The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

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 grippi
ng 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-b
rown 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—”