One hand moved down to the back of her waist, pressing there, locking her to him. The other glided up to curve over her shoulder, lingered there, close to her throat, warm palm against her exposed skin, then smoothly slid down, tantalizingly tracing the bare skin above her bodice before sliding down and around to close over one breast.
She lost what little breath she possessed, felt something akin to lightning streak down her nerves as he weighed her firm flesh, as he blatantly explored the full curves, expertly caressed, then closed his hand and gently kneaded.
A shudder of pure pleasure racked her; worried he might misinterpret, she pressed closer still, slid her hands from his nape into his hair, held his head steady as she kissed him, and with lips and tongue begged for more.
He understood; she felt his lips curve fractionally, then he accepted her unvoiced invitation, kissed her even more deeply, even more intimately, his tongue surging against hers in a rhythm she’d never known yet at some level recognized.
Her head started to spin; her wits slowly sank into a haze of warm delight.
His hands firmed; the one at her breast fondled, then his clever fingers sought out the peak, and rolled it, squeezed until she gasped through the kiss. Until pleasure bloomed and spread under her skin, like a wave rolling through her, pooling low to pulse between her thighs.
He leaned back against the window frame, drawing her with him; his artful fingers continued to play with her nipple, now tightly furled, while his other hand eased from her waist and slid down, over her hips, over her bottom, caressed, increasingly explicitly fondled, then cupped, closed, kneaded.
Her knees buckled. He held her, helpless, increasingly heated, increasingly wanting. Desire flared and spread under her skin; with hands and mouth, lips and tongue, he fed the conflagration.
She clutched his head, kissed him back, felt an unfamiliar urgency rise—
Footsteps pounded on the stairs beyond the door, coming swiftly up.
They broke from the kiss. She heard a muttered curse, realized it wasn’t hers, albeit she agreed with the sentiment.
Gerrard gripped her waist and set her back against the window frame; stepping away, he grabbed a sketch pad and pencil.
The door burst open. Barnaby stood in the doorway, breathing hard, his color high.
They blinked at him.
He blinked back, then waved. “Sorry—but…” He looked at Gerrard. “We’ve found a body.”
I was out walking—I took the path along the northern ridge.” Barnaby glanced over his shoulder as the three of them hurried along the path through the kitchen garden. “The path cuts through the Garden of Hades—it’s all cypress trees, a small forest of them. I noticed a section of bank higher up the ridge had crumbled away…there looked to be material, and an odd shape, so I climbed up to take a look.”
Insatiably curious—Gerrard had said Barnaby was so. Barnaby glanced back at her. Jacqueline met his worried look with grim determination. “Who is it?” she asked.
Barnaby cast an imploring look at Gerrard, then faced forward. “I couldn’t say. It’s not a…a recently deceased body.”
Her stomach lurched, but she clenched her teeth. They’d had a brief altercation in the studio, when Barnaby had tried to leave her behind. Gerrard had agreed with him, but wisely hadn’t said so; in the end, he’d taken her arm and let her accompany them.
But he wasn’t happy about it.
She set her jaw. This was her home, and if there were bodies buried in the garden, she had to know.
Her heart was thudding uncomfortably, high in her chest; she felt slightly dizzy. Heavy clouds had blown over, turning the breezy, sunny morning into an oppressive afternoon, with the rumble of thunder and the metallic tang of lightning a distant threat. As they left the wooden pergola and toiled up the path through the vines of the Garden of Dionysius, she was glad of Gerrard’s long fingers clamped about her elbow, steadying her.
Barnaby had alerted her father and Treadle before coming to find them. When they crossed into the Garden of Hades, into the dark shade of the cypress trees, they heard voices ahead. Looking up, they saw a group of men standing around a crumbling bank. The head gardener, Wilcox, was there, along with two of his men, armed with shovels. The head stableman, Richards, was there, too, as were her father and Treadle.
She stopped on the path. Barnaby continued, toiling up the slope. Gerrard glanced at her, and waited by her side.
Her father spoke with Barnaby, then turned and saw her. Barnaby looked at her, and suggested something. Her father hesitated, then nodded; carefully, ponderously, he made his way down the bank, Treadle hovering solicitously at his elbow. Barnaby followed a little way behind.
