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their prime in the old lion’s territory.
    Lord Tregonning’s dark gaze held a sharper, even more critical assessment than his daughter’s had. His face was pale, deeply lined, by grief, Gerrard suspected. His hair was still thick and dark, his eyes heavy-lidded and sunk deep; he carried himself erect, spine rigid. The hand wrapped about the head of the cane was aged, the skin mottled, but his grip showed no sign of weakness. The description that sprang to Gerrard’s mind was careworn, yet still as proud as bedamned.
    His lordship halted no more than two feet distant. Old eyes, agatey brown, bored into his, then Lord Tregonning nodded. “Gerrard Debbington, I presume?”
    Gerrard bowed. His lordship extended his hand; Gerrard shook it, calmly returning the old man’s steady regard.
    “I’m delighted you were able to accept my commission, sir.”
    Gerrard knew better than to display eagerness over business dealings. “The gardens, as you know, are a draw—the chance to paint them was difficult to pass up.”
    Tregonning raised his brows. “And the portrait?”
    Gerrard glanced at Jacqueline Tregonning; she’d moved a few paces away to chat with the other young ladies. “As to that, I believe my initial reservations, those I understand Mr. Cunningham conveyed to you, have been laid to rest. I’m quite looking forward to commencing the work.”
    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