The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

  If he was aware of the mortifying effect his eyes had on her, he showed no signs as he resumed their stroll. “No, I came by vouchers the traditional way. I threw myself prostrate before my grandmother’s whims.”

  She had never thought of spies having grandparents. Was the woman engaged in subterfuge, too? “How did she accomplish it?”

  “She is the Dowager Duchess of Kelworth.”

  Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he laughed heartily enough to draw curious glances. “Does my illustrious pedigree endear me to you?”

  “Hardly. And no matter that you are the grandson of a duke, you are not coming on the drive with Mr. Scarcliff.”

  “I’ll be there.” His tone brooked no argument.

  “How? Disguised in Scarcliff livery?”

  He returned her teasing smile. “Alas, I’m too old to pass for a tiger.” The image of muscular, frowning Tavin clinging to the back of a carriage made Gemma laugh. “I shall be nearby, but I leave it to you to discover precisely where.”

  “Your presence is not necessary,” she said for probably the tenth time.

  “You and I are a twosome for now, like it or not.”

  She didn’t like it, and she wasn’t certain if it eased or worsened things that he didn’t like it, either.

  Chapter Seven

  Gemma’s stomach thrummed like a humming beehive when Gerald Scarcliff offered his hand to assist her into his glossy black phaeton. The conveyance may have been fashionably sleek, but its high seat gave it a dangerous aspect. Mr. Scarcliff’s matched grays shook their massive heads as if they were anxious to gallop to Brighton and back.

  Gemma’s courage slipped somewhere in the vicinity of her slippers and she gave herself a shake. She had wanted adventure, had she not? Then why was she being such a ninny-heart?

  Mr. Scarcliff’s arm was steady when he handed her up, but she couldn’t help comparing it to Tavin’s. Less solid. And his bergamot cologne was comforting, like her Papa’s smell. Nothing like Tavin’s woodsy scent. Was his smell the sort of thing that came in a bottle, or was it just a part of him?

  She bit her lip. This would never do. She smiled at Mr. Scarcliff and clung to the handle of her taffeta parasol as if it would anchor her to the carriage.

  It was quite a parasol. The lace trim complemented the flounced hem of her white carriage gown, visible under the shorter hem of her celestial-blue pelisse. Amy said the color brought out her eyes and Gerald Scarcliff was sure to be appreciative.

  Perhaps he was, but aside from his stiff smile, his face registered the same lack of enthusiasm he’d displayed at Almack’s.

  No matter. She was on an adventure on a fine, cloudless day. She required no chaperone for the drive, but Tavin was somewhere nearby, or so he had promised. Was he loitering on the green of the square or waiting by the entrance of Hyde Park? Did he still think her cruel enough to make Hugh jealous, or did he wonder if she had developed a tendresse for Gerald Scarcliff?

  She didn’t, but he would just have to keep guessing. Gemma smiled at Mr. Scarcliff. Sky-high phaeton, wild horses and all, she would enjoy the drive.

  “Ready?” He fingered the ribbons.

  “I am.” With a lurch, they quit Berkeley Square and trotted toward Hyde Park, veering too sharp around a gig at the Piccadilly intersection. Mr. Scarcliff’s face brightened as he increased the horses’ speed, only to grimace and yank the reins the moment a wagon blocked their way. Gemma braced her feet and clung tighter to her parasol.

  “Pity I can’t give the horses their heads in this traffic.” He frowned at her. “Are you frightened?”

  “No.” She wouldn’t allow herself to be.

  “I suspected not. Hugh said you are not in the least missish.”

  Except when it came to careless driving. Oh, and that Sovereign in Hampshire who by now had forgotten her. “Hugh and I thought ourselves quite brave as children. Your family must be pleased about your sister’s betrothal.”

  “Indeed.” He slackened his grip on the ribbons. Not again. Gemma braced against the seat as they sped into another turn. Pity Tavin was not, in fact, clinging to the back of the carriage. He’d hold on to her should the phaeton tip over.

  “Hugh is a decent fellow.” Mr. Scarcliff returned his full attention to the road. “Quite taken with Pet, too. Can’t ask for better.”