Her father reached the path; pale, a trifle out of breath, he took a moment to straighten his coat, then he leaned—truly leaned—on his cane. “I’m sorry, my dear—this is most distressing.”
She gripped his arm, fingers locking tight. “Who is it?”
Her father met her gaze, then shook his head. “We can’t be certain…” He sighed; raising his right hand, he opened his closed fist. “Mr. Adair wondered if you recognized this?”
She looked down at the fob watch that lay in his palm.
For a long moment, she said nothing, just stared while her lungs constricted and her heart thudded in her throat. Then she reached out—not to take the watch but with one finger to brush the dirt from the engraving on the closed lid.
She leaned nearer, looked. “It’s Thomas’s.”
A rushing roaring filled her ears and her vision went black.
8
She came to her senses, how much later she didn’t know. She was lying on the chaise in the drawing room; Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby stood nearby, talking in hushed voices.
When she struggled to sit up, Millicent saw and rushed over. “You should stay lying down for a while, dear. You were in a dead faint when Mr. Debbington carried you up.”
Jacqueline glanced up at Gerrard, who had come to stand at the back of the chaise. “Thank you.”
His expression remained stony. “If you want to thank me, stay where you are.”
Millicent blinked, taken aback by his tone. “Ah…would you like some water, dear?”
“Tea would be nice.”
“Yes, of course.” Millicent hurried to the bellpull.
With Gerrard’s gaze on her, Jacqueline made a show of relaxing against the cushions. She looked at Barnaby, standing before the fireplace. “What’s happening?”
Barnaby glanced at Gerrard, then came closer. “Your father’s sent word to the magistrate. Meanwhile, Wilcox and Richards are overseeing the…ah, disinterment.”
A chill slid through her. “Is it possible to know…Can anyone tell when he was killed? Or how?” She focused on Barnaby. “Was he shot?”
Barnaby glanced at Gerrard again. Gerrard sighed and, waving Barnaby to a nearby chair, came around to sit on the end of the chaise. “Perhaps it’s better to discuss it, seeing she’s so determined.”
She shot him a look, but Millicent, taking the other armchair, nodded. “I can see no benefit in pretending we don’t have a dead body in the garden, and that it isn’t that poor boy, Thomas Entwhistle. I’m sure Jacqueline will be more comfortable if we approach the matter sensibly.”
“Yes, precisely.” Thank heaven for sensible aunts. Jacqueline looked again at Barnaby; he seemed to be the one with the information. “Is it known when he…Thomas, died?”
“Only that it was long ago.” Barnaby grimaced. “A year at least, probably more. When was he last seen?”
She thought back, added the months. “Two years and four months ago.”
“In that case, there’s nothing to say he wasn’t killed on that day. He was last seen here, wasn’t he?”
She felt the cold intensifying; slowly, she nodded. “Yes. By me.” She met Barnaby’s gaze, then looked at Gerrard. “I was the last person to speak with him…just like with Mama.”
Barnaby frowned. “Ye
s, well, that hardly means you killed them, does it?”
His tone, one of dismissive reasonableness, had her—and Gerrard, too—looking at him.
Barnaby’s frown deepened. “What?”
Gerrard shook his head. “Never mind that now. What else have you deduced?”
Barnaby grimaced. “Thomas was killed with a rock. A largish one.” With his hands, he outlined an object about twelve inches square. “About that size. Someone picked it up, and smashed it down on the back of his skull.”
Jacqueline swallowed. But Thomas was dead; he’d died long ago, and she needed to learn how. “I walked with him along the path to the stables. We parted just inside the Garden of Hercules and he went on. Why…how did he end up in the Garden of Hades? It’s quite some distance away.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby tapped the chair arm, then glanced at Jacqueline. “You parted just inside the Garden of Hercules—meaning some way before, and out of sight of, the junction with the side path, the one that follows the northern ridge through Hercules, Demeter, Dionysius and so to Hades.”
She nodded. “I wasn’t supposed to go beyond the terrace, but I walked just a little way—the path’s open until the edge of the Garden of Hercules.”
