The Reluctant Guardian Read online

  “O’ course. Some assume a woman’s too feebleminded or weak. They ain’t been leg-shackled to me Meg, now, have they?” Dobbins’s elbow jabbed Tavin’s rib, a sensation more annoying than painful, although there might be a bruise tomorrow.

  “Anyone specific?”

  Dobbins scratched his head. “Just the womenfolk of the free traders. Wives, sisters, them like that.”

  Them like that. Like the Lady in Red who would climb Verity Hill to warn her smuggling brothers of the revenue agent’s presence, the one Gemma had resembled when she’d donned her red cloak. The Lady in Red had an interest in smuggling, true, but not in a government capacity. “So there are no female agents on my side, or another’s?”

  “How many sides can there be?” Dobbins’s arms folded. “There’s them and there’s you. Smugglers and lawmen. No in-between, ’cept those of us who cater to the preferences of both.”

  In cases of tea or liquor, perhaps. But some other sort of trouble brewed in the hiding places of Hampshire. The green ribbon clenched in his fingers probably had nothing to do with it, but he couldn’t toss it just yet.

  Chapter Eight

  When Frances scrunched up her nose, she looked like a schoolgirl at their Bath seminary again. Gemma linked her arm through her friend’s as they strolled through Hyde Park, Petey and Eddie racing ahead with Nellie, Wyling’s footman trailing behind, and Tavin somewhere. The poor agent must be bored out of his wits.

  “Does the idea hold any appeal?” Gemma leaned into her friend.

  “I do not know Gerald Scarcliff, except by sight.”

  “Hence his request for an introduction tomorrow at our at-home. He must be taken with you.”

  “He does not know me well enough. He must have liked my looks,” she said, without a trace of boastfulness. “Are you certain you do not wish him as your suitor?”

  “Quite.”

  “Then Papa and I shall call on you tomorrow at the appointed hour. And if I am not repulsed, I will agree to ride.”

  Gemma’s laugh was interrupted by a yowl. Petey flew into her arms, his grin revealing an empty spot where his front tooth had been this morning.

  “It fell out!” He opened his hand, and there it was, like a pink-tinged pearl.

  “Well done.” Frances nodded.

  “Indeed.” Gemma cupped his cheek.

  “May we write Mama of it?” Petey’s gaze pleaded.

  “Of course.” Gemma touched his head. Father, please soften Cristobel’s heart, that she might respond to her son.

  Her gaze lifted. Tavin sat astride Raghnall a few yards distant, his brow furrowed. With concern for Petey?

  So he was paying attention to her, after all. She smiled wider to let him know all was well. He responded with a tiny nod, and she expected him to turn the horse or at least look away. But he didn’t. Not for the span of several breaths.

  Her heart fluttered in her chest. She recognized the desire sprouting in her chest, wanting him to turn back. Join them. Admire Petey’s new smile. Which was utterly ridiculous. She was nothing to Tavin but an unsavory task.

  And he was nothing to her, despite the strange current pulling her gaze toward him.

  * * *

  Tavin couldn’t help but watch Gemma the rest of the afternoon. She drew his attention like the point of a compass to true north, and he had to struggle to fix his focus on other things, like his task. His surroundings. Potential threats. Even, later that evening, the hole in Petey’s smile where a tooth used to be.

  And the next day, during the at-home when Frances Fennelwick called five minutes after the Scarcliffs. Tavin had fought to keep his gaze on things other than Gemma.

  But now that the guests had departed and he sat in the drawing room with the Gemma and Amy, Tavin was free to watch Gemma while she divided stacks of vellum invitations with brisk efficiency. As she peered at the calendar and cross-checked events, the tip of her tongue snaked between her lips, a sign of intense concentration.

  His chuckle tugged her gaze from her task. “Poor fellow. You needn’t stay.”

  “I’m not bored.” Not when in her presence. “Just surprised. I never would have fathomed the similarities between our occupations. Hours of meticulous planning. Gathering intelligence. Poring over schedules and maps. Who would have guessed work for the Custom House so strongly resembled meeting one’s social obligations?”

