Tavin turned his glare to Wyling. “I take it you did not tell her?”
Wyling’s jaw tightened. “I told the ladies you interpreted a threat. That is all.”
“All?” Tavin flung out his arm.
What were they talking about? Gemma leaned forward.
Wyling folded his arms. “I saw no use alarming the ladies, telling them you may—or may not—have seen a man stalking Gemma if it turned out he wasn’t the Sovereign.”
Amy’s face pinked. “Stalking?”
“But I was not stalked by the Sovereign.” Gemma skewered Tavin with a glower. “You attacked an innocent man last night—innocent of smuggling, at any rate. Mr. Scarcliff is a bounder and, I suppose, a gambler, but he is no felon. He is a man whom, I might add, I am capable of felling with my feet.” If the words were stated with enough clarity, perhaps he would finally listen. “The Sovereign is not in London.”
Tavin reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold coin. “I found this last night.”
“A sovereign.” Coincidence. “They are everywhere—”
“Not often near the mouth of a man found near-dead off Piccadilly.”
A cap of cold settled over Gemma’s head and worked its way down her spine. “What?”
“I came upon him last night, searching for the man who had shadowed you.”
“Will he survive? Who was he? Poor man.” Her fingers clutched on her lap. “But how do you know he was not set upon by thieves?”
“A cutpurse would not leave a coin behind.” Tavin passed the gold coin to Wyling. “Money was not the object of the attack. You were.”
Her pulse beat hard in her chest. “I do not understand.”
“The Honorable Mr. Theophilus Grenville, the victim, was a guest of the comtesse’s. He decided to walk to the masque, but he never arrived because he had been struck on the side of the head, stripped of his domino and entrée into the masque and left in an alley with that sovereign on his neck. I expect the coin would have ended up in Grenville’s throat, just as one has in all of the Sovereign’s previous victims, but—”
“That is enough,” Wyling interrupted. “No need to terrify the ladies with such talk.”
Gemma gaped. ’Twas not the talk that terrified her. He had been there?
Tavin’s head tipped. “Gemma should know what she is facing. She has taken this too lightly.”
“We all have.” Amy’s hands were at her chest. “None of us thought for a minute she was in real trouble. Not even you, Tavin.”
“Touché, madam. But I think it now. Her life is in danger.”
Gemma sank back into her seat. The children. Peter and Cristobel. Wyling and Amy. Were they in peril because of her? Even strangers such as the unfortunate Mr. Grenville had been hurt because she’d had the misfortune to wear a red cloak and take a walk up a hill.
Father God... She licked her lips. Words to pray wouldn’t form in her fogged brain. All she could think was, Help me. Help us all.
“Why now?” she squeaked at last. “After all this time?”
Tavin leaned against the mantelpiece. “The Sovereign either found you or determined you know something incriminating. He, or someone acting on his behalf, donned a domino and stalked you at the comtesse’s.”
God protected me. Gemma’s hand pressed her roiling stomach.
“You left the ballroom for the hall, as did he. Then you both were gone.” He tunneled a hand through his already untidy curls. “It took me far too long to find you, but when I did, you were in a closed chamber with a man in a black domino. The wrong man, it turned out, but I do not regret assisting you.”
“Thank you.” A swallow lodged, aching, in her throat. “For watching me. For tearing Gerald Scarcliff from me. Even if he was not the man you wanted.”
Tavin’s shoulders relaxed. Where had his anger gone? “Rake though he is, Scarcliff may have saved your life. If he had not pulled you into the room, the other man could have—” He broke off, glancing at Wyling.
But Gemma couldn’t be protected from the gruesome facts. “Taken me. Killed me.”
Amy rushed to her side, cupping Gemma’s cheek with cool fingers. “Gemma, no.”
“It is true. After all, back on Verity Hill, I saw his face.” She stared at Tavin, trusting him to tell her the truth. “But I never saw the man in the domino. Where did he go, after the masque?”
“I would pay my last sixpence to gain that knowledge. He used the confusion of the, er, incident with Scarcliff to slip out. You can imagine what it was like outside the comtesse’s house, men in black dominoes and cloaks going in both directions. I could not very well challenge them all.”
Gemma squeezed Amy’s hand, hoping to draw strength from her sister. As she did, she took in Amy’s wide eyes, heard her sister’s shaky breaths. Amy needed strength, too, especially after having been ill. Even now, Amy looked as if she might cast up her breakfast or burst into tears.
Recrimination settled, heavy and barbed, over Gemma’s bones. She had taken from everyone for so long. Wyling’s hospitality, Amy’s patience and care, Tavin’s protection.
And what had she given back? Nothing but defiance and selfishness.
That was not the woman she wanted to be. That was not the Gemma who had kicked the Sovereign in the leg and escaped him in the forest.
The anger she’d lost a few minutes ago surged in her veins and straightened her spine—but it was directed inward. She would make things right with her family, and Tavin and Frances, too. But she would not cow before a villain. How dare this Sovereign think to frighten her family? To harm innocent people?
