The Reluctant Guardian

by Susanne Dietze

  But I need you.

  She bit back the words along with the tip of her tongue. Mild saltiness filled her mouth, accompanied by an underlying bitterness. Remorse. Dear Father, forgive me. How could she continue to be so selfish?

  Her fingers fiddled with the ribbons of her pelisse. “Do not concern yourself with me. I shall be fine here, with your Mr. Booth to watch over me.”

  Tavin’s head hung low. “Mr. Booth’s services are expired. I’ve been prohibited from hiring custom men. I can hire others, but we cannot afford to make a mistake, hiring the wrong man. The process takes time I do not have.”

  Wyling stood. “Gemma is my responsibility. I will make inquiries, and in the meantime, my footmen will serve.”

  More expense. More people endangering themselves for her. Gemma rubbed her temples.

  “No.”

  “I agree. Your men are trained at carrying parcels, not weapons.” Tavin’s fingers raked through his hair.

  There was but one option. Gemma touched his sleeve, just enough to capture his gaze before she drew back her hand. “Then I shall bow out of the theater tonight and return to Hampshire on the morrow, as well.”

  Tavin’s eyes dulled to jet. “I cannot be close enough to protect you there, either. Not with the work I now have to do.”

  So that was final. He would be free to do his job without the added weight of her everywhere he went. But he would no longer be with her. The sudden ache made her clutch her hands to her chest.

  “We still have the advantage.” She forced her tone to brightness. “The Sovereign will not know I am there, not yet. And I will stay inside. No walks up the hill. No red cloak. I promise. I will not...need you.”

  As he nodded, a ragged sigh escaped his chest. “I am sorry. For accusing you of wanting the pleasures of town when what you wanted was to help me. Not that I should blame you for wanting a bit of fun. This was your one Season.”

  Gemma’s lower lip caught between her teeth. Adventure. Fun. How shallow it all seemed. “You knew who I was right from the start. Selfish and bold.”

  “No.” Tavin’s thumb lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You are giving and kind.”

  At the emphatic clearing of Wyling’s throat, Tavin’s hand fell away.

  “It is settled, then.” Wyling nodded. “We leave for Hampshire on the morrow. Perhaps Peter can be persuaded to release you into our care, Gemma, and you may accompany us to Portugal. The Sovereign will not follow there.”

  Gemma returned his brave smile, but she knew as well as he did that she would never leave the boys.

  “I shall inform Amy and have Nellie prepare the boys.” Wyling’s long legs carried him to the door, where he paused to cast a pointed glare at Tavin. “I shall need you in the library in ten minutes, Knox. Ten.”

  He shut the drawing room door behind him, leaving them alone. For what purpose other than to say farewell?

  Despite the added layer of her pelisse, Gemma shivered with cold.

  “Do not be afraid.” Tavin’s voice was soft. “I would do anything to keep you from fear.”

  Was that why she shivered? Fear? Gemma rubbed her arms. “God is with me.”

  “I am relieved you will not go to the theater tonight.”

  “Guarding me would have been difficult,” she agreed.

  “When will you accept that is of no consequence? I can protect you.” He folded his arms. “But I didn’t care for you being with Beauchamp.”

  “Why ever not? After what Gerald Scarcliff did, Hugh and Pet must be suffering. Frances and I wished to extend the hand of friendship to them.”

  He shook his head and muttered something like “fool Beauchamp” before sinking into a chair, resting his head in his hands.

  “You must be exhausted.” Her hand rested on his shoulder, another brief, light touch that was nonetheless far too bold.

  “There’s no one like me, serving the way I do. When I have ended the Sovereign’s reign, mayhap I can tender my resignation. Things are changing now that the navy assists in routing smuggling vessels. But for now, I am trapped.” His broad shoulder bowed under her hand. “I am so tired of it.”

  She sat beside him before her fingers betrayed her and curled into his hair. “Could this restlessness be from the Lord, calling you to something new? Think on it, Tavin. He may have other work for you to do.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot stop this work.”

  “I know no one who shows the commitment to one’s duty that you do. But there is no dishonor in changing course when God directs us toward a path.”

  “Honor has little to do with it. I am indebted to the Crown. And to the Almighty. Working for Garner is the one thing that can earn me any peace.”