“Right.” Barnaby straightened. “So someone could have met Thomas deeper in the Garden of Hercules without you knowing.”
She frowned. “Yes, that’s true.”
“Would you have heard if he spoke with someone?”
“Not if you mean near the other path—by the time he reached there, I would have been back on the terrace. I wouldn’t have known he’d met someone unless he called out, and possibly not even then—the wind usually blows the other way.”
“I doubt he called out.”
“Why do you say that?” Gerrard asked.
“Because…well, Thomas was quite tall, wasn’t he?”
Jacqueline nodded; she glanced at Gerrard. “As tall as Gerrard, but thinner.”
“Yes, well, from the damage to his skull, whoever hit him was standing close behind him, possibly somewhat higher than he. I don’t think that would happen very easily unless that someone was a man Thomas knew.”
Gerrard saw the color drain from Jacqueline’s face. “A man—not a woman?”
Barnaby blinked. “A woman?” He considered, gaze distant, then shook his head. “I can’t see it—whoever lifted that rock had to be quite strong. Just grasping a rock that size would be difficult for most women. And as Thomas was tall, then even standing above him on the steepest stretch of the path, they’d have had to lift the rock high to bring it down with such force.” He refocused on Gerrard’s face. “A single blow, it was.”
A small, distressed sound escaped Millicent.
Coloring, Barnaby glanced at her. “Sorry. But, well, it couldn’t have been a woman—no ordinary woman, anyway. A giantess might have done it, but unless Thomas was acquainted with one hereabouts, well…” Barnaby smiled apologetically, clearly attempting to lighten the moment.
“You’re saying,” Gerrard reiterated, “that Thomas was killed by a man, almost certainly a man he knew.”
Barnaby nodded. “That seems the only reasonable conclusion.”
The drawing room doors opened. Barnaby and Gerrard rose as Lord Tregonning and an older gentleman they hadn’t previously met came in. Jacqueline swung her legs down; Gerrard gave her his hand and helped her to her feet. He didn’t like her pallor, or the way she stiffened; he wound her arm with his and settled her hand on his sleeve, his hand covering hers. Millicent rose, too, and moved to stand on Jacqueline’s other side.
The gentleman bowed to Millicent and Jacqueline, who curtsied.
Lord Tregonning waved at Barnaby and Gerrard. “This is Mr. Adair, who found the body, and Mr. Debbington, another guest. Sir Godfrey Marks, our magistrate.”
Barnaby and Gerrard shook hands with Sir Godfrey, and exchanged murmured greetings.
Sir Godfrey turned to Jacqueline. “I’m sorry to disturb you, m’dear, but your father showed me this watch, which was found on the body.” Sir Godfrey held out the watch. “Are you sure it was Thomas’s?”
The last vestige of color drained from Jacqueline’s face, along with all expression. She glanced briefly at the watch, then nodded. “I’m sure. Sir Harvey and Lady Entwhistle will recognize it.”
Sir Godfrey paused, searching her face, then he nodded and returned the watch to his pocket. “It’s a pity it’s so long ago now, but just refresh my memory—you walked with him to the stables and parted from him there?”
“No.” Jacqueline lifted her chin; Gerrard felt her fingers tighten on his sleeve. “I walked only a little way along the path—we parted where it enters the Garden of Hercules. Thomas went on, and I returned to the house.”
Sir Godfrey looked at Lord Tregonning, then glanced briefly at Jacqueline; the expression on his face looked suspiciously like pity. “So you were the last here to see him alive?”
Gerrard felt her fingers flutter beneath his, but her chin set; her expression remained impassive.
“Yes.”
Portentously, Sir Godfrey nodded, then turned to Lord Tregonning. “We’ll leave it at that.” His tone was heavy. “I’ll speak to the Entwhistles and let them know. Could have been gypsies or vagabonds, of course. No sense pursuing it—nothing will bring poor young Entwhistle back.”
Lord Tregonning’s face remained set and unresponsive. “As you wish.” His voice was devoid of emotion. He didn’t look at Jacqueline, or any of them, but stiffly returned Sir Godfrey’s nod and turned with him to the doors.
