“What does Stokes think?”
The question was flat; his tone held a menacing quality.
“Oh, he acknowledges the possibility of a jealous suitor, but as he points out, none have stepped forward to claim Jacqueline’s hand.”
“Except Sir Vincent.”
“True, but Sir Vincent’s behavior doesn’t suggest any deep and desperate passion. After Jacqueline refused him, he hasn’t shown his face again, hasn’t attempted to press his suit.”
After a moment, Gerrard prompted, “So?”
“So Stokes suggests we look further-what if the motive behind the murders is not for the murderer to marry Jacqueline himself, but to stop her marrying at all? She’s Tregonning’s heiress, after all.”
Gerrard grunted. “I checked. If she dies without issue-or is condemned for murder-on her father’s demise the estate entire goes to a distant cousin in Scotland. Said cousin hasn’t been south of the border for decades, and is, apparently, unaware of his potential good fortune.”
Jacqueline’s jaw dropped.
Silence reigned, then Barnaby asked, his tone reflecting the same stunned amazement she felt, “How the devil did you learn all that? I thought you’ve been painting nonstop?”
“I have been. My brother-in-law, and others, haven’t been.”
“Ah.” After a moment, Barnaby added, “I wish I knew how they ferreted out such things.”
A dark smile colored Gerrard’s voice as he said, “Remind me to introduce you to the Duke of St. Ives.”
“Hmm, yes, well, none of that gets us any further, unfortunately. Whoever it is who wants Jacqueline free of any potential husband is still lurking around Hellebore Hall, waiting for her to return.”
“It’s interesting, don’t you think, that they haven’t followed us to town?”
“Indeed-which is another reason to think it isn’t Sir Vincent. He’s known about town, and could have come up easily enough.”
“Matthew Brisenden couldn’t have.”
“True, but I’ve never seen him as our murderer.”
Gerrard sighed. “I hate to agree with you, but Jacqueline says he’s protective of her, and I think she’s right.”
Outside the door, Jacqueline set her lips. How kind of him to agree with her, but why hadn’t he told her someone had shot an arrow at him? When?
As to why…
“Regardless of our villain’s identity, our way forward is clear.” Gerrard’s voice held steely determination, and a quiet, unshakable resolution. “The portrait is both the key and the bait. We take it back to Hellebore Hall, arrange to show it, and wait for him to strike.”
Jacqueline heard footsteps, Barnaby walking around.
A pause ensued, then he said, “You know, I didn’t entirely believe you could achieve this with a portrait. Damned if it isn’t as good as a real clue. Everyone seeing it will know-and start thinking of who the real murderer might be. And yes, you’re right-it’s bait. He’ll come for it-if at all possible, he’ll destroy it.”
Barnaby’s voice strengthened as he swung around. “But he’ll also come after you.”
“I know.” Gerrard’s voice held a note of imperturbable anticipation. “I’ll be waiting for him.”
Jacqueline stood on the stair, those words revolving in her head. Gerrard and Barnaby discussed the dinner that evening, then the logistics of returning with all speed to Cornwall; she paid little attention, too absorbed with their earlier revelations.
Then Barnaby made to leave. He hadn’t come through the house; he must have used the external stairs. On a spike of relief, she heard them both moving across the studio to the outside door.
Quietly, she turned, and slipped down into the house.
Gerrard gave her precious little time to straighten her tangled thoughts, to steady her whirling head.
Fifteen minutes later, he found her in the back parlor where she’d taken refuge to think without distraction.
She stopped thinking the moment he walked in.
He smiled, all his effortless charm to the fore, a light that was solely for her glowing in his eyes.
That private warmth, the intimate connection, brought memories of the past night crashing back.
She’d thought, last night, that she’d discovered what love was-a surrender, a selfless giving, a devotion that could edge into worship.
From her position on the chaise, she watched him cross the room to her, and it was crystal clear she had a great deal yet to learn.
She drew a tight breath. “Is it completely finished?”
He nodded. “Yes.” He halted a few paces before her, standing easily, his hands sliding into his pockets as his eyes, still glowing brown, searched her face. “I-”
“I’ve been thinking.” She cut across him without compunction. It was imperative she take control of this interview; she knew it was important to keep her gaze steady on his face, but she had to fight to do it. “Millicent and I can take the portrait back-now it’s finished your commission is completed. There’s no need for you and Mr. Adair to trouble yourselves with the long journey back and forth.”
His face changed; in the blink of an eye, his expression turned to stone, his warm gaze to one sharp as a surgeon’s knife.
The silence lengthened, then he said, his tone even and deceptively mild, “I came to ask for your hand-to ask you to be my wife.”
The words were a blow in the center of her chest. Her eyes started to close, to shut out the pain; she forced them open, forced herself to meet and hold his gaze. “I…haven’t, don’t, think of marriage.”
A moment passed, then he said, “I know that initially, when we first became lovers, you weren’t thinking of marriage, not at all. But since then, since coming to London…I think if you consult your memories, you’ll see that you have been, if only instinctively, considering the prospect for some time.”
A straightforward denial leapt to her lips; her gaze trapped in his, she held it back. She recalled Minnie and Timms’s meddling; if they’d prodded her, how much more likely were they to have prodded him? And in doing so accurately informed him of her state. Those two saw far too much.
“I won’t marry you. I don’t wish you to return to Hellebore Hall.” She sat on the chaise, her hands clasped in her lap, and looked up at him steadily. He remained standing, studying her; the intensity of his gaze held her caged.
Love, it seemed, sometimes demanded sacrifice, even after surrender. If that was how it was, then for him, she would be strong enough, even for that.
His eyes narrowed; his gaze didn’t waver. “Was it a dream then, last night? And early this morning? I thought it was you, the angel who visited me in my bed beneath the stars.” Abruptly he moved, a predator circling before her, his eyes never leaving her, never releasing her. “You who took me into her mouth, into her body-”
“Don’t.” She shut her eyes, seized the moment to breathe in and out. “You know it was me.” Opening her eyes, she met his gaze, now darkly burning. “It changes nothing. It won’t happen again.”
The ends of his lips lifted, the half-smile wholly intent. “Oh, but it will-again, and again. Because you love me-and I love you.”
She rose to her feet, opened her mouth, but no words came. Nothing good enough to challenge the knowledge in his eyes.
Her hesitation was all the confirmation Gerrard needed; the look in her eyes, as if she was desperately casting about for some argument to counter his, and failing, placed the matter of their mutual state beyond doubt. A weight lifted from his shoulders; relief was a heady draft coursing through his veins. That much, then, was as he’d thought. What remained a mystery was the reason for her sudden-and if he were truthful, unnerving-tack.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined his proposal would go.
He stepped closer, close enough for their senses to flare.
She locked her eyes on his, narrowed them. Her jaw tightened. “I will not marry you-you can’t make me say yes. And under no circumstances are you to return to Hellebore Hall.”