  “No.” A shaft of pain pricked her, like a bee sting to her heart. The ache wouldn’t kill her, but it was bothersome all the same. “She must be a special young lady.”

  He yanked on the ribbons, pulling the poor horses to a standstill. They’d entered the park, and half of the beau monde seemed to have done the same. She saw acquaintances, matrons from Almack’s, but not Tavin. Where was he?

  Something of a twosome, he’d called them. But it was not as if she were in any real danger. They both knew it.

  Her grip on her parasol relaxed as they continued at a sedate pace. This was not so bad, with Mr. Scarcliff unable to speed or direct the horses in anything but a straight line. Being up so high afforded the ability to view a great deal—the soft green of new leaves unfurling on the trees, the couples on horseback, and the come-outs in carriages with beaux. “This is lovely.”

  “Too crowded, though.”

  A fellow with light brown hair and a cross expression appeared to hail Mr. Scarcliff. Gemma squinted. “Do you know that man?”

  “Eh? Oh, that’s Dillard. Don’t mind him. He’s not the sort one introduces to a lady. Gaming sort.”

  Gemma wondered how he knew such a thing, but Mr. Scarcliff’s expression brightened. “Hugh’s glad you’re in town. You’re like his sister, and he won’t ask, but he hopes you’ll help Pet adjust to Hampshire and all that.”

  Was that why Mr. Scarcliff had invited her on a ride? To request she assist the girl Hugh had jilted her for? That was bold. Yet Pet would be her neighbor for the rest of her life, so she shuttered the nag of irritation elicited by his request.

  “But of course.” She hoped her smile matched her words. “Is she overwhelmed, this being her first Season?”

  “Hardly. She’s bored. Routs, musicales, balls, the same faces, same stories. She wouldn’t have bothered with Almack’s again if our mother hadn’t insisted. Pet and I would like to do something different.”

  Did Pet need an adventure, too?

  Gemma chose her words carefully, tasted them in her mouth before she spoke them. “You spoke of Pet’s adjustment to Hampshire. Our society is pleasant, but small. It is not like London.”

  “I doubt they’ll spend much time there. Neither are the countrified sort, content with dining with neighbors and nights by the fire.”

  Hugh’s long absences lent validity to Mr. Scarcliff’s statement, but she had credited his extensive trips to business. Had she been blind not to realize that had she married Hugh, she might well have been removed from Petey and Eddie, after all?

  A cool breeze caressed her jaw and fluttered her bonnet ribbons. With it came an unexpected sense of peace. She would never know what her life might have looked like if she’d married Hugh. But perhaps God had seen fit to protect her, because, unlike Pet, she could not stay in London. Her future lay in Hampshire, watching her nephews grow up.

  But for now, she was here, among throngs of people and possibilities, and she did not want a one to slip through her gloves. She had something in common with Pet.

  “What would you and Miss Scarcliff like to do?” Mayhap Gemma would learn about new experiences she could try. A shiver of anticipation lifted the hairs on her nape.

  “Vauxhall Gardens, for one.”

  She had heard of it. It was not too scandalous a locale, but Amy had frowned when she’d described its walking paths and the dark corners where a beau could pull his lady into the shadows for a kiss.

 
Gemma put a hand to her mouth. She had never been kissed—another sign she’d missed of Hugh’s disinterest—but Vauxhall Gardens was almost synonymous with temptation.

  What would it feel like? No one kissed her but her family. Amy’s lips were dry on her cheeks, and Petey and Eddie’s mouths were wet and smelled of milk.

  But a man’s lips, touching hers in a stolen moment on a dark pathway...

  Her hand returned to her lap. There were adventures, and then there were adventures. Some were best not taken. Pet could go down the path of scandal if she wished, but Gemma would not face temptation at Vauxhall Gardens, especially not with—

  Tavin! Dressed black as a beetle, astride his red horse, he sauntered through the park toward her. His gaze took in everything and everyone but her, it seemed, as he wove his horse through the traffic, drawing alongside Gerald’s high-perch phaeton and past it, as if he did not know her at all. Her mouth popped open.

