The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

  Her lips quirked. “So what would you be doing in Hampshire? Skulking? Picking locks?”

  He laughed. “I am adept at both. I could teach you to pick locks. All one requires is a set of sturdy pins.”

  “And practice.”

  “And practice.” He smiled. “And truly, today I am happy to be with you, practicing for your ride with your friends, what with Wyling under the weather.”

  “Amy, as well. Even toast disagreed with her constitution. Poor dears. Perhaps I should not have left the house.”

  “Fresh air does us good. Are the boys ill?”

  “Quite the opposite. Petey lost another tooth. He now wiggles all the other loose teeth, hoping to repeat the experience.” Her brows knit together. “I am sorry. I should not bore you.”

  “It does not bore me. They are good children. Their parents must be proud.”

  Her mouth turned down at the corners. “We await word from Peter and Cristobel. Any word. We have written several times. I hope they have not taken ill.”

  “You would have heard from the staff if that were so. I am certain your brother and sister-in-law are occupied with other matters. My parents were much the same.”

  Her sharp gaze speared him. “Were they?”

  He had said too much. He bent toward her again and gently took her left hand. “We will tell Kay to turn now. Lower this hand and tug the rein gently to the right.”

  Kay responded to Gemma’s urging. They practiced turning and advanced to trotting before deciding they had put Kay through enough paces today. Up ahead, the Wyling carriage waited to collect Gemma, and he’d send Kay with the lad in Wyling livery. But for one minute more, while the horses walked toward the gate, he’d take advantage of their privacy.

  “I wish to discuss the comtesse’s masque.”

  She glanced at him, her expression wary as if she expected him to storm on again about the subject. He wouldn’t. Arguing solved nothing—but talking might. If she understood why he felt the way he did, perhaps her views would alter.

  “Again, I ask you to reconsider the wisdom of attending an event so fraught with risk.”

  She puffed out an exasperated breath, sounding like her horse. “I shall be disguised, you know.”

  “I cannot protect you if you look like everyone else, shrouded under a domino.”

  “Then I shall not wear a domino. You will be able to recognize me, I promise.” Her eyes were pleading. “I do not wish to make your task more difficult, but we both know your assignment is a waste of time. I am in no danger.”

  Tavin looked away, seeing the park as if for the first time. It had grown more crowded, but he’d not noticed. Just like at the Scarcliffs’, when he’d been so captivated by Gemma that he’d ignored everything else in the room and the smallest thud startled him into action.

  If he’d kept his gaze on his surroundings—where it should have been—he’d not be caught by surprise. But today, just as at the Scarcliffs’, he wouldn’t have seen danger coming if a mob had surrounded them with flaming torches. He’d been too focused on Gemma.

  I am slack at this job, Lord. Thank You that she was not attacked—

  But she would never be attacked by the Sovereign. Almost a month had passed, and there had been no repercussions. No peril. Gemma was not in any danger whatsoever.

  He dismounted, slipped her tiny boot from the stirrup and lifted her down. Enfolded in his arms, she looked up at him, her pink lips parted.

  A longing filled his core and spread in dizzying waves to his fingers and toes. He wanted to kiss her. There was no use denying it. But even a once-gentleman like him knew better than to kiss her. They were in public. And the minute Garner released him from this chore, he’d return to where he belonged. Hunting prey and attempting to repay his debt to God.

  His hands dropped from her red-clad waist as if she were flame itself.

  * * *

  Gemma swayed when Tavin’s hands fell. The way he’d looked down at her, his gaze on her lips, she’d thought he might kiss her. And even though she didn’t understand how she felt about him, even though they were in public, the idea of it made her toes tingle.

  Oh, but she would have allowed it. Welcomed it.

  How foolish she was. And mistaken about his intentions. His fingers were back on Raghnall’s reins even as he bowed; clearly he could not escape her fast enough. “Until later, then?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and hurried inside the house.

  Amy was still ill, and Wyling nursed a megrim headache. She spent a quiet day with the boys and retired early, a pleasant change after so many busy evenings.

