The Reluctant Guardian Read online

  “Lady in Red, it has been difficult to get you alone.”

  Lady in Red. The appellation of the woman in Hampshire who climbed Verity Hill to signal her smuggling brethren, the female Gemma resembled in her cherry-red cloak—

  “Unhand me.”

  He’d heard enough. Tavin dashed inside. A man in a black domino faced the far wall, his cloaked arms outspread like raven’s wings. But the cloak was not enough to obscure the woman pinned between the folds: the bit of red, the light brown hair curled over her brow.

  Tavin gripped the man’s shoulders. Yanked. Fastened the man to the wall, cuffed his wrists in his left hand and pressed his right forearm against the villain’s throat.

  “Who are you?” Tavin’s forearm jutted harder into the assailant’s windpipe.

  An ill-formed kick met Tavin’s shin, no more than a sting. With a swipe of his leg, Tavin confined the fellow’s lower extremities. He glanced at Gemma and winced at the sight of tears streaking her pale cheeks. “If he hurt you, so help me—”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  Tavin skewered the man’s shoulder with his elbow, freeing his hand to grip the assailant’s domino. He tugged, revealing the sweaty, ruby-flushed face of Gerald Scarcliff.

  “You.” His voice was a growl. Did the Sovereign employ such ne’er-do-wells for unpleasant tasks? If Scarcliff were desperate enough, yes.

  “Didn’t know you’d claimed her, Knox.” Scarcliff’s speech was like gravel, with Tavin’s arm against his throat.

  “What a ridiculous defense for handling me with such intent. Catching me in the hall and telling me we could best view the fireworks from this room. And that Frances was on her way to join us.” Gemma popped to her toes beside Tavin. “How could you do this to Frances?”

  Frances? Tavin’s stomach sank. If Scarcliff had met Gemma in the hall, then he was not the man in the ballroom. Then—

  Tavin couldn’t yet force himself to let Scarcliff loose. The cretin may not be the man stalking Gemma, but still he had violated her trust. His arm pressed harder into Scarcliff’s neck. “She told you no.”

  An odd, whimpering escaped Gerald’s throat.

  “’Tis over now.” Soft hands touched his arms. Gemma’s. “Let’s go, please.”

  Now that she’d touched him, he couldn’t bear losing the contact. Tavin’s arms dropped. He turned and found Gemma’s face, cupping her smooth cheeks in his hands. His thumbs swiped the tears from her cheekbones. Her eyes were wide and questioning, and her lips parted in query.

  Unable to help himself, he lowered his head and gently laid his lips on hers. Just for one sweet moment. She was safe. She was well. She was his—no, she could never be that. He pulled away, and the vacancy left by her lips resonated through his chest.

  He shouldn’t have done it. Quick though it was, he should not have taken such liberties. He was as terrible as Scarcliff, doing that to her.

  But her hands rested on his arms, and they didn’t push him away.

  In a flurry of black cloth, Scarcliff scuttled behind him. Tavin left Gemma to grip the man’s domino. “Not yet, you don’t. I have words for you. Ill using Miss Fennelwick and laying hands on Gemma—”

  “I say.” A masculine voice, shaky with age but firm in conviction, sounded from the door. Mr. Fennelwick. “Mr. Knox, what is this?”

  Tavin dropped his hand. Murmurs and gasps filled the doorway.

  “Miss Lyfeld?” Mr. Fennelwick moved to Gemma. “My dear, are you well?”

  “A misunderstanding.” Her smile was weak.

  A strange gentleman in the doorway laughed. “I should say so. Who’s in for a pound this ‘misunderstanding’ was over the girl’s favors?”

  “Watch yourself,” another admonished. “Poor form.”

  “What’s happened?” A woman’s voice sounded from the hall. “We wish to watch the firework display and—oh, you do not say?”

  Fabulous. Soon the entire party would hear something had occurred in here betwixt him, Scarcliff and Gemma.

  Tavin felt a slight thwack on his sleeve as Scarcliff shoved past, muttering about satisfaction. Tavin forced down a retort. Much as he’d like a legitimate excuse to draw the man’s cork and bloody his nose, he’d no desire to kill him in a duel.

