The Truth About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  Aaargh!”

  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.

  Catching his breath, his back to the window, he paused, taking in the charred rafters and smoldering walls. They’d smothered the flames just in time, before they could take hold in the roof and spread.

  A woman’s scream, faint but distinct, abruptly cut off, wafted past the window, carried on an updraft from far below. For one fleeting instant, it sliced through the stamping and thumping, the oaths, the noisy chaos as footmen and gardeners used sacking to beat out the last flames.

  Gerrard’s senses pricked. He swung back to the window. He’d rushed to the attics, leaving Barnaby to see to his bedroom; he knew more about the dangers of paint-spattered wood and cloths, and the other deathtraps that lurked in artists’ studios.

  Dense smoke billowed out of his bedroom below, but it was thinning; the crackle of flames had subsided.

  They’d saved the house.

  It must have been a maid who’d screamed, but why now? Why from outside?

  The premonition of wrongness intensified. He hesitated, staring unseeing down at the gardens, then he swore. “Wilcox!”

  The head gardener looked up from where he was beating out glowing embers. “Yes, sir?”

  “Round up your men and get down to the terrace. Something’s happening down there.”

  Leaving the footmen to finish damping down the attics, Gerrard flung through the door and pelted down the stairs.

  Behind, he heard Wilcox rallying his men. “C’mon, you lot—downstairs. Look sharpish!”

  Gerrard hit the corridor and ran. His chest felt tight—from smoke, and nascent fear. He raced to his room, barreled through the open door, spared barely a glance for the charred mess, not as bad as in the nursery. Leaping over debris, he saw Barnaby and pointed to the balcony. The telescope stood where he’d left it, safe and untouched on its tripod in the corner; he grabbed it, swung it up and pushed past the milling figures onto the balcony.

  “What?” Barnaby asked, reaching his side.

  “Some woman screamed—from the gardens, I think.” Working frantically, Gerrard set up the tripod, then readjusted the telescope and focused. “Send someone to check if Jacqueline’s in the drawing room.”

  He felt Barnaby’s start, but his friend didn’t question him. A footman was dispatched, urgency stressed.

  Gerrard swept the gardens. Even from this vantage point, not all the areas were visible; he scanned in arcs, hoping to pick up some movement—

  “There!” He looked up, checked the direction, then looked through the telescope again. “There’s someone rushing through Poseidon, heading into Apollo. Three people…” He refocused. “Jordan, Eleanor—and Jacqueline.” He swore. “They’re holding her between them.”

  He tensed to straighten; Barnaby’s hand clapped down on his shoulder.

  “No. Keep them in your sights—keep tracking them.”

  He did. “They’re in Apollo now, hurrying further away. Where the devil are they taking her?”

  Matthew Brisenden appeared beside him, gripping the rail, staring out.

  Sir Vincent joined them. “Did I hear aright? The young Frithams are running off with Jacqueline?”

  Gerrard nodded. “They’re headed down the gardens—God knows why.”

  “They’re kidnapping her!” Gripping the railing, Matthew turned his way. “They have to get to the stone viewing platform before they can take the path up through Diana, over the ridge to the manor.”

  Gerrard swore. “He’s right. That’s how they get back and forth without using the front door.”

  “Not this time.” Barnaby leaned over the balustrade and called to Wilcox, now on the terrace with a bevy of gardeners. In a few short phrases, he explained; Wilcox and his men turned as one, and raced along the terrace, then poured down into the gardens, taking the most direct route through Athena into the garden of Diana to block the route to the manor.

  “They’ll see,” Matthew said, “and go the other way. If they can reach the stables—”

  “Or even the other cove,” Sir Vincent put in. “There’s a rowboat there.”

  Matthew was already turning. “I saw Richards below. I’ll find him and get his men out on the paths along the northern ridge, so they won’t be able to go that way, either.”

  “I’ll help.” Sir Vincent followed Matthew out.

  Gerrard kept the telescope trained on the trio hurrying through the gardens. They were still in Apollo, crossing the bridge over the stream. Jacqueline was gagged; from the way Jordan and Eleanor were holding her between them, her hands were bound, too.

  Behind him, he heard movement; Lord Fritham, Sir Harvey Entwhistle and Mr. Hancock appeared. They’d been assisting in putting out the flames. One glance at Lord Fritham’s stunned expression told Gerrard he’d heard the latest developments.

  So had the others. “Come on, old chap.” Grim-faced, Sir Harvey dropped a hand on Lord Fritham’s shoulder. “We’d best get down there and find out what that whe
lp of yours thinks he’s about.”

