The Truth about Love

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 be avid 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 are not 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, but flung 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 think Miribelle 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?”

“Who could 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. Who die.” 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.