  Still, with a quick glance at Gemma, he followed Scarcliff from the room. Someone caught his sleeve. “Settle this at boxing, like a gentleman.”

  But it was not Scarcliff he wanted. He wanted—needed—to capture the other man.

  He slid through costumed revelers, searching for anyone rushing in the opposite direction. It seemed like the entirety of the masquerade was gathered here, looking for places to watch the display of fireworks and finding a far different kind. There was Amy, her hand to her throat. The comtesse, her brow raised in regal disdain as she stood beside Frances Fennelwick, whose quivering chin was just visible.

  And then, a flash of a slim-shouldered man in a black domino, slipping out the front door. No doubt Tavin would find a sovereign coin in the man’s pocket.

  He dashed outside after him. Skittering onto the street, he peered up one end of Park Lane and then the other. And groaned.

  Silhouettes of black cloaks fluttered down the street in both directions, dim as bats in the night sky. Dark-cloaked individuals climbed into carriages, ambled along the streets.

  If it were me, I’d have tossed the domino. Disappeared into a crowd. Tavin sprinted down the steps—

  “Knox.” Wyling pulled off his hood and caught Tavin’s upper arm. “What’s happened? Scarcliff’s ranting like a Bedlam-bound lunatic that you assaulted him.”

  Tavin shrugged free. “He was here. The Sovereign—his man. Following Gemma.”

  “Are you certain?” Wyling’s face leached of color.

  “Protect Gemma.” Tavin enunciated the words, praying Wyling understood their import. “I’ll call in the morning.”

  Piccadilly loomed, full of people and dark alleys. He dipped into one alley after another, searching for the lean fellow. His boot smacked into a pile of shadowy rubbish and—it wasn’t rubbish. Tavin breathed a prayer.

  A man slumped in the alley, his face obscured by dark liquid. Blood. “Can you hear me? Sir?” Tavin slid his fingers under the man’s neck cloth, found a pulse fluttering in the fellow’s throat. The back of his fingers brushed a smooth, hard circle, warmed by the man’s body.

  Tavin’s jaw clenched as he lifted the object up to the moonlight.

  A sovereign coin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Gemma’s stomach still churned over the turn of events at the masque. Gerald Scarcliff’s attempts, Tavin’s reaction, and all of it causing such a mess. ’Twas bad enough. Now this.

  The message crumpled in Gemma’s fingers, the sharp edges of the foolscap pinching her skin. The sensation was incomparable, however, to the darts of pain inflicted by the words scrawled over the paper.

  “Put that away.” Eddie batted the letter with his pudgy fist. “You promised to play with us.”

  From her position on the nursery floor, Gemma caught Eddie’s hand in a firm squeeze. “That does not excuse your tone or your slap, young sir. A gentleman does not order anyone about in that manner.”

  “Papa does.” Petey nodded in a knowing way. “He struck Tom with a whip once, and he grows angry with Nellie all the time. He says it’s her fault we vex Mama.”

  Gemma bit her lip. It was true. Peter and Cristobel both snapped at the servants and could be abusive. Tom, the groom, had received the lash for some trifling matter just before Gemma and the boys left for London, but when it came to Peter’s horses, everyone learned the hardest way. One didn’t cross the master.

  Peter’s and Cristobel’s conduct perhaps explained why the pair exhausted valets and lady’s maid
s, and hadn’t kept a consistent nursemaid for the boys. Nellie was the most timid—and perhaps desperate—girl they’d hired. The poor creature couldn’t say boo to a roasted Christmas goose.

  Nor could she train a child in appropriate behavior. That left Gemma to instruct the boys.

  “Striking and shouting are unacceptable behaviors, boys. Am I understood?” Gemma shoved her note into her pocket.

  “Yes, yes.” Arms full of wooden rods, Petey walked on his knees over the rug, no doubt speeding the process of wearing holes in his nankeen trousers. “Can we play now?”

  “Not until I am certain you understand. I wish you to grow up to be kind men.” She squeezed Eddie’s fingers.

  “Sowwy,” he whispered, his eyes wide.

