Barnaby’s expression set. “No matter what arguments you make, one fact remains. Without your completing her portrait, Jacqueline is trapped. Only you, with it, can free her.”
Gerrard stared into Barnaby’s steady blue eyes. Then he hauled in a huge breath, and nodded. “You’re right. London it is. Us, Millicent and Jacqueline.”
“When?” Barnaby stood. “Can you finish the portrait there?”
Gerrard nodded. “Once I finish the setting, it’ll be easier—and faster—to do the sittings in my studio. As things stand…if I do nothing but paint for the next two days, we can leave after that.”
“Two days from now?”
Gerrard nodded, suddenly eager to have Jacqueline safe in his own territory. He and Barnaby started back toward the house.
“I’d suggest,” Barnaby said, “that there’s no benefit in scaring the ladies.” He caught Gerrard’s eye. “We’ll square things with Tregonning, and then cast it as a jaunt to the capital.”
“That,” Gerrard declared, “will be easy. I’ve already paved the way for taking Jacqueline to town—she needs a new gown for the portrait.”
Barnaby grinned, grimly determined. “Excellent.”
Reaching the steps to the terrace, they went quickly up.
Jacqueline spent the next two days in what seemed a constant whirl. Not since her mother’s death had the household been plunged into such frenetic activity.
They were going to London—her, Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby. So her father had informed them at luncheon on the second day after the ball. Apparently Gerrard had spoken to him about the need for a new gown for the portrait, and her father had agreed, not only to the trip but to Gerrard’s completing the portrait in his studio in town.
She’d only been to Bath before, never to the capital. Now, courtesy of Gerrard, she and Millicent could look forward to at least two weeks, most likely more, in which to sample fashionable life.
All but dizzy contemplating the possibilities, she and Millicent had much to do to prepare for both the journey and their stay, all in the day and a half her father and Gerrard had allowed them. Males both, they didn’t seem to comprehend how much time it required to sort, freshen and pack a wardrobe, select and pack hats, shoes, gloves, shawls, reticules, stockings, jewelry and all the other accessories necessary for putting on a creditable show in town.
On that both she and Millicent were determined. They were clearly destined to meet at least some of Gerrard’s fashionable relatives; they had no intention of appearing as provincials, insofar as they could avoid it.
And then there were the household duties to delegate.
She was almost glad that Gerrard retreated to the old nursery. After the announcement, he didn’t appear again, not for dinner, nor for breakfast or lunch the next day.
Of course, at night, she visited his room. On the first night, discovering him absent, she’d quietly climbed the stairs, avoiding Compton’s room to open the nursery door.
The night had been warm and sultry. Clad only in breeches, his feet bare, he’d stood poised before the canvas. But his gaze had deflected to her. As before, she’d sensed the complete shift in his attention, the total distraction she was to him, and had hidden a wholly feminine smile.
She’d gone in and closed the door. He’d run his hand through his hair, then, as she walked to him, he’d set his palette down. And turned to her.
Later, she’d dozed on the window seat, her flushed skin protected from the cool night air by her robe and his shirt. She’d watched him paint, bare-chested, muscles shifting in the steady light thrown by six lamps turned high.
In those moments, his concentration had been absolute, focused on his work. Powerful, potent. Intense.
It was the same intensity, both physical and mental, that he brought to their lovemaking, but then, as its object, she couldn’t so clearly observe and appreciate. What she’d seen as he’d painted had made her shiver. Deliciously.
When they were together, all that was hers.
He’d returned to her when the sky was lightening, stirring her awake as the shades shifted through blues to grays before the soft pastels of dawn. Kneeling on the window seat, straddling him, under his direction sinking down and taking him deep inside her, she’d seen the reflection of the dawn on the sea, just as he drove her to glory.
Later, she’d slipped away and left him sleeping.
That day, he didn’t appear at all.
She caught Compton in the corridor and learned that when in a painting frenzy, his master slept through the morning when the light wasn’t strong, waking before midday to pick up his brushes again. Instructing Compton to ensure adequate food and drink were provided, and if at all possible, consumed, she returned to the myriad tasks awaiting her.
