The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The others looked at Gerrard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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