The Truth about Love

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’re protecting 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.