All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  They turned the corner toward the booth door, and the crowd eased.

  A lady halted directly in front of Gyles, startling him into halting, too. She smiled like a cat and stepped closer.

  “My lord—what a surprise.”

  Gyles blinked. Her tone was a poor imitation of Francesca’s seductive purr. That instant’s hesitation encouraged the woman. Smile widening, she pressed close.

  “I had heard you were no longer receiving, but that can’t be right, surely. Just because you’re married . . . well, a leopard doesn’t lose his spots overnight, does he?”

  Who the devil is she? Gyles couldn’t recall.

  “This leopard,” came a voice from beside him, “is spoken for.”

  The madam’s eyes flew wide; to Gyles’s surprise, she took an involuntary step back as Francesca stepped between them.

  She looked the woman down, then up, then tipped up her nose haughtily. “You may be interested to know that I take an active interest in my husband’s social life—all requests for his company on any but business matters should henceforth be addressed to me. And as for his spots, you may be sure I appreciate them and have every intention of enjoying their benefits for many years to come.”

  The woman blinked. So did Gyles.

  Francesca’s head rose another notch; he would have given a great deal to see her face as she imperiously, asked, “I trust I have made myself clear?”

  The unknown lady cast him a very fleeting glance, then—and he would have sworn to her own surprise—bobbed a curtsy. “Indeed, my lady.”

  “Good.” Francesca waved. “You may leave us.”

  Blushing vividly, the woman did.

  Gyles shook his head. Curving a hand about Francesca’s waist, he urged her on. “Remind me to send any further importuning ladies your way.”

  “Do.” On the threshold of the booth, she whirled and faced him. Her eyes burned with green fire—not the warm sort. With her chin set the way it was, he could understand why the lady had retreated.

  “I’ll be happy to deal with them.” Her expression stated she would relish the dealing. Her eyes met his, then haughtily, she turned into the box. “I am, I believe, more than a match for them.”

  Gyles wasn’t about to argue. She was more, much more, than any who had gone before. Aside from all else, she was a Rawlings—they shared, it seemed, quite a few character traits.

  Smiling, he stepped into the booth, sliding one hand about her waist to draw her to him.

  In the aftermath of that scene, in light of the thanks Francesca spent the night bestowing on him, Gyles found it impossible to deny her her wish to visit her old governess in Muswell Hill. She left immediately after luncheon. He retired to the library, confident that with two extra grooms riding with John Coachman, he had no need to fret.

  Three hours later, a commotion erupted in the hall. He rose—before he could take a step, Wallace threw open the door. “There’s been an incident, my lord.”

  Before his heart could plummet, Francesca swept in. “No one was hurt.”

  Tugging off her gloves, she crossed toward him. Gyles took in her frown, took in the fact she was clearly unharmed. “What happened?”

  A cough drew his attention. John Coachman stood on the threshold beside Wallace. “Highwaymen, m’lord. But what with the lads on top—they were carrying their pistols like you ordered—we came to no harm.”

  Gyles waved him in and beckoned Wallace as well. “Sit down. I want to hear exactly what happened.”

  Francesca subsided into the armchair beside his desk, the armchair that had become hers. Gyles sat as Wallace and John drew up straight-backed chairs.

  John sat. “It was on our way home, m’lord, as we were coming down the hill to Highgate. They was lying in wait in Highgate Wood—three of ’em. Two burly louts and one skinny one. They’d mufflers ’bout their faces and the usual sort o’coats. Run-of-the-mill highwaymen.”

  “Shots were fired?”

  “By our lot, yes. They turned tail and ran.”

  “Were they armed?”

  “I ‘spect so, m’lord, but I didn’t see any pistols.”

  Gyles frowned. “Check with the grooms. If they were highwaymen, they would have been armed.”

  “Aye.” John eased to his feet. “If you’ve finished with me, m’lord, I need to check the horses.”

  “Yes, and well done, John. Please convey my thanks”—Gyles glanced at Francesca and saw her summon a smile for the coachman—“our thanks to both grooms.”

