It took effort to keep his drawl even, his tone no more than mildly interested; in reality, he would like nothing better than to consign Tregonning and everyone else to some outer planet so he could haul out his sketch pad, sit Jacqueline Tregonning down, and get started.
Forcing his gaze from her, he turned back to his host in time to glimpse relief fleetingly flit across Tregonning’s worn features. “If you’ll permit me to introduce the Honorable Barnaby Adair?”
Tregonning shook hands with Barnaby; Gerrard seized the moment to confirm his impression. Yes, Tregonning had fractionally relaxed; the rigid set of his shoulders had eased, the sense of grim resolution had faded somewhat.
Turning from Barnaby, Tregonning eyed him once more, measuringly yet, Gerrard felt, also with a touch of approval. “Perhaps”—Tregonning flicked a glance at the ladies, both young and not so young attempting to appear not to be listening for all they were worth—“we should repair to my study and discuss your requirements.”
“Indeed.” Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline, now moving further down the room. “It would be wise to establish the procedures I’ll follow, and what will be necessary to ensure a portrait of the quality I imagine we both wish to see.”
“Good, good.” Tregonning gestured to the door. “If you’ll come with me…?”
“Marcus? Marcus, do wait!”
With Tregonning, Gerrard turned to see the older lady introduced as Lady Fritham, a close neighbor, beckoning.
Brows rising, Tregonning held his ground. “Yes, Maria?”
“I’m holding a dinner party tomorrow evening, and I wished to invite you and Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair to attend. It’ll be the perfect opportunity for them to meet our local set.” Her improbably blond curls quivering with eagerness, Lady Fritham opened her blue eyes wide and clasped bejeweled hands to her bosom. “Do say you’ll come, gentlemen.”
Gerrard glanced at Tregonning, deferring to his host.
Tregonning met his gaze briefly, then looked again at Lady Fritham. “I’m sure Mr. Debbington and Mr. Adair will be delighted to accept, Maria. As for myself, I fear you must excuse me.”
He bowed with austere grace, then turned away.
“I’ll remain here.” Barnaby nodded politely and went to join Millicent Tregonning.
Lord Tregonning made for the doors. Gerrard fell in beside him, wondering whether his lordship would summon his daughter—wondering if he should suggest it. They reached the doorway; Tregonning didn’t glance back. Inwardly shrugging, Gerrard followed him out.
Tregonning asked about London in the terms of one who hadn’t visited in decades; Gerrard replied as they crossed the hall and headed down a long corridor.
In some ways, his host was almost as intriguing as his daughter. There was an aura of weariness about the man; it colored his voice, yet was countered by a strong sense of grim, unquenchable resolve. Tregonning’s wasn’t a face Gerrard could read; the man kept his emotions too locked away, repressed, concealed, and under too tight a rein to be accurately discerned even by an observer as acute as Gerrard knew himself to be.
He thought again of Jacqueline Tregonning. Perhaps the reserve he sensed in her was a familial trait, but in her case, her exterior hadn’t yet ossified. Regardless, that didn’t explain how she, a young lady of…he wasn’t sure of her age…came to have tragic secrets.
He looked about him as they walked. He was accustomed to ducal residences, but this house was enormous and more convoluted in design than was usual. The furnishings were of good but not exceptional quality, tending toward the dark, heavy and ornate, with ornamentation approaching the baroque. The overall effect was Gothic, fanciful, but not overwhelming.
At the end of the corridor, Tregonning preceded him up a flight of stairs. Opening a door off the landing, he led the way into a darkly appointed yet luxurious study.
It was a comfortable room, very male in ambience; sinking into the large leather armchair Tregonning indicated, Gerrard suspected his host spent most of his reclusive days there.
Settling into another armchair, Tregonning gestured. “My house and staff are at your disposal. What do you need?”
Gerrard told him. “The studio must have excellent light—old nurseries are often suitable.”
Tregonning nodded. “We have a large nursery no longer in use. I’ll give orders for it to be cleared and made ready. It has very large windows.”
“Excellent. I’ll inspect it to confirm it will suit. It would be helpful if my room, and that of my man, Compton, could be located nearby.”