His victims passed through her brain. Men back home, strangers to her but neighbors all the same. Tavin’s friend, Thomason, who had striven to bring their killer to justice. Poor Mr. Grenville, who had just wanted to attend a party, the same as she.
The Sovereign had harmed them all—and probably more—to achieve his illicit goals. She could well guess how free the Sovereign was with the grim souvenirs he named himself after.
Poor Tavin. Smudged crescents under his eyes bespoke of his lack of sleep, and the faint lines around his eyes and brow deepened, making him appear older, wearier. All he wanted was to stop the Sovereign’s reign, yet he was shackled to her as surely as if a chain bound their ankles.
His superior at the Custom House might not see fit to free him, but she would.
“I see no need to wait until our invitations are withdrawn.” Resolve modulated her tone. “I shall return to Hampshire at once.”
“Back to Cristobel?” Amy shook her head. “No.”
But it was Tavin’s response she wanted to hear. For a long moment, he stared at her, his gaze intense. “I can protect you here.”
“I know you can. But if I return to Verity House, you will be ordered to accompany me, and from there, you will be able to catch the Sovereign and be done with this.”
His massive chest heaved once as he took a long, slow breath. “You told me once you wanted this Season above all else. Now you would willingly abandon it?”
“Yes.” She licked her dry lips, but her tongue had no moisture to spare.
Wyling and Amy’s protests sounded, but she couldn’t listen, couldn’t respond. Her entire focus was fixed on Tavin. He quirked that brow of his.
“The roses are in bloom in the garden. Care to join me outside?”
It wasn’t what she expected, but she nodded. “Certainly.”
“Gemma,” Amy pleaded. “You two will not make a decision without us.”
“Do not make me behave the disgruntled brother-in-law.” Wyling frowned.
“We shall not be but a moment, and you can watch us from the windows.”
At Amy’s reluctant nod, Gemma gathered her Kashmir shawl and preceded Tavin to the garden.
Tavin scanned the garden for flutters of white apron, or the straw of a hat—anything to indicate a servant at work among the plants. Nothing stirred but the bobbing heads of pink and purple flowers. He nodded in satisfaction.
The walled plot was not large, but it was private. And pleasant, too, with interwoven, pleached limes greening the garden walls. Box, rose, peony and lavender added color and fragrance, but its small size offered a stark contrast to his childhood home’s garden, where the wide paths, fountains and mature trees had seemed to stretch into the wild beyond the estate borders.
Why think of Scotland just now? Far more pressing matters demanded his attention, and he had best get started before they were interrupted.
“Let us speak freely.” He paced over the narrow gravel path. “It appears you have something to say to me, as well.”
“It is as I said.” The breeze stirred Gemma’s hair, sending a lock of hair under her nose. She pushed it behind her ear and sat on the wood bench facing the garden’s center, where a whitewashed pole served as a honeysuckle stake. “It will be better for us all if I return to Hampshire. If you convince Amy and Wyling of the merit of such an idea, they will allow it.”
“You credit me with far too much influence.”
Her laugh sounded more like a scoff. “I am in danger. Shouldn’t my acceptance of the fact please you?”
“I should far prefer to have been wrong.”
“Whilst we have privacy, I must speak.” She squared her shoulders and stared up at him. “I am sorry.”
He had not expected that. Did she refer to last night’s kiss? He should be the one apologizing for taking such liberties. “’Twas not your fault.”
“Enraging the Sovereign isn’t, true. I could not help that. But I have made things difficult. I resented your advice. I thwarted your rules. And I insisted we attend the masque despite your protestations.” She rubbed her cuticles with her thumbs. “I embarrassed us all—you, Frances, everyone. You must judge me a callous creature.”
She hadn’t mentioned the kiss, but the apology affected him almost as deeply. He could only return her honesty.
“Callous? No, but you are many other things. Patient with your nephews. Generous with your family. Defiant with me. But not callous.”
Her head bobbed in time with the pink roses. “’Tis no excuse, but when Hugh chose to make other plans, I saw few options for my future. Cristobel’s companion, a task I do not relish. I could live with Amy and Wyling, true. Or I could become a governess or wed. But I choose to stay at Verity House, with Cristobel, because of the boys. They need me and I...need them.”
Would Tavin make the same choice? He’d left home, but then again, there was no one there for him to love. Or who loved him. “I see.”
“So I made two decisions.” Her lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks. “I have withheld them from you.”
His heart stopped. “Does one involve those letters you have sent to your chamber?”
“I should have guessed you knew. When I realized where my future lay, I hired a solicitor. He makes investments on my behalf. Small ones, but I send him all I have. Perhaps by the time Eddie leaves for school, I will have enough to set up my own household. I will offer to care for the boys on their holidays, and I am certain Cristobel and Peter will allow it.” She shifted on the bench. “I couldn’t receive the solicitor’s call without your or Amy’s knowledge, so we correspond. But you knew, anyway.”
“Only that you hid something from me.” Not known from whom they came. He’d even told Garner about the letters. “I wish you’d told me.”
“You would have told Wyling and Amy, and they would have offered me money. They’ve given me too much already.”
Tavin’s gaze fixed on the lavender. “There were two decisions, you said?”
