Gerrard didn’t know if it was his artist’s perception, or if his connection with Jacqueline had made him more sensitive, but he had no difficulty reading the pained-nay, tortured-expression in Mitchel’s eyes. For form’s sake, he quietly asked, “It wasn’t you, was it?”

His tone made it clear the words were more statement than question. Mitchel’s dark eyes deflected to his face. Mitchel met his gaze, then slowly shook his head. “It wasn’t me.” The words were hollow, achingly empty.

None of them doubted he spoke the truth.

Lord Tregonning cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mitchel.”

Mitchel nodded; he barely seemed to see them. “If you’ll excuse me?”

They let him go.

When his footsteps had died away, Sir Godfrey asked, “Am I right in thinking…”

Gerrard nodded. “Mitchel has, I think, nurtured hopes, although I doubt it’s gone beyond that.”

“Hopes we’ve just dashed,” Lord Tregonning said. “But better he learn now than later.”

Briefly, they revisited all they’d learned; Sir Godfrey asked about protection for Millicent, and was reassured.

“When she wakes, she’ll be able to point her finger at the villain.” His gaze hard, Sir Godfrey sounded uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. “And heaven help him after that.”


They determined to forge ahead with the ball. Gerrard, Barnaby and Lord Tregonning spent the afternoon writing and dispatching invitations, while Jacqueline attended to all the myriad arrangements.

After dinner, she retired to sit with Millicent, leaving the men discussing their plans. Later, Gerrard fetched her from Millicent’s room, and followed her to hers.

Leading the way in, she crossed to the windows, and stood looking out at the black velvet sky. Closing the door, Gerrard paused, considering the line of her spine, head erect, the way she’d folded her arms. There were no candles burning; the room was washed with gray shadows. Slowly, he followed her, wondering.

Halting behind her, he reached for her, and drew her back against him. She leaned back, let her head settle against his shoulder. He glanced down at her face, at her stormy expression, and waited.

Eventually, she drew a long breath. “It’s always, always, people who love me, who care for me, who get hurt. Who die.” Her next breath shook. “I don’t want you to be in their number.”

He bent his head, brushed his lips over her temple. “I won’t be. And Millicent isn’t dead-there’s no change for the worse, no reason to think she’ll die. Regardless, trust me, I’m not about to let this villain take me from you.” With his gaze, he traced her face. “I’m not about to let him deny us this-what we have, what our future will be.”

Commitment rang in his tone; Jacqueline heard it, and felt tears sting her eyes. What if she believed him, and then…

“It won’t happen.” Gerrard breathed the words across her ear; his grip firmed, holding her more securely. “All the times before, it was one person alone he had to deal with-this time, there’s all of us. We’re all ranged against him-you, me, Barnaby, your father, Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles, Sir Godfrey. This time, he can’t win.”

Her champion, he’d gathered supporters to her cause; without him, she’d still be trapped in the nightmarish web her tormentor had spun.

Jacqueline closed her hands over his at her waist, felt the strength in his hard, warm body at her back. For the first time, she understood in her heart the nature of the fear that drove him to protect her, even over her protests. If she could lock him away somewhere safe until the villain had been caught, she would, in a blink.

It seemed his mind was following a similar tack. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about announcing our betrothal.”

Not, she noted, about agreeing to marry him, which she still hadn’t done. “I told you-ask me once he’s caught. Until then”-she turned in his arms, lifting hers to circle his neck, meeting his gaze-“we’re just lovers.”

His eyes, dark in the night, held hers. A long moment passed, then he shook his head. “No. We’re not.”

He bent his head, covered her lips with his-and showed her. Demonstrated, orchestrated a shattering display of how far beyond mere lovers they were.

Impossible to deny, not just him, but the reality of what had come to be, of the depth, the breadth, the overwhelming power of the connection that had grown between them. The heat, the searing need, the possessiveness that flamed and raced through them both, cindering any inhibitions, any residual reservations. It opened the door to passion unrestrained, to rampant desire and its assuagement. Infused their minds and drove them, invested their touch, their bodies, their souls.

Beyond physical intimacy, beyond desire and passion, beyond, it seemed, the earthly realm, the power swelled, shone, and claimed them.

Accepting their worship, their devotion-ultimately accepting their surrender.

