The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

  Her Grace tutted. “When will you forgive Hamish? Let bygones be just that.”

  As his grandmother had not done, choosing to all but disown his mother for eloping with his father?

  “Our family is complicated.”

  “Your mother made it so.”

  Tavin startled at the direct mention of his mother. His grandmother generally ignored the human link between them. Discomfort stirred in his chest, not just for his mother but for his grandmother, too. The scandal must have been great thirty years ago when his mother had fled with a handsome but unsuitable Scotsman. His proud, ducal grandparents must have suffered shame and embarrassment.

  “My mother cared for you.” His voice was quiet.

  “She was a fool.” She set down her teacup with a clink. “Do not forget it was I who made something of you. I was the one who saved you from that farm where you were born. No one now would guess you once spoke like your Highland nursemaid.” She added a lump of sugar to her tea. “Much has been given to you, and therefore, much is now required of you.”

  Tavin grimaced at the twist of Scripture.

  “It is past time you made amends with Hamish. Visit, and then you will see he is to be pitied, not envied. He’s naught compared to you—thick-tongued, married to that red-haired harpy with a house full of bairns.”

  The dowager did not have reconciliation in mind. Rather, she wanted Tavin to rub his so-called superiority in his brother’s face.

  “I do not pity him. He is fulfilled.” For years, Tavin would have traded places with Hamish in a moment. The land, the bairns, Flora...

  “I did not show him the kindness I showed you.”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  It had not taken long to learn his grandmother’s kindness was reclamation of property rather than investment in a grandchild. The dowager had hoped Tavin would grow up indebted to her, rejecting his father and loathing his mother. To break Cassandra Knox as his grandmother had not been able to do.

  Pity his mither hadn’t noticed or cared what Tavin did. Like Peter and Cristobel Lyfeld, Tavin’s parents had ignored their two boys.

  He swallowed hard, aware that his grandmother watched his every twitch.

  “I have forgiven my family.” Even you, Your Grace, for using me instead of loving me. What was it the Lord said about judging the man with a speck in his eye, when a log filled his own? Tavin well knew he was not free from sin. He had no cause to hold grudges.

  “But you have not forgotten anything, have you?” She quirked a graying brow.

  “No.” The tea tasted flat on his tongue. “It is better for me and Hamish to be apart.”

  She waved her hand. “I did not request your visit to discuss family matters.”

  Now this was uncommon. But the dowager loved theatrics as much as his mither had. She would make him wait before she spoke. She gestured to the tray. “More seedcake?”

  “Thank you, no, Your Grace.”

  She sampled hers, nodded her approval and then looked at him. “My friends are gossipmongers, but they are reliable gossipmongers. Perhaps you have heard the latest tidbit? It involves a love match between a come-out and a gentleman.”

  “Alas, no one ever tittle-tattles with me.”

  “Mayhap they are struck mute by your imperious expression. But you shall want to hear this bit of gammon. It involves a member of my family.”

  “Has Cousin Helena found a beau?”

  “She’s not yet made her bows to society. I mean, you, of course.” She sipped her tea, a look of relish crinkling her eyes. “And a certain Miss Lyfeld. You went to Almack’s for her, didn’t you?”

  Denial wouldn’t assuage her thirst. Neither would the truth, so he settled on skirting the issue. “I went to Almack’s for myself.”

  She made a noise like a sneezing cat. “What about a supper party? And a balloon ascension? And a breakfast on the Thames? You were with her, according to my sources.”

  Her sources would make excellent spies. “We were invited to the same events.”

  “That does not explain you riding with her most mornings. Or is there another black-coated gentleman astride a blood bay escorting about a red-habited chit?”

  “Vermilion,” he muttered. His grandmother may not believe his protestations, but he’d not allow her to believe he’d soon be caught in the parson’s mousetrap. “I offered her riding instruction. That is all.”

  “Has Lord Wyling no grooms to see to the matter?” She blinked, all innocence.