  John bobbed to Gyles, then Francesca. “I’ll tell ’em, you may be sure.”

  Wallace rose and repositioned the chairs. Gyles flicked him a glance: Find out what you can and tell me later. Wallace bowed and followed John out, shutting the door.

  Gyles considered Francesca. Her frown, more in her eyes than her expression, had returned. She glanced at him. He raised a brow.

  “I just never imagined being set upon by highwaymen so close to town. It was not pleasant.”

  Gyles rose, crossed to her chair, drew her to her feet, then closed his arms around her. “Were you frightened?”

  She clung. “No—well, a little. I didn’t know what was going on—I didn’t know our grooms were armed or that it was they who had shot. I thought we were being shot at!”

  Gyles tightened his hold, rocked her slightly, laid his cheek against her hair. “It’s all right. Nothing came of it.” Thank God. “I’m afraid such occurrences are not unheard of, which is why I ordered John to take two grooms. At this time of year with the wealthy leaving London, the outskirts of the capital provide the richest pickings.”

  But highwaymen usually waylaid travelers at night, or at least in the evening. Broad daylight was too risky.

  Francesca eased back. “I must go and change. I think I’ll take a long bath.”

  Her liking for relaxing baths had not escaped Gyles. He released her. “We’re dining in tonight, aren’t we?”

  “Yes. The roundabout is slowing, so it’ll just be the two of us.” She opened her eyes at him. “Will you be bored?”

  Gyles raised a brow. “You’ll have to see to it I’m not.”

  “Ah—the duties of your countess.” With a die-away air, she curtsied and turned to the door. “I’ll go and fortify myself.”

  Gyles laughed. The door closed behind her; his laughter faded. He returned to his desk.

  She’d said she valued honesty—that she wanted honesty from him. When, after dinner, they entered the library, Gyles considered the truth, considered how much he could bring himself to reveal. Considered why it was necessary.

  Francesca headed for the desk and his latest list of references. He caught her hand. “No.”

  She turned to him, brows rising. He gestured to the chaise. “Let’s sit. I want to talk to you.”

  Intrigued, she sat nearer the fire. He sat beside her. The fire was roaring; Wallace had built it up while they’d dined.

  Better not to think too much. Better just to ride into battle like his forebears and expect to win.

  He shifted his gaze from the fire to her eyes, from crackling flames to vibrant green. “We appear to have a problem. Things—odd things—have been happening. I accept that there’s no reason to imagine they’re intentional”—he blocked out the vision of the rein tied across the track—“yet . . . I can’t help but be concerned.”

  Silk shushed as she faced him. “You mean the highwaymen? But you said such things are expected.”

  “Not quite expected, and not occurring like that. In daylight, no pistols waving, and”—his gaze locked with hers—“the carriage was driving into London, not out.”

  “But it must have been . . . well, an accident that my carriage was attacked.”

  “Must have been.” Gyles felt his face harden. “Like that incident with your special dressing—it must have been an accident. Yet . . .”

  She tilted her head, her eyes steady on his. “Yet what?”

  “What if it wasn’t.”
He took her hand, simply held it, felt its warmth in his. “What if, for some reason we can’t at present fathom, someone has designs on your life?”

  If it hadn’t been for his tone and the expression in his eyes, Francesca might have smiled. Instead, remembering the father he’d lost, imagining what she hoped she now meant to him, she curled her fingers and gripped his. “No one has designs on my life. There’s no reason anyone would seek to harm me. As far as I know, I have no enemies.”

  He looked down at their twined hands. After a moment, he returned the pressure of her fingers. “Be that as it may, that’s not, of itself, the problem I alluded to.”

  She tried to see his eyes, but he continued to look at their linked hands.

  “Our problem, one we need to discuss and come to some agreement over”—he glanced up—“is my concern.”

  The veils started to shimmer, to lift. It wasn’t, she’d discovered, normal practice for John Coachman to take one groom, let alone two fully armed. She held Gyles’s gaze. “Tell me of this concern.”