As night deepened and the shadows turned black, Jacqueline lay in Gerrard’s arms, listening to his heart beating steadily beneath her ear while the strength and devotion carried in that connection surrounded and closed about them.

She wondered what the next fraught days would bring, knew he was thinking the same.

Heard in her mind Timms’s fateful words, suspected he did, too.

What will be will be.

There was nothing they could do but accept, and follow the path on.

21

They gathered about the breakfast table late the next morning. Jacqueline had checked on Millicent; there’d been no change in her aunt’s condition. Millicent lay straight and still under the covers, her eyes closed, gently breathing, looking far more fragile than she normally did.

Gerrard squeezed Jacqueline’s hand when she slipped onto the chair beside him; she smiled weakly in return, then gave her attention to her father and the details of the ball.

Mitchel had breakfasted earlier and gone out about the estate, as he often did; breakfast was long finished, the trays cleared away, and they were discussing the best location for the portrait when he returned.

They all looked up when he strode in, alerted by the heavy deliberation in his stride.

Deathly pale, he halted at the end of the table. He looked at them all-Gerrard, Jacqueline and Barnaby-then his gaze settled on her father. “My lord, I have a confession to make.”

The comment started hares in all their minds-confused hares; none of them saw Mitchel as the murderer. They exchanged glances, wondering.

“Ah…” Her father waved to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down, my boy, and explain?”

Jaw set, Mitchel drew out a chair and dropped into it. Leaning on the table, he fixed her father with an unfaltering gaze. “I’ve betrayed you, and failed in my duty.”

What followed was not a confession to murder; it was a disturbing tale nonetheless.

“I believed”-Mitchel’s jaw clenched-“or rather was led to believe that my feelings for Eleanor Fritham were returned. More, I was encouraged by Jordan to think that I could win Eleanor’s hand-I see now that they were both deceiving me, leading me on.” Mitchel’s gaze darkened; he met her father’s eyes steadily. “They wanted information from me, and I gave it.”

From his tone, that appeared to be the extent of Mitchel’s crime.

“What information?” Gerrard asked.

“Details of Lord Tregonning’s estate and business dealings.” Mitchel spread his hands. “I didn’t see all that much harm in it at the time.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I arrived here after your mother died. I believed everything Jordan told me about her death-that you were disturbed and needed to be kept at home, and that Jordan would eventually marry you and gain control of your fortune and Hellebore Hall-”

“What?” Jacqueline’s stunned exclamation was drowned out by more violent expostulations from her father and Gerrard. She waved them to silence; dumbfounded, she stared at Mitchel. “Jordan intended marrying me?”

Mitchel frowned. “That’s what he said. Whether it was true-”

The doorbell pealed. Not once, but continuously.

“What the devil…?” Lord Tregonning glared, then the pealing ceased.

Treadle hurried past the open parlor door on his way to the front hall. A second later, a cacophony of voices spilled into the hall, too many voices to distinguish. Gerrard and Barnaby pushed back their chairs. They stood; Mitchel rose, too. They all looked out to the corridor.

Abruptly, Treadle appeared in the doorway, looking harassed and rather desperate. “My lord, they won’t-”

He got no further; Mrs. Elcott thrust him aside and swept in. A veritable wave of neighbors poured after her, Lord and Lady Fritham, Matthew Brisenden, Lady Trewarren, Mrs. Myles, Mr. and Mrs. Hancock, and Sir Vincent Perry among them. Of the crowd, only Lady Tannahay and the Entwhistles, who looked frankly taken aback, had been invited.

Lady Trewarren headed for Lord Tregonning. “Marcus, we’ve just heard the sad, sad news! It’s thoroughly dreadful! We didn’t know what to think, but of course we’re here to support you and Jacqueline through this latest ordeal.”

Lord Tregonning had reached the end of his patience. “What ordeal?”

Lady Trewarren halted; she blinked at him. “Why, the ordeal of Millicent’s death, of course. You can’t possibly not call that an ordeal, surely. Why-”

The chatter rose again, threatening to drown out all else.

“Millicent isn’t dead!”

Lord Tregonning’s roar led to immediate silence.

Gerrard seized the reins. “From whom did you hear that Millicent had died?”

Mrs. Elcott stared at him as if she wasn’t sure he was sane. “But she isn’t dead-or is she?”