He murmured an “Of course,” and pretended to accept it, but his mind, his imagination, churned.
As always, dinner was a quiet meal, leaving him plenty of time to think. With a few stilted comments, Lord Tregonning made it clear he considered the subject of Entwhistle’s death closed. Barnaby shot Gerrard a questioning look, clearly asking whether they should challenge that; almost imperceptibly, Gerrard shook his head and mouthed, “Not yet.”
His first priority was Jacqueline.
After dinner, increasingly restless, he joined Millicent and Barnaby in the drawing room.
“This latest
He and Barnaby assured her they had absolutely no intention of letting the matter rest. Mollified, Millicent confirmed that, although her friends in the neighborhood had always kept her apprised of local happenings, she’d never heard of any dispute involving Thomas, not of the sort that might have led to murder. Dismissing that as a motive, they turned to the other plausible reason, that someone had killed Thomas because he was about to offer for Jacqueline’s hand, and would most likely have been accepted.
Gerrard looked at Millicent. “Is that correct-that he was about to offer, and would have been accepted?”
“Oh, yes. The match was a favorable one on all counts.”
“So who,” Barnaby asked, “were the jealous hopefuls Thomas’s success with Jacqueline threatened?”
He suggested Matthew Brisenden, but Millicent dismissed that idea out of hand. She was adamant, even though Barnaby pressed.
“No, no-he’s cast himself in the role of her protector-a knight errant. His duty is to serve, not to marry her. You shouldn’t take his attitude to mean he has any serious
Reluctantly Gerrard confirmed that Jacqueline had said much the same.
“Indeed.” Millicent nodded. “I don’t think you should imagine Matthew was jealous of Thomas.”
“Nevertheless,” Barnaby said, “Brisenden might have had some reason to view Thomas as a danger to Jacqueline. That’s an equally strong motive for him to attack Thomas, and he was known to be in the vicinity.”
Millicent pulled a face. “I hate to admit it, but that
So Sir Vincent, whom Gerrard and Barnaby had yet to meet, went on their list, along with unknown others yet to be identified let alone discounted. The exercise left them disheartened. Barnaby admitted proving who killed Thomas might not now be possible. On that somber note they retired.
They parted in the gallery and went to their respective rooms.
Gerrard spoke with Compton; he’d heard nothing useful.
“They’re a bit shocked. In a day or so, as they mull things over, someone might remember something. I’ll keep listening, you may be sure.”
According to Compton, the staff had never imagined that Jacqueline was in any way involved with either Thomas’s disappearance, or her mother’s death. “Doesn’t seem to have occurred to them at all.”
Dismissing Compton, Gerrard stood before the windows; hands in his pockets, he thought of what they knew about both murders. If people viewed the facts rationally, with an unclouded mind, Jacqueline’s innocence shone like a beacon. But people hadn’t, and wouldn’t, because someone had clouded the issue. Deliberately.
Someone had, with malice aforethought, cast Jacqueline as a scapegoat.
Something dark within him leapt, all gnashing teeth and sharp claws. Muttering a savage curse, he suppressed it; now was not the time for that sort of action-he couldn’t see the enemy yet.
He looked out at the dark gardens, at the black and purple sky, at the roiling clouds forming fantastical shapes as they blew in from the west; a landscape artist’s dream, he barely saw them.
Rescuing Jacqueline was now critical to him. Not just for her sake, but for his, too.
How she felt, how she was. That was his immediate and all-consuming focus; since Barnaby had told them of the body, the question hadn’t left the forefront of his brain. He was worried, concerned, about her-anxious, with his heart uncertain and his gut tight.
Part of him wanted to pretend it was just his painterly instincts wanting to observe her in an emotional state, but that was balderdash. He
His imagination was too active not to create visions of her alone in her room, grieving, yes, but more-feeling her aloneness, feeling helpless. Thomas would have been her champion once, but he’d disappeared, left her alone- at least now she knew it hadn’t been deliberately.
But he was her champion now.
He swung from the windows and paced, frustration growing. The clock struck eleven; he glowered at it, at the reminder of how many more hours he would have to endure before he saw her again, before he could reassure this insistent and strangely vulnerable part of him that she was whole, still well…still willing to explore what lay between them with him.
That last part of his motive was there, to be sure, but somewhat to his surprise it wasn’t the predominant element; knowing she wasn’t weighed down with grief, worry, and especially fear, was.
He wasn’t going to get much sleep, not until he knew she was all right. Could he find out now, tonight?
He’d feel ridiculous knocking on her door and asking her outright, not at this hour…
Creative imagination was a wonderful thing. Inspiration gleamed; within seconds, his mind had filled in the details.
He didn’t stop to think. Turning, he strode to the door, opened it, and closed it quietly behind him.
9
He only needed to see her, to speak with her. To reassure himself that she was all right.
He didn’t meet anyone on his way to her room, hardly surprising given the hour. Stalking to her door, he glanced down. Strong light showed beneath it. Grimly encouraged, he rapped on the door. Half a minute passed, then Jacqueline opened it.
Her eyes widened; she stared at him.
He tried not to stare back. She was wearing a fine lawn nightgown with a gauzy robe thrown over it. Her hair was down, a rich brown veil rippling over her shoulders-it was transparently clear she hadn’t been abed.
With the lamps blazing behind her, that wasn’t the only thing transparently evident.
Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
Jaw clenching, he reached for her arm and moved her back. Stepping into the room, he shut the door.
“What…?” She was still staring at him.
The light now reached her face. He noted her pallor; her stunned, lost and off-balance expression wasn’t solely due to his arrival. “I want to look through your wardrobe.”
Scanning the room, he saw a large armoire positioned along the side wall. He headed for it.
“My
“I need to look over your gowns.”
“My gowns.” Not a question; her tone suggested he’d taken leave of his senses. “You need to see my gowns now.”
“Yes.” He pulled open the wardrobe doors, revealing a full length of hanging space filled with gowns. “You weren’t asleep.” He reached for a creation in amber silk.
She tried to peer into his face. “What are you about? Why this burning need to look at my gowns?” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s after eleven!”
He didn’t look at her. “I need to gauge what will look best on you.”
“At