Under the Spy’s Protection

When Gemma Lyfeld inadvertently interrupts a dangerous smuggling operation in her English village, she’s rescued by a mysterious Scottish spy. Now with criminals after her and her hopes for an expected marriage proposal recently dashed, she will make her society debut in London. But not without the man tasked with protecting her...

Covert government agent Tavin Knox must keep Gemma safe from the criminals who think she can identify them—a mission he never wanted. But as he escorts her and her rascally nephews around London, the lovely English lass proves braver than he ever imagined. Suddenly, the spy who works alone has one Season to become the family man he never dreamed he’d be.

“You must judge me a callous creature,” Gemma said.

“Callous? No, but you are many other things,” Tavin responded. “Patient with your nephews. Generous with your family. Defiant with me. But not callous.”

“’Tis no excuse, but when I did not receive the expected proposal of marriage, I saw few options for my future. I could become a governess or wed. But I choose to stay with my nephews because 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 a decision.” Her lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks.

Tavin’s gaze fixed on her.

“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.”

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.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for choosing The Reluctant Guardian. I hope you enjoyed spending time with Tavin and Gemma in Regency-era Britain.

There is no record of the Board of Customs ever employing undercover operatives like Tavin (although you and I know the truth!), but the “Lady in Red” mentioned in the story was a real person. In the early 1800s, a young woman named Lovey Warne assisted her family’s illegal smuggling endeavors by climbing Vereley Hill in Hampshire to look out for revenue men. If she saw any, she’d signal her brothers below to stay away by donning a red cloak.

It’s hard to believe smugglers were so bold as to carry out their illicit trade in broad daylight, but the historical account of a fellow named Warner claims a caravan of over twenty wagons hauled smuggled goods from Christchurch into the New Forest during the day, guarded by over two hundred horsemen! A solitary revenue agent on patrol stood no chance against such an army, day or night.

Should you pass through Hampshire today, you can visit Vereley Hill (quite similar to Gemma’s Verity Hill) and stand in Lovey Warne’s footsteps. Perhaps you can even imagine Gemma in her red cloak, arm in arm with Tavin, as they enjoy the view and keep a careful eye on Petey and Eddie, who are getting into all kinds of mischief.

I love hearing from readers, and if you’d like to say hello, please drop by my website, www.susannedietze.com, or my Facebook page, SusanneDietzeBooks.

May the Lord bless you and keep you!

Susanne

SUSANNE DIETZE began writing love stories in high school, casting her friends in the starring roles. Today, she’s blessed to be the author of over half a dozen historical romances. Married to a pastor and the mom of two, Susanne loves fancy-schmancy tea parties, cozy socks, and curling up on the couch with a costume drama and a plate of nachos. You can find her online at www.susannedietze.com.

The Reluctant Guardian

Susanne Dietze

www.millsandboon.co.uk

So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.

—John 8:36

For Karl, my champion, who encouraged my writing, endured historical fashion exhibits, listened while I gabbed about my imaginary friends and always believed this day would come. I’m glad you’re mine, honey.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Hampshire, England, 1817

With a furtive pat, Gemma Lyfeld blotted her nerve-damp palms on her white muslin gown. It would not do to receive a marriage proposal with moist hands. Or silly apprehensions. Besides, it was just Hugh. Her neighbor.

And she’d been expecting this moment since she was a child. Today, at long last, he’d requested privacy with her in the drawing room.

She shifted closer on the sofa to the Honorable Hugh Beauchamp and placed her clammy hands in his. It had been years since she’d sat this close to him, eye level with the crescent-moon scar on his chin he’d received when they were eight.

“I do.” She bit her lip at once. Too soon.

Hugh’s pale lashes blinked over wide blue eyes. “Pardon?”

“I do...want to hear what you have to say.” She squeezed encouragement into his fingers. “No need to be shy.”

He pulled back one hand and tapped her nose with a long finger. “Never with you, Gem, not after all our adventures. And you’re about to have another one. A Season in London, at last.”

Gemma glanced at the mantel clock. Her sister-in-law, Cristobel, had allotted them ten minutes, scarcely enough time to remark on the drizzle, much less accomplish a satisfying marriage proposal. But if conversation set a nervous Hugh at ease, some trivial talk was worth the end result.

“Long last. Cristobel couldn’t deny me my come-out this year. I’m practically on the shelf.”

“Not for long.” He smiled.

A shiver of anticipation skittered up her arms like the first breeze of spring, chill but pleasant, expectant of blossoms and bees.

“Don’t say you’re scared, Gem.”

Of what? Marriage or making her debut in society at the advanced age of four-and-twenty?

“No. I am ready.” For both. Even though her insides quivered like a Christmas pudding.

“You’ll love London. So many things to see and do.”

“Will you introduce me to your favorite places?”

“It is my friends to whom I cannot wait to introduce you. They’ll adore you, and you, them. One in particular, with whom I’ve grown quite close—”

The sound of boot steps in the hall swept under the door, silencing Hugh and pulling his gaze to the closed portal behind her. Gemma swung her head to stare at the oak expanse. Ten minutes could not have yet passed, but with Gemma’s sister, Amy, and her husband, Lord Wyling, here to fetch her to London, the house was full of people—children and servants and Wyling’s vexing associate, Mr. Knox. Any one of them could interrupt.

When the door failed to open, she turned back in time to see Hugh take a painful-looking swallow.

“Speaking of friendship.” His gaze met hers. “Sometimes a gentleman has...moments in life. Do you understand my meaning?”

She nodded. I do, I do.

“You and I have been friends for an age.”

“Forever.” Her mouth was dry as vellum, but their joined hands were slick with sweat.

“There has l-long been an informal understanding between our families that you and I would w-wed. Nothing binding, but expected.” He shifted. Did one knee lower a smidgen off the edge of the sofa? Gemma’s breath hitched.

“Gem.”

“Hugh.” Her voice was just above a whisper.

“The time has come to—”

With the click of the latch and a swoosh, the drawing room door swung wide on its hinge. Hugh dropped her hands like they were used handkerchiefs and popped to his feet.

“Oh.” With a single syllable, the baritone voice of Tavin Knox conveyed surprise and, to Gemma’s frustration, amusement.

She didn’t need to turn to know their houseguest grinned. No doubt that left brow of his arched, too. He had seemed unable to contain either response whenever he’d seen her with Hugh this past week.

“May I assist you, Mr. Knox?”

“I was looking for your brother. Or Lord Wyling. But I, er, perceive they’re not in the room.”

She spun to face him. Sure enough, Mr. Knox’s eyebrow curved. So did the corners of his lips, prompting a dimple to wink in the curve of his cheek. Other ladies no doubt found the expression on his fine-looking face charming, but she was practically betrothed and had no business noticing such things, no matter how appealing.

Besides, he was no one to her. A friend of Wyling’s who’d tagged along with him to Hampshire. Something about having business, the nature of which he’d not shared with the ladies. No matter how subtly she had tried to ask.

“I cannot say where Lord Wyling might be found, but my brother is out shooting. You are welcome to borrow a horse and set out after him.” Preferably deep into the New Forest, taking his dimple with him.

He grinned. “Thank you. Pardon my interruption—”

“Nothing to interrupt.” Hugh’s serious expression from thirty seconds past vanished, replaced by his affable smile.

Gemma hopped up. “Hugh, we can walk in the garden if you—”

“Too wet for a stroll, Gem. I must be off, at any rate. I leave for London in the morning. Do stay, Mr. Knox, and keep my old neighbor company.”

Old neighbor?

Mr. Knox’s grin slipped.

“I’ll call on you after you’re settled at Amy and Wyling’s.”

Gemma licked her still-dry lips. For six years, she’d been confined by Cristobel in a cage of obligation. Hugh was the key to her escape. A sigh escaped her lips. Could she endure a fortnight more?

She forced a smile. “Until then, Hugh.”

He bowed. “Safe travels, Gem. Mr. Knox, I hope your business is tempered with pleasure while you visit Verity House.”

Mr. Knox stepped into the room so Hugh could exit. “My stay has been most productive. And entertaining, I assure you.”

Entertaining, indeed. Gemma’s lips compressed over clenched teeth as Hugh took his leave, her hopes trailing his pea-green coattails. And she had Mr. Knox to thank.

He couldn’t help his poor timing. But she could fault him his horrid manners.

She skewered him with a scowl. “I am delighted my private affairs offered you a moment of diversion.” She twirled to leave.

“Peace, Miss Lyfeld.” His fingers alit just above her elbow, searing her bare skin with heat. “My words did not come out as I wished. I am not known for making good company, I’m afraid. Forgive me?”