  “A groom escorts us. As have Wyling and his wife. There is nothing between us but friendship.” But was that true? He guarded her—he was not her friend. Yet the past few days, rain or brilliant dawn, Gemma awaited him after breaking her fast, donned in her red riding habit. Every morning, he cupped his hands for her boot and hoisted her into the saddle. They rode and talked of everything but the Sovereign, Beauchamp and the masque. And afterward, when he assisted her from Kay’s back, he held her in his arms for the briefest of moments.

  Each day, ’twas harder to let her go.

  That was not quite friendship, either.

  “This has been most enlightening, my boy.” The dowager rang a bell to summon her butler, thereby dismissing Tavin, but she grinned. “Enjoy the comtesse’s masque. The both of you.”

  Tavin’s stomach submerged to his boots as he bowed and left her. Her Grace would make a far better spy than he did.

  Chapter Twelve

  Behind her silk mask, Gemma felt free to gape at the magnificent foyer of the Comtesse du Vertaile’s grand home, as well as at the other guests, all bedecked in cloak-like dominoes or creative disguises. Betwixt the candlelight flickering off gilt decor and the elaborate costumes, tonight was like a fantasy. If Tavin did not ruin the evening with his incessant scowling—visible despite the shroud of his domino cloak—Gemma would have the most extraordinary night of her life.

  A man dressed as Henry VIII strolled past, a milkmaid on his arm. She spun to Tavin. “The boys will love hearing of this. See how fine everyone looks.”

  “I am looking, to be sure.” Tavin’s tone prickled like a briary bush. “But it is you who bears watching, madam.”

  A sharp retort formed on her tongue, but she bit it back—as well as the inside of her cheek—rather than risk the Comtesse du Vertaile overhearing her. A tall, stately woman wearing a gold gown and laurel-festooned turban, the comtesse offered a welcoming smile as she greeted Gemma’s party to the ballroom.

  “Welcome.” Her lack of French accent did not surprise Gemma. Honore Haversash had been an English come-out when she’d married the Comte du Vertaile, who perished during the Terror in France after sending his wife and his wealth back to England.

  “Comtesse.” The hood of his black domino not quite covering his ginger hair, Wyling bowed low. Amy, resplendent in her shepherdess costume, curtsied. Tavin and Gemma followed suit.

  After the requisite presentations, the comtesse examined Gemma from the top of her scarf-shrouded head to the turned-up toes of her slippers. “My young Frances speaks well of you.”

  The compliment sounded almost like a warning.

  “She is an exceptional lady, Comtesse.” Gemma smiled. The comtesse need not fear she would ever hurt dear Frances.

  “And you, Mr. Knox. I knew your grandmother in our salad days. I have thought of her and her numerous tragedies often. Losing her husband, and before that, her daughter.” Her head tipped. “How fares Her Grace?”

  Tragedies? Gemma bit her lip.

  Tavin’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “Well, Comtesse.”

  “I am gratified to hear it. Enjoy yourselves.” The comtesse turned her attention to the party behind theirs, and Gemma followed Wyling and Amy into the ballroom.

  Tavin muttered something.

  �
��I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing. Just do not court trouble in your unreasonable ensemble.”

  “Unreasonable?” Crafted in the Egyptian style, her pearl-strewn gown harkened to a country she would never visit, but for one night she could pretend she was someone else, someone exotic. “I am in costume.”

  “You are donned in red.” His tone intimated that she was a cabbage-headed fool.

  Gemma’s hand flew to her left shoulder, where a pearl pin secured the vibrant train over her gown of white sarcenet and flowing lace headdress. “It is not red. It is rose, far too delicate a shade to be red. And you should not complain of my choice. I shall be easier for you to watch than if I wore a black domino.”

  Amy held up her beribboned shepherdess crook. “Will you spend your time bickering, Gemma, or will you enjoy the masque?”

  Wyling speared Tavin with a scowl. “Gemma is not in peril because she wears red, er, I mean, rose. Try to enjoy the party, why don’t you?”

  “I don’t like parties,” Tavin muttered.