  It was all well and good to insist on watching someone, but the act was impossible when he faced the other direction. A small puff of exasperation passed her lips.

  “One more thing,” Mr. Scarcliff continued. “A trifle, really. Pet would love to attend a masque.”

  Now that sounded feasible. And memorable. “Where?”

  “Hugh and I attended a public masque several months ago, before the engagement. Pet was so jealous she’s begged Mama ever since, but Mama will only allow it if we’re invited to a private masque.”

  Mama and Papa used to laugh about the masquerades they attended, with everyone dressed in costume or dominoes. Once, Papa pretended not to know Mama’s identity yet pursued her with relentless devotion. Ah, how I miss you both.

  It wouldn’t do to grieve now, here, so she forced a smile. “Mayhap you will be invited to a masque.”

  “The most exclusive masque is held by the Comtesse du Vertaile. An invitation is more difficult to come by than vouchers to Almack’s.”

  “I am not acquainted with the comtesse.”

  “Truly?” Mr. Scarcliff peered at her again, slackening his grip on the horses. “Hugh said you know Miss Fennelwick. The comtesse is her relation. An elder cousin of her father’s, I believe.”

  “I was not aware of the connection.” Unlike Cristobel, Gemma did not make a habit of memorizing the contents of Debrett’s Peerage.

  “I have seen her from afar, but I have yet to make her acquaintance.”

  Did Mr. Scarcliff have a tendresse for Frances Fennelwick? Who would have thought such a thing? Perhaps Gemma should have felt slighted, but instead her spirits were buoyed at the thought of potential romance. It was not as if she were attracted to him. Not in the least. “Would you like an introduction?”

  His features brightened, as if a candle took flame behind the careful mask of ennui he cultivated. “I would, Miss Lyfeld.”

  “You must come to our at-home next week, then. Three o’clock.”

  A black-clad figure on horseback rode past, two yards to her right, this time traversing in the same direction as she and Mr. Scarcliff, out of the park, toward home. His eyes never alighted on her, though surely he could feel her stare through the wool of his black coat.

  After all his talk, all his insistence he would protect her, he didn’t even notice her! She huffed out a snort, and at Mr. Scarcliff’s quizzical glance, she cleared her throat.

  Oh, dear. She had paid more attention to her guardian than her escort once again.

  “I look forward to it. Perhaps then we may make plans to ride together.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  It only occurred to her later, when she peered out the drawing room window onto Berkeley Square, that she had agreed to ride astride a horse, something she had not done in so long she could scarce remember how.

  But Amy had ordered her a becoming rust-hued riding habit, just in case. And wasn’t this what her London Season was all about? Adventure. She would accept every invitation she received with relish and gratitude.

  As she was about to release the drape, something caught her eye. Tavin rode past the house, his gaze straight ahead. Poor man, guarding her for no real reason. Although he probably returned her pity, since she’d been jilted and her lone male caller preferred Frances. She released the drape. It did not matter. Tavin and his pity would be gone soon from her life, anyway, and she would have naught but her memories of her single London Season.

  She lifted her beaded reticule from the gilt Chinese table and withdrew one of the ten sovereign coins from inside. Glimmering gold in the candlelight, it rested on her palm, heavy and cold. Georgius III Dei Gratia 1817 surrounded the profile of her king.

  With a sigh, she slipped the sovereign into the taped pocket of her gown and cinched the other nine tight in the reticule. It would not be long before her caller should arrive, and she had best be ready for a brief but instructive appointment with him.

  It was not as if she could meet him here again, not if she did not wish anyone—not Amy, nor Wyling, and certainly not Tavin—to ever know the nature of her business.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Tavin tossed a coin to a boy in an ill-fitting coat standing outside the coffeehouse. “Another awaits if you stand by my horse.”

  “Aye, sir.” The boy took Raghnall’s reins and bit the coin. The gap between his front teeth reminded Tavin of Hamish as a child, his teeth too big for his freckled face, back before Hamish abandoned Tavin to his own devices and stole from him when Tavin was not looking.

  A shaft of ancient agony pierced his gut. He’d forgiven, but that was all. There would be no reconciliation.