He stood as close as Hugh had, near enough that she could smell leather and horse clinging to his black coat—and something else. The scent provoked long-forgotten memories of freedom, sending her pulse fluttering. No cologne or soap. He smelled like the forest. Wood and water.

Words didn’t form, so she nodded and pulled from his light grasp, moving to the wide window, which afforded the best view in the house. Beyond the drive, where Hugh’s carriage toddled away, acres of heath and copses of trees led to the New Forest. Knolls of green, including their local landmark, Verity Hill, added texture to the prospect. But Gemma didn’t find the scenery picturesque today.

“Such gloom on your features. Am I truly forgiven?”

Since they had first met last week, he’d yet to look at her with such intensity, as if he truly cared what she thought. But of course he did not. What would he know—or care—of her plight, whose lone option was to go from one man’s household to another, provided her sister-in-law let her go and her intended groom worked up the courage to ask?

“I cannot hold a grudge when God forgave me, can I?”

His head tipped, sending a curl of rich brown hair onto his forehead like an upside-down question mark. “I see.”

Did he? No matter. “Pardon me, but I am needed elsewhere.”

With a nod, she left him leaning against the mantelpiece. She ascended the main stair with unladylike haste, entering Cristobel’s salon in a rush.

Two ladies, one fair-haired, the other with curls the light brown color of Gemma’s, perched on Chippendale chairs, a tea tray set on the table before them. At Gemma’s entrance, her sister, Amy, rose, curls bobbing against her cheeks. “Well?”

Their sister-in-law, Cristobel, grimaced. “Eight minutes, Gemma. And?”

“He did not propose.” The words tasted like bile.

Amy reached for Gemma’s hands. “I cannot believe it of Hugh.”

“I can.” Cristobel shrugged, making her blond hair bounce against her shoulders. “He’s too much a coward to admit he wants out after all these years.”

Gemma pulled away from her sister. “These years he’s been considerate, waiting while I was in mourning for Mama and Papa. And assisting you, Cristobel.” Through her nephews’ infancies, Gemma had nursed them in health and illness. It had taken Amy’s strong reminder of propriety—and her promise to cover all expenses—to persuade Peter and Cristobel to allow Gemma a come-out.

“Considerate? He’s left you dangling for ages. For all your talk about his decency, that dandy has had years to come up to scratch. Instead, he’s left you unavailable to other gentlemen while your youth crumbles away.”

“A betrothal was discussed.” Amy regained her seat.

“Between parents who were too foolish to do more than daydream about a match.” Cristobel twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Now the notion is long dead, like them.”

Gemma’s fingers clenched. “Six years may have passed, but there is nothing long dead in our grief.”

“Of course not.” Cristobel’s eyes widened. “The way your mama and papa perished—well, a tragedy like that would haunt the person responsible forever, not that anyone believes it’s your fault, Gemma dear.”

“Because it wasn’t my fault, Cristobel.” Gemma prayed her words were true. She turned to the door. “I require air.”

“Take the boys with you. They need exercise,” Cristobel called after her.

Amy followed her to her chamber. “You were not the cause of the fire at the dower house, Gemma. Everyone knows it.”

Gemma yanked a bonnet and her cherry wool cloak from the wardrobe. She’d heard it countless times, but it never helped. “Thank you.”

“Do you wish me to accompany you?”

“I prefer solitude. I know Cristobel asked me to take the boys, but they nap at this time.”

“If Cristobel ever visited the nursery, she’d know that.” Amy’s hand rested on Gemma’s arm, warming the same spot Mr. Knox had touched. Her eyes held a similar intensity, too. “You’re more of a mother to Petey and Eddie than she is.”

“You mustn’t say that. But I shall miss the boys dreadfully while I’m in London.” She pushed away the sad thought. “Cristobel is wrong, you know. Hugh will propose, and when we wed, I will live next door and I shall see the boys every day.”

Amy’s brows scrunched. “But do you wish to marry Hugh? I know it’s what our fathers wanted, but do you love him?”

Gemma tied the bonnet’s pink ribbon under her chin with a fierce tug. “There is friendship between us. How many women can claim such blessing?”

“Few. But I want love for you, too.”

“Doing my duty and caring for our nephews—that is all I hope for.”

“Perhaps God has more for you. Trust Him, Gemma.”

Hot tears pricked the back of her eyes. She had set aside any such dreams long ago. Still, she nodded at her sister before she hurried outside.

She strode down the drive in seconds, at such a pace. Angry as she was with Cristobel, it was Mr. Knox whose face filled her thoughts. She swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Hugh’s retreat was not Mr. Knox’s fault. But, oh, how glad she was Tavin Knox and his amused, arched brow would not be in London to watch her wait for Hugh’s proposal.

She stomped through sodden grass toward the copse of trees skirting the base of Verity Hill like an emerald-ribboned hem. Above the trees, the rise loomed green and steep before her. She hadn’t stood at the top in a long time, but reaching its crest, perched higher than her surroundings, would feel defiant. Victorious, somehow.

Gemma would conquer Verity Hill, since she appeared incapable of surmounting any other obstacle in her life.

* * *

At the sound of movement behind him, Tavin lowered the spyglass and slid it under his coat. Would he never get the drawing room to himself?

Tavin spun and then let out a breath. It was only Wyling. He passed his friend the spyglass. “Aye, since the whole purpose for coming here was to stand at this window today.”

“Am I supposed to see anything?”

“Soon. They’re coming from the far side of the hill. Once they come ’round this side and enter the trees, I’ll know it’s safe for me to climb to the summit.”

“Where your informant will have left you something of an incriminating nature?” Wyling confirmed. “One would think a path called Smuggler’s Road would be better concealed. Same with those who make use of it. Are they not called Gentlemen of the Night for a reason?”

“Usually.” A grin pulled at Tavin’s cheeks. “But here in the New Forest, smuggling occurs regardless of the hour. And you can see how the Smuggler’s Road allows visibility for miles. Should a revenue agent be about on his rounds, the free traders can hide in the dense foliage of the forest.”

“But that won’t happen today. You led the revenue man on a false trail, correct?”

“For his own protection. He’s north, leaving Smuggler’s Road clear for the party hauling contraband from Christchurch.” He hoped. “It’s imperative this plan to learn more about how the smuggling ring works.”

Nothing had worked for so long. What it would feel like to get the upper hand for a change? To at last put a stop to the smuggler known as The Sovereign—a murderer who thought so highly of himself that he called himself after the king.

While Wyling used the spyglass, Tavin’s thoughts returned to Miss Lyfeld, her light brown hair framing her sad blue eyes when she spoke of being forgiven. Did she question God’s forgiveness like he did? She had no reason to. Of course she was absolved. Her sins were no doubt the sort God could easily pardon. She was no thief, no liar. No murderer.

Something he could never claim.

“I upset Miss Lyfeld. Again.” He fumbled with the cuff of his black coat.

“Did Gemma wish to know your whereabouts yesterday? I gather you didn’t tell her.”

“No, I walked in on her and Beauchamp.”

“Did he do it, then?” Wyling lowered the spyglass, his expression eager. “Are they betrothed?”

“He looked like he was being strangled by his cravat, so it’s possible he was about to ask. But they hadn’t finished their conversation when Beauchamp left.”

“You didn’t leave them to it?” Wyling’s brows lowered.

“I made an attempt.” The words sounded feeble.

“You should have tried harder. She’s waited years for Hugh to gather his courage.”

“Don’t give me that look. I thought he was just making moon eyes.”

“Cristobel would not have allotted privacy for mere moon eyes.”

“I don’t have sisters. How should I know?”

“Because you’re a gentleman. Alone means betrothal.”

Tavin shook his head. Had he known that? Perhaps. But he was no gentleman anymore. These past years, he had stuffed his upbringing away with the natural efficiency he demonstrated when tucking a trouser cuff inside a boot.

Nonetheless, the trouser cuff was still there, even though it was not visible. Why had he forgotten everything he’d been taught?

“I am incapable of interacting with decent people anymore.”

“That’s not true.” His friend clapped his shoulder. “But you have been among a different sort for too long. I hope it will not be much longer before you can stop this sort of thing.”

Tavin took the spyglass, aiming it toward the New Forest, as thick with thieves as trees. Weary as he was with his life, he had a debt to repay. Perhaps if he succeeded today, he’d be able to cease being an undercover agent for the Board of Customs. He could serve King and country in another—less dangerous—capacity.

He scanned the view. No activity on the hilltop. “I’ll apologize to her again later, but right now—”

He thrust the spyglass at Wyling. “This makes no sense.”

