Gerrard let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. “No wonder no one ever succeeded in slipping in to paint undetected.”

Barnaby shot him an amused look, straightening as Gerrard tightened the reins, and they entered the shaded forecourt of Hellebore Hall.

Seated in the drawing room of Hellebore Hall, Jacqueline Tregonning caught the sound she’d been waiting for-the clop of hooves, the soft scrunch of gravel under a carriage’s wheels.

None of the others scattered about the large room heard; they were too busy speculating on aspects of the nature of the visitors who’d just arrived.

Jacqueline preferred not to speculate, not when she could view with her own eyes, and make up her own mind.

Smoothly, quietly, she rose from the armchair beside the chaise on which sat her closest friend, Eleanor Fritham, and Eleanor’s mother, Lady Fritham of neighboring Tresdale Manor. Both were engaged in a spirited discussion with Mrs. Elcott, the vicar’s wife, over the descriptions of the two gentlemen shortly expected that Mrs. Elcott’s and Lady Fritham’s correspondents in the capital had provided.

“Bound to be arrogant, the pair of them, my cousin said.” Mrs. Elcott grimaced disparagingly. “I daresay they’ll think themselves a cut above us.”

“I don’t see why they should,” Eleanor returned. “Lady Humphries wrote that while both were from excellent families, very much the haut ton, they were perfectly personable and amenable to being entertained.” Eleanor appealed to her mother. “Why would they turn their noses up at us? Aside from all else, we’re all the society there is around here-they’ll lead very quiet lives if they cut us.”

“True,” Lady Fritham agreed. “But if they’re half as well bred as her ladyship makes out, they won’t be high in the instep. Mark my words”-Lady Fritham nodded portentously, setting her multiple chins and the ribbons in her cap bobbing-“the mark of a true gentleman shows in the ease with which he comports himself in any company.”