  “What fustian.” She giggled. “A lady’s work is far more tedious than what you do.”

  His laugh was hearty and loud, something that hadn’t happened since—he couldn’t remember when. “And dangerous.”

  They were both unable to stop laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  Amy patted her arm to call her back to the job at hand. “What would you have us do the eighth, Gemma? Shall we accept the invitation to Haverby’s rout or the drum at Mrs. Grant-Wither’s? We cannot do both.”

  “Whichever is easier for Tavin.”

  He blinked. This was the first time she’d sought his advice.

  “Both are the same.” His choice would be the Haverby event, but not because of the ease protecting her. Mrs. Grant-Wither’s wastrel son would not welcome Tavin into his home. Not that it would matter. He’d not been invited. He’d have to watch outside at either event.

  “I do not wish you to be uncomfortable.”

  “I would be far more uncomfortable inside than out on the street, thank you.”

  Amy laughed, but Gemma did not catch the joke. How could she? She knew nothing of him or what had happened years ago. And it was best if it stayed that way. He stood and stretched his legs, ending up propped against the mantelpiece.

  “Then I say the rout.” Amy thunked the two invitations into two separate piles, a smaller one of acceptances and a towering one of regrets. “What a successful day. Miss Fennelwick’s introduction to Mr. Scarcliff went well.”

  Tavin snorted at the understatement. Scarcliff acted like a lovesick pup at Miss Fennelwick’s feet—obnoxiously so. At least Gemma did not seem to mind. She had focused on Beauchamp’s fiancée, behaving kindly considering she’d been jilted for the girl.

  Amy twiddled her pen. “I overheard you and Frances discussing some sort of party for which we should expect an invitation?”

  Gemma’s lips curved up in a sly smile, and something about the look made Tavin’s stomach sank. “A masque.”

  “No.” The camaraderie they’d just shared evaporated like steam.

  Gemma sighed. “Not that sort of masque. In a few weeks, Frances’s relation, the Comtesse du Vertaile, will host the most exclusive, grandest affair of the Season.”

  Amy’s brows rose to the brim of her cap. “The comtesse is selective of her guests.”

  “She is also fond of Frances, who wishes us to attend. We will be invited.”

  Tavin’s arms folded. “And you shall decline.”

  Her mouth opened to protest. Fortunately, Wyling entered the room. He could talk some sense into the chit.

  Amy smiled at her husband. “Gemma expects we’ll be invited to the Comtesse du Vertaile’s masque.”

  “All of us. Even you, Tavin.” Gemma fiddled with some ribbon on her white gown.

  “What say you, Knox?” Wyling folded his arms, an amused expression on his face. He already knew the answer by watching Tavin pace a path into the rug.

  Tavin understood why she stared at him, wide-eyed as a fawn. She wanted to grasp all the fun in London she could. A masque held excitement. The chance to feel liberated, to be someone she was not by hiding under a mask for a little while.

  But masques provided excellent cover for all manner of unquestioned exchanges, from the flirtatious to the illicit. Gemma might not be in real danger, but she could be pawed by a masked man. The idea set his teeth clenching.

&nb
sp; “I find the idea unwise.” A gross understatement. “Quiet activities are better suited to her needs.”

  Gemma shot him a look of exasperation. “This is as tiresome for you as it is for me, but you cannot forbid me.”

  Tiresome. It was not precisely tiresome anymore. But it was frustrating, to be sure. “I can ask you to be wise.” Tavin ran a hand through his hair. “Choose your activities with care, at least until my superior is convinced of your safety.”

  “I am in no danger. The Sovereign did not follow me.”

  He believed she was right. Nevertheless, they had no choice. “I think you misjudge how grievous an individual he is.”

  Amy stood. “Awhile longer, Gem.”

  “If I must ask Tavin’s permission for my every move, so be it.” She jutted her chin at him. “Hugh will call tomorrow to escort the boys and me to the Tower Menagerie. If we promise not to stick our fingers inside the cages, will your superior allow it? Or should the children and I instead challenge Hugh to a game of spillikins?”

