Her breath caught; her lungs seized.
Millicent, thank heavens, spoke to him, deflecting his attention. By the time his too acute gaze returned to her, she’d recovered and was ready. She inclined her head, her lips lightly curved. “I hope you feel comfortable within the gardens now, sir, enough to go about on your own.”
“Indeed.” His brown eyes held hers. “If you’re sure we can’t tempt you to accompany us, and leave those ‘several matters’ until later?”
Her smile felt tight. “Quite sure. Unfortunately…” She broke off before completing the lie. Millicent moved past her, starting up the steps. She reminded herself she owed him no explanation. Drawing a determined breath, she met his eyes. “I’ll see you at luncheon, sir. Treadle will ring the bell on the terrace, so you’ll be sure to hear it.”
His disturbingly intent gaze lingered on her face, but then he bowed. “Until then, Miss Tregonning.”
Inclining her head, she turned and followed Millicent up the steps. Her senses pricked, nervously flickering. Gaining the terrace, she paused, then looked back.
Gerrard hadn’t moved. He’d remained where she’d left him, watching her…as if he knew how tight her lungs were, how tense her nerves…how her heart was thudding.
His eyes met hers. For an instant, all about them stilled…
She turned and followed Millicent across the terrace and into the house.
A
fter luncheon, another quiet meal, Gerrard retreated to his studio while Barnaby hied out to explore Cyclops and the gardens in general.
Earlier, they’d explored the Garden of Night—a curious, dramatic and vaguely disturbing place. The atmosphere had been all Gerrard’s dream had promised, not just darkly Gothic but with a sinister undertone carried in the oppressive stillness. The more cheery Garden of Poseidon had lightened their mood before Treadle’s gong had summoned them back to the house.
Closing the nursery-cum-studio door, Gerrard got to work. His purpose was defined—to set out all he needed, to unpack the boxes the footmen had left stacked against the walls and lay out paints, pads, pencils and the various paraphernalia with which he habitually surrounded himself—yet while his hands were busy, his mind remained engrossed.
Thinking of Jacqueline Tregonning.
Reliving, reviewing, all the moments he’d thus far shared with her, and trying to make sense of them, trying to wring every last iota of meaning from each, to get some firm concept—some concept he could accept as firm enough—of what she was, of what, with her, he was dealing with.
His initial view of her had been that she had character. That had proved true, yet her character was complex, far more so than he’d expected. He’d labeled her an enigma, and she still was to him.
He hadn’t, yet, made any real headway in understanding her. His observations to date had yielded not answers but yet more questions.
And that surprised him.
He would, he felt, have coped with that surprise, with the challenge she posed, well enough, if it hadn’t been for the rest of it—the aspects of their interaction he hadn’t foreseen, and wasn’t sure how to deal with.
Despite his experience, this was one situation he’d never before had to face. Not even when his subjects had been ravishing beauties, the twins for example, had he found himself wondering what their lips would taste like.
He kept telling himself that the sexual attraction he felt would fade, would merge into his customary, curious-yet-detached attitude as he learned more of Jacqueline. Instead, thus far at least, the more he learned, the closer he drew to her, the more powerfully the attraction flared.
Throwing the heavy locks on a case, he laid it open on the floor, then hunkered down to examine the pencils and charcoals neatly arrayed within. He tried to focus on his art, on the practical acts necessary to bring it to life, tried to channel his edginess into that, and didn’t succeed.
Selecting two pencils, he closed the case. Straightening, he crossed to where the table he’d requested sat at right angles to one end of the wide windows. Sketch pads lay stacked, the lightly textured paper he favored for first drawings spread ready, virginal white, waiting for his impressions, his first attempts at capturing them.
Such a sight always brought a surge of excitement, of eagerness to plunge into a new work; he felt the expected lift, the sharpening of his senses, yet there was something else, something more compelling, hovering in his mind, distracting him.
Laying down the pencils, he breathed in and closed his eyes—and vividly recalled how her eyes, moss, amber, gold and brown, had appeared in that fraught instant on the shore.
He focused on that moment, one that kept replaying in his brain; he remembered what he’d felt, how the feelings had flowed.
Realized that it wasn’t purely his reaction to her, the sexual attraction itself, that was destabilizing his concentration. It was her reaction to him, and his subsequent response to that—all of those elements combined.
Opening his eyes, he blinked. Frowned.
He couldn’t recall ever having his attention captured, ensnared, by a woman’s reaction to him. Yet every time her fingers trembled in his, he wanted to seize, not just them but her; every time her lovely eyes flared, he was visited by an urge to touch her, caress her, and watch them widen even more.
Beneath his breath, he swore. Every time he thought of her, he ended envisioning making love to her.
A tap fell on the door, light, uncertain.
Not
Jacqueline, was his first thought.
He raked his hand through his hair. “Come in.” Any distraction was better than the circle his thoughts seemed determined to tread.
The door swung open; Millicent stood in the doorway. Seeing him, she smiled and walked in. She looked around, but that seemed merely a polite action, because she thought she should show interest.
“You seem to be settling in quite nicely—is everything to your liking?”
No—lusting after your niece is driving me deranged.
Gerrard smiled. “Thank you. I have all I need.”
“Well…” Millicent hesitated; clearly there was some purpose behind her visit, one she was reluctant to broach.
Gerrard gestured to the window seat beneath the farther window, the area he’d left for consultation, away from his work. “Won’t you sit down?”
Turning, Millicent saw the window seat. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
Following her across the room, Gerrard picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down facing the seat, close enough to see Millicent’s eyes, yet not close enough to crowd her.
He waited for her to sit, then sat himself. When she didn’t say anything but studied his face, as if wondering whether to speak at all, he prompted, “Was there something you wished to tell me?”
