The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

  She breathed in his woodsy scent. “Petey had just been born, and my parents wanted Peter and his new family to have all the rooms he needed. That is why we switched residences. Papa, Mama and I took Peter and Cristobel’s rooms in the dower house, and Peter moved into Verity House.”

  “That was kind.” Tavin’s thumb traced lazy circles on her shoulder.

  “My parents were that way. But I disobeyed them.” The tears flowed thick and fast. “Mama told me to go to bed, to not to stay up reading in the library. She said I would fall asleep. But I was so comfortable on the chaise with a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe, and not the least drowsy. Except, of course, that eventually I did close my eyes.”

  He laid his head atop hers. “There was a fire.”

  “I woke up, not knowing where I was. I stumbled to bed. I do not recall anything but darkness. I do not recall my candle. But it must have—I must have...”

  His thumb continued to rub her shoulder.

  Gemma extricated a hand to wipe her tears. Tavin’s neck cloth was a soggy mess. “I woke to fire. I ran outside, but Mama and Papa were not there. I ran back in after them, but it the smoke was so thick I could not see. And it was my fault. The fire started in the library, underneath their bedchamber, and I was the last to use it.”

  “Yet you woke to darkness. It could not have been your candle.”

  “I have told myself that so many times one might expect me to believe it by now.”

  Tavin’s thumb stilled and his arms fell. A handkerchief appeared in his hand, and she took it. She’d never used a man’s handkerchief before. The large linen square smelled of starch.

  “I know I am forgiven. Amy reminded me that if the Lord cast away my sins, who am I to hold on to them?” She dabbed her eyes. “But I still feel guilty. And I do not like fire.”

  Tavin stepped away, and the room felt cold. “I am sorry I stirred such memories.”

  “You could not have known.”

  “I am not sorry you told me, however.”

  “Nor am I.” Their eyes met, held. The world seemed steadier, as if a bridge spanned the gulf between them.

  Sharing with him had been easy. Perhaps because he was a trustworthy man, adept at keeping secrets. Yet this was something more. Like friendship, although she did not feel this sort of vulnerability when she was with Frances. On the contrary, she would like nothing better than to return to Tavin’s arms for a while longer and listen to his steady heartbeat.

  The clatter of silver announced the tea’s arrival. Gemma set about cutting slices of plum cake and pouring cups of the steaming brew.

  His warm fingers brushed hers when he took the teacup from her hands. “Have you errands for the day? Other than, er, tonight, that is.”

  “Ah yes. Tonight.”

  Since the arrival of the vellum invitation to dine with his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Kelworth, they had spoken little on the topic. No doubt the dowager believed the tittle-tattle in the paper about “Mr. Black” being enamored of her. Gemma sniffed. If the dowager expected a love match, she would suffer great disappointment in a few weeks.

  He grimaced. “My uncle, the duke, will be in attendance, with the duchess and their eldest, Helena.”

  Eyeing Gemma, no doubt, judging whether she was suitable to marry into their illustrious family. Not that it mattered. It would never happen. Crumbs of plum cake stuck in her throat. She washed them down with a too-large sip of tea.

  “I will be ready.” For the dinner, and for their scrutiny. “If it is well with you, I should like to call upon Frances today. My written apologies have not been well received. I should like to try in person.”

  His fingers shredded the hem of his serviette. “Reunion is not always possible.”

  “Nevertheless, I should like to try. God has forgiven me, but I wish for Frances to, as well.”

  His brows knit low over his eyes and he stared into his teacup. “God’s forgiveness—how do you know when it happens? Does something feel different when He bestows it?”

  “I felt differently when I accepted His forgiveness for setting the fire.” At his lifted brow, she sighed. “For perhaps setting the fire. But forgiveness is not an emotion. His pardon was there the moment I asked for it. But I had to accept it.”

  He opened his mouth, but the outer door opened. A noisy rush of rain, chatter and the stomps of small boots sounded from the hall. Amy’s gentle scold about wet cloaks and hats elicited a grin from Gemma, but not Tavin. She leaned forward. “Is there something—”

  He was on his feet. “Now that Wyling is home, I must attend to business. But when you call upon Miss Fennelwick, take footmen with you. And Wyling.”

