The Reluctant Guardian

Chapter Five

At dawn the next morning, the wind whistled cold and shrill around Tavin’s ears, drowning out the sounds of everything but the pounding of Raghnall’s hooves on the fog-soaked turf. The faster he pushed the gelding over the verdant slopes of Richmond Park, the more distance Tavin placed between himself and his troubles.

Especially the frustrating female with light brown hair, who no doubt slept snug in her bed in Wyling’s town house.

Tavin dug his heels into the blood bay’s flanks, enjoying the sensation of being pulled backward for the briefest moment when the horse increased its pace. No impediments blocked their way. Situated a dozen miles from London, Richmond Park was deserted at this hour. The sun had yet to penetrate the dull blue-gray of clouded dawn. Galloping like this had a way of clearing his head. At this speed, his frustrations vanished. He heard nothing, felt nothing but his own thudding heartbeat and the whip of the wind. At least, until today.

The Sovereign would continue his operation in Hampshire, but Garner would keep Tavin with Gemma. There’d be no wedding in her future. No Beauchamp to take Gemma off his hands.

He’d wring the dandy’s neck if he could find it under the yards of linen Beauchamp called a neck cloth. Tavin may have forgotten a great deal about females and rules and expectations, but even he knew when a gentleman crossed a line.

The betrothal may not have been documented, but hadn’t there been some verbal understanding? For years? He needed only to close his eyes to see Gemma’s eyes, lifeless with shock, when that dandified Beauchamp had announced his betrothal to the infant at his side.

Hugh Beauchamp had ruined everything. Both for Gemma and for Tavin.

God help us. He should have prayed it already. Should have given thanks for his blessings: the rich mahogany of Raghnall’s coat, the sweet fragrance of wet grass, merry birdcalls, Raghnall’s nicker when Tavin turned him back to London. Reminders, each one, that God’s mercies were new every morning.

And they were especially sweet, considering he might have missed them all if, six years ago, he’d received the punishment he deserved and moldered in a stark, stinking prison. Instead, he’d received the chance to repay his debt.

It was natural, perhaps, that such thoughts directed him to the Custom House. Despite the early hour, Garner sat behind the desk in his chilly chamber, papers in hand.

“Something happened?” Garner’s brow rose. “The girl recalled something more about the Sovereign’s appearance?”

“Nothing like that.” Tavin recounted Gemma’s all-too-ordinary life and the tale of Hugh’s betrothal. As expected, Garner shook his head.

“Could she be an agent, working for an unknown group?”

“Hardly, unless she passes codes at the linen drapers.” His tone bordered on insubordinate, but he couldn’t stop himself. “She’s a country miss. All she cares about is her family.”

Garner’s gaze pierced him, its effect almost like pressure on Tavin’s chest. “Everyone cares about something with such intensity they rarely speak of it, because it has the power to break them. Even her. She holds a secret. It would be wise to befriend her and uncover it.”

Tavin’s brow furrowed. The request was a violation, unnecessary and uncouth. He wouldn’t do it. He would watch her, protect her, take a knife for her, if necessary. But he wouldn’t become her friend in order to gain leverage against her. There was no need.

But Garner wouldn’t hear it. Tavin forced a smirk. “I shall end up reporting on her passion for Gunter’s ices.”

“Something will have hurt her. Or she dreams of something. When you learn what, you’ll know who she really is. Harmless little come-out, as you say, or something more dangerous.”

Harmless, no. But dangerous? Only to Tavin, it seemed. The woman had a strange effect on him—on his circumstances and to something inside of him he’d rather not think about. At least not here, under Garner’s too-watchful eye.

He shifted on the hard chair. Truth be told, he’d rather never think of it. “Are you certain? Because if I could just go back to Hampshire—”

Garner waved away the request like a dust mote. “She’s heartbroken over that Beauchamp fellow. Vulnerable. You’ll see a new side to her. Take advantage of it.”

Tavin stood. “You’d best prepare for a tedious report. No doubt I’ll be kept waiting in the library while she mopes and wails in self-pity.”

* * *

There was a wail, after all. The sound from somewhere upstairs reached Tavin the minute Wyling’s hook-nosed butler, Stott, showed him into the Chinese-styled drawing room. Then the cry trilled into laughter.