“What?”

Tavin pointed to a red-cloaked figure emerging from the trees, ascending the hill at a smart pace.

“It’s Gemma. Out for a walk.”

“Wearing a red cloak.” His plan unraveled like a skein of yarn at the paws of a cat. “I’ve got to stop her before—”

“What?” Wyling gripped his arm, wasting precious seconds.

“She’s signaling the smugglers, whether she knows it or not. There’s a woman in these parts. She mounts that hill to signal her brethren to turn back if a government man is nearby. By night she burns a lamp. By day, she dons a red cloak. Like the one Gemma is wearing.”

“And the smugglers will see her.” Wyling’s ruddy complexion paled.

“Aye. And if they turn ’round, they’ll smack into the revenue agent. If they stay the course, they’ll encounter Miss Lyfeld and may not treat her kindly.”

Tavin spun from Wyling’s grasp, bounding downstairs and out the front door. The spongy earth sucked at his boots as he ran across the park toward the hill.

You have no reason to answer me, God, but she’s an innocent. And this job is too essential to fail.

His breath came in stabbing gasps. His side ached as if he’d been dealt a blow to the ribs. But nothing would slow him. He’d worked months for this day—planned and prayed and waited.

This was justice for his sins, he supposed. He’d ruined Miss Lyfeld’s marriage proposal. And now she was about to ruin his chance to end this case once and for all.

Chapter Two

“My life is not ruined.” Gemma’s breath grew labored as she ascended the gentle slope. “Cristobel is wrong. Hugh is too honorable to go against our families’ wishes.”

Saying the words aloud helped her believe them. If only Mr. Knox had not scared Hugh away... No. It was not worth playing the if-only game. Once started, she would never quit. Her list of losses was lengthy enough to fill pages of foolscap. And writing such a pitiful list accomplished nothing.

Unlike a list of blessings. She had much to be grateful for, regardless of her circumstances. All around her, the glossy green leaves of bluebells carpeted the landscape. Gusts of wind stirred yellow-flowered gorse and rustled through the budding oaks, carrying the clean fragrance of rain.

Thank Thee, Lord.

How pleasant it would be to reach the summit of the little hill and enjoy the view. Gemma marched on. Then stopped.

She was no longer alone.

A plain-dressed man hiked toward her, his gaze on the trees. Skirting the hill behind him, a loaded cart trudged across the chalky Smuggler’s Road. A small party of musket-bearing men trailed in its wake, followed by a lone rider on an ink-dark horse.

Free traders.

Not that ladies spoke of such things in polite company. Nevertheless, the wealthy and poor alike avoided paying taxes and Customs duties on their tea or laces by purchasing smuggled goods, illegal though it might be. Who knew how much revenue the government had lost to smugglers? Peter and Wyling obeyed the law and shunned smuggled goods, of course. But as a child, Gemma hadn’t understood the illegal nature of the smugglers’ work. Years ago she and Hugh had followed Smuggler’s Road, pretending they hauled exotic wares from Christchurch Harbor, with plans to sell their imaginary spoils from the sanctuary of a ditch under the trees.

It was one thing to play a criminal as a child. It was quite another to engage the illicit fellows. Gemma hastened back down her side of the hill. Perhaps she had gone unnoticed.

“Ho!” The yell dispelled the notion she had not been seen. She quickened her steps, rolling her ankle in the process and slowing her gait to a painful, awkward trot.

A hand gripped her shoulder and turned her about. He was young, this smuggler, with pocked cheeks, a slack jaw and protruding teeth. “’Oo are you?”

“No one who wants trouble.”

“’Oo is it, Bill?” A shout called from above.

“Nobody, I think.”

Then let go of my arm.

A shot boomed from the trees, echoing off the hill. The sound reverberated while the smugglers burst into activity. The inky horse galloped up the hill. Its rider wore a look of thunder to match the rumble of his horse’s hooves.

“She’s not nobody, you fool.” He dismounted and yanked her from Bill. His free hand smacked her cheek, sending shock and pain through her jaw.

“She’s a trap.”

Gemma’s vision sparked red. “I don’t know what you mean. Unhand me.”

Another shot cracked through the drizzle. “Hide before you’re shot,” the horseman ordered his fellows. Then he ripped her bonnet from her head. “You’re too young for the Lady in Red. Too refined of speech to be a government girl. Whom do you serve?”

She wrestled against him. “I said unhand me.”

“I’ll not be generous because you are female, Jezebel. Whom do you serve?”

“No one—”

“Lies.” He yanked her arm as if she were a cloth doll, pulling her toward his horse.

The world seemed to darken at the edges, but she fought against the sensation. She must stay alert. Memorize his features so she could describe him to the magistrate when she escaped.

Taller than Peter but shorter than Hugh. Brown hair, gray at the temples. Blue eyes. About forty years of age. And a fetter-strong grip she had to break.

She twisted into him. Her free hand grasped the fingers shackling her and jerked them back. Then she kicked.

Her boot found his knee. He let go and she ran.

Her rolled ankle protested each step, but she dared not slow. The sting of the smuggler’s slap still prickled her cheek, and she didn’t care to suffer more from his hands.

Dashing through a gap in the trees, she hurtled into the dark of the woods toward home. Perhaps if she screamed for help—

Fresh pain pressed her arm and tethered her to the spot. A grip far tighter than the smuggler’s captured her and spun her around. She prepared to kick.

Father, make my aim true.

* * *

Pain split Tavin’s shin, but his Hessian boots did a fair job protecting him. He swept Miss Lyfeld’s leg back with his and covered her mouth with his hand. “I’m here to help,” he whispered. “But you must be quiet, or they will find us.”

Her clear blue eyes narrowed when she recognized him. At her nod, his hand fell. He beckoned her deeper into the woods. “Let’s go.”

“What are you doing here?” Her tone was an accusation, as if this was his fault. Well, it was. In part. Still, she had no way of knowing that. Could she speak to him—even in a whisper—without sounding like a wasp about to sting?

“Later.” He’d not noticed the welt blossoming across her cheek until now. Tavin’s fingers itched to return the favor to the man responsible. “Are you hurt?”

“More furious than anything.”

“I want to hear the details, but we must hurry.”

“Aren’t we safe now that we’re in the trees?”

A shot cracked into the trunk of a nearby oak. Not as safe as she’d hoped.

He pulled her by the hand and ran. Dodged trees. She slid, and when he pulled her back to stand, she winced. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. My ankle twisted on the hilltop.”

“I’ll carry you.” One arm swept around her shoulders. The other scooped behind her knees, but she stepped out of his hold.

“I won’t slow us down.”

His estimation of her raised a notch. “Come on, then.”

Crack. Would they never stop shooting? Another crack, as a bullet struck a tree. Then a third, hitting ground. Moldy leaves skittered up the hem of her cloak. Of course. He tugged her behind a thick oak and pulled on the cloak’s fastener at her throat.

Her fingers fought his. “What you are doing?”

“The red draws his eye.” He yanked the garment off and wadded it, inside out, into a ball. He stuffed it under his arm and gripped her hand again. To his surprise, she curled her fingers around his, pulling him to the right.

“My home is that way.”

“Not yet.” He jogged with her in tow for a short distance. Releasing her hand, he slid into a ditch, then lifted his arms. Before he could instruct her, she leaned into him. Her breath was hot against his cheek when he lowered her beside him. “Not much farther.”

He’d spent the past few days scouting these woods, never imagining he’d be running from gunfire with Gemma. He pushed aside a clump of foliage and gestured for her to precede him through.

Smelling of decay and earth, the small clearing offered slight protection. “A moment’s rest.” He gestured to a fallen oak where she could sit while he thought.

“The Gypsy camp.” She touched her ankle and winced. “Why did we not go straight home?”

“We cannot risk being followed.” He walked the clearing’s perimeter, straining to see movement through the trees. “You don’t want them to know where you live and thereby learn your identity.”

“But I meant them no harm.”

“They may have believed that, until someone started firing a weapon.”

“That was not you?”

“Do you see a musket?” He didn’t even have a pistol.

“Then who shot at them?”

“It came from here in the trees. I’d fathom a guess I’m not the only person in Hampshire displeased with that particular group of smugglers.”

“There are more?”

It was hard not to laugh. “Many. And it’s a competitive field.”

She pushed a damp curl from her cheek. Without her bonnet or cloak, she appeared vulnerable and young, but not as young as he’d first thought. Her cheeks had lost some of the fullness of girlhood. She may be about to embark on her come-out, but she was no chit fresh from the schoolroom. “This makes no sense.”

It did to Tavin, but he’d not explain now.