  Eddie ran into her arms, waving a mechanical monkey in her face. He flopped onto the floor and wound a small key with short, grinding sounds. “Watch this, Aunt Gemma!”

  But she couldn’t, not with her gaze on Tavin. She forced her attention to the floor, and when she glanced up again, Tavin was gone.

  * * *

  The sharp odor of ink met Gemma as she crossed the threshold of the Fennelwick home, as if someone had dropped an inkwell in the entry hall. Wyling must have detected the odor, too, for his long nose twitched when he offered his calling card to the graying butler.

  While they waited in their rain-damp cloaks, Gemma leaned toward Wyling. “You are good to come with me.”

  “’Tis my pleasure, but if I’d let you come alone, Knox would have my hide for a saddle.”

  The butler returned. “The master is at home and will see you in the library.”

  “Splendid.” Wyling grinned at Gemma. “I imagine Fennelwick has an astonishing collection of volumes stored there.”

  Mr. Fennelwick did indeed boast a vast assortment of books. Bookshelves spanned from floor to ceiling, bowing under the weight of numerous leather-bound tomes. A massive oak desk supported a mound of clutter, and beside every chair, book-topped side tables stood testament to the utility of the space. The odor of ink intensified.

  Dressed in a simple gown and cap, Frances stood from the window seat and set down a sheaf of papers. Her gaze rose no farther than Gemma’s tan kid boots.

  Mr. Fennelwick bowed. “How pleasant to see you, Lord Wyling, Miss Lyfeld. Tea?”

  “A welcome suggestion on a gloomy day.” Wyling’s nod of encouragement to Gemma was discreet but pointed. This was her chance to speak to Frances. He’d do his best to give her ample time, but she shouldn’t squander a moment. Wyling smiled at his tufty-haired host. “I had hoped we might continue our discussion of your work on the Roman occupation of Londinium while the ladies enjoy a comfortable coze.”

  Frances’s smile was forced as she gestured for Gemma to join her on the window seat.

  Gemma perched beside her. “Thank you for receiving us.”

  “Papa does not mind the interruption to our work.”

  Mr. Fennelwick might not mind, but Frances seemed to. Gemma swallowed past the lump in her throat. “What are you studying?”

  “A mosaic unearthed in Kent.” Frances chose a paper from the stack at her side. “Or rather, a sketch of one. This is a rough drawing of the discovery.”

  The sketch, while simple, revealed a winged horse surrounded by a geometric border. “How intriguing.”

  “But imprecise.” Frances pointed to objects surrounding the horse. “Papa’s friend said these lumps are ocean creatures, but here they resemble bags of wool.”

  “Mayhap pillows.” Gemma tilted her head. “Or haystacks.”

  Frances’s eyes creased in amusement, and hope sprouted in Gemma’s chest. In the past minute, something had shifted, like ice thawing on the surface of a pond. Gemma prayed and reached her hand to Frances. “I am sorry. So sorry. As I said in my letters, I regret causing you such distress. The scene at the comtesse’s. And Gerald
Scarcliff. He was your suitor.”

  “I would not have tolerated his suit much longer. The man did not know tessarae from terra-cotta.” Frances exhaled an unladylike snort. “Besides, he preferred you.”

  “I think not—”

  “He was vile, drink or no drink, to use us both to gain entrée to the comtesse’s masque. I regret if my plain-spoken words wound you, but they are the truth.”

  One thing Gemma had long admired about Frances was her forthright speech. “It is your wounds which concern me. I have damaged our friendship.”

  “Is it friendship? Or did you use me to gain entrance to the masque, too?”

  Gemma’s lips parted with a soft pop. “I wished to go...but not at the cost of your friendship. I do not care if I ever go again.”

  “Good, because you shan’t be invited. The comtesse is not pleased with you.”

  “I imagine not. But all I wish is your forgiveness, Frances.”