She’d expected Eleanor to appear for one of their walks, expected to tell her of their trip then. But Eleanor didn’t appear. Recalling their last exchange, Jacqueline inwardly shrugged. She and Eleanor had fallen out before, always over some action of Eleanor’s; eventually, Eleanor always came around, even if she never apologized.
So Eleanor would learn of their departure for London after the fact.
The following morning at eight o’clock sharp, Gerrard escorted Millicent and herself down the steps to her father’s traveling coach. The four horses stamped and shifted; harness jingled as the coachman climbed up. Her father, who’d been waiting by the carriage, kissed her cheek. “Send me a letter when you’re settled.”
She promised, kissed him, and he handed her up. Millicent followed, then Gerrard; he took the seat opposite, with his back to the horses.
Her father exchanged a look and a nod with Gerrard, then shut the door. The coachman flicked the reins and the coach jerked, then ponderously rolled on. Barnaby would be just behind, in the curricle driving Gerrard’s grays. Sometime later, Compton would set out with Gerrard’s luggage, including his equipment and the all-important portrait.
She felt a thrill of excitement course through her veins. Her anticipation showed in her face; she knew from the affectionate light in Gerrard’s eyes as he watched her.
Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The journey was not nearly as exciting as she’d hoped. Gerrard slept for most of the time, doubtless catching up on all the sleep he’d gone without over recent days. In truth, there was no point doing otherwise; in the carriage with Millicent, in the inns at which they stopped both at midday and at night, there was precious little opportunity for dalliance.
Still, she was going to London.
Eventually, they arrived.
Gerrard had explained, and convinced her father and Millicent, that it was perfectly acceptable for her and Millicent to stay in his house in Brook Street. He, it transpired, didn’t live there, but in lodgings nearby; he’d bought the house for the attics, which now housed his studio, and kept the house, too large for a single gentleman, for family members when they came up to town.
There were two older ladies currently in residence, Gerrard’s aunt Minnie, Lady Bellamy, and her lady companion, known to all as Timms.
By the time the heavy coach rolled into Brook Street, Jacqueline felt that her eyes had grown so round they’d never be normal again. There’d been so much to see as they’d entered the capital—the shops!—the people!—Hyde Park and the carriages of the fashionable, the nattily dressed gentlemen riding along Rotten Row. Gerrard had leaned forward and pointed out the sights to her. Millicent had sat back, smiling, taking it all in her stride.
The coach slowed, then rocked to a halt. Gerrard didn’t wait for the footman, but opened the door and stepped down to the pavement, then turned, took her hand, and helped her down.
She looked up at the town house before her. It was large, two stories above the street, one below, and attics with dormer windows high above. The stonework was in excellent repair, the woodwork neatly painted, with a bright brass knocker on the forest-green front door. A short set of steps led up to the front porch.
Barnaby had driven ahead that morning; the front door opened and he looked out. He waved and came quickly down, smiling. “There’s a reception committee waiting.”
She heard the sotto voce warning, intended for Gerrard; he didn’t look at all surprised. Indeed, he looked resignedly amused. Barnaby helped Millicent out. With a brief, bolstering smile, Gerrard set Jacqueline’s hand on his sleeve and turned her to the door.
It swung wide as they climbed the steps.
“Good afternoon, sir.” An ancient and imposing butler stood at attention, ready to bow them in.
Gerrard grinned. “Good afternoon, Masters. I gather the ladies are lying in wait?”
“Indeed, sir. As are Mrs. Patience and Mr. Vane.”
“Ah. I see.” His smile deepening, Gerrard turned to her. “This is Miss Tregonning. She’ll be staying here with my aunt and her aunt”—he included Millicent as she joined them—“also Miss Tregonning. This is Masters—he’s Minnie’s butler, and will organize anything and everything as if by magic.”
Straightening from his very correct bow, Masters accepted the tribute without a blink. “Miss, ma’am—both myself and Mrs. Welborne will be honored to assist you in any way.”
“I take it tea will be served in the drawing room?” Gerrard asked.
