Africa?"
"Hull? Good God, no. I'll be an importer of wooden artifacts looking for a reliable line to transport my wares, bought throughout Africa, to St. Katherine's Docks."
"And?"
"And I'll have received a recommendation for Struthers and the line for which he sails but, being an exceedingly fussy client, I'll insist on speaking directly to Struthers before making any decision. That should encourage the company to give me Struthers's direction with all possible dispatch."
Alathea nodded approvingly. "Very good. We'll make a thespian of you yet."
She looked up, expecting some light retort—he was studying her, his hazel gaze steady and keen. He held her trapped, searching, considering… the sounds of the others, their chatter, their laughter, the bright calls of the birds and the distant rumble of carriage wheels, faded away, leaving just the two of them on the grass in the sunshine.
Then his gaze shifted, dropping to her lips, briefly sweeping lower before returning to her eyes. "The trick," he murmured, his voice very low, "is not in assuming the role, but in knowing when the charade ends and reality starts."
In his eyes, so like hers, lay living reminders of all they'd shared—the childhood triumphs, the youthful adventures, their recent intimacy. Deep in their gaze, Alathea simply existed. Reaching out, he caught a wayward lock of her hair lying loose along her cheek. Taming it, he tucked it back behind her ear. As he withdrew his hand, with the backs of his fingers he caressed the whorl of her ear, then lightly traced the line of her jaw.
His hand dropped.
Their gazes held, then Alathea drew a shaky breath and looked down. He looked away. "I'll see what I can learn."
Gathering his long limbs, he rose. Alathea kept her gaze on her pansies. "I'll let you know if I'm successful."
She inclined her head. "Yes. Do."
With no "Good-bye," he moved off, waving to the others, stopping to exchange a polite word with Miss Helm. Alathea hesitated, then gave in to the urge to turn her head and watch him as he strode away.
Twelve hours later, Alathea stood by the side of Lady Hendricks's overcrowded music room, enraptured by the composition faultlessly rendered by the capital's most sought-after string quartet. The first segment of the performance was drawing to a close when long fingers curled around her wrist, then slid down to tangle with hers.
Her head whipped around. Her eyes widened. "What on earth are you doing here?" Gabriel looked at her, an incipient frown in his eyes. "I wanted to see you."
He eased in beside her; she was forced to make room. The last thing she wanted was to draw more eyes their way. "How did you know I was here?" They both spoke in whispers.
"Folwell told me where you were headed."
"Fol—? Oh." She caught his eye. "You know about Folwell." "Hmm. Has he mentioned my new man?"
"Chance?"
Gabriel nodded. "His tongue runs on wheels, out of my presence or in it. I knew Folwell was haunting my kitchen from the first. I didn't, however, connect his presence with you. I thought he was there to see Dodswell. I know better now, but Folwell does have his uses."
With a sniff, Alathea returned her gaze to the musicians. "I can't believe Lady Hendricks sent you a card for this—not even she could be that naively hopeful."
"She didn't." Gabriel settled close beside her. "I simply walked in, secure in the knowledge she won't show me the door." He studied Alathea's profile, watching it soften as the music drew her back. The line of her jaw fascinated him, a subtle melding of feminine strength and vulnerability. She had always struck him that way—as much a partner as one to be protected. He'd recognized that quality in the
countess; he'd known it in Alathea all his life.
Following her gaze to the players, he waited until they concluded their piece on an uplifting crescendo before murmuring, "The captain is presently uncontactable."
The outburst of applause distracted the crowd so none but he saw her disappointment. It filled her eyes as well as her expression. He moved across her, lifting her hand to his sleeve. "Come to the window—we can speak more freely there."
The narrow windows were open, a balcony, barely a ledge, beyond them. A cool breeze wafted the filmy curtains. Pressing them aside, they stood on the threshold, facing each other, hardly private but sufficiently apart from other guests to talk without being overheard.
Alathea leaned back against the window frame. "What did you learn?"
"Aloysius Struthers is our man—the clerks at the shipping line confirmed the description, and also that he's something of an expert on East Africa, having sailed those coasts for the last decade and more. Unfortunately, the captain is presently away visiting friends—the company has no idea where. He has no family and no fixed abode in this country. However, he does call in now and then to check there's no change in his sailing schedule. He's not due to sail again for a month. I left a message guaranteed to bring him to Brook Street the instant he reads it, but he may not get it for a week or more."
Alathea grimaced.
Gabriel hesitated, then continued, "There's also the possibility that he might not be willing to help. The clerks painted a picture of an irascible old gent more concerned with his ships and Africa than anything else. I gather he doesn't have much time for nonsailors."
"Do we have enough proof to mount a case without his testimony?"
Gabriel paused, then said, "Montague's figures are strongly suggestive of deliberate fraud, but are not conclusive. A good barrister could argue his way around them. What else we have on the three towns—Fangak, Lodwar and Kingi—relies on the reports of explorers who are not themselves available to vouch for the details. As for information from the African authorities, my contacts in Whitehall are finding it exceedingly difficult to get any straight answers, which in itself is highly suspicious. For any serious investor, what we have would be more than enough to pass judgment on Crowley's scheme. For a court of law, we need more."
"How much more?"
"I'll keep pressing Whitehall. Without more definitive proof, lodging a petition at this stage would be unwise."
"Essentially, we need the captain."
"Yes, but at the moment, there's nothing more we can do on that front." "And even if we do find him, he may not help."
Gabriel made no reply. A moment later, the musicians laid bow to string. They both turned toward the dais as the crowd resettled for the next piece. A lilting air, it filled the room with a hauntingly sweet melody. Alathea watched the musicians, letting their art sweep her away, temporarily soothing her fears. Gabriel watched her. The short piece ended; applause rolled through the room. Alathea contributed her share, then sighed and turned to him.
"I'd forgotten you like music."
Her expression turned wry. "To my mind, it's one of the few charms of the capital—to be able to hear the most talented musicians."
Gabriel merely nodded. His gaze went past her, and abruptly sharpened. "Damn! That harpy's actually going to throw her daughter at me."
Looking around, Alathea beheld their hostess bearing down on them, a beaming smile on her face, her pale, clearly reticent daughter in tow. "Well, you are here, after all. She probably sees it as encouragement."
The sound Gabriel made was derisive.
Alathea arched a brow at him. "Shall I leave you to your fate?"
"Don't you dare. That poor girl always loses her tongue about me. God knows why. Conversing with her is worse than pulling teeth."
Alathea smiled as she turned to greet Lady Hendricks. Gabriel appropriated her hand and placed it on his sleeve, thereby denying her ladyship any chance of whisking her off and leaving him alone with her daughter. Lady Hendricks accepted the situation with a puzzled look, settling for gushing over his presence before retreating, leaving her daughter with them. Alathea, who was acquainted with Miss Hendricks, took pity on all concerned and kept the conversation rolling, never straying from any but the most mundane subjects.
After one warning glance from her, Gabriel behaved himself, consenting to chat with debonair charm. When the musicians next took to the dais and, under Gabriel's direction, they parted from Miss Hendricks, the young lady was actually smiling. Gliding through the room on Gabriel's arm, Alathea felt sure Lady Hendricks would be pleased enough to forget her earlier puzzlement.
"Esher and Carstairs are sitting with your sisters." Gabriel shot her a look as they passed out of the music room. "How's that coming along?"
"Very well." Halting in the foyer, Alathea drew her hand from his sleeve and turned to look back into the room. "Inside two weeks, I should think." Then she glanced at Gabriel, her expression growing serious. "Have you… heard anything about either of them?"
"No." He scanned her face. "I've already checked—they're exactly as they appear. Both are wealthy enough to marry as they choose, and in both cases their respective families should be more than content with their securing an earl's daughters as their brides."
"Thank heavens. I'd started to wonder if it was all too good to be true. I never imagined they'd both go off so easily." She looked back at her sisters. "This Season has proved far more felicitous than anyone could have expected."
His gaze on her face, on the delicate line of her jaw, Gabriel slowly nodded. He hesitated, then touched her arm. "Au revoir." Stepping past her, he left the house.
He found her in the park the following afternoon, a willowy vision in pale green. The fine fabric of her gown clung to her hips, swaying evocatively as she trailed in the wake of her sisters and, unfortunately, his. Esher and Carstairs were once more in attendance; Gabriel resigned himself to speaking to both in the next few days regarding their intentions. A subtle prod wouldn't hurt.
His gaze fastened on Alathea. Lengthening his stride, he closed the distance between them. She whirled as he caught up with her. Surprise and awareness flared in her eyes, then she caught herself and inclined her head graciously. "Have you heard anything?"
Taking her hand, an action that now seemed normal, even called for, Gabriel anchored it on his sleeve and drew her to stroll beside him. "No. Nothing more."
"Oh."
He felt her questioning glance. She wanted to know what had brought him here. "I thought you might be interested in the details Montague has put together."
The distraction served; she not only followed his account, but posed a few shrewd questions on the Company's projected costs. He nodded. "I'll get Montague to check—"
"Alathea! Such a pleasant surprise!"
The exclamation brought them up short; absorbed in their discussion, they had not been looking about them. Gabriel muttered a curse as his gaze fell on the countess of Lewes, approaching with her brother, Lord Montgomery.
Alathea smiled. "Cecile! How lovely to see you."
Suppressing a frown, Gabriel exchanged a terse nod with Montgomery. They both waited with feigned patience while the ladies exchanged far more detailed greetings. From references the countess made, Gabriel gathered she and Alathea were contemporaries; their acquaintance dated from Alathea's aborted Season eleven years before. From Montgomery's smug expression, Gabriel surmised his lordship imagined his sister's connection would put him on a closer, more personal footing with Alathea.
"And Mr. Cynster!" The countess turned to him with an arch smile.
"Madam." Gabriel accepted the hand she offered him, bowed easily, and released her. Alathea's fingers slid from his sleeve. Without looking, he caught her hand, enclosing it within his grasp. She stilled. He could all but hear her wondering what he was about.
"Perhaps," the countess continued, ignoring the byplay, "we could stroll together?" Alathea smiled. "Indeed—why not?"
Gabriel pinched her fingers, then made a great show of tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. She shot him a sharp glance, then turned to Lord Montgomery. "Is your mother well?"
Feeling distinctly unsocial, Gabriel turned to the countess. "How's Helmsley these days?"
The countess colored and slid around his wicked question. She paid him back by describing her offspring and their illnesses, a subject guaranteed to send any sane gentleman fleeing. Gabriel mentally gritted his teeth and refused to yield. As they strolled on, he noticed that Alathea kept her gaze fixed on Lord Montgomery, paying no attention whatever to all the gory details about the countess's three children.
Knowing her as he did, knowing how closely she'd been involved with the care of her stepsiblings, he at first found that odd. Then they reached the Serpentine and he glanced at her face.
She kept it averted; he couldn't see her eyes. He could see the underlying stiffness in her features. Smoothly, he turned to the countess. "Do you plan to attend Lady Richmond's gala?"
The abruptness of the question made the countess pause, but she took to the new topic with alacrity. With a query here and there, he kept her engrossed in the social whirl, well away from the subject of children. His awareness centered on Alathea, he sensed the gradual easing of her tension. She had, indeed, given up a lot to save her stepfamily, far more than she would willingly let anyone know.
"I say! Lady Alathea!" "My dear lady!"
"Countess, do introduce me."
A bevy of five gentlemen, including Lord Coleburn, Mr. Simpkins and Lord Falworth, swept up to them from behind; if Gabriel had been able to see them, they wouldn't have managed it, but now he and Alathea were caught.
Alathea sensed his increasing irritation. She glanced at him; he was regarding Lord Falworth with an impassive expression and a dangerous glint in his eye.
"Don't you think so, Lady Alathea?"
"Oh—yes." Recalling Falworth's question, she quickly amended, "But only in the company of close friends."
Dealing with her would-be suitors while knowing Gabriel was considering annihilating one or all of them played havoc with her normally unassailable nerves. Her relief was quite genuine when he closed his hand over hers, still tucked in his elbow, and halted.
"I'm afraid," he purred, at his most urbane, "that we must shepherd Lady Alathea's sisters and mine back to our mothers' carriages. You'll have to excuse us."
That last was said with enough underlying command to convince even Lord Montgomery that bowing and making extravagant adieus was the better part of valor.
Gabriel drew her ruthlessly away. He caught his sister Heather's eye and with one brotherly gesture redirected the group now well ahead of them back toward the avenue.
Side by side, strolling easily, their long legs a match for each other, they brought up the rear. Alathea sighed with relief.
Gabriel shot her a dark glance. "You could try to discourage them." "I haven't encouraged them in the first place!"
They walked on in silence. As they neared the point where Serena's and Celia's carriages would come into view, Alathea slowed, expecting Gabriel to make his excuses and leave her. He tightened his hold on her hand and drew her on.
She looked at him in amazement. He cast her an irritated glance. "I'm not escorting them." His nod indicated the four girls and Esher and Carstairs ahead of them. "I'm escorting you."
"I don't need escorting."
"Let me be the judge of that."
His expression grimly resolute, that was all he deigned to say. Alathea was too surprised that he'd risk
alerting his mother to any particularity between them to marshal any argument, and then they were within sight of the carriages.
With an inward sigh, she kept pace beside him. "This is not going to make things any easier, you know."
She thought he wasn't going to reply, but just before they reached his mother's carriage where Serena and Celia sat in matronly splendor, he murmured, "We left 'easy' behind long ago."
Then they were at the carriage, joining with the girls and Esher and Carstairs. Over the heads, Gabriel fielded a glance from Celia; Alathea, watching closely, could interpret with ease—Celia wanted to know why he was there. Gabriel returned her gaze impassively with a slight lifting of his shoulders, giving Celia to understand he'd simply come upon them and walked them back. Nothing particular at all. His performance was so smooth, if she hadn't known better, Alathea would have believed that, too. Gabriel nodded and Celia smiled, waving him away.
He turned to her—their gazes met. In the folds of her gown their fingers brushed. With a brief nod, he turned and strode away.
Alathea watched him go, a frown in her eyes, an increasingly insistent question revolving in her mind.
Chapter 15
« ^ »
That question was answered two nights later. The Duchess of Richmond's gala was one of the highlights of the Season. The Richmonds' house on the river was thrown open; everyone who was anyone attended. Alathea arrived relatively early with Serena, Mary, and Alice. Her father, out to dinner with friends, would look in later. Leaving Serena on a chaise with Lady Arbuthnot and Celia Cynster, Alathea hovered until the circle about Mary and Alice was established, Esher and Carstairs to the fore, then headed for a quiet nook by the wall.
Her attempt at self-effacement was frustrated by Lord Falworth, who spotted her in the crowd. Seconds later, her "court" closed in.
To Alathea's relief, not five minutes passed before Chillingworth joined them. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, the earl settled by her side, displacing Falworth, who sulkily shifted back. As large as Gabriel, Chillingworth had a similar effect on her admirers; challenged, they exerted themselves to converse intelligently.
By the time the orchestra struck up for the first dance, Alathea was feeling in considerable charity with the earl, very ready to grant him her hand. He did not, however, solicit it, calmly standing back while Lord Montgomery begged the honor. With no excuse ready, Alathea was forced to accede to his lordship's fervent plea but as the dance was a cotillion, she was spared most of his pompous declarations.
When at the end of the dance Lord Montgomery returned her to her circle, she was somewhat surprised to discover Chillingworth patiently waiting. Her gratitude bloomed anew as under his direction, the conversation remained light-hearted and general. Then the musicians struck up a waltz, and she realized why the earl was waiting.
The look in his eyes as he bowed before her was flatteringly intent. "If you would do me the honor, my
dear?"
Alathea hesitated, another large gentlemen very clear in her mind. She looked up—and found him watching her, waiting to see what she would do, ready to step in and claim her if she didn't fall in with his decree. His intent reached her clearly as the circle of her admirers, noticing him, parted like the Red Sea.
Tamping down a spurt of rebelliousness, accepting she dared not bait Gabriel in his present mood, she glanced at Chillingworth. "I'm afraid, my lord, that I'm already promised. To Mr. Cynster."
That last was redundant; Chillingworth's gaze had fastened on Gabriel's face. Primitive challenge flashed between them, then Chillingworth bowed. "My loss, my dear, but only a temporary one. There'll be many more waltzes tonight." Even more than his words, his tone signalled his intention.
With a grace to match Chillingworth's, Gabriel bowed and held out his hand. Alathea placed her fingers in his, conscious to her toes of the restrained strength in his grasp. He drew her to him, turning as she joined him, effectively cutting off her court. The dance floor was only a step away, and then she was whirling in his arms.
Alathea inwardly frowned. She was aware the outcome of that little scene had pleased him. It hadn't, however, pleased her. "You're drawing too much attention to us."
"In the circumstances, it's inevitable." "Then change the circumstances." "How?"
"Your insistence that I waltz only with you is ridiculous. It's going to cause comment. It's hardly something one can explain on the grounds of long-standing acquaintance."
"You want me to let you waltz with other men." "Yes."
"No."
He whirled her through the turn. Alathea gritted her teeth. Why did he imagine he could dictate such things? Because of the hours she'd spent with him in the dark. She bundled the recollections aside. "It isn't wise to attract the attention of the gabblemongers. People are starting to wonder."
"So? They're not wondering anything that will reflect adversely on you."
Yes, they were—if he kept on as he was, the whole ton would soon believe that he and she would marry, but that wasn't going to happen. By the time they'd dealt with Crowley and his company, Gabriel's attraction to her would have waned and he'd be off laying seige to his next conquest. Raising expectations destined never to be fulfilled was not a good idea. Worse, these were the sorts of expectations guaranteed to fuel the gossips' fires. She was too old—far too old—to be eligible.
Alathea seethed through the rest of the waltz, her temper not improved by the speculative glances thrown their way, or by his continuing—and she was quite sure deliberate—rasping of her senses.
By the end of the dance, she was ready to be returned to the safety of her court. He, it transpired, had other ideas. The reception rooms opened one into the other; on his arm, he paraded her through them. Only the increasing crush prevented them from being the focus of far too many eyes.
"Where are we going?" "Somewhere less crowded."
She could hardly argue with the wisdom of that; tall though she was, she was feeling hemmed in. The small salon to which he took her had palms and statues breaking up the space. Consequently, it boasted areas in which one could converse, not private but protected. Gabriel led her to a nook created by a trio of potted palms and an ornamental arch.
A footman passed with a tray. Gabriel collected two glasses of champagne. "Here—it's only going to get hotter."
Accepting the glass, Alathea sipped, relaxing as the bubbles fizzed down her throat. She scanned the room, then she sensed Gabriel stiffen. When she turned, her gaze collided with Chillingworth's as he joined them in their retreat.
"I count myself fortunate to have found you again, my dear." Gabriel snorted derisively. "You followed us."
"Actually, no." Chillingworth snared a glass as the footman hove within reach. He sipped, his gaze on Alathea's face. "I assumed, after that little display in the ballroom, that Cynster would retreat to some area more conducive to his purpose."
"A tactic you would know all about."
Chillingworth looked at Gabriel. "That point has been puzzling me. You are, after all, a friend of the family. Your present tack is one I would never have expected."
"That's because you have no idea what my present tack is."
Chillingworth smiled tauntingly. "Oh, no, dear boy. I assure you I'm far from being that unimaginative." "Perhaps," Gabriel returned, sharpened steel beneath the words, "it would be wiser if you were." "What? And leave the field to you?"
"Hardly the first time you've owned to defeat." Chillingworth snorted.
Glancing from one to the other, Alathea felt giddy. Despite her height, they were talking over her head, arguing over her as if she wasn't there.
"It would be more to the point," Chillingworth opined, "if, given the circumstances, you'd cease your present act and get out of my way."
"Which act is that?" "Dog in the manger."
"Excuse me!" Eyes flashing, Alathea silenced first Gabriel, who'd opened his lips on a retort, doubtless equally graceless, then she rounded on Chillingworth. "You will pardon me if I find this exchange somewhat less than gratifying."
They both looked at her. She doubted either blushed readily, but slight color now graced their cheeks. The crude nature of their remarks was out of character for both, far from their usual unfailingly elegant poses.
"I am appalled." Glancing from one to the other, she held them silent. "It appears you believe I'm not only unimaginative, but deaf as well! For your information, I'm perfectly well aware of both your 'acts'—permit me to tell you I approve of neither. Like any lady of my age and experience, I will be the arbiter of my actions; I have no intention of succumbing to the practiced blandishments of either of you. What, however, I find unforgivable is your propensity to single-mindedly pursue your own agendas, oblivious to the fact that your attentions are focusing unwanted and unwarranted attention on me!"
She ended glaring at Chillingworth. He had the grace to look contrite. "My apologies, my dear."
Alathea humphed, nodded, and turned to Gabriel. He looked at her for two heartbeats, then his fingers closed about her elbow. He handed his glass to Chillingworth, then took hers and handed that across, too. "If you'll excuse us, there are a few pertinent details we need to clarify."
"By all means," Chillingworth returned. "Once you've clarified the nonexistent nature of your claim, I'll be able to clarify my position." He bowed to Alathea.
Gabriel frowned. "Believe me, in this case, you don't have one."
Before Chillingworth could reply, before Alathea could even see how he reacted, Gabriel drew her forward. Alathea fumed but didn't try to break free; a steel manacle would have been easier to break than Gabriel's hold on her arm. He marched her across the room to where a door stood ajar, giving access to a corridor.
"Where now?" she asked as they stepped through the door. "Somewhere private. I want to talk to you."
"Indeed? I have a few words to say to you, too."
He led her up a flight of stairs, then back along a quiet wing. The door at the end stood open; beyond lay a small parlor, curtains drawn against the night. A fire burned in the grate. Three candelabra shed golden light on satin and polished wood. The room was empty. Drawing her hand from his arm, Alathea swept across the threshold. He followed. Reaching the fireplace, she swung to face him, and heard the lock fall home.
"This ridiculous situation has got to end." She fixed him with an irate glance. "The countess is no more. She has faded into the mists, never to return."
"You, however, are here."
"Yes, me. Alathea-who-you've-known-all-your-life. I'm not some delectable courtesan that you have any real interest in seducing. You're annoyed because as the countess you thought I was—you now know better. And you know perfectly well that once you get over being annoyed, you'll be off after some other lady, one more suited to your tastes."
He'd remained by the door; head tilted, he regarded her. "So my interest in you is fueled by annoyance?"
"That, and perversity. A response to Chillingworth and the others. It's almost as if, having relinquished your silly watch on the twins, you've transferred your attention to me!"
"And what's wrong with that?"
"You're obsessively protective! If you'll only stop and think, you'll realize there's no need. I need to be protected even less than the twins. Worse, hovering over me is exceedingly unwise. It calls attention to us—you know what people will make of it. Before you know where you are, the ton will have imagined into existence something that simply isn't."
A moment passed, then he asked, "This something that isn't—this illusion you claim the ton will think it sees. What, precisely, is that?"
Alathea huffed out a breath. Across the room, she met his eyes. "They'll imagine we have an understanding, that in the near future they'll read an engagement notice in The Gazette. As Chillingworth so sapiently stated, it's widely known that our families are close, that you and I have known each other for years. No one will imagine any illicit connection—they'll imagine we'll wed. Once that idea gains credence, there'll be hell to pay."
"Hmm." He started to walk toward her. "And that's the bee that's buzzing in your bonnet?"
"I have absolutely no desire to spend the rest of the Season explaining to the interested why we aren't about to marry."
"I can guarantee that won't occur."
"Indeed?" She bridled at his patronizing tone. "And how can you be so sure?" "Because we are going to many."
Gabriel halted directly before her. A full minute passed while she stared at him, speechless. Then her eyes clouded.
"W-what?"
"I agreed to defer discussion of the matter until after we'd dealt with the company—that, however, is clearly not to be. So it may as well be now. As far as I'm concerned, we're getting married, and the sooner the better."
"But you never had it in mind to many me. Not when we spoke after Lady Arbuthnot's ball."
"Thankfully, you never did learn to read my mind. I decided to marry you when I knew you as the countess. The morning after Lady Arbuthnot's ball, I was still adjusting to the startling discovery that it was you I'd decided to make my wife. As you might imagine, that was something of a shock."
"But… you must have changed your mind. You don't want to marry me."
"Not only do I want to marry you, I am going to marry you, a fact that makes my attitude toward you and other gentlemen perfectly understandable. I might be obsessively protective, but only about those of whom I'm obsessively possessive, such as the lady who will be my wife. The ultimate ramification of your masquerade as the countess will be marriage to me. There is, therefore, no false illusion for the ton to see—the only conclusion society will leap to will be the truth."
"As you deem it."
"As it will be." He stepped closer; physical awareness flashed in her eyes. She lifted her chin; he captured her gaze. "This is real. I'm not going to grow out of it, or lose interest and become distracted. Marriage
to me is your immediate and irrevocable future. If you hadn't realized, you'll need time to adjust, but don't imagine there'll be any other outcome."
"But…" She shook her head dazedly. "I'm not the countess. It was the countess who fascinated you—a lady of mystery and illusion. I don't fascinate you—you know everything there is to know about me—"
He kissed her, closed his lips over hers, then closed his arms about her. It was easy to do with her being so tall. Her resistance lasted a heartbeat, then vaporized like mist; she sank against him, her lips parting at his command, her mouth an offering he claimed.
Alathea clung to her wits. She yielded all else without a fight, knowing any fight would be futile, but she held on to reason. About her, the world whirled; her senses rioted. He'd shocked her with his declaration, but she surprised herself even more.
She wanted him. Her hunger was too strong, too sharp in its raw newness, for her to ignore or mistake it. The arms locked about her were a welcome cage, the hard body pressed to hers the essence of dreamed delight. He plundered her mouth, ruthless, relentless, not gentle. She took him in, lured him further, to give and take and give again.
He took and exulted in the taking. She knew it. She sensed the surge of passion, his and hers, and reveled in her power. The heady wave grew into a vortex of heat, swirling about them, flames licking, touching, but not yet consuming. Then, to her surprise, the world steadied.
He lifted his head.
She felt him draw breath, his chest swelling against her breasts. It was an effort to lift her lids enough to see his face. Hard, each plane edged with desire, it gave her no clue to his direction. His eyes, glinting gold under lids as heavy as hers, were fixed on her hair.
His arms shifted. One hand splayed across her back, holding her against him. The other rose… To her hair.
"What…?" She felt a brusque tug; satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. Glancing to the side, she saw her beaded cap in his hand. "Don't you dare throw that in the fire!"
His gaze returned to her face. "No?" Then he shrugged and tossed the cap to the floor. "As you will." His hand returned to her hair, rifling the soft mass, searching and plucking. Pins tinkled across the hearth.
"What are you doing?" She tried to wriggle, but he held her too securely. Then her hair fell free.
"You appear to have formed a grossly inaccurate opinion of what fascinates me. Arguing with you always was so much wasted breath, so I'll demonstrate instead."
"Demonstrate?"
"Hmm." He speared his free hand through her hair, spreading his fingers, combing through the long tresses, holding them out, watching them drift down as his fingers pulled free. "You never did understand why I hated your caps, did you?"
Mesmerized by the possessiveness investing his harsh features, Alathea didn't answer. He played with the silken mass, then he gathered half of it in his fist, tipping her head back.
"What else?" His gaze fastened on her eyes. "Ah, yes. Your eyes. Have you any idea what it's like to look into them? Not at them, but into. Whenever I do, I feel like I've fallen into some magical pool and lost myself. Certainly lost all sense." His gaze lowered. "And there's your lips." He took them in a swift, achingly incomplete kiss. "But we know why I like those." The arm about her eased, his hand drifted from her back. He still held her by her hair. "But I don't believe you have any idea about this."
Long fingers feathered her jaw, tracing from her chin to her ear. Then he cupped her face, holding her steady as he bent his head and followed the same line with his lips.
Alathea shivered.
"That's right. Vulnerable." The word caressed her ear. "Not weak, but definitely vulnerable. Mine to seize."
Her lids fell as his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear, then slid lower, laying heat down the length of her throat. Her mind told her to correct him; she wasn't his.