Tregonning waved. “I’m sure the inestimable Mrs. Carpenter will be able to arrange matters as you wish.”
Gerrard detailed his other requirements—a long table, a double lock on the door, and other sundry items. Tregonning accepted all without quibble, naming those of his staff who would handle each point.
“I’ve brought all else I need with me—Compton should be arriving shortly with the luggage. While I will at some point have to return to the capital to replenish my supplies, exactly when is impossible to guess.”
Tregonning nodded. “Do you have any idea how long the portrait will take?”
“At this stage, I can’t say. My previous portraits were executed over a period of months; the longest took eight months. However, in those cases, the subjects were well-known to me. In your daughter’s case, I’ll need to spend some time simply observing her before I attempt even preliminary sketches.
“Apropos of that, one matter we should discuss is sittings, and what that term encompasses. For a portrait of the nature you wish, I’ll need, at least initially, to have first call on your daughter’s time. I’ll need to observe her in different situations and settings about this house, her home. It’s essential I have some understanding of her character and personality before I set pencil to paper.” He added, purely as a matter of form, “I assume she understands this and is willing to commit the time necessary for a successful portrait.”
Tregonning blinked. It was the first time Gerrard had seen him anything less than absolutely, unquestioningly confident of all around him.
Jacqueline Tregonning’s assessing look flashed into his mind; a sinking feeling assailed him. Had she agreed to let him paint her?
Tregonning frowned. “She indicated she was willing to sit for a portrait, but I didn’t then know what you’ve just explained. She may well not appreciate the necessity…” He stirred, lips firming. “I’ll speak with her.”
“No. With due respect, it might be better if I did. I could then answer any questions she may have, which will ensure there are no subsequent misunderstandings.” Gerrard held Tregonning’s gaze. “The demands on her time will actually decrease once we commence formal sittings.”
Tregonning’s face cleared; nodding, he relaxed in his chair. “That might be best. She did say she was agreeable, and I’m sure she won’t refuse, but it would be wise for her to know what you need of her.”
Gerrard quietly exhaled. He had much greater confidence in his powers of persuasion than he had in Tregonning’s. The man seemed distant from everything, and that might well include his daughter; while he hadn’t yet gained even an inkling of Jacqueline’s attitude to her father, he didn’t want to risk any adverse reaction from her.
He was even more determined than Tregonning that his portrait of Jacqueline Tregonning would go ahead, and under the most favorable circumstances. So he’d talk to the lady himself, and ensure he got an agreement he could fall back on if she later turned difficult.
Reviewing all they’d covered, he continued, “As I don’t normally accept commissions, I think it wise to be plain about what I’ll eventually deliver. The commission is for a final, framed, full-length portrait in oils of your daughter—unless there’s some major catastrophe that prevents its execution, that’s what I’ll deliver to you within the next year. I, however, will retain all sketches and preliminary works. In addition, I never permit any early viewing of my work—the first you’ll see of it
will be the completed work I present to you. Should you not wish to accept it, I will keep the portrait and no commission will apply.”
Tregonning was nodding. “That’s entirely acceptable.” He caught Gerrard’s eye. “You’re also keen to paint the gardens.”
Gerrard blinked. “Indeed.” He glanced at the window; the fabulous gardens that had for decades obsessed him and his peers lay displayed before him. “Whatever sketches and paintings of the gardens I complete will be mine to keep. Should I ever offer any for sale, you will, of course, be given first refusal.”
Tregonning humphed. “I suppose,” he said, levering himself up from the depths of the armchair, “that you’ll want to start exploring the gardens straightaway.”
His gaze still locked on the vista beyond the window, Gerrard rose, too, then turned to meet Tregonning’s old eyes. “Actually, no. I don’t anticipate exploring the gardens, artistically speaking, other than as a backdrop for your daughter, until I’ve got the portrait under way.”
Tregonning was surprised but pleased, indeed, gratified.
Accompanying him back to the drawing room, Gerrard was aware of the irony. He’d come here to paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall, yet despite his obsession with them, ever since he’d laid eyes on Jacqueline Tregonning, he’d been consumed by thoughts of painting her.