The boys, of course. But another laugh joined in, giddy and excited. It had to be Amy’s, because Gemma wouldn’t be—

Cackling like the children. She was still laughing when she came into the room, alone. No sign of swelling appeared around her eyes, which sparkled with mirth; nor were there red blotches on her heart-shaped face. She pressed her lips together, stifling further giggles. “Welcome, Mr. Knox. What a surprise.”

Yet he was the shocked one. Hadn’t she loved Beauchamp? Planned their wedding for years, written his name in her diary and sighed when he walked into the room?

He bowed. “Am I interrupting?”

“Oh, no. The boys were ready for a snack. Wyling and Amy are out, but I expect them home soon. Won’t you take a seat?”

He hesitated. He’d not sat alone with a female in a room since—beyond recall. But he nodded. She sat away from the fire as if she were overwarm. He dropped to a plush armchair between her and the fireplace. “I have but one question. What are your plans?”

“Plans?” Her gaze met his. And his breath hitched.

She was pretty. He had thought her pleasant from the moment they’d met, but this was different. Pink lips, wide-eyed, of slender form. What was wrong with Beauchamp, choosing another over her? The man was a dolt.

She blinked. What had they been talking about?

“I shall ring for tea.” She sprang up, sending the summery scent of lavender wafting through the air. “Just the thing to warm your bones. It must be chill out, indeed.”

After instructing the footman to bring refreshments, she resumed her seat. “My plans, you said? For the day, or the remainder of the Season, since Hugh has made plans of his own?”

His shock must have shown on his face, for she laughed again. “I cannot say what the rest of the Season holds, but tomorrow, I take the boys to the circus.”

He leaned forward, about to speak, when the tea things arrived. He declined sugar, accepted the delicate cup and set it, untasted, on the table beside him. “You may not be in mourning over Beauchamp, but the circus? If Garner’s correct and you are in danger, public settings are foolish places to be.”

“Astley’s Amphitheatre is not dangerous except to the trick riders and acrobats.”

“Really, Gemma. Can you not sit home and embroider something like other females?” He’d used her Christian name. He should not have, and yet he couldn’t help himself. Might as well get her permission, since he’d be sure to do it again. “May I call you Gemma? Perhaps you might call me by my given name, too.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I am not certain that is proper.”

“Little between us is.”

“Very well, then. Tavin.”

His name sounded sweet—if shy—on her lips, and it brought a strange rush of pleasure to his chest. “Was that so difficult?”

“I shall keep the answer to that a secret.” She smiled, but no trace of levity reached her eyes. “I am sorry to be the cause of so much trouble. You do not need to come to the circus, you know. Wyling will attend.”

“You are not trouble.” Although protecting her at a place like Astley’s would prove more difficult than at a supper party. “This is my occupation.”

“You want to catch the Sovereign desperately.”

There was no use denying it. “Yes.”

“Will you tell me why? Beyond his crimes, something drives you.”

A shaft of panic surged up his spine, cold as ice. Could he tell her? Explain his past, or how he might be free once he completed this particular job? “It is a complicated matter.”

She folded her hands on her lap and peered at him. “I shall be honest with you, despite your ability to return the favor. I will not curl up and embroider away my Season. He will never find me here, and I’ll not cower in fear that he might. We will enjoy every minute of our time in London, the children and I. We shall visit with old friends and see the Tower and the menagerie. We shall sail on the Thames and watch balloons ascend.”

“This is about the boys?”

“Everything is about the boys.”

Tavin couldn’t break the contact of their locked gazes. Garner had been correct, after all. In light of Hugh’s defection, she’d revealed her heart. Tavin hadn’t even had to wheedle it from her. What had Garner said? She would be harmless? Dangerous? She was neither.

What she truly cared about, the thing that could break her, was the fate of her nephews. She was fierce when it came to those sticky, hopping children. Something his mother had never been for him and his brother, Hamish.

“But if you’d married Beauchamp?” That didn’t make sense.

“I’d have lived next door and seen them daily. As it stands now, well, the result is the same. Despite Amy and Wyling’s invitation to take me with them to Portugal for Wyling’s diplomatic task, I will never leave Hampshire, because the boys are there.” She smiled. “This is my one chance to experience London. Am I understood?”