Instead, when he fell to laving the tender spot at the base of her throat, she swayed into him. Her legs weakened. She clutched his lapels as her wits reeled.
He released her hair. His lips returned to hers and her hunger resurged. He matched it, fed it, incited her desire, then drank deeply, took, seized, claimed. Distracted, she had no inkling that his fingers had been busy until he closed his hands about hers and drew them down, then, breaking off their kiss, slipped her gown from her shoulders.
The ribbon straps of her chemise went, too. Her breasts, swollen and rosy-peaked, were in his hands before she lifted her lids, long before she drew in a breath.
He'd caressed her breasts before but only in the dark; she hadn't been able to see his hands cupping, caressing. She hadn't been able to see his face, to see desire engraved on his features, to see the fires of passion burning in his eyes.
His hands closed possessively.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "There is no other word. None to do you justice."
He bent his head; Alathea closed her eyes and struggled to hang on to her sanity as he feasted. With lips, tongue, and teeth, he worshipped, heaping pleasure upon pleasure until she gasped. The guttural sound he made rang with masculine satisfaction, then he returned to repeat the torture.
His touch was exquisite; helpless, she arched in his arms, offering, entreating, yet still aware of every nuance of every touch, of the meaning invested in each caress. Although the vortex of their passions whirled around them, they yet stood at the still eye of their storm.
Gabriel knew it. Never before had he attained such a high degree of arousal while still retaining such absolute control. Not with any other woman. The woman in his arms was special, but he'd known that all along. All his life, even though he hadn't understood.
Lifting his head, drawing his lips from the sweet mounds of her breasts, he steadied her. Sliding his hands to her back, he eased her gown and chemise further down. They gathered about her hips. Eyes wide, one hand on his shoulder for balance, she met his gaze, stunned understanding in her eyes.
His lips curved. He raised his hands to the backs of her shoulders, then skimmed them slowly down, tracing the long planes of her back, the supple muscles on either side of her spine. "I like the fact you're
so tall. There's a lot of you, but you're so slender." He spread his hands, spanning the back of her rib cage. "I'm twice the size of you."
He closed his hands about her narrow waist. Possessive lust flared; he knew it glowed in his eyes. "Tall yet feminine. My ideal."
His gravelly tone shook her. She sucked in a shaky breath—
He kissed whatever she'd thought to say from her lips. Thoroughly. Then he pushed her gown and chemise over her hips. They swooshed down her legs to puddle on the floor.
"Gabri—"
He cut her off with another kiss. Luscious curves filled his hands; he was no longer interested in verbal communication. Deepening the kiss, he drew her hard against him, fingers flexing, kneading, learning anew. He knew the feel of her, the contrast of feminine firmness and softness, yet his senses seemed starved, urgently needy for more and yet more of her.
Fascination was too weak a word to encompass his obsession. As for her legs…
"Don't move." Closing his hands about her hips, he sank to his knees. He heard her indrawn breath and pressed a kiss to her waist, then trailed lower to lave her navel. Her hands had fallen to his shoulders, her fingers restless. As he evocatively probed the slight indentation, her fingers slid into his hair.
He paid homage to her legs, sliding his hands down, then up the long, graceful limbs. She quivered, muscles tensing. When he bent his head and nuzzled her taut belly, she gasped.
"Gabriel?"
The word was an aching whisper, laden with entreaty. Alathea could barely believe it came from her. Her body was hot, her skin flushed, her wits in disarray, yet she felt every touch, every caress keenly. Desire throbbed in the air, passion heated it; this time, there was no darkness to shroud her senses, no veil to obscure the reality.
She stood naked before him, held by the thought that her nakedness captivated him. His head against her stomach was a warm weight; the touch of his hands both soothed and excited. His hair, silky locks sliding over her flickering skin as he turned his head, felt so right.
His only response to her plea was a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss pressed to her quivering belly just above the curls at its base. She shuddered, and clung to his skull. He shifted one hand to her bottom, shoring up her precarious balance while the fingers of his other hand trailed up and down the sensitive inner faces of her thighs.
He shifted fractionally lower.
She expected him to touch the soft flesh between her thighs. She waited, nerves tensing. Then he did, and she nearly died. The hot, wet sweep of his tongue, the subtle probing, nearly brought her to her knees.
Her exclamation was incoherent.
"Shh." He caught her, steadied her. Grasping one of her knees, he lifted it over his shoulder. She had to shift her balance, curling that leg over his broad back, her fingers clenched on his skull. The position was more secure, but inevitably more intimate. Scalding hot, his tongue stroked her again. "I'm going to taste
you."
Those mumbled words were all the warning she had before he did. Tasted, probed, stroked, lapped—whether she would have agreed to the intimacy was irrelevant. He simply took, and she gave.
Her nerves leaped, sensitized, excruciatingly aware; muscles tensed, clenched. Her wits reeled, yet some small part of her remained cogent, detached enough to catalogue his demonstration, sane enough to wonder if he had intended it that way.
Her very awareness was arousing; she could see and sense beyond the sensual plane. The air before her was cool, the fire behind her warm. And the man kneeling before her was the god of pure pleasure. He flayed her with it, lashed her with it, lavished it upon her until she sobbed, until her body became no more than a vessel of heated yearning.
She knew the instant his tongue and lips left her, felt the raw power as he surged to his feet. His hands closed hard about her thighs, and he lifted her.
Then he filled her.
The thick, solid length of him pressed in, breached the slight constriction, then slid up, in, thrust deep. With a gasp and a sob, she closed about him, sheathing him there, holding him there. His fingers flexed; she felt his chest strain. Locking her legs about his hips, winding her arms about his shoulders, she pressed herself to him, caught his head between her hands, and found his lips with hers.
The kiss was a true melding, drawn as much from her as from him; their bodies moved in similar harmony, in a slow, evocative rhythm as instinctive as their breathing. He lifted her; she slid sensuously down. She clung, then released; he withdrew, then returned.
It should, perhaps, have shamed her, this intimate yielding with her naked in his arms, her bare limbs wrapped around his fully clothed form. He'd only released his staff from the confines of his trousers. Every tiny movement rasped her sensitized skin with the fabric of his elegant evening clothes.
He'd planned it that way—at no stage did she entertain any other notion. He had said he would demonstrate his fascination; as he reveled in the slick heat of her body, drawing out every precious moment, holding the vortex at bay, she knew to her bones that he was playing no role.
She didn't need him to draw back from the kiss, chest laboring, eyes closed, concentration etched in every line of his face, to be convinced. Didn't need to feel her own body respond, undulating against him, upon him, to know she believed.
Didn't need him to lift his weighted lids, transfix her with a glittering glance, and say, "You think I know you, but I don't—I don't know the woman you've become. I don't know how it will feel to run my hands through your hair when it's warm from sleep, or what it will feel like to slide into you as you wake in the morning. I don't know how it will feel to fall asleep with you in my arms, to wake with your breath on my cheek. To have you naked in my arms in daylight, to hold you when you're big with my child.
There are lots of things I don't know about you. I'll spend my life with you, and still not learn all I want to know. I don't care by what name you go—you're still the same woman. The woman who fascinates me."
She hushed him with her lips, but neither she nor he had the strength to prolong the kiss. They were clinging to sanity by their fingernails. She tucked her head down on his shoulder, nuzzled his neck, placed a breathless kiss on his heated skin.
His lips returned the pleasure, then he nipped lightly. "You like this, don't you?" His voice was broken, strained; he gave a hoarse laugh. "You're going to be the death of me in more ways than one."
She deliberately tightened about him, something she'd noticed gave him pleasure.
His head fell back and he groaned. Then he caught the trailing ends of her hair and tugged her head back so he could look into her eyes. "See? This is what you were made for—giving yourself to me."
She kept her lips shut. She was afraid he was right. With a flick of her head, she pulled her hair from his grasp. The sudden movement shifted her. She sank even deeper onto him, and reflexively tightened even more.
He sucked in a breath, then his lips were on hers, urgent and demanding. His control was gone. The vortex closed upon them; the flames roared.
Passion took them, lifted them high on a swell of pure need, then shattered them. Release was so profound, neither was aware that they sank to the floor. The only reality their senses permitted them was the knowledge they were together, and one.
"You called me Gabriel."
Slumped on his chest, still aglow in the aftermath, Alathea could barely think. "I've been calling you Gabriel in my mind for weeks."
"Good—that's who I am." Sprawled on his back on the sofa he'd carried her to, his hand lingered on her hair. "I'm not your childhood playmate. I'm your lover and I'll be your husband. I'm claiming the position." His hand closed on her nape, then gentled, stroked. "Just as my name doesn't really matter, what you call yourself changes nothing. You're the woman I want, and you want me. You're mine—you always were, and always will be."
The bone-deep assurance in his words struck Alathea to the heart; she stirred— "No—lie still. You're not cold."
Her skin was still flushed. His body beneath her radiated heat. She wasn't cold—she was boneless, unable to summon the strength to reassert control and change direction. She was not even sure she wanted to.
They had, she recalled, once lain together on their backs looking up at the stars one summer night. They hadn't touched; instead, the tension between them had been so thick it had all but sparked. That tension had vanished completely. What surrounded them now was a well of peace, profound and enduring.
Satiation deeper than she'd imagined could exist lapped them about; he seemed content to rest in its embrace, sharing the quiet.
She could hear his heart beating beneath her ear, slow and steady. "Why are you here?"
He put the question evenly; mystified, she answered. "You brought me here."
"And you came. Now you're lying in my arms, totally naked—you took me willingly, willingly gave yourself to me, purely because I wanted you."
She felt far more at his mercy now than she had before. How could he know the confusion and
uncertainty hovering in her mind? But it seemed he did.
"You're good at that—giving. And what you have to give, I want." His hand gently stroked her hair. "You're a sensual woman, a Thoroughbred in bed, and I certainly don't care how old you are. You haven't even been in training for long and you still make my head spin."
She shut her eyes. "Don't."
"Don't what? Speak the truth? Why, when we both know it?" His hand moved down, stroking her back, then he closed his arms about her. "You love to give, and the only man you'll ever give yourself to is me."
She didn't want to hear it because she couldn't deny it and it gave him far too much power over her. She struggled to sit up. "We have to go."
"Not yet." He held her easily and nuzzled her ear. Then his lips touched her skin, and lingered. "Just once more…"
Chapter 16
« ^ »
The next morning, Alathea sat in the gazebo tucked to one side of the back garden and watched Gabriel cross the lawn toward her. Bright sunlight struck red and gold glints from his hair; she remembered the feel of it beneath her palms.
Eyes narrowed against the glare, she watched him exchange greetings with Mary and Alice, who were weeding the bed about the fountain. She had excused herself from gardening on the grounds of feeling under the weather. It was the truth; she'd barely slept a wink.
If she'd needed unequivocal proof that Gabriel had read her emotions accurately, the second half of their encounter in Lady Richmond's parlor had provided it. Even now, hours after the fact, just the thought of the suggestions he'd whispered in her ear, of what she'd willingly done and let him do to her, brought color surging to her cheeks. He'd wanted, and she had wanted to give. Last night, he'd introduced her to the ultimate in giving.
She wasn't hypocrite enough to pretend she hadn't enjoyed it, that the bliss she found in giving to him, whenever, however, brought the sweetest, deepest joy she'd ever known. In satisfying him, she found fulfillment. There was no other word, none that came close to describing the breadth and depth of what she felt. He'd labeled her a "giver;" she had to accept he was right. What she didn't—couldn't—accept was his extrapolation.
He was fascinated with her. That had been no act. He of all men would appreciate the irony that he should find her—a woman he'd known from the cradle—so physically enthralling. And despite what he'd said, her age did matter, but not in the way it would matter to the ton. Because she was older and where he was concerned more assured than any other lady he'd seduced, she was more challenging, more demanding of his talents. That, too, he would appreciate.
His fascination was real. Fascination did not, however, lead to marriage.
As he left the girls and, loose-limbed and confident, strode toward her, Alathea drew calm certainty about her. He was an exceptional practitioner of the sensual arts; he knew how to use his talents to pressure her, to cloud her reason. But she knew him too well—far too well—to swallow the
tale that fascination was behind his determination to wed her. She thought too much of him—cared too much for him—to meekly fall in with his plans.
He reached the gazebo and trod up the steps. Ducking his head beneath the trailing jasmine that covered the small structure, he stepped into the cool shadows. Straightening, he met her gaze. Stillness gripped him. "What?"
Alathea waved him to the sofa beside her. She'd sent a note to Brook Street asking him to call. She waited while he sat; the wicker sofa was small—it left them shoulder to shoulder. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the sofa's back to ease the crowding. She drew breath and resolutely took the bit between her teeth. "There is absolutely no reason for us to wed. No!" She cut off his immediate retort. "Hear me out."
He'd tensed; his expression hardened but he held silent.
Alathea looked out over the lawn to where her stepsisters and stepbrothers chattered gaily. "Only you and I know about the countess. Only we know we've been intimate. I'm twenty-nine. As I keep trying to remind everyone, I've set aside all thoughts of marriage. I did so eleven years ago. I'm accepted as a spinster—your recent attentions notwithstanding, there's no expectation that I'll marry. Short of our liaison becoming common knowledge, which it won't for we're both too wise and too aware of what we owe our families and ourselves to bruit the fact abroad, then there's no need whatever for us to wed."
"Is that it?"
"No." She turned her head and met his gaze directly. "Regardless of what you decide is the right thing to do, I will not marry you. There's no reason for you to make such a sacrifice."
He studied her. "Why," he eventually asked, "do you think I want to marry you?"
Her lips twisted. She gestured to her stepsiblings, blissfully unaware of the clouds hovering on the family's horizon. "You want to marry me because of that same quality I counted on when, as the countess, I asked for your aid. I knew if I explained the danger to them, then you'd help. I've told you before—you're obsessively protective." He was her knight on a white charger; protectiveness was his strongest suit, and one of his most basic instincts.
He'd followed her gaze to the girls. "You think I want to marry you to protect you. Out of some notion of chivalry."
She'd tried to avoid that word; it sounded so melodramatic, even if it was the naked truth. Sighing, she faced him. "I wanted to trap you into helping—I never intended to trap you into marriage."
Gabriel searched her eyes, hazel pools of absolute sincerity. The vulnerability that had haunted him ever since he'd discovered the countess's identity evaporated.
She didn't know. She had no idea that he worshipped her, that his fascination was obsession, overwhelming and complete. He'd forgotten her naivete, that despite her age, despite knowing him all her life, in certain areas she was an innocent. She didn't know that she was so very different from all who had gone before.
He looked back at Mary and Alice while he mentally scrambled to reorient himself. "At the risk of shattering your illusions, that's not why I want to marry you."
"Why, then?"
He met her gaze. "You can hardly be unaware that I desire you physically."
Color touched her too-pale cheeks. She inclined her head. "Desire in our circles doesn't necessitate marriage."
She looked away, leaving him studying that all-too-revealing line of her jaw. Strength and vulnerability—she was a combination of both.
His reaction to the sight was immediate but no longer surprising—he now knew how primitive his feelings for her were. Last night, when she was fussing over her hair, trying to fashion it into some arrangement that would pass muster, he'd been visited by a violent urge to haul it all down again and march her through the house, past all Lady Richmond's guests, Chillingworth especially, so all would know that she was his.
His.
The powerful surge of possessiveness was achingly familiar. It was the same emotion she'd always evoked in him, the wellspring of that godforsaken tension that had gripped him whenever she was close. The emotion had clarified, crystallized. In unveiling the countess, other veils had been torn aside, too; he could now see his primitive impulse for what it truly was—the instinctive desire to seize his mate. To Have and To Hold was the Cynster family motto; hardly surprising he felt the impulse so keenly.
But how much was it safe to reveal to her? "How long have we known each other?" "Forever—all our lives."
"Weeks ago, you told Chillingworth that our relationship had been decided for us. I agreed. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"The earliest memory I have of you, you must have been all of two years old. I would have been three. From our cradles, our parents told us we were friends. I was twelve when treating you as a sister started becoming difficult. I never understood why—all I knew was that something was wrong. You knew it, too."
Her "yes" was a whisper; they were both looking back down the years.
"Remember that time we had to slip out of old Collinridge's barn by the back window and your habit got caught on a nail? Lucifer was already mounted, holding the horses—I had to catch your hips and hold you up so you could unhook the material."
He paused; a second later, she reactively shivered.
"Precisely. All that time, it was a peculiar blend of heaven and hell. I could never understand why I always gravitated to your side, always wanted to be near you, because whenever I was close, I felt… violent. Crazed. As if I wanted to grab hold of you and shake you."
Her laugh was shaky. "I was never certain you wouldn't."
"I never dared. I was too afraid laying hands on you—touching you in any way—would drive me mad, that I would behave like some bedlamite. That one dance we shared was bad enough."
They both gazed blindly over the lawns, then he continued, "What I'm trying to point out is that I've
felt… possessive of you for a very long time. I didn't know what the feeling was until after that night at the Burlington, but it isn't something that only recently evolved. It's been there, between us, growing stronger for over twenty years. If our parents hadn't set us up as brother and sister, that feeling would long since have resolved itself in marriage. As it is, your masquerade has opened our eyes and given us a chance to rescript our relationship into what it ought to be." He glanced at her; she was still stubbornly facing the lawn. "I'm more than sexually attracted to you—you're the woman I want as my wife."
She tilted her head. "How many women have you known?" He frowned. "I don't know. I haven't counted."
She looked at him, one brow high, disbelief in her eyes.
He gritted his teeth. "All right. I did count at first, but I gave up long ago." "What number did you reach before you stopped counting?"
"That is neither here nor there. What point are you trying to make?"
"Merely that you seem to like women but, until now, that liking hasn't prompted you to beat a path to the parson's door. Why now? Why me?"
He saw the trap but was ready to turn the questions to his advantage. "The now is simple—it's time." The fateful words, "Your time will come," resonated in his mind. "I knew that at Demon's wedding. I just didn't know the who. You know how edgy Mama has been getting—much as it pains me to admit it, she's right. It is time for me to marry, to settle, to think of the next generation. As for the 'why you', it isn't, as you seem determined to think, because you're a friend of the family and that because we've been intimate, I think I've ruined you and needs must make reparation."
His increasingly clipped tone had her glancing his way; he trapped her gaze. "What I'm saying is that you are the woman I want as my wife. Just that—I need no other reason." He paused, then continued, "You might have noticed I no longer suffer when I'm close to you. I can sit beside you, more or less at ease, no longer feeling caged to the point of madness, because I know I can take you in my arms and kiss you, that at some point in the not-overly-distant future, you'll lie beneath me again." He let his voice drop. "However, if you're witless enough to try to fight this—all that's between us—if you try to refuse me and smile instead at Chillingworth or any other man, then I can guarantee that what has been between us through the years will be as nothing to what will be."
She held his gaze steadily. "Is that a threat?" "No. It's a promise."
She considered him, then opened her mouth—
He laid a finger across her lips. "I'm deeply attached to you, you know that. Now I'm no longer blinded and forbidden by preconception, I can admit it. I desire you sexually, but that's only the half of it. I want you because I can think of no other I would rather share my life with. We suit. We could be successful life-partners. We've never been friends, not really, but with the difficulty between us removed, that's another relationship within our reach."
Her eyes searched his—she was marshaling her arguments, still stubbornly resisting for all she was worth.
Releasing her lips, he traced her jaw, then let his hand fall to the sofa back. "Thea, no matter how you
struggle to refute it, you know what's between us. It might have been cloaked and veiled for years, but now we've stripped away the disguise, you can see what it is as well as I." He held her gaze. "It's an ardent and undying passion, not just on my part but yours as well."
Alathea looked away. She didn't know what to do. It wasn't just her head that was spinning. His words had evoked so many emotions, so many long-buried needs and barely recognized dreams. But… drawing herself up, she stated, "You're telling me your emotions are engaged."
"Yes."
"That what's between us demands marriage as its proper state—its necessary outcome." "Yes."
When she stared into the distance and said nothing more, he prompted, "Well?"
"I'm not sure I believe you." Facing him, she hurried to explain, "Not about what's between us so much as why you believe we should marry." She searched his face, then, mentally girding her loins, she spoke bluntly. "We do know each other well—very well. You claim that the feelings that have always plagued us were due to frustrated desire, that what's between us is that—physical desire—and I accept that that's probably so. You've said that your emotions are engaged and I accept that, too. But what I don't know is: Which is the most prominent emotion?"
A scowl formed in his eyes. "Whichever emotion it is that prompts a man to marriage."
"That's what I'm afraid of. The emotion that's prompting, pressing, spurring you to marry me is the one dominant emotion you possess. You want to protect me. You've made up your mind that the right way forward is via the chapel and you're always successful once you fix your mind on a goal. Unfortunately, in this case, attaining your goal requires my cooperation, so I'm afraid your record of success is about to end."
"You think I made all that up."
"No—I think you were in the main sincere, but I don't believe your conclusions fit your facts. I think you're fudging. And if you want to know whether I think you would lie in pursuit of what you saw as a higher goal, then yes, I think you'd lie through your teeth." With her eyes, she challenged him to deny it.
Lips compressed, he held her gaze intimidatingly, but didn't.
She nodded. "Exactly. We know each other all too well. In creating the countess, I knew precisely what to say, how to pull the right strings to get you to do as I wished. I'm not so puffed up in my own conceit that I imagine you aren't clever enough to do precisely the same to me. You've decided we should marry, so you'll do whatever you need to to bring our marriage about."
He looked at her steadily. She'd expected an immediate reaction, possibly an aggressive one. His silent appraisal unnerved her. She could read nothing of his thoughts in his eyes.
Then he sat up. The arm along the back of the sofa slid about her; his other hand rose to frame her face. A split second and she was held, lightly, in his embrace.
"You're right."
She blinked. Was that a wry smile she saw in his eyes? "About what?"
His gaze lowered to her lips. "That I'll do whatever I must to bring our marriage about." Alathea mentally cursed. She hadn't meant to phrase it as a challenge. "I—"
"Tell me," he murmured. "Do you accept that what's between us is an 'ardent and undying passion'?" It was a struggle to draw breath. "Ardent, perhaps, but not undying. Given time, it will fade."
"You're wrong." He leaned closer and brushed her lips with his. The contact was too light to satisfy; all it did was make her hungry, too.
His breath was warm on her throbbing lips. "The ardency that flooded you last night when I filled you…" His lips touched hers again, another achingly incomplete kiss. "The passion that drove you to open yourself to me, to bestow whatever sensual gift I asked for. Do you think those will fade?"
Never. Alathea swayed. Her lids were so heavy, all she could see was his lips moving closer. Her hands, on his lapels, should have held him back; instead, her fingers curled, drawing him nearer. Her wits were drowning in a sea of sensual longing. In the instant before his lips completed her conquest, she managed to whisper, "Yes."
Lips touched, brushed, settled. An instant later, she surrendered on a sigh, giving him her mouth, thrilling to the slow, unhurried claiming. He touched every inch, then deliberately invoked the memory of their joining. Heady passion, ardent longing, had her firmly in their grip when he drew back and whispered against her lips, "Liar."
"Good morning."
Alathea looked up, and only just managed not to gape. "What are you doing here?"
Here was her office, her private, personal domain into which others ventured only by invitation. The room she had retreated to, ostensibly to tally the household accounts, in reality to search for some sure, safe, sensible path through her suddenly shifting world. Since their interlude in the gazebo, she was no longer sure what was real and what mere fanciful imaginings. As she watched Gabriel close the door, she resigned herself to making no progress on that front, not with him in the same small room.
"It occurred to me"—he scanned the room as he strolled toward her—"that with the Season at its zenith, we can expect Crowley to call in his promissory notes in about two weeks." Reaching the desk, he met her gaze. "It's time we started framing our petition to the bench."
"Only two weeks?"
"He won't wait until the very end. He's more likely to draw in his pigeons at the height of the whirl, when the ton provides maximum distraction. I suggest," he said, lowering his long limbs into the armchair facing the desk, "that you summon Wiggs. We'll need his input. I've brought Montague's figures."
Alathea considered him, entirely at his ease in her chair. He smiled at her winningly, his expression studiously mild. With awful calm, she rose and tugged the bell pull. When Crisp answered, she requested him to send for Wiggs. Crisp bowed and departed; she turned back to discover Gabriel eyeing the ledgers on her desk.
"What are you doing?" "The household accounts."
"Ah." A smile fluted about his lips. "Don't let me disturb you."
Alathea vowed she wouldn't, something much easier said than done. Pen in hand, she forced herself to tally column after column. Despite her intentions, the figures showed a distressing tendency to fade before her eyes. At full stretch, her senses flickered. She bit her lip, clenched her fingers tighter on the pen, and frowned at her neat entries.
"Need any help?" "No."
She completed three more columns, then carefully looked up. He was watching her, an expression in his eyes she couldn't place. "What?"
He held her gaze, then slowly lifted one brow.
She blushed. "Go away! Go and sit in the drawing room."
He grinned. "I'm comfortable here, and the scenery's to my liking." Alathea glared at him.
The click of the latch had them both turning. Augusta's shining head appeared around the door. "Can I come in?"
Alathea beamed. "'Indeed, poppet. But where's Miss Helm?"
"She's helping Mama with the placecards for the dinner." Shutting the door, Augusta came forward, studying Gabriel with the frank gaze of the young.
"You remember Mr. Cynster. His mama and papa live at Quiverstone Manor."
Gabriel lay there, a lazy lion relaxed in the chair, then he held out a hand. "That's a big doll." Augusta considered, then turned Rose and held her out. "I bet you can't guess her name." Gabriel took the doll; propping it on one knee, he studied it. "She used to be called Rose." "She still is!" Augusta followed Rose, clambering onto Gabriel's lap.
As he settled her, he looked up—and met Alathea's astonished stare. He grinned and looked down at Augusta. "Did your sister ever tell you about the time Rose got stuck in that big apple tree at the end of your orchard?"
Alathea watched and listened, amazed that he still remembered all the details, and that Augusta, so often shy, had taken so readily to him. Then again, he did have three much younger sisters; he could probably write the definitive thesis on bewitching young girls.
Seizing opportunity, she quickly finished the accounts, then opened another ledger and settled to check through receipts. The activity used only a small part of her brain; the rest grappled with the problem of Gabriel, and what she could and should do about him. The sound of his deep voice, rumbling low as he charmed Augusta, was familiar and oddly comforting.
Two days had passed since they'd met in the gazebo, two days since she'd last been in his arms with his lips on hers. They'd met that evening at a ball; although he'd claimed two waltzes, he'd claimed nothing
more. He'd appeared the next morning to stroll through the park by her side. She'd been ready to counter any possessive move he made, any maneuver to demonstrate his claim over her. He hadn't made one. Unfortunately, the understanding in his eyes warned her that he knew how she felt, how she would react; he was simply biding his time until the battlefield better suited his purpose.
Of that purpose there remained not a smidgen of doubt. Marriage. The notion—not of marriage but of marriage to him—deeply unnerved her. Just thinking of him now unnerved her in a way she'd never had to deal with before. Intimacy, and all the emotions wrapped up with it, had thoroughly disrupted her inner landscape. Yet if he'd allowed her to disappear as she'd planned, to fade out of his life, while she might regret the brevity of their association, she would, she felt sure, have remained inwardly steady.
Instead, she was whirling, her stomach often hollow, uncertainty and excitement an unsettling blend. What she felt for him now she couldn't put a name to—was afraid to put a name to, to even study it at all, not while she had to refuse him.
He'd decided to marry her because he desired her and because he wanted her as his wife. The reason behind that want he'd refused to clarify; she felt sure he was motivated by a compulsion to protect her.
The prospect of him marrying her with protection his true aim chilled her. He would be kind, considerate, generous—even a friend—but as time passed, he would cease to be hers alone. He would cease to be her lover. They would grow apart…
With a little jerk, she returned to the present, to her office and the ledger open before her, to the rumble of Gabriel's voice and Augusta's piping prattle. Sucking in a breath, she held it, and tidied her pile of receipts.
She was not going to marry Gabriel—she couldn't let him sacrifice himself, or her. Turning him from his goal might not be easy, but marrying him would not be right, not for him or for her.
