“Phew!” Barnaby leaned back as the wheels rolled smoothly down the drive. “That was a near-run thing.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “Quick thinking, too. You have my heartfelt gratitude for saving us, m’dear.”

“Indeed.” Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, and caught her eyes; they were lightly dancing. “Should I really turn east?”

She looked at the gates, rapidly approaching. “I think we’d better. But it’s a pleasant drive and not that much further. Especially with such”-she gestured to his grays-“powerful beasts.”

Gerrard laughed; so did Barnaby.

Her smile deepening, Jacqueline looked ahead.


Despite the roundabout route, they returned to Hellebore Hall in good time. Gerrard drove straight to the stables, then he, Jacqueline and Barnaby walked across the field toward the house. Pegasus watched over them; Jacqueline smiled as they passed the statue.

Over her head, Gerrard glanced at Barnaby. “Did you learn anything?”

Barnaby had intended subtly sounding out the younger generation over the source of the whispers. He’d questioned Lord Tregonning; thinking back, all his lordship could recall was that after he’d emerged from his grief over his wife’s death, Sir Godfrey and Lord Fritham had both behaved as if everyone knew that Jacqueline had been responsible. Everyone had behaved in that way, avoiding speaking of the incident, and if they couldn’t, referring to it as an accident. Lord Tregonning had accepted the unspoken verdict; his grief had left him unable to question it, and without detailed knowledge to challenge it.

Only later, when the pall of grief had fully lifted, had he come to find that unspoken verdict hard to swallow.

Barnaby had been hunting, bloodhoundlike trying to track the whispers to their source. Gerrard wasn’t sure it would prove possible, but he was grateful Barnaby was so tirelessly investigating every possible avenue.

Hands in his pockets, Barnaby grimaced. “Only that the whispers have been spread over a long time-no one remembers from whom they first heard the suggestion that Jacqueline was responsible for her mother’s death. The association with Thomas’s death is an extension of that.” After a moment, he went on, “Jordan and Eleanor are the most open in their support.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I gathered they’ve always been quick to take your part.”

She shrugged. “We’re next to siblings-they’re my closest friends.”

Barnaby nodded. “So we’re no further ahead on that front, but the older generation might remember more. Until now, the younger ones haven’t spent much time thinking of the deaths. They weren’t that important to them.”

Wise to his friend’s phrasing, Gerrard asked, “What other snippets have you gleaned?”

Barnaby’s grin flashed. “Not so much gleaned as thought through. I’ve been wrestling with the motive for Lady Tregonning’s murder.” He met Jacqueline’s gaze. “At present, we don’t have one, which is in large part the reason it was so easy to cast suspicion on you-you were the only one with any whiff of a cause, no matter how unlikely.”

Looking ahead, he continued, “If we accept that the same person killed Thomas and Miribelle, and that the reason Thomas was killed was because he was about to become engaged to Jacqueline, then isn’t it likely Miribelle was killed for a similar reason?”

“Such as?” Gerrard prompted.

“What if some gentleman had had his eye on Jacqueline all along, and had approached Miribelle to gain her support for his suit?”

Gerrard turned the notion over in his mind. “The relative timing’s always bothered me, but that…it fits.”

Barnaby nodded. “When Thomas disappeared, you”-with his head he indicated Jacqueline-“went into half-mourning. That stymied the killer for a while, but then, when you were accepting callers again, what more natural than that he should seek your mother’s support?”

Jacqueline briefly glanced at Gerrard, then turned to Barnaby. “You’re suggesting she refused her support, and because of that, he killed her?”

Barnaby pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I think it would have to be more than that-I think she must have flatly rejected the proposal, refused to countenance it, and said so. Declared she would forever oppose the match. That, I think, would have been enough to make someone who’d already committed murder to secure your hand resort to murder again.”

Continuing toward the Garden of Hercules and the house, they reviewed old points from that new perspective.

“Murdering your mother meant you went into mourning for a year,” Gerrard said, “but time passing doesn’t seem to worry this villain.”

Jacqueline nodded. “But now I’m out of mourning again, by a few months.” They were still in the sunshine, yet she shivered.

He caught her hand, engulfed it in his, lightly squeezed. “No one’s asked for your hand lately, have they?”