A rustle. Tavin spun, his hand reaching behind his back for his knife—

Through a parting in the leaves, a dun-colored body sauntered several yards’ distant. Tavin’s shoulders relaxed.

“A pony.” He could hear the smile in her tone. “They run wild in the forest.”

“And it wants naught to do with us.” Tavin watched the creature. Its ears twitched, but it didn’t exhibit signs of alarm as it disappeared around a group of trees. That boded well for him, and Miss Lyfeld, too. He gestured for her to rise. “I’ve not heard a shot in a while. We’ll take a roundabout way and return to the house.”

“Where you will explain all of this to me?”

Her tone brooked no argument. Nor did the set of her jaw.

Better to change the subject than agree. “You said the man meant to take you with him. How did you break away?”

“I would not be a good aunt to two boys if I paid no mind to their tricks.”

Despite himself, he laughed. His smile fell when he reached the far side of the clearing. The pond he’d planned to skirt had swollen from last night’s torrent, blocking their path. “We could have walked around it yesterday.”

“You don’t mean we’re going through it.”

“I see no better option. We aren’t visible, with the trees circling us. And I’m certain the pond isn’t deep. Must I carry you?” He meant his words to be gallant, but they sounded frustrated. Of course. Everything he said came out wrong with Miss Lyfeld.

She squared her shoulders, shot him a glare and marched into the pond ahead of him.

* * *

Gemma might as well have trudged barefoot through snow. Spring-chilled water soaked her to the knees and flooded her kid boots, which found little purchase on the slimy stones underfoot. Not that she would complain. This was not the first time she’d crossed a pond.

“Take care with your steps,” he warned, “but make haste.”

“Make haste,” she mimicked, muttering under her breath, “but don’t slip—”

Faster than a blink, her twisted ankle rolled. Her foot slid out from under her.

Mr. Knox grasped her arm, pulling her upright. She expected to be chastised, but his eyes were soft and warm, like her morning chocolate.

Then he slipped, pulling her into the frigid water.

Gemma’s hands and rear smacked the stony bottom. Her backside stung, but she waved off Mr. Knox’s outstretched hand and stood on her own power. Shivering as the wind’s chill fingers stroked her soaked garments, she hastened toward the edge of the pool, thoughts of a hot cup of tea and thick blanket urging her forward. At least her front side was dry.

He extended his hand. “May I—”

“No.” She would do this.

Her wet gown tangled around her legs and she slipped again, this time landing on her elbows and belly. Frigid water drenched her bodice and lapped her chin as tendrils of slimy water plants tickled her neck.

Mr. Knox hauled her into his arms, as a lamb to its shepherd. With a sharp catch, her breath stuck in her throat, and her face warmed despite her soggy state. She’d never been this close to a gentleman before. She’d always imagined Hugh’s future embrace, slow to unfold, tentative, with a proper distance between them.

Mr. Knox’s arms felt nothing like her imaginings. He held her so close she could hear his heart thudding against her cheek, and his arms were solid and blessedly warm around her. Her insides flipped and rearranged themselves, and all she wanted was to turn her head toward his warmth and wish he could carry her all the way home—

What nonsense was this? She didn’t even like Tavin Knox. Did she?

He didn’t like her, either. But then he set her down on the bank, leaving her skin cold and her heart thumping, and his hand rose as if he’d touch her face.

“Hold still.” His fingers brushed damp tendrils of hair from her chin. More intimacies she’d never permitted a gentleman. Her pulse pattered in her ears as he leaned closer.

“You’ve a leech on your neck.”

All tender sentiment vanished. Her fingers flew to her collar. “Get it off.”

“Patience.” He glanced about, reminding Gemma of a dog sniffing the air for a fox. “Come into the trees.”

He led her into the cover of the oaks. She lifted her chin and he set to work with a touch far gentler than she expected. His fingers pressed her skin, first under her ear, then lower, where her pulse throbbed in a frenetic beat. Gemma forced her breath into evenness, concentrating on the calming sounds of the forest—the rustle of wind in the trees, the chit-chit of a nuthatch.

Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact that she hosted a leech. While wearing a sodden gown, allowing a man she didn’t like—or maybe did—to touch her neck.

Or that she’d been slapped by a stranger. Who then had shot at her.

“There.” Mr. Knox flicked a brown blur from his fingers. “Just think, you’d normally pay a physician for the privilege of losing your blood.”

For a moment his eyes met hers, then another shot cleaved the quiet.

A smuggler, or the man on the inky horse? Mr. Knox had her by the hand again. “Let’s go.”

They hurried, twigs scratching her arms and snapping in her hair. The trees thinned and they hastened over the path and then the slick grass behind the house.

They hurried through a French door into the ground-floor library of Verity House. Amy and her husband, Lord Wyling, hurried toward her, their faces etched with fear.

Amy’s arms reached out. “Darling. Let’s get you dry, shall we?”

“Amy, there were smugglers on the hill and then—Mr. Knox, where are you going?”

He brushed past toward the hall door, Wyling at his heels. “My business cannot wait, madam.”

“It must.” She stomped after him. “You know why this happened, don’t you? You aren’t the least shocked. Who chased us and why?”

The eyes that had gazed on her with warmth earlier now stared, dull as coal dust. “I don’t know him, but he would have interrogated you and perhaps killed you because you wore this.” Her cloak was still under his arm, and he dropped the sodden mess onto a chair. “Burn it.”

This was maddening. Mr. Knox, Wyling, Amy—not one of them showing the least amount of astonishment at today’s extraordinary events. Concern, yes, but they knew much more than she did. He’d said they’d speak later. Well, that time was now. “I demand to know what’s about, Mr. Knox. And I’m keeping my cloak.”

“Burn it,” he ordered, his hand on the doorknob. “Because that man will be thirsty to silence whoever wears it.”

Chapter Three

After leaving Miss Lyfeld in the house, Tavin and Wyling dashed up Verity Hill in the mad hope Tavin’s informant, Bill Simple, had dropped the promised clue before everything went wrong.

They’d found naught but Gemma’s discarded bonnet and a separate green ribbon, the hue of a budding oak leaf, wedged half under a stone.

It might be debris, carried atop the hill by the wind.

Or mayhap it was the promised clue to help Tavin comprehend the Sovereign’s plan. Nothing else made by human hands lay atop Verity Hill, although he and Wyling had spent more than an hour searching. No note, no sample of smuggled goods. Just a cheap ribbon lodged under a rock, its ends cut by a jagged edge.

Rubbish or clue?

What he wouldn’t give for silence to ponder things. Or to still be outside, where it was cool. Instead, he was now incarcerated in the Lyfelds’ overwarm drawing room, subjected to an incessant barrage of moans.

Eyes shut, Cristobel Lyfeld lounged on the sofa where Gemma—he’d given up trying to call her Miss Lyfeld in his head—had held hands with Hugh Beauchamp hours ago. “What will the neighbors say when they learn Gemma was mistaken for a smuggler? We will be pariahs.”

“No one will know.” Gemma perched beside her sister-in-law, blotting a compress on her brow as if she tended a feverish child.

This was ludicrous. His superior at the Custom House must be informed. In person. Tavin didn’t dare entrust a message—even a coded one—to a servant. “I must return to London with all haste. If I might—”

“I am faint! Oh!” Cristobel groaned, no closer to fainting than he was, and everyone in the drawing room seemed to know it. Wyling looked out the window, Peter studied his boots and Amy handed Gemma a cup of tea with a resigned air. Gemma alone ministered to Cristobel, murmuring words of comfort as she lifted the cup to Cristobel’s lips. She may have poor taste in suitors, but Gemma proved herself a capable, calm sort of female.

Pity she could not assist his work. Many of his hired men didn’t possess her patience.

Since their return from the forest, she’d washed and changed into a fresh white gown. A gauze scarf about her neck hid any trace of the leech’s bloodletting. “Mr. Knox, I am yet unsatisfied with your explanation.”

Of course she was. “I have told you all I can.”

She set down the teacup and hobbled toward him, favoring her untwisted foot. The scarf didn’t quite cover the kiss of the leech, after all, for the crimson Y-shaped mark was bright against her skin.

“All you’ve told us is that you work for the government and in my red cloak I looked like a certain lady smuggler.”

“Those are both true.”

“But you aren’t telling us everything. I insist to know what this is about, Mr. Knox. You owe me that.”

“Gemma.” Cristobel roused from the sofa. “Mr. Knox will think you a hoyden, speaking so boldly.”

But Gemma was right. Tavin had told her almost nothing, and if he was in her place, he’d be vexed, too. He rubbed his temple.

