The Truth about Love

“My dear heaven, I’ve never met such gossipmongers in my life!” She paused, then added, “Of course, that did make it easier to learn their thoughts and raise the questions we want them to consider. I didn’t have to introduce the subject of the body-that was what they’d come to talk about.”

“How successful were you,” Barnaby asked, “in making them wonder who killed Thomas?”

Millicent frowned. “My success varied, I’m sorry to say, but oddly enough it was Marjorie Elcott who grasped the facts most definitely, which is extremely fortunate as she’s the biggest gossip in the neighborhood.”

“Who else called?” Gerrard asked.

Millicent rattled off a list of names, which included all those local ladies he and Barnaby had met.

“Mrs. Myles and Maria Fritham didn’t seem able to absorb the point that if Thomas couldn’t have been killed by a woman, then Jacqueline obviously wasn’t his killer. Mrs. Hancock and Miss Curtis were more attentive, as was Lady Trewarren, although I fear her ladyship ended simply confused. Others, too, seemed to lose all interest immediately one started talking of facts.” Millicent grimaced. “Still, it was better than them thinking I credited the speculation so many of them seem to have swallowed whole.”

Sinking onto the chaise beside Millicent, Jacqueline touched her arm. “Thank you, Aunt.”

Millicent humphed and patted Jacqueline’s hand. “I only wish there was more we could do. It was distressing to see how widespread-and deeply rooted-this belief in your guilt is, my dear. Most worrying.” She glanced at Barnaby, whom she’d unknowingly echoed. “I do wonder, you know, if someone-some specific someone-hasn’t been intentionally spreading whispers. Not just recently, but over time. I asked a few of the ladies why they thought as they did-I got the same response every time: a blank look, and, ‘But everyone knows…’”

Barnaby grimaced. “That’s a difficult belief to challenge.”

“Especially when they delicately refrain from elucidating precisely what everyone knows!”

“Indeed.” Gerrard sat in the armchair facing the chaise. “That’s why we’ve concluded we need to start a more definite campaign now, rather than wait until the portrait is complete.”

Concisely, with a few interjections from Barnaby, he outlined their new tack.

“I agree,” Jacqueline said. “As Mr. Debbington pointed out, Papa has already made an effort to address the question of Mama’s death by commissioning my portrait.”

Millicent nodded. “That’s true.” She looked at Gerrard. “As I mentioned, I haven’t spent much of my life here. Consequently, I don’t know Marcus that well. However, I do know he loved Miribelle, not just deeply but as if she were his sun, moon and stars. She was everything to him, but he also loves Jacqueline. Whoever is behind this-not just the two murders but the casting of Jacqueline as scapegoat-has placed my brother in a dreadful position, one I’m sure has been tearing him apart. Suspecting Jacqueline of killing Miribelle…” Millicent paused, then gruffly huffed. “Indeed, poor Marcus has been a living and, it seems, quite deliberate victim of this killer, too.”

Barnaby softly applauded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Gerrard glanced around. “Then I take it we’re agreed?”

“Indeed, my boy,” Millicent said.

Jacqueline and Barnaby nodded.

“What we need to do next,” Barnaby said, “is plan the first step of our campaign.”

They didn’t just plan, but rehearsed; by the time they climbed the stairs to dress for dinner, they had their approach finely tuned.

The opening move fell to Millicent.

They all gathered in the drawing room as usual; also as usual, Lord Tregonning joined them only a few minutes before Treadle would appear. When her brother bowed to her, Millicent swept up and took his arm. “Marcus, dear”-she kept her voice low-“I wonder if Jacqueline and I could have a word with you after dinner? In your study, if you don’t mind?”

Lord Tregonning blinked, but, of course, agreed.

Dinner passed in the customary quiet fashion. Gerrard was grateful; they all had their arguments to hone.

At the end of the meal, rather than lead Jacqueline from the room, Millicent looked pointedly up the table. “If you could, Marcus…?”