  “Peace? Shouldn’t you seek God for that?”

  “He withholds it. I have not yet earned it.”

  She eyed the mantel clock. “Do not speak in riddles. What is this talk of earning peace?”

  He leaned his head in his fists. “A man’s blood is on my hands.”

  A swallow worked in her throat. She should not be surprised he had been forced to hurt someone. When he had subdued Mr. Scarcliff without harming him, however, she had appreciated his strength, as well as his choice to avoid a violent end. “A smuggler?”

  Tavin barked a mirthless laugh. “A revenue agent.”

  A sick sensation swept her stomach. Then, with the hesitation of a mouse creeping whiskers first from beneath a cupboard, her hand snuck out for his.

  He jerked away. “Don’t. I don’t deserve kindness.”

  “After all I shared with you, you must realize I do not condemn you.”

  He stared at her so long, she half expected Wyling to burst through the door with his eye on the clock. “How can it be so easy for you?”

  “To go on when you’re responsible for someone’s death? You know how I struggled to forgive myself.”

  “You did not kill your parents, for one thing. But what I did was worse.” Tavin’s eyes shut. “I fell in with Ned Dillard at Cambridge.”

  “Dillard.” She searched her memory. “The one killed by Mr. Scarcliff in the duel.”

  “I was raw in knuckle and in soul then. I fought with my schoolmates. Fought against my grandmother’s desire to snuff the Scot from me. Then my parents died. And then there was Flora.”

  A thrill of unease shot through Gemma’s limbs. “Fl-Flora?”

  “Flora McInnis. My neighbor. There was nothing between us, spoken or unspoken. Still, I imagined there was, and I went home to see her.”

  Gemma busied her fingers with the lace rosettes on her gown. “So someday, will you make her Mrs. Knox?”

  “She is Mrs. Knox already.” Her gasp scratched like thistles in her throat, and Tavin tapped her cheek. “She married my brother, Hamish.”

  Heat flooded Gemma’s face. “Oh. I am sorry.”

  “I am not, anymore. But I broke from my brother, left Scotland and have yet to return. I engaged in an ugly period of brawling, gaming and drink. None of it numbed the pain, so whenever Ned Dillard thought of a grand scheme, I was eager to take part.”

  Gemma squeezed his thick fingers.

  Tavin squeezed back. “He seemed as eager to forget his life as I. One holiday we stayed at his home along the Dorset coast, and late on an evening we spied casks of brandy bobbing in the channel tide. It would be a bang-up lark to take some, would it not? Dip our toes into the dark world of smugglers? We had a few casks on the beach when the rum runners greeted us.”

  Gemma’s free hand covered her mouth.

  “I responded with my fists. I did not know Ned carried a pistol until he shot a man on horseback, galloping down the beach toward us. Neither of us knew the man was a revenue agent.”
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  She shut her eyes, holding back tears. “How very sad.”

  “Nothing happened to Ned, of course. Too highborn to hang, and he claimed confusion in the darkness and self-defense against the smugglers. I may not have pulled the trigger, but I was there, encouraging it, and I share the blame. Had I pulled Ned away—”

  “Ned Dillard made his own choice. He fired the pistol. Not you.” She shook her head. “I know you, Tavin. I suspect you tried to help the revenue agent.”

  His eyes darkened. “There was no point, after long. The fellow bled into the sand.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Nothing. The affair never became public. Ned went on his own way. I returned to Cambridge.” A faint smile toyed at his lips. “There, Wyling drew alongside me, befriended me. I was drawn to his wit and his easy manner. When he told me about the one way to redemption, I clung to the news. Much of my anger ebbed over time, but never my guilt. The conviction to repay what I’d done consumed me, so I made inquiries. And I met Garner.”

  Ah. “He put you to work?”

  “I was skilled for it. I knew well-connected people, yet I had a reputation for keeping low company. Whenever a complicated issue arose that required more delicacy than a revenue agent possessed, I handled it.”

  “But this conviction you mentioned, to repay the Crown?” Gemma’s thumb traced circles over the back of Tavin’s hand. “What was demanded of you?”

  “Nothing. It is a matter of conscience. To the Crown and to God. To earn forgiveness for my sins.”