  Not a demand, an encouragement.

  He exhaled. “It’s not . . . comfortable.” His gaze shifted to the fire. A moment passed, then he looked into her eyes. “Since we first met, whenever you’re in danger—whatever sort of danger, imagined or real, whether I’m with you or not—I feel . . .” He looked inward, then refocused on her eyes. “I can’t describe it—black, icy cold, painful but not physically. A different sort of pain.” He hesitated, then added, “A hellish fear.”

  She returned his gaze, gripped his fingers more tightly.

  “If I’m with you, it’s not so bad—I can do something—save you, and all ends well. But if I’m not there, yet believe you’re in danger—” He looked away. After a moment, he drew in a long breath and turned back to her. “Can you understand?”

  She comforted him with her eyes, pressed his hand. “Is that why you placed so many guards on me at the Castle?”

  He laughed, short and harsh. “Yes.” He rose, and she let him draw his hand from hers, watched as he paced to the hearth, braced one clenched fist on the mantelpiece and stared down at the flames. “If I can’t be with you, then I feel compelled to do everything I can, to give you every guard I can—to protect you in any way I can.” An instant later, he added, “It’s not something I can make a rational decision about. It’s something I must do.”

  She rose, went to him. “If that’s so, then . . .” She shrugged and touched his arm. “I will bear with the guards—it’s no great matter.”

  He shot her a hard glance. “You don’t like footmen dogging your every step.”

  “Nor do I like my maid spending half her day in my room, simply to watch over my things. However, if it will bring you ease, then”—she stepped closer, raising her face to his, speaking directly to his cloudy grey eyes—“I won’t let it annoy me. I won’t like it, but I don’t care about such things—” She paused, held his gaze. “As much as I care for you.”

  Exultation clashed with something more primitive, with the fear that lingered never far from his mind. For one instant, Gyles felt giddy, then he straightened. “You’ll accept whatever guards I assign?”

  “As long as you tell me of them, so I’m not surprised to see them.” Green eyes met his; her brows rose.

  He grimaced. “A maid will always be in your room, and a footman will always be with you—in sight of you within the house, within reach outside it.”

  “Unless I’m with you.”

  He inclined his head. “And if you go walking anywhere, two footmen will accompany you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “John will take an extra groom when he drives you.”

  Francesca waited, then asked, “Nothing more?”

  He thought before shaking his head.

  “Very well.” She drew his head down and kissed him. “I will bear with your guards, my lord. And now”—she turned and headed for the door—“I’m going upstairs to dismiss any maids hovering in my room.” She glanced back at him. “Will you be long?”

  He hesitated, but didn’t look at his desk. “No. I’ll be up shortly.”

  Smiling, she opened the door and left him.

  As she climbed the stairs, she thought over all he’d said, over all the incidents he might construe as dangerous.

  The memory of hands grabbing at her in the crowd last night returned. She was almost sure there’d been more than one set—more than one man. Man? Yes, she was sure of that—the hands had been large and clumsy. And rough—not the smooth hands of a gentleman.

  Should she mention it? To what purpose, other than to prod an emotion Gyles clearly didn’t appreciate feeling?

  She didn’t believe there was any danger—accidents happened. People in crowds grabbed at each other to steady themselves. No one wished her ill. But she’d seen how deeply the very notion affected Gyles. Real or imagined—he’d admitted it made no odds.

  Bearing with guards was a small thing to do; she would do it gladly. It was impossible not to feel touched by his concern, impossible not to feel cherished, no matter the price.

  Impossible not to see what drove him, what gave birth to his uncomfortable concern.

  Was it too early to celebrate victory?

  Pondering that point, she entered her room.

  Late the next morning, Francesca paused in the front hall, surveying the two footmen wrapped in their coats, ready to accompany her on her walk.

  She turned to Gyles as he came out of the library—to check on her reaction, she had not a doubt. “I’m only going around the corner to Walpole House. I’ll sit with your mother and Henni for a while, then I’ll return.” She smiled at him. “Don’t worry.”

