between his fingers, he looked across the clearing, and frowned.
For balance, there should have been something there-a statue in an alcove or some such thing. Instead, the side opposite the pool was a dense mass of creeper…or was it?
He rose and crossed to look more closely. Once within arm’s reach of the apparently dense mound, he saw it was in fact two weeping trees, their canopies overgrown by the vines; it was easy to push aside the creeper veil and look in…to what had clearly been intended as a serene and pleasant bower in which to sit and observe the fountain in the grotto pool.
Gerrard glanced back and forth, checking the angles. He felt sure he was right; that was what the original design had been. Now, however, the creepers had grown rampant and converted the bower to a green chamber, secret and concealed…and in use.
The moss planted there had withered long ago, but there was a thick cushion of straw covered by a layer of soft, dried moss, with dried flowers, heads of lavender and other herbs mixed in.
It was a trysting place.
The flowers and herbs weren’t that old, and the thick layer of moss had recently been disturbed.
Footsteps sounded on the path, heading his way. Barnaby.
Gerrard let the creeper curtain fall. He could guess who used the green chamber to meet with her lover after dark.
Barnaby came through the archway. He grimaced. “No luck.”
Gerrard’s lips twisted. “It was a long chance.”
“Indeed.” Crossing to the pool, Barnaby sat. As Gerrard neared, he reached for the arrow; Gerrard handed it over.
Barnaby examined it; his expression grew grimmer. “I’m seeing a pattern here.”
“All those the killer has targeted have…” Gerrard paused.
“Loved Jacqueline?” Assessing the arrow point, Barnaby nodded. “True, but I don’t think that’s it-or not all of it.”
Gerrard let Barnaby’s description pass; taking exception would be too revealing, as well as pointless-Barnaby knew him well. “If not that, what?”
“Murdering you and Thomas because you’d grown close to Jacqueline I can understand, but why kill her mother?”
“We’ve already answered that.” Gerrard started to pace.
“Perhaps, but we have to remember what’s commonly known.” Barnaby looked up. “From that, what links you to the others is that you’re
Gerrard met his eyes. “Which means you, too, are at risk.”
“Possibly, but I’m not the most urgent threat to this killer. You are.” Barnaby locked eyes with him. “You’re also the key to Jacqueline’s freedom-without you, there’ll be no portrait and no revision of the accepted truth.”
Gerrard halted. Gazing at Barnaby, he thought through all he knew; he wasn’t convinced the killer hadn’t targeted him purely because he’d grown close to Jacqueline.
Barnaby studied his expression, then grimaced. “Regardless, we need to return to London.”
Gerrard blinked. “London? Why?”
Barnaby told him. Initially he made much of the danger to Gerrard.
He dismissed that. “It’s safe enough here now we’re on guard.”
“Yes, and no-what if the killer doesn’t truly care if he kills you, only that he stops you from completing the portrait?” Barnaby held his gaze pointedly. “There are many more ways to accomplish that, which will make it that much harder to prevent. Are you sure you want to risk it?”
His imagination ran wild; he could instantly envisage any number of ways of halting the portrait-burning down the house, harming Jacqueline.
Barnaby’s expression set. “No matter what arguments you make, one fact remains. Without your completing her portrait, Jacqueline is trapped. Only you, with it, can free her.”
Gerrard stared into Barnaby’s steady blue eyes. Then he hauled in a huge breath, and nodded. “You’re right. London it is. Us, Millicent and Jacqueline.”
“When?” Barnaby stood. “Can you finish the portrait there?”
Gerrard nodded. “Once I finish the setting, it’ll be easier-and faster-to do the sittings in my studio. As things stand…if I do nothing but paint for the next two days, we can leave after that.”
“Two days from now?”
Gerrard nodded, suddenly eager to have Jacqueline safe in his own territory. He and Barnaby started back toward the house.
“I’d suggest,” Barnaby said, “that there’s no benefit in scaring the ladies.” He caught Gerrard’s eye. “We’ll square things with Tregonning, and then cast it as a jaunt to the capital.”
“That,” Gerrard declared, “will be easy. I’ve already paved the way for taking Jacqueline to town-she needs a new gown for the portrait.”
Barnaby grinned, grimly determined. “Excellent.”
Reaching the steps to the terrace, they went quickly up.
Jacqueline spent the next two days in what seemed a constant whirl. Not since her mother’s death had the household been plunged into such frenetic activity.
They were going to London-her, Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby. So her father had informed them at luncheon on the second day after the ball. Apparently Gerrard had spoken to him about the need for a new gown for the portrait, and her father had agreed, not only to the trip but to Gerrard’s completing the portrait in his studio in town.
She’d only been to Bath before, never to the capital. Now, courtesy of Gerrard, she and Millicent could look forward to at least two weeks, most likely more, in which to sample fashionable life.
All but dizzy contemplating the possibilities, she and Millicent had much to do to prepare for both the journey and their stay, all in the day and a half her father and Gerrard had allowed them. Males both, they didn’t seem to comprehend how much time it required to sort, freshen and pack a wardrobe, select and pack hats, shoes, gloves, shawls, reticules, stockings, jewelry and all the other accessories necessary for putting on a creditable show in town.
On that both she and Millicent were determined. They were clearly destined to meet at least some of Gerrard’s fashionable relatives; they had no intention of appearing as provincials, insofar as they could avoid it.
And then there were the household duties to delegate.
She was almost glad that Gerrard retreated to the old nursery. After the announcement, he didn’t appear again, not for dinner, nor for breakfast or lunch the next day.
Of course, at night, she visited his room. On the first night, discovering him absent, she’d quietly climbed the stairs, avoiding Compton’s room to open the nursery door.
The night had been warm and sultry. Clad only in breeches, his feet bare, he’d stood poised before the canvas. But his gaze had deflected to her. As before, she’d sensed the complete shift in his attention, the total distraction she was to him, and had hidden a wholly feminine smile.
She’d gone in and closed the door. He’d run his hand through his hair, then, as she walked to him, he’d set his palette down. And turned to her.
Later, she’d dozed on the window seat, her flushed skin protected from the cool night air by her robe and his shirt. She’d watched him paint, bare-chested, muscles shifting in the steady light thrown by six lamps turned high.
In those moments, his concentration had been absolute, focused on his work. Powerful, potent. Intense.
It was the same intensity, both physical and mental, that he brought to their lovemaking, but then, as its object, she couldn’t so clearly observe and appreciate. What she’d seen as he’d painted had made her shiver. Deliciously.
When they were together, all that was hers.
He’d returned to her when the sky was lightening, stirring her awake as the shades shifted through blues to grays before the soft pastels of dawn. Kneeling on the window seat, straddling him, under his direction sinking down and taking him deep inside her, she’d seen the reflection of the dawn on the sea, just as he drove her to