  In the morning, the absence of fire—in her dreams, as well as in the grate across the room—pulled Gemma from the depths of sleep, beckoning her awake with the awareness that she had slept through the night.

  She stretched like a contented cat. Lilac-hued light illumined her still-cold bedchamber, speaking to the early hour. Even the nursery above her was hushed. Gemma pulled the coverlet more tightly about her and drew up her legs for warmth.

  Her favorite trick to return to sleep was to recall her last dream. Sometimes, she would fall back into it. What had she been dreaming? It had been happy, a scene in a vast green meadow. Ah yes, the deep red of a horse’s flank, the wind in her ears, the fragrance of cedar and pine, a hand taking hers to help her from her horse, twinkling brown eyes—

  Oh! She’d dreamed of Tavin. Except in her dream, he’d been about to kiss her.

  She flopped to her other side, curled into a ball and pulled the hem of her night rail down to cover her toes. It was not as if she had a tendresse for Tavin. Oh, he was handsome and he made her laugh. Sometimes. But she was no schoolroom miss. Handsome and amusing did not make a man marriageable.

  Marriageable? Where had that come from? She buried her head under the pillow.

  Although—if she were to look at him that way... He was the grandson of a duke and nephew to the current duke. He was somebody, to society’s judgment. Even Peter and Cristobel would approve of his connections, although one’s standing in society wasn’t of particular importance to Gemma. Not that she should be thinking of him as a beau. He was her guardian.

  What made him pursue such a dangerous occupation, when he was a gentleman?

  Her toes weren’t warming; nor was she the least bit sleepy anymore. But she nestled in bed for warmth, mulling the mysteries of Tavin, until she heard noises of stirring in the house. Without ringing for her maid, Mary, she donned a long-sleeved gown of white lawn, grasped her Kashmir shawl and went down to breakfast. The mouthwatering scent of bacon met her in the hall outside the morning room, and her stomach grumbled in anticipation.

  The pale green room was occupied. With a snap, Wyling lowered a newspaper and rose to greet her. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

  “I did.” Despite her disturbing dream. “How is your headache?”

  “A distant memory.” He joined her at the sideboard. “Amy is still abed, however. Perhaps by tomorrow, she’ll be as hale as I.”

  “I pray so.” Gemma took the seat to his right and nibbled a roll while he tucked into his shirred eggs. “I hope I did not tire her last night by reading to her.”

  “On the contrary, it cheered her immensely. She was also pleased you’d done so well with her little mare.”

  “Anyone would do well with Kay. She is a gentle creature.”

  “Indeed she is.” At Amy’s weak voice, Wyling stood and Gemma popped around in her seat. Amy entered, pale but smiling.

  “Darling, should you be up?” Wyling frowned.

  “The scent of bacon is more appetizing than I would have expected. Perhaps I am coming around. Forgive me for falling ill during your come-out, Gemma.” Amy took a tentative bite.

  “What silliness.” Gemma’s
head shook. “Do not concern yourself with anything other than regaining your health. We have naught on our calendar for the day, you know. You may sleep the hours away.”

  “But what of you?” Amy eyed her over her teacup. “Wyling will take the boys to view horseflesh. What will you do?”

  “Sit by your side. Another quiet day will do me good.”

  Wyling drained his coffee. “I thought you might have plans to ride with Knox.”

  Her cheeks heated as she recalled her dream. “Not today.”

  “You should be well practiced for your ride with Frances and Mr. Scarcliff now.” Amy smiled. “Although I still say the outing could prove awkward. If I’d suspected Mr. Scarcliff had eyes on Frances rather than you, I would have discouraged him. Are you disappointed, dear?”

  “Not at all.” It was true. “His motives were twofold, I believe. Frances and my watchful eye over his sister, since we shall be neighbors in Hampshire.”

  Amy’s eyebrows pulled low over her eyes. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Come with us to Portugal.”

  “I have prayed, but my mind has not changed. I cannot leave the boys.”