  Frances’s chest deflated in a ragged sigh. “You have it. But I was never angry about Mr. Scarcliff. I was angry you lied to me.”

  “I did not plot to renew our acquaintance so I could attend the masque.”

  Frances scowled. “Not that. Mr. Knox. You said he was no suitor, but he is everywhere with you. I heard you are dining with his family tonight, too.”

  Frances had her there. Tavin would have her change the subject, but Gemma’s spine straightened. The Sovereign may have altered her life, but he’d not change her. She might be forced to allow others to believe a charade, but she was no liar.

  Gemma plucked at her Kashmir shawl, praying for courage. “I wish to tell you something. But it is a secret and must remain so.”

  Frances peeked at her father and Wyling across the cluttered library. They were deep in conversation over an open book. “I am trustworthy, Gemma.”

  Gemma nodded. “My friendship with Mr. Knox will not extend beyond the Season.”

  Frances’s pale brows rose. “How can you be so certain he will not remain steadfast?”

  “Because—” the word soured her tongue “—he is paid to befriend me.”

  * * *

  Tavin shook rain from his sleeves as he shut the door to Garner’s antechamber behind him. “Sommers, tell Garner I am here.”

  Sommers glanced up. “Alas, he is not here to receive you.”

  “Again?” Tension clawed up Tavin’s shoulders, settling around the base of his skull. “His schedule cannot be so full.”

  Sommers withdrew a scrap of foolscap from a file. “He left this for you.”

  Tavin scanned the note, which offered little but an utter lack of concern for Gemma. Garner—who had wanted Gemma watched in the first place—would not grant more agents to protect her despite the Sovereign’s attack on Mr. Grenville.

  “Did you give him the other sealed missive I left?” Sharing Gemma’s secret desires to enjoy her Season and seek a solicitor for the sake of her nephews had been a necessary though unpleasant obligation. But the note was not for Sommers’s eyes.

  Deep lines formed around Sommers’s puckered mouth. “I left it for him and it is no longer here. Any other insults of my character?”

  “My apologies.” Tavin made for the door. “But tell him I need to speak to him. ’Tis urgent. And I need more men.”

  “He trusts you to handle things according to your unique set of skills.” From his tone, Sommers did not offer a compliment.

  Tavin pushed out the door he’d just entered. He had a woman to protect ’round the clock, a case to solve and no one to authorize additional protection for Gemma.

  Lord, will You not hear me until I put the Sovereign in chains? When will You answer me? I cannot do this alone.

  A cool blast of wind hit his face as he exited the Custom House, setting his resolve. He’d catch the Sovereign. He’d make things right.

  But until then, he was on his own. He’d see Gemma well protected, even at his own expense. And he had little time to hire anyone before dinner at his grandmother’s tonight.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Dowager Duchess of Kelworth’s dinner was exquisite—at least, the ample dishes appeared that way to Gemma. She’d eaten her food, even if she’d been too nervous to taste it under the tension palpable at their end of the table. Tavin and his uncle, the duke, interacted over the steaming platters of food with a cool politeness. Even Wyling’s diplomatic attempts to divert the conversation did not help, his witticisms falling lifeless as the buttered trout on Gemma’s plate.

  Now some dozen ladies gathered in the dowager’s drawing room while the gentlemen remained at the table. Amy joined a gathering of matrons by the windows. A second group was comprised of come-outs, younger than Gemma. The third group, containing the dowager, the duchess and her haughty daughter, Helena, was by far the more intimidating group to join. But Gemma squared her shoulders and approached the dowager duchess’s cluster.

  I kicked a murderous smuggler in the shin. I am no coward when it comes to this woman.

  Regal in her tall chair by the drawing room fire, a tiny smile played on the dowager’s thin lips. A toque sat atop her graying curls like a diadem, and the train of her violet gown swirled at her feet. An immense amethyst ring shimmered in the firelight as she extended her hand. “Pray be seated here, Miss Lyfeld. I would know you better.”