  “I know. All is forgiven.” Gemma kissed his head. Eddie snuggled close, smelling of soap and the unique scent of little-boy hair. She smoothed his short coat over his back.

  The rods spilled from Petey’s arms, clattering about the floor. “We shall try.”

  “Of course you shall. You are the best of lads. Now, shall we begin spillikins?”

  The boys’ enthusiastic agreement brought a smile to her lips if not to her heart. She loved playing with them, but today their antics could not distract her from the sick feeling in her stomach.

  She had been having so much fun last night at the masque. And then everything had soured. She’d been caught crying in a room with two angry men. Who cared what the truth was? The idea that she was at the peak of a love triangle was enough to feed the gossips.

  The truth was far more amazing. Tavin had kissed her. And he had disposed of Gerald without using fisticuffs or a weapon. She’d never seen anything like it, and although she found violence abhorrent, Tavin’s speed and strength were impressive. In a matter of seconds, he’d rendered his opponent helpless without inflicting injury. Were all men as strong and efficient?

  Judging from Mr. Scarcliff’s weak attempt to kick Tavin, the answer was no.

  “Your turn again.” Petey grinned at her.

  She, Eddie and Petey played several turns at spillikins, passing a thin, metal hook between them as they sat on the plush rug around the wooden rods, attempting to capture one with the hook without disturbing the other rods.

  She maneuvered the hook under a rod but knocked others in the process. “Well, that was not well done, was it, lads?”

  She muddled through her turn at the child’s game, just as she muddled her way through life. It seemed she was destined to stare an objective in the face but not be able to achieve it, no matter her determination. But how hard should it have been to come to London, to see new things and make friends? Why couldn’t she enjoy a normal Season like every other young woman?

  Because nothing went right for her, not since she’d set the fire and all her hopes and possessions—and her parents’ lives—had disintegrated to ash.

  She handed the hook to Eddie and something thumped below stairs. The door knocker?

  Had Tavin come? Her fingers pressed against her mouth. How would he look at her, after that kiss? Would his gaze hold tenderness or disdain? He had not wanted her to attend the masque last night. But he’d been the one who’d overreacted. He’d caused the disturbance, laid his surprisingly gentle lips on hers, set her reeling, and then had the gall to storm from the comtesse’s house without a fare-thee-well.

  The whole carriage ride home last night, Wyling had defended him, saying Tavin thought he saw trouble. What nonsense. No smuggler could gain access to the comtesse’s masque. Hadn’t Mr. Scarcliff said it would be harder to gain entrée into the comtesse’s than to Almack’s?

  Ah, Mr. Scarcliff. Gemma took the hook from Petey. She’d thought Gerald Scarcliff a safe gentleman, enamored of Frances. Recalling the puckering of his lips when he tried to kiss her, Gemma grimaced. How wrong she’d been.

  The sticks knocked together.

  Petey laughed. “Aunt Gem, you are losing.”

  “So I am.”

  The nursery door opened with a soft creak and Barton, one of the footmen, nodded at her. “His lordship requests you in the library, miss.”

  “Aw.” Eddie popped a finger into his mouth.

  “I am trounced by you two, at any rate. Perhaps Nellie will take my place.” Gemma stood and smoothed the gauze fichu tucked around her neck. Through the thin fabric, her pulse raced like a hunted doe’s. “I shall see the pair of you later.”

  If they all were not sent home because of her disgraceful role in bringing two gentlemen to blows, that is.

  Despite the cheery fire blazing in the grate, a cold gloom settled over the library, causing Gemma to shiver. The chamber’s inhabitants—Wyling, Amy and Tavin—all rose at her entrance. Wyling smiled, no doubt trying to set her at ease. “Pray be seated.”

  Tavin moved toward the window, his arms folded. Waves of frustration emanated from his tense shoulders.

  She need not have worried about how he would look at her. It seemed he had chosen to avoid all eye contact whatsoever.

  She took a seat far from the fire. “How bad is it?”

  “It made the Morning Post.” Amy tried to smile and failed.

  The little tea and gruel Gemma had managed to swallow this morning threatened to come up. “Oh.”