“Smuggling activity has increased in the area of late, with fatalities, so the government sent an investigator. Mr. Thomason. My friend.” Tavin swallowed past the sudden ache of pain brought by speaking Thomason’s name. “He was tasked with disbanding the ring led by a man who calls himself the Sovereign. But Thomason was killed.”

Not just killed. Left as a message, tied to a tree, a sovereign coin on his tongue. The Sovereign must think himself clever, leaving the coins as a signature.

Gemma’s eyes were soft. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Tavin nodded his thanks. “You can understand why it is so vital to me to stop the Sovereign, but he’s never been identified or thwarted. Until today. By you.”

Gemma flinched. Cristobel moaned.

Peter stood, and said, “When Wyling brought you to me, you said I’d be serving the Crown, allowing you to conduct your business here. You never said it would put my family in danger.”

“The danger existed long before I arrived.” Tavin stepped to the center of the room. “It met your sister on the bounds of your own property.”

“You knew, Peter?” Gemma strode past him, hands fisting. “You all knew? Yet no one thought to tell me. Even you, Amy?”

“We couldn’t, dear.” Amy bit her lip.

Overhead, the patter of small but heavy footsteps drummed like a tambour, rat-a-tatting across the nursery floor. Masters Petey and Eddie had escaped their inept nursery maid yet again. The Lyfeld boys were more of a handful than a sack of cats.

A memory flashed through Tavin’s brain, decades old, of him and his brother, Hamish, causing a ruckus by introducing a toad to their nurse’s pocket—

A ragged gasp tore from Gemma’s throat. Her gaze, fixed on the ceiling where the boys’ footsteps echoed, were wide. “The children. What if they’d been outdoors? They might have been shot. Or taken.”

Gemma cared more for the bairns thunking about above stairs than did their own mother. Tavin’s throat ached. “They were not. They are safe.”

She swiped her eyes. “If those children had been touched—”

“They weren’t. All I expected today was the drop of a clue—”

“Something else was expected, too.” Hugh Beauchamp’s proposal. Her voice was clear and cutting as glass, slicing into a part of his conscience he didn’t know felt pain anymore. “I would say that everything that’s happened to me today is your fault, Mr. Knox.”

* * *

The snapping of logs in the fireplace—a noise that always set Gemma’s nerves to fraying—was the lone sound in the drawing room while everyone’s surprised stares fixed on her.

Oh, dear. She shouldn’t have spoken like that. Mama had taught her better. “Forgive me.”

Mr. Knox’s brow quirked. Was he amused or aggrieved? “It is I who requires forgiveness, yet again, Miss Lyfeld.”

“I cannot blame you for today’s...events.” Her slapped jaw ached. Her ankle throbbed. Noise from Petey and Eddie’s exuberant play pounded against the ceiling, assaulting her temples but providing a means of escape. “Excuse me while I see to those boisterous boys.”

“You cannot go, Gemma.” Cristobel clutched the arms of the settee, her fingers like talons gripping the painted silk.

“I cannot see to the boys?” Was there more she didn’t know?

“You cannot go to London. Smugglers, weapons, the boys. I am in far too delicate a state to do without you now. You must forgo your come-out.”

Gemma’s next breath shook. She should have expected such news, for she’d heard it annually these past six years. The familiar pangs of conflict twisted within her. Every year when Cristobel postponed Gemma’s come-out, Gemma experienced a sense of relief, for she would be able to tend to the boys.

But there was also a feeling of loss. She yearned to experience the world. To leave this house and Cristobel’s domineering thumb.

Perhaps keeping her from London was God’s protection. She might well grow greedy in the capital. Yearn to visit more of the world. She would meet handsome gentlemen and might like one too much. She was promised to Hugh, even though she did not love him. Staying home prevented her from falling into temptation.

The hair on her nape prickled, causing her to look up. Mr. Knox stared at her, his brow still quirked, as if he could read her thoughts.

Ridiculous. He knew nothing of her. She turned away. “Mayhap it is for the—”

“It is not.” Amy stood. “Peter will be Baron Lindsay someday. It is expected that his sisters be presented at Court. Peter?”

“I cannot manage alone,” Cristobel interjected. “Those boys are too much to be borne.”

“We have a nursemaid,” Peter murmured.

“I shall take the children with me.” Gemma should have asked Amy and Wyling first. Her gaze begged them. “Will that ease your burden, Cristobel?”

Mr. Knox watched her, his face etched with—what?—disbelief. No matter. This didn’t concern him a whit.

“We would welcome them.” Amy laced her arm through her husband’s. “Think how the boys would enjoy London.”

Wyling, bless him, nodded. “We’ve plenty of room.”

Stomping and shrieks continued to sound from above. Gemma itched to join them. And tell them to quiet down, of course. After she embraced them.

Cristobel sighed. “For the Season. Then you must return home.”

Joy rose in Gemma’s chest. Amy sent her a triumphant grin. Wyling smiled. Peter stared at the rug. Mr. Knox, however, glowered. “I suggest we leave tomorrow, then.”

“We?”

His arms folded over his strong chest. “I will escort you. As long as you remain in Hampshire, you should not dismiss the danger of crossing paths again with the Sovereign.”

* * *

London filled Tavin’s eyes and ears and nose, familiar in its looming buildings, loud traffic and the sharp smell of the Thames. Home. Yet this didn’t feel like a homecoming.

He envied Wyling, who dismounted his horse outside his town house on Berkeley Square and assisted the women and children from the coach. Two long days’ travel had taken its toll on Tavin’s body and his nerves. He would not be off his own bay, Raghnall, for a while yet, and their rest would be brief. Come dawn, he and Raghnall would be back on the road to Hampshire.

“But I wish to ride Mr. Knox’s horse again.” Petey Lyfeld’s freckled features were burnished with eagerness as the six-year-old gazed up at Tavin. “Why did you name your horse Ronald?”

Tavin laughed. “Rao-nall.” He spelled Raghnall’s name as he patted the gelding’s broad neck. “It is an old word that means wisdom and power.” A tiny reminder of the Gaelic tongue that had infused his childhood.

“A fitting name for a fine bit of blood and bone.” Petey sounded like his father. “I should like to ride again with you, sir.”

“Me, too.” Eddie, Petey’s ginger-haired four-year-old brother, pushed forward.

“Another day, perhaps.” Gemma inserted herself between the boys. Despite the hours of wearying travel and the boys’ precociousness, her voice was gentle. “We are at Uncle Wyling’s.”

“And I must take my leave.”

The boys’ faces fell. A pang of conscience speared Tavin’s gut, but he wasn’t obligated to give horsey rides to children. What had possessed him to take them up with him, in turns, after they’d left the posting inn today, anyway?

Ever the gracious hostess, Amy inclined her head toward the house. “Will you not at least partake of a cold collation?”

The boys jumped. “Please,” Petey begged. “Say you will.”

“I cannot.” Tavin hoped his smile was apologetic enough to placate the children.

“I want to ride Raghnall more.” Eddie stuck a finger in his mouth. Petey still hopped.

Despite his best intentions, Tavin puffed out an impatient sigh. With every passing minute, his investigation cooled like bread going stale on a windowsill.

Gemma’s lips pinched. “Mr. Knox must be on his way. He is a busy gentleman.”

“Like Papa.” Eddie’s face turned grave.

Tavin almost relented and let the boys take another short ride about the square on Raghnall’s back. Almost.

“Say farewell.” Gemma took her nephews’ hands.

“Good day, sir.” Petey bowed and nudged Eddie, who bent at the waist.

Tavin inclined his head. “Good day, gentlemen.”

At Gemma’s signal, the meek, sparrow-boned nursery maid took them inside the house, but Gemma paused at the stair. “Thank you for your kindness to the boys.”

“They are sweet souls. Besides, everything is my fault.” The words escaped before he thought them through. But when had he ever spoken correctly around her?

Her brows rose. “At last we view things in the same light. Good day, Mr. Knox.”

Such a dismissal should sting; instead, he grinned as he turned Raghnall toward Billingsgate.

He could well imagine Gemma’s delight at never having to see him again, but he didn’t share her antipathy. He hadn’t taken such delight in a sparring match in years.

Granted, he didn’t engage in many verbal clashes. His exchanges were mostly physical. His crooked nose and aching left shoulder attested to that.

So did his work. The Custom House came into view, a place he knew too well. No matter the season, some things never changed: the whiteness of the ionic exterior, the clamor of men and waterbirds, and the smell of decay sweeping in from the Thames. This afternoon, a stiff wind swirled cool air under his coat, prompting him to hurry inside. He left Raghnall and a shiny coin with a lad.