Marking off the last of the receipts, she opened a drawer and placed them in a box, then shut the drawer and shut her ledger. The slap of the pages brought Gabriel's and Augusta's heads up. Alathea smiled. "I have to talk business with Mr. Cynster now, poppet."
Sliding from Gabriel's lap, Augusta gifted her with a confident smile. "He said I could call him Gabriel. It's his name."
"Indeed." Rising and rounding the desk, Alathea hugged Augusta, then set her on her feet. "Off you go now—Miss Helm should be nearly finished."
Ducking around Alathea's skirts, Augusta waved to Gabriel and sang "Good-bye," then happily skipped to the door.
As it shut behind her, Alathea felt long fingers tangle with hers. She turned to discover Gabriel studying her hand, now entwined with his.
"What 'business' do you wish to discuss?" He looked up, invitation in his eyes.
One part of her mind urged her to whisk her hand from his, to whisk herself out of his orbit. The rest of her reveled in the warmth that flooded her as his fingers caressed her palm. Alathea studied the sleepy, languid beckoning in his eyes, and was deceived not at all. She looked at the wall clock. "Wiggs will be another twenty minutes, but we can make a start on a draft without him."
Looking back at Gabriel, she raised a brow and gently detached her hand. He grimaced but let her go.
"All right. But you can write." He rose as she resumed her seat behind the desk. "We can start by noting the false claims we've identified."
Unsurprised to find herself his amanuensis, Alathea set a sheet of paper on the blotter. They listed Montague's calculations derived from the figures Crowley had provided Gerrard, comparing them with those Crowley had claimed. Gabriel stated and she transcribed, adding and correcting as they went. He paced back and forth behind her, between the desk and the window, stopping now and then to read over her shoulder. When they reached the end of Montague's findings, Gabriel halted beside her, scanning the list. His hand closed on her shoulder, close by her neck, on skin left bare by her summer morning gown.
His hand nestled there, strong fingers gentle on her skin. "What next, do you think?"
Her composure shattered, unable to breathe, Alathea heard the mild words and realized with a hot rush horribly akin to mortification that he hadn't meant to discompose her. He'd simply touched her as a close personal friend might, without any sexual intention.
She was the one thinking of sexual intentions.
Before she could gather her wits, he tipped up her face. He studied it; she scrambled wildly to find some expression to mask the truth. Then his gaze turned intent, and she knew it was too late. The fingers at her throat moved again, this time deliberately.
Sensual awareness flared in her eyes. Gabriel saw it. His lips curved. "Perhaps"—he bent over her—"we should try this."
Her lips parted under his; her hand rose to cradle the back of his as he held her face steady. She gave her mouth freely as she always did; he took and drank and claimed. She was a delight in her sweet helplessness, her total inability to conceal her response, the womanly yearning that lay beneath the confidence of her years. Her tongue tangled with his; her fingers gripped his shoulder. Sliding his hand from her face, he lowered it to her breast, cupping the firm mound, then searching for its peak. Her hand followed his, cradling it still, feeling him knead and pleasure her. In one swift movement, he slipped his hand from under hers and reversed their positions, his hand covering and surrounding hers, pressing her palm to the heated flesh of her breast, guiding her fingers to her ruched nipple and squeezing them tight.
She gasped, swayed—
They both heard the creak of a board outside the door an instant before it opened.
Charlie looked in. "Hello!" He nodded to Gabriel, lounging against the window frame, then transferred his gaze to Alathea. "I'm going to Bond Street—Mama suggested I ask whether there's anything more we need for tomorrow night?"
Her pulse pounding, Alathea shook her head, fervently praying that, with her back to the window, Charlie couldn't see the flush heating her skin. "No. Nothing." Their ball would be held tomorrow night, formally introducing Mary and Alice to the ton. "All seems in hand."
"Good-oh! I'll be off then." With a wave, Charlie departed, shutting the door behind him.
Drawing in a much-needed breath, Alathea turned her head and met Gabriel's gaze. She frowned balefully. "Stop thinking about it!" Swinging back to the desk, she picked up her pen. "Aside from anything else, there's no lock on that door."
She heard his smothered laugh but refused to look his way. "I think," she said, stabbing the nib into the inkwell, "that next we should note all we've learned about Fangak, Lodwar, and wherever else it was."
He sighed dramatically. "Kingi."
Despite her hopes that all was in hand, the next morning saw a host of small commissions that simply had to be fulfilled. Leaving Serena in command, with Crisp and Figgs in their element, Alathea bundled Mary and Alice into the small carriage and escaped.
"It's a madhouse!" Face to the window, Alice peered back to where the red carpet was being shaken and swept. "If they put that out now, it'll be a mess by evening."
"Crisp will see to it." Alathea sank back against the squabs and closed her eyes. She'd been up since daybreak, and had already met with the caterers and the florist. All the major components for the evening were thankfully falling into place. Opening her eyes, she scanned the list she clutched in one hand. "Gloves first, stockings next, and then the ribbons."
The carriage bore them home an hour and a half later. Mary and Alice were bubbling with excitement; Alathea watched them with joy in her heart. No matter how tiring the day might be, tonight would be its own reward.
As they turned into Mount Street, she glanced out of the window—and saw Jeremy's head almost in line with hers. "What…?"
Jerking forward, she stared, then leaned out of the window the better to view her youngest brother, laughing uproariously, arms flailing, seated atop a pedestrian curricle propelled full tilt down the pavement by Charlie and Gabriel.
She forebore to scream.
The carriage pulled up before their front steps. Mary and Alice tumbled out, paused but an instant to view Jeremy and company, then giggled and ran indoors.
Alathea descended from the carriage more slowly, then drew herself up and waited for the miscreants to arrive before her. They did so in an ungainly rush; for one instant she watched, horrified, expecting to see her worst nightmare unfold as, hauled to a halt, the unstable contraption slewed sideways, tipping Jeremy off the high seat—
Reaching forward, Gabriel caught him, swinging him clear, then setting him on his feet while Charlie neatly righted the curricle. Charlie and Gabriel grinned at her—Jeremy did his best to appear inconspicuous.
Alathea fixed her gaze on him. "I believe I had your promise on no account to ride this machine in town?" Eyes downcast, Jeremy squirmed.
Gabriel heaved a sigh. "It was my fault." Alathea looked at him. "Yours?"
"I arrived just as your footman was taking delivery and offered to show them how it was done." "You rode it?"
The look he bent on her was dismissively superior. "Of course. It's easy. Would you like me to
demonstrate?"
She nearly said yes. The notion of seeing him, hideously elegant as always, precariously perched on the awkward machine riding up and down the tonnish street was almost too good to pass up. But… "No." She transferred her gaze to Jeremy. "That's not the point."
"Ah, but it is, because once I'd ridden to the corner, I simply put Jeremy on the seat and told him to hang on. It didn't occur to me that the machine had been bought for him but that he'd been forbidden to ride it."
Alathea caught the swift upward glance Jeremy shot her. She pressed her lips together, then explained, "The agreement I used to gain Serena's approval to buy the curricle was that Jeremy would only ride it on the lawns at the Park. He's prone to broken bones—to date, we've survived three broken arms and a broken leg. A collarbone in three pieces would never be welcome, but it would be even less welcome today."
Jeremy glanced up again; Alathea caught his eye. "You are extremely lucky that it was I who took Mary and Alice to the shops, and not your mama—she would have swooned had she seen your performance."
Jeremy shuffled his feet, but his eyes sparkled. A small smile played on his lips, just waiting to dawn. "But she didn't see it—you did. Wasn't it grand!" His smile broke free.
Alathea twisted her lips in an effort to hold back her own. "Potentially grand—you could do with a bit of practice, but don't you dare ride it here again."
"What about the back lawn?" Charlie asked. "That's thick—he wouldn't break anything if he fell on that."
"It's got a nice slope to it, too," Gabriel put in. "And I promise I won't let him career into the rhododendrons."
Faced with three male faces ranging in age from twelve to thirty but all with the same little-boy-pleading expression, Alathea threw up her hands. "Very well—I'll go and prepare Serena." She caught Gabriel's eye as she turned to the steps. "At least it'll keep you all out from under our feet."
His grin would have done his namesake proud.
Leaving them wheeling the curricle around to the back gate, Alathea crossed the threshold and entered a world of pandemonium. She first sought out Serena and reassured her of Jeremy's safety, embroidering on Gabriel's promise without a second thought as soon as she realized Serena was happy to place her trust in him.
For the next hour she was fully occupied dealing with queries from the caterers, the florist, and most importantly the draper. Her novel idea to decorate the huge ballroom with swaths of cerulean blue muslin, which could later be given as presents to the female servants here and at the Park, had been given form and style by the earnest young draper—the white-and-gilt ballroom looked like a vision of heaven.
"Perfect." With a brisk nod, she turned away from the sight. "Please send in your account promptly, Mr. Bobbins—we will only be in town for another few weeks."
Mr. Bobbins bowed low, incoherently assuring her that his account would be presented forthwith. Alathea checked the supplies of salmon and shrimp with Figgs, then she and Crisp descended to the
cellar. By the time they'd finished selecting the wines for the formal dinner preceding the ball, it was past noon. Retiring to her office, intending to do no more than catch her breath and check her lists for the next most pressing item, Alathea found herself drawn to the window.
On the lawn behind the house, Jeremy, Charlie and Gabriel were totally absorbed in the new toy. Gabriel had stripped off his coat; together with Charlie, he was coaching Jeremy in the difficult process of gaining his balance on the awkward machine. Alathea watched, quietly amazed at the patience Gabriel showed. None knew better than she that he was naturally impatient, yet in dealing with Jeremy he displayed both tact and steady encouragement, exactly what Jeremy needed. Under Gabriel's eye, he bloomed. Before she turned away, Alathea saw him free-wheel down the lawn, managing to steer the curricle away from the thick bushes.
As she left her office and plunged back into the melee, she reflected that, while he was not long on patience, Gabriel's second name could have been persistence, a fact she would do well to remember.
Half an hour later, he found her supervising the positioning of the trestles in the parlor they were converting into a supper room. Surveying the scene, he raised his brows. "How many cards did you send out?"
"Five hundred," Alathea absentmindedly replied. "God knows how we'll manage if they all arrive at once."
Gabriel studied her face, then calmly took her arm. Ignoring her resistance and her distracted scowl, he towed her to the side of the room. "Where's the petition."
"The petition?" She stared at him. "You can't mean to work on that now?"
"I can work on it. I can write, you know." Her frown suggested she wasn't convinced of it; he ignored that, too. "I'll take it home and continue framing our arguments." He glanced at the footmen and maids scurrying frantically about. "It's too noisy here."
She didn't look happy, but nodded. "It's in the top drawer of my desk."
"I'll take it." Gabriel started to leave, then halted. Ignoring the many about them, he caught her chin. "
Don't run yourself ragged. I'll see you at dinner."
Before she could react, he ducked his head, kissed her quickly, and left. "Lady Alathea—is this where you wanted this table?"
"What? Oh… yes, I suppose…" Inwardly grinning, Gabriel headed downstairs.
Chapter 17
« ^ »
The formal dinner preceding a come-out ball was, in social terms, even more important than the ball itself. The earl, Serena, and Alathea had agreed that this dinner should be the most glittering affair regardless of cost, one by which the assembled leaders of the ton would remember the Morwellans. Alathea had personally overseen every detail, from the guest list Serena had organized and the stiff white stationery on
which the invitations had been inscribed, to the gleaming crystal, the silver service, the Meissen dinner service, and the crisp white damask. The dishes in all twelve courses had been carefully chosen to complement one another in a parade of culinary delight. The wine was superb. Not one of the fifty guests seated about the long table would entertain the slightest suspicion of the economies normally practiced at Morwellan House.
From her seat midway down the table, Alathea watched the sixth course being laid out. All was proceeding smoothly, the babel prevailing on all sides—conversations, laughter, the constant clink of porcelain and silverware—a reassuring testament. Her father, presiding over the event from the table's head, looked magnificent; Serena, resplendent in navy silk at the other end, was his match.
Opposite Alathea, spread between their guests, Mary and Alice conversed with simple charm. Charlie was seated farther along the table to her right. All three were dressed to perfection, each a paragon of tonnish expectations. In her amber silk gown, a beaded cap perched atop her coiffed hair, Alathea contributed her part to their sartorial facade.
Her heart lifted as she gazed about her. They'd done it—they'd come to London and, despite the difficulties, claimed their rightful place in society. As if to illustrate their success, Sally Jersey caught her eye and smiled and nodded. Seated further along, Princess Esterhazy had already regally signaled her approval. Only as she followed Sally Jersey's gaze to Serena did it occur to Alathea to wonder what it was both patronnesses were complimenting her upon. Their appreciation of the dinner and company they conveyed to Serena, of course. So what was it she'd done to attract their approbation?
She turned to Gabriel, seated on her left. She'd been so absorbed with the dinner itself she hadn't registered his appearing at her side to escort her into the dining room as anything odd. She'd grown accustomed to having him near, to resting her hand on his arm and letting him steer her through crowds. It wasn't until she'd caught Lucifer's questioning look halfway through the fourth course that she'd realized. One glance at Celia's face, at her intrigued expression, confirmed that their sudden penchant for each other's company had not escaped notice.
The suspicion that their ease in each other's company was not escaping anyone's notice suddenly assailed her. Before she had a chance to frame the question: "Did you plan this?" in any form likely to get an answer, Gabriel glanced at her and saw the frown in her eyes.
"Relax. Everything's going well." He indicated a dish of game. "This is excellent—what's in the sauce?"
Alathea looked at the dish. "Muscat grapes and pomegranate syrup." There was no point wrangling over how he'd come to be sitting beside her. He was there. She might as well take advantage. "How's the petition?"
He shrugged noncommittally. "We've made a good start." "But not enough to be certain of a favorable judgment." His lips twisted; he didn't answer.
Alathea forged on, her tone barely a whisper as she considered a dish before her. "Everything we have is open to argument—there's nothing cut and dried, no absolute and obvious falsehood. All our claims rely on the word of others, others we can't call on to verify the facts. Without a bona fide witness—without Captain Struthers—all Crowley need do is deny our claims. The burden of proof will rest on us." She helped herself to beans in white sauce and passed the dish along. "We have to find the captain, don't we?"
Gabriel glanced at her. "The case would be certain with him. Without him, it's going to be difficult." "There must be something more we can do."
Again she felt his gaze on her face. "We'll find him." Beneath the table his hand closed about hers. His thumb stroked her palm. "But tonight, enjoy your success. Leave the captain and Crowley for tomorrow."
Unable to meet his eyes, she nodded and prayed her blush didn't show. His hand wrapped around hers had evoked a sensual memory of his body wrapped around hers, stroking hers… When his hand slid away, she determinedly lifted her head and drew a steadying breath, looking along the table rather than at him.
"I take it Esher and Carstairs are both in earnest?"
Alathea refocused on Mary. Beside her, Lord Esher was quietly and persistently attentive, Mary sweetly appreciative. A similar scenario was playing out toward the other end of the table, where Mr. Carstairs sat beside Alice. "We believe so. Their parents were clearly pleased to be invited tonight." With a nod, Alathea indicated Lady Esher and Mrs. Carstairs; their husbands were farther down the table.
Gabriel followed her gaze, then transferred his attention to the dish she passed him. "Esher has a neat little property in Hampshire. He does well, and pays attention to his land. He's a likable chap with a sense of humor, but sensible and steady. From all I can gather, he's in a position to please himself—I doubt he'll cavil over Mary's lack of dowry."
"She does have a dowry."
"She does?" He hesitated, then asked, "How much?" Alathea calmly told him.
"Just enough to ensure not even the most censorious raise a brow. You have covered all the cracks." She inclined her head.
"Well, if Esher's unlikely to be concerned about money, Carstairs is even less likely to give it a second thought. While Esher's old money, well established, Carstairs is both old and new. They met at Eton and have been firm friends ever since, which should suit Mary and Alice admirably."
"They are very close."
"Carstairs's estate is just south of Bath—within easy visiting distance of Morwellan Park. His maternal grandfather had an interest in shipping, which Carstairs inherited. He's gaining a reputation as having a cautious interest in the right sort of ventures. He's ambitious in that area, and not about to become a silent partner."
The approval in his tone was clear; Alathea shot him a glance. "A useful contact for you, perhaps?" Gabriel met her gaze. "Perhaps."
"How did you find out all this—about Carstairs and Esher?"
"I asked around. Quietly. I didn't think your father would have the right contacts to find out for you." "He hasn't." Alathea hesitated, then inclined her head. "Thank you."
She looked away, along the table, ostensibly scanning the guests, in reality letting her gratitude flare, then fade. The reprobate beside her—he who knew her far too well—needed no encouragement. She tried not to dwell on how much easier her life was with him beside her, supplying the reassurances she needed but could not gain for herself. Having his shoulder to lean on was a far too seductive proposition.
Her wandering gaze reached Lucifer, sipping his wine, his gaze on her and Gabriel. His expression was quietly considering.
Smiling serenely, Alathea let her gaze wander on, only to encounter more considering glances. It took her a few minutes to realize why Gabriel and she were so persistently raising questions in so many minds. It was the way they conversed with each other. They were so attuned to each other's tone, to every nuance in the other's repertoire, that they rarely needed to look at each other to be sure of the other's meaning. They talked as two who knew each other well, as two who, in the ton's parlance, shared an understanding of long duration.
They talked like long-standing lovers.
The last course was being removed before she again turned to Gabriel. All the guests were repairing directly to the ballroom. He was already standing; he offered her his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve and allowed him to raise her—as soon as she was on her feet, he grasped her hand, tucked it in his arm, his hand possessively over hers, and led her to join the queue exiting the dining room.
The message he was sending the interested observers all about them was crystal clear. Although he could be devilish enough when he wished, she was certain that, at present, he wasn't deliberately putting on a show. His behavior was simply an instinctive extension of how he now felt about her.
He caught her glancing at him and lifted a brow. "What?"
She looked into his hazel eyes, then, lips curving, shook her head and looked away. "Never mind."
There was no chance she could get him to change and, deep down, she knew she would miss their newfound closeness if he did.
The ballroom caused a sensation. Standing in the receiving line Alathea fielded numerous compliments on the unusual decor while helping Mary and Alice greet the more intimidating dowagers. Unfortunately, more than a few of the old battleships, when distracted from Mary and Alice, were only too ready to turn their cannons on her.
"Absolutely criminal," Lady Osbaldestone declared, scrutinizing her silk-clad figure through her lorgnette. "Waste, gel, waste!" One bony finger poked her in the ribs. "God knows why you've hidden yourself away, but it's past time some rake rattled your stays."
Others took a different tack.
"So, my dear, do you spend much time in charitable works?" Lady Harcourt, of similar age to Alathea, smiled insincerely. "It must be so nice to live a quiet life."
Alathea responded to all such queries with a serene smile and calm assurance. As soon as the incoming tide eased, Gabriel appeared and, with Serena's encouragement, drew her out of the line.
"But Mary and Alice—"
"Serena's with them. There's someone I want you to meet."
"Who?"
His Great-aunt Clara was a sweet old lady, although a trifle vague. She patted Alathea's hand. "Your sisters are lovely, dear, but we'll have to see you wed first."
"Precisely what I've been telling her," Gabriel put in. Over Clara's head, Alathea narrowed her eyes at him.
"Indeed, yes," Clara said, and patted her hand again. "We'll have to find some nice gentleman for you—perhaps that nice Chillingworth boy."
The look on Gabriel's face was priceless; Alathea only just managed not to laugh. "I don't think so," she said, smiling at Clara.
"No? Well, then, let's see. Who else?"
Devil strolled up before Clara could consider other options. She released Alathea to clutch his sleeve. "Is Honoria here?"
Devil grinned. "She's on the other side of the room—I'll take you to her if you like."
"Oh, yes—so kind." Clutching her shawl with one hand and Devil with the other, Clara smiled in farewell and moved on.
"There are the Carmichaels." Gabriel directed Alathea's gaze to a couple whose country estate lay not far from Morwellan Park and the Manor. They headed toward them.
For the next twenty minutes, they moved through the ever-increasing crowd, stopping here then there to chat, always at Gabriel's direction. Only when she spied Lord Montgomery, then Lord Falworth through the sea of heads did Alathea realize what he was doing. With them constantly moving from one conversation to the next, her court was given no chance to gather about her.
Alathea swallowed her protest—she'd rather move through the crowd on Gabriel's arm than stand surrounded by her all-too-often vacuous court. Feigning ignorance of his high-handed manuverings was definitely the sensible course.
Then the musicians started up and the crowd magically parted, clearing a wide space. As both Mary and Alice had been given permission to indulge long since, the first dance was a waltz. Keen to see if her expectation that Esher would partner Mary and Carstairs would partner Alice would be fulfilled, Alathea eagerly accompanied Gabriel to the edge of the floor.
Sure enough, Mary and Esher took to the floor first, Mary blushing delightedly, her smile declaration enough, while Esher looked the picture of pride. Alathea smiled mistily as they waltzed past, then looked back up the room. Alice was already in Carstairs's encircling arms—both seemed lost in each other's eyes, oblivious to the crowd looking on.
Alathea sighed. With her sisters, her hand was played and she'd won—they would have the futures she'd wanted for them, and which they patently deserved. They'd be happy, and loved…
Alice and Carstairs waltzed past.
The next instant, Alathea, too, was on the floor, whirling in Gabriel's arms. Her eyes flew wide. There were as yet no other couples on the floor. "What?…"
Gabriel raised a brow. "My dance, I believe?"
She would have loved to tell him what she thought of his arrogance, but under the curious eyes of half the ton, all she could do was fix a smile on her lips and let him sweep her away. She did, however, glare at him.
He only smiled, gathering her closer as other couples took to the floor in their wake. He leaned closer as they went through the turn. "Don't tempt me."
The whispered words caressed her ear; Alathea shivered. "I should take umbrage." "But you won't. You know I can't help myself."
She limited her response to a sniff; prolonging such a conversation would do nothing for her serenity. The nagging observation that she enjoyed waltzing with him, enjoyed the feel of his hand burning through the silk at her back, enjoyed the sense of being captive to his strength, whirled so effortlessly around the room, was more than distracting enough.
That her pleasure in life was increasingly dependent on him was a thought she wished she'd never had.
After the dance, they once more meandered through the crowd, chatting with acquaintances. They were leaving one group when Gerrard Debbington hailed Gabriel. Gabriel stopped; sidestepping this way, then that, Gerrard eventually reached them.
He smiled vaguely at Alathea.
She smiled brightly back, completely forgetting that she hadn't met him in the receiving line. "Hello."
Gabriel pinched her fingers and introduced them. Alathea continued to smile as if she commonly spoke to gentlemen she'd never met. Gerrard, thankfully, was too well brought up to comment.
He looked at Gabriel. "If I could have a word… there's something you should know."
Gabriel gestured to Alathea. "Thea knows of my interests—she knows of Crowley. You can speak freely."
"Oh." Gerrard's smile hid his surprise. "In that case… I was leaving Tattersalls yesterday when I literally bumped into Crowley. He was with a gentleman Vane said was Lord Douglas. Unfortunately, Vane and Patience were right behind me, and Patience spoke. From what she said, it was obvious she was my sister." He grimaced. "Only a sister would say something like that. As she was on Vane's arm, it wouldn't need any great intelligence to guess the connection. Vane said I should tell you and ask what you think."
"I think," Gabriel said, "that we should discuss the possibilities with Vane." He looked over the sea of heads. "Where is he?"
"Far left," Gerrard said, craning his head. "Close by the wall. Patience was with him."
Alathea spotted the purple plume Patience Cynster wore in her hair. "There—by the second mirror."
They headed that way but in tacking through the crowd, Gerrard forged ahead. Gabriel drew Alathea closer. "I need to talk to Vane about this—Gerrard could be in danger."
Alathea glanced at him, concern in her eyes. "From Crowley?"
"Yes. I need you to distract Patience while I talk to Vane."
"Why can't you talk about the matter in front of Patience? Gerrard is her brother, after all."
"That's why. And in case it's escaped your notice, Patience is increasing, so Vane will certainly not want her worrying over a threat to Gerrard that we're going to ensure never materializes."
"So you want me to distract her? To connive at keeping her in the dark over something she has a perfect right to know—" Alathea broke off, another idea overriding all thought of Patience's sisterly rights. "Tell me—if there was any threat to Charlie or Jeremy, would you tell me, or make sure I never heard of it?"
The way Gabriel's lips sealed into a thin line was answer enough. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Men! Why on earth you imagine—"
"Just tell me—who wants Crowley stopped?" Alathea blinked. "I do."
"And who did you ask to stop him?" "You."
"I vaguely recall stipulating that you had to obey my orders." "Yes, but—"
"Thea, stop arguing. I need to talk to Vane and I don't want Patience unnecessarily upset." Put like that… "Oh, very well." She threw him a stern look. "But I don't approve."
They drew free of the crowd and advanced on Vane and Patience. With an assured smile, Alathea drew Patience aside; Gabriel hid a smile as he overheard her ask after Patience's condition. The perfect topic, the perfect excuse to exclude the menfolk from their councils.
The males in question quickly formed their own huddle. "What do you think?" Vane asked.
"Altogether too dangerous. Crowley would have prised it out of Archie Douglas before they'd got to the first ring." Gabriel looked at Vane. "I take it Archie was sufficiently compos mentis to recognize you?"
"Definitely—he was remarkably sober, but then it was before noon."
Gabriel looked at Gerrard. "Nothing for it then—we've got to get you out of sight." Gerrard shrugged. "I could go home to Derbyshire for a bit."
"No—too far. You have to be within reach of London and the courts. We'll need you as a witness to corroborate the details of the company's proposal to investors."
"How do you think Crowley will react?" Vane asked.
"I think," Gabriel replied, "that he'll pause and take stock. He's been in this game too long to act rashly. And he's very close to calling in his notes. I think he'll reason that Gerrard will have consulted me after the meeting—there's no reason he should suspect I knew anything about the meeting beforehand.
Indeed, if Gerrard had mentioned one of Crowley's schemes to me ahead of any meeting, I would have advised against the meeting taking place. So he'll imagine I was consulted afterward, and that I've advised Gerrard against the investment. He hasn't heard from Gerrard again, and now he'll know why. He's so close to getting his hands on a small fortune, he'll be very hesitant over unnecessarily rocking his boat. I don't think he'll come searching for Gerrard yet, but I do think he will, and with a vengeance, the instant he hears there's a petition lodged against the company."
"How dangerous is he?"
Gabriel met Vane's gaze. "He'll kill without a qualm." Vane's brows rose. Gabriel continued, "The information I've received suggests he's plowed every last penny into this venture—if the company's notes fail, he'll be ruined. And he'll likely have some rather unsavory and irate creditors after him, too.
Basically, I'd rate Crowley as more dangerous than a rabid rat cornered."
"Hmm." Vane's gaze shifted to his wife, chatting animatedly with Alathea three feet away. "I'm concerned about Patience. She seems rather pale, don't you think?"
Gabriel considered the bloom of health blushing Patience's fair cheeks. "Definitely peaked." "A short sojourn in Kent would be just the thing to restore her. Fresh air, sunshine—"
"Scores of your workers in the fields surrounding the manor. Just what the doctor ordered." Gabriel swung to Gerrard, who had listened in silence. "Of course, as a dutiful brother, you'll accompany your sister into the country."
Gerrard grinned. "Whatever you say—I can sketch there as well as here." Vane gestured to Patience and Alathea. "Shall we break the news?"
Ten minutes later, Gabriel and Alathea stepped once more into the crowd. Alathea smiled. "That was very thoughtful of Vane to be so concerned over Patience, even if there is no need. She's perfectly well."
"Yes, well, husbands have to do what husbands have to do, especially when they're Cynsters." Gabriel glanced at her. "Did you learn anything useful?"
"We were talking about pregnancy." "I know."
Alathea took one more step, froze, then whirled on him. "What do you—? You don't—?"
He opened his eyes wide. "Don't what?" The musicians started up. Sliding one arm about her waist, he drew her to him, into his arms, onto the floor.
