Time passed, and the agent didn’t return. Eventually, Gerrard paused by the side of the room and took stock. Eleanor Fritham was also absent.
On the thought, draperies further down the long room stirred, and Eleanor appeared, strolling easily back to join the guests. She was visually stunning, with her long, fine blond hair floating about her, her pale skin, long neck and slender, sylphlike figure; she wasn’t quite ethereal, yet at the same time, not quite of this world…and she, too, was unmarried, apparently unspoken for.
Gerrard inwardly frowned; he watched as Eleanor joined the circle of which Jacqueline was a member, smoothly linking her arm in Jacqueline’s in a gesture that screamed of long friendship. Given what he now suspected, Gerrard wondered at that apparent closeness. Jacqueline was facing away; he couldn’t gauge her reaction.
Shifting his gaze, he scanned the room again; he was about to move on when, from behind the same set of drifting draperies through which Eleanor had appeared, Mitchel Cunningham stepped into the room.
Gerrard changed direction and strolled his way, intercepting Mitchel before he could join any other guests. “Could I have a word, Cunningham?” When Mitchel blinked, he added, “It’s about the portrait.”
Cunningham had dealt with him enough to comprehend the significance of his clipped accents. Lips thinning, he nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Gerrard turned to the French doors giving onto the terrace. “Perhaps in more private surrounds.”
Cunningham went with him. As they stepped onto the flagstones, Gerrard glanced along the terrace; the long window with the billowing draperies did indeed give onto the terrace-at the heavily shadowed end.
Jordan Fritham’s dog-in-the-manger attitude over his sister, apparent whenever Cunningham drew close, now made sense; the notion of having a brother-in-law who was a mere gentleman’s agent would not sit well with Jordan’s sense of self-worth.
Cunningham had noticed him glancing at the far window; returning his gaze to the agent’s eyes, Gerrard didn’t hide his comprehension, but Cunningham’s aspirations were not his concern.
“I’ve discovered,” he said, “that the reason behind Lord Tregonning’s insistence that I paint his daughter’s portrait goes somewhat deeper than mere appreciation of my art.”
Cunningham paled; even in the poor light, his increasing nervousness was obvious. “Ah…”
“Indeed.” Gerrard held his temper on a tight rein. “I see that you’re aware of it. I have one question: Why wasn’t I informed?”
Cunningham swallowed, but gamely lifted his head and met Gerrard’s gaze. “I advised telling you, but Lord Tregonning forbade it.”
“Why?”
“Because he was uncertain how you would react to his reason, whether you might decline to do the portrait in such circumstances, and then later, once you’d accepted the commission, he was concerned not to…to prejudice your view in any way.”
He had to fight to keep the anger building inside him from his face. The situation was beyond outrageous, yet…he couldn’t, now, simply walk away. “Is Miss Tregonning aware of her father’s expectations of the portrait?”
Cunningham looked appalled. “I assume not…” He blinked. “But I don’t know. Her knowing or not was not discussed with me.”
“I see.” So many aspects of the situation were fueling his ire, his mind was swinging violently, railing over first one, then the next. That Tregonning would pander to such suspicions of his daughter made him see red; that Jacqueline, knowing of her father’s scheme, should so meekly agree made him want to shake her. How could she accept, as she patently had, that such suspicion was even reasonable?
How could she so calmly accept that he, an unknown gentleman, should judge her?
How dared she-they-place such an onus on him?
He was furious, but fought to keep his rage contained. Focusing, grimly, on Cunningham’s pale face, he nodded. “Very well. I suggest, since Lord Tregonning does not wish me to know of his expectations, that there’s no reason for him to know of this discussion.”
Cunningham’s Adam’s apple bobbed; he nodded. “As you wish.”
“Indeed.” Gerrard caught the agent’s eye. “I suggest you endeavor to forget this conversation took place, and I”-deliberately he glanced toward the end of the terrace-“will do the same.”
With another nervous nod, Cunningham turned and walked back into the drawing room. Gerrard waited for a full minute, then followed.
Pausing just inside, he looked across the room at Jacqueline Tregonning.
He couldn’t wait to get back to Hellebore Hall.
5
The dinner party drew to a close; along with Millicent, Barnaby and a subdued Mitchel Cunningham, they thanked their hosts and left Tresdale Manor. They traveled back to Hellebore Hall in Lord Tregonning’s antiquated coach; the distance wasn’t great-the manor was the nearest large house-yet with only two horses pulling the heavy carriage, the journey took nearly half an hour.
Throughout, Gerrard sat in the dark, his shoulder against Barnaby’s, with Jacqueline sitting directly opposite, her knees, covered by the fine silk of her gown, courtesy of the country road frequently brushing his.
It wasn’t just the contact that unnerved her, but his unwavering regard. He knew she was conscious of it, but was past caring; he wanted answers to many questions, and she was the key to the most important.
That’s precisely what I need-what my father needs.
She knew; he wanted to hear it from her lips.
They reached the Hall and trailed into the foyer, there to exchange the customary good-nights. He bowed over Jacqueline’s hand, squeezed it, caught her eye as he released her. She couldn’t know what he intended, but at least she’d be alert.
The look she cast back at him as she followed Millicent up the wide staircase confirmed that.
With a nod to him and Barnaby, Mitchel Cunningham walked off down a corridor; after dallying a moment to let the ladies go ahead, he and Barnaby started up in their wake.
The gallery at the head of the stairs was long, and presently a collage of moonlight and shadow. The ladies turned right; a few paces behind, Gerrard and Barnaby headed left, toward their rooms. Gerrard put out a hand, halting Barnaby. Glancing back, he confirmed that Jacqueline and Millicent were sweeping on, unaware, and were now out of earshot. He turned to Barnaby. “Did you learn anything more about the suitor?”
“Only that he disappeared between two and three years ago, when Jacqueline was twenty. Although there’d been no formal declaration, she went into half-mourning. Then her mother died fourteen months ago, which in large part fills the time to date and explains why there have been no other suitors.”
“Did you hear anything about her mother’s death?”
“No, but I didn’t have the right opportunities to pursue it. It’s the older ladies we need to butter up for that.”
Gerrard nodded. Glancing back along the gallery, he saw Jacqueline turn down the corridor at its end, Millicent still by her side. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He turned and, swift and soft-footed, followed Jacqueline.
“Hey!” Barnaby kept his voice down.
“Tomorrow,” he flung back sotto voce, and continued on.
He reached the corridor and looked along it. It was empty; another corridor opened to the right at its end. He went quickly down, then peered around the corner into the next wing-and saw Jacqueline pause outside a door. She spoke to Millicent, who nodded, then walked on; Jacqueline opened the door and went in. He hung back, watching Millicent’s dark figure recede into the shadows. At last she stopped, opened a door, and went in. He waited until the faint click of the latch reached him, then walked-stalked-down the corridor.
Reaching Jacqueline’s door, he knocked-two sharp, preemptory raps, not overly loud.