Weak shafts of sunlight streamed through the great room’s nine arched windows. Tavin hurried through, passing the “long room” and its crowds occupied with the tedious business of paying duties. After several turns, he entered a cramped antechamber, furnished with a simple desk and two chairs, testimony that there was little need to accommodate more than one guest—or anyone of significance—in this office. Yet few knew how vital this office’s work was to the Crown.

A blond fellow in a vibrant blue waistcoat rose from behind the desk. With his fair looks and dandified clothing, he reminded Tavin of Gemma’s beau, Beauchamp. His stomach clenched.

Perhaps he should have eaten some of Amy’s cold collation, after all.

He inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Sommers.”

“Mr. Knox. I hope you have good news.”

“Garner’s in a foul mood, I take it? He’ll not appreciate my call, then.”

“Pity. I’d hoped this day might improve.” Sommers rapped on an interior door, entered and returned after a moment, nodding.

Tavin crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him. The closed-up smells of wax and ink harkened a strong sense of familiarity, as did the drab furnishings.

Horatio Garner straightened a sheaf of papers and glanced up. Flickering candlelight from an unadorned candelabrum intensified the shadows under his blue eyes and gave prominence to the gray streaks in his mouse-brown hair.

“You lack the air of a gentleman who bears glad tidings.” No preamble, no greeting. Typical.

“Our antagonist’s name and face remain a mystery. As yet.” A grim determination settled into his bones. He’d solve this riddle if it took decades.

“Then why are you here?” Garner indicated a chair with a brusque gesture. His dark moods were notorious, but Tavin had never taken them to heart. According to snippets of conversation, Tavin understood that the custom agent had lost his family some time ago and had naught but work to keep him company at night.

The similarity between himself and his superior soured his stomach. No. I have Thee, Lord.

Tavin sat in the wobbly chair before the desk. “Four days past, the Sovereign moved contraband from Christchurch into the New Forest. My contact, a fellow by the name of Bill, promised to leave something for me on the crest of Verity Hill, a clue to the nature of the Sovereign’s business.”

That got Garner’s full attention. “What was it?”

“He was interrupted.” Tavin sat back in his chair. The green ribbon was probably no more than a snippet from a village girl’s bonnet. He’d not waste Garner’s time until he knew otherwise. “There was a complication. A lady.”

He recounted the events, omitting details irrelevant to the case. How Gemma’s eyes had blazed with fury when he’d walked in on her and Beauchamp. How she had kept pace with him despite her fear and the pain of her twisted ankle. How she had felt in his arms—soft, sweet, even sopping wet.

“This Miss Lyfeld.” Garner scribbled her name on a scrap of foolscap. “She saw the Sovereign?”

“I’ve no proof the man was the Sovereign, but I believe so. She said his speech was educated, his horse fine. Light eyes, medium build, graying brown hair, like a thousand men in England. I’d have liked to see him myself, but I had to choose whether to identify him or save her.”

“So you chose the girl.” Garner smirked. “Are you besotted?”

Tavin snorted. He’d behaved like a lovesick pup once, and look where that got him—exiled from home in Scotland and working here. “Absolutely not. But I think Thomason would have understood my choice. Besides the fact that I lacked a weapon—”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Garner muttered.

“—I had to remove Miss Lyfeld from danger.”

“You sacrificed the greater good to save the life of one.”

And so the conversation renews again. “With all due respect, each life is—”

“Of value to its creator, I know. At least, according to your faith.” Garner’s mouth twisted. “Miss Lyfeld remembered no other unique characteristics about the Sovereign?”

Tavin shook his head. “A pity, but no. I’ve no doubt he’d hurt her if he learned her identity, though. I’m relieved she’s safely away from Hampshire, here in London.”

Garner’s eyes narrowed. “You underestimate him time and again. I deem it wise for you to remain here, close to Miss Lyfeld, should our foe search for her. She might require your protection.”

Icy dread pumped through Tavin’s veins. “It’s doubtful he can identify her at all.”

“But you will be at hand, should she remember something of vital importance about his appearance. Or if the Sovereign is correct and she is, indeed, some sort of spy.” Garner tapped his fingers against his desk.

Preposterous. “She’s no more spy than I am a chimney sweep.”

Garner’s gaze lowered to his papers as if dismissing Tavin. “It cannot hurt to be certain. Just stay near her.”

Play nursemaid to a come-out? “Are you punishing me?”

Garner laughed. “’Tis unlike you to question orders.”

“She doesn’t merit my protection or my investigation.” Tavin’s fists clenched. “She’s a country miss on the verge of a betrothal, and no more.”

“Monitor the situation. You may cease and return to Hampshire if she remembers nothing and no ill befalls her, or if she behaves with suspicion, or if she becomes affianced and her betrothed dismisses you. But until then, stay close. You’re the perfect man for the task. With your entrée to the upper crust, no one will look twice at you.”

“Everyone will look twice at me.” He stood. “They know who I am and what my mother did.”

“History as ancient as dust.”

“If I am seen among the ton, my grandmother will believe—Never mind.” Tavin rubbed his suddenly aching forehead. “I’ll follow Miss Lyfeld to ensure no harm befalls her, but I’ll not escort her about town like a moon-eyed pup.”

“As you wish.”

What Tavin wished was to mount Raghnall and ride to Hampshire.

A wave of foreboding roiled in his gut. He could not fulfill anyone’s expectations. Not his family’s, not God’s and certainly not his own. He should be in Hampshire, putting an end to the Sovereign and his murderous spree.

Hugh Beauchamp had better propose to Gemma Lyfeld by the end of the week or Tavin might have to do it on his behalf.

Chapter Four

At the creak of the library door flinging open behind her, Gemma startled and dropped the book from her hand. Despite being safely away from Hampshire for a full week now, her nerves felt raw, exposed. She spun to the doorway.

“Oh, ’tis you.” She slumped against Wyling’s desk.

“A pleasure to see you, too, sister.” Amy grinned. In her yellow-trimmed dress, she looked reminiscent of sunshine and puffy clouds, a pleasant contrast to the overcast skies outside.

Gemma bit her lip. Amy had always been the prettier sister. The more beloved sister, perhaps. As a child, Amy had never trudged through the mud with her and Hugh, never required reminding she was a lady. Now that they were grown, Amy held the favor of a dutiful, titled husband and the respect of her family and peers. Including Gemma, who couldn’t blame anyone for preferring Amy. Her sister was kind, gentle and wise. And a woman of strong faith, too. Without the model of Amy’s forgiveness after their parents’ deaths, Gemma’s faith might well have disintegrated along with the ash from the fire that had killed her parents.

She scooped her book from the floor and smiled. “Forgive my unfortunate greeting. I was caught unawares.”

“Woolgathering about Hugh?”

Discussing Hugh was far easier than speaking about that Sovereign fellow. The throb in her ankle had nearly dissipated, but her thoughts of that day still ached. Hoping for distraction, she’d come here, her favorite room in the town house. Its soothing green palette and shelves of books invited her to curl into a plush, padded chair and lose herself for hours.

And wait for Hugh. “We expected him a sennight ago. I hope he’s not ill.”

“I’m certain he’s giving you time for shopping and your court presentation. Do you miss him so much? Perhaps you do love him.”

Gemma blinked. Did love feel like annoyance? “Are you certain he hasn’t dropped by while we were out?”

“He’d have left his card.” Amy patted Gemma’s arm. “I’m certain he has good reason.”

Or perhaps Cristobel was right. Did Hugh have no intention of honoring his obligation? Her stomach soured. God, if Hugh begs off, where will that leave me? Serving Cristobel for the rest of my days?

And what if God wanted that, for her to live as Cristobel’s companion? Would she obey Him with joy or bitterness?

Gemma pushed the question aside. God understood how important it was to honor her parents and wed Hugh. And once they had married, she’d be close enough to see Petey and Eddie every day. It was best for everyone.

“In the meantime, I promised I’d find a book to read to the boys when they wake from their naps. Something with, as Petey demands, ‘a-venture.’ This title is promising. It has the word journey in it. Maybe it’s about a sailor, although a book on knights would have been preferable.”

“It must wait, I fear.” Amy’s mouth set in a grim line. “Mr. Knox has been closeted with Wyling these past forty minutes. Now he asks for you.”

A jolt shot up her spine. “What happened? Has that villain harmed Peter or Cristobel?”

“I don’t think so, else Wyling would have told me.”

At her words, the door opened and Tavin Knox entered the room, dressed in his usual black coat, boots and pantaloons. Although plain in style and color, his clothing was well tailored, revealing the breadth of his shoulders and lean waist to perfection. When he folded his arms over his broad chest, Gemma recalled what it had felt like to be held there, just over his heart.