  Irksome female. “The menagerie is acceptable.”

  But why she would want to go anywhere with Beauchamp mystified him. The jackanapes had chosen another female, yet Gemma accommodated him into her ridiculously tedious schedule.

  His jaw clenched. He’d never understand women.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Gemma settled against the plush squabs of Hugh’s luxurious landau, her smile fixed on her nephews, but her attention lay across Hyde Park. On one of the gravel paths, a man in a black coat trotted on a reddish horse.

  Tavin kept enough distance that Hugh had not recognized him; nor had her nephews. To any of the few people enjoying the park before the fashionable hour, he seemed another gentleman exercising his horse.

  No doubt he’d rather be galloping away from her. The prospect of watching them roll through the park after wandering through the Tower probably bored him. The crown jewels and the menagerie were certainly not of interest to a calloused government agent.

  Hugh hadn’t seemed to mind the outing, however. Neither had Nellie, who rode beside John Coachman in the driver’s bench. Nellie’s presence today was necessary, not so much to mind the children but to act as a feeble sort of chaperone.

  Against scandal, of course. Not danger. For that she had Tavin, who at the first sign of trouble from a smuggler miles away would have—what? Thrown her over his shoulder only to drop her into a leech-filled lake?

  Eddie patted her leg, drawing her to the present. “That big bear in the menagerie, Old Martin, was not fearsome at all, not like in books. He looked sickly.”

  “Green in the gills,” Petey agreed.

  “Poor bear.” Hugh nodded. “The whole place was rather depressing.”

  “What does that mean?” Eddie’s face screwed up in confusion.

  Gemma touched his bony knee. “It means we all—bear included—might be happier if the animals had more room to roam about. To climb and run.”

  “Would he run after me?” Eddie’s eyes widened.

  “He’d still be caged,” Petey scolded.

  Gemma sighed. She was the only one in the carriage pursued. Not by the Sovereign, of course, who no doubt carried on his wretched business without giving another thought to the red-cloaked girl on the hill. No, Tavin trailed her in the same way shadows cling to their hosts, close and dark. She had seen him three times today, including now, across the park. Once, he’d ridden past as they sampled lemon ices at Gunter’s. The other time, he’d lurked at a distance at the Tower, shrouded in shade.

  “Speaking of running.” Hugh’s grin split his features, giving him the carefree air he’d borne as a child. “The park is not at all crowded. Would the boys like to get out?”

  “Huzzah!” Petey cried.

  The carriage stopped and they descended to stretch their legs. The boys bolted, chasing each other around trees.

  “I am a mauling leopard!” Petey cried.

  Eddie shrieked in mock horror.

  “Shall we walk? Staying in sight, of course.” Hugh offered his arm.

  She took his arm, but Eddie spun and ran back to her. Already? Had Petey hurt his tender feelings? Gemma readied her arms to receive the child, but he barreled into Hugh.

  “I like you, Mr. Bee-chum.”

  Hugh patted Eddie’s tiny hat. “I like you, too, young Lyfeld.”

  Eddie pushed off and chased after his older brother. “Ho, I’m a bear!”

  Gemma’s teeth caught the inside of her cheek. This was what she’d planned for her future. They would have been a little family, taking in the sights of London while Peter and Cristobel saw to their own desires back home.

  She grieved the loss of that life. Not for the loss of Hugh—whose invitation for today’s activity was difficult to refuse since he had offered it in the presence of the children—but for the family she might have had with the boys. She puffed out a sad breath.

  “What is it?” Hugh nudged her.

  “Cristobel has not written to the boys yet. Perhaps she will acknowledge Petey’s lost tooth, although she has not responded to our previous letters.”

  “Pity. They are fine boys.” Then Hugh’s head swiveled, reminding her of the way Tavin scanned his environs. “There.” He indicated a small group of trees and pulled her under the low-lying branches. She could just make out the boys through the leaves.

  “Hugh?” What was he thinking?