“Indeed, sir.” Masters directed a footman to close the front door. “Our orders were for as soon as you arrived, to refresh you after the long journey.” He turned to Millicent and Jacqueline. “Mrs. Welborne has your rooms prepared. I’ll have your boxes taken up straightaway.”
They murmured their thanks.
“I’ll take the ladies in.” Gerrard glanced at Barnaby. “Are you staying?”
Barnaby grinned. “In the interests of experience, I rather think I will.”
Gerrard raised his brows, but made no reply. He led the way to a pair of double doors, opened them, then stepped back and ushered Jacqueline and Millicent in.
Beside Millicent, Jacqueline stepped into an elegantly proportioned room, its walls hung with dusky pink paper warmed by the late afternoon sunshine pouring in through long windows left open to a flagged terrace; beyond, the green of lawns and shrubs was patterned with splashes of summer blooms.
The furniture was lovely—wooden, none of it spindly, yet equally none of it overly ornate. Much of it was rosewood, and glowed with a luster that screamed of care. It took an instant for her eyes to travel to the long chaise further down the room, set at an angle to the hearth. A smaller chaise and three armchairs completed the grouping. Two older ladies sat on the larger chaise, avidly watching them. Another lady, younger and beautifully gowned, sat in one armchair; a gentleman, handsome and severely elegant, uncrossed his long legs and rose from its mate.
Even as, a polite smile on her lips, she went forward with Millicent to meet Gerrard’s family, something—some observation—nagged at Jacqueline’s mind. Just before she reached those waiting, it came clear; there was a clock on the mantelpiece and two statues made into lamps flanking the terrace windows, but beyond that, other than an ancient tatting bag resting beside the feet of one of the older ladies, there were no ornaments, and no signs of habitation—no journal or playbill lying on a table, no softening touches. The room seemed strangely sterile.
Gerrard didn’t live there, so it lacked any evidence of him. Despite its elegance, the lovely furniture and the attractive paper, curtains and upholstery, the room felt rather cold, not neglected physically but lacking a certain energy. Lacking life.
Reaching the long chaise, Gerrard introduced Millicent, then Jacqueline, to his aunt, Lady Bellamy.
“Good afternoon, my dear—I’m so very glad to meet you.” Lady Bellamy, with curly, white hair, many chins and bright if faded blue eyes, reached for Jacqueline’s hand, clasping it between hers. “I hope you and your aunt will excuse me if I don’t rise—my old bones aren’t what they were.”
Her smile growing warmer, Jacqueline bobbed a curtsy. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
Lady Bellamy beamed, but wagged a pudgy, beringed finger. “Everyone calls me Minnie, my dear, and I hope you and Millicent will do the same. No need to stand on ceremony.”
Jacqueline smiled her acquiescence; Gerrard had told her about his aunt. She was of an age where guessing her years was impossible; she was over sixty, but how far over was anyone’s guess.
“And,” Minnie said, patting her hand before releasing it, “this is Timms. No one calls her anything else, either.”
“Indeed.” Her gray hair pulled back from her plain-featured face, Timms took Jacqueline’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. Her gaze was warm, friendly and disconcertingly direct. “Very glad you needed to come to town, else no doubt we’d have developed a reason for jauntering down to Cornwall. Not that I have anything against Cornwall in summer, but such a journey at our age…well, better not.”
Jacqueline felt her smile deepen, felt all reserve slide from her. “Indeed, it’s a very long way. I’m glad we needed to visit.”
Timms grinned and released her. Taking her arm, Gerrard steered her to the other lady, who had risen and was speaking with Millicent.
Millicent glanced around as they neared, smiled and stepped back, allowing Gerrard to introduce her.
“Miss Jacqueline Tregonning—my sister, Patience Cynster, and her husband, Vane.”
Jacqueline went to curtsy, but Patience caught both her hands.
“No, no—as Minnie declared, we need no ceremony.” Patience’s hazel eyes met Jacqueline’s gaze with greater warmth than she’d expected; when, after an instant studying her, Patience again spoke, there was no doubt of the sincerity behind her words. “I’m so very pleased to meet you, my dear.”