  Amy’s fork settled on her plate with a soft chink. “I know Peter and Cristobel ignore them. The staff they hire to care for them is inept, and without you serving as aunt, governess and tutor, the boys would be wild as wolves. But Petey will go to school in a few short years, and Eddie will follow. Then what?”

  “I shall be there for their holidays.” But the thought ached.

  “And betwixt those? You will be Cristobel’s companion for life, if you allow it. Miserable, abused and weary.”

  Even Wyling’s kind gaze bespoke pity. “We want you to be happy. And we love Petey and Eddie, too. We—you, Amy and I—will invite them to stay with us once we return from Portugal, and I am confident Peter and Cristobel will allow it. Those boys will live with all of us.”

  Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. How blessed she was to have the love of two rowdy boys, a kindhearted sister and a brother-in-law who opened his purse and home to provide for them all? Thank You, Father. But they do not understand. I am needed by Petey and Eddie now.

  “Maybe once you return from Portugal. But nothing needs to be decided today.” Gemma set down her serviette and stood. A ride on Kay was sounding better by the second.

  Her family nodded, and she left them to their breakfast. Swiping the damp in her eyes with the butt of her hand, she hurried toward the stairs, but two men stood in the foyer: Stott, the butler, and Tavin, whose black coat was speckled with raindrops. He caught sight of her and smiled, bowing his greeting.

  After their awkward parting yesterday, she’d not been certain how he’d act toward her. Or how she’d behave with him. She’d been about to let him kiss her, after all. At least he couldn’t read her thoughts about him.

  Pity they hadn’t planned to go riding today. It seemed her thoughts clarified when she was on horseback, and right now, her brain was a tangled mess of thoughts and questions about the boys...and Tavin.

  Her hand went to her throat. “Are you free for a time once your business with Wyling is concluded?”

  “I have no business with Wyling. I am here for you.” His brow quirked. “May I assist you?”

  “You might indeed.” She peeked at the butler. “Thank you, Stott.”

  He nodded and started to withdraw, but a footman entered the foyer with a salver in hand. “A message for you, Miss Lyfeld.”

  She recognized the spidery writing at once—it belonged to the solicitor she’d hired to help her prepare for her future, but had not told her family about. “Should I receive any more correspondence from this address, send it to my chamber, please.”

  “I shall have it sent upstairs at once.” He bowed and hurried away, followed by Stott.

  “Do you wish me to wait while you read it?” Tavin tipped his head. “It might be from your brother.”

  She shook her head. “It is not. It is...business.” The words sounded ridiculous in her ears. What business did a maiden have? “Do you care to ride with me?”

  Surprise flickered over his features. “You do not mind the rain?”

  “I welcome it.” The damp no doubt would keep others away from Hyde Park. It would be quiet and green, more like home in the New Forest.

  He grinned, revealing his white, even teeth. “I shall inform Wyling, and wait until you are ready.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The joy Tavin had taken in this morning’s ride with Gemma dissipated the minute he entered Garner’s office. Something about the place felt oppressive today. Off.

  Garner’s lips turned down. “The Sovereign’s claimed another victim in the New Forest.”

  Tavin’s head jerked back. “Who was it?”

  Garner consulted the page at his elbow. “A fellow by the name of Bill Simple.”

  Gap-toothed, pockmarked Bill Simple. Tied to a tree, murdered and left with a sovereign coin on his tongue, the same as his friend Thomason had been. Tavin’s bones melted to aspic.

  “He was my informant. The one who was to leave me the clue atop Verity Hill. And it got him killed.” Tavin’s vision darkened around the edges. Another death for my sins. God, when will you forgive me?

  The green snippet of ribbon he’d found on Verity Hill and kept in his pocket shifted against Tavin’s hand. Automatically, he took it into his fingers, the way a small child worked a favored blanket. Would the fragment of green fray under his fidgeting? Was it refuse or clue? Rubbish, or a final gift from Bill Simple?

  The question couldn’t be answered in London.