Against her allure, not even the Garden of Night could compete.
They returned to the front hall. Lord Tregonning saw him to the drawing room door, but stopped short of entering. “I’ll instruct Treadle and Mrs. Carpenter as to your needs—no doubt they’ll consult with you.”
“Thank you.”
With a nod, Tregonning turned away. Gerrard watched him walk back in the direction from which they’d come. Feminine chatter spilled out of the drawing room. Clearly his lordship intended to seek refuge in his study, leaving him and Barnaby to the tender mercies of Lady Fritham, Mrs. Myles and the censorious Mrs. Elcott.
Accepting the inevitable, he turned and strolled back into the fray. Tea had been served in his absence; Millicent Tregonning smiled and poured him a cup. Accepting it, he chatted to her and Mrs. Myles, seated beside her, regarding his first impressions of the area. Mrs. Myles was instantly recognizable as a mother with daughters to establish; her bright eyes and gushing comments explained why Barnaby was on the other side of the room.
Returning his empty cup, Gerrard excused himself and followed.
Of course, neither he nor Barnaby could truly escape. They would remain the cynosure of local attention until the novelty of their presence faded.
Avoiding the chaise on which Lady Fritham sat absorbed in spirited argument with the severe Mrs. Elcott—clad in gray twill that matched her gray hair, the vicar’s wife behaved as if holding herself ready to be scandalized at any moment—he walked down the room to where the younger crew was holding court, Barnaby unsurprisingly center stage.
The Misses Myles saw him approaching, and quickly shifted to create a space between them. He smiled his practiced smile, and with an easy nod strolled around the group to Jacqueline Tregonning’s side.
Although following Barnaby’s tale, she sensed him draw near. She glanced fleetingly up at him, then moved aside to allow him to stand beside her. Detecting exasperation in her brief glance, Gerrard wondered…then realized she couldn’t study him while he was standing next to her.
His lips eased, curved.
Across the circle, the Misses Myles’s eyes brightened. Without appearing to notice, Gerrard gave his attention to Barnaby. The last thing he wished was to raise any hopes in the Misses Myles’s young breasts.
The thought had him glancing discreetly down, to his left, to where Jacqueline’s breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown. Her skin was flawless, creamy white; his fingertips tingled—he would wager that skin was rose-petal soft.
Although of perfectly acceptable style for a young lady some years beyond her first season, Jacqueline’s endowments filled out the gown in a manner guaranteed to draw gentlemen’s eyes. Retrieving his gaze, Gerrard glanced around the circle; other than Barnaby, who he was aware had noticed, the other two gentlemen seemed oblivious of Jacqueline’s charms. Contempt for the familiar, or…?
In between attending Barnaby’s story, Mitchel Cunningham ignored the Myles sisters and shot brief, very brief, glances at Eleanor Fritham, Lady Fritham’s daughter. Eleanor was indeed a beauty, a touch older than Jacqueline and in very different style. She was taller, reed slender, with alabaster skin and long, pale fair hair. Her eyes were cerulean blue, her lashes and brows brown. She was using them shamelessly on Barnaby, her attention slavishly fixed on him.
Much good would it do her. She might be a beauty, yet Gerrard instinctively knew she was unlikely to be of serious interest to either him or Barnaby.
Noting another of Cunningham’s swift glances, Gerrard made a mental note to mention the association to Barnaby, purely in pursuit of a peaceful existence, something Barnaby appreciated as much as he.
The brevity of Cunningham’s glances was almost certainly attributable to the other gentleman in the group, Eleanor’s older brother, Jordan Fritham. A brown-haired, precociously superior gentleman in his mid-twenties, he stood between his sister and the Myles girls. Taking in Jordan’s stance, Gerrard smothered a grin. The sketch that sprang to life in his mind was titled: “Cock of the Local Walk Greatly Displeased by the Appearance of Interlopers on His Patch.”
Barnaby and he were the interlopers, yet as far as Gerrard could tell, it wasn’t his attention to Jacqueline but Eleanor’s to Barnaby that was ruffling Jordan’s feathers. He strove to hide his reaction, but there was a hard glint in his eyes, a twist to his thin lips that screamed his irritation.
