The Truth about Love

No flames. No smoke. No footmen beating out a fire.

She skidded to a halt. Behind her, the door closed.

She whirled.

Jordan stood two paces away, watching her, his gaze cold, contemptuous-calculating.

She stared. Was it he…?

Her heart thudded; her breath clogged her throat. Looking into Jordan’s eyes, she reminded herself that people who loved her were the ones at risk-she’d never been-still wouldn’t be-in danger.

And her mother’s murderer, Millicent’s attacker, could be only one man-Eleanor’s lover.

Eleanor moved away from the door, drawing her attention.

Dragging in a breath, Jacqueline took a step back.

Eleanor came to stand by Jordan’s side, close, just behind his shoulder. Then she put a hand on his arm, sank closer still, and smiled-sweetly, yet patently-openly-insincerely.

The blood chilled in Jacqueline’s veins. The hair at her nape lifted.

She stared into Eleanor’s eyes; this was not the friend she’d known for years…She looked at Jordan. He appeared much as he always did, arrogant, superior, supercilious. Cold dread was creeping over her. Moistening her lips, she asked, “Where’s the fire?”

Jordan held her gaze, then evenly replied, “What fire?”

Then he smiled.

Eyes wide, Jacqueline knew-suddenly saw what none of them had-knew what her mother must have stumbled on, why she’d looked so haggard, why she’d been killed, why Millicent had been flung over the balustrade, why Thomas had been coldbloodedly murdered all those years ago.

It came to her in a heartbeat.

She hauled in a breath and screamed.

A aargh!”

With two footmen, Gerrard heaved the huge bundle of paint-spattered drop cloths out of the nursery window. They fell to the terrace below, out of reach of any embers.

Catching his breath, his back to the window, he paused, taking in the charred rafters and smoldering walls. They’d smothered the flames just in time, before they could take hold in the roof and spread.

A woman’s scream, faint but distinct, abruptly cut off, wafted past the window, carried on an updraft from far below. For one fleeting instant, it sliced through the stamping and thumping, the oaths, the noisy chaos as footmen and gardeners used sacking to beat out the last flames.

Gerrard’s senses pricked. He swung back to the window. He’d rushed to the attics, leaving Barnaby to see to his bedroom; he knew more about the dangers of paint-spattered wood and cloths, and the other deathtraps that lurked in artists’ studios.

Dense smoke billowed out of his bedroom below, but it was thinning; the crackle of flames had subsided.

They’d saved the house.

It must have been a maid who’d screamed, but why now? Why from outside?

The premonition of wrongness intensified. He hesitated, staring unseeing down at the gardens, then he swore. “Wilcox!”

The head gardener looked up from where he was beating out glowing embers. “Yes, sir?”

“Round up your men and get down to the terrace. Something’s happening down there.”

Leaving the footmen to finish damping down the attics, Gerrard flung through the door and pelted down the stairs.

Behind, he heard Wilcox rallying his men. “C’mon, you lot-downstairs. Look sharpish!”

Gerrard hit the corridor and ran. His chest felt tight-from smoke, and nascent fear. He raced to his room, barreled through the open door, spared barely a glance for the charred mess, not as bad as in the nursery. Leaping over debris, he saw Barnaby and pointed to the balcony. The telescope stood where he’d left it, safe and untouched on its tripod in the corner; he grabbed it, swung it up and pushed past the milling figures onto the balcony.

“What?” Barnaby asked, reaching his side.

“Some woman screamed-from the gardens, I think.” Working frantically, Gerrard set up the tripod, then readjusted the telescope and focused. “Send someone to check if Jacqueline’s in the drawing room.”

He felt Barnaby’s start, but his friend didn’t question him. A footman was dispatched, urgency stressed.

Gerrard swept the gardens. Even from this vantage point, not all the areas were visible; he scanned in arcs, hoping to pick up some movement-

“There!” He looked up, checked the direction, then looked through the telescope again. “There’s someone rushing through Poseidon, heading into Apollo. Three people…” He refocused. “Jordan, Eleanor-and Jacqueline.” He swore. “They’re holding her between them.”

He tensed to straighten; Barnaby’s hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“No. Keep them in your sights-keep tracking them.”

He did. “They’re in Apollo now, hurrying further away. Where the devil are they taking her?”

Matthew Brisenden appeared beside him, gripping the rail, staring out.

Sir Vincent joined them. “Did I hear aright? The young Frithams are running off with Jacqueline?”

Gerrard nodded. “They’re headed down the gardens-God knows why.”

“They’re kidnapping her!” Gripping the railing, Matthew turned his way. “They have to get to the stone viewing platform before they can take the path up through Diana, over the ridge to the manor.”

Gerrard swore. “He’s right. That’s how they get back and forth without using the front door.”

“Not this time.” Barnaby leaned over the balustrade and called to Wilcox, now on the terrace with a bevy of gardeners. In a few short phrases, he explained; Wilcox and his men turned as one, and raced along the terrace, then poured down into the gardens, taking the most direct route through Athena into the garden of Diana to block the route to the manor.

“They’ll see,” Matthew said, “and go the other way. If they can reach the stables-”

“Or even the other cove,” Sir Vincent put in. “There’s a rowboat there.”

Matthew was already turning. “I saw Richards below. I’ll find him and get his men out on the paths along the northern ridge, so they won’t be able to go that way, either.”

“I’ll help.” Sir Vincent followed Matthew out.

Gerrard kept the telescope trained on the trio hurrying through the gardens. They were still in Apollo, crossing the bridge over the stream. Jacqueline was gagged; from the way Jordan and Eleanor were holding her between them, her hands were bound, too.

Behind him, he heard movement; Lord Fritham, Sir Harvey Entwhistle and Mr. Hancock appeared. They’d been assisting in putting out the flames. One glance at Lord Fritham’s stunned expression told Gerrard he’d heard the latest developments.

So had the others. “Come on, old chap.” Grim-faced, Sir Harvey dropped a hand on Lord Fritham’s shoulder. “We’d best get down there and find out what that whelp of yours thinks he’s about.”

Lord Fritham nodded; he looked numb. The three older men turned and went out.

Barnaby returned to Gerrard’s side. “Where are they now?”

“In Apollo, still some way from the second viewing stage.” He paused, then added, “Jacqueline keeps stumbling. She’s slowing them down.” His voice flattened, grew quieter. “Jordan just hit her.” A moment later, he went on, “That hasn’t helped-she’s slumped on the ground and refusing to get up.”

Barnaby gripped his shoulder harder. “Stay with it a bit longer. We need to see where they go once they reach the viewing platform.”

Gerrard slammed a door on his rising emotions, far beyond anger or simple protectiveness. Rage, fury, cold, deep and potent; Jacqueline was his, his to protect, but he could see the sense in Barnaby’s tack. Gritting his teeth, he kept the telescope trained; in his head, he warned Jacqueline to take care, urged her to be careful. Cursed Jordan Fritham to hell and beyond.

Simultaneously prayed.

The older gentlemen came out on the terrace. Lord Tregonning was with them. They called up to Barnaby for