  Lord Fritham nodded; he looked numb. The three older men turned and went out.

  Barnaby returned to Gerrard’s side. “Where are they now?”

  “In Apollo, still some way from the second viewing stage.” He paused, then added, “Jacqueline keeps stumbling. She’s slowing them down.” His voice flattened, grew quieter. “Jordan just hit her.” A moment later, he went on, “That hasn’t helped—she’s slumped on the ground and refusing to get up.”

  Barnaby gripped his shoulder harder. “Stay with it a bit longer. We need to see where they go once they reach the viewing platform.”

  Gerrard slammed a door on his rising emotions, far beyond anger or simple protectiveness. Rage, fury, cold, deep and potent; Jacqueline was his, his to protect, but he could see the sense in Barnaby’s tack. Gritting his teeth, he kept the telescope trained; in his head, he warned Jacqueline to take care, urged her to be careful. Cursed Jordan Fritham to hell and beyond.

  Simultaneously prayed.

  The older gentlemen came out on the terrace. Lord Tregonning was with them. They called up to Barnaby for directions, then headed off as fast as they could into the gardens.

  Wide, long, densely planted, the gardens weren’t designed for rushing through, for easy traversing. Quite the opposite. The action unfolded slowly; Gerrard took his eye briefly from Jacqueline to confirm that the gardeners had reached the higher reaches of the Garden of Diana—there’d be no escape for the Frithams that way. The stablemen, Matthew and Sir Vincent weren’t as far advanced on the northern ridge, but they’d be in place before the Frithams could divert in that direction.

  He swung the telescope back to Jacqueline—and watched Jordan and Eleanor hustle her toward the stone viewing platform at the end of the Garden of Apollo.

  Jacqueline all but sobbed with relief when Jordan reached up and yanked his kerchief from her mouth.

  “There!” His eyes were flat, hard and cold. “We’re too far from the house. You can scream all you like—there’s no one to hear.” He glanced back at the house; a mocking smile curved his lips. “They’re all too busy putting out the flames, and no doubt bemoaning the loss of that bloody portrait.” His fingers tightened about her arm. “Now come on!”

  He hauled her on. She dragged and stumbled as much as she dared, but she wouldn’t put it past Jordan to knock her unconscious and carry her—it would be faster; she didn’t want to provoke him to the point he realized that.

  Eleanor, pale, tight-lipped, had hold of her other arm; she, too, pulled her on. They were both taller and stronger than she; together, they could almost lift her from her feet.

  She knew the portrait was safe; it hadn’t been in either Gerrard’s room or the makeshift studio. Her father had taken possession; Compton and Treadle had carefully stowed the framed picture in her father’s study.

  Now didn’t seem the time to mention that.

  She’d almost managed to catch her breath, to shake off the effects of those terrible moments in the parlor, worse than any nightmare she’d ever dreamed. She’d never forget the sheer evil she’d sensed; the sun on her face assured her she was in the real world, yet…She dragged in a breath, fought to steady her voice. “Where are you taking me? What on earth do you hope to gain by this?”

  “We’re abducting you,” Jordan coldly informed her. “Your sluttish behavior with that damned artist left us no choice.” His tone suggested it was entirely her fault. “They’re going to think we’re on our way to Gretna, but in reality, I’ve a nice little inn down the coast in mind.”

  He glanced at her. “A few nights alone with me, and I’m sure your father will see the sense in agreeing to our betrothal.”

  She was certain she knew the answer, but still asked, “Why do you want to marry me? You don’t even like me.”

  “Of course not. Innocents have never attracted me.” He glanced at Eleanor, and smiled—a secret smile Jacqueline wished she hadn’t seen—then he looked ahead, after a moment continued, “No doubt your artist has taught you a thing or two—it’ll be interesting to find out how far he’s taken your education. However, beyond the necessity of bringing about our marriage—no, I have little personal interest in you. All I want is Hellebore Hall.”

  “Why?”

  He frowned, jaw tightening; he didn’t look at her. “Because it should be mine. I need it more than you.”

  The stone viewing platform loomed before them; they forced her up the steps, Eleanor going ahead and tugging, Jordan pushing from behind. Once on the platform, they turned to the path leading to the Garden of Diana, their usual route between the Manor and the Hall.

  Jordan thrust her before him; she stumbled into Eleanor and out onto the path. “We’ve horses saddled and waiting—we’ll be away before they realize—”

  “Jordan.” Eleanor had halted. Staring up at the ridge, she pointed. “Look!”

  Jacqueline lifted her head, and saw figures, still too far away to recognize but their number suggested they were gardeners or grooms, running along the higher paths out along the ridge. They were already pouring into the upper reaches of the Garden of Diana; there was no way Jordan and Eleanor, even alone and racing, could reach the path out.