  A stooped, gray-haired gentleman approached, arm in arm with a grinning, blond woman in a feathered headdress. The gentleman wore a toga-like costume, and the lady’s eyes twinkled behind a green-feathered mask.

  “Mr. Fennelwick. Frances.” Gemma nodded her greeting. “How wonderful you look.”

  “You are supposed to ask, ‘Do you know me?’ Not guess my identity.” Frances shook her head. “That is how things are done at masquerades.”

  “Very well, then.” Gemma grinned. “Do you know me?”

  Mr. Fennelwick chortled. “I believe we are all revealed by now. My, what a becoming Egyptian costume, Miss Lyfeld. Red becomes you.”

  Tavin nodded, the set of his jaw communicating that it was not the praise of Gemma’s looks he agreed with. Rather, he was vindicated at his knowledge of hue.

  As Amy, Wyling and Mr. Fennelwick conversed in the comtesse’s grand house, Tavin moved away, allowing Gemma to come alongside Frances. “Thank you for arranging our invitation with your kinswoman.”

  “She was delighted to include my friends. Is the masque to your liking thus far?”

  Gemma glanced about. Bedecked in shades of blue and gold, the comtesse’s ballroom glittered in the soft illumination of dozens of candles. Crystal vases of roses lent splashes of color and an enticing fragrance to the room, and the strains of violins carried from behind a gilt screen. And everywhere milled the costumed guests—members of the haut ton, no threat to Gemma whatsoever. Why did Tavin insist on causing such a fuss?

  “It is wonderful.” Gemma sighed.

  “At least no one will lose his inhibitions, despite the anonymity of their costumes.” Frances leaned closer. “Because of what she endured through the Terror, the comtesse values honor above all else. She perceives misbehavior as a personal insult to her hospitality.”

  “She has naught to fear from me.”

  Frances jutted her chin toward the far wall. Although he was disguised by a black domino, it was not difficult to recognize Tavin. No one else had such powerful shoulders; nor would anyone else stand apart, alone, watching the party.

  “He must feel a deep affection for you to attend a gathering he so clearly dislikes. Is he your suitor yet?” Frances’s matter-of-fact tone carried the gravity of a solicitor’s.

  Gemma tried to laugh, but it sounded feeble. “He is no such thing.”

  “So you say. Yet you have been riding with him every morning this week, twice to Richmond Park, a dozen miles away. I hope he will not mind that you have made plans with me for tomorrow. Or will he be joining us on our walk through Kew Gardens?”

  “He will not.” At least, not where Frances could see him.

  “He may come if you wish.”

  Two could play at this game. “What of Mr. Scarcliff? He has danced attendance on you.”

  “He has, although our latest outing was a disappointment. We visited the Elgin Marbles.”

  “We are to attend the exhibit with the children next week. Is something amiss with the displays?”

  “No, I refer to Mr. Scarcliff. I tried to instruct him on the ancient Greeks as we viewed the relics from the Parthenon, but he did not seem interested in the knowledge. He may be handsome, but I cannot spend my life educating a husband. It is too exhausting.”

  Gemma’s cheeks pained from smiling so wide. “Poor Mr. Scarcliff.”

  “I shall have to attend the display again so I might enjoy it better.” She stiffened.

  “Is that he, drawing near? So many gentlemen wear black dominoes.”

  “Let us retain a bit of mystery, then.” When the gentleman reached them and bowed, Gemma grinned. It was time for her to cast herself aside and assume the persona of an Egyptian princess.

  “Do you know me?” The gentleman’s voice was unfamiliar, and a dash of pleasure rushed to the tip of her pointy-toed slippers. The fun had begun!

  She giggled with Frances and dipped her head in her best impersonation of an Egyptian maiden. “I know you not, sir. Do you know me?”

  * * *

  “Do you know me?” A fellow in a jester costume leaned close to Tavin, reeking of wine.

  “I hope not.” Tavin stepped aside. When would this wretched evening end?

  Perspiration trickled behind his collar and snaked down his spine. These affairs were all the same. Too many bodies in a cramped space, too few open windows, too many candles. Tavin would shed the miserable, hot cloak the instant Gemma agreed to quit this ridiculous masque.