She studied his eyes for a moment longer, then grimaced. “Yes—you’re very acute.”
He made no reply but waited.
She sighed. “It’s about Jacqueline, and, well…the reason she no longer goes into the Garden of Night.”
He nodded encouragingly. “I noted her hesitation this morning.”
“Indeed.” Millicent clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “It’s because of her mother—or rather, Miribelle’s death. She fell to her death, you see. From the terrace, into the Garden of Night.”
He felt his expression blank with shock.
Millicent saw; she leaned forward, concerned. “I’m sorry. I see you didn’t know, but I wasn’t sure whether Marcus would think to mention the details, and, of course, having to learn about Jacqueline in order to paint her properly, you were bound to notice and wonder…well, as you did.”
He managed to nod; what he desperately needed was to think. “How did it happen?” When Millicent frowned, as if unsure what he meant, he restated the query, “What caused Jacqueline’s mother to fall?”
Millicent’s eyes widened a fraction; she sat back. He got the impression he’d put a foot wrong, but couldn’t imagine how or where.
A hand rising to fiddle with her neckline, Millicent said, her tone now careful, “It was, of course, thought to be an accident. Anything else…well, there never was any suggestion of anything else.”
She’d grown flustered; to his dismay, she stood. “So now you understand why Jacqueline won’t go into that area of the gardens. I don’t know that she’ll ever grow comfortable enough to venture there again. Please don’t press her.”
Gerrard rose, too. “No, of course not.”
Millicent turned quickly to the door. “Now I really must get on. You will remember that we’re dining with the Frithams this evening? The carriage will leave at seven.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Gerrard followed her to the door.
She didn’t wait for him to open it, but did so herself and started down the narrow stairs. “At seven, remember,” she called back, then whisked away down the corridor.
Gerrard leaned against the doorjamb, and wondered why Millicent had suddenly decided she’d said too much. What had she told him?
So little. Just enough to show him how much more he’d yet to learn.
G
ood Lord! She fell to her death from the terrace?”
“So Millicent said, and I doubt she invented it.” Gerrard lolled on the end of Barnaby’s bed, watching while his friend, now distinctly absentmindedly, tied his cravat.
Gently lowering his chin, creasing the folds expertly, Barnaby shot him a sidelong glance. “And there’s some question over the death, you say?”
“No, I don’t say—I infer.” Gerrard altered his voice to an approximation of Millicent’s. “Anything else…well, there never was any suggestion of anything else.” He reverted to his usual tones. “All said with her eyes wide and a look that clearly stated that while no one had ever
suggested
such a thing, it was the question in everyone’s mind.”
“A mystery!” Barnaby’s eyes glowed.
“Possibly.” Gerrard wasn’t entirely convinced of the wisdom of setting Barnaby loose on the subject, but he had to know more, and his friend was a master at ferreting out such things. “I asked Compton what he’d heard. Apparently, the late Lady Tregonning was well liked, nay, loved by all who knew her. The accepted theory is that she peered over the balustrade to look at something in the Garden of Night, overbalanced and fell. Tragic and regrettable, but nothing else. There’s no question but that the fall killed her—her neck was broken. That’s the story from the servants’ hall.”
“They usually know,” Barnaby murmured, easing on his coat.
“True.” Gerrard sat up. “However, if there’s no question over what killed her, then what caused her to go over the balustrade is the only thing that might remain in question—the only aspect that might account for Millicent’s reaction.”
Engaged in placing his handkerchief, watch and sundry other items into various pockets, Barnaby hmmed. “Suicide? It’s always an option in such cases.”
Gerrard grimaced and rose. “It could be that. Millicent wanted to explain so I wouldn’t press Jacqueline to enter the Garden of Night, then realized she’d revealed too much…yes, that might be it.”
He headed for the door; it was nearly seven o’clock.
Barnaby joined him. “But…?”
Hand on the knob, Gerrard met his friend’s eyes. “I need to know the truth, whatever it is, and for obvious reasons I can’t ask Jacqueline.”
Barnaby grinned and clapped him on the back. “Leave it to me—I’ll see what I can learn this evening. There’s sure to be someone attending who’ll be eager to swap a bit of gossip and scandal.”
Shaking his head, Gerrard led the way out of the room. “Just don’t make it sound like we’re conducting an investigation.”
“Trust me.” Barnaby followed him out and shut the door. “I’ll be the soul of discretion.”
Gerrard started for the stairs, inwardly debating. Eventually, he murmured, “There’s one other thing.”
“Oh? What?”
“I need to understand why Jacqueline’s unmarried. She’s twenty-three, attractive, and Tregonning’s heiress—even buried out here, she must have, or have had, suitors. Who? And where are they now? No one’s suggested there’s any gentleman in the wings. Is her mother’s death in some way responsible for that?”
“Interesting point.” They reached the head of the stairs; Barnaby slanted a cheerfully inquisitive glance Gerrard’s way. “Just tell me—is that the way the wind now blows?”
Gerrard snorted. “Spare me.” He started down the stairs. “I need to know for the portrait.”
“Such things shouldn’t be too hard to learn.”
“Just remember—discretion is imperative.”
“You know me.”
“Indeed—that’s why I’m reminding you.”
I
t wasn’t, in truth, Barnaby’s discretion that caused Gerrard concern, but his enthusiasm; once embarked on solving a mystery, Barnaby was apt to forget such niceties as feminine susceptibilities and social strictures. From his position in the circle of which Jacqueline was a member, Gerrard kept an eye on his friend as Barnaby prowled the Frithams’ drawing room.
Hunting for information. With his bright eyes, cheery personality and, when he wished it, polished address, it was an undertaking at which he admittedly excelled.