  The indicated chair was far from the fire. Gemma smiled, for she wouldn’t wish the dowager to misinterpret her fear of the flames for fright of the woman. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Your paternal great-uncle is Lord Lindsay, is that correct?” The Dowager didn’t wait a moment to begin the inquisition.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Cristobel might not have married Peter had he not been in line to inherit the title of baron.

  “I do not know him.” The dowager waved her ringed hand. “Do you, Caroline?”

  “No.” The current duchess, a delicate-featured woman, frowned at the delicate string of tiny pearls around Gemma’s neck—a simple necklace for a simple, unimportant baron’s grand-niece. But the treasured strand had been Mama’s.

  “Uncle Lindsay is not oft in London.” Gemma glanced at the door. Tavin, where are you?

  No doubt he paced the dining room, aggravated by his roles as grandson and government protector intersecting tonight. Perhaps he had even excused himself and sneaked outside, watching for trouble, relieved to be away from this dinner party.

  “Something amusing, Miss Lyfeld?” The dowager’s snap yanked Gemma from her reverie.

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “No doubt Miss Lyfeld thinks of a certain gentleman.” The duchess licked her lips.

  “A man in black?” Lady Helena, Tavin’s cousin, though not yet of age to come out, was old enough to lift her nose at Gemma. Despite herself, Gemma’s cheeks warmed.

  “She blushes. I daresay she does think of him.” The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “Is he taken with you?”

  The folds of Gemma’s crepe gown hid her clenching hands. “Pray forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not know what you mean.”

  “Do not play coy. My grandson avoids society, so it is no surprise that now, when he is at Almack’s, routs, parties of all sorts—and even mentioned in the Morning Post—everyone wonders why he has changed.” The dowager grinned like a cat with a rodent between its paws.

  “I cannot say, Your Grace.” And it was true. Tavin had understood when she’d told him she’d shared the nature of their relationship with Frances, but he’d asked she not divulge the Sovereign—or his work—to anyone else. So Gemma would not.

  The rumble of masculine voices carried through the doorway, and Gemma’s neck craned. She should not be so obvious, but the yearning to see Tavin pricked her skin like a needle. Twelve gentlemen filed through the door, but Tavin’s was the face who held her
gaze. A fierce line creased his brow until he spotted her among the feminine company, then it soothed, as if kissed away.

  He worried about her, and, despite what she’d told Frances, it was not just because he was paid to. From the way he glanced between Gemma and his grandmother, it seemed he feared Her Grace’s attacks more than the Sovereign’s.

  Oh, how she cared for him. How she wished to soothe the crease in his brow every day and tell him all was well.

  Impossible, of course. Nevertheless, she smiled when he strode toward her.

  With a rustle of satin, the dowager duchess rose, halting his progress. All conversation ceased, and with every eye upon her, Her Grace smiled at the company. “Now that the gentlemen have joined us, let us enjoy some entertainment. With so many young people present, dancing seems in order. The carpets are rolled in the gallery, and Lady Albright has agreed to play the pianoforte.”

  * * *

  It was known far and wide Tavin did not dance, Not even for his grandmother, so he doubted anyone missed him when he slipped outside while everyone else adjourned to the gallery.

  His check of the grounds complete, he brushed beads of mist from his black coat sleeve and reentered the house through the library’s French door. He crossed the darkened chamber to the hall door and knocked, the sound no louder than an acorn’s fall. No one in the hall would hear it unless they awaited the noise. Which Wyling did, and the trustworthy fellow would not open the door unless the hall was void of servants or the dowager’s guests.

  The portal cracked open to reveal the illuminated hall and Wyling’s eager face. “All is clear within. And without?”

  “Quiet.” Tavin stepped into the hall. “Booth reported no disturbances, and there has been no message from Tott, so all is well with the boys at Berkeley Square, as well.”

  “Are you certain these men are trustworthy?”

  “Aye. I’ve worked with them before. So long as they are paid well, they will do what is asked of them.”

  “And you pay them well, indeed.” Wyling led Tavin to the long gallery upstairs. Strains of conversation and the keys of a pianoforte grew louder by the step.