Still smiling, she went to join him. Together, they headed for the dining room, discussing how best to manage the portrait’s public unveiling.
Millicent was adamant it had to be kept hidden until the ball. “If we let it be seen before, rumors will abound. Some will judge it before they see it, and seek to sway others with their opinions, and so on. After all the effort put into its creation, we should ensure we use it to greatest advantage.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby paused in eating his soup. “I have to say I’m still amazed by its power-it’ll drive home our point in dramatic fashion.”
“Lady Tannahay is one we should invite to a private showing.” Gerrard set down his spoon. “Are there any others we need on our side?”
Everyone agreed on the Entwhistles, but when Lord Tregonning suggested Sir Godfrey, Millicent was emphatic in excluding him. “Best we give him the shock of his life in a social setting. Privately, he’ll dither, and not be sure what to think.”
Her tone was caustic; the rest of them exchanged glances, and let the matter of Sir Godfrey lie.
“How soon?” his lordship asked. “One can hardly organize a ball in one day.”
“Three days,” Millicent declared. “Three nights from now, we’ll throw open the doors and invite everyone to admire Jacqueline’s innocence, and think of what that means. If anything’s going to rattle our murderer, knowing everyone will be wondering who he is should do it.”
Their plans filled the following hours; they retired at eleven. At half past the hour, Jacqueline slipped into Gerrard’s room, and into his arms.
She was late leaving the next morning. Deeming it easier to explain her presence wandering the corridors in nightgown and robe if he wasn’t by her side, she insisted he let her return to her room by herself. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the way.
Her caution proved wise; she met Barnaby within twenty feet of Gerrard’s door. She blushed, but Barnaby greeted her without a blink, explaining he was on his way for a walk in the gardens. Then she encountered two maids in the corridor; they blushed-for her, she presumed. Glancing in a wall mirror, she saw her eyes were slumbrous, her hair beyond disarranged, her lips subtly swollen. No point pretending how she’d spent her night. Crossing the gallery to the other wing, she saw Treadle in the hall below-and he saw her. That was what came of succumbing to reckless passion.
Not that she regretted it.
Reaching her room, she decided she didn’t care what anyone thought. If the murderer had taught her one thing, it was to grab love with both hands and enjoy it. Celebrate it when it was there, offered to her.
What will be will be. Timms was very wise.
Given her recent activities, she ought to have been exhausted. Instead, she felt energized-fired by impatience to identify her mother’s murderer. Thomas’s murderer. He who had held her life in thrall for too long.
She rang for Holly. As she washed and dressed, she felt confidence well. Not since Thomas died had she felt so positive, so eager to face the day. She felt as if, after a long night, the sun was finally rising once more on her world-and she had Gerrard to thank for it.
Her champion. She grinned, gave her curls a last tweak, then headed for the breakfast parlor.
Gerrard was already seated, along with Mitchel. Barnaby had arrived just ahead of her. He held the chair beside Gerrard for her, then sat alongside.
The three of them chatted, tossing ideas back and forth about the ball. Considering all that had to be done. Mitchel was subdued. After cleaning his plate, he rose and bid them a good day. Barnaby asked if he would be around later, in case they needed assistance with arrangements for the ball.
Mitchel shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ll be out for most of the day-we’ve the rotation of crops to organize.”
Nodding, Barnaby raised a hand in acknowledgment. Jacqueline smiled; Mitchel bowed and left.
She, Gerrard and Barnaby fell to organizing with a vengeance, expecting Millicent to join them any minute.
But Millicent didn’t appear.
Jacqueline had just registered that her aunt was unusually late when Millicent’s maid peeked into the parlor. Jacqueline saw her. “Gemma?” The maid looked shaken. Jacqueline pushed back her chair. “Is anything wrong?”
Gemma edged into the room, bobbing a curtsy. “It’s Miss Tregonning, miss. I don’t rightly know where she is.” Gemma’s eyes were wide. “Have you seen her?”
A chill touched Jacqueline’s heart, then spread. She rose. Chairs scraped as Gerrard and Barnaby rose, too.
It was Barnaby who spoke, calmly, evenly. “She must be somewhere. We’ll come and help look.”
It didn’t take long to find her.
Gemma and another maid had already searched upstairs. Gerrard asked Treadle to gather the footmen, then went with Jacqueline and Barnaby out onto the terrace, to look, and then to plan.
They walked to the main steps leading down to the gardens, searching the various areas they could see. Jacqueline called; Gerrard filled his lungs and shouted, “Millicent!” but there was no answering wave, no reply.
Beside Jacqueline, he halted at the top of the steps. Glancing down, he saw marks, dirt streaked across the pale marble.
There’d been a light shower during the night. He looked down the steps, confirming that the well-worn patch of path at the bottom was damp. There were similar, small, telltale streaks all the way up the steps.
“Barnaby.” He wasn’t sure if it was his artist’s imagination running amok, but…when Barnaby looked at him he pointed to the streaks.
Barnaby crouched down, with his eyes followed the trail up the steps, then swiveled and looked along the terrace. The faint streaks led on, smudged here and there, but then ended-where the balustrade overlooked the Garden of Night.
Gerrard felt his face harden; Barnaby’s was grim as he rose.
“What is it?” Jacqueline asked, looking from one to the other.
Gerrard pressed her arm. “Wait here.”
Quickly, he went down the steps, and turned into the Garden of Night. Barnaby was on his heels.
Jacqueline froze. In her head, a voice screamed, No! It was a battle to get her limbs to work, to move. Gripping the balustrade, she forced herself forward; step by step, she followed the men down.
Her gaze locked on the entrance to the Garden of Night, not the one Gerrard had painted, but the upper one. The entrance she’d stood at over a year ago, and seen her mother lying dead, flung like a broken bird, her legs trailing in the pool, her back broken on the stone coping.
The archway drew nearer. Nearer. Then she was standing in it, within the cool touch of the garden’s shadows.
Gerrard and Barnaby were bending over the body of her aunt. As with her mother, her aunt lay half across the coping. White as death. One hand trailed, fingers lax, on the gravel.
A choked sound escaped her. She wanted to scream, to call for help, but she couldn’t get her throat to work. Her lungs felt as if they were caving in.
Gerrard heard; he turned and saw her. He said something to Barnaby, then rose and swiftly came to her.
She pressed both hands to her lips. Couldn’t form the words to ask. Asked with her eyes instead.
“She’s alive.” Gerrard gathered her to him, hugged her reassuringly. “Unconscious, but alive.” He lifted his head, yelled, “Treadle!”
An instant later, the butler appeared at the top of the steps. “Sir? Miss? What…?”
“Send for the doctor, then send some footmen down here with a door.”
Alive. Millicent was alive. Jacqueline’s legs gave way.
Gerrard swore, and tightened his arms about her.
She rested her head against his chest, forced her lungs to work, dragged in a huge breath. Gulped. “I’m sorry.” She hauled in another breath, then locked her legs and lifted her head. “Go back and stay with her. She’s badly hurt. I’ll wait here.” She sensed his hesitation. “I’ll be all right. Truly. The best help you can give me is to help her-I can’t. I can’t go in there.”