  Relief slid through her; she sagged, staggered back a few steps to lean against the side of the platform. “Untie me.” She held out her hands, bound with laces. “There’s no point going any further—you’ll have to go back and explain—”

  With a snarl, Jordan turned on her. “No! I won’t let you go—won’t let the Hall slip through my fingers.” He seized her arm again, fingers biting. “We’ll just go the other way.” He jerked her upright. “Back inside.”

  He hauled her back up the steps, then out onto the path leading up the garden to the wooden pergola from which paths led on to the northern ridge and the stables. “We’ll take horses from your stables.”

  They’d gone twenty yards, out into the open, when Jordan abruptly halted. Head up, scanning ahead, he swore. “They’re up there, too.”

  Jaw clenched, he towed her around and propelled her before him, shoving her back to the stone platform. Once under the wooden roof, he halted; still gripping her arm, eyes wide, a touch wild, he looked first one way, then the other.

  Eleanor was looking, too. Even paler than before, breathing rapidly, she turned to Jordan. “What now? We can’t get out.” Her gaze shifted to Jacqueline. “She’s all we have to bargain with, but I haven’t a knife or anything to threaten her with—have you?”

  Jordan patted his pockets, then pulled out a penknife. He flicked it open; the blade was less than two inches long.

  “That’s no use!” Incipient hysteria rang in Eleanor’s voice.

  Jordan was silent, staring down at the blade, then he drew in a huge breath, lifted his head and looked down the gardens.

  Jacqueline had no idea what he saw, but calmness enveloped him.

  The wild look in his eyes faded, and he smiled. Coldly. “It’ll do for what we need if combined with something else. Something more dramatic and final. And so very apt.”

  He tightened his grip on Jacqueline’s arm, ruthlessly shook her. “Come on. I know just how to make your father and all the rest agree to everything I want.”

  Going down the steps, he hauled her after him, then set out, striding rapidly along the path into the Garden of Mars, heading toward the cove.

  Gerrard swore. Releasing the telescope, he swung around, ducked into the smoke-blackened room and headed for the door. “They’ve taken the path to the cove.”

  “The cove?” Barnaby followed. “But there’s no escape that way.”

  “No escape,” Gerrard ground out. “But something better. A gun to hold to our heads.”

  “Gun?” Barnaby kept pace as Gerrard ran down the corridor, then went quickly down the stairs. “What gun?”

  Gerrard strode onto the terrace. “It’s called Cyclops.”

  By the time Jordan dragged her up the steps of the last viewing
platform, Jacqueline had solved his cryptic utterance; she knew where he was going.

  She’d slowed them as much as she’d dared; she had a stitch in her side, her breathing was quite genuinely labored, and her legs wobbled alarmingly. She wanted nothing more than to collapse on the seat and recover. Jordan, who walked the gardens so often, appeared unaffected by their race down the valley. Eleanor, however, was flagging badly, as exhausted as she.

  Seizing the moment when Jordan paused to note how close their pursuers were, Jacqueline dragged air into her lungs, straightened her shoulders, tried to ease the ache in her bound arms.

  Jordan tightened his painful grip on her arm. “Come on.” His tone was tight. “We’ve got to get there ahead of them.”

  He thrust her down the steps, following closely, jerking her upright when her ankle threatened to give way. He snarled, “Don’t you dare slow us down.” His eyes met hers, flat, cold—deadly.

  How had she ever imagined him a friend, even a superior, aloof one? She was nothing to him, just a means to an end. As for Eleanor…Jacqueline looked at the woman whose nails bit into her other arm as she ruthlessly tugged her on. She’d never truly seen her before, but the Eleanor who’d stood beside Jordan in the parlor had dropped all pretense and contemptuously flaunted the truth. Recalling the lascivious details Eleanor had delighted in telling her over the years about her activities with her lover turned Jacqueline’s stomach, but she now knew the truth.

  She knew who Eleanor’s lover was.

  22

  The last section of the path leading to the cove descended sharply through a wide curve. There were steps along the way, interrupting their headlong dash, forcing Jordan and Eleanor, despite their growing urgency, to slow.

  Lungs burning, arms aching, Jacqueline stumbled on between them, searching for some means of delay. She could hear voices drawing nearer, lots of them. It was no part of Jordan’s plan for her to die—not yet, at any rate—yet as she grappled with the enormity of all he’d done so far in his quest to own Hellebore Hall…she had no faith that if thwarted, he wouldn’t sacrifice her out of revenge.