Without looking at him, she shook her head. “I’m sure Papa would have told me if they had. Other than Thomas, and that hadn’t been done formally, no one has ever asked permission to marry me.”

The Garden of Hercules loomed ahead. Shadows engulfed them as they descended toward the terrace. When they reached the steps, Gerrard stood back to let Jacqueline precede him, but as she took the first step, her hand still in his, he halted her and drew her to face him.

He met her eyes. “If any gentleman should ask for your hand, you will remember to mention it, won’t you?”

She held his gaze, then glanced at Barnaby, before looking back at him. “If any gentleman should ask, you’ll be one of the first to know.” Turning, she started up the steps.

Releasing her hand, Gerrard followed, not at all sure how to interpret that. At face value? Or because, by then, she would be his?

13

It’s one thing to have won over those who know me well,” Jacqueline whispered to Gerrard as, her hand on his arm, they followed her father and Millicent up the front steps of Trewarren Hall. Dragging in a tight breath, she resisted the urge to clamp a gloved hand to her fluttering stomach and plastered a delighted smile on her lips. “Wider society is liable to be another matter entirely.”

“Nonsense.” He smiled at her. “Stop worrying. Just act as you feel you should.” His gaze lingered on hers, then he murmured, “Listen to your heart.”

Difficult when it was thudding. She drew in another breath, aware when his attention shifted to her breasts; she felt warmed by the fleeting touch of his gaze, oddly reassured.

She didn’t need to ask if he would stay by her side; she knew he would. She didn’t need to wonder if his attention would cause comment; in this setting, that was a given. Her mind was racing faster than a bolting pair; she felt starved of breath, yet exhilarated and excitedly expectant.

No wonder her head was spinning.

As they joined the receiving line, she tried not to dwell on the moment in the drawing room when Gerrard had entered in full evening dress. Barnaby had followed him in, but she hadn’t even noticed him for some time. Gerrard in black and crisp white, with a silk waistcoat in subtle swirls of amber and brown, had captured her senses to the exclusion of all else.

The sharp contrast of the black and white emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean, hard lines of his long frame and the austere, patriarchal planes of his face. The harnessed power she’d so often glimpsed in him was tonight on full show, the intensity that was an inherent part of him blatant and unrestrained. Sexuality shimmered, an invisible cloak about him; she could almost taste the raw power and his aggressive brand of passion.

Eleanor was going to swallow her tongue.

They’d never competed for the attention of any gentleman; she wasn’t sure they’d be competing over Gerrard, yet Eleanor’s attempt to monopolize him earlier that day had raised the unwelcome specter in her mind, one factor contributing to the manic frenzy of butterflies swarming in her stomach.

The man beside her-not the gentleman, but the man-was another.

She wasn’t sure of him, either, not now she’d seen him in his true colors. Not now she was standing beside him, her gloved hand on his black sleeve, so very aware of his physical presence-and so very aware of her own.

Since the bronze sheath had been made, she’d gained several inches. One at least in height, which left the hem flirting about her ankles in a decidedly provocative fashion. That was the least of her worries. She’d also gained about her hips and breasts, of all places; if she drew in a large breath too quickly, she might be in serious trouble.

As she infused her smile with even greater brightness and curtsied to Lady Trewarren, she made a mental note to locate the withdrawing room before any disaster could occur, so she would know where to run when it did.

Rising from her curtsy, she saw an arrested look in Lady Trewarren’s eyes, and only just suppressed the urge to glance down and check, but her ladyship’s gaze rose smoothly to her face; her eyes lit with real warmth. They touched fingers and cheeks, then Gerrard led her on in Millicent’s wake.

As predicted, her father’s presence instantly created a stir; guests peered over heads and peeked around others to confirm that yes, Tregonning was there, in the flesh. She was grateful for the distraction he provided.

She was about to glance around when she met Gerrard’s gaze, and realized he’d been watching her.

He leaned closer. “Relax.” His hand closed over hers on his sleeve, a warm and reassuring clasp. “You look superb.” His gaze lazily, and quite brazenly, drifted lower, over her breasts, and down. His lips quirked; fleetingly his eyes met hers again, then he looked ahead. “So nice to be proved right. That color is delectable on you.”