although what it was that, courtesy of Lord Tregonning bringing him here, now had him in its grip, he wasn’t sure.
As they left the room, Barnaby shot him a glance. “So you’re committed to this-to doing the portrait and, through that, starting a search for the real killer?”
“Yes.” They started down the corridor; Gerrard looked at Barnaby. “Why do you ask?”
Barnaby met his gaze, for once deadly serious. “Because, dear boy, if that’s your tack, then you really will need me here to watch your back.”
They’d reached the stairs; a noise in the hall below had them both looking down. Jacqueline, unaware of them, crossed the hall, heading for the breakfast parlor. She passed out of sight. In step, they started down.
“And, of course,” Barnaby mused, “someone will need to watch the lovely Miss Tregonning’s back, too.”
Gerrard knew a taunt when he heard one, knew he should resist, yet still he heard himself say, far too definitely to be misconstrued, “That, you may leave to me.”
Suppressed laughter rippled beneath Barnaby’s words. “I was sure you’d feel that way.”
An instant later, however, when they stepped off the stairs and Barnaby glanced at him, all trace of amusement had flown. “All teasing aside, chum, we will need to exercise a degree of alertness. I haven’t learned any more to the point yet, but I’ve heard more than enough to convince me there’s something very odd going on down here.”
He wanted to start sketching her immediately, but…
“I’m terribly sorry.” Faint color tinged Jacqueline’s cheeks. “Last evening, Giles Trewarren invited me to ride with him and a few of the others to St. Just this morning-I agreed to meet them at the top of the lane.”
Gerrard could read in her eyes that their discussion of the previous night-all she’d promised in return for his agreement to paint her-was fresh in her mind; she truly was sorry she’d accepted Giles’s invitation.
In light of that, he swallowed the urge to throw a painterly tantrum and insist she spend the day with him, wandering the house and gardens while he drew her out, and captured what showed in quick pencil sketches. The most preliminary of works, there would be many of them before he was satisfied he had the right setting, the right pose, and even more importantly the right expression for the portrait he was determined to create.
His enthusiasm and determination were running high; his commitment was absolute. Despite the success of his portraits of the twins, he was convinced his portrait of Jacqueline would transcend them; it would be the finest thing he’d done to date. His fingers were not just itching, the tips were almost burning with the desire to grip a pencil and wield it.
“I do hope you don’t mind?”
Her hazel eyes declared her sincerity. He inwardly sighed. “Perhaps Mr. Adair and I could accompany you-if you don’t mind?”
She smiled, genuinely relieved. Perhaps genuinely pleased? “That would be perfect. You haven’t seen much of the local area yet, and St. Just is the nearest town.”
Barnaby was happy to go jauntering-happy for the opportunity to talk to more locals and see what he could learn of the mysteries. After breakfast, the three of them met on the terrace, then headed for the stables.
Jacqueline was an accomplished rider; Gerrard inferred as much from the spirited bay mare that was waiting for her at the mounting block. Swinging up to the saddle of the chestnut gelding the stableman had chosen for him, he settled the horse, watching as Jacqueline let her mount prance, let her dance, then deftly brought her alongside.
The instant Barnaby had finished getting acquainted with his mount, a young black, they headed out, Jacqueline in the lead. She left the drive almost immediately, turning onto a grassed track between rolling green fields. Gerrard, watching her, caught the laughing glance she threw over her shoulder, then she touched her heels to the mare’s flanks-and raced ahead.
He was after her in an instant, instinctively, without thought.
With a startled “Whoop!” Barnaby followed.
They thundered over the turf, the rush of their passage converting the mild breeze to a wild wind whistling past their ears, raking through their hair.
The land rose steadily as they climbed out of the valley in which the Hall stood. When she crested the rise, Jacqueline pulled up, her mare cavorting, eager to fly on.
She looked back.
Gerrard was close behind her, closer than she’d realized; he wheeled the chestnut to a halt beside her. Barnaby, a few seconds behind, slowed; it was he who noticed the view first.
“I say!” His eyes grew round.
Gerrard turned. He said nothing, but when she looked at his face, she smiled. He was speechless. In that instant, the artist in him, the ability of his talent to take control of him utterly, was manifest. He sat mesmerized by the view, the magnificent sweep across Carrick Roads to Falmouth on the shore beyond.
“Well,” Barnaby said, “never let it be said that Cornwall has no scenery.”
“Indeed not!” She asked about the scenery of his own country; it transpired he’d been born and raised in Suffolk.
“Undramatic views we have aplenty-lots of windmills and flat fields. But”-sitting his horse, he looked again across the water-“nothing like this.”
After a moment, he glanced at Gerrard, between them, still staring avidly across the water, then he looked at Jacqueline. “You could try twitting him on the scenery of his county-it might break the spell.”
Gerrard murmured, “I can hear, you know.”
“Ah, but you can’t see. Not anything beyond the landscape, anyway.” Barnaby nodded down the rise to where a group ahorse milled at a spot in a lane. “Are they waiting for us?”
Jacqueline looked and waved. “Yes. That’s our group.” She glanced at Gerrard; he gestured her on.
“I take it that spot’s the top of the lane?”
“Yes.” She urged her mare into a walk, angling down the rise. “It’s where we usually meet. From there, we can follow the lane that way”-she pointed south-“to St. Mawes, or if we go north a little way, we’ll come to the lane to St. Just.”
Gerrard took stock of the group ahead. Both Trewarrens, Giles and Cedric, were there, both Frithams, and both Hancock girls, Cecily and Mary. He saw Jacqueline regard Cecily with some surprise; given his treatment of Cecily the previous evening, he had to wonder why, if she wasn’t a regular member of the riding group, she’d come.
He didn’t have to wonder for long. When they joined the others and exchanged greetings, Cecily treated him coolly, then turned her attention entire on Barnaby.
Gerrard stifled a grin. If Cecily had thought him harsh in putting her in her place, she’d be well advised not to corner Barnaby.
Leaving Barnaby to fend for himself, he gave his attention entire to Jacqueline, to observing how she reacted to the others and they to her, not joining in with the group but standing one pace back, neither judging nor encouraging, prepared to be amused, but not making any demands. It was a stance that worked well as they trotted down the lane to St. Just, then walked down the steep streets to an ancient inn, the Jug and Anchor. Leaving their horses in the inn’s stables, they set out along a stone-paved path that wended around the steep shoreline, giving glorious views across Carrick Roads.
It should have been a battle not to let the landscape claim him; instead, walking by Jacqueline’s side, unable to-with no reason to-take her arm, yet highly conscious of the desire to do so, his attention didn’t waver in the least. Indeed, it seemed oddly heightened, more focused on her because of their company, yet when, realizing, he looked more closely, he couldn’t understand why some part of him felt as if the younger males-Jordan, Giles and Cedric-posed some threat.
Jacqueline herself remained calm, composed, not as aloof, as carefully shielded as she had been in the company of their elders, yet she appeared perfectly capable of snubbing any pretentious behavior toward her. Not that any of the younger men tried.
Listening to their conversation, mostly led by Jacqueline and Eleanor, walking on her other side, he concluded they were all simply friends, easy in their joint company. Only Jordan occasioned any constraint, and that purely because of his arrogance. His attitude was so staggeringly superior, Gerrard found it hard not to let his amusement show.
