The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

  Gemma tugged a lace-edged handkerchief from the beaded reticule still dangling around her wrist and twisted toward him. “You are making quite the mess.”

  He scowled and stared at the floor, but allowed her ministrations. With gentle dabs, she mopped the last traces of blood from his cheek and chin, just as she had done countless times for her nephews. It was a simple, nurturing task. But the comparison of experiences ended there. Tavin did not howl, for one thing. Nor did he lean into her for comfort as the boys did. Instead, he watched her, his breaths warm on her hand.

  When the blood was gone, she lowered her hand. The lace of her handkerchief caught along his whiskers.

  Amy cleared her throat, signaling Gemma to move back. Wadding the handkerchief into a ball, Gemma cleared her throat. “If you’re worried about talk or your grandmother, you don’t need to come with me and the boys tomorrow.” They’d planned to view the curiosities displayed at Bullock’s Egyptian Hall.

  Tavin snorted. “I will not break my promise to those children.”

  “It will be good for you to be apart in the evening, however, as planned,” Amy insisted. Tavin hadn’t wished to interfere in Gemma and Frances’s show of support to Hugh and Miss Scarcliff by joining them at Drury Lane theater tomorrow night. “You will prove to the ton you and Tavin do not live in one another’s pockets.”

  “But you’ll be outside, will you not?” Gemma peeked at Tavin. “Does your superior have any others watching me besides you and this Mr. Booth?” Her voice, unlike her emotions, was crisp and businesslike.

  Tavin stared at the floor. “There are two men in total.”

  “But they’re not Garner’s men.” Wyling folded his arms. “No more half-truths, Knox. Tell her the rest, so we can go to bed.”

  Gemma’s grip on the handkerchief tightened. “What half-truth?”

  “Garner did not hire Booth to watch over you.” Tavin fixed his gaze on his knee. “I did, and a fellow named Tott, too. Garner is not convinced the Sovereign was behind Grenville’s attack. Therefore, he does not believe you in serious danger. But I do, and I cannae verra well watch you ’round the clock.”

  Cannae verra? Smooth and lilting, the pronunciations shouted of his Scottish upbringing, something he’d always hidden to perfection. But the words slipped from his weary body, unfiltered and, judging by his unchanged expression, unbeknownst to him.

  Poor, weary man.

  “Tavin—”

  “Do not fight me.” His tone was soft as worn cotton. “Please. I will not keep any information from you again. And I will keep you safe.”

  Perhaps it was the late hour. Perhaps it was the lines of exhaustion creasing Amy’s face or the tinge of Scotland on Tavin’s generally guarded tongue.

  But she could not keep fighting him.

  Despite how it looked to the others, she inched closer to him again and laid her hand on his. Tavin needed to see her eyes when she spoke to him. “I only wished to thank you. I told you I would help you, Tavin. And I shall.”

  Firelight danced in his dark eyes. “Good” was all he said, but she knew he understood.

  She would do whatever was necessary to end this, even though it would mean ultimately telling him goodbye when the case finished.

  It was not as if she had pinned her hopes to Tavin as she had to Hugh. Quite the contrary. Then why did the prospect of never seeing him again prick at her like needles?

  * * *

  Despite having slept little the previous evening, Tavin’s steps were light as he walked alongside Petey, Eddie and Gemma from the museum hall housing Bullock’s intriguing collections. At this early hour, Piccadilly was not crowded, but Tavin would be a fool to take his attention from the street as they progressed from the Egyptian Hall toward Wyling’s house.

  Not that he was alone accompanying Gemma and the children. Wyling and Amy followed, trailed by the boys’ nursemaid and Wyling’s most strapping footman. But Tavin had learned long ago he could not rely on others to do what was required.

  He glanced back at Wyling and Amy, who chatted but kept their eyes on the street, helping him protect Gemma. Could he ever repay Wyling and Amy for all they’d done for Gemma?

  Paying note to the passersby, the shadows, the foot traffic behind them, he tipped his chin down toward Petey. “What did you like best? Napoleon’s carriage? Captain Cook’s treasures from the Sandwich Islands? Or the animals?”