Jaw slack with amazement, incomprehension in his eyes, Barnaby stared at Gerrard, then glanced at Jacqueline. Before Gerrard could react, Barnaby started after the two men; he touched Sir Godfrey’s arm. “Sir Godfrey, about the circumstances of this death—”
Sir Godfrey halted. He frowned fiercely at Barnaby. “I don’t believe we need to delve deeper into that, sir.” He glanced fleetingly at Jacqueline, then met Barnaby’s gaze. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you you’re a guest here. No point creating unnecessary distress—a sad occurrence, but there’s nothing more to be done.”
With that deliberate and emphatic verdict, Sir Godfrey nodded curtly, and departed, Lord Tregonning beside him.
Astounded, Barnaby stared after them.
When the door shut, he turned. “What the devil was that about?” He looked at Gerrard, then transferred his affronted gaze to Jacqueline. “The bounder behaved as if you’d killed Thomas! Why on earth would he think that?”
Gerrard felt the stiffness go out of Jacqueline; with a helpless gesture, she sank unsteadily down; he eased her back onto the chaise. “Because,” he said, his tone lethal, cutting, “too many people hereabouts believe Jacqueline killed her mother, so why not Thomas, as well?”
“What?” Barnaby stared at him, past incredulous. Then he looked at Jacqueline. “But that’s ludicrous. You couldn’t have killed your mother.”
Gerrard fleetingly closed his eyes and thanked the gods for Barnaby. Opening them, he saw Jacqueline, color returning to her cheeks, staring at his friend. She’d been taken aback when he’d seen her innocence, but for someone with no real connection or interest in her to so clearly declare it…she was dumbfounded.
Gerrard voiced the question he knew was in her mind. “Why do you say that—why ludicrous? Why couldn’t Jacqueline have killed her mother?”
Barnaby almost goggled at him. “Have you taken a good look at the balustrade on the terrace?”
“It’s a stone balustrade, the usual sort of thing.”
Barnaby nodded. “The usual thing—solid stone, a ten-inches-wide stone top, waist-high to a man, midriff-high to a woman of average height, which I understand Lady Tregonning was.
“A woman of average height”—Barnaby bowed to Jacqueline—“couldn’t push, tip or bundle another woman of average height, and, as it happens, greater weight, over such a high and wide barrier. It would be as close to impossible as makes no
odds.”
He looked at Jacqueline, consternation and the beginnings of horrified comprehension dawning in his eyes. “When I say you couldn’t have killed your mother, I mean it literally. She had to have been lifted bodily to the top of the balustrade, and then pushed, or more likely thrown, over. I don’t think you could physically have managed it, not alone.” He hesitated, then asked. “They don’t really believe you did, do they?”
It was Millicent who answered. “Yes, they do.”
Briefly, Millicent explained to a flabbergasted Barnaby how matters had fallen out at the time of Miribelle Tregonning’s death.
“And so they all took it into their heads it was Jacqueline.” Millicent humphed. “I never subscribed to such nonsense, but by the time I learned of it, it was the general belief. Most of those in the area regard the notion as unproven fact.”
Barnaby was appalled. “Unproven facts aren’t facts at all!”
Given his belief in the application of logical deduction in solving crimes, Barnaby viewed the making of conjecture into fact as akin to heresy. Gerrard listened as Barnaby questioned, and Millicent elaborated, describing the way local sentiment had evolved, how the notion of Jacqueline as her mother’s murderer had taken root in so many minds.
It was frighteningly simple, yet the outcome was devastating. He glanced at Jacqueline. Not only devastating, but difficult to remedy.
She said little. She appeared to be listening; he wasn’t sure she was. Treadle brought in the tea tray and Millicent poured. Jacqueline accepted a cup and sat back, sipping. Barnaby and Millicent continued their discussion, moving on to consider how to rectify the situation. Jacqueline listened to that, but there was nothing new, nothing she hadn’t already thought of; he watched as her mind turned inward, and her thoughts slid away.
She’d just learned that a young man she’d cared for, and who had cared for her, had been brutally murdered. Even though she wasn’t looking at him, watching her face Gerrard sensed, not her thoughts, but her emotions.