Such notions would not do. She clutched the leather-bound volume to her chest.

Wyling followed Tavin, who offered a hasty nod of greeting. “You won’t like what I’m to say, Miss Lyfeld.”

“Good day to you, too, Mr. Knox.”

His dimple flashed. “Where are my manners?”

His sarcasm grated like clothing over a wound. “Where they always are, I expect.”

Amy tugged her to the silk settee and bade her to sit. “Enough, both of you.”

“Forgive me, ma’am.” Tavin’s smile grew. “Shall we start again? Good day.”

Despite herself, she smiled back.

His stance spread, reminding her of the portrait she’d seen of Admiral Lord Nelson. Confident, unmovable despite the churning waves beneath him. “While I expected to continue my search for the Sovereign, my superior has issued new orders for me.”

Disappointing, considering the sooner the Sovereign was caught the sooner she’d sleep through the night. “Is someone else investigating the Sovereign, then?”

“Not...exactly.” Tavin speared her with his stare. “As a precautionary measure, I have been ordered to watch you.”

Her jaw loosened, fell. “Like an animal in the menagerie?”

“Yes. That is to say, should you remember any more details which would help us in our investigation—”

“I have told you everything.”

“—or should some danger befall you, I shall be close by to protect you and apprehend the Sovereign or his henchmen.”

She gripped the book to her chest, wincing when it dug into her ribs. “He is coming here? To London? To me?”

He shifted his weight from one boot to the other. “My superior, Garner, wishes to ensure your safety in the unlikely event the Sovereign has identified you and comes to London.”

She searched her relatives’ faces for protests, help, sympathy, something. But Amy’s smile was forbearing, and Wyling just shrugged.

“I cannot name the man. I am no threat to him.”

“But he is a threat to you. Potentially.” He expelled a long breath. “The Sovereign cannot be underestimated. I told you my friend Thomason was killed by the Sovereign, but I did not elaborate because it is unfit for feminine ears.”

How maddening. “If there is something to be said, please do so.”

He glanced at Wyling and stared into her eyes. “Several months ago, the revenue agent assigned to your part of Hampshire noted a change in the local smugglers’ habits. Five local men murdered...in the same singular fashion.”

“Why did I not hear of five murders until now? Not from Peter, nor in the village.”

“You are a woman. And the men were not wellborn. It is little surprise you never heard of it.” He shook his head. “Thomason must have discovered something, for he was murdered in the same manner as the others.”

What manner? Gemma’s hand pressed her churning stomach. Perhaps she did not wish to know. “And I may meet the same fate?”

“Doubtful. I spent the week watching you—”

“You have spied on me?” The book smacked the table.

“’Tis for your own benefit,” Amy insisted.

“You knew?” Again? They had told her nothing and, worse, had allowed someone to observe her? What else had he done? Pawed through her drawers with his enormous hands? Gemma’s teeth clenched, reverberating pain through her jaw.

“We just learned it, Gem.” Wyling shook his head.

Tavin held up his hands. “They didn’t know. And I didn’t spy.” He said the word like she’d no idea of the true definition of the word. “I watched the house. Nothing more. I had hoped to convince my superior that you were in no danger so he would alter his orders for me. Unfortunately, he wishes me to continue on awhile longer.”

“Spying on me?”

“Guarding you,” he corrected. “Which will be easier to do if you are aware.”

“I do not require a guardian. Tell your superior I decline.”

“Whether you or I wish it, I will still be tasked with watching you.” He looked no more pleased than she.

“I cannot believe this Sovereign would follow you here, but I trust Knox.” Wyling’s voice was firm but kind. “If I had to entrust you—or Amy or Petey or Eddie—to another, it would be him. So I say, yes. You must tolerate it, both of you.”

She’d grown adept at tolerance these past six years. But this seemed ludicrous.

Tavin’s gaze seemed to burn into her, so intense it brought to mind how he’d looked at her in the drawing room back home, smelling of wood and water, right before she’d stomped off to climb Verity Hill.

And started this whole mess. So she nodded. Amy’s shoulders sagged in relief, and a pang of remorse shot through Gemma for making things difficult for her family.

“I’ll follow from a distance. If necessary, I shall attend the same events.” Did his cheeks pink? “A few rules will make this easier on both of us. Tell me where you’re going and when. And no going off alone or hiding from me.”

“In other words, you’re my new governess.” She sighed.

“A discreet, invisible one.”

Wyling chortled, Gemma squeezed Amy’s arm and then rose. “If that is all, I should get to the nursery.”

“Good day, Miss Lyfeld.” Tavin’s brow quirked. She nodded back and hastened to the nursery. Despite whines of protest from their harried nursemaid, Nellie, her nephews bounced on their beds. As he jumped, Petey tossed toy soldiers into the cradle in the far corner—still desolately empty despite Amy and Wyling’s desire for children. Eddie jigged on his cot in imitation of his brother, his finger in his mouth, cackling in delight.

“What terror is this?” Gemma dropped the book on a lacquered table with a reverberating smack. “My nephews do not screech and hop like jungle creatures. Cease at once.”

“So sorry, miss—down, boys!” Nellie’s voice sounded panicked.

“Sowwy, Aunt Gem.” Eddie’s bouncing slowed.

Petey thunked to his bottom, creaking the bed frame. “Sorry.”

“Express your apologies to Nellie, and we may move forward.” She retrieved the book while the boys embraced Nellie. Opening to the first chapter, her hopes sank to her red leather shoes. She scanned a few pages and set the book down with a sigh of disappointment.

“This book will not do.” A book of sermons, the writings would certainly edify, but they would not provide the adventurous fiction she had promised the boys. “Nellie, get the boys’ coats. Let’s venture to Hatchards.”

“For books?” Petey’s eyes grew wide as his coat buttons.

“I’ve yet to find a book which quite meets our needs.” Until Wyling and Amy were blessed with children of their own, their library would no doubt remain lacking in suitable material for young ones.

She tugged on Eddie’s coat and fastened the brass buttons. What had Tavin said? Tell him where she was going and not to go out alone?

Well. She was not alone in the least. She was accompanied by a nursemaid and two small children. She tried to inform Tavin, but the butler, Stott, was emphatic Mr. Knox and his lordship were in the library and not to be disturbed, so she did not feel the slightest trepidation leaving the house after jotting him a short note with word of her whereabouts.

* * *

The sun broke through the clouds in gleaming shafts as Gemma, her nephews and Nellie walked the well-kept square down Berkeley Street to Piccadilly, past the grand gardens of Lansdowne House and Devonshire House. Crested carriages pulled by fine horses traversed in both directions, while well-dressed persons sauntered by at a sedate pace. A gentleman tipped his beaver hat and wished her good day, and Gemma returned his greeting with enthusiasm.

New faces. New experiences. Freedom. London was wonderful.

A crisp breeze ruffled her hem and fluttered the ribbons of her poke bonnet, carrying the pleasant smells of scythed grass and wood smoke, twined with the tangy odor she had come to associate with London. Perhaps its source was the Thames, but the smell made her nose wrinkle. A small price to pay, however, for the delights of the city.

Piccadilly bustled with traffic. Her little party crossed the busy street and within moments, the gleaming wood facade of the booksellers came into view.

“Miss Lyfeld.” The baritone behind her held no trace of amusement. Or patience.

Oh, dear.

The boys spun around and began to bounce. “Mr. Knox!”

“You are on an outing?” Irony dripped from his words.

“We’re off to the booksellers.” Petey hopped on his toes. “Aunt Gem says she’ll read us something with an a-venture in it.”

“Like a knight jousting.” Eddie spoke around his finger. Gemma gently pulled it from his mouth and took his wet hand in hers.

Tavin’s lips twitched. “Serious business, indeed. May I accompany you?”

“It is unnecessary.” Gemma spoke before the boys begged Mr. Knox to please do.

“May we go inside now?” Petey hopped.

“Manners, my love.” Gemma released their hands. “Nellie, would you to take the children in? I shall join you in a moment.”

Gemma watched until they disappeared into the depths of the bookstore. When she turned back, Tavin leveled her with a frown.

“Ignoring my rules already, Miss Lyfeld?”

“Hardly. I am not alone. Nellie is here, as are the boys.”

“Feeble protection, honestly.”

“I left word for you. What else could I do? You were not to be disturbed, according to Stott.”

“Disturb me. Always.” He leaned closer and, oh, there was that wood smell again. “From now on, take me or Wyling with you.”

Lovely wood smell or not, this was absurd. “’Tis most impractical.”