Lord Tregonning shook himself. “Oh-yes, of course.” He glanced at Gerrard and Barnaby. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen-”

“Actually, Marcus,” Millicent broke in, “it would be helpful if Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair joined us. What we need to discuss involves them, too.”

Lord Tregonning wasn’t a slow-top; he glanced from Millicent and Jacqueline, waiting by her side, to Gerrard and Barnaby. His eyes narrowed, but he nodded, somewhat curtly. “As you wish. My study?”

They left Mitchel Cunningham, curious and trying to hide it, in the front hall, and repaired to his lordship’s study. With five of them in the room, it was a trifle crowded, but there were chairs enough for all.

Once they were settled, from behind his desk Lord Tregonning let his gaze touch each of their faces, eventually coming to rest on his sister’s. “Well, Millicent? What’s this about?”

“Quite a number of things, as it happens, but before we get to specifics, I want you to know that I’ve listened to every argument, every fact and conclusion, and I agree wholeheartedly with them all. Now.” She looked at Jacqueline. “My dear?”

Perched on the edge of a large leather armchair, her hands pressed together in her lap, Jacqueline drew in a deep breath, and prayed her voice wouldn’t waver. “I realize we’ve never talked of this, Papa, but I want you to know that I had nothing to do with Thomas’s death.”

She paused, her eyes on her father’s; she felt herself inwardly tense. “And I never harmed Mama-I didn’t, and would never have harmed a hair on her head. Yes, we argued that day, but that was all. I didn’t see her again after I left her in the breakfast parlor. I have no idea who killed her, or Thomas. But I do know and understand why you asked Mr. Debbington to paint my portrait.”

Lord Tregonning’s face had turned to stone. Glancing from him to Jacqueline, Gerrard wished he could take her hand, remind her with a touch that he was there, supporting her, but they would already be asking her father to assimilate a lot in one evening.

The atmosphere in the room had thickened, growing heavy with unspoken emotion; Jacqueline drew in a tight breath. “I know of the rumors, the whispers-unfortunately, I didn’t know of them early enough to deny them, not when I might have been believed. By the time I realized…” Her voice stalled; she gestured helplessly. “I didn’t credit them. I didn’t see their danger-not until it was too late.”

Voice strengthening, she went on, “But I didn’t kill Mama, and I didn’t kill Thomas, either. Someone else did, and we”-she broke off to include Gerrard, Barnaby and Millicent with a glance-“think that same person started, and is continuing creating stories, whispers, about me. I had thought-prayed-that the portrait, once complete, would open people’s eyes and start them thinking afresh. But now Thomas’s body has been found-if we do nothing, then I’ll be blamed for his death, too.” She drew breath. “Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair can explain the details better than I-I beg you to consider all they say.”

She looked at Gerrard. Conscious of her father’s eye, he didn’t smile, but formally inclined his head; she’d given him the perfect introduction.

He met Lord Tregonning’s gaze squarely. “I speak from the perspective of a painter, and also that of a businessman. As the latter, I’ve met evil in my time, faced it eye to eye-I know what true evil looks like. But as a portraitist, I’ve worked solely with innocents, with the kind, the good and the generous. More than any other attributes or traits, I can unhesitatingly recognize those-I’ve worked with them for the last seven and more years. When I look at your daughter, that’s what I see-to my eyes, innocence and purity of heart shine from her.”

He paused, letting silence lend weight to his words, letting them sink into Lord Tregonning’s mind. “When I heard of the whispers concerning Miss Tregonning and the death of her mother, I was flabbergasted. It was beyond my comprehension that such suspicions existed-from my point of view, they have no basis. In proof of that, I can assure you that my portrait of Miss Tregonning, once complete, will indeed cast severe doubt over the validity of the rumors. As she patently did not kill her mother, or, indeed, anyone, then the question will arise: Who did?”

Lord Tregonning’s attention was totally his. Any thought that they might not be able to sway him, that he might