  “Yes, sir. The pwe...pwe—”

  “Preserved,” Gemma prompted. Despite faint lines around her eyes testifying to a lack of sleep, her face shone with pleasure, framed by the pretty bonnet she’d worn at Montagu House. The trim was green ribbon—much the same grassy hue as the ribbon from Verity House he kept in his pocket, but thicker. One trailing band, borne on the breeze, spiraled over her cheek, and the instinct to sweep it aside twitched in his fingers. Instead, she brushed it away with an efficient gesture. “The animals were preserved.”

  “Preserved.” Petey nodded. “And bang-up to the mark, too, sir.”

  “Bang-up,” Eddie echoed.

  Although his gaze fixed on a man lingering over a flower-seller’s fragrant cart, Tavin smiled at the children’s mild use of cant. Bang-up to the mark, indeed. Where had they heard such talk? From their father?

  A father who, like Tavin’s own, for the most part ignored his progeny.

  Tavin swallowed back a painful lump in his throat. How could Peter Lyfeld be such a fool as to disregard the two freckled treasures hopping down the street?

  The boys bounced, fidgeted with their collars, chirped like parakeets. And their actions, their words, their smiles twisted something in his belly.

  Why, he’d come to care for the imps. Just as he had for their aunt.

  Tavin’s clenched fingers relaxed and with the lightest touch, he rested his hand on Petey’s shoulder. “The preserved animals were bang-up to the mark, indeed.”

  Gemma’s gaze flitted from the boys to him to the passersby. It wasn’t just fatigue creasing her eyes, but worry, too, although the boys would never guess she felt concern from her light tone. “I have never seen anything like that giraffe. Its neck and legs were longer than the height of a man.”

  “Why are they so long?” Eddie’s hand crept under his miniature neck cloth, as if afraid his throat might stretch.

  Tavin grinned. “A long neck is better when one eats from trees, and I suppose long legs are better than short ones when running from lions.”

  Eddie’s eyes narrowed with a mischievous gleam. “I can run fast.”

  “Indeed you can, but you shall not demonstrate for us now.” Gemma held out a hand, seemingly to catch him should he try. “It would not do to lose you in this crowd.”

  “I am a giraffe!” Walking with locked knees, Eddie stretched his neck and tilted his chin in the air.

  Petey put a fist over the bridge his own nose and spun back toward Amy and Wyling. “I am a rhino-sisser-us. Look, Mr. Knox.”

  “So you are.”

  “Me, too.” Eddie’s fist landed over his nostrils and he skipped to join them.

  Amy took Eddie’s hand and the four of them walked, side by side, discussing the animals. A sweet smile curved Gemma’s lips, and Tavin couldn’t help but watch her longer than he should have.

  They walked on, weaving through pedestrians and carts laden with savory-smelling meat pasties, jewel-hued fruit and fresh blooms, their fragrance taking him away from London to grass-filled meadows and lush heaths of heather. For a moment, a sense of freedom loosened his limbs and allowed him to feel the warmth of the sun seeping into his black coat. It was a hopeful sensation, a small gift from the Lord. Tavin was not forgotten. He had reason to hope in God’s plan, mercy and provision.

  When this was over—when the Sovereign was caught—maybe he could have a life. A wife like Gemma. Ch
ildren like Petey and Eddie, whom he’d take with him everywhere so he’d never miss an amazing word that fell from their honey-scented mouths.

  A wife like Gemma? When what he wanted was Gemma herself?

  The boys dashed back to show their rhinoceros noses to Amy and Wyling. Gemma peeked up at him. “Thank you for accompanying us. Even after last night. The dowager duchess will have expectations if she hears we were out today.”

  Tavin shrugged. “I disappoint her regularly.”

  Her tongue clucked like a hen’s. “Come, now. She holds you in great affection.”

  “She sees my mother when she looks at me. If I still spoke like me auld fither, or had inherited his ginger locks, she would leave me in peace, as she has my brother.”

  “Forgive her, for your own sake.” She glanced back at the strawberry-headed boys. “And there is nothing wrong with ginger hair. I am quite partial to it.”

  “Not me. I prefer the lightest shades of golden brown, like the flank of a fawn.”