With a pang in his chest, he nodded. Her one chance, before she went home to sit on the shelf, an old maid, an ape leader, any of those derogatory terms indicating she was dependent, undesired, past marriageable age. Tavin understood now. He admired the lack of self-pity in her tone and words. Respected the glint of determination in her eyes.

But he didn’t like it.

He drained his tea, the delicate bohea as unappetizing as ditch water after this conversation. “It would be my pleasure to escort you to Astley’s on the morrow.”

“We shall be ready for you.”

He snorted. He had a feeling neither of them would be ready for what lay ahead of them.

* * *

Fire. All around her. So hot. Gemma turned, searching for escape, but flames surged up the walls and curtains, blocking her escape. She gasped to scream, but smoke filled her chest, and her call died in her clogged throat.

Mama. Papa. God help me.

Brighter than noonday sun, the flames grew closer, curling over the library furniture. Then, at her feet, prickles. She would be next to burn. But the flames licked damp, cold. She jerked—

She sat up in bed, the coverlet twisted around one leg and buried under her body. Moist with sweat, her night rail clung to her. The mauve light of dawn crept around the curtains’ seams. The house was still and quiet, unlike her thundering heart.

Gemma flopped against the pillows. Lord. Help me.

God was there. It was the one thing she knew. No matter what she had done, the Lord promised to never leave or forsake her. She had to keep repeating what she knew was true.

I am forgiven by God. I am forgiven.

But she couldn’t repeat one thing she didn’t know. Would Mama and Papa still be alive if she had gone to bed that night when they had asked?

The nightmare shrouded her all day, dampening the prospect of a lighthearted day at the circus with the boys. She prepared early, changing into a muslin walking gown, and wandered to the drawing room where Amy perched on the settee with a stack of letters and a delighted smile.

“Gem, come see.” Amy waved a piece of vellum like a fan.

“Something from Cristobel?” At last.

“I fear not, but good news, nonetheless. Vouchers for Almack’s. We have been deemed worthy to receive entrance to that estimable bastion of respectability,” Amy joked. “There will be enough eligible men there to make you forget Hugh.”

Gemma’s eyes rolled. “I can never forget Hugh. He’s our neighbor.”

“He doesn’t have to be. Your neighbor, that is. Not if you leave Verity House.” Amy pulled Gemma to sit beside her. “You did not love him, so you’ll soon heal from his, er...”

“Jilt.”

“He didn’t jilt you. Well, in principle, I suppose, but now that we harbor no expectations, I shall insist to Peter that I have need of you.” Assurance shone from Amy’s eyes. “After the Season, you’ll come with Wyling and me to Portugal. He’ll be delighted I’ll have your company while he’s occupied in diplomatic matters. What say you?”

Portugal sounded exotic, colorful and distant as the moon. If only it could truly be. Gemma dropped the Almack’s vouchers onto the table. “What of the boys?”

Amy’s shoulders slumped. “They are not your sons, Gem.”

“But I love them as if they are.”

“I know.” Amy shook her head. “And losing you would be difficult for them. We shall continue to pray on the matter. And, for today, we shall enjoy the circus.”

Very well. “I’m unsure which will prove more entertaining—the pantomimes and riders in the ring, or Tavin, wishing he were anywhere else?”

Amy stifled her laugh when the butler, Stott, entered with a silver tray. “Perhaps that’s him now.”

But the silver salver bore a calling card for one Frances Fennelwick, not Tavin Knox.

“Do show her in.” Gemma rose in anticipation.

Dressed like the summer sky in a blue gown, blonde Frances made a fetching sight. Gemma welcomed the dainty miss and introduced her to Amy. “How good of you to call with such haste.”

“After receiving your letter informing me you’d arrived in town, ’twas all I could do not to rush and bid you welcome.” Frances grinned.

The vouchers still lay on the table, and Amy’s cheeks pinked. “Pardon the mess. We just now received vouchers for Almack’s. Will you be in attendance next Wednesday, Miss Fennelwick?”

“Oh, no. I attended twice my come-out year.” She inclined her head at a sympathetic angle. “I am sorry to bear such ill tidings, but the place is a dreadful bore. It may be a bastion of exclusivity, but I prefer to remain home with a book.”

“But the status of having vouchers is important, is it not?”