“We must all bear the inconvenience for now.” He gestured to the door. “Now that we understand one another, do you care to look at books?”

“Not particularly. I’d rather throw one at something.”

“I shall find a shield for myself, then.”

Did everything she say and do amuse him? She gripped her reticule and turned. Catching sight of another familiar face, a grin pulled at her cheeks. Hugh, on Piccadilly of all places, smiling down at her. Now, God willing, everything would be well.

A young lady clung to his arm.

Yellow curls peeped from under a silk bonnet embellished with snow-white feathers, framing a schoolroom-fresh face. A bow under the bosom of her white pelisse accentuated her generous curves, inviting the eye to linger most improperly on her ample décolletage.

Gemma fingered the linen fichu at her neck.

Hugh’s shining face radiated excitement. “Gem, pleasant journey and all that? So good to see you. And you as well, Mr. Knox.”

“Mr. Beauchamp.” A genuine smile spread over Mr. Knox’s lips, as if he were relieved.

“How delightful to see you.” Gemma’s glance flicked at his companion.

Hugh turned to the girl on his arm. “Where are my manners? Abysmal of me. May I present Mr. Knox, and this lady before you is, of course, my Gem—Miss Lyfeld.”

Something inside Gemma fluttered at his possessive words.

His smile grew wider, if possible. “Gem, Mr. Knox, may I present Miss Patrice Scarcliff? Pet, I call her.”

Pet? What sort of name was that for—

“My fiancée.” Hugh beamed. “I had planned to tell you about our betrothal back in Hampshire, but the opportune moment did not present itself.”

Gemma’s lungs stopped functioning. So did her mouth.

“Felicitations.” Tavin’s congratulations ripped her back to the moment, to Piccadilly, to her nephews waiting inside.

“Felicitations,” she repeated, staring at the sweet-faced Pet.

She couldn’t look away from the lady’s pretty face. Because for a hundred shiny gold sovereign coins, she couldn’t have forced herself to smile at Hugh.

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.

Gemma turned, her spirits glowing brighter than the gaslit lusters illuminating the great room. The worst was over and the fun could begin. At least for her.

Poor Tavin. Not that he looked ill this evening. He cut a fine figure in his black coat and the required knee breeches. His muscular calves clearly had not required padding any more than his broad shoulders. The man was as handsome in elegant dress as morning clothes.

But his jaw clenched. His fingers fisted and flexed. He adjusted his cuffs and fingered the simple gold stickpin fastened at his neck cloth, all while scanning the room—for what, the Sovereign? Or perhaps freedom from acting as her nursemaid. She scowled.

He made a similar grimace at his beribboned shoes.

Was he not the relation of some nobleman? Surely he had been to London and appeared at court. Danced with ladies and made polite conversation. He should know how to behave here.

Or perhaps he had never entered Almack’s before and felt the weight of its exclusivity, which could intimidate anyone. It certainly did Gemma. She had heard about the patronesses who ruled over the proceedings like begowned feudal lords. Their expectations and standards were of the highest caliber. Indeed, if it were not for Wyling’s diplomatic relationship with Countess Lieven’s husband, Gemma might not have received the vouchers.

These few ladies held the power to grant or deny entrance to anyone, for any reason. Poor family connections, Amy explained, or ill manners. Even jealousy.

It was best for all concerned to please the patronesses. One wouldn’t wish to be denied entrance. Or permission to dance once inside. Or to be on the unfortunate end of their gossiping tongues, since the patronesses held the power to decimate a young woman’s reputation. Gossip and speculation ran through London like pungent water down the Thames. It was a fact she had best not forget.

Help me be mindful and to cause no scandal, God.

Yet she almost did, spying Hugh across the room. His beloved Miss Scarcliff—Pet—stood at his side, a shimmering pearl in her creamy gown and headdress. Her ensemble was the first stare of fashion, and Gemma resisted the urge to touch the lace trim covering her breastbone on her own, far simpler gown. Hugh smiled as Pet took to the floor with a stout gentleman, and then, oh, dear, he approached Gemma.

Amy murmured to Wyling at his approach. Tavin grunted.

She knew how he felt. Speaking to Hugh—while monitoring her tone, word choice and facial expressions—was not going to be easy. Or pleasant.

“Gemma.” By contrast, Hugh sounded as if Christmas had arrived seven months early. “How delightful to see you.” He exchanged greetings with everyone, seemingly oblivious to the distance in their manner, perhaps because his smile-crinkled eyes focused on Gemma all the while. “I hope you might do me the honor of a dance. If you are not otherwise engaged, of course.” His gaze flittered to Tavin, accompanied by an indulgent smile.

Tavin’s head snapped back as if he’d been struck. “No.”

Gemma was too amused to be insulted by his discomfiture. It felt pleasant—if perhaps not righteous—to be the one laughing at their odd relationship for a change.

Since this might be her only chance to have privacy with Hugh, she placed her hand on his outstretched arm. “I would be honored, Hugh.”

Passing by the set containing Miss Scarcliff and her stout partner, Hugh led her to the far corner of the floor to square off for a cotillion with three other couples. While they waited for the music to begin, Hugh inclined his head toward her. “You look well.”

So did he. His tall, lean form was well suited for the obligatory finery. “Thank you.”

“Do say you forgive me.” Under the light chatter of the other couples, he spoke just loud enough for her to hear. He looked so sad, and he didn’t tear his gaze from her for a half second. Anyone watching—and someone most certainly did watch—could not miss his intensity.

Tender emotion lapped over her, washing away the offense of his rejection. He wanted to explain, she could see that now. He knew he had hurt her. And he appeared grieved, too.

Perhaps Miss Scarcliff had tricked him into an engagement. He hadn’t wished to break with Gemma, but something terrible had occurred, something wicked, which trapped him into a betrothal to a scheming debutante. Little else could explain his actions. “Oh, Hugh.”

“I was a cad, surprising you on the street like that.” Their hands touched for the dance, and her fingers twitched to grip his. Would it draw too much attention if they quit the floor? If only she could hear his side of the events and help her oldest friend through this terrible circumstance.

The patterns of the dance separated them, then drew them together. “I thought you were angry, but then I thought, not my Gem.”

How well he knew her. As a rule, she was usually hurt, then angry.

“My Gemma was not angry with me at all. She only wished I’d remembered my manners. I shouldn’t have told you my news in public. Nor should I have intruded on your outing with your beau.”

She stumbled and drew sharp glances. That was what plagued him? Interrupting her outing with her... “Beau?”

“I never guessed you and Mr. Knox—well, you may be a summer bride yet.” He wiggled his brows.

Her foot landed square on his. Accidentally, of course. Had the act been purposeful, she might have ground down harder with her heel.

He winced. “Have a care, Gem. Wouldn’t want to get a reputation as a poor dancer.”

To think she had imagined him trapped by a scheming Miss Scarcliff. Cristobel had been right about Hugh all along.

Earlier she’d desired to quit the dance with him. Now she just wanted to quit him. Impossible, of course. Much as she would prefer to jerk her chin toward the ceiling and leave him on the floor of Almack’s, she could not. Instead, she fantasized about ripping the diamond stickpin from his neck cloth and snapping it in twain with her bare hands.

Focusing on the pin’s gleam kept her gaze from his face, at least, while she followed the patterns of the dance. Together. Apart. Hands meeting. Good thing she wore gloves. Otherwise, he would balk at the iciness of her touch.

“Is something wrong?” His eyebrows rose to his hairline.

Other than his manners? “What makes you think such a thing?”

“Your silence. But I suppose you are concentrating on the steps since Knox watches us.”

If Hugh knew Tavin was paid to watch her, he might not sound so smug.

It was their turn to execute a move in the center. While she circled Hugh, Tavin strolled past in her line of sight. His bored expression didn’t change when their gazes locked.

“Mr. Knox isn’t my anything, Hugh. He’s a friend of the family.”

“If you say so.” He looked at her as if, were they alone, he might tap her nose.

The strains of violins sounded their final, lingering notes, and she curtsied while Hugh bowed. He offered his arm and led her to Amy, who waited under a gilt mirror beside a young fellow with high shirt points, an unexpressive face and sandy-blond hair curled over his ears. Where was Tavin? Amy’s eyes sparkled. “Gemma, may I introduce Mr. Scarcliff, Hugh’s future brother-in-law?”

Mr. Scarcliff inclined his head, forcing his shirt points into his cheeks. Did the fashion cause him pain? His bland expression didn’t alter, so he was either uninjured or accustomed to the sensation. “When Hugh speaks of you, it is with utmost affection.”

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