The Reluctant Guardian. Susanne DietzeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
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.