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 meeting his 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 s
topped 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
I hope 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.”
The Truth About Love Page 11