The Truth About Love by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online Page A

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. Adair, 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