Reaching Jacqueline’s door, he knocked-two sharp, preemptory raps, not overly loud.

An instant later, the door opened. A little maid, stunned, stared up at him.

Gerrard looked at the maid, then looked past her.

“Holly? Who is it?”

Holly’s eyes grew rounder. “Ah, it’s…”

Jacqueline came into view, halfway across the room. She’d taken off her jewelry, but had yet to unpin her hair. Her eyes widened, too.

Gerrard ignored the maid and beckoned, imperiously, to Jacqueline. “I need to talk to you.”

His tone gave her warning his mood was deadly serious; he wasn’t proposing any waltz in the moonlight.

She met his gaze; her expression grew careful. She came to the door.

The little maid ducked back, out of the way. Jacqueline set a hand to the door’s edge. “You need to talk to me now?”

“Yes. Now.” Reaching in, he grasped her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers. He glanced at the maid. “Wait here-your mistress will be back shortly.”

He tugged Jacqueline over the threshold. She opened her mouth. He shot her an openly furious glance; she blinked, stunned, and wisely said nothing. Unceremoniously, he towed her back along the corridor, back into the gallery, then down the side stairs that led directly to the terrace.

They emerged beside the drawing room, opposite the main stairs leading down into the gardens, to the path leading into the Garden of Night.

“No!” Jacqueline pulled back against his hold. “Not into the Garden of Night.”

He looked at her face. “Was it night when your mother died?”

She blinked; a moment passed before she said, “No. It was sometime in the late afternoon or early evening.”

He frowned. “You’re not sure when?”

She shook her head. “They found her later in the evening.”

He saw pain in her face, saw memories flit across her features, dulling her eyes. He nodded curtly and towed her unrelentingly on-along the terrace away from the main stairs.

She realized, and reluctantly kept pace. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace that’s relatively open.”

Where they’d be visible to anyone who looked out, but out of earshot of the house-private, yet not hidden, not secluded. Somewhere that would reduce the impropriety of talking with her alone in the middle of the night.

“The Garden of Athena will do.” The formal garden, the least conducive to seduction. Seduction was definitely not what he had in mind.

And any lingering influence to wisdom wouldn’t go astray.

Resigned, Jacqueline followed him along the terrace, then grabbed up her skirts as he went quickly down the secondary stairs that led to the Garden of Athena. That one look he’d shot her when she’d been about to protest had been enough to assure her humoring him would be wise, no matter what weevil had wormed its way into his brain. Clearly he’d learned about her mother’s death; how much he’d heard she’d no doubt soon learn.

Despite the tension humming through him, suppressed temper she had not a doubt, despite his precipitate actions, the abruptness of his growled words-despite the strength in the fingers wrapped about her hand-she felt not the slightest quiver of alarm, not the smallest qualm in allowing him to lead her far from her room, into the depths of the gardens in the dark of the night.

It wasn’t, in truth, all that dark. As he stalked along the graveled path through Athena’s garden, between the neatly clipped hedges and geometrically laid rows of olive trees, the moon bathed all about them in a steady radiance that cast everything in either silver or smudged black, a moorish enamel.

They reached the center of the formal garden, a circle between the inner points of four long rectangles. Abruptly, Gerrard halted; releasing her hand, he swung to face her.

His eyes, black in the night, raked her face, then locked on her eyes. “You know why your father wanted me-specifically me-to paint your portrait, don’t you?”

She studied his face, then lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“How did you know?”

Because she and Millicent had concocted the plan and Millicent had seeded it into her father’s brain. She decided against confessing, not until she knew why he was so angry. “He didn’t tell me, but once I heard of your reputation, his…purpose wasn’t hard to guess.”

“Not for you, or for any of those others interested in the mystery of your mother’s death.”

A vise slowly tightened about her chest; she ignored it. “I suspect that’s so, although I haven’t thought much of it.”

“They’ve certainly thought of it.”

She hoped so, but his tone sounded vicious. Unsure of his direction, she made no response.

After a long moment of, distinctly grimly, studying her face, he abruptly said, “Let’s take off the gloves here.”