  Her hair, and she knew it. Her eyes went wide. Ach, how he loved her. He’d deny it no longer. Her, and those rascals she loved. He’d take them all if he could.

  But he couldn’t, not today. He first had to repay his debt to God and Crown, and that could take years. His lifetime, perhaps. Still, he wanted it. Wanted a life with Gemma.

  She flushed, brushed the errant green ribbon from her cheek and looked away, anywhere but at him. Then her gaze fixed in the direction of his ear. And she gasped.

  After all her dancing last night, she must be sore. “Is it your ankle? Shall I summon that carriage, after all?”

  Her head shook a fraction.

  “Would you care to take my arm, then?”

  “No.” It was a strangled cry. And her eyes were not fixed on his ear, but across Piccadilly. “He—”

  The hair on his neck lifted. And he understood.

  He swung Gemma behind him with his right arm. With his left, he reached to push the boys into Wyling’s arms. All the while his gaze darted, hunted. “Where?”

  “I can’t see him now.” Gemma’s voice was high-pitched, despondent. “But it was he. Those eyes, the height, oh, Tavin, it was he. The Sovereign. In a brown coat. Right there. But now he is gone!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Where? The air was too thick, her throat too tight to breathe, but Gemma willed herself to calm. She’d be no help to Tavin if she quivered or cowered. This could end now. Here. She forced as deep a breath as she could muster and searched the crowd for the man who’d attacked her on Verity Hill.

  “He’s wearing brown? Light or dark?” Ordinary words, but they were clipped, anxious, from Tavin’s lips. His clutch on her arm was firm, tethering her behind him.

  “He’s here?” Amy’s voice was so high she clearly knew whom they meant.

  Keep your wits, Gem. “Brown like mud. Sludge. Not a pretty shade.” Pretty, indeed. She searched her memory for more details. Helpful ones. “Graying hair and a brown beaver hat. About your height, I think. He left that store, with the bay window, and ambled west—”

  “Did he get into a carriage?”

  “He was on foot. I didn’t see—”

  “Who’s on foot?” Petey wiggled in Wyling’s arms.

  Tavin craned to peer west. “Did he see you?”

  “Your form blocked his view of me.” Besides, she wore a poke bonnet that shielded her face unless he’d eyed her straight on, but he’d given no indication of that. Oh, this felt so helpless. Where had the Sovereign gone?

  “I’ll see the ladies and boys home.” Wyling’s tone brooked no argument as he shifted the boys to Amy’s arms and reached for Gemma’s hand. “Come—”

  “No.” Gemma’s head shook so hard her bonnet scratched her ears. Tavin needed her. “You don’t know what he looks like. I can search with you.”

  “Absolutely not.” Tavin’s grip slackened as he spun to Wyling. “I’ll call when I can.”

  Her jaw gaped. How dare he! She alone could identify the Sovereign. He needed her. “Tavin—”

  But he didn’t look back as he dashed westward down the street.

  * * *

  Tavin’s search of Piccadilly and its surrounding streets and alleyways proved fruitless, as had his inquiry into the shop with the bay window—a boot maker’s, which would have yielded helpful information had the Sovereign actually made a purchase or kept an account. According to the proprietor, however, the gentleman in the brown coat remembered an appointment before he could settle on a style.

  Within the hour, Tavin’s boots stomped in time with the pounding in his temples as he paced Garner’s planked floor. How could his superior be so dense?

  “He was on Piccadilly. The Sovereign. And you shrug?” Tavin’s fists tightened.

  “Miss Lyfeld glimpsed a gentleman who resembled her attacker. He strode the far side of the street, wearing a brown coat and hat. Everyone wears brown. Even me.” He gestured at the limp coat hanging beside his desk, with a coffee-colored beaver hat resting on top. “You know as well as I do the man might have been anyone.”

  “She insists it was he. And I believe her.”

  “I think it most unlikely, now that I’ve learned of new activity in Hampshire.” Garner stood from behind his desk. “I’ve a pressing appointment now, Knox, but you shall be glad to hear that I’ve decided you should return there, too.”