Echoing the sentiment, frankly amazed at how truly welcome she did indeed feel, Jacqueline turned to the gentleman, who, lips curving, smoothly lifted her hand from his wife’s grasp and elegantly bowed over it.
“Vane Cynster, my dear.” His voice was deep, sonorous. “I trust the journey down wasn’t overly fatiguing?”
The question encouraged an answer; in less than a minute, Jacqueline found herself seated on the end of the smaller chaise, engaged in a surprisingly easy exchange with Patience and Vane. Gerrard hovered beside her. Millicent, next to her, was chatting animatedly with Minnie.
Jacqueline had never felt so unreservedly welcomed, so warmly accepted; reassured, she relaxed.
Gerrard watched her, pleased to see that her inner reserve hadn’t materialized, not at all. As far as she knew, none of his family were aware of the circumstances of her mother’s death; she clearly found no difficulty in engaging openly with them.
That was something of a relief; the same would no doubt hold true when she met the rest of the clan, and the members of wider society who, once it became known she was here, staying in his house under Minnie’s aegis, would make it their business to meet her.
Which meant he could relax, and concentrate on painting. She would take his London acquaintance by storm; he was looking forward to observing the action from a safe, if watchful, distance.
The tea trolley arrived. Patience did the honors. Barnaby and Gerrard ferried the cups, then Barnaby joined Millicent, Minnie and Timms in discussing which of London’s many sights were most impressive and thus not to be missed.
Gerrard drew up a chair beside Vane. While Patience talked with Jacqueline, comparing country life in Cornwall and Derbyshire, where his and Patience’s childhood home lay, he picked Vane’s brains over what had occurred in their mutual business circles over the weeks he’d been away.
Sipping his tea, he made a firm if silent vow not to, under any circumstances, divulge the name of the modiste to whom he intended to take Jacqueline the next morning.
He tried, but failed. At eleven the next morning, Millicent, Patience, Minnie and Timms accompanied him and Jacqueline to Helen Purfett’s salon.
The salon was in unfashionable Paddington, in a narrow house on a street leading north fro
m the park. Minnie, Timms and Patience exchanged glances as Patience’s carriage rocked to a halt on the cobblestones outside. Gerrard had led the way, driving his curricle and grays, Jacqueline on the seat beside him, transparently excited, her eyes enormous as she glanced about.
Her reaction soothed his already abraded temper. He reined it in as he handed Patience and the three older ladies to the pavement. He wasn’t surprised when, after looking about her, Minnie asked, “Are you sure this dressmaker is suitable, dear?”
“Helen isn’t a modiste in the sense of making ball gowns. She specializes in making gowns for artist’s models.”
Four pairs of lips formed an “Oh.”
With a wave, he herded them all up the steps to the door. Helen would be expecting him and Jacqueline; he hoped she’d cope with the unexpected crowd.
He’d painted all night in his studio in the attic; only when it was too late—the small hours of the morning—and he realized Jacqueline hadn’t arrived, did he recall he’d forgotten to tell her how to access the attics from the lower part of the house. The conversion had made the attics into separate quarters, reached by stairs from the alley alongside. There was a connecting door and stairs from the house proper, but they were concealed.
He sincerely hoped she hadn’t gone wandering about in the night, trying to find her way up. Minnie was a frighteningly light sleeper.
There was nothing to be done but paint on; he hadn’t thought to ask which room she’d been given. So he’d returned to laying the last layer of detail into the creepers and vines about the entrance to the Garden of Night.
Due to the appointment with Helen, he hadn’t been able to sleep for long this morning. Consequently, he was in no good mood to deal gently with the sort of feminine helpfulness with which he coped when necessary, but more normally avoided like a pinching boot.
He loved Patience, Minnie and Timms, but he didn’t need their “help” in this instance.
Helen blinked when they all trooped into her salon upstairs, but she recovered well. After he’d introduced her, she showed the four observers to a long sofa before the front windows, ordered tea and scones for them, then, with a smile, excused herself, Gerrard and Jacqueline, and whisked them into a smaller, more cluttered workroom.
The Truth About Love Page 32