She sighed. “The other, you know well. I chose to squeeze every moment of pleasure out of the Season as I could. No matter what, because this was my sole chance to experience adventure. Fun. I suppose that I pushed away any nagging of conscience, as if later, had I inconvenienced anyone, I could ask for forgiveness.”
Something like resentment prickled under his skin. “Willingly sin, and plan to ask forgiveness later?”
“I was not sensible of it, did not plan it. But I justified my greediness. Such a light view of forgiveness smacks of entitlement, does it not? Not grace.” She looked down. “Perhaps, because I was forgiven much, I forgive easily.”
He resumed pacing over the gravel. Oh, if forgiveness were that simple. But whatever Gemma had done that needed clemency could not compare to his blotted past.
But they were speaking of Gemma, not him. Although he could not help but be curious about what she’d done that was forgiven much. Instead, he allowed himself another question.
“Is that why you are kind to Hugh, when you had every right to knock out his teeth?”
“Little good it would do me to knock out his teeth. Or gnash mine over him forever.”
Gnashing teeth. Now that sounded familiar.
She sighed. “I was hurt, but it was my expectations, not my heart, that ached. I am confident now God has something else in mind.”
Like scrounging pence so she could be independently poor for the rest of her days, with occasional visits from her nephews? His scowl pained his cheeks. “And you forgive your brother and his wife for the way they mistreat you?”
“Yes, but that is not why I stay with them. As I said, I wish to be with the boys.”
“And it has nothing to do with owing Peter and Cristobel?”
“I do owe them.” Her eyes went wide. “They took me in.”
“As they should. It is called familial duty. Theirs, not yours.”
“Familial duty extends both directions.”
Not in this instance. Gemma had given up a large portion of her life for her brother. She’d also forsaken her future for her nephews. Chances were slim she would marry and have a family of her own if she waited much longer. It was cruel, yes, but the way of things in society.
And with that thought, Tavin’s frustration dissipated like mist over a loch. “I do not wish to return to Hampshire. I wish to stay here, with you, through the remainder of the Season.”
A huff escaped her shell-pink lips. “Catching the Sovereign cannot be accomplished here.”
“It can if he has come out of hiding to find you.”
“He will strike again?” Was it fear or determination that flashed in her eyes?
“Fear not, I will be with you.” The words sounded too Biblical, and he shook his head. “Mayhap Wyling was correct. Let the world think I am ‘besotted at last.’ If I live in your pocket, I will better be able to protect you.”
A flush pinked her cheeks to a becoming shade. “Agreed. On one condition.”
He stifled the urge to roll his eyes. “Just one? I’m amazed.”
She stood, tilting her chin to look him in the eye. “I will not cower before the Sovereign. I will help you catch him.”
Chapter Fourteen
Tavin tugged at his ear as if the act could clear his hearing. “You did not just say, ‘catch the Sovereign.’”
“I did.” Gemma folded her hands before her.
Was the woman mad? “You are not a piece of cheese to trap a rat.”
“Hunting a rat leads to bites. But setting a trap in the middle of the room lures him out.”
His speech faltered again. “You are bound for Bedlam if you think I shall let you—as if you are capable—”
“Your face is purpling. Would you care to be seated?”
“I am not apoplectic. I am furious.” He forced his fisted fingers to open. “You will not invite the Sovereign’s attentions as bait, do you understand?”
“I do not need to i
nvite his attentions. He follows me with a coin in one hand and a blade in the other, and I wish to stop him.”
His boots crunched the gravel of the oval garden path, but the rhythmic pacing failed to soothe him. The space was too small to take him more than a few feet from her in this wee garden. Or cage, more like it, with its high walls and limited view. How could people choose this life, this confinement? He reached down to a lavender bush and snapped off a tender sea green stem.
“Pray do not attack the plants, Tavin.”
“Better a bloom than someone’s neck.”
“I assume you refer to the Sovereign’s, not to mine.”
He glared. “Is this part of your thirst for so-called adventure? Playing at spy?”
“Of course not.” She flushed crimson. “I want to help.”
“Trained in combat, are you?” He tossed the lavender into the scraggly rosebushes. “Practiced boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s? Or perhaps you think my work is simple. Guess how many knives I carry on my person at this moment.”
“What a forward suggestion.”
“Two. One at my back and one in my boot. But sometimes I carry three.”
The pink receded from her cheeks and she laughed, the sound like her nephews’ cackles. In any other circumstance, he might think her becoming, with her eyes alight. A charming image. But not today, with his vision swimming red.
“Think you this is amusing? Ach, lass, ye’re more trouble than ye know.”
Shame, hot and quick, flooded to his toes. Had he said lass? Ye? He chomped down on his tongue. How long had it been since he’d spoken like that? Like a Scot?
That is what you are.
No. It is what I was. That was how he had spoken when he was a bairn. And how he’d tried not to speak when he was a youth, his fingers swollen from lashings under Her Grace’s instructions to replace his brogue with a refined English accent. He had been so careful, until that time at Eton school, when he got his nose broken by an older student for slipping and speaking like a Scot.
He was nothing now, not Scot, not English. Because he could not be both.
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