Staring straight over his shoulder, Alathea drew in a tight breath. Ignoring the color burning her cheeks, she categorically stated, "I am not pregnant."
His deep sigh feathered the curls about her ear. "Ah, well, one lives in hope."
His hand moved on her back in soothing little circles. Alathea bit her lip against a sudden compulsion to blurt out the truth—that she didn't know if she was or not. She was not, definitely not, going to talk about such things with him. Especially not with him.
"You will be pregnant with my child one day—you know that, don't you?"
She shut her eyes—tried to shut her ears to the words but they kept falling, straight into her mind, her heart, her empty, yearning soul.
"You love children—you want children of your own. I'll give you as many as you like."
They circled, neither paying any attention to the dance, moving to a tune heard on a different plane.
"You want to have my child—I want that, too. It'll happen one day, Thea—trust me, it will."
She shivered. To her immense relief he said nothing more but simply steered her around the floor. By the time the music ended and he released her, she'd regained her mental feet. She did not, however, meet his eyes; instead, she scanned the room. "I should check with Serena—'
"Everything's fine—she told me to keep you from worrying."
That had her searching his face. "She didn't."
"She did, and you know a gentleman should do everything in his power to satisfy his hostess."
Her pithy retort was cut off by the descent of Lord and Lady Collinridge, the neighbors who owned the old barn with the narrow back window. The Collinridges had known them both from childhood but hadn't met Gabriel for years; with a sweet smile, Alathea encouraged Lady Collinridge to twit her tormentor for all she was worth.
In the end, Gabriel invented a summons from his mother to escape, taking her with him.
"Jezebel," he whispered as they made their way through the crush, now as bad—as good—as any ball that Season. "You enjoyed that."
"You deserved that," Alathea retorted. A sudden press of bodies brought them to a temporary standstill, him behind her.
"Hmm—and what else do I deserve?"
Alathea swallowed a gasp as one large hand slid over her hip to perform a leisurely, all-too-knowing circuit of her silk-clad bottom.
Closing his hand, Gabriel lowered his head and whispered in her ear, "Perhaps you'd like to retreat to your office—I was, after all, ordered by your stepmother to do my very best to keep you amused."
Alathea couldn't resist the urge to tip her head back and meet his eyes. Under their heavy lids, they glowed with golden fire. There was absolutely no doubt of what he was thinking.
Her gaze dropped to his lips. Did temptation come any more potent than this?
The crush about them eased, and she managed to draw breath. "There's no lock on my office door, remember?"
She'd spoken before she'd thought—her cheeks flamed. The wicked chuckle he gave made her think of a buccaneer about to seize her, but his hand left her bottom—her fevered flesh—closing briefly, affectionately, on her hip before he released her. The flow of people resumed and they moved on.
Almost immediately they encountered Lady Albemarle, a distant Cynster connection, and stopped to
chat. From her, they passed on to Lady Horatia Cynster.
"I have no idea," she responded to Gabriel's query, "if Demon and Felicity will return to town before the end of the Season. They're enjoying themselves hugely by all accounts. The last we heard, they were in Cheltenham."
They chatted easily for some minutes, then once again moved on. When the next lady with whom they paused to exchange greetings proved to be another Cynster connection, Alathea had to wonder. It was true there were a lot of Cynsters and many more family connections. Nevertheless…
As they strolled on again, she caught Gabriel's eye. "You're not, by any chance, introducing me to your family?"
"Of course not—they already know you. And those who don't were introduced to you in the receiving line."
Alathea sighed exasperatedly. The look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, warned her any protest would be fruitless—his intention was fixed. The reins were presently in his hands and he was driving as hard as he could toward matrimony. She shook her head. "You're impossible!"
His lips quirked. "No. You're impossible. I'm merely immovable." She tried to smother her giggle but failed.
"Lady Alathea!" Lord Falworth pushed through the crowd to bow before her. "Dear lady, I've been searching quite doggedly, I do assure you." He shot a censorious glance at Gabriel. "But now I've found you, I believe a cotillion is starting. If you would do me the honor?"
Alathea smiled. For all his foppish tendencies, Falworth was an amiable gentleman and an unexceptionable partner. "Indeed, sir—it is I who would be honored." It was, perhaps, time she put some distance between herself and her self-styled keeper. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Cynster?" With a nod for Gabriel, she placed her hand on Falworth's sleeve and let him lead her to where the sets were forming.
As soon as the dance started, her thoughts reverted to Gabriel, Falworth forgotten. No other gentleman could vie with her nemesis. There was—and very likely always had been—only one man for her, the man she'd been closest to all her life. And now he wanted to marry her. He cared for her, but not in a way she could accept as a safe basis for marriage. What she should do—how she could take charge of the situation and steer a safe course for them both—she had no idea. With every day that passed, the pressure to give in, to surrender and be his wife, grew.
Her one bulwark against that was simple but solid. Fear. An unconquerable, unquenchable fear of a pain so vast, so deep, she'd never be able to survive it. A pain she sensed rather than knew, one she could imagine but had never felt. The sort of pain that no sane person invited or permitted to threaten them.
That much she knew: She was too afraid to ever consent to their marriage if all he felt for her, bar transient desire, was mild affection and a duty of care.
As she circled and swayed through the figures of the cotillion, she considered that truth, and the fact that it meant she would never bear his child.
She would never, ever, have children of her own.
But that had been decided eleven years ago. Fate had yet to revoke her decree.
From the side of the dance floor, Gabriel watched as Alathea gracefully twirled. She was thinking of something, some thing other than the cotillion—there was a distance in her gaze, a closed calmness in her expression that meant she was mentally elsewhere. He was certain she was thinking about him. He wanted her to think of him, but… he had a strong suspicion that her thinking at present was not following the lines he wished. His instincts prodded him to press her, to seize her however he might.
Some other emotion—a stronger emotion—warned him the decision was hers. And he knew just how easy she was to influence.
At present, his campaign was mired in circumstance and his quarry was proving elusive. Every time he thought he had her in his grasp, she drew away, hazel eyes wide, slightly puzzled, not convinced.
Nowhere near convinced enough to marry him.
That fact left him feeling caged and not the least bit civilized every time she moved away from his side. There was no convenient wall against which he could lean and guard her, so he prowled the edge of the cleared area, unwilling to be waylaid by any of the ladies intent on catching his eye.
He was successful in avoiding all the encroaching madams, but he couldn't avoid Chillingworth. The earl loomed directly in his path.
Their gazes clashed. By mutual accord, they swung so they stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing over the dance floor.
"I'm surprised," Chillingworth drawled, "that you haven't tired of this game." "Which game is that?"
"The game of knight-protector, keeping the rest of us at bay." Chillingworth's gaze raked his face. "Being such a close friend of the family's, I can understand why you might feel compelled by the notion, but don't you think you're carrying the role a little far?"
"Now why, I wonder, should that so concern you?" Even as he asked the question, Gabriel felt an icy tingle at his nape.
"I would have thought that obvious, dear boy." Chillingworth gestured toward the dancers, careful not to indicate Alathea specifically. "She's an attractive proposition, particularly to one situated as I."
Every word deepened the chill now steadily coursing Gabriel's veins. The uninformed might imagine Chillingworth meant he was considering seducing Alathea because he was presently amorously free. Gabriel knew better. The earl was of their class, from the same social stratum as the Bar Cynster; he was their contemporary in every way. He abided by the same unwritten code Gabriel himself had honored all his adult life. Ladies of good family and good character were not fair game.
Alathea was unmistakeably both. Seducing her was not what Chillingworth had in mind.
His expression impassive, Gabriel looked over the dancers, his gaze fixing on Alathea's face. "She's not for you."
"Indeed?" Challenge rang in Chillingworth's tone. "I realize this may come as a surprise, especially to a Cynster, but the lady herself will ultimately be the judge of that."
"No." Gabriel uttered the word quietly, yet it held enough latent force to make Chillingworth tense. And wait.
Gabriel saw the danger clearly. Chillingworth was Devil's age but had yet to marry. He needed an heir, and for that he needed a wife. He could appreciate Chillingworth's taste in being attracted to Alathea; he was not, however, of a mind to approve.
Alathea loved him, but whether she knew that, or accepted it, he didn't know. She was headstrong and willful, used to charting her own course. She also had that streak of considered recklessness he'd always found alarming. He could never predict what it might lead her to do. She was finding coming to terms with the notion of marrying him difficult. If Chillingworth offered for her hand, might she accept to escape the impasse he'd created?
Despite loving him—or even because of it—might she think to set him free of the chivalric bonds she imagined compelled him by marrying Chillingworth instead?
Over the heads of the other dancers, Gabriel considered Alathea, and knew he couldn't risk it. She felt friendly toward Chillingworth. The earl could be charming when he wished and was, after all, a gentleman in the same mold as he. And Alathea was an earl's daughter. It would be a felicitous match all around.
Except for one thing.
Turning to Chillingworth, Gabriel met his gaze. "If you're imagining rectifying your lack of an heir through an alliance with the Morwellans, I suggest you think again."
Chillingworth stiffened; the look in his eyes suggested he could barely believe his ears. "And why is that?" he asked, his tone steely, his aggression poorly masked.
"Because," Gabriel said, "you would die before you laid so much as a finger on the lady in question, which might make getting your heir a trifle difficult."
Chillingworth stared at him, then looked away, resuming his previously noncombative stance. "I can't," he murmured, "quite believe you said that."
"I meant every word."
"I know." Chillingworth's lips quirked. "How enlightening." "Just as long as you keep it in mind."
Chillingworth looked to where, the dance having ended, Alathea was strolling on Falworth's arm. Both he and Gabriel stepped out to intercept her. "I'll think about it," Chillingworth replied.
Alathea could not believe how easily Gabriel tracked her through the crowd; she and Lord Falworth had barely begun to stroll before he loomed from the throng. She was, consequently, especially delighted to see Chillingworth by his side.
"My lord." She gave Chillingworth her hand and smiled with real appreciation as he bowed. "I hope you note I took your comments to heart. I could do nothing about the number of guests, but there are many waltzes scheduled tonight."
Chillingworth sighed. "What manner of torture is that, my dear? I assume that, as usual, you have no waltzes free."
Alathea did not miss his sidelong glance at Gabriel. "Unfortunately not."
"However," Chillingworth continued, "unless my ears deceive me, that's a country dance starting up.
Might I beg the pleasure of your company?" Alathea smiled. "I would be delighted."
The dance was one that left them paired throughout. Chillingworth conversed easily on general topics. Alathea answered lightly, off the top of her head, her thoughts, as always, sliding back to Gabriel. She'd lost sight of him when the dance got under way; he was no longer where they'd left him. She wondered where he was, and what he was doing.
At the conclusion of the dance, she laid her hand on Chillingworth's sleeve. He led her from the floor, straight to Gabriel, who was waiting at the other end of the ballroom from where they'd parted.
Alathea resisted an urge to raise her eyes to the skies. Drawing her hand from Chillingworth's arm, she positioned herself between them, ready to jab an elbow into either of their ribs should they infringe her conversational standards.
Somewhat to her surprise, neither did. Chillingworth seemed careful, watchful. Gabriel was his usual arrogant self, the reality uncloaked given it was only Chillingworth, whom he patently regarded as an equal, with them. Then Amanda, escorted by Lord Rankin, joined them. A minute later, Amelia glided up on Lord Arkdale's arm.
"This is such a lovely ball, Lady Alathea." Amanda beamed her delight. "I'm enjoying myself hugely." The minx batted her long lashes at Rankin, who, all unknowingly, glowed.
"It's a crush—a positive crush," Amelia chimed in. "There are so many here." She smiled at Lord Arkdale. "Why, I've never had the chance to chat with Freddie here, before."
"I hope," Alathea cut in, preempting Gabriel, "that you're wise enough to take full advantage of the possibilities offered."
"Oh, indeed," Amanda assured her. "Our dance cards are full. We've danced every dance with a different gentleman."
"And spent every interval with still different gentlemen," Amelia added. Both girls softened the news of their deliberate inconstancy with a ravishing smile at their escorts. Neither gentleman was sure whether to preen or not.
"Incidentally, Gabriel, we haven't sighted Lucifer."
Amanda fixed her angelic blue eyes on her cousin's face. "Is he here?" "He was."
"He must have discovered something terribly interesting. Or someone," Amelia ingenuously announced.
"I saw Lady Scarsdale, and Mrs. Sweeney, too. She was wearing vermillion—a hideous shade. I don't think Lucifer would be with her, do you?"
"Perhaps he's with Lady Todd. I know she's here…"
The twins continued artlessly speculating on Lucifer's current obsession. Their escorts were totally bemused. Gabriel was not, but neither was he willing to deflect their attention. Alathea bit her lip, and let the twins have their revenge.
Under cover of the girls' bright chatter, Chillingworth touched Alathea's arm. Turning, she encountered a
slightly rueful expression in the earl's eyes,
"I fear I'm going to desert you, my dear, and leave you captive to this bevy of Cynsters." Alathea smiled. "They are a riotous lot, but the twins, you see, are celebrating a family victory."
For an instant, Chillingworth's eyes held hers, then his gaze flicked to Gabriel, presently exchanging barbs with Amanda. Chillingworth looked questioningly at Alathea. "Cynster, too, I think?"
Alathea didn't know what to think—and even less what to reply.
Chillingworth relieved her of the problem by bowing. "Your servant, my dear. If you ever find yourself in need of help, know you have only to ask."
He then nodded elegantly and stepped away, disappearing into the crowd. Puzzled, Alathea watched him go, then turned back to Gabriel and the twins. The next dance was a waltz.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, Gabriel, his temper sorely tried by the twins, closed his hand about Alathea's and drew her onto the floor. His arm came around her, holding her close. Their gazes met.
She grinned, but said not a word. She relaxed, following his lead without conscious effort. Scanning the room as they twirled, she saw no indicaiton of any problem; their ball was in full swing and all was well.
She was about to refocus on Gabriel's face when Lady Osbaldestone's flashed past. The gleeful expression in her ladyship's old eyes reminded Alathea of the approval of Lady Jersey, Princess Esterhazy, and the others. How many more had had their eyes opened tonight, their censorious minds alerted?
"This is dangerous—you and me." She looked at Gabriel. "We're going to end as a high treat for the scandalmongers."
"Nonsense. Who's been disapproving?"
No one. Alathea pressed her lips together. After a moment, she said, "I'm too old. The entire ton is expecting you to marry—they won't approve of your marrying me."
"Why not? It's not as if you're in your dotage, for heaven's sake." "I'm twenty-nine."
"So? If that doesn't worry me, and you know damned well it doesn't, why should it concern anyone else?"
"Bachelors of thirty do not customarily marry spinsters of twenty-nine."
"Probably because most spinsters of twenty-nine are that for good reason." Gabriel caught her eye. "You're that for a completely different reason—a reason that is no longer valid. You've done what you needed to do—you've set your family back on their feet. You've held the fort until Charlie can take over, and trained him to do it." His voice lowered. "Now it's time to let go and live the life you should have lived. With me."
Alathea remained silent, not sure she could trust her voice.
He continued, "I haven't detected the slightest hint of disapproval—quite the opposite. The senior hostesses all knew your mother—they're thrilled at the thought of you marrying at last. Along with the rest of the ton, they've never understood why you didn't marry. To them, the notion of your marrying me is highly romantic."
Alathea managed a sniff. After a minute, she risked a glance up.
Gabriel's gaze was gently ruthless. "They'll cheer the announcement, when you consent to let me make it.
They're not standing in my way."
Only she was. Alathea looked away. There was, it seemed, to be no help from any quarter. She was swimming against a flood tide.
In the nearby card room, Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, strolled up to the earl of Chillingworth, who was standing by a wall watching a hand of piquet.
"Amazing. I never thought to see you pull in your horns." Devil glanced pointedly toward the ballroom. "I find it difficult to believe there are no possibilities in there. If you don't look quick, you'll be cold tonight. I, at least, have a warm bed to hie home to."
Chillingworth looked amused. "And what makes you think I haven't? The only difference between you and me, dear boy, is that your bed will be the same tomorrow night, while mine has at least a chance of being different."
"On the other hand, there's something to be said for consistently high standards."
"At present, I'll settle for variety. That aside, to what do I owe this questionable pleasure?" "Just checking on your current interest."
"To make certain we don't cross bows? Pull the other one."
Devil settled his shoulders against the wall. "Purely altruistic, on my part."
Chillingworth hid a smile. "Altruistic? Tell me, is it me you're interested in keeping whole, or another more nearly related?"
Devil studied the crowd in the ballroom through the arch directly before them. "Let's just say that I've no wish to see any misunderstanding cloud the otherwise congenial relationship between your family and mine."
Chillingworth said nothing for several minutes, also staring at the figures jostling in the ballroom. Then he shifted. "If I was to say that I have no intention of disrupting the harmony currently reigning between our houses, would you do me one favor?"
"What?"
"Don't tell Gabriel."
Devil turned his head. "Why?"
His lips quirking wryly, Chillingworth pushed away from the wall. "Because it's entertaining watching him rise to my bait, and," he murmured, just loud enough for Devil to hear as he moved away, "I consider that fitting consolation."
Chapter 18
« ^ »
Their ball had been held on Monday night. Alathea did not set eyes on Gabriel again until Wednesday. Ambling in the park behind his sisters and hers, closely escorted by Lord Esher and Mr. Carstairs, she was deep in disturbing thoughts of Crowley and the Central East Africa Gold Company when she heard her name called. Looking up, she saw the group ahead looking back at her. Heather Cynster pointed to the nearby carriageway—to where her brother held his team of restless bays, stamping impatiently. As she lengthened her stride, Alathea got the distinct impression that the horses were merely reflecting their master's state.
"Good morning." Tipping her head up, she looked into his face, some way above her, courtesy of his high perch phaeton. The carriage held the interest of the girls and their beaux, leaving her to deal with its driver.
He beckoned. "Come up. I'll take you for a tool around the avenue." She smiled. "No, thank you."
He stared at her.
The others had heard.
"Go on, Allie! You'll enjoy it." "We'll be safe enough."
"It'll just be for a few minutes."
"Carstairs and I will engage to watch over your charges in your stead, Lady Alathea." Alathea kept her gaze steady on Gabriel's face. "When last did you drive a lady in the park?"
He studied her for an instant longer, then his lips thinned. "Hold 'em, Biggs." His groom leaped from the back and ran to the horses' heads. Gabriel tied off the reins and jumped down.
Without a word, he took her arm and waved the others on. Absorbed with their own concerns, the girls were happy to comply. By mutual accord, she and Gabriel waited until the group was far enough ahead so they could talk without being overheard, then set out in their wake.
"There's no reason you couldn't let me drive you about the park."
"I have no intention of letting you declare your hand in such a public fashion." She shot him a reproving glance. "I'm not going to be swayed by such manuevers."
"More fool you. How did you know, anyway?"
"Your mama is always full of your doings—yours, Lucifer's, and the rest of your cousins. The fact that none of you drive ladies in the park—ladies other than your wives—is well known to all, I gather."
Gabriel had been counting on it. "How does Gretna Green strike you? We could be there in two days."
"At present, I have matters to deal with here. As soon as those matters are settled, I intend retiring to the country once again."
"Don't wager your mother's pearls on it."
"Humph! Anyway, what have you learned? I take it you got my note last night?"
"Yes, but not until this morning. Last night I was busy trying to prise information from certain African dignitaries."
"What did they say?"
"Enough to unofficially confirm that at least four of Crowley's claims of governmental approvals and permissions are false. I'm working on turning unofficial into official, but no government bureacracy works quickly. We won't have any official support for our petition by the time we have to lodge it."
"And when's that?"
"I would advise against waiting longer than next Tuesday." "That soon?"
"We can't risk Crowley calling in his notes, and I'd wager my bays he'll do it late next week." Gabriel glanced at Alathea, then continued, "The petition's all but ready. Wiggs's clerk should have finished it—as far as we've gone—by tomorrow. Wiggs will bring it to me. If we have no more to add, with your permission, I'll ask my solicitor to make an appointment for Tuesday morning with one of the judges of the Chancery Court to submit our case. We don't dare wait longer—fighting a rearguard action once the promissory note is executed and the call on funds made will leave us in a considerably worse position legally."
Alathea grimaced. "If that's how it must be…"
"I'll alert Devil, and Vane, too. He'll bring Gerrard up to town when he's needed." His gaze on her face, her profile, Gabriel opened his mouth on the words: "Thea, it's a big risk," but left them unsaid. If he had considered all the dangers and alternatives, she would have, too. There was no danger to her—he would marry her in an instant, and rescue both her and her family from penury—she knew that without his stating it. But what of Morwellan Park, and the title, the long unbroken line of Morwellans stretching back through time? What of her family's pride? That was what she'd set out from the first to protect, and it wasn't something that could be rescued other than by risking all.
Her motives needed no explaining to a Cynster. All he could do was stand by her shoulder and do whatever he could to bring about her victory.
And, perhaps, provide a distraction. "Actually, the reason I came looking for you wasn't to tell you all that. I've tickets for Friday's performance of The Barber of Seville. I thought you and your family might like to attend."
Alathea stared at him. "Friday night's the last night—it's to be a gala performance."
"So I understand." The production had taken the ton by storm. The management had decreed the final performance would be a gala event, to thank both cast and patrons.
"But… the gala was sold out within hours of the announcement last week. How on earth did you manage to get tickets for us all?"
"Never mind how I got the damned tickets! Will you come?"
"Speaking for myself, of course I'll come! As for the others, you can ask them yourself." Alathea waved ahead to where the group were gathered about the Morwellan barouche.
Gabriel was glad to see that his sisters had already said their good-byes and were heading for his mother's landau, drawn in to the verge a little way along. Celia saw him and waved but did not beckon him to attend her. Nor did she evince any surprise at seeing him again strolling with Alathea. Those facts declared that Celia, at least, understood his intention and approved; Gabriel knew he could rely on her for support should the need arise.
Joining the others before the Morwellan carriage, he smoothly issued his invitation, specifically including both Esher and Carstairs. Alathea looked at him curiously but said nothing. She didn't have to—everyone was eager to attend the gala performance of The Barber of Seville.
When she arrived with the others at the Opera House on Friday night, Alathea discovered Gabriel had not just secured tickets, but one of the two most sought-after private boxes overlooking the stage. He met them in the foyer, then with her on one arm and Serena on the other, led the way up the stairs and down the plushly carpeted first floor corridor to the gilded door giving onto the box overhanging the left of the stage.
Eyes swivelled as they took their seats, the tonnish occupants of the less-favored boxes craning to see who had commanded prime place on this, the most celebrated evening of the season. Whispers abounded as, head high, her expression serene, Alathea regally sat in one of the chairs at the front of the box. Serena sat beside her, turning to murmur her thanks to Gabriel as he settled in the chair behind and to the side of Alathea's.
Alathea would gladly have boxed his ears, but not in public. As it was, all she could do was smile and return the gracious nods of the ton's matrons. Mary and Alice, wide-eyed, took the other front-row seats beyond Serena. Esher and Carstairs sat behind them. His lordship leaned forward and engaged Serena in some discussion. Alathea turned to Gabriel, intending to inform him she would box his ears later, only to find him leaning closer, a frown in his eyes.
"My apologies. I didn't realize we'd attract this much attention."
Alathea grimaced, absolving him of intent. She refrained from acidly informing him that this was the degree of attention he, a Cynster, should expect in declaring his hand. "I take it," she whispered, glancing briefly at Serena to make sure she was occupied, "that you haven't heard anything of the captain."
"No." His gaze lifted to her forehead. The frown in his eyes intensified. "Stop worrying. One way or another, we'll see this through."
Willing away all external evidence of her state, Alathea sighed. "I've done all I can to be beforehand, just in case…" She gestured helplessly. "I've paid all the accounts from the ball—the caterers, the milliners, the modistes—even the musicians. They all thought I'd run mad, demanding they submit their accounts immediately."
"I dare say. If you've paid them all outright, the Morwellans will be the only family in the ton to finish the Season with a clear slate."
"I thought it would be better—more ethical, in a way. I'd rather our honest creditors were paid before Crowley and his schemes lay claim to all we have."
Gabriel's fingers closed on her hand. She only just had time to brace herself against the sensation of his lips caressing the backs of her fingers.
"Relax. Forget the Central East Africa Gold Company. Forget Crowley, at least for tonight." With a nod, he indicated the stage; the curtain was rising to building applause. "I've brought you here tonight, and the only thanks I want is for you to enjoy yourself. So stop worrying, and do."
Turning her hand, he brushed her inner wrist with his lips, then released her. Alathea faced the stage as the house lamps were doused, and did as he asked.
It wasn't difficult—the production was a tour de force, the singers superb, the sets and orchestra unsurpassed. She had fallen in love with musical performances in those few short weeks when she'd first come to London. She'd felt starved ever since; the efforts of provincial theatres could not compare with the extravagantly superior London events.
Because of the additional scenes and special arias to be presented as part of the gala, there was to be only one interval, occurring after the second act. When the curtain swished down and the lamps flared to life, Alathea sighed contentedly and glanced back at Gabriel.
He raised a brow, then stirred his long frame. "Time to stretch our legs." Alathea allowed him to draw her to her feet. She turned to Serena.
Her stepmother flicked open her fan and waved it before her face. "I'm going to rest here—you may all stroll the corridors, but do be back in good time for the next act." She smiled on them all, Esher with Mary on his arm and Carstairs beside Alice. Gabriel waved the others on ahead, then he and Alathea stepped from the box into a sea of parading humanity. There was nothing they could do but parade along with everyone else.
"Forget about watching the others," Gabriel advised. "But tell me, have they spoken yet?"
"Both have asked leave to call on Papa next Wednesday." Alathea smiled. "I understand they're very seriously preparing a joint presentation to win his consent. No one's had the heart to tell them there's no need. They're both dears, each in their own way."
"Just leave them to it. Marriage is, after all, a serious business, not something a gentleman should embark on without due consideration."
"Indeed? Then might I suggest—
"No. You may not. Twenty-nine years of knowing you is consideration enough."
A footman in full Beefeater costume appeared before them, flourishing a tray of glasses; they each took one and sipped. Countess Lieven hailed them through the crush; by the time they gained her side and suffered through her observations, the bell summoning the audience back to their seats was pealing.
Ten minutes later, they regained their box and sank into their seats as the curtain rose. An expectant hush fell over the audience. Gabriel angled his chair so he could see Alathea's face, illuminated by the light from the stage. Then he settled to watch—not the performance but the expressions animating her features, the signs of joy, of sorrow, of delight evoked by the unfolding story. The performers held the ton in thrall, but for him there was only Alathea.
The second half of the program exceeded the expectations raised by the first; at the end the audience was on their feet, applauding wildly, flowers raining down as the soloists took their bows. Finally, it was
over, and the curtain fell for the last time. Gabriel watched as Alathea heaved a deep sigh and turned to him, a smile in her eyes, her lips curved, all worries temporarily banished.
Reward enough.
The others were exclaiming, discussing various highlights. Tilting her head, Alathea studied him. Her smile deepened. "You needn't pretend you paid attention."
"One of the numerous benefits of knowing each other so well—there's no need to prevaricate."
She searched his face. "Why did you do this—go to all this trouble, indulge in what I'm sure will prove a shockingly hideous expense?"
He returned her gaze steadily. "You like music."
It was that simple—he let her read the truth in his eyes. Then she shivered. He reached for the shawl she'd left over her chair and held it up. She hesitated, then turned so he could drape it over her shoulders. Releasing the fine silk, he closed his hands about her shoulders; leaning closer, he murmured, "As with other pleasures, my reward is your delight."
The glance she threw him was arrested, her expression not one he could place. But he had no chance to probe in the short time it took to escort her down the private stairway to where their carriages waited.
As he handed her up to the same black carriage he'd handed the countess into weeks before, she squeezed his hand. Then she ducked and entered the carriage. He shut the door and stepped back as Folwell flicked the reins.
Alathea sank back in the carriage, frowning now the shadows gave her freedom to do so. Beside her, Alice chatted animatedly with Tony Carstairs, seated opposite. She left them to their dissection of the performance; there was another performance with which she was far more concerned.
