Gerrard decided against telling her she was precisely the sort of young lady he daily prayed he’d never have to paint. Informing her that if he painted her, all her spite and nastiness-from what he’d taken in of her comments she was well endowed with both-would show, also seemed unwise; she’d probably shriek, faint or accuse him of something.
Yet thanks to her indiscreetly modulated voice-he was quite sure she’d intended all around them to hear- everyone was waiting to hear his response. Beside him, Eleanor had angrily tensed; seated beyond Cecily, Mitchel Cunningham had colored painfully, but was avidly listening. Jacqueline had calmly turned to Roger and made some comment, drawing both Cedric and Mary-a quiet girl quite different from her sister-into the conversation, yet although they were ostensibly involved in their discussion, they were all waiting, listening, too.
It took him a mere instant to absorb that; he smiled, gently, at Cecily. “I’m afraid, Miss Hancock, that painters such as I don’t follow fashion.” His tone was cool, his drawl patronizingly light. He hesitated a heartbeat, holding her gaze, before adding, “We set it.”
With that, he turned to Eleanor, smoothly engaging her with a question about St. Just, without compunction leaving Cecily-the-spiteful to come about as best she could.
For a few minutes, she sat in total silence, then he heard Mitchel Cunningham ask her a polite question. After a moment, Cecily quietly replied.
Across the table, Jacqueline caught his eye. Their gazes held for a heartbeat; he sensed she was grateful, yet puzzled, too-why, he had no clue.
A few minutes later, Lady Fritham rose, gathered the ladies and led them from the room. The gentlemen regrouped, congregating in the chairs about the table’s head as the brandy and port were set before Lord Fritham. Gerrard was surprised when Jordan Fritham circled the table to claim the chair beside him. They both helped themselves to the port as the decanter was passed around, then settled back.
Lord Fritham appealed to Barnaby, “What’s this I hear about Bentinck? Got himself in a spot of bother, so I hear.”
Understanding his lordship’s request, Barnaby launched into a highly colored recounting of Samuel Bentinck, Lord Mainwarring’s latest and possibly last attempt at matrimony. Gerrard sat back, relaxed; he knew the story, had heard Barnaby’s version at least twice, yet his friend was an excellent raconteur-it was no hardship to hear the tale again.
Barnaby rattled on; beside Gerrard, Jordan Fritham grew restless.
Eventually, he leaned closer to Gerrard, lowering his voice. “Quite a coup, I understand, that old Tregonning managed to persuade you to travel into our wilds to paint Jacqueline.”
Gerrard glanced at Jordan. He’d looked down, studiously examining the wine as he twirled his port glass. Jordan was in his mid to late twenties, yet Gerrard found it difficult to view him as a peer; Jordan’s perpetual arrogance, his condescending attitude, his often petulant, if not truculent expression, marked him so clearly as immature.
Barnaby’s story had some way to run; Gerrard was curious as to where Jordan intended to lead their conversation. “I rarely paint portraits of anyone.”
Jordan nodded, looking up-along the table, not at Gerrard. “Ah, yes-your real interest lies in the gardens, of course.” Raising his glass, he sipped, then, still without meeting Gerrard’s gaze, murmured, “A very lucky circumstance that Tregonning could offer you access to the gardens as inducement.”
Gerrard inwardly frowned. What the devil was Jordan getting at? “Lucky?”
Jordan darted a glance his way, then once more fell to studying his port. “Well, it’s common knowledge, at least to those of us who know the family well, why Tregonning wants the portrait done.”
He was too experienced to ask the question Jordan wanted him to ask-not yet. “You and your family know the Tregonnings well?”
Looking up, Jordan frowned. “Of course.”
“I understood from your father that the family hailed from Surrey.”
“Originally, but so did Miribelle, Tregonning’s late wife. As girls, she and m’mother were neighbors, bosom bows. Then they both married and Miribelle moved down here. After a few years, Mama and she grew frustrated with talking only through letters, so, as Tregonning wouldn’t leave Hellebore Hall, Mama convinced the pater they should buy Tresdale Manor, and”-Jordan gestured, his lip curling, his tone hardening-“here we are.”
He drained his port glass.
Gerrard wondered if Jordan knew just how transparent his resentment at being buried in the country, far from all excitement, was. Possibly he did, and didn’t care.
“You’ve been at the Hall for over a day now, long enough to see what a mausoleum it’s become. Miribelle was the life of the house; she and Mama constantly held parties and balls, all sorts of revelry. Not so much at the Hall itself, mostly here, but the brightness spilled into the Hall-even Tregonning used to smile occasionally.” Jordan set down his glass and reached for the decanter. He wasn’t drunk so much as well lit.
Gerrard said nothing, just waited. As he’d hoped, Jordan picked up his tale.
“Then Miribelle died.” Jordan paused to sip, then went on, “Suddenly, for no reason, she fell to her death. Ever since, we’ve barely had a party in the neighborhood.” His lip curled again; he glowered darkly across the room, then looked down, into his glass, and more quietly said, “It was given out it was an accident, of course.”
And there it was. Gerrard froze, physically, emotionally, as his mind made the mental leap and he saw the connections-the portrait,
Raising his glass, he took a long, slow sip of Lord Fritham’s excellent port; he barely tasted it. Yet nothing of his thoughts, of the sudden eruption of feelings churning through him, showed in his face, for which he was grateful-especially before a prat like Jordan Fritham.
“Indeed.” Anyone who knew him would have taken warning from his tone. Even Jordan looked up, alert, although not apparently understanding why. Gerrard sipped again, then cocked an eyebrow at Jordan. “Am I to take it that all those round about know of…the reason I’m here to paint Jacqueline’s portrait?”
He couldn’t keep the simmering anger completely from his voice, but while Jordan heard it and faintly frowned, he nevertheless answered with a light shrug. “I suppose all those who know the family well.”
“Most of those here, then?”
“Oh, not the younger ones-not the girls or Roger or Cedric.”
“I see.” Gerrard was suddenly very certain he did.
Lord Fritham chose that moment to push back his chair. Gerrard realized Barnaby had concluded his tale; all the usual exclamations and comments had been made and had died away.
“Very entertaining, Mr. Adair. Now I suspect it’s time we rejoined the ladies.” Beaming genially, Lord Fritham stood.
Chairs scraped. They all rose. Lord Fritham turned to speak to the butler. Gerrard moved with the others to the door; he hung back and Barnaby joined him.
They fell in at the rear of the group heading along the corridor to the drawing room; Lord Fritham had remained behind, but would no doubt shortly follow. They both slowed.
“What’s the matter?” Barnaby asked.
Gerrard shot him a glance; Barnaby was one of the few who would notice his state. “I’ve just learned something disturbing, too complicated to explain here. Have you learned anything?”
“Not about Lady Tregonning’s death, but I did hear about Jacqueline’s suitor.”
“She had a suitor?”
“
“Disappeared?” Incredulous, Gerrard glanced at Barnaby.
Who nodded grimly. “Just
Gerrard looked ahead. “Good God.”
“Indeed.” The drawing room doors were approaching; they both checked and looked back. And saw Lord