Frances selected a biscuit. “I suppose Almack’s is as good a place as any to meet a gentleman. But I am a bluestocking. It is a badge I wear with pride, not the scorn others attach to it. I do not need a husband, so I am freed from playing by the stifling rules imposed upon marriage-minded females.”

“I do not require a husband, either.” As much as Gemma longed for adventure, a family of her own and freedom from Cristobel, she loved Petey and Eddie. They were enough for her. “I would simply like to experience all of London that I can.”

Again Stott entered the room with the salver. At Amy’s nod, he left and returned, Tavin at his heels, clad in another formfitting black coat, his gaze intense. Gemma’s breath caught—how foolish—and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his until the weight of another pair of eyes drew her gaze away.

Frances’s lips turned up in a smirk. Heat flooded Gemma’s cheeks.

She’d told Frances she didn’t want a husband, but it was obvious Frances didn’t believe her now.

* * *

Sitting still was harder than it should have been, considering a decent percentage of Tavin’s career was spent waiting, immobile. But standing. Even now, he would have preferred to stand outside the box at Astley’s Amphitheatre, keeping watch from the hall. But the boys had begged and it would have seemed odd to say no, so he took his seat in the box with Gemma and her family.

“Am-a-zing!” Petey cried as a trick rider galloped past.

Eddie looked up at Tavin. “That horse is as fine as Raghnall!”

Was he? Tavin hadn’t been watching. Not the riders or the pantomimes or acrobats who made the boys clap and laugh. Nor did he watch Gemma, although from the corners of his eyes he could see how she doted on her nephews, reading the program aloud to them and patting their arms. Love for the boys glowed on her features, adding an extra dimension to her beauty.

Not that he should think of that. He focused on the crowd, searching for a lone man peering at Gemma a second too long. Even though it was a waste. No one hunted Gemma.

Then Tavin saw the family in a box across the ring. His chest filled with dread. His aunt, the Duchess of Kelworth, was still beautiful, regal in bearing. A worthy duchess. Her husband, his mither’s brother, hadn’t joined her today, just the silvery-haired girls. While their eyes were wide as they watched the trick riders, they didn’t clap like Gemma’s nephews.

Beautiful girls, his cousins. Helena, the eldest, was near old enough for marriage now. How she’d changed from the little girl who’d begged him to push her higher on the swings. Would he have recognized her or her younger sisters if they had not been seated with their mother?

He stared too long. The duchess lifted her gaze. Heat rose up his chest as her gaze encompassed his party. Then she returned her focus to the ring, as if she didn’t know him.

Tavin’s fists clenched. His legs twitched. He needed to move. Needed to do something, be anywhere but here. His aunt was a gossip. No doubt she’d tattle to her friends he was in town and at the circus, of all places.

Worse, her whispers would reach his grandmother.

Chapter Six

Tavin paced his grandmother’s gold-and-crimson Aubusson rug, no doubt wearing holes into the wool. By his best estimation, he’d waited thirty minutes to be received, twenty minutes past his point of patience.

His occupation demanded waiting, true. Hiding, observing and loitering in cold, in damp, in darkness, all for a case.

But waiting for a woman? That was another matter.

Perhaps he should sit down, but he’d never trusted the dainty-legged, feminine furniture in this room, all painted silk chairs and narrow pink lounges. He’d be seated when all other options were exhausted.

With the click of the latch, the door opened, revealing Groves, the ancient, snub-nosed butler. Striding past the servant in a rustle of plum-colored fabric, the tiny Dowager Duchess of Kelworth bustled into the room. Her lace cap framed her wrinkled cheeks, giving her a maternal appearance, but Tavin wasn’t fooled.

“How nice of you to condescend to visit your grandmother.”

“Forgive my overlong absence, Your Grace.” He bent to kiss the pale, rose-scented wrist of the woman he’d never called Grandmother. He wouldn’t have dared address her as anything but Your Grace or ma’am. Neither, come to think of it, had his mother.

The dowager settled into a Chippendale chair by the hearth. “Tea, dear boy?”

“How thoughtful.” He perched on the fragile-looking sofa where she had bade him to be seated, near enough to note the additional strands of gray peeking out from under her cap. “You are well?”

“I am never unwell. I wouldn’t wish to give my enemies the satisfaction.”

“Indeed not.”

“Nor did I admit to surprise when Caroline mentioned seeing you, at a circus, with children—”

The clatter of cups and silver sounded from the door. The dowager poured fragrant bohea and served buttered bread, which he took despite not wanting it.