  He spun her about and leaned her against the thickest, shadiest tree. With his arm over her head, he braced himself against the trunk, too close to be proper. Fear skittered up her arms. Was this what it felt like to be at Vauxhall Gardens, pulled into the darkness by a suitor? No wonder Amy disapproved of it.

  “This is inappropriate.” The air was thick, scented with Hugh’s cologne.

  “I do not know how else to speak to you alone. I must revisit that last rainy day in Hampshire. Remember it?”

  She would never forget. “The day you came to sever our ties?”

  His head jerked back, as if she had slapped at him. “How could you think that? I’d never lose you, Gem.” He lowered his arm and took her hands.

  “You are betrothed to another.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “Don’t miss the point. You’re no longer bound to me by some antiquated agreement our fathers made. We deserve better than the life they contemplated for us, but I had the courage to do something about it. I made a way for you to be happy.”

  She felt anything but happy, staring at their entwined hands. He had a far different understanding of their relationship than she. She may not love Hugh, but his rejection still stung.

  “Now you can wed whom you wish.” He nudged her.

  She glanced at the boys, her only future. “We should go back to the carriage.”

  “As you wish.” But he didn’t release her. “Do you mind that Gerry calls on Miss Fennelwick?”

  His abrupt change in subject was far preferable to the one that preceded it. She shook her head. “Not in the least. We would not suit.”

  “Was Mr. Knox jealous by your drive with Gerry?”

  She choked. “He is no suitor.”

  “I’ve seen how he stares at you. A decent-looking fellow, I suppose, if not intimidating with those hefty arms. Like he spends too much time sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s.”

  Staring. Arms built for pummeling. That was Tavin. “He has no intentions toward me, I assure you.”

  “We should all dine together. Amy, Wyling, Pet and Gerry, Miss Fennelwick. We shall even invite Mr. Knox for you—”

  “He is Wyling’s friend.” She emphasized the word.

  “Not to sound mercenary, but you could do worse than the Duke of Kelworth’s nephew. Money and connections. That has to count for something. I have both i
n Pet—and affection.” He pulled a hand free and tapped Gemma’s nose.

  At the stroke, disgust roiled in her stomach. Hugh shouldn’t touch her like that, shouldn’t even hold her hands. It was not honoring to her or Pet.

  She pulled her hands free. “Perhaps we should call the boys. They will be ready for a rest—”

  He took her arm just above the elbow. “You’ll thank me for tossing our agreement someday, Gem. It’s not as if you harbored any feelings for me.”

  But she might have. She had misread all of those nose taps and wiggling brows for affection. If her emotions had been inclined, she might still be waiting for his love. She might have been trembling with hope here under the tree.

  Hugh was right about one thing. Marriage should be more than an arrangement where one party didn’t want to be involved.

  Relief washed over her and she tugged free. His fingers slipped from her spencer in what she hoped would be their final touch. If God ever granted her a husband—when the boys were grown—she would not want one who took other women behind trees, no matter his reason.

  * * *

  Tavin forced himself to stay on his horse, despite every last muscle urging him to dismount and push his way into the trees. What was the woman thinking, pushing the bounds of propriety with that jackanapes Beauchamp?

  Still, Tavin had no call to intervene. He was here to guard her from the Sovereign, not from Beauchamp, who dangled hope before her like a prize.

  Gemma’s feelings were not Tavin’s concern. If he allowed himself to think otherwise, he’d fail. At protecting her, protecting his plans.

  He had a job to do, a God to repay. He had no heart to concern himself over. Or to give. Not to Gemma or anyone.

  He’d best not forget it.

  Chapter Nine

  Gemma had a difficult time forgetting Hugh’s boldness last week. Dragging her behind a tree! Inappropriate, not to mention embarrassing. What Tavin must have thought or maybe still did think, considering Hugh watched them now with a ridiculous grin.

  Perhaps Hugh considered himself a matchmaker, ensuring both were invited to his future mother-in-law’s for tonight’s dinner party. If only Hugh knew Tavin would have been here, anyway, invitation or not. Only as an unseen observer.