A performance she was starting to think might not be an act at all. If there was any possibility that that was so…
It was time to face her fear and the emotion that gave it birth. Both were new to her. She'd pandered to the former, while pretending the latter didn't exist. She couldn't do so any longer.
She remained absorbed through the drive back to Mount Street, absentmindedly responding as, together with Serena and her stepsisters, she bade farewell to Esher and Carstairs in the front hall. She climbed the stairs, murmured her good nights, then surrendered to Nellie's ministrations, all the while analyzing each of their encounters, trying to see past his warrior's shield. Finally alone, she hitched a shawl over her nightgown and curled up on the padded seat before her window.
Morwellan House was over fifty years old, built on the foundations of a much older residence. Morwellans had owned the site for centuries. How much longer they would continue here was in the lap of the gods. Her own life, however, was in her hands. She stared at the old trees at the bottom of the back lawn, then heaved a deep sigh, crossed her arms on the stone window ledge, and settled her chin on her wrists.
When had she fallen in love with him? Had it been when she was eleven? Had he sensed it—was that what had first made him edgy when near her? Or had it been later? Had love bloomed unknown to her sometime in her teens? Or had a girlish fancy slowly developed into something more?
Unanswerable questions now. All she knew was that sometime, it had happened. It didn't, in truth, feel like something new so much as something newly discovered, a vulnerability she hadn't known she possessed until fate and circumstance had revealed it. That was bad enough, but there was more she'd yet to face. She loved him, but her love had not yet fully blossomed. It was still a bud, newly burgeoning after an extended winter, it had yet to open. She'd yet to experience the full expression of her love, the total spectrum of her need. But she could feel the force, the power swelling within the bud; if freed, it would sweep her will before it—it would become the dominant force in her life.
That fact only added to her fear.
The two threads of her worry—her family and her love—were headed for simultaneous resolution. Regardless of what transpired in the Chancery Court, he, she knew, would be there, ready to whisk her to safety be the outcome victory or defeat. If it be victory, he'd push for her surrender; if defeat, he'd wait for no permissions but simply claim her as his. From his point of view, all was straightforward; from hers, it was anything but.
Her fear she at least understood now that she'd acknowledged the strange notion of loving him. One benefit of being twenty-nine was that she knew herself well. Loving him as she knew she would if she allowed her love free rein would leave her wholly committed, totally enmeshed in their relationship. She wasn't capable of doing anything by halves—when she gave, she gave completely. If she gave her heart, it would be his, all his, forever. She hadn't done it yet, hadn't surrendered her love and her life into his keeping. If she agreed to be his wife, she would do precisely that.
But what would happen if he didn't love her?
The pain she feared flowed from that. She'd faced disappointment, misery and loneliness, the threat of servitude, of destitution, of seeing her loved ones in rags. She'd found strength when she'd needed it, yet she knew in her heart that the pain of his kindness would slay her.
For he would be kind, considerate, always gentle. Yet if he didn't love her in the same way she loved him, her love was of the sort that would destroy her from within. She couldn't contain it, simply hold it inside if there was no one to give it to, to lavish it upon. She'd waited too long for the bud to bloom—it would now bloom in glory, or wither and die. There was no other way. And if it died, so would she, in all ways that mattered.
Better the swelling bud froze again, and never bloomed.
She'd been certain he didn't love her. Not for a minute had she believed fate would be so amenable as to arrange for him to fall madly in love with her. Life had never been so kind. He cared for her, yes, just as he always had, in that guarded, rational way of his, where every emotion was nicely logical.
She was annoyed with him for that. How dare he be so logical when she felt so emotional? Yet that difference had seemed to confirm that love as she was coming to know it was not what he felt for her. He was presently in lust with her, he wanted to care for her, to protect her, to marry her, but he didn't love her. She'd held firm against his proposal, utterly certain she'd read him aright.
Until tonight.
It hadn't been the extravagance of the box, or even the fact that he didn't, as she well knew, appreciate music. The moment when her certainty had been rocked to its foundations was when he'd whispered, "As with other pleasures, my reward is your delight."
It was his tone that had struck her, so accustomed as she was to every nuance, every inflection he used.
He'd uttered those words as if it was his soul speaking, not just his mind. The words had resonated within her, as if in that moment, heart spoke to heart.
Had she been wrong? Did he love her? Could he love her? The question was: How to tell?
Raising her head, she looked up at the stars, at the moon slowly waning in the west. Asking outright was out of the question. If she wasn't prepared to confess her love for him out aloud, in words, then she could hardly expect him to do so. She felt far too vulnerable to make such a confession; she credited him with sensibility enough to feel much the same way. As for expecting him to go down on his knees and declare his heart…
Lips curving, she uncurled her legs and rose. Sobering, she walked to her bed. She slipped between the sheets, no clever plan of how to prompt his confidence revolving in her head, yet on that she was determined. If there was any chance that fate had at last smiled and sent love to touch them both, she could not live without knowing.
The next morning dawned leaden, the skies gray, the light gray, all of a piece with her mood. Toying with her toast, conscious of the subdued nature of the conversations around the breakfast table, Alathea struggled to shrug off a deadening sense of aftermath. The triumph of their ball had been eclipsed by persistent worry over the looming prospect of their incomplete case failing to convince the Chancery Court to declare the Central East Africa Gold Company a fraud. The special magic of her night at the opera, with its seductive suggestion that perhaps, possibly, Gabriel, too, might be concealing the true nature of his feelings, had dispersed in the cold light of morning.
Despite numerous restless hours, she'd been unable to devise any plan guaranteed to make him lower his shield, the barrier with which, for as long as she'd known him, he'd protected his heart. She couldn't, despite their closeness, see into his soul.
She was no better—she'd always been careful to protect her innermost feelings. She wasn't about to drop her guard and let him see into her soul, either. Unfortunately, that seemed the one approach with any chance of success, but the risk…
Inwardly heaving a sigh, she reached for the teapot. There had to be something she could do, some positive action she could take to slough off her dour mood, if not in unraveling the complexities of her nemesis-turned-lover-and-now-would-be-husband, then in pursuing their investigations. There had to be something not yet done, somewhere not yet searched. Some stone as yet unturned…
She looked at Charlie. "Have you and Jeremy visited the museum?"
"No." Charlie shrugged. "We did mean to while we were here, but…"
Jeremy brightened. "Can we go today? The back lawn's too wet to run the curricle over it."
Alathea glanced at Mary and Alice. "Why don't we all go? We haven't gone out all together for weeks, and there's nothing else happening this morning."
A tug on her sleeve had Alathea turning. Augusta looked up at her, brown eyes wide. "Me, too?" Alathea smiled; the grayness receded. "Indeed, poppet. You, too."
An hour later, Alathea stood in one of the cavernous halls of the museum, looking down at what purported to be a map of Central East Africa spread on a large table and protected by a glass case.
Lodwar was marked, but neither Fangak nor Kingi, not even as Kafia Kingi, was shown. Worse, Lodwar appeared to be on the banks of a huge river—a river the explorer whose works she had studied had apparently missed seeing.
Alathea sighed.
She hadn't bothered with the museum before, reasoning that the clerk at the Royal Society would have mentioned any exhibits had there been any of use. In desperation, however, she'd been willing to draw a long bow. On inquiring of the custodian at the main door, and learning that the museum did indeed have an exhibit including a good map, her heart had leaped. Perhaps…
She'd left the others wandering, Charlie and Jeremy among the military exhibits, Mary, Alice, and Augusta among the ancient pottery, and slipped into this hall—only to have her hopes dashed again. Other than the map, there was only a display of native artifacts, and a few watercolors of wildlife supposedly found in Central East Africa.
Her heart felt like lead. She'd lifted even this stone but, like all the rest, there was no help beneath it. With one last disgusted look at the unhelpful map, she stepped away—
She cannoned into a gentleman. "Oh!" Falling back, she clutched her slipping shawl.
"Beg pardon, m'dear." The gentleman bowed awkwardly. "I was so incensed by this trumpery stuff, I wasn't looking out as I should." His gesture took in the entire Central East African exhibit.
"On the contrary, it was I who didn't look." Alathea took in the man's shaggy brows overhanging features weather-beaten to a walnut-brown. Grizzled whiskers framed them. His eyes were a washed-out blue, his old-style coat and corduroy knee breeches attire no longer common in town. The stance he adopted was unusual, too, his hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, legs braced.
Abruptly turning back to the exhibit, Alathea waved at the map. "Is this incorrect, then?"
His derisive reply came immediately. "Poppycock! All of it. It's nothing like that, upon my word." "You've been there?"
"In between my sailings, when I have to wait months because of some flood or famine or skirmish between the tribes, an old prospector and I take to the hills. Why, we've crossed the whole continent a number of times." The sweep of his hand encompassed the area in which the interests of the Central East Africa Gold Company lay. "Not much improvement on the Great Desert, Central East Africa. Dusty wasteland, it is. This river shown here is nothing more than a trickle, and then only in the rainy season."
"You sail?" Alathea held her breath. "On a ship?"
"Aye." The man dragged his hat from under his arm and doffed it in a bow from a bygone age. "Captain Aloysius Struthers at your service, ma'am. Captain of the Dunslaw, sailing for Bentinck and Company."
Alathea exhaled, dragged in another breath and held out her hand. "Captain, you have no idea how glad I am to make your acquaintance."
Struthers looked taken aback, but instinctively grasped her hand. Alathea shamelessly held on to his. She cast a swift glance around. "If we retire to that bench, I'd like to explain. My interest is prompted by the Central East Africa Gold Company."
The change in Struthers's expression was instantaneous. "That blackguard, Crowley—" He broke
off. "My apologies, ma'am, but when I think of the damage that jackal has done, it fair boils my blood."
"Indeed? Then you might be interested to learn that a friend and I have plans to bring his latest scheme to naught."
Slipping his hand from hers, Struthers offered his arm. "I'd be devilish interested in hearing from anyone ready to thrust a spoke in that brigand's wheel. But what's a lady like you doing mixed up with the likes of him?"
That took some time to explain. Alathea hesitated, but, in the end, revealed her identity. If she wanted Struthers's help, it was only fair to be frank. She outlined Crowley's scheme, then detailed all the false claims they'd uncovered. To her relief, Struthers grasped the situation quickly.
"Aye—that's his game, right enough. A bloodsucker, he is. He's swindled the colonists right and left all through that area. And what he's done with the local tribes…" Struthers's expression hardened. "I won't sully your ears with the tales of his infamies, my lady, but if ever there was a blackguard overdue in hell, it's Ranald Crowley."
"Yes, well, I have to agree." Alathea thrust aside the idea of an opponent steeped in infamy. "Our problem, however, is that we have no absolute proof to disprove Crowley's claims. All our evidence is surmised from what we've learned from others. We desperately need someone who can appear before the judge and corroborate what we've learned—an eyewitness, as it were."
Struthers straightened. "Captain Aloysius Struthers is your man, my lady. And I'll do better than just give you my say-so. I know where I can get maps—signed maps, mark you. And if I ask around
quiet-like, I'm sure I can get more on the holdings Crowley's claimed. They ring a bell, they definitely do. I'm not positive, but I think an old acquaintance holds the mining rights to those areas. I can ask, easily enough. You'll want as many nails in your hand as possible when the time comes to make sure Crowley's coffin's good and sealed."
Alathea didn't argue. The captain's reaction to Crowley, the grim look in his eyes every time he mentioned him, frightened her far more than her previous glimpse of the villain.
Struthers nodded decisively. "It'll be an honor to bring that blackguard down. Now." Briskly, he turned to Alathea. "How do I contact you when I've gathered my proofs?"
"The hearing will be on Tuesday morning…" Alathea dug in her reticule and came up with a pencil. "In the judges' chambers at Chancery Court." The only paper she carried was the entry ticket to the museum; the back was blank. She ripped it in half. "If you need to contact me before that, this is my direction." She wrote down her name and address. There was no point giving Gabriel's address; not only had the captain not met her knight, but her protector had a habit of galloping about town. At present, he was making a furious effort to prise some formal acknowledgment of the Central East Africa Gold Company's status from the African authorities' representatives in London. He didn't hold out much hope; neither did she. The captain was their best hope—their savior, indeed. If he needed to contact anyone, it had better be her; they couldn't afford to lose touch with him now. She handed him the scrap of paper. "Now, where are you situated?"
He gave her the address of a lodging house in Clerkenwell. "I find a different place every time I stay in London. I rarely stay long."
Alathea wrote down the address, then tucked the paper into her reticule. "You won't be sailing again before Tuesday, will you?"
"Unlikely," Struthers murmured, reading her address. Then he slipped the paper into his coat pocket. "Right, then. I'd better set to." They both rose. Struthers bowed to Alathea. "Never fear, my lady.
Aloysius Struthers won't let you down."
With that, he clapped his hat on his head. With a grimly determined nod, he strode off.
Alathea watched him go. A rush of relief poured through her. Dizzy, she sank back onto the bench. Five minutes later, Mary, Alice, and Augusta found her sitting there, smiling.
"Yes," she replied in answer to their query. "We can, indeed, go home."
She sent a summons to Brook Street the instant they reached home; Gabriel arrived as they rose from the luncheon table. Barely giving him a chance to greet the rest of her family, Alathea dragged him out to the gazebo.
As if in tune with her mood, the clouds had rolled away. The others followed them into the sunshine, spreading out on the lawn to relax and play, but no one attempted to follow them into the shadowed privacy of the gazebo.
"I presume," Gabriel said, following her up the steps, "that you're about to reveal the nature of your 'fantastic discovery'?"
"Captain Aloysius Struthers!" Alathea whirled and sank onto the sofa. "I've found him." "Where?"
"The museum." Gleefully, she recounted their meeting. "And he's not only agreed to testify as to the falsity of Crowley's claims, but he says he can lay hands on verified maps, and also on details of the relevant mining leases." She gestured expansively. "He'll be even more help than we hoped for." Gabriel frowned. Surprised, she asked, "What is it?"
He grimaced. "I'd be content with the captain simply turning up before the judge—with his testimony to anchor our case, we won't need anything more."
"It won't hurt to have a few more facts behind us." "Hmm. Did Struthers tell you where he's staying?"
Alathea drew a folded sheet from her pocket. "I copied his address for you. Will you go and see him?"
Gabriel read the address; his expression turned grim. "Yes. If he'd been staying in Surrey, I wouldn't have bothered, but, as it is, I think a visit might be wise."
"Why?"
"To warn him. If he goes nosing about asking after maps and mining leases, he's liable to alert Crowley. We might be nearing the eleventh hour, but Ranald Crowley is not an opponent I'd ever turn my back on."
"Indeed not, but the captain seemed to know him well."
"Nevertheless, I'll speak to the captain. It won't hurt to underline the need for secrecy." Sliding the note into his pocket, Gabriel looked at Alathea, then turned and sat beside her. "Which brings me to another point."
Shuffling to make space for him, she looked at him ques-tioningly.
"Don't go anywhere alone. Not until we have the decision handed down—no, not even then. Not until we know Crowley has left England."
"And I thought it was me who was melodramatic."
"I'm serious." Jaw setting, he took her hand. "Crowley is not some predictable English villain—he recognizes no law but that of the jungle. From the minute he learns of our plans until he returns to the jungle, or some other uncivilized place, you will not be safe." He trapped her gaze. "Promise me you won't go anywhere alone, and that, even in company, you'll restrict your outings to the purely social. No visits to the museum, or the Tower—no more searching at all. We have enough to defeat Crowley now. There's no reason whatever for you to place yourself in danger."
A gust of laughter had them both looking to where Charlie and Jeremy stood on the lawn, teasing Mary and Alice, seated on a rug.
"They're safe enough. While you remain within the ton, you'll all be safe—that's not an arena Crowley can move within without attracting immediate attention." Looking at Alathea, Gabriel squeezed her hand. "Promise me you'll take care."
Alathea looked into his eyes. She saw urgency and an unaccustomed softness in the hazel depths. "I'll be careful, but if—"
"No buts, no ifs." In a blink, all softness vanished from his face. Her knight-protector all but glared at her. "Promise."
A demand, no plea. Alathea glared back. "I'll be careful. I won't do anything silly. With that, you'll have to be content. I've never been yours to rule."
His expression, the granite hardness in his gaze, gave credence to his low growl, "You're treading on thin ice."
Yes, but what was underneath? Desperate to know, once and for all, Alathea returned his gaze haughtily. "I am my own person—not yours."
Hazel eyes fell into hazel. A long moment passed, then he looked away. His expression hardened as he gazed at Jeremy and Alice, Augusta and Mary. "Let me tell you what's going to happen after we gain our judgment against the Central East Africa Gold Company.
"First, we're getting married. Not in any hole-and-corner fashion, but right here, in the heart of the ton. St. Georges Church one fine June morning. After that, we'll divide our lives between London and Somerset—the Season in London, and various trips as required for business, but we'll spend most of the year at Quiverstone Manor. Aside from anything else, from there you and I can keep an eye on Morwellan Park and lend a hand if Charlie needs it. And you'll be there to watch Jeremy and Augusta grow. We can sponsor Augusta for her come-out, and while in London you'll be able to catch up with Mary and Esher, and Alice and Carstairs.
"In between, you can learn about those of the Manor's tenants you don't already know, and help Mama with all the thousand and one things she does about the estate, so you'll be ready to step in when she eventually flags. And there are Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, who, as you well know, will be thrilled to call you sister. You could try teaching them not to giggle—God knows, Mama hasn't managed it yet.
"The east wing will have to be redecorated, too. I never did more than order the old furniture cleaned. I don't even know the state of half of it, although my bed there is sound enough."
Alathea swallowed the question, "Sound enough for what?" The answer was not long in coming.
"And if all that doesn't keep you sufficiently amused, I have a number of other distractions planned—at least three sons and any number of daughters." Turning his head, he met her gaze. "Yours and mine. Ours. Our future."
She held his gaze steadily, and prayed he couldn't see how much the thought tugged at her heart.
"Picture it—us sitting under the old oak on the south lawn, watching our children play. Hearing the shrill voices, the laughter, the cries. Picking them up to soothe them, to comfort them, or perhaps just to hold them." He searched her eyes, his own hard as agates. "You've always liked children, you always expected to have a tribe of your own. That was always your dream, your destiny. You gave it up for your family, but now fate's handing it back to you." His gaze raked her face, then, as if satisfied with what he saw, he sat back and looked across the lawn. "I know you too well to believe you'd turn your back on that dream a second time."
His confidence tweaked Alathea's temper, but she shrugged the temptation to ire aside. His words—his pronouncement—should have chilled her; there'd been no loverlike softness in his words. He'd been all warrior—logical, practical—her knight-protector carrying her off to a new beginning, for which she should be duly grateful and acquiesce to all his decrees.
It was enough to make her laugh, but she didn't. If he'd been charming, presenting his arguments with the light, airy touch of which she knew he was capable, her heart would have sunk without trace. That was how he behaved in matters that did not touch him deeply. Instead, he'd presented her with his warrior side, all impenetrable granite and impregnable shield. She had to wonder what he was shielding. Lifting her chin, she fixed her gaze on his profile. "And what about us? You and me. The two of us together.
How do you see us?"
The question hit a nerve. His swift frown, an infinitesimal tensing of muscles otherwise under rigid control, told her so.
"I see us in bed," he growled, "and in a few other places, too. Do you want to know the details?" "No. I'm quite imaginative enough to supply my own."
"Well, then." But his tone had softened, as if in thinking of her question, he'd seen more than he'd expected. "I imagine we'll ride like we used to, every day. You always liked riding—do you still ride a lot?"
After an instant's hesitation, she said, "I sold all the horses years ago."
He nodded. "So we'll ride every day. And, I just realized, you can help me with the estate accounts, which will leave more time for riding. And investing—studying the news, weeding out the rumors, checking with Montague and my other contacts. I manage all the Cynster funds. You've dabbled to good effect with the Morwellan treasury, such as it was, but I play a more aggressive hand."
"I'm not particularly good at aggression."
"You can take an interest in the defensive side, then—the bonds and capital." He gestured expansively. 'That's how I see us."
Alathea waited a moment, then softly said, "You know perfectly well that's not what I meant. I wanted to know what you see between us."
His head whipped around and he scowled at her. "Thea—stop resisting. We'll be married soon. All I just said is going to happen—you know it is."
"I know nothing of the sort. Why do you imagine I'll agree to your dictates?"
He hesitated, his narrowed gaze locked with hers. Then he said, "You'll agree because you love me."
Alathea felt her lips part, felt her jaw drop. Horrified, she searched his eyes. The comprehension she saw horrified her even more. How could he know? She snapped her lips shut and fixed him with a militant glare. "I'll be the judge of whether I love you or not."
"Are you saying you don't?" His tone was a warning. "I'm saying I haven't yet made up my mind."
With a disgusted snort, he looked away. "Pull the other one."
Although he'd muttered, Alathea heard him. "You don't know that I love you—you can't know!" He looked her in the eye. "I do."
"How?"
After a moment, he looked away; this time, his gaze fastened on the jasmine, blooming in profusion over the gazebo, filling the arches, fragrant white blossoms nodding in the breeze. Catching a spray, he snapped it off. Looking down, he turned it in his hands, long fingers caressing the velvet-soft blooms. "How many men have you allowed to make love to you?"
Alathea stiffened. "You know perfectly well—"
"Precisely." He nodded, his gaze on the jasmine. "Only me. You don't know—"
Alathea waited; after a long moment, he drew breath and met her gaze. "I know you love me because of the way you give yourself to me. The way you are when you're in my arms."
"Well!" She fought down an urge to bluster. "As you're the only lover I've yet known—"
"Tell me,"—his steely words cut her off—"can you imagine being as you are with me, if it wasn't me with you but some other man?"
She stared at him. She couldn't begin to even form a mental picture; the idea was utterly foreign.
So foreign, she suddenly realized she'd lost sight of her agenda. "You're avoiding my point." It was a wrench to drag her mind from the avenues into which he'd lead it, to consider instead that if he knew she loved him, he'd be even more chivalrously inclined to wed her regardless of any other motive. The realization fueled a fresh rush of emotions, hope and frustration equally represented. Hope that the reason for his self-protective shield was a heart as vulnerable as hers; frustation over convincing him to lower his guard long enough for her to know.
She felt like clenching her fists, screwing her eyes shut, drumming her heels, and demanding he tell her the truth. Instead, she fixed her eyes on his and carefully enunciated, "I will not marry you until you tell me why you want to marry me, and place your hand on your heart and swear you've told me all—
every last one—of your reasons."
Those who thought him the epitome of a civilized gentleman would never have recognized the harshly primitive warrior who now faced her. Luckily, she'd encountered him often enough not to quake.
"Why?"
The very air shivered beneath that one word, so invested with suppressed passions—anger, frustration, and barely leashed desire.
Alathea didn't blink. "Because I need to know."
He held her gaze for so long, she began to feel giddy, then he wrenched his gaze from hers and abruptly stood. He looked out over the lawns, then glanced down at her.
His expression was impassive. With a flick of his fingers, he tossed the sprig of jasmine into her lap. "Don't you think we've wasted enough years?"
His gaze rose, touched hers, then he turned and strode down the steps.
Alathea sat in the gazebo mentally replaying their exchanges, wondering, if she had the chance, if she would say anything different, do anything different, or manage to achieve anything more.
At the end of an hour, she lifted the jasmine and inhaled the heady scent. She focused on the sprig, then, with a self-deprecating grimace, tucked it into her cleavage.
For luck.
She'd diced with fate for her sisters and won. She'd just played for her own future—had she told him she wasn't aggressive? She'd risked everything on a last throw.
She'd do it again in a blink.
With a sigh, she rose and headed for the house.
Chapter 19
« ^ »
Sunday evening. Gabriel let himself into his house with his latchkey. As he closed the door, Chance materialized from the back of the hall.
Gabriel handed him his hat and cane. "Is there brandy in the parlor?" "Indeed, sir."
Gabriel waved a dismissal. "I won't need anything more tonight." He stopped with his hand on the parlor doorknob. "One thing—did Folwell bring his report?"
"Aye, sir—it's on the mantelshelf."
"Good." Entering the parlor, Gabriel shut the door and headed straight for the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers of brandy, then, glass in hand, lifted Folwell's missive from the mantelpiece and
slumped into his favorite armchair. He took a long sip, his gaze on the folded sheet, then, setting both glass and note down on a side table, he pressed his hands to his eyes.
God, he was tired. Over the last week, aside from the time he'd spent with Alathea and a few restless hours' sleep, he'd devoted every waking minute to trying to shake formal statements—statements with legal weight—from a score of civil servants and foreign ambassadors' aides. To no avail. It wasn't that the gentlemen didn't want to be helpful; it was simply the way of governmental authority the world around. Everything had to be checked and triple-checked, and then authorized by someone else. Time, it seemed, was measured on a different scale in Whitehall and foreign parts both.
Sighing deeply, Gabriel stretched out his legs and leaned his head back, eyes closed. It wasn't his failure on the foreign front that was worrying him.
He'd called on Captain Aloysius Struthers that afternoon. Even from that short interview, it was clear that the captain was indeed the savior Alathea had thought him. His testimony, even in the absence of any further facts beyond those they'd already gleaned, would prompt the most reticent judge to a speedy and favorable decision. The problem was the captain had embarked on a crusade with all flags flying. He'd already contacted acquaintances in search of maps and mining leases.
Gabriel wasn't at all sure that was the way to sling a noose around Crowley's neck. Stealth might have been wiser.
He'd spent half an hour urging Struthers to caution, but the man hadn't wanted to listen. He was fixated on bringing Crowley down. In the end, Gabriel had accepted that and left, trying to ignore the presentiment of danger resonating, clarionlike, in his mind.
As long as Struthers appeared at Chancery Court on Tuesday morning, all would be well. Until then, however, the investigation and his nerves would teeter on a knife edge. One wrong move…
Opening his eyes, he straightened, reached for his glass, and grimly sipped. There was nothing more he could do tonight to bolster the Morwellan cause. It was, however, time and past that he attended to the other matter on his plate.
He was a coward.
A difficult fact for a Cynster to face, but face it he must. She had given him no choice.
He hadn't seen Alathea since their meeting in the gazebo the previous afternoon. Indeed, he didn't want to see her, not until he'd decided what to do, how to respond to her ultimatum. She made him feel so… primitive, so stripped of all his elegant attitudes, the patina of his social charm. With her, he felt like a caveman, one who had suddenly discovered heaven on earth was beyond the ability of his club to provide. He'd painted the details of their future life intending to lure her into admitting how desirable it would be, to show her how easily their lives would mesh. Instead, he'd opened his own eyes to how desperately he wanted all that he'd described.
He hadn't considered the details before—he'd known he wanted her as his wife and that had been enough. But now that he'd conjured up such visions in all their glory, they haunted him.
And pricked and prodded at his cowardice.
Was he going to risk that future—the glorious future that should be theirs—simply because he couldn't find the words to tell her what she wanted to know? Because the mere thought of what she truly meant to him closed his throat and rendered him incapable of speech?
But there were no words to encompass all she was to him, so how the devil could he tell her?
He swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and brooded on that fact. But he had to tell her, and soon. Patience had never been his strong suit—patience that entailed concommitant abstinence was utterly foreign to his nature. He'd endured more than a week without her; his stock of patience was stretched vanishingly thin. He certainly wasn't about to let the court case run its course and risk her slipping back to the country. If she did, he'd have to hie after her, and just think how revealing that would be to the now all-too-interested ton.
No—he had to speak before Tuesday morning. God knew how things would pan out after that, Struthers or no. And if, by some hellish twist of fate, things went awry and the decision went against them… if he waited until then to drum up his courage and speak, it might take forever to convince her he wasn't simply doing his all to whisk her into his protection. He'd probably go insane before he succeeded. Best to strike now, when their case looked strong, so she had less justification to attribute all his motive to his admittedly obsessive protective instinct. He wasn't sorry for that instinct—he wouldn't dream of apologizing for it—but he could see that in this case, it was going to get in his way.