  The pleasant smell of coffee met him at the door. Wyling sat with a pot of the brew at a table in the center of the sparsely filled chamber. As always, the earl had left the chair facing the door for Tavin. “Sit. Tell me how you fared in the park.” His ginger brows wiggled.

  Tavin uttered a mock groan. “Scarcliff will never be a member of the Four-In-Hand Club the way he drives. No attack by the Sovereign, either.”

  “Amy is out with the boys, but Gemma gave me her word she will not leave the house until I return.”

  Tavin pictured her, an embroidery hoop in her hands and a scowl on her face. “Did she complain?”

  “Not at all. She was weary from the castle.”

  Tavin swallowed too fast, burning the back of his throat. “Castle?”

  “Gem and Amy transported the nursery into a castle using bedsheets for fortress walls. Chairs and tables are turned on their sides—it’s a delightful mess of knights and medieval mischief. But a noisy one.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder.” Tavin set down his cup. “I’ve an errand whilst your sister-in-law is occupied. Care to come?”

  Wyling dropped his cup and hopped to his feet. “Even a grown man requires adventure now and again.”

  “You might regret it when you see where we’re going.”

  “Never.” Yet Wyling’s eyes took on a wary edge when they stopped on the gritty street some distance from Mayfair. The sour smell of the Thames was sharper here, the buildings grimier and the passersby dressed in drab clothing. Tavin and Wyling handed their horses and coins to a boy in a too-short coat outside a noisy tavern.

  “Your usual haunt?” Wyling’s irony was quiet.

  “Better than some I frequent.” Tavin shouldered his way inside the threshold and scanned the room. The men at the tables wiped their jaws with hands far more callused than those of the dandies at the gentlemen’s clubs. This was hardly a smuggler’s den. But the tavern’s occupants held secrets aplenty.

  Spying a vacant table in the corner, Tavin led Wyling to it and took the stool facing the room. He could see everything from this vantage, every furtive glance and twitchy finger, but he didn’t view the one he sought. Wyling spread his hands over the coarse table, acting as if he visited
such places every day.

  A hollow-cheeked woman stopped at their table, carrying tankards. “Dobbins is out back, waitin’ for ye.”

  “My thanks, ma’am.” Tavin pressed a coin into her weathered hand as he rose. Then he led Wyling onto the street and into a fetid alley. “Don’t step on that.”

  “A warning I shall heed.” Wyling skirted the pile of filth.

  “This shan’t take but a moment.” Tavin paused, listened. A cough rumbled—the signal—and Tavin slunk behind a heap of refuse, Wyling stomping noisily behind him.

  “Dobbins.”

  A man of great girth and height leaned against the tavern’s rear exit, arms folded over his ample midsection. His lazy smile faded when he caught sight of Wyling. “You brought a friend.”

  “He is a friend, Dob. No trouble. Right, Wyling?”

  Wyling’s nod was casual, as if he savored the story of action and intrigue he’d later share with his wife. Tavin smirked and then leaned toward Dobbins.

  “What do you know about the New Forest?”

  Dobbins rubbed his neck. “I heard ’bout Thomason. He was a good ’un for a custom man, he was. You and he were two of a kind, eager for a fight.”

  “Was that what got him killed? He walked in when he should have walked away?”

  “I couldn’t say, but I’ve heard tell ’bout that area. More activity than usual.”

  Tavin stuffed his hands in his pockets. His fingers encountered the green ribbon he’d found on Verity Hill. Refuse or clue? Would Dobbins know? How could he even ask such a thing? Pardon, Dobbins, but do any smugglers you know like ribbons? Pretty green ones to wear on their bonnets? Ludicrous.

  The ribbon had to be garbage. Yet it had been pinched under a rock. And the image of a bonnet ribbon brought something else to mind, something amorphous.

  “Dob! Yer help, if ye please!” The voice of the hollow-cheeked woman called from inside the tavern.

  “Fair warning from me wife.” Dobbins grinned. “Anything else?”

  “Just one more thing.” Tavin pulled out a coin. “Heard of any female spies?”