“So when Monteith came thundering up in his curricle thinking he’d won”—Barnaby struck a dramatic pose—“there was George Bragg, leaning on his whip, waiting to greet him!”
The Myles sisters gasped; Eleanor Fritham’s eyes glowed with laughter. With an engaging grin, Barnaby concluded his tale of the latest curricle-racing scandal. “Monteith was furious, of course, but there was nothing he could do but put a good face on it and stump up the blunt.”
“Oh, that must have hurt.” Eleanor lightly clapped her hands.
“Oh, it did,” Barnaby assured her. “Monteith took off for his Highland eyrie and hasn’t been sighted since.”
Gerrard knew the story; he’d been there. Jordan Fritham made some slighting comment about London horseflesh. Gerrard didn’t catch Barnaby’s reply; Jacqueline had turned to him, considering him. He looked down and met her frankly measuring gaze.
“Are you inclined to such pastimes, Mr. Debbington?”
She’d forgotten he was a man again. He smiled, deliberately charming, and watched her blink. “No,” he murmured. “I have better things—more rewarding things—to do with my time.”
For an instant, she held his gaze, then the bustling rustle of skirts gave her an excuse to glance away.
And breathe in. Deeply. He was acutely aware—to his fingertips aware—of the rise and fall of her breasts.
The interruption was Lady Fritham, come to summon Eleanor and Jordan away. Mrs. Myles somewhat reluctantly followed, gathering her daughters, and the party broke up.
Millicent, Mitchel and Jacqueline went to see the visitors to their carriages. Following some paces behind, Gerrard and Barnaby halted in the front hall.
“An unthreatening bunch, don’t you think?” Barnaby said.
“I’ve been focusing on Jacqueline Tregonning.”
“I noticed.” Barnaby’s eyes danced. “Artist smitten by subject—not an entirely original plot.”
“Not smitten, you idiot, just absorbed. There’s a great deal more to her than meets the eye.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on the latter. As for the former”—Barnaby shot him a sidelong glance he chose to ignore—“we’ll see.”
Mrs. Carpenter entered the hall. She came forward. “Mr. Debbington, Mr. A
dair, we have your rooms ready. If you’ll come with me, we can make sure they suit.”
Gerrard smiled. “I’m sure they will.” With a last glance for Jacqueline, standing, waving, on the front porch, he turned and with Barnaby followed Mrs. Carpenter upstairs.
She and her staff had been as efficient as Lord Tregonning had intimated; the room to which she led Gerrard was just along the first-floor corridor from the stairs that led up to the old nursery.
“Treadle’s had the footmen up there moving the heavy pieces. I’ll have the maids go up first thing tomorrow, sir. Perhaps if you’ll look in after breakfast and let us know how you’d like things set up?”
“My thanks, Mrs. Carpenter, and to Treadle, too. I’ll consult with you after breakfast.”
Mrs. Carpenter bobbed a curtsy and left. Gerrard turned and surveyed the room. It was large, with a sitting area before a wide fireplace and a huge tester bed set on a dais at the opposite end. A door to one side of the fireplace led to a dressing room from which Compton had looked out, nodded on seeing him, then retreated to finish unpacking his things.
They’d left Barnaby in a similar room, in the same wing but closer to the main stairs. Gerrard ambled to the open dressing room door and looked in. “Everything to our liking?”
“Indeed, sir.” Compton had been with him for eight years; a veteran of the Peninsula campaigns, he was now approaching middle age. “A very well-run enterprise, and a pleasant household with it.” Compton shot Gerrard a sidelong glance. “Belowstairs, at least.”
“As to abovestairs,” Gerrard said, answering the unvoiced question, “all seems comfortable enough, but we’re still at first glance. Where does Cunningham fit in, do you know?”
“Eats with the family, he does.” After a moment, Compton asked, “Want me to ask about?”
“Not about him, but report anything you hear about the younger Miss Tregonning—I need to get to know her better, and quickly.”
“Will do. Now, will the brown Bath superfine do for tonight, or do you want to go with the black?”