So—how to tell her what she insisted on knowing before Tuesday morning?
He couldn't see himself doing the deed via a formal morning call, and trying to talk to her in the park would be insane. Reaching for Folwell's note, he scanned the list of Alathea's engagements. As he'd supposed, the next time he and she would unavoidably meet was at the Marlboroughs' ball tomorrow night.
They'd meet at Chancery Court the next morning.
Gabriel grimaced. How, between appearing in court and now, did fate expect him to declare his hand, let alone his heart?
"Send Nellie up to me, Crisp. I may as well get ready."
"Indeed, Lady Alathea. I believe Nellie's with Figgs. I'll inform her immediately." Crisp sailed on through the green baize door.
Alathea climbed the stairs, doggedly ignoring her constantly vacillating emotions. On the one hand, she felt almost hysterical with relief, buoyed to the point of frivolity over having the sword that had hung over the family's future for the past months all but effectively removed. The captain's testimony would carry the day against Ranald Crowley. There were moments when she had to concentrate to keep a silly grin from her face.
She had mentioned to her father and Serena that matters were looking up. A superstitious quirk had stopped her from assuring them that the family was finally safe. That she would do later in the week, the instant the judge handed down his decision.
But they were safe. She knew it in her heart.
Her heart, unfortunately, was otherwise engaged, not at all inclined to share in her imminent joy. On a matter that had, to her considerable surprise, come to mean more to her than even her family, her heart was troubled. Uneasy. Unfulfilled.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she released her skirts and sighed. What was he up to?
She hadn't seen him, or heard from him since he'd left her in the gazebo, his harsh words "Don't you think we've wasted enough years?" ringing in her ears. So what now? Did he imagine she'd weaken and meekly acquiesce?
"Hah!" Lips compressing, she swept down the wing and flung open the door to her room. Nellie's footsteps came pattering after her.
"I want that ivory and gold gown—the one I was saving for a special occasion." "Oooh!" Nellie darted to the wardrobe. "What's the occasion, then?"
Alathea sat before her dressing table; in the mirror, she considered the militant light in her eyes. "I haven't yet decided."
She wasn't going to do it—weaken and give in. She was going to be tenacious, stubborn—she was utterly determined. As far as she could see, she was the one who had taken all the risks thus far—in demanding his sworn motives, in being so naively transparent. It was time he did his part and told her the full truth.
A tap on the door heralded her bathwater. While Nellie oversaw the preparations, Alathea unpinned and brushed her hair, then wound it in a simple knot. Nellie came to fetch her usual bath salts; she mumbled through lips clamped about hairpins, "No—not those. The French sachets."
Nellie's brows rose, but she hurried to the drawer where the expensive birthday present from Serena was secreted. A moment later, a lush scent reminiscent of the countess's perfume wreathed through the room.
Nellie's face was gleefully alight; without further direction, she assembled all required to turn Alathea out at her finest—at her most seductive.
It was nearly an hour later before they were done. As she settled a gold cap on her hair, Alathea studied her reflection, trying to see herself through his eyes. Her hair shone, her eyes were wide and bright. Her complexion—something she rarely considered—was flawless. The years had erased all traces of youth from both face and figure, leaving both honed, refined. She touched her fingers lightly to her lips, then smiled. Swiftly, she scanned the expanse of her shoulders and breasts revealed by the exquisite gown, one Serena had forced on her earlier in the Season.
Sending heartfelt thanks winging her stepmother's way, Alathea stood. The gown rustled as the stiff silk fell straight, the gold embroidery at neckline and hem glittering. Stepping back, she turned, studying her outline, the way the gown caressed her hips. Determination glowed in her eyes.
As far as she was concerned the next move was Gabriel's, especially given he'd been so helpful as to make her declaration for her. Being naively transparent was bad enough—having one's transparency explained to one was infinitely worse.
She wasn't going to budge. He was going to have to convince her, utterly, completely, beyond a shadow—
"Here!" Nellie turned from the door to which a tap had summoned her. "Look what's come." Alerted by the wonder in Nellie's voice, Alathea looked around.
Reverently holding a white-and-gilt box, Nellie gazed delightedly on what it contained. Then she beamed at Alathea. "It's for you—and there's a note!"
Alathea's heart leaped; her lungs seized. She sank back down on her dressing stool. As Nellie approached with the box, Alathea realized the reason for her awestruck expression. The box wasn't white—it was glass lined with white silk. It wasn't gilt, either—the decorations at corners, hinge and latch were all pure gold.
As Nellie gave it into her hands, Alathea could not imagine anything more exquisite. What on earth did it contain?
She didn't need to open it to find out. The lid was not lined. Through it, she saw a simple posy.
Simple, yes; in all other respects the posy was a match for the box. A group of five white flowers of a kind she'd never seen were secured with a ribbon of gold filigree. The posy nestled amid the white silk, all but hiding the note beneath. The petals of the flowers were lush, thick, velvety, the green of their stems a sharp contrast.
It was the most elaborate, expensive, extravagant come-out posy Alathea had ever seen.
Swivelling on the stool, she set the box on her dressing table and raised the lid. A drift of perfume reached her, sensual and heavy. Once inhaled, it didn't leave her. Carefully sliding her fingers beneath the flowers, she lifted the posy and set it aside. Then she drew out the note. Barely breathing, she opened it.
The message was simple—a single line in his bold, aggressive hand.
You have my heart—don't break it.
She read the words three times and still couldn't tear her eyes away. Then her vision misted; she blinked, swallowed. Her hand began to shake. Quickly folding the note, she laid it down.
And concentrated on dragging in her next breath.
"Oh, dear," she finally managed, and even that wavered. Blinking frantically, she stared at the posy. "Oh,
heavens. What on earth am I to do?"
"Why you'll carry it, of course. Very nice, I must say."
"No, Nellie, you don't understand." Alathea put her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, how like him to make it complicated!"
"Him, who? Master Rupert?"
"Yes. Gabriel. He's called that now."
Nellie sniffed. "Well, I can't see why you can't carry his flowers, even if he is using some other name."
Alathea swallowed a hysterical laugh. "It's not his name, Nellie, it's me. I can't carry a girl's come-out posy."
He'd known, of course. She'd never had her come-out, never received a come-out posy, never had the opportunity to carry one.
"Damn the man!" She felt like weeping with happiness. "What am I to do?" She'd never felt so flustered in her life. She wanted to carry the flowers, to pick them up, rush out of the door like an eager young girl, and hurry to the ball just so she could show him—her lover—that she understood.
But… "The scandalmongers are watching us as it is." If she carried the posy, they'd be the on-dit of the night. Possibly the whole Season.
"Maybe I can wear them as a corsage?" She tried it, angling the flowers this way, then that, at her right, her left, in the center of her neckline.
"No." She sighed. "It won't do." One flower wasn't enough against the gold embroidery, but three, the number needed to balance the spray, was too much, too large. Far too visible. Aside from anything else, the spray would be in her constant vision—facing him over it, spending the evening with him by her side with his flowers so blatantly between them would be impossible. She'd never maintain her composure.
"I can't." Dismayed, she gazed at the beautiful blooms—at the favor her warrior had sent her as a token of his heart. She desperately wanted to carry them, but didn't dare. "Fetch a vase, Nellie."
With a disapproving humph, Nellie left.
Alathea cradled the posy in her hands, and let all that it meant wash through her. Then she heard Mary's and Alice's voices; blinking, sniffing, she gently laid the posy back in the box and set it to one side of the table. In a daze, she finished her toilette, clasping her mother's pearls about her throat, placing the matching drops in her ears, lavishly dabbing on the countess's perfume.
"Allie? Are you ready?"
"Yes. I'm coming!" Her wits whirling, she rose. Her gaze on the posy, cradled in its delicate box, she breathed in, exhaled, then picked up her reticule and turned.
"Hurry! The coach is here!"
"I'm coming." Reaching the threshold, Alathea lingered. Her hand on the door, she looked back at the delicate box he'd used to send her his heart.
Her gaze lifted to the mirror beyond, to her own reflection.
A moment later, she blinked. Leaving the door, she re-crossed the room.
Halting before the dressing table, she picked up his note. She reread his message, then looked again at her reflection.
Her lips twisted, lifted. Tucking the note into her jewelry box, she raised her hands to her cap.
It took a moment to ease out the pins. Alathea ignored the chorus of calls wafting along the corridor. This time, her family could wait.
Laying aside the cap, she quickly unwound the posy. She wrapped the ribbon around the tight bun on the top of her head and tied it in a simple knot, the trailing ends interleaving with the surrounding curls.
Fingers shaking, she separated three luscious blooms from the arrangement. By the time she'd threaded the stems into her thick hair and secured them with pins, she was smiling, her heart soaring, her face mirroring her joy.
Nellie rushed in, vase in hand, and abruptly halted. "Oh, my! Well, now! That's better!"
"Put the others in water. I have to rush." Whirling, Alathea squeezed Nellie's arm, then, breathless, ran to the door.
Brows high, Nellie watched her go, then, a broad smile wreathing her face, she bustled to the dressing table. She placed the two remaining blooms in the vase, then carefully carried it to the table beside the
bed. Nellie wiped her hands and returned to the dressing table to tidy Alathea's combs and brush. She was about to turn away when the folded note poking out from Alathea's jewelry box caught her eye.
Nellie cast a glance at the door, then lifted the lid of the jewelry box and took out the note. She unfolded it, read it, then refolded it and replaced it. And chuckled delightedly. "You'll do, my lad. You'll do."
Gabriel saw his flowers in Alathea's hair the instant she appeared in the archway giving onto Lady Marlborough's ballroom. The sight transfixed him; joy, relief, and something far more primal locked his lungs. Pausing with her family at the top of the stairs, Alathea looked down, over the ballroom, but didn't immediately see him. His gaze didn't leave her as she slowly descended the broad sweep, one hand lightly skimming the balustrade as she searched the throng.
Then she saw him.
He drew breath and started toward her. His eyes didn't leave her face as he closed the distance between them; he had no recollection of those he passed as he cleaved through the crowd. He reached the newel post before her.
She descended the last steps, her gaze locked with his, pausing on the very last, higher than he, then she stepped down to the floor and angled her head so he could study the blooms.
"I couldn't carry them—you do understand?"
Triumph washed through him, a rolling wave that nearly brought him to his knees. "Your alternative is inspired." He took her hand; uncaring of any who might be watching, he carried it to his lips. His eyes held hers. "My lady."
Some magical force held them trapped, hazel drowning in hazel, so close they could sense each breath the other took, each beat of the other's heart. Neither could manage a smile.
"And about time, too, but do get a move on! There's a seat on a chaise over there I want to snare."
Alathea jumped and whirled. Gabriel looked up, into Lady Osbaldestone's black eyes. She grinned evilly and poked his arm. "Don't let me stop you in your rush into parson's mousetrap, but do get out of my way!"
They did; Lady Osbaldestone pushed past them and stumped into the throng. Gabriel turned as Alathea took his arm.
"We'd better do as she says."
Placing his hand over hers, he guided her into the already dense crowd.
"We were late," Alathea murmured. "Only by a few minutes, but it put us so far back in the queue of carriages…"
"I was beginning to wonder if something had happened…"
Something had. Alathea met his eyes; they were gently smiling, magnanimous in victory. She looked away. "You know, I would never have expected flowers from you."
She said nothing more; the muscles under her hand slowly tensed. "There was a note with the flowers…"
Alathea turned smiling eyes his way. "I know. I read it."
He drew her to a halt, his eyes searching hers. "Just as long as you understood it."
His tone held aggression, uncertainty, and a strong undercurrent of vulnerability. Alathea let her expression soften, let her guard down enough for him to see her heart in her eyes. "Of course I understood it."
He looked deep into her eyes, then he released the breath he'd held. "Just don't forget it. Even if you never hear or see the words again, they'll always be true. Don't forget."
"I won't. Not ever."
The noisy crowd around them had faded. For a moment, they remained in that world where only they existed, then Alathea smiled softly, squeezed his arm, and drew them both back to the present. She glanced about. "You could have chosen an evening more conducive to your declaration."
Gabriel sighed and they started to stroll. "Our whole courtship—no, our joint lives thus far have been dictated by circumstance. I'm looking forward to shaking free of the shackles and taking charge of our reins."
"Indeed?" Regally, Alathea exchanged nods with Lady Cowper. "Might I suggest that you resign yourself to sharing the reins?"
Gabriel shot her a glance; his brow quirked. "I'll think about it."
They strolled on through the crush, encountering no member of either of their families. "This is ridiculous," Alathea stated as the press of bodies forced them to a halt. "Thank heaven there's are only a few weeks to go."
"Speaking of time passing, has Struthers contacted you?" Surrendering to the inevitable, Gabriel drew her out of the parading crowd to a spot where they could stand and converse in reasonable comfort.
"No. Why? I thought you were going to see him."
"I did. I told him my address and to get in touch with me if he needed any help, but he hasn't."
"Well." Alathea shrugged and looked about. "Presumably that means all's well and we'll see him tomorrow in court." She smiled and held out her hand. "Good evening, Lord Falworth."
Falworth took her hand and bowed. Gabriel inwardly cursed. Within minutes, her entire court had gathered. They must have located her by tracking him, tall enough to be followed through the jostling throng. Lord Montgomery prosed on; Falworth and others attempted to capture the conversation and steer it in their own directions. A social smile on her lips, Alathea pretended to follow, nodding and murmuring at appropriate moments.
The first waltz and she would be his again. Unfortunately, Lady Marlborough was of an older generation; she'd scheduled a great many cotillions and even a quadrille amid a host of country dances. He'd be waiting a while for his waltz.
Meanwhile…
"Dear Lady Alathea, I most earnestly implore your favor in this dance." Montgomery bowed low. Mr. Simpkins regarded his lordship with unconcealed dislike. "Lady Alathea, you need only say the
word. I would be honored to partner you." Simpkins's bow was abbreviated to the point of abruptness.
Alathea smiled serenely on them all, her gaze at the last touching Gabriel's. "I fear, gentlemen," she said, turning back to her court, "that I will not be dancing, in general, this evening."
They all heard the qualification. They'd all seen that swift, shared glance. Now they all wondered. Furiously.
"Ahem." Lord Montgomery struggled not to glare at Gabriel. "Might one enquire… ?"
Alathea waved at the crowd. "It's far too exhausting to even imagine fighting one's way to the dance floor." Again she favored them with a serene smile. "I prefer to enjoy your conversation and"—her gaze slid to Gabriel's face—"save my energies for the waltzes."
His expression inscrutable, he met her gaze, then arrogantly raised a brow. If her court had not yet got the message, the moment, heavy with blatant sensuality, should have opened their eyes. The warrior within him roared in triumph; he hesitated, then inclined his head and tore his gaze from hers. While his primitive self gloated at her gesture, it was doing nothing for his composure, further eroding the thin veneer that, where she was concerned, was all that hid his true feelings from the world.
Now she'd all but publicly declared that she was his, surely his possessiveness could relax, triumphant? Unfortunately, he felt anything but relaxed. Alathea reinstituted a conversation with Falworth, regally ignoring the not-quite-convinced looks on Montgomery's and Simpkins's faces. Gabriel tried to stand easily beside her and not think of what he'd rather be doing.
Both proved impossible. She'd been right. Marlborough House filled to the rafters was not a useful venue for what he would prefer to be doing with her, to her. Finding an empty parlor tonight would be impossible. Was there any other way they could steal an hour or so alone? With the conversations about them droning in his ears, he considered all the options, regretfully rejecting every one. He slanted her a glance. The instant she and her family were free of Crowley's threat, he would have to kidnap her, for a few hours at least. Long enough to soothe the beast within.
Thinking of how he would soothe his clamorous needs did nothing to ease them. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched his thoughts onto a different track. Struthers. He'd sent Chance to call on the old seadog at noon, offering his services in any helpful capacity. The captain had, not entirely unexpectedly, sent Chance off with a gruff but polite refusal. Chance had obeyed orders and kept watch on the run-down lodging house in the Clerkenwell Road. The captain had left late in the afternoon and headed for the City, then on toward the docks. Chance had faithfully tracked him, a talent learned in his previous existence, but the captain must have sensed he was being followed. He'd gone into a tavern and then disappeared. Chance had searched the three alleys the tavern gave access to, but hadn't been able to find the old man. Defeated, he'd returned to Brook Street to report.
If the captain was fly enough to lose Chance, then he could take care of himself. Presumably. The presentiment of danger that had struck Gabriel on first meeting the captain continued to nag at him.
Shifting, he glanced at Alathea. At least she was safe. From Crowley. She wasn't entirely safe—not in her terms— from him. They had nigh on a decade to make up for, and more than one event to celebrate. His gaze rose to her hair, to the gift he'd given her that had finally accomplished what he'd sought for so many years to achieve. He'd gotten rid of her damned caps. Never again would she wear one—he'd ensure she never even thought of it.
All of which added to his tension, to the impatience he could feel rising like a tide, a building pressure he could do nothing to release, not here, not now. He drew in an increasingly tight breath and refocused on
her face, abruptly conscious that he was nearing the end of his severely strained tether. He glanced around at the gentlemen surrounding them; none posed as much of a threat to her as he.
Straightening, he shifted closer, all too aware of the countess's provocative perfume gently rising from her warm flesh. The thought of how much more strongly that scent would rise once her skin heated with passion had him clenching one fist.
Risking a scene at this point was senseless. He'd do better to take his clamoring instincts, possessive and otherwise, a short distance away.
A sudden gust of laughter from a nearby group had her court looking behind them. He seized the opportunity, touching the back of Alathea's arm, fingers light on the soft skin bare above her glove.
Vivid awareness streaked through him—and her. It was there in her wide eyes as she looked up. "What?"
The word was breathless; she was as giddy as he. "I'd better circulate. I'll be back for the first waltz."
Her gaze dropped to his lips. They were so close, they could sense each other's breaths. She moistened her lips. "Perhaps," she whispered, "that might be… wise."
She lifted her gaze to his. Gabriel nodded.
He managed to turn away without touching his lips to hers.
Alathea watched him go, then, with an inward sigh, she returned her attention to her court as, the nearby ruckus abating, they turned back to her. She was relieved Gabriel had taken himself off; she'd sensed his suppressed tension. The fact that she now knew what caused it—what it truly was—did not make being its subject any less unsettling. Nevertheless, she would much rather have gotten rid of all her court, slipped away on his arm, and done all she could to ease him.
Keeping her social smile in place, she encouraged her court to entertain her. Her heart, however, wasn't in it. When a footman pushed through to her side, a folded note on a salver, that unruly organ leaped. Her first thought was that her warrior had found some bolt hole and was summoning her to his side.
The truth proved more disturbing. Dear Lady Alathea,
I have secured all the information I sought and more. I have evidence enough to discredit Crowley's scheme but have been summoned back to my ship and must up anchor and depart on the morning tide. You must come at once—I must explain some of the details of the maps and documents in person, and it will be vital to your cause for me to make a signed deposition before witnesses, and leave the whole in your hands.
I implore you do not dally—I must weigh anchor the instant the tide turns. Take heart, dear lady—the end is nigh. All the necessary documents will shortly be in your hands and you will be able to send Crowley to the devil.
I have taken the liberty of sending a carriage and escort for you. You may trust the men implicitly—they know where to bring you. But you must come at once or all may be lost!
Your respectful servant, Aloysius Struthers, Captn.
Alathea looked up. Her court were chatting among themselves, giving her a moment of privacy in which to read her note. She turned to the footman. "Is there a carriage waiting?"
"Aye, my lady. A carriage and a number of… men."
They'd probably be sailors. Alathea nodded. "Please tell the men I'll be with them directly."
The footman was too well-trained to show any reaction. He bowed and withdrew to do her bidding. Alathea touched Falworth's arm and smiled at Lord Montgomery, Lord Coleburn, and Mr. Simpkins. "I'm afraid, gentlemen, that I'll have to leave you. An urgent summons from a sick relative."
They murmured sympathetically; she doubted they believed her. Alathea inclined her head and left them. Stepping into the crowd, she lifted her head, scanning the throng. She couldn't see Gabriel.
"Damn!" Muttering under her breath, she started to quarter the room. He'd been tripping over her skirts for weeks. Now, when she needed him, he was nowhere to be found. The crowd was so dense, she couldn't be certain she wasn't crossing paths with him. She saw Celia, and Serena, and the twins, but their cousin was not to be found. Nor was Lucifer. Stepping onto the bottom of the ballroom stairs, Alathea cast an exasperated glance around, but could see no one—not even any of the other Cynsters—who might be of use.
"My lady?" The footman materialized at her elbow. "The men are very insistent that you leave right away."
"Yes, very well." With one last disgusted glance about the packed room, Alathea picked up her skirts, turned—and spied Chillingworth talking with a group of other guests in the lee of the stairs. "One moment."
She left the footman and plunged into the crowd. With a laugh and a bow, Chillingworth turned away from his friends as she pushed nearer. He saw her instantly.
He started to smile, then he took in her expression. He searched her eyes. "What's wrong?"
Alathea caught the hand he held out to her and pressed the note she held into it. "Please—see this gets to Gabriel. It's important. I have to leave."
"Where are you going?" Chillingworth closed his hand about both the note and her fingers. He glanced at the footman on the stairs as another liveried servant hurried down to whisper in the first's ear.
Alathea followed his gaze. "I have to go with someone—that's a message. Gabriel will understand." With a skill honed through years of wrestling with Cynsters, she twisted free of Chillingworth's grasp. "Just make sure he gets it as soon as possible."
The first footman had pushed through to her side. "My lady, the sailors are growing restive." "Sailors!" Chillingworth grabbed for her arm.
Alathea eluded him. Pushing past the footman, she hurried to the stairs. "I haven't time to explain." She threw the words back at Chillingworth, following as fast as he could in her wake. "Just get that note to Gabriel."
Reaching the less-crowded stairs, she lifted her skirts and hurried up. "Alathea! Stop!"
She didn't. She kept doggedly on to the top, then rushed through the archway and on out of the house.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Chillingworth stared after her. An influx of guests swept down, making it impossible for him to follow her. Other guests who'd heard him bellow cast him odd looks. His lips setting grimly, he ignored them. "Damn!" He looked at the note crumpled in his fist, then he turned and surveyed the throng. "Serve Cynster bloody well right."
He found Gabriel in the card room, shoulders propped against the wall, idly watching a game of whist. "This"—Chillingworth thrust the note at him—"is for you."
"Oh?" Gabriel straightened. His tickle of presentiment changed to a full-blown punch. He took the note. "From whom?"
"I don't know. Alathea Morwellan charged me to see it to you, but I doubt it's from her. She's left the house."
Gabriel was busy scanning the note; reaching the end, he swore. He looked at Chillingworth. "She's gone?"
Chillingworth nodded. "And yes, I did try to stop her, but you haven't trained her very well. She doesn't respond to voice commands."
"She doesn't respond to any commands." Gabriel's attention was on the note. "Damn! This doesn't look good." His expression hardened. He hesitated, then handed the note to Chillingworth. "What's your reading of it?"
Chillingworth read the letter, then grimaced. "He's effectively told her to 'come immediately' three times. Not good."
"My feelings exactly." Retaking the note, Gabriel stuffed it into his pocket and pushed past Chillingworth. "Now all I have to do is figure out where the hell she's gone."
"Sailors." Chillingworth followed in Gabriel's wake. "The footman said the men waiting for her were sailors."
"The docks. Wonderful."
They were nearing the stairs when Chillingworth, still behind Gabriel, said, "I'll come with you—we can take my carriage."
Gabriel threw him a look over his shoulder. "I'm not going to feel that grateful, you know."
"My only interest in this," Chillingworth replied as they went quickly up the stairs, "is in getting the damned woman back so she can plague you for the rest of your life."
Reaching the top of the stairs, they made their way through the gallery, then descended the grand staircase and strode across the front foyer. They swept up to the main door, shoulder to shoulder—
Looking back over his shoulder, down the steps to the forecourt, Charlie Morwellan collided with them
on the threshold. He fell back. "Sorry." He started to bow then recognized Gabriel. "I say—do you know where Alathea's gone?" He looked toward the road leading to the City. "I can't understand why she had to go with that rough lot—"
Gabriel grabbed him by the shoulders. "Where did they go? Did you get any idea?" Charlie blinked at him. "Pool of London, Execution Dock, as a matter fact." Gabriel released him. "You're sure?"
Charlie nodded. "I was getting some air—terribly stuffy in there—and struck up a conversation with the sailor by the carriage." He was talking to two departing backs; Charlie started down the steps in their wake. "Here—where are you going?"
"After your sister," Gabriel ground out He shot a glance at Chillingworth. "Which carriage?"
"The small one." Chillingworth was striding along, scanning the ranks of carriages drawn up along the road.
"I might have known," Gabriel muttered.
"Indeed you might," Chillingworth retorted. "I, at least, had plans for the night." Gabriel had had plans, too, but—
"There it is!"
Together with a score of other coachmen, Chillingworth's coachman had left his master's unmarked carriage in the care of two of their number while the rest adjourned to a nearby tavern.
"I can run like the wind and 'ave your man here in a jiffy, guv'nor," one of the watchers offered. "No—we haven't time. Tell Billings to make his own way home."
"Aye, sir."
The carriage was wedged between two others; it took the combined efforts of Gabriel, Charlie, and the two coachmen to clear the way sufficiently for Chillingworth to ease his carriage free. He waited only until Gabriel swung up to the box seat alongside him and Charlie leaped on the back before giving his blacks the office.
"Billings is going to have a heart attack." Chillingworth glanced at Gabriel. "But never mind that. What's going on?"
Gabriel told them, omitting only the extreme extent to which the Morwellans were at financial risk. "So she thinks she's going to meet this captain?"
"Yes, but it's all too pat. Why tonight, the last night before the petition is lodged? I spoke with his shipping line only last Friday and they had no expectation of the captain sailing so soon. Struthers himself didn't expect to sail for weeks."
"This Crowley character. What's his caliber?"
"Dangerous, unprincipled—a gutter rat grown fat. One with no known scruples."
Chillingworth glanced at Gabriel, taking in the cast of his features, the granite-hard expression thrown into harsh relief by the street lamps. "I see." His own expression hardening, Chillingworth looked back at his horses.
"Alathea'll be all right," Charlie assured them. "No need to worry about her. She's more than a match for any rogue."
Unslayable confidence rang in his tone; Gabriel and Chillingworth exchanged a glance, but neither made any move to explain that Crowley was no mere rogue.
He was a villain.
"Pool of London," Chillingworth mused, reaching for his whip. "Vessels can leave directly from there." With a flick of his wrist, he urged his horses on, clattering down along the Strand.
Chapter 2O
« ^ »
The coach carrying Alathea rocked and swayed as it rumbled along the dock. Clutching the window frame, she peered out on a world of dark shadows, of looming hulks rocking on the wash of the tide. Ropes creaked, timbers groaned. The soft slap of black water against the dock's pylons was as inexorable as a heartbeat.
Alathea's own heart was beating a touch faster, anticipation high but in this setting, tempered by caution and a primitive fear. She shrugged the latter off as the product of a too-vivid imagination. For centuries, convicted pirates had been hung off Execution Dock, but if ghosts walked, surely they wouldn't haunt a site so steeped in justice? Surely it was a good omen that it was to this place in all the dingy sprawl of the London docks that the captain had summoned her. She, too, sought justice.
The coach jerked to a halt. She looked out, but all she could see was the black denseness of a ship's side.
The carriage door was hauled open. A head swathed in a sailor's kerchief was outlined against the night. "If you'll be giving me your hand, ma'am, I'll be a-helping you up the gangplank."
While undeniably rough, the sailors had been as courteous as they knew how; Alathea surrendered her hand and allowed the sailor to help her from the carriage.
"Thank you." She straightened, feeling like a beacon in the dark of the night, her ivory silk gown shimmering in the moonlight. She hadn't worn cloak or shawl to the ball; the night in Mayfair had been balmy. Here, a faint breeze lifted off the water, brushing cool fingers across her bare shoulders. Ignoring the sudden chill, she accepted the sailor's proffered arm.