“I was with Lord Wyling.” He hoped the explanation was enough. “The boys are his wife’s nephews.”

“Still no heir for him? ’Tis the fault of his wife, for certain. She is but what, a baron’s country relation? What a waste.”

His fingers rapped the arms of his chair. “The Countess of Wyling is a worthy wife to my closest friend.”

Her expression didn’t alter from bland courtesy. “How is your tea? It was our custom to enjoy tea every school holiday, do you recall?”

As if he could forget. Back then, he’d thought those years would be the worst of his life. He’d been a fool. “You taught me many things during those afternoons.”

Like how to pretend he didn’t have a Scottish father.

Tavin’s father might have been too lowborn to wed a duke’s daughter, but he was no pauper. Their home in Perthshire was large and fine, the land abundant with healthy herds of Highland cattle and black-nosed sheep. It was a glorious, rich place where Tavin—although yearning for more attention from his parents—was happy.

And he was Scottish. He had known nothing else, known naught of his English family, until the dowager duchess had appeared like a violent storm, rushing him south as if on a flood. She’d insisted he receive a proper education at Eton—a gift she had not provided his elder brother, Hamish, who was heir to Scottish land, not fitting for her cause.

His grandmother sighed, as if wistful. “I saw more of you in your school days, despite our residence in the same city now. One might be inclined to take offense.”

“I have been traveling on business, Your Grace.”

She waved her hand. “Men and their business. But you are here now. For how long?”

Until Garner freed him from playing nursemaid. “Indeterminate at this time.”

“Then you must come for supper and tell me how your dear brother fares.”

The rich taste of his buttered bread soured on his tongue, and he swallowed it down with a painful jerk. “I would be honored, but you know I cannot provide any information on Hamish.”

She sipped her tea. “’Tis a pity when relations disagree. Even when they are in error, as your mother was. But let us not speak of that. I sense you are not here out of familial duty. Is it something as vulgar as money, then?”

He choked on his tea. “No, Your Grace. I would ask a favor, if I may.”

“Why should you not? My connections are estimable.” Her expression held no trace of self-deprecating mirth or apology. She stated facts, ’twas all.

Why was he less afraid of criminals than the woman before him?

“I require entrance to Almack’s.” And he must have the approval of a patroness to procure a voucher.

Ah, she reacted at last, her brow furrowing like a tilled field. “I may be aged, grandson, but my hearing has not yet gone the way of panniers and powdered wigs. Or so I thought. You said Almack’s?”

He’d prefer to be cuffed by a beefy-armed smuggler than don high-heeled, beribboned shoes and do the pretty at Almack’s. “I did.”

Glee sparkled like jet in her gray eyes. “Almack’s? The most tedious of places for a gentleman of your age?”

“I do not wish to go—”

“No man does. But you will go. This is delicious.”

“You misunderstand, ma’am.” A headache manifested, pounding directly between his eyes.

“Pah. Why else would you subject yourself to the marriage mart if it wasn’t for a female? Am I wrong?”

The pounding in his head intensified. Could he not just lie? “It is not what you think.”

“Of course it is. You are seven-and-twenty, and finally a lady has caught your eye. But Almack’s, darling? Isn’t this like diving headfirst into a shallow pond?”

“Please, Your Grace?”

“Will you not tell me the lady’s identity? If she is to marry into this family I must ensure she is suitable.”

He stared at the plaster ceiling. “I am not marrying anyone.”

“Yet.” She cackled. “Very well. I shall compose a missive to Lady Cowper the minute you leave. She will not deny my request.” She lifted her shoulders like an excited young girl. Or an imp, bent on mischief. “Your young lady must be remarkable, indeed, to lure you into the hallowed halls of Almack’s. I would have thought such a place would be your worst nightmare.”

Tavin shut his eyes. “You have no idea.”

* * *

Her knees quivering under her gown of snowy gauze, Gemma nodded farewell to the Almack’s patronesses assembled on the raised dais. When Countess Lieven, patroness responsible for Gemma’s vouchers, tipped her dark-curled head and bestowed a hint of a smile on Gemma, Gemma returned the gesture. The countess did not disapprove of her—an achievement not unnoticed by Amy, who grinned.