When she raised her brows in surprise, he clarified, “And speak plainly. For some reason that I’ve yet to fathom, you are suspected of being in some way behind your mother’s falling from that terrace”-he stabbed a finger toward the place in question-“to her death. Your father”-his jaw clenched; hands gripping his hips, he swung and paced away-“being one of those who credit portrait painters with an ability to see beyond any superficial façade, has commissioned me to paint a portrait of you, presumably convinced that I will see, and through my painting reveal, your guilt or innocence.”

Reined temper-nay, fury-invested every sharp, decisive movement; it resonated in his tone, in the crisply bitten-off words. Swinging around, he stalked back to her. Halting before her, he looked into her face. “Is that correct?”

She held his gaze, replayed all he’d said, then nodded. Once. “Yes.”

For one second, she thought he’d explode. Then he swung violently away, hands rising to the sky as if invoking the gods whose gardens surrounded them. “In the name of all Heaven, why?”

He swung back; his gaze impaled her. “Why does your father suspect you? How can he suspect you? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

She stared at him, dumbstruck, for one heartbeat quite sure the earth beneath her feet had tilted. Slowly, she blinked, but his expression-the charged conviction she could see in it, limned in silver-didn’t change. Softly, she exhaled; the vise about her lungs eased a notch. “How do you know?”

He did know, absolutely; it was written in his face. He’d already seen the truth where others did not.

Impatient, he pulled a face, but the intensity in his expression didn’t waver. “I see-I know. Believe me, I know.” He moved closer, his gaze razor sharp as he examined her face. “I’ve seen evil-I’ve looked into the eyes of more than one man who truly was evil. Some people hide it well, but if I spend sufficient time with them, they’ll slip and it’ll show-and I’ll know.”

He paused, then went on, his gaze steadying on her eyes. “I’ve been watching you carefully, albeit for less than two days. What I’ve seen is all manner of emotions, complicated and complex feelings, but of the shadow of evil I’ve seen not a trace.”

After a moment, he added, “I would have by now if it was there. What I see is something quite different.”

His voice had changed, softened. Enough for her to feel she could ask, “What do you see?”

He looked at her for the space of ten slow heartbeats, then shook his head. “I’m not good with words-I paint things I can’t describe.”

She wasn’t sure that was the truth, but before she could think of how to probe, he asked, “I need to know before I speak with him-why does your father think you were in any way involved with your mother’s death?”

Apprehension flared. “Why-what are you going to speak with him about?”

His temper returned; the smile he flashed her was all restrained violence. “Because I have no intention of being his unwitting pawn in judging his daughter.”

“No!” She grasped his sleeve. “Please-you must do the portrait. You agreed!”

Her desperation rang clearly. He frowned, then he twisted his arm, breaking her grip, catching her hand. She felt his fingers move over hers, then they stilled.

A moment passed, then he sighed. He raked his other hand through his hair, met her eyes again. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you simply tell him you’re innocent? Force him to believe you-surely he will? He’s your father.”

His frown deepened. “You shouldn’t have to go through this, to face what amounts to a public examination with me as your inquisitor, laying all you are bare.”

Concern, open and sincere, colored his tone-concern for her. It had been so long since she’d been offered such straightforward and unconditional support-and more, defense-she wanted to close her eyes, wrap herself in all the tenor of his voice conveyed, and wallow.

But he was confused, and he had to understand-had to understand and agree to paint her portrait.

She drew in a long breath, felt the cool night air reach her brain. She glanced around; her gaze fell on the bench around the central fountain, presently silent and still. She gestured. “Let’s sit, and I’ll explain what happened, and you’ll see why things are as they are.”

Why I need you to paint me as I truly am.

He didn’t release her hand, but led her to the bench, waited until she sat, then sat beside her. Leaning forward, one elbow on his knee so he could watch her face, he closed his hand around hers-and waited.

She was supremely conscious of his nearness; ignoring her prickling senses, she cleared her throat. “Papa…you must understand he’s in an invidious position. He loved my mother dearly-she was literally the light of his life. When she died, that light went out and he lost…his connection with the world. He was dependent on her in that sense, so losing her was doubly difficult for him. This is what happened, what he knows.”