The dock beneath her feet was reassuringly solid, the wide planking strewn with ropes, pulleys, and crates. She was grateful for the sailor's brawny arm as she stepped over and around various obstacles. He led her to a gangway; she clutched the rope as they climbed, crossing the dark chasm above the choppy water between the dock and the hull.
She stepped onto the deck, grateful when it did not heave and tilt as much as she'd feared. The movement was so slight she could easily keep her balance. Reassured, she looked around. The sailor led
the way to a hatch. As he bent to lift the cover, Alathea inwardly frowned. When the captain had said he plied cargo from Africa, she'd imagined a ship rather bigger. This vessel was larger than a yacht, yet…
The thud of the hatch cover had her turning. The sailor gestured to the opening, lit by a lamp from somewhere below.
"If'n you'll just climb down the ladder, ma'am…" He ducked his head apologetically.
Alathea smiled. "I'll manage." Gathering her skirts in one hand, she grasped the side of the hatch and felt for the top rung with her foot. Carefully placing her slippered feet, she stepped down the worn wooden rungs. A rope formed a handrail; once she'd gripped it, the rest was easy. As she descended, a corridor opened up before her. It ran the length of the vessel, with doors on both sides staggered along its length. The door at the very end was half open; lamplight shone from beyond.
As she stepped onto the lower deck and let her skirts fall, Alathea wondered why the captain had not come out to greet her.
The hatch clanged shut.
Alathea looked up. A thick iron bolt slid heavily across the hatch, locking it in place. She whirled, clutching the ladder's rope—
Her gaze locked on Crowley's face.
Through the open rungs of the ladder, he watched her, black, bottomless eyes searching her face, watching, waiting…
Alathea's lungs seized. He was watching to see her fear. Waiting to gloat. Mentally scrambling, her wits all but falling over themselves in panic, she drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, and lifted her chin. "Who are you?"
She was pleased with her tone—regal, ready to turn contemptuous. Crowley didn't immediately react. A faint trace of surprise gleamed in his eyes; he hesitated, then deliberately stepped out from behind the ladder.
"Good evening, my lady."
Alathea was seized by an overwhelming urge to stuff him back behind the ladder. She was used to tall men, large men. Both Gabriel and Lucifer were as tall as Crowley, possibly even taller. But neither they nor any of the men she knew had Crowley's weight. His bulk. He was massive—a bull of a man—and none of it looked like fat. Hard and mean, his presence at close quarters threatened to smother her. It was an effort to bristle rather than flee. She raised one brow. "Are we acquainted?" Her tone made it clear there was no possibility of that.
To her increasing disquiet, Crowley's thick lips curved. "Let's not play games, my dear—at least, not those games."
"Games?" Alathea looked down her nose at him. "I have no idea what you mean."
He reached out, not quickly but without warning; there was nothing she could do—no space—to avoid the thick fingers that closed about her wrist. Her gaze locked on his, Alathea refused to let her rising panic show. Her chin set. "I have not the faintest idea of what you are talking about."
She tested his grip. It was unbreakable—and he wasn't even trying.
"I'm talking," he continued, ignoring her futile attempt to break free, "of the interest you've shown in the Central East Africa Gold Company." He brought his black gaze fully to bear on her eyes. "One of my enterprising schemes."
"I'm a lady of quality. I have absolutely no interest whatever in any 'enterprising schemes.' Least of all yours."
"So one would have thought," Crowley agreed equably. "It was quite a surprise to learn differently. Struthers, of course, tried to deny it, but…" Locking his grip on Alathea's wrist, he drew her arm up, forcing her to face him.
"St-Struthers?" Alathea stared at him.
"Hmm." Crowley's gaze locked on her breasts. "The captain and I had a most satisfactory conversation." His gaze swept down, raking her insolently. "It was impossible for Struthers to explain why a paper bearing your name and direction in what was obviously a lady's hand was so carefully placed with his maps and the copies of those damned leases."
Returning his gaze to her face, Crowley smiled unpleasantly. "Swales remembered the name. After that, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. You Morwellans have decided to try to weasel out of honoring the promissory note your father signed." Crowley's gaze hardened. Fingers tightening on her wrist, he shook her. "Shame on you!"
Alathea's temper flared. "Shame on us! I hardly think the notion applies to chousing a cheat out of his ill-gotten gains."
"It does when I'm the cheat." Crowley's jaw set pugnaciously. "I know how to hold my own, and as far as I'm concerned, your father's wealth became mine the instant he signed that note."
He shook her again, just enough to let her feel his strength and how puny hers was pitted against it. "Family honor—bah! You can forget all concerns about that. You'll have more than enough to concern yourself with, with what I've got planned for you."
The pure malice in his snarl seized her; Alathea fought down her fear. Some fleeting flare must have shown in her eyes—his demeanor changed in an instant, the change itself so quick it was frightening. "Oh-ho! Like that, is it?" Eyes gleaming, he shoved her against the wall. "Well, then, let me tell you what I've planned."
He leaned closer; Alathea fought not to turn her head away, forced herself to meet his black gaze without a single flinch. He was breathing heavily, rather too fast even given his bulk. She had a nasty suspicion he was one of those men who found fear in others arousing.
"First," he said, enunciating each word, his eyes locked on hers, "I'm going to use you. Not once, but as many times as I wish, in whatever way I wish."
He looked down at her breasts, at the ivory mounds so enticingly displayed by her rich gown. Alathea felt her skin crawl.
"Oh, yes. I've always had a hunger to taste a real, bred-to-the-bone lady. An earl's eldest daughter will do nicely. Afterward, of course, even if you live, I'll have to strangle you."
You're mad. Alathea swallowed the words. His voice had deepened and slowed, slurring slightly. He
continued to gaze at her breasts. She tried hard not to breathe deeply, but her pulse was racing, her mouth dry, her lungs laboring.
"Mind you"—his tone was that of one pondering aloud—"I suppose I could sell you to slavers if you survived. You'd fetch a good price along the Barbary Coast. They don't see many white bints as tall as you, but…" He drew the word out, head tilting as he considered. "If I wanted to get a good price, I'd need to be careful not to mar the goods too obviously. That's hardly fun. And I would never be one hundred percent certain the threat was gone. No." Shaking his head, he raised his eyes to hers.
They were flat, bottomless, utterly without feeling. Alathea couldn't breathe.
His face a malignant mask, Crowley stepped back, hauling her away from the wall. "I'll get rid of you after I've had my fill. That way I won't need to exercise the least care in taking you." Abruptly changing directions, he thrust his face into hers. "A fitting punishment for your meddling."
With a leer and a laugh that echoed manically, he started along the corridor, dragging her behind him. "A fitting punishment, indeed. You can join your friend Struthers on the morning tide."
Alathea dug in her heels. "Struthers?" Throwing her weight against Crowley's pull, she managed to jerk him to a halt. "You killed Captain Struthers?"
Crowley scowled. "You think I'd let him go with all the information he had?" He snorted and pulled her on. "The captain has caught his last tide."
"He had information that threatened you, so you simply killed him?" "He got in my way. People do disappear. Like him. Like you."
Alathea scratched at the hand locked about her wrist. "You're crazed! I can't just disappear. People will notice. Questions will be asked."
He threw back his head and laughed. The concentrated evil in the sound shook Alathea as nothing else had. The laugh ceased abruptly; Crowley's head snapped around. His black gaze pinned her. Unable to help herself, she shrank against the corridor wall.
"Yes." The word was vicious. Crowley rolled it on his tongue and smiled. "People will indeed notice. Questions will indeed be asked. But not, my beauty, the questions you think." He stepped closer, crowding her against the panelling, the gloating she'd noted before more pronounced. "I did a little checking of my own." His voice had lowered. Raising a hand, he went to caress her cheek. Alathea jerked her head away.
A second later, his hand closed like a vise about her jaw. Fingers biting cruelly, he forced her face to his. "Perhaps," he rasped, his gaze falling to her lips, "I'll keep you alive long enough to see it—what's going to happen to your precious family and who everyone will think is to blame."
He paused. His very nearness made Alathea feel faint. She tried not to breathe deeply, to smell his smell. The sheer bulk of him closed in on her. Her head started to spin.
His lips curved. "Your disappearance is going to coincide with the calling in of the promissory notes. I can guaiantee your family is going to be beating off the bailiffs almost immediately. They'll be in turmoil. No one will know where you are, or what to make of your disappearance. All the precious ton will see is your family thrown out of their home in rags and you nowhere in sight." His gloating deepened. "I've heard there are offers in the wind for your sisters. Those offers will evaporate. Who knows?" He pressed
closer, his gaze locking with hers; she felt the panelling hard against her spine. "If I enjoy breaking you, I might just send some 'gentlemen' I know to make an offer for your sisters. All three of them."
Alathea's temper erupted. "You blackguard!" With the full force of her arm, she slapped him.
Crowley swore and jerked back, hauling her arm up, pulling her off balance. Alathea screamed. He clapped a hand to her mouth and she kicked him.
That hurt her; the pain only infuriated her more and lent her strength. Swearing viciously, Crowley let go of her arm and caught her around the waist. She jabbed him in the ribs. He juggled her, then locked his beefy arms around her, trapping her with her back to his chest. Half lifting her, he bundled her down the corridor.
Toward the open door at the end.
Alathea wriggled and squirmed. No use. The man was as strong as an ox. She kicked back with her legs, but that was worse than useless. Dragging in a panicked breath, she thought back to her days of fighting with two young sprigs who had always been taller than she.
Gulping in another breath, she stretched and reached back. She grabbed Crowley's ears and tugged as hard as she could.
He howled and jerked his head back. Her nails scored his cheeks.
"Bitch!" His voice grated in her ear. "You'll pay for that. For every last scratch."
She could only be glad that, broad as he was, the corridor was too narrow for him to easily strike her. To do so, he'd have to risk letting her go.
Cursing freely, he half carried, half pushed her on before him. Alathea fought and twisted furiously, but did no more than slow him. His strength was overwhelming, suffocating; the notion of being trapped beneath him sent panic sheering through her.
Two yards from the open door, Crowley halted. Before she realized what he intended, he flung open another door concealed within the paneling and started to push her through.
Alathea saw the bed fixed against the wall.
She grabbed the door frame and redoubled her resistance, but inch by inch, Crowley forced her forward. Then he slammed his fist down on her fingers locked about the door frame.
With a yelp, she let go, and he thrust her across the threshold. Footsteps pounded overhead. They froze, and looked up.
Alathea sucked in a breath and screamed for all she was worth. Crowley swore. He shoved her into the room.
She tripped on her skirts and fell, but immediately scrambled up. "Gabriel!" Crowley slammed the door in her face.
Flinging herself against the panel, Alathea heard a key scrape, heard the lock fall home. She crouched and put her eye to the keyhole.
And saw the paneling on the corridor's opposite wall. "Thank God!" Crowley had taken the key. She reached for a hairpin.
Outside the door, Crowley stared at the ladder. Footsteps moved over the deck above, checking one hatch after another.
"Gabriel?"
A smiling sneer curved his lips, then he laughed, turned, and strode for the open cabin.
Gabriel found the main hatch. He hauled on the heavy cross bolt and heard it grate. Swearing under his breath, he shot it fully back. Chillingworth appeared and helped him lift the hatch cover, easing it over. They looked down on a circle of lamplit corridor and the rungs of the ladder leading down. Looking at Chillingworth, Gabriel shook out his hands, then signaled that he was going down. His face felt expressionless. He had no difficulty acting nerveless. His blood was ice-cold, his veins chilled. He'd never known fear like this—a cold cramping fist closed about his heart. He'd known Alathea forever but he'd only just found her. He couldn't lose her now, not when he'd finally bitten the bullet and opened his heart—and she'd been poised to give him hers. No—he thrust the idea aside. It was unthinkable.
They were not going to lose each other.
He grasped the hatch's rim and swung himself into the hole. Locating the rungs, he quickly descended. He was so tall, he reached the floor before the corridor came fully into view. Stepping onto the lower deck, he looked straight along its emptiness—directly into the maw of the pistol Crowley had pointed at his heart.
Gabriel heard the trigger click. He dove for the floor.
The corridor wall exploded outward. A door swung across, blocking Crowley's shot. Alathea burst into the corridor. The door panel splintered beside her shoulder. She instinctively ducked.
The percussion of the shot boomed and echoed, the sound bouncing deafeningly around the corridor. "Get down!" Gabriel roared.
Alathea looked at him, then at the door. They both heard Crowley curse, heard his pounding footsteps nearing. Alathea shrank back along the corridor wall.
Crowley slammed the door shut. He didn't look at Alathea but at Gabriel, coming to his feet, the promise of death in his eyes.
Crowley turned and raced back to the main cabin. "Wait!"
Alathea heard Gabriel's bellow but she didn't even look back as she raced straight after Crowley. He would need to reload. Gabriel was unarmed. She could at least slow Crowley down.
She rushed into the cabin, expecting to see Crowley at the desk or bed, frantically reloading. Instead, she saw him fling the pistol across the room as he strode past the desk. Reaching the wall, he grasped the hilt of one of the twin sabers hanging in crossed scabbards between two portholes.
The saber left its sheath with a deadly hiss.
Alathea didn't pause—she flung herself at Crowley, trusting in her sex to keep her safe. It never occurred to her that Crowley might use the saber on her.
It did occur to Gabriel; he crossed the threshold just in time to see her grapple with Crowley, now brandishing a cavalry saber. One swing and he could cleave her in two—Gabriel died another death. He should have felt relieved when Crowley flung Alathea aside, much as an ox would swat a gnat. She fetched up hard against the wall, shocked, shaken, but essentially unharmed.
Gabriel saw it all in an instant—the instant before blind rage took possession of his senses. After that, all he saw was Crowley.
Crowley settled his weight evenly, taking a two-handed grip on the saber, his very stance declaring he'd never used one in battle.
Gabriel smiled a feral smile. Crowley shifted. Reaching out, Gabriel pushed a small table out of his way—it slammed against the wall. His eyes didn't leave Crowley's face. Slowly, he circled.
It was Crowley's move; he was the one armed. Despite his pugnacious expression, his overweening belligerence, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Gabriel saw it. He feinted to his left. Crowley raised the saber and slashed—
Gabriel was nowhere near the space the saber whistled through. From Crowley's other side, he stepped inside his guard, left hand closing about Crowley's fists on the saber hilt, right fist slamming into the man's jaw. Crowley grunted. He tried to turn on Gabriel; Gabriel's hold on his fists prevented that, but Crowley's double-fisted grip also prevented Gabriel from gaining any hold on the hilt.
Crowley bunched his muscles to throw Gabriel off. Gabriel released him and spun away. Crowley slashed again and again, following Gabriel as he circled. Each slashing stroke threw Crowley off-balance. Gabriel feinted again; again Crowley fell for it. Gripping the saber hilt, Crowley's fists and all, Gabriel landed a swinging left on Crowley's jaw. Crowley roared and fought back. Wrenching the hilt free of Gabriel's restraining hand, he slashed and found his mark.
Ignoring the stinging bite of the sabre along his left arm, Gabriel flung himself at Crowley, locking both hands on the saber's pommel. Crowley was off-balance; Gabriel forced him back across the desk, pressing the saber closer and closer to his face.
Eyes locked on the blade inching nearer, Crowley gritted his teeth, gathered his strength, and shoved Gabriel and the blade to the side. Reading the move, Gabriel sprang back. The saber flew free, clattering on the floor.
Crowley reared upright—to be met by a solid punch to the gut. He bellowed and swung, starting after Gabriel, his clear intent to grapple with him.
Gabriel wasn't about to give Crowley the satisfaction of breaking his ribs. The man was a bruiser, the sort who'd learned his science in tavern brawls. Given his size and lack of agility, he relied on his brawn to win. In any wrestling match, Crowley would triumph easily. Fisticuffs, however, was another game entirely, one at which Gabriel excelled.
He landed blow after blow, focusing on Crowley's face and gut. Crowley laid not a finger on him. Crowley bellowed and raged, staggering into punch after punch. Gabriel concentrated on softening him up, on enraging him further. On finally beating him to the ground.
But the man's skull felt like rock; knocking him unconscious was not going to be accomplished by one
lucky blow.
Backed against the wall, Alathea watched, her heart in her mouth, her breath suspended. Even to her untutored eyes, the fight was a battle between steely reflexes governing strength honed and refined, pitted against sheer brawn and a blind belief in the power of weight. Gabriel was clearly winning, even though he was now risking more to step closer, well within Crowley's reach, to where he could deliver his blows with more force. One of Crowley's swinging fists caught him as he retreated, snapping his head back. To her relief, Gabriel didn't seem to feel it, returning the blow with one that connected with a sickening crunch.
Crowley couldn't possibly last much longer.
Crowley must have come to the same conclusion. The vicious kick came out of nowhere. Gabriel saw it, but only had time to swivel. It caught him high behind his left thigh. Crowley clumsily pivoted. Gabriel lost his footing and fell.
Alathea smothered a scream.
Gabriel's head hit the desk's edge with a dull thud. He slumped to the floor and lay still.
Massive chest heaving, Crowley stood over him, fists clenched, blinking his piggy black eyes, both bruised and half-closed. Then his teeth flashed in a vicious smile. He looked around, then swooped on the saber, scooping it up, hefting the blade as he took up a stance beside Gabriel's twisted legs. Crowley shuffled his feet apart as he settled his hands about the saber's hilt.
Gabriel groaned. His eyes were closed, his shoulders flat to the floor, his spine twisted. He lifted his head slightly, struggling up onto his elbows, frowning, blinking dazedly, shaking his head as if to clear it.
Crowley's gloating expression filled his face. His eyes glittered. He smiled as he slowly raised the saber.
Alathea inched along the wall, unable to breathe, barely able to think through the flood of emotions swamping her. But fear and fury were the strongest; she knew what she had to do. Setting her teeth, she passed behind Crowley, creeping silently further along the wall.
Crowley stretched upward, raising the saber high above his head, tensing for the downward stroke—
Alathea leaped the last feet, grabbed the second saber, and yanked it from its sheath. The angry hiss filled the room.
Crowley's head snapped around. Teetering, he took an instant to regain his balance. He started to shift his bulk, to realign his saber, turning to swing at her—
The weight of the saber flying out of its sheath swung Alathea away from Crowley. With a gasp, she hauled on the heavy sword and sent it arcing back toward him—
Shoulders and torso still turning, Crowley raised his saber—Gabriel finally refocused—what he saw stopped his heart. Hauling up his legs, he kicked at Crowley, catching him high on the thigh.
Crowley stumbled. His weight shifted. He staggered helplessly sideways toward Alathea, into the arc of her wildly swinging saber.
Powered by its own weight, the saber flashed in, burying itself in Crowley's side. Alathea gasped and released the hilt. The saber remained, its glistening tip barely disturbing the front of Crowley's coat, the
hilt quivering behind his back.
Crowley's face leached of all color; shock overlaid all expression. He regained his balance, both feet settling square, the other saber held tight between his fists. Slowly, he looked down, then, equally slowly, turned his head and looked over his shoulder at the saber sticking out from his back. His expression said he didn't comprehend…
He shuffled his feet, turning to Alathea, still holding the other saber—
In a rush of footsteps, Chillingworth appeared in the doorway. He took one glance, raised his arm, and shot Crowley.
Eyes wide, Alathea made no sound as Crowley jerked. The ball had found its mark in the left of his huge chest. Slowly, he turned his head to stare uncomprehendingly at Chillingworth. Then his features blanked, his eyes closed, and he pitched forward.
Gabriel pulled his legs clear and struggled to sit up. Still dizzy, his head ringing, he leaned his shoulders against the side of the desk.
Chillingworth stepped into the room, frowning as he took in the saber sticking up from Crowley's back. "Oh. You'd already taken care of it." Then he looked at Gabriel, back at Crowley, then back to Gabriel, frowning even more. "How the devil did you manage that?"
Gabriel looked at Alathea's white face. "It was a joint effort."
Chillingworth followed his gaze to Alathea, still pressed back against the wall, her stunned gaze locked on Crowley's body.
Footsteps approached; Charlie looked in. "I heard a shot." Eyes growing round, he peered around Chillingworth. "I say—is he dead?"
Gabriel smothered a crazed laugh. "Very." His grim expression only tangentially due to the pain in his head, he studied Alathea, then softly asked, "Are you all right?"
She blinked, then she lifted her head and looked at him. "Of course I'm all right." Her gaze traveled over him. Wild concern flared in her eyes. Picking up her skirts, she leaped over Crowley's body. "Good God —the bastard cut you! Here—let me see."
Gabriel had forgotten about the cut on his arm. Now he looked and discovered his coat ruined, blood pouring afresh thanks to Alathea's probing. Crouched beside him, she was tweaking the slashed material, trying to see…
"Can you stand?" She looked into his eyes, then grimaced. "No, of course, you can't. Here." She waved Chillingworth closer as she wriggled a shoulder under his. "Help me get him up."
Frowning, Chillingworth lent his aid.
"Just watch out for that damned dress." Hauled to his feet, Gabriel settled against the desk. Alathea pressed close, pushing his hair out of his eyes to peer into them. "Are you all right?"
Exasperated, Gabriel opened his mouth to tersely inform her it would take rather more than a severe blow on the head and a shallow cut on his arm to incapacitate him. Then he caught a glimpse of the arrested expression on Charlie's face, and substituted, "Of course not." He gestured to the blood
darkening his sleeve. "See if you can stop the bleeding. Just be sure you don't damage that gown." The gown was a fantasy he had every intention of peeling from her, inch by sweet inch.
"Crowley must have some linen stored here somewhere." Alathea glanced at her brother. "Charlie—look around."
By the time Charlie returned, Alathea had eased Gabriel's coat off and laid bare the wound. It was a shallow but wide cut, lifting inches of skin but nowhere deep enough to be dangerous. It had, however, bled copiously and continued to do so.
"Here." Charlie handed Alathea a pile of clean shirts. He glanced at Crowley. "He won't need them anymore."
Alathea didn't spare a single glance for Crowley as she picked up a shirt and started ripping.
Straightening from examining the body, Chillingworth stepped around it. He glanced at Gabriel's wound, and stilled. Alathea bustled to the sideboard in search of water or wine. Chillingworth watched her go, then sent a disgusted glance at Gabriel.
Who met it with a bland if not challenging stare.
Chillingworth raised his eyes to the skies. Alathea returned, a bowl of water in her hands. Chillingworth surveyed the room. "While you're having your strength restored, perhaps Charlie and I should search."
"Good idea," Gabriel concurred.
"So what are we looking for?" Chillingworth rounded the desk.
"The promissory notes?' Alathea paused in her dabbing. "Would they be here?" She looked at Gabriel.
He nodded. "I think so. Presumably, the reason Crowley is here tonight and not in Egerton Gardens is because he got the wind up when he learned of our investigations." His expression grew grim and he glanced at Alathea. "I assume Struthers's activities kicked up too much dust. Did Crowley say?"
Alathea's eyes dimmed. "He killed the captain. He said so."
Chillingworth cast a dark glance at Crowley's body. "Obviously destined for Hades."
Gabriel caught Alathea's wrist. "Are you sure the captain's dead? Crowley didn't just say it to frighten you?"
Alathea shook her head sadly. "I think he's already thrown the body in the river." Gabriel caressed her inner wrist, then released her.
Chillingworth grimaced. "Nothing we can do for the captain now. The villain's already savored his just deserts. The best way to avenge the captain's death is to make sure Crowley's scheme dies with him." He pulled out a desk drawer. "You sure these notes will be here?"
"I expect so." Gabriel looked around. "This is not a ship of any line—it's a privateer, and a small one at that, built for speed—for fleeing. My guess is that Crowley moved his operations here, ready to depart at an instant's notice. With Alathea and Struthers removed, he would plan on calling in the notes immediately, and leaving England as soon as he had his hands on the cash."
Alathea started to bind his arm. "Crowley did say he'd call the notes in immediately." Chillingworth continued searching the desk. Charlie drifted off, saying he'd search the other rooms.
Just as Alathea was tying off her bandage, Charlie reappeared, dragging a small seaman's chest. He brandished a document. "I think this is what we're looking for."
It was—a thick stack of promissory notes filled the chest. Alathea held the one Charlie had brought in, and started to shake. Gabriel slid an arm around her waist, drawing her closer until she rested against him. 'Take it home, show your father, then burn it."
Alathea glanced at him, then nodded. Folding the note, she handed it to Charlie with a strict injunction not to lose it.
Charlie shoved it in his pocket, then went back to reading the names on the handful of notes he'd extracted from the chest.
Chillingworth was doing the same. "He preyed on small fry, for the most part. From the addresses, some of these must be shopkeepers." He pointed to another pile he'd laid aside. "Those are the peers, but most are not the sort who usually invest in such schemes. And the amounts pledged! He'd have turned half of England insolvent."
Gabriel nodded. "Greedy and unscrupulous. That should be his epitath."
"So." Chillingworth restacked the notes. "What are we going to do? Burn these?"
"No." Alathea was frowning. "If we do that, then the people involved will never know they're free of the obligation. They might make decisions assuming they're in debt to Crowley, when that debt will never be realized."
"Are the addresses on all the notes?" Gabriel asked.
"Far as I can see," Charlie replied. Chillingworth nodded.
"Perhaps…" Gabriel stared into the distance. "Find something to wrap them in. I'll take them to Montague. He'll know how best to return them to their owners, apparently properly and legally canceled."
"Our petition, if successful, will cancel the notes." Alathea looked at Gabriel.
He shook his head. "We won't be lodging it. We won't be doing anything to link ourselves with Crowley."
"No, indeed." Chillingworth glanced at the body on the floor. "So what should we do with him? Simply leave him here?"
"Why not? He's got enemies aplenty. He doubtless gave orders to his crew to stay away from the ship tonight."
"All except the guard," Charlie put in. "But he never even saw you."
Gabriel nodded. "Two of the sailors—the ones who delivered the note—will know Alathea was lured here, but no one will know anything more. No woman could have overpowered Crowley.
When his men return to the ship, they'll find him here, alone and very dead. They'll assume Alathea left, and then someone killed Crowley."
"I sincerely doubt anyone will mourn him."
"Other than perhaps Archie Douglas, although even that's uncertain." "Crowley probably had his hooks into him, too."
"Very likely." Gabriel considered, then continued, "It's my guess that without Crowley, and without those notes, the Central East Africa Gold Company will simply cease to exist. It has no capital, and Swales, from all I've been able to glean, is not the sort to drive this type of enterprise on his own."
Chillingworth considered, too, then nodded. "It'll do. We'll simply leave and take the notes, and get your Montague to return them to their owners."
They wrapped the notes securely in a blanket and Charlie carried them off the ship. Alathea helped Gabriel. Chillingworth was their lookout. When he joined the others in the shadows by his carriage, he nodded. "All clear."
Alathea sighed with relief. "Help me get Gabriel inside."
Chillingworth stared at her, then, hauling open the carriage door, cast a narrow-eyed look at Gabriel. "I assume," he asked in a sweetly innocent tone, "I should drive directly to his house?"
"Of course!" Alathea scrambled into the carriage, then turned and reached out to help Gabriel in. "I need to tend that cut properly as soon as possible."
Gabriel shot Chillingworth a wicked grin, then bent his head and stepped into the carriage. Chillingworth slammed the door shut. "Who knows," he said, loudly enough for Alathea to hear, "it might even need stitches."
With that, he climbed to the box seat, took up the reins Charlie was holding, and set his carriage rolling back to London.
Chapter 21
« ^
Chillingworth let Gabriel and Alathea down in Brook Street.
"I'll go straight home," Alathea called to Charlie as she went up the steps beside Gabriel, her grip on his arm firm and supporting. "I don't know how long this might take. Tell your mama there's no need to wait up for me."
Gabriel grinned as he reached for his latchkey. He could just imagine Chillingworth's face. Chillingworth had somewhat curtly offered to drive Charlie back to Marlborough House. That probably entitled him to yet another quota of Cynster gratitude. Given they could never be sure just how incapacitated Crowley had been before Chillingworth shot him, tonight had seen the earl's stocks rise high indeed.