  He grunted, threw an unsmiling glance at the footmen, then turned back to the library.

  Unconcerned, she swept to the door, waited for Irving to open it, then sallied forth—aware that Gyles had stopped by the library door, aware to the last of his lingering gaze.

  “And the rein was tied securely?”

  Grimly pacing, Gyles nodded. “Around boles on either side of the track.”

  Devil grunted. “Difficult to see how that could be an accident.”

  “The other incidents, yes, possibly. But not that.”

  They were in a private room at White’s. Gyles had remembered the difficulty Devil had faced soon after his marriage to Honoria. Odd, potentially fatal accidents, just like those happening to him and Francesca. In Devil’s case, the accidents had, with Gyles’s help, been laid at the door of Devil’s then heir. In the present case, however . . .

  “I really cannot see Osbert being in any way involved.” Gyles shook his head. “It’s laughable.”

  “I might once have said it was laughable for a Cynster to try to kill another Cynster, too.”

  Gyles shook his head again. “I don’t mean because we’re related. I mean because he honestly has never wanted the title because the estate goes with it. He was so grateful to Francesca and he likes her—worships her. Within reason.”

  Devil’s lips twitched. “Of course.”

  “He’s made himself her principal cavalier. I’ve gone along with it because I trust him, and he’s with Francesca at times I’m not.” Gyles hesitated, then added, “And because he’s using her as a shield.”

  “The matchmaking mamas are still after him?”

  “Presumably while evaluating him as a possible future earl, someone realized he’s comfortably plump in the pocket quite aside from what he gets from the estate, and, as a poet, he doesn’t indulge in wasteful habits. He doesn’t gamble or keep mistresses, or run through his blunt in any other tonnish way. Which brings me back to my point. Osbert doesn’t want the title. Killing me or Francesca simply would not be in his best interests.”

  “All right. Why not one step away? In reality, Charles was one step away from the title. Who’s after Osbert?”

  Gyles halted. Frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

 
He waved aside Devil’s incredulity. “The Rawlingses are not like the Cynsters. The family’s as large, but it’s fragmented—one branch doesn’t talk to another, news of marriages isn’t widely disseminated. After Osbert . . . we’d need to go back at least two generations, and then see which branch had precedence, then follow it down . . .” Gyles grimaced. “I’ll get Waring onto it.”

  “Do,” Devil stood. He met Gyles’s gaze. “It’s the most logical, most likely explanation, you know.”

  Gyles turned to the door. “I know.”

  Francesca fervently hoped Gyles was at White’s. She’d heard it was located in St. James. If her husband was there, safe within its portals, he wouldn’t be around to see her jauntering about town in the carriage, when she’d told him she was only walking to North Audley Street and back.

  What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. On the contrary—it would save him unnecessary worry. She’d had to get a new pair of gloves and sending Millie was impossible as Millie had hands twice the size of hers. Perfectly justifiable, yet who knew how Gyles might react?

  But she’d be home soon. She glanced out of the window at the passing buildings. And saw Charles and Ester going up the steps of one.

  Francesca leapt up and opened the hatch. “John—stop!”

  Two minutes later, she entered the building, a liveried footman behind her, a groom trailing a few yards farther back. Ignoring both, she looked around. The building housed an emporium offering numerous wares for sale. An apothecary shop took up the back counter; it was there she found Charles and Ester.

  “My dear!” Ester’s eyes widened; she moved to hug Francesca. “Oh, it’s good to see you.” Ester held her at arm’s length, studying her face, then her carriage dress. “You look wonderful! Are you enjoying the capital?”

  “Very much.” Francesca cast a puzzled glance at Charles. “But I had no idea you were here. Franni?”

  “She’s here, too.” Charles exchanged a glance with Ester, then took Francesca’s arm and steered her to the counter’s end. “She’s at the house we’ve rented, along with Ginny. We had to come here for more laudanum. They’re making up the dose.”