  “Let me return to Hampshire, sir. Naught has befallen Miss Lyfeld, nor has she recalled anything.” And the only clue he had was the green ribbon, but if he showed it to Garner, he’d be laughed from the office. “She’s a normal come-out, concerned with her family and her routine plans. Not that the Comtesse du Vertaile’s masque tomorrow is routine—”

  “But you are certain she is no spy?” Garner squinted. “You are not—because she’s hidden something from you, hasn’t she? Letters she won’t read in your presence? Or perhaps she’s snuck away from you.”

  Tavin threw his hands in the air. Beauchamp had pulled Gemma into the trees—she hadn’t sneaked from him. But there was that letter this morning. Perhaps just one letter of many he’d no clue about. His laugh was mirthless. He was shackled to Gemma for a while longer, as surely as if they were chained at the ankle.

  But a part of him—a part he didn’t completely understand—relaxed at the notion he’d stay here with Gemma. Just for a while longer. Except—

  “Is someone investigating the murder of Bill Simple?” Tavin couldn’t bear the thought of Bill’s death receiving no inquiry.

  “The local revenue man paired with the magistrate.” With a deep sigh, Garner leaned back in his chair. “Do you ever wonder if the smugglers have it aright? Most of the time, they harm no one. People are hungry, Knox.” Garner tapped the newspaper. “Have you read this? More parliamentary bickering over the Prince Regent’s social calendar. Nary a word of people starving in the counties. Some would say rebellion is imminent.”

  “Such rumors are the talk of a few radicals, no more.”

  “Since the Prince Regent’s carriage was attacked on the opening day of Parliament, there has been more than talk.” Garner’s gaze was cold. “The tricolor of France is worn here on English soil.”

  Tavin shook his head at the mention of the symbol of the revolution in France. “Thistlewood, you mean? His attempt to take the Tower of London was an isolated incident—”

  “Isolated? What of the Blanketeers of Manchester?” Garner tossed the newspaper aside. “Men cannot express themselves without fear of arrest.”

  “Men cannot discuss sedition.” Tavin shoved his ha
nds in his coat pockets again.

  “There would be no need to discuss it if Parliament did its job.”

  “There are good men in Parliament, like the Earl of Wyling. He’s diligent—”

  “When he is not dancing with his wife.”

  “He is always working. Even at social gatherings.” Tavin stood. “The hunt for the Sovereign has drained us both. I am ready for it to end as much as you are.”

  “You refer to your occupation or playing nursemaid to Miss Lyfeld?”

  Tavin shrugged. A short ago, he would have agreed to the latter without hesitation. But, now, he didn’t know how he felt. And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t have explained it to Garner.

  * * *

  Prepared to receive his second scold of the day, Tavin squared his shoulders and strode into the Dowager Duchess of Kelworth’s rosy drawing room.

  He bowed at the waist, sat where she bade him to and waited for her to begin.

  “Tea?” His grandmother gestured with her ring-laden fingers.

  “Please, Your Grace.”

  Busy with the silver urn, she presented a picture of domestic bliss—a nurturing grandmother, sweet as pudding.

  “I received a missive from Hamish yesterday,” she said, shattering the illusion. No matter how innocent her words, the declaration was barbed. “He, Flora and the children are well.”

  “Good.” He may not speak to his brother, but he did not wish Hamish harm. Neither did he wish to talk about Hamish. Just the mention of his name curled Tavin’s fingers into fists, endangering the handle of his grandmother’s Wedgwood teacup.

  Not that it had been Hamish’s fault in the beginning. Hamish hadn’t known about Tavin’s long-standing infatuation with Flora McInnis, or adolescent Tavin’s grandiose plan to escape England at first opportunity and set up housekeeping in Scotland with the bonny lass. How Tavin would live happily-ever-after. Until he returned home and found Hamish had married Flora himself.

  Hamish had blamed Tavin for shunning his Scottish heritage and embracing England, when all Tavin had ever wanted to do was come home. He had accused Tavin of thinking himself better than Hamish, Flora, Scotland and everyone they’d ever known, down to the village dogs.