He shook his head. “I don’t need you to do that-I’ll pose you in the studio. I want the scene lit by moonlight, and while I’ve done enough landscapes to know how to manage that for the setting, people are harder. I’ll need to work in candlelight, and convert that to moonlight.” He caught her gaze. “Your pose will be difficult as it is-indoors will be bad enough.”

She looked into his eyes, then pulled a face. “Thank you for the warning.” She glanced toward the Garden of Night. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

They both turned as footsteps sounded, swinging down through the Garden of Vesta.

“Barnaby.” Gerrard closed his sketchbook.

“I wonder if he’s been up to the house?”

Barnaby emerged from the path and saw them. He grinned and ambled over. “Richards said he thought you were here. I decided, after the exigencies of my morning, that I shouldn’t place any further strain on my temper-according to Richards there’s a platoon of local ladies in the drawing room.”

Subsiding onto the grass before the seat, Barnaby heaved a long sigh, then stretched out, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.

Gerrard grinned; he prodded Barnaby with his boot. “So report-what did you learn in St. Just?”

Barnaby’s features set; it was instantly apparent whatever he’d discovered hadn’t made him happy. “It’s nonsensical. Well, no, I can-just possibly-understand that people do leap to conclusions based on precious little fact, and the only widely known fact regarding Thomas’s disappearance and now death is that the last person to have seen him, and what’s more, to have been in the gardens with him, is Jacqueline.”

Opening his eyes, Barnaby looked at her. “If I hadn’t experienced it myself, I wouldn’t have believed how widespread, or indeed how entrenched, suspicion against you is. As it was, I had to be careful what I said-how much I let out and, most importantly, how I reacted to-” Clearly frustrated, he gestured with both hands. “ ‘Established fact’!”

Looking at Jacqueline, Barnaby assayed a grin. “I assure you, I deserve a medal for discretion.” He glanced at Gerrard, met his eyes. “But it was distressing, and rather unnerving.”

Gerrard frowned. Barnaby didn’t use words like “distressing” and “unnerving” without cause. Indeed, very little unnerved Barnaby.

Lying back, eyes closed, Barnaby refolded his arms, frowning, too. Eventually, Gerrard asked, “What are you thinking?” It was patently obvious something portentous was brewing in Barnaby’s brain.

Barnaby sighed. “I honestly think we have to act now-not leave everything until later, until the portrait’s finished and we can use it to open people’s eyes.” Opening his own, he looked up at them both. “The portrait’s critical to making people rethink their views of your mother’s murder, but Thomas…” His gaze rested on Jacqueline. “That’s another case, and we can’t let them hang the blame on you without cause. If we let it go, let them think what they are without challenging it now, then we’re going to face a much harder battle to make them open their minds later.”

Barnaby looked at Gerrard. “I think we need to speak to Tregonning-lay before him the clear evidence Jacqueline was in no way involved in Thomas’s murder, and also the facts demonstrating she’s innocent of her mother’s murder, too.”

Jacqueline drew a not entirely steady breath. “Why do we need to convince Papa?”

Barnaby met her gaze. “Because we need to present a united front, first to last, and when it comes to the local gentry, his attitude is the most crucial. Millicent’s, Gerrard’s, and my opinions are all very well, but if your father doesn’t support you, well, you can see how hard it’s going to be.”

Abruptly, Barnaby lay back and shook his fists at the sky. “And it shouldn’t be hard because you’re not guilty!”

He glanced at them both. “Sorry, but I really think we need to recruit Lord Tregonning.”

10

Barnaby was right. If they allowed the discovery of Thomas’s body and the consequent speculation to be used to establish Jacqueline as a disturbed double murderess, then their task of opening all eyes with the portrait would be immeasurably more difficult.

They discussed speaking with Lord Tregonning. Jacqueline vacillated.

“Papa was devastated by my mother’s death.” She glanced at Gerrard. “It’s the pain, the opening up of the wound, that makes him shy away from considering how she died. On top of that, he more than anyone is afraid that if he looks too closely, he’ll see that it was me.”

“That’s just it,” Barnaby insisted. “The current situation isn’t about your mother’s death, but Thomas’s.”

Gerrard reached out, took Jacqueline’s hand, captured her gaze when she looked at him. “Barnaby’s right-we should approach your father now, when the principal focus is Thomas’s murder. However”-with one finger he stroked the back of her hand-“I think you’re underestimating your father-he’s already moved to address the question of your mother’s death. He went to considerable lengths to persuade me to paint your portrait.”

He watched her digest that. Eventually, after another glance at Barnaby-who responded with an encouraging, puppy-eager look, making her smile-she looked back at him, and nodded. “Very well. We’ll beard Papa.”

They bearded Millicent first; when they returned to the house, they found her slumped on the chaise in the drawing room. She jerked to life when they entered, but when she saw who it was, she fell back once more.

“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…?”