  Wyling tapped the sheet. “Listen to this. ‘Besotted at last, Mr. “Black” forgets himself over Miss “Red,” whose company he has oft kept in recent weeks, and fends off another suitor.’” He set down the paper with a gentle rustle. “It will not be difficult to add sums and come up with the two of you.”

  Amy’s eyes moistened. “I expect it will blow over, dear, but our social standing is not so high that you are immune to exclusion by society.”

  Although the news was not unexpected, Gemma still sucked in a cold breath. She and the boys could be back under Cristobel’s squat thumb in a sennight, if they returned on the morrow. “I am sorry. To all of you. I will see about packing at once.”

  “You misunderstand.” Amy blotted her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “We must wait and see if invitations are withdrawn.”

  “They already have been.” Gemma pulled the creased note from her pocket. “Frances sent word this morning. She canceled our outing to Kew Gardens this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps she is ill.”

  “Her suitor lured me into an empty chamber with amorous intent. I embarrassed her and betrayed her aunt’s hospitality by causing a scene. Frances’s meaning is clear. She no longer wishes my friendship.” She stared at the disarrayed curls on the back of Tavin’s head. Why would he not turn around and face her?

  “It was not your intention to wound her. Perhaps she will see reason?” Amy sniffed the last of her tears. A fresh round of guilt settled over Gemma. How could she so upset her sister?

  “I intend to pursue reconciliation.” Gemma tried to smile. “Whether she, or anyone else in society, accepts me is another matter, but I’d like to make things right with Frances.”

  Wyling shrugged. “I doubt a one of us will be invited to the comtesse’s masques again, but as for the rest of the Season? Last night’s occurrence will prove no more than a trifle. Remember the tidbit of gossip in the Post? Knox’s actions are credited to lovesickness. The bon ton believes him jealous, no more.”

  The idea of Tavin as envious was ridiculous. He may have kissed her, but he regretted it now, considering he would not look at her. “And such a perception is not bad?”

  “Every Season sees its share of duels, dilemmas and couples caught in the dark,” Wyling said. “But Tavin’s actions may come to be viewed as protective, considering what I heard from a few acquaintances I met in the park on my ride this morning. Apparently Scarcliff spent the night at a gaming den, losing more than he’s worth. One fellow said he’s already indebted to some unsavory sorts. I didn’t know Scarc
liff gambled, of course, but it sounds as if he’s in trouble.”

  “It is bad enough he used Frances for her connections. Might he have pursued her for her funds, too?” Gemma’s heart sank. “Poor Frances. I must make things right with her.”

  Wyling nodded. “In the meantime, as Amy noted, we must exercise patience. You’re to attend the Hartwoods’ ball in a sennight, I believe? Lord and Lady Hartwood are the highest sticklers of decorum. If they retract their invitation, then we will make a decision. Does that sound fair?”

  “It does.” Amy’s shoulders relaxed. “And the Post’s tittle-tattle about you and Tavin? It could be of help, Gem. If your names are linked, mayhap it will be easier for him to protect you.”

  Tavin didn’t move. Didn’t speak. How he much must loathe having his name joined with hers, to have others believe him infatuated with her.

  “I see you do not care for the alliance of our names, Tavin.” Her tone sizzled her tongue.

  He spun around, his dark brows forming a low V over his eyes. They were not the tender, dark eyes that had gazed down upon her last night while his hands cradled her face.

  “Not for me.” His tone was cold as stone.

  “You would prefer ostracism to a mention in the gossip pages?”

  “I have survived both. I prefer neither.”

  Did he resent her so much? Obviously he regretted the kiss.

  She had spent the night at turns mortified and thrilled. His kiss, brief as it was, had stirred memories of being held in his arms, her cheek against his heart, as he carried her from the pond so many weeks ago in the New Forest. She had wondered, after the brief kiss, if they would be closer now.

  Instead, a large vein bulged in his neck, just above his neck cloth. So angry.

  Gemma’s spine straightened. It was worthless succumbing to the doldrums over a man in whom she inspired nothing but anger and remorse.

  “Then go, please, Tavin. To Hampshire. To wherever you are sent. Godspeed.” Although her words were scorched at the edges, she meant them. With God’s help, perhaps he would be happy and complete.