  “The Sovereign is in London, not Hampshire. I’ll not go back now.” Tavin was long past the point of using respect in his tone.

  Garner shrugged into his brown coat and set the hat on his graying head. “How long did you beg to return to the New Forest? Yet now you balk?”

  “I begged to go before I knew Gemma to be in danger.”

  “Gemma, now, is it?”

  The most polite answer Tavin could muster was a glare.

  Garner sidled past him to the door connecting his office with Sommers’s. “Your job was to glean information while protecting her, not to fall in love with the chit.”

  “There is naught between us.” There couldn’t afford to be. “But I’m staying here.”

  Garner paused, hand on the door latch. “Miss Lyfeld is in no danger whatsoever, but your source in Hampshire was executed. Where do your priorities lie?”

  “Where God places them. And He has put Gemma in my hands. I’ll not leave her when she is threatened, which she is, whether you believe it or not.”

  Garner’s glare turned icy. “Depart for Hampshire on the morrow. And you will no longer hire my men to do your bidding on their off hours or I shall see to it you are exposed for the accomplice to murder that you are. Do we understand one another?”

  Tavin’s arm dropped. “Entirely.”

  Gemma or his job, his reputation and his family’s name.

  When Garner pushed through the door, Tavin did not stop him. After the span of several deep, coarse breaths, he acknowledged defeat, slamming Garner’s door behind him with a gratifying smack.

  * * *

  Clank! None too gently, Gemma set her untasted tea on the drawing room side table. But how could she exhibit ladylike serenity after such a harrowing afternoon? She’d spied the Sovereign. Rushed home, wide-eyed and watchful. Then she’d waited two anxious hours for Tavin to complete his search. And now that he’d finally called, he was unbearably unreasonable.

  “It is not necessary to change my plans for tonight.” She huffed across the drawing room floor toward Tavin, brushing past Wyling and his rolling eyes. “I will go to the theater with Hugh and Frances as arranged.”

  “Are ye mad, woman?” Tavin glared at her from his stance at the window. “I’ll nae see you killed because you insist on squeezing every last drop of pleasure from your Season.”

  Not even the tinge of Scots in his speech softe
ned her resolve. “I’m not going to the theater for me. I’m going for you, so the Sovereign might follow me again and we can catch him. Will you not even consider my suggestion?”

  “Oh, I considered. In the time it took me to blink. Then I disregarded it as the most bird-witted proposal ever to scorch my ears.” He returned to the window, brushing aside the sheer white curtain and peering down at the maples below.

  “Wyling, please.” Gemma turned to her brother-in-law. Like her, he still wore his outer garments from their visit to the Egyptian Hall, as if he expected to flee the house at a moment’s notice. His toes tapped against the drawing room floor and his gaze darted at the door. Waiting for Amy to come down, or wishing to go to her?

  This tension was not good for Amy in her condition. Or the boys, whose questions at being hurried home without a farewell from Tavin had been unsatisfied. This had gone on too long. Soon, Lord. Please make this end soon, for everyone’s sakes.

  Perhaps things would move faster if Tavin allowed her a say. “Wyling, please convince him of the merit of me as bait.”

  “Oh, no.” Wyling stretched his long legs. “Knox and I are of one mind. To call your idea imprudent is an understatement.”

  “But we discussed this, Tavin. In the garden.” His brief glance told her he remembered, too. “The Sovereign knows who I am. That means he knows about the boys, and he is wicked enough to harm them just to spite me. So let us finish this. Let me stand in the open so he will come for me.”

  Wyling’s fingers steepled before his closed eyes. “Tell me you did not agree to such an outlandish scheme, Knox.”

  “He didn’t, precisely.” Gemma’s arms folded over her chest. “But we are partners.”

  “Even if I was inclined to agree, everything has changed.” The curtain fell from Tavin’s hand like a deflated sail. “My superior does not believe you.”

  Tavin’s flat tone sent shivers up her arms. “He doubts my sincerity? Or my sanity?”

  “His reasons are not important. Garner’s decision is final. He orders me back to Hampshire. Even though the Sovereign is here. Even though my leaving will leave you vulnerable. I must go or lose my position.”