Charlie called an acknowledgment. Chillingworth's horses stamped, then the carriage rattled away. Sliding his key into the lock, Gabriel turned it. Glancing at Alathea, he twisted the knob and opened the door.
This would, after all, shortly be her home. He was simply jumping the gun a trifle. He wasn't, however,
foolish enough to sweep her off her feet and carry her over the threshold. He let her shoo him in, instead, fussing like a mother hen.
Chance appeared at the end of the hall. He was in his shirtsleeves, clearly taken aback to see his master returning so early. When he saw who his master was with, he goggled, and started to silently back away…
Alathea saw him and beckoned. "You're Chance, I take it?"
"Hmm." Chance ducked his head, warily edging closer. "That's me, mum."
Alathea shot him a sharp glance, then nodded. "Yes, well, your master has been injured. I want a bowl of warm water—not too hot—brought up to his room directly, with some clean cloths and bandages. And some salve, too—I assume you have some?" All the while she'd been progressing down the hall, towing Gabriel with her.
"Umm." Falling back before her advance, Chance looked helplessly at Gabriel. "This is Lady Alathea, Chance."
Chance bowed. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, mum."
"Indeed." Alathea waved him away. "I want those items, and I'll need your help upstairs momentarily." When Chance stared at her blankly, she leaned forward and looked him in the eye. "Now. Immediately. Sooner than soon."
Chance jumped back, all but tripping over his feet. "Oh! Right. Straight away, mum." He scurried through the baize door.
Alathea watched him go, then shook her head and tugged Gabriel on toward the stairs. "Your eccentricities never cease to amaze me." She proceeded to propel him up the stairs.
She couldn't have done it if he hadn't been willing—very willing—despite the fact that he hated being the object of any woman's fussing. Her fussing he was willing to endure given that she'd yet to make any formal statement—a clear and unequivocal acceptance of his heart.
He wanted to hear it, but she was perennially stubborn; encouraging her to let her feelings run riot, as they presently were, would make it all the harder for her to draw back, to balk at the final hurdle. So he meekly climbed the stairs, biding his time, letting her imagine he was weak. He did feel a little lightheaded, relieved that it was over, that Crowley was dead, never to darken their horizon again, and eager, buoyed with anticipation like some callow youth at the realization that she was his.
All he needed now was to hear her admit it.
"Here." He stopped by his door and leaned against the door frame, letting her turn the knob and set the door wide. Without the slightest hesitation, she urged him inside, steering him to the wide bed.
She pushed him to sit on its side. Her fingers going to the improvised bandage, she glanced frowningly at the door. "Where is that man?"
"He'll be here in a moment." Gabriel stood to ease out of his coat. She stripped it from him and promptly pushed him back down again, then busily set about unlacing his cuffs.
Gabriel twisted his lips to hide a grin. How far would she go if he let her?
"Are you in pain?"
Hurriedly straightening his lips, he shook his head. "No." He searched her face, drowned in her eyes, in the concern that filled them, the love that gave it birth. "No." He reached out and closed one hand over hers. "Thea, I'm all right."
Frowning, she shook off his hand and slapped a palm to his forehead. "I hope you don't develop a fever." Gabriel dragged in a breath. "Thea—"
Chance rushed in, balancing a bowl of water on his wrists, a towel over one arm, cloths balanced upon it, with a pot of salve clutched in his other hand. "Is this all you wanted, mum?"
"Indeed." Alathea nodded approvingly. "Just bring that table nearer. And the lamp, too."
"Oooh! Lot of blood there." Chance moved the table closer. He glanced at Alathea. "Perhaps you'll want some brandy, mum? To clean the wound?"
"An excellent idea!" She lifted her head. "Is there any here?" Her glance fell on the decanter on the dresser.
Gabriel stiffened. "No! That's—" "Perfect!" Alathea enthused. "Bring it here."
"Thea…" Horrified, Gabriel watched Chance dart to the dresser and bring back the decanter filled with superbly aged French brandy. "I really don't need—
"Do be quiet." Alathea stared into his eyes, peering into one, then the other. "I keep worrying you'll start raving any minute. Please—just let Chance and me fix this. Then you can rest. All right?"
He looked into her eyes—she was perfectly serious. Gabriel bit his tongue, glanced at Chance, then nodded.
For the next fifteen minutes, he suffered their combined ministrations. He'd forgotten that Chance had reason to want to repay him with kindness. Sitting silent on his bed, he was smothered by kindness, by concern, by love. It was pleasant, even if he felt a fraud.
With Chance's help, Alathea stripped off his shirt, then gently tended his wound, apparently unaffected by the sight of his bare chest. Gabriel itched to change that, but… Chance was still in the room.
Alathea lovingly cleansed the long cut, then bathed it.
He kept his gaze glued to her hair. Despite all she'd gone through, the three blooms were still firmly in place, his declaration acknowledged. He wasn't about to remove them, not intentionally. Not until he'd had their promise converted into words. Multiple times. While she fussed over his arm, he fell to rehearsing all that was to come, and how best to wring from her the words he wanted to hear without disturbing those blooms.
Leaving his arm to dry, she straightened and stepped closer, the warmth of her breasts bare inches from his face. He tried not to breathe while she investigated the bump on his head.
"It's the size of a duck egg," she pronounced, suitably horrified.
Gabriel shut his eyes as she probed, and tried not to groan. The cool cloth she laid upon the bump helped, easing the dull ache in his head. There was only one remedy for the ache in his groin. When she
finally turned her attention to binding up his arm, Gabriel caught Chance's eye. It took a moment for Chance to understand his message. When he did, he looked shocked, but when Gabriel scowled, he hurriedly collected the cloths, towels, and bowl and eased himself out of the door.
The click of the latch coincided with Alathea's benedictory pat to the knot she'd tied in the bandage around his arm. 'There." She lifted her gaze to his face. "Now you can rest."
"Not yet." Gabriel clamped his hands about her waist and took her with him as he fell back on the bed. Her surprised yelp was smothered as he rolled, shifting them further onto the cushioned expanse, simultaneously trapping her beneath him.
"Be careful of your arm!" "My arm is perfectly fine."
She stilled beneath him. "What do you mean, it's 'fine'?"
"Just that. I did try to tell you. It's only a surface cut—I'm not likely to die from it." She scowled at him. "I thought it was serious."
"I know." Bending his head, he nibbled at her lips. "That did become apparent."
He surged over her; the sensation of her long, supple form tensing beneath him sent a wave of primitive possessiveness through him. A possessiveness colored by desire, by need, and by another emotion almost too vital to contain.
Still frowning, she braced her hands against his bare chest. "It must hurt. Your head must be throbbing." "It aches, but it's not my skull that's throbbing." He shifted suggestively, thrusting his hips to hers.
Her eyes widened slightly as she shifted beneath him to cradle his erection at the apex of her thighs. Confirming his state. The look she sent him was the epitome of feminine—wifely—resignation. "Men!" With renewed vigor, she pushed him back and struggled to sit up. "Are you all the same?"
"All Cynsters, certainly." Gabriel rolled to the side, watching bemusedly as she reached for her laces. She was doing it again—taking a tack he hadn't foreseen. It took him a moment to fathom the why and wherefore, then he decided to follow her lead. He reached for her laces. "Here, let me."
He'd fantasized about peeling the white-and-gilt gown from her; in it, he could easily see her as some priestess, some pagan female designed to be worshipped. As he eased the gown from her shoulders, he worshipped, his lips anointing each silken inch of skin revealed. She shivered. Surging up beside her, he filled one hand with her breast, the soft flesh firming at his touch, heating as he kneaded. His other hand rose to cradle her head, long fingers searching for the pins that anchored the tight knot of her hair, careful not to dislodge the three white flowers adorning her crown—the evidence of his adoration. Her hair fell loose; his fingers tightened about her nipple. On a moan, she let her head fall back, offering her lips. He took them, took her mouth greedily, hungrily, aware there was no longer any need to hold back. She was with him. The same need drove them both, a fervent desire to hold, to possess, to reassure their souls they had survived the threat whole, still hale. To take a first tantalizing taste of the future, of the freedom to love that they'd won.
His plans degenerated into a sweet, reckless flurry of searching hands, of incoherent, breathless moans, of sweet caresses and heated kisses, of urgent fingers and quivering flesh. They stripped each other of
every last stitch, content only when they lay skin to skin, long limbs entwined, cocooned within the chaos of his covers. He gathered her to him, moving over her, surrounding her. With one stroke, he sheathed himself in her heat.
She gasped and welcomed him in, her body arching, tensing, easing, then melting about him. Her surrender was implicit. Gabriel held tight to their reins. Tonight, he wanted explicit. So he rode her slowly, joining with her in long, slow, rolling thrusts, melding their bodies as they would meld their lives—deeply, completely. When he would have risen over her, she clung to him, holding him to her. He acquiesced and stayed, their bodies in contact from chest to knees. She undulated beneath him, all shifting silk and velvet lushness, a glory of womanly need.
He filled her again and again, until she gasped and clung.
He stilled, savoring her glorious climax, luxuriating in her satiated sigh. He waited until she'd softened fully beneath him. Then he moved again.
Still slow, still unhurried. He had all night and knew it. Not even this—the glory of her giving—was going to distract him tonight.
It was a minute or two before she stirred, before her body instinctively searched for, then found his steady rhythm. Her lids lifted, just enough for her to stare at him. Her tongue touched her lips; he delved deeper and she arched.
A glint of surprise glowed in her eyes.
An instant later, he felt her hands trailing, gently questing down the planes of his flexing back, down to caress his pulsing flanks.
She caught his gaze. "What?"
His grin was partly grimace, over gritted teeth. She was warm and soft and so inviting beneath him. "I want to hear you say it."
The words were low, gravelly, but sufficiently distinct. She didn't ask what it was he wanted to hear. Beneath him, beneath the steady, relentless onslaught, she stirred. "I have to go home."
He shook his head. "Not until you say the words. I'm going to keep you here, naked and hot and needy, until you admit you love me."
"Needy? It's not me—"
He cut the words off with his lips. When he'd wiped them from her tongue and her brain, he drew back, rising up on his braced arms to drive deeper into her slick heat.
She gasped, panted, bit back a moan. Writhed just a little. "You… you know I do."
"Yes. I know. Even if I hadn't known before, I'd certainly know now, after your performance tonight. Now even Charlie and Chillingworth know."
Her state made her slow to respond. She stared at him, blinked, then weakly asked, "What? Why should they think…?"
He couldn't grin, although he wanted to. It was hard enough to find the strength to answer. "You half killed a man to save me tonight, and for the last two hours, you've been fretting and fuming over what
anyone could see was little more than a scratch. You nearly made poor Chillingworth bilious."
Alathea wished she could summon a glare, but her body was prey to the sweetest heat, her senses far too interested in the glory building between them. Her mind was clinging to sanity by a thread. "I didn't know it was just a scratch. I was being led by the nose—"
"You were being led by love." He lowered his head and found her lips in a kiss laden with sensual promise. "Why don't you just admit it?"
Because she'd only tonight come to a full understanding of what this joint love of theirs entailed. The shared joy countered by the fear of loss—the sudden desperation when he, her life, had nearly been slain before her. There was a lot more to loving than she'd imagined. Loving this deeply was a frightening thing.
Lifting her head, she brushed her lips along his jaw. "If it's so obvious…"
He lifted his head out of her reach. "Obvious it might be. I still want to hear you say it."
He was filling her with long, slow, languid thrusts, enough to keep her fully aroused but not enough to satisfy. Her temper, unfortunately, was thoroughly subsumed by desire. "Why?" She arched, desperate to lure him deeper yet.
"Because until you do, I can't be sure you know it."
She opened her eyes fully and looked into his. Beneath his heavy lids, she could detect not the slightest glimmer of humor. He was serious. Despite all, despite the way her heart ached simply when she looked at him. "Of course I love you."
The set of his face—features etched with passion but with his expression somehow driven—didn't change. "Good. So you'll marry me."
There was no question in the words. Alathea sighed, struggling not to smile. He wouldn't appreciate it. The reins were in his hands and he was driving hell for leather for the church.
He didn't even appreciate her sigh. He stilled within her, looking down at her almost grimly. "You're not leaving this room until you agree. I don't care if I have to keep you here for weeks."
Despite her best efforts, her smile dawned, even though she knew the threat was not an empty one. He would do it if she pushed him.
He was a Cynster in love.
Letting her smile deepen, she reached up and brushed aside the lock of hair hanging over his forehead. "All right. I love you, and I'll marry you. There—is there anything more I need say to get you to go faster?"
She only just glimpsed his victorious smile as he bent to kiss her, but see it she did. She made him pay for his smugness by demanding more and even more of his expertise.
She nearly drove them both insane with wanting. But it was worth it.
Later, when they lay wrapped in his sheets, not asleep but too deeply sated to move, Alathea lay with her head on his shoulder and hazily considered a lifetime filled with such peace.
For it was peace that filled her, an unutterable sense of having found her true home, her true place—her true love. That his love surrounded her, and hers him, she had not the smallest doubt. Only that, a deeply shared love, could fill her heart to this extent, so that she could not imagine any joy more fulfilling than lying naked in his naked arms, his breath a soft huff in her ear, his arm heavy about her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her bottom.
They were so alike. They would need to go slowly into their future, eyes open, careful not to step on each other's toes. There would be adjustments to be made by both of them—that was implicit in their natures. Yet while that future beckoned, rising like a new sun on their horizon, she was too comfortable, too sensually sated, to attend to it just yet.
She was comfortable, yes, and that was a discovery. That even now, fully aware of the latent strength in the body beneath hers, in the muscled arms that yet held her so gently, in the steel-sinewed limbs that pressed all along her length, even now, she was soothed, relaxed. Aware of the crisp hair beneath her cheek, exquisitely aware of his hair-dusted limbs tangled with hers. Aware to her soul of the warmth within her, of the firm member angled against her thigh. The entire reality left her deeply content.
Profoundly happy.
In bliss.
She closed her eyes and indulged.
He eventually stirred, his arms tightening about her, tension returning to his limbs. He held her close, then pressed his lips to her temple. "I'm never going to let you forget what you said."
Alathea smiled. Was she surprised?
"So." He shook her fractionally. "When are we getting married?" They had, apparently, arrived at the church.
Opening her eyes, she dutifully turned her mind to weddings. "Well, there's Mary and Esher, and Alice and Carstairs, too. A joint wedding might be best."
His snort said no. "They may be your stepsisters, but they're sweet, innocent, and full to bursting with the usual romantic notions. They'll take months to decide on the details. I have absolutely no intention of waiting on their decisions. You and I are getting married first." He tightened his grip on her. "As soon as possible."
Alathea grinned. "Yes, my lord."
Her teasing tone earned her a finger in her ribs. She gasped and squirmed; he sucked in a breath. He settled her again, his touch converted to caress, idly fanning her hip.
"I've already spoken to your father." Alathea blinked. "You have? When?"
"Yesterday. I saw him at White's. I'd already arranged to send you the flowers." His hand continued its slow stroking, soothing, subtly calming.
Alathea looked into the future, the future he was so swiftly carrying her into. "They'll miss me. Not just the family but the household—Crisp, Figgs and the rest."
The slow stroking continued. "We'll be close—only a few miles away. You'll be able to watch over them until Charlie takes a bride."
"I suppose…" After a moment, she added, "Nellie will come with me, of course, and Folwell. And Figgs is your housekeeper's sister, after all.
"Tweety's sister?"
"Hmm. So I'll certainly hear of any problems." "We'll hear of any problems. I'll want to know, too." She lifted her head to look into his face. "Will you?"
He trapped her gaze. "Anything that happens in your life from now on, I want to share."
She studied his eyes, read his feelings on the years gone by, on the question that would always be with him—could he have saved them those eleven years if he'd known, if he'd opened his eyes and truly looked at her?
She lifted her hand to his cheek. "I don't think anything serious will happen, not with both of us watching."
Stretching up, wantonly undulating in his embrace, she pressed her lips to his. He lifted her and settled her, stomach to ridged abdomen, then filled her mouth with caresses that stirred her to her toes.
She was simmering when he drew back. Brushing his lips across her forehead, he murmured, "I fantasized for weeks about having the countess reveal herself to me." His palms skimmed down her naked back to cup her bottom, making it abundantly clear just how forthcoming he'd wanted the countess to be.
"Are you disappointed?"
His hands closed possessively. He shifted her, then rocked his hips, his erection parting her curls, impressing her belly. Alathea caught her breath.
He chuckled. "The revelations I've suffered were better by far than any fantasy." She looked up; he trapped her gaze. "I love you." The words were simple and clear. He searched her eyes, then his lips relaxed. "And you love me. As revelations go, those are hard to beat."
Alathea tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder so he couldn't see her eyes as the words slid through her, into her heart. After a moment, she sighed. "I still can't quite believe that our troubles are all over, that Crowley is dead. We don't need to worry about him anymore—I don't have to worry about the family's finances any more."
Abruptly, she stiffened and went to sit up; Gabriel restrained her. She lifted her head. "The notes! Charlie has ours, but all the rest… we left them in Chillingworth's carriage."
Gabriel started to stroke her again. "He'll send them around. Don't worry. Stop worrying. You've been worrying for the past eleven years. You don't need to worry about anything anymore."
Alathea subsided back into his arms. "That's not going to come easily, you know." "I'm sure I can find any number of engrossing subjects with which to distract you."
"But you manage your own estate—there won't really be anything for me to do estate office-wise."
"You can help. We'll be partners."
"Partners?" The idea was strange enough to have her lifting her head to look into his face. He continued to stroke her bare back. "Hmm."
She frowned. "I suppose…" Turning over, she settled comfortably, wrapping her arms over the hand he splayed over her waist. "I'll do the household accounts, of course. Or does your mother do those?"
"No—by all means, you can do them."
"And if you like, I can do the estate tallies. Or does your father do those?"
"Papa handed over the Manor estate to me two years ago. Neither he nor Mama is any longer involved." "Oh." Alathea wriggled. "So it's just the two of us, then?"
"Mmm. We can divide the duties any way we like."
She drew in a breath. Held it. "I'd like to continue actively managing my own investments. As I did with my family's funds."
Gabriel shrugged. "I can't see why not."
"You can't?" She tried to look up at him but he held her fast. "I thought you'd disapprove?"
"Why? From all I saw, you're good at it. I'd disapprove if you weren't. But if we're going to be partners generally, there's no reason we can't be real partners in that sphere, too."
Alathea relaxed. After a moment, she murmured, "Who knows? We might even be friends."
Gabriel closed his arms about her. "Who knows? Even that." It was a peculiarly attractive thought. "I'd enjoy that, I think."
Another moment passed, then she murmured, "So would I."
Lips curving, Gabriel tightened one arm about her, splaying his other hand over the smooth curve of her belly. "Given our present circumstances, I suggest we concentrate on the most pertinent—the most immediate—aspect of our partnership."
She sucked in a breath as he slid his fingers further, twining through the springy curls to reach the softness they shielded. With one broad finger, he stroked. She shuddered.
"I really think you need to pay more attention to this." With a grin, he rolled and lifted to come over her. She reached for him and found him. It was his turn to groan.
"Convince me."
The words were a challenge—precisely the sort she knew his Cynster soul delighted in. He threw himself into meeting it, heart and soul.
When she was writhing beneath him, hot and ready and yearning, he filled her with one long thrust. Braced above her, he watched her face as, eyes closed, head thrown back, she arched and took him in. His flowers still glowed against the rich brown of her hair. He withdrew and thrust slowly again, just to
watch her accept him, to see the flowers quiver, then he settled to a steady, easy rhythm, rocking her relentlessly, taking the longest route he knew to heaven.
She gasped, clung, but there was a subtle smile flirting about her lips. He bent his head and laved one furled nipple, then nipped it. "By the time Jeremy and Augusta have grown, I can guarantee that if you pay attention to this aspect of our partnership, you'll have a tribe of your own to watch over in their stead."
Her lids lifted fractionally; she seemed to be weighing his words. "A tribe?" She sounded intrigued.
"Our own tribe," he gasped as she tightened about him.
Alathea grinned. Reaching up, she curved her hand about his neck and lifted her lips to his. "Just as long as that's an iron-clad guarantee."
The laughter started in his chest, erupted in his throat, then spilled over to her. They shook and clung, giddy as children. Then abruptly the laughter was gone; something much stronger swirled wildly about them, through them, then closed upon them and lifted them from the world.
Finally they settled to sleep, the city silent about them, the future settled, their hearts at peace.
Alathea slid into Gabriel's waiting arms and felt them close about her. Whatever the future, they'd create it together, manage it together, live it together. That was so much more future than she'd ever thought she'd have.
She slid her arms about him, hugged him once, then relaxed, content in his embrace.
The next morning, Lucifer stood on the front steps of the Brook Street house and watched the departure of the lady who, somewhat to her surprise, had spent the night warming his bed. And him. Raising a hand in salute as her carriage rumbled off, he turned inside, letting his victorious smile show. She'd proved a challenge but he'd persevered and, as usual, triumphed.
Success had proved very sweet.
Replaying honeyed memories, he headed for the dining room. Breakfast was just what he needed. Courtesy of Chance, the door was ajar. Lucifer pushed it wide; it swung open noiselessly.
On a scene guaranteed to freeze the blood in his veins.
Gabriel sat at his usual place at the head of the table, sipping coffee. On his right sat Alathea Morwellan, dreamily staring straight ahead, a tea cup in one hand, a piece of nibbled toast growing cold in the other.
She looked radiant. And a trifle flushed. As if…
Stunned, Lucifer looked again at Gabriel. His brother appeared a great deal too well fed for someone just about to tuck in.
The dread conclusion hovering in his mind grew weightier, steadily taking on substance.
Gabriel sensed the draft from the door and looked up. He met Lucifer's astonished gaze with one of transparent unconcern, raising a querying brow as he gestured to Alathea. "Come welcome your sister-in-law-to-be."
Lucifer plastered a smile on his face and stepped across the threshold. "Congratulations." Alathea, he noted, still looked a trifle lightheaded, but then, he knew his brother. "Welcome to the family." Leaning down, he gave her a brotherly buss. He couldn't help muttering as he straightened, "Are you sure you haven't both run mad?"
It was Alathea who frowned him down. "We were never the ones to run mad, as I recall."
Lucifer abandoned that tack, along with any hope of ever understanding. He made all the right noises, said all the right words, while he floundered to make sense of any of it. Alathea and Gabriel? He knew he wasn't the only one who had never thought it. Which just went to show.
"The wedding," Gabriel informed him, "will be as soon as we can arrange it, certainly before we or the Morwellans, or indeed, the rest of the ton, desert the capital."
"Hmm," Lucifer returned.
"You will be there, won't you?"
At Alathea's pointed look, Lucifer summoned a smile. "Of course."
He'd be there to see his brother, the last of his confreres still free, take up the shackles of matrimony. After that, he'd leave.
He was going to disappear.
London—indeed, the ton in its broadest sense—was far too dangerous for the last unmarried member of the Bar Cynster.
The Season ended as it always did, with a rash of tonnish weddings, but this year, amid the many, one stood out, very definitely "the wedding of the Season." The tale of how Lady Alathea Morwellan had turned her back on her own prospects to help her family in the country, only to return eleven years later to tame the most distantly aloof member of the Bar Cynster, fired the romantic imagination of the ton.
St. Georges Church off Hanover Square was filled to bursting on the day Lady Alathea took her vows. The crowd outside the church was just as dense, those not invited to the festivities finding reason to be passing at the time. Everyone craned to catch a glimpse of the bride, regally radiant in ivory and gold, three unusual flowers anchoring her long veil. As she appeared at the top of the church steps on the arm of her proud husband, flanked by a troop of imposing Cynster males and a bevy of beautiful Cynster wives, the crowd let out a communal sigh.
It was just the sort of fairytale romance the ton and all of London delighted in.
At three o'clock, long after the crowds had retreated to savor all they'd seen, to recount the details and embellish their memories, Gabriel was still giving thanks that they'd managed to fight clear of the crowd of well-wishers before the church and repair to Mount Street for the wedding breakfast.
Standing by a window in the drawing room of Morwellan House, he peered through the fine curtains, reconnoitering the street. There was a small crowd waiting to watch them leave, but it was manageable.
"Almost free?"
Gabriel turned as Demon strolled up. His cousin looked disgustingly pleased with himself; Gabriel reasoned that Demon was yet too newly wed for his expression to ease into the deeply content expressions Devil and Vane now habitually wore. Richard was harder to read, but the glow in his eyes
when they rested on Catriona was equally revealing. Gabriel knew a vain hope that he would not be quite so easy to read. "Almost." He turned back to the window. "Add the guests inside and it'll still be a goodly crowd, but hopefully we'll make it away in reasonable time."
"Where are you headed? Or is it a secret?"
"Only from Alathea." Briefly, Gabriel outlined his plans to whisk Alathea off on a quick tour of the shires, visiting cities like Liverpool and Sheffield that she'd never visited before but that featured prominently in his business dealings.
"We'll end by going directly to Somersham for this summer celebration our mamas have planned." "Miss that at the risk of your life—or worse."
Gabriel grinned. "Richard's obviously taking no chances." He nodded to where his cousin's black head was bent over his wife's fiery locks.
"Not on any count," Demon agreed. "He says they'll be on the road north the day after the celebrations. He's not at all sanguine about having Catriona traveling in the condition she'll be in then."
"I'm sure Catriona will have everything precisely planned. Even if she hasn't, she'll just pass a decree and matters will fall out as she wishes—comes of being Lady of the Vale."
"Hmm. Still, I can understand Richard's feelings."
Gabriel glanced at Demon, wondering if that meant… Before he could form a suitable question, Alathea appeared.
She swept into the room, and his heart stopped. She'd changed into a traveling gown of watered mulberry silk, the high upstanding collar a frame for her hair, rich and lustrous in the afternoon light. Her mother's pearls were coiled about her throat, the matching drops in her ears. She wore no other decoration, acquiescing to his anathema toward anything covering the glory of her hair. No other decoration except for the three white blooms fixed in a spray trailing over one breast, a filigree gold ribbon looped between.
They were the flowers from her veil, the flowers he'd sent her that morning, with another note even simpler than his last.
I love you.
That was all he'd wanted to say, but he knew as only a Cynster could that he'd be looking for ways to tell her that for the rest of his life.
She scanned the room, saw him, and immediately smiled. Her fine eyes bright, she glided to his side. Gabriel raised a brow as she slid her hand onto his arm. "Ready?"
She wrinkled her nose at him. "We have to give Augusta and Jeremy a few more minutes."
Not even that news could dim his anticipation; he knew his wife well enough to know the younger Morwellans would not have stepped over the line. All he wanted to do was to leave, and have her to himself again.
Flick, Demon's young wife, joined them in a froth of blue skirts, face animated, her eyes lit with an inner
glow—an inner glow, Gabriel suddenly realized, now he'd grown accustomed to the sight in Alathea's eyes, that all the Cynster brides shared.
Interesting.
"Come on!" Flick claimed Demon's arm. "It's almost time for them to leave."
"Why are you so afire?" Demon asked. "It's not as if you need to catch any bouquets." "I want to see who does." Flick tugged. "The steps are filling up."
Demon gave a little ground, looking back at Gabriel. "Where's Lucifer?" His demonic grin surfaced. "Thought I'd give him a little advice."
Gabriel scanned the crowd, then lifted a brow at Demon. "I suspect he's already fled." Demon snorted. "Fool!" He cocked a brow at Gabriel. "Care to wager it'll do him no good?" Gabriel shook his head. "Some things are meant to be."
Demon acknowledged the comment with a swift smile and a nod, then surrendered to Flick's impatience.
Gabriel turned his gaze on Alathea, and simply smiled. After a moment, she looked up at him. "Ready?" he asked.
She held his gaze. "Yes."
"At last." He covered her hand where it lay on his sleeve.
They walked out of the room, out of the house, and set out on a journey to last the rest of their lives.
First Avon Books Printing: July 2000 Inside cover autor photo Michael Warshall
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-conversion to standard HTML format
-added chapter links, chapter navigation
-compliant with EDG v1.5
