Gerrard hung on to his temper. “No, she isn’t, but it’s important we learn who told you she was.”

Lady Trewarren exchanged a glance with Mrs. Elcott, then looked at Gerrard. “Why, I heard it from my staff, of course.”

Others nodded.

“It’s all over St. Just,” Matthew volunteered. “My father had it from the innkeeper-Papa will be along shortly.”

Lord Tregonning looked at Lady Tannahay. “Had you heard anything?”

Mystified, Lady Tannahay shook her head. Beside her, the Entwhistles did, too.

“But we’re from further afield, Marcus,” Lady Entwhistle pointed out. “This sounds like a rumor that’s only just begun.”

Lord Tregonning looked at Treadle.

So did Gerrard. “Any chance any of the staff spoke to anyone-or more likely, that someone visited here, and got the wrong idea?”

“No, sir, m’lord.” Treadle drew himself up. “Mrs. Carpenter and I will take an oath on it-none of the staff have left the house nor talked to anyone at all, and no one has visited here. Not until”-with his head he indicated the crowd in the room-“just now.”

Gerrard looked at Mitchel.

Equally puzzled, Mitchel shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to anyone about Millicent.”

Gerrard turned to Lord Tregonning. “The only person who would have thought Millicent was dead…”

Lord Tregonning nodded. “Indeed.” He looked at the others. “We need to identify who started this rumor.”

Matthew had been following the exchanges closely. “On my way out, I spoke to our gardener. He heard of it last night in the tavern-he said the head gardener from Tresdale Manor told him.”

“My maid had it from her young man.” Lady Trewarren glanced at Lady Fritham. “He’s your junior stableman, Maria.”

Lady Fritham looked confused. “My maid told me, too-I gathered all the staff knew.”

“I had it from my maid Betsy this morning.” The portentous note in Mrs. Elcott’s voice had everyone turning to her. She nodded, acknowledging their attention. “Betsy lives with her parents and comes in every day. She heard the news from her sister, who’s parlormaid at the manor-she, the sister, told Betsy that Cromwell, the butler at the manor, had overheard Master Jordan telling Miss Eleanor that Miss Tregonning was dead, and there was no more to be done.”

All eyes swung back to Lady Fritham. She blinked, puzzled. “But Jordan didn’t say anything to me. Hector?” She looked at Lord Fritham; nonplussed, he shook his head. Confused, Lady Fritham turned to Lord Tregonning. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Damn!” Barnaby had stood quietly by, absorbing information; he suddenly leaned forward and spoke to Lord Tregonning. “My lord, I meant to ask earlier-has any man applied to you for Jacqueline’s hand?”

Lord Tregonning frowned, started to shake his head, then stopped. His expression blanked, then he shifted and glanced at Jacqueline. “I’m sorry, my dear-I suppose I should have mentioned it, but indeed, it was such a…well, insulting offer, couched as it was. As a sacrifice, in fact-as he had no wish to marry any other young lady, he was willing to assist our family by marrying you and ensuring you stayed here, safely out of sight, kept close at home for the rest of your life.”

“When was this?” Barnaby asked.

“About five months ago.” Lord Tregonning’s lip curled. “Even though at that time I wasn’t sure…it was still a dashed stomach-curdling offer. I dismissed it, of course-told him I appreciated the thought, but it wouldn’t be honorable to accept such a sacrifice on his part.”

“He who?” Barnaby pressed.

Lord Tregonning blinked at him. “Why, Jordan, of course. Who else?”

“Who else, indeed,” Barnaby muttered. Aloud, he asked, “And no other man applied for Jacqueline’s hand?”

Lord Tregonning shook his head.

“Marcus?” Lady Trewarren had lifted her head; she was glancing up and around. “I hate to mention it, but I smell smoke.”

Others started sniffing, turning around.

Treadle, eyes widening, met Gerrard’s gaze, then stepped back and hurried out of the room.

“I’m really very sensitive when it comes to smoke,” Lady Trewarren went on, “and I do believe it’s getting stronger-”

“Fire!”

It was a maid who screeched from somewhere upstairs.

The crowd in the parlor tumbled out into the hall. The smell was more distinct, but there was no other evidence of flames. Everyone stared up at the gallery; with a thunder of feet, a group of footmen raced across, heading into the south wing.

“All the ladies into the drawing room.” Barnaby started herding them in that direction. Some protested, wanting to see what was afire; Sir Vincent smothered an oath and went to help.

Treadle appeared at the head of the stairs. He came hurrying down. “It’s the old nursery, sir.” He glanced at Gerrard. “And your room, Mr. Debbington. The drapes have caught well and truly there. We’re ferrying pails up the service stairs, but we’ll need all hands possible.”

“I’ll help.” Matthew Brisenden started up the stairs. The other men exchanged glances, then swiftly followed.

Jacqueline hung back. As Barnaby and Sir Vincent hurried back from the drawing room, she put a hand on her father’s arm. “I’ll check with Mrs. Carpenter, then return to the drawing room and make sure the ladies remain safely there.”

Gerrard had dallied on the stairs to hear what she intended; he caught her eye, nodded, then turned and took the stairs three at a time.

Her father patted her hand. “Good girl. I’ll go and see what’s to do.”

She watched him start slowly up the stairs. Confident Treadle would keep him from any harm, she headed for the kitchens.

As she’d expected, pandemonium reigned. She helped Mrs. Carpenter calm the maids, and organize them to help the stablemen lug pails from the well to the bottom of the south wing stairs. A chain of grooms and footmen hurried the pails up, some to the first floor, others to the attics.

Mrs. Carpenter looked grim. Once the maids were occupied, she drew Jacqueline aside. “Maizie found the fire in Mr. Debbington’s room. She said it was arrows-arrows with flaming rags around them-that were tangled in the curtains. That’s how the fire started. She was babbling on about how we shouldn’t think it was coals dropping from the grate and her to blame-I told her no such thing, but thought you and his lordship should know.”

Jacqueline nodded. Arrows. An arrow had been shot at Gerrard, and now there were more arrows. She hadn’t heard the details of how Gerrard had been shot at, but the only way an arrow could have hit Gerrard’s curtains was if it had been fired from the gardens, and she knew the gardens well. Knew there was no close, clear line to Gerrard’s windows; the archer would have had to be a good way off, and skilled enough to allow for the cross breeze.

It was quiet living in the country; the local youth had plenty of time to perfect their archery skills, yet only a few were skilled enough to have made those shots, especially if, as seemed likely, they’d shot to the attics, as well. As she hurried back through the house, she considered the possible culprits.

Reaching the green baize door, she pushed through, into the back of the hall.

“Jacqueline!”

She whirled.

Eleanor, hair tumbling down, gown crumpled, frantically beckoned from the end of the north wing corridor. “Come quickly! There’s another fire broken out along here! They said to fetch you. We’re struggling-we need every hand.” She didn’t wait, but plunged back down the corridor.

Jacqueline’s heart stopped, then she picked up her skirts and raced after Eleanor.

Millicent’s room was in the north wing.

She swung into the corridor just in time to see Eleanor dash into a small parlor nearly at the end of the wing-below the room in which Millicent lay. Jacqueline ran faster. She would have to call some of the stablemen from the kitchens-she’d look first, then she’d know-

She rushed into the parlor.

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.