  Which, from her laughter, didn’t seem likely to occur anytime soon.

  A pity, because aside from the stifling air, he’d heard snippets of talk that would no doubt reach his grandmother come morning. Knox. Kelworth. Elopement. His mother’s scandal, revitalized by his “sudden interest” in the social whirl and his attention in Gemma. No wonder Her Grace was in a froth.

  God, this situation is a tangle. May it end quickly, for Gemma’s sake as well as mine.

  The red fabric of Gemma’s costume fluttered in his peripheral vision, and he followed at a discreet distance. He’d done well tonight, following his own rules for the acquisition of information.

  Do not directly watch the subject. Observe the environs of the subject. Note who follows, who fidgets, who stays close.

  Tavin snorted. For his taste, too many stayed close to Gemma, providing Tavin several masked individuals to monitor.

  Most were not of interest to him, as far as protecting her went. Wyling had been pulled into a political discussion some time ago. Amy occupied a chair beside a bored-looking Miss Fennelwick and her dozing father. Gerald Scarcliff had stayed close to Miss Fennelwick for a brief while but now huddled with a group of bucks Tavin knew to be too rich and bored for their own goods. Beauchamp and his betrothed also sought out Gemma—Beauchamp’s excessively white teeth and trilling laugh gave away his identity—but it was the others who made Tavin anxious.

  Men in dark dominoes, drawn to the woman in red like wasps to honeysuckle.

  Little did those fools know she was no sticky-sweet bloom. She might smell of lavender and honey, but she was barbed as any rose.

  Tavin’s grunt elicited a smile from a woman in a low-cut gown and black mask. “Do you know me?” Her voice was a purr.

  “Doubtful.” Perhaps if he scowled, no one would ask him that inane question again.

  Gemma glided toward a new group. Despite his earlier protestations, she did create a fetching picture. The red—rose—scarf brought out the pink in her cheeks and the gold tones in her hair.

  Admit it, some part of his brain ordered. You are drawn to her.

  And he wasn’t alone. Other men sought her, spoke to her or worked up the courage to do so. A lean gentleman followed after her, his fingers fidgeting against the seam of his domi
no. When Gemma stepped right, the man followed suit. It was enough to rouse Tavin’s suspicions, but he forced his fingers to uncurl. Undoubtedly, the slim-shouldered gentleman was taken with Gemma’s joyous laugh.

  Just like Tavin was. It was difficult not to watch her, she so enjoyed herself.

  The man stepped forward. And in the palm of his hand, a circle of gold, twisting through his fingers. Gold like a coin. A sovereign coin.

  Or a button, or anything gilt the fellow fingered out of habit. It meant nothing, and even if it were a coin, innumerable sovereigns circulated the realm.

  But a sick sensation speared Tavin’s gut and tightened the muscles in his arms and legs. He’d learned to never ignore it.

  Sovereign’s man, or the Sovereign himself, but someone stalked Gemma.

  He rushed forward, smacking into a woman. Her enormous feathery headdress blocked his vision. He stepped to the side.

  Gemma was gone.

  No red fluttering. No slim-shouldered gentleman. No time to waste.

  Weaving through the revelers, he forced himself to breathe, to remember the rules he’d set for himself. Never panic. Use your senses. He’d caught many a quarry through patience and perseverance. But he’d never had a person under his protection before.

  He burst through the door where the comtesse had welcomed them scant hours earlier, pausing in the deserted hall. Four doors led from it. The first, a library, stood empty. The second was full of men talking. The next two doors were closed. He twisted the handle of one, interrupting what looked to be an argument between two women. He shut the door.

  Where was Gemma? She couldn’t have slipped onto the terrace or gone to the staircase without him seeing her red costume. Tavin sucked in a hard, shaky breath. How had he missed her?

  Then he heard it. A man’s voice, from the final closed door. Tavin pressed against the wood, the better to hear.

  “No, thank you.” The words were muted, but they were Gemma’s. Firm but calm.