  “Penance has its place, but you will never earn forgiveness. Only accept it. You think you must stop a murderer for God to love you.”

  “I know He loves me. But He must be so disappointed.”

  “It pains me that you believe that.”

  She peeked at the mantel clock. Twelve minutes had passed. The boys’ footsteps pattered in the outer hall, echoing the raindrops pinging against the window. “You should rest tonight, before your long journey on the morrow.”

  He shook his head. “There’s no one protecting you.”

  “The Sovereign did not see me, but even if he did, the house is locked.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of anything, woman?” His brows knit.

  Oh, yes. And if he kissed her again, he would know what it was.

  The door opened, admitting a tight-jawed Wyling bearing an opened missive. He offered Tavin a quick scowl and handed the sheet to Gemma. “No need to cry off your commitment to Hugh. He’s been called on urgent business to his estate. He is already left for Hampshire.”

  Tavin gently pulled his hand free.

  “I hope nothing is amiss.” Gemma scanned the letter, penned in Hugh’s loopy scrawl. “I shall jot a quick note of cancellation to Frances, then. And our London adventure will be over.”

  “I am sorry it was not all you wished it to be.” Tavin stared at her. “Thank you for what you said.”

  So many things she wished she could say. Thank you. I hope you find peace. Instead, she dipped her head. “I will pray for you.”

  Wyling’s throat clearing recalled them to the present, and with a last look and a bow, Tavin departed. Gemma plopped before the escritoire to write to Frances. The smell of ink filled her nostrils as she smoothed the foolscap paper. “Cancel...return home...my apologies... Remember what we spoke of, when I told you what happened when I wore the red cloak?”

  She looked up at the wall, unseeing. Then she dipped the pen in the inkwell again. “Oh, Frances. You were correct. My feelings are as you suspected, but a favorable outcome could never have been accomplished.”

  She’d resolved to accept God’s will and not fight against Him. Yet as she sealed her letter with wax and tears, her heart railed against that decision. This was too hard. Yet this was how it must be. How would she endure it?

  Chapter Twenty

  Staring out at the darkness, Gemma sighed, her breath fogging her bedchamber’s windowpane.

  She was safe. One of the footmen stood guard at the front door, and no one could slip past without awakening him. Another watched Berkeley Square from the drawing room. She could not be better protected within the house, and yet there was Tavin, standing in the garden below her window, under the acacia.

  Not that she could see his face. The branches obscured most of him, but not his legs. One leg bent at the knee, boot bracing against the tree trunk at his back, while the other was planted on the gravel, bearing his weight. His black clothes melded into the shadows, but his fingers, leached to gray in the dark, fiddled with something. A twig, perhaps. Not in a frantic way, but relaxed. Perhaps he was bored.

  And cold and damp, no doubt. Small sprinkles fell against her window in little taps.

  Go home, Tavin, before you come down with a cough.

  The house creaked as rain fell steadier now, pattering like fingernails against the pane, and the clock below stairs pealed twice. All was still, except in the garden. And in her heart.

  * * *

  Through the feathery leaves of the acacia, Tavin peered up at the soft ocher glow of the single candle wavering from the second-story window. The curtain fluttered and the flame danced, illuminating a female form at the window.

  “Go to bed, Gemma,” Tavin whispered. The vapor of his words swirled into the rain dripping off the leaves onto his boots and coat sleeves.

  He should be sleeping, too, with the long journey tomorrow. If Garner knew Tavin had disobeyed him by guarding Gemma, he would no doubt send Tavin to reprimand tea smugglers in the Outer Hebrides, where the only excitement was catching eels for supper.

  Nevertheless, he shifted his backside against the slender trunk, folded his arms and crossed his ankles. He was not going anywhere.

  Neither was Gemma, it seemed. Her silhouette leaned against the sill, postured to gaze out into the garden. Could she see him in the dark? The acacia was not an ideal hiding spot, but it offered better shelter than the pleached limes, and he wouldn’t squat beneath the hedges all night. Still, he stood motionless, his chest the lone part of him moving.

  The acacia blooms smelled sweeter in the rain, but then, everything did—the flagstones, the leaves, the air, washed clean. Unlike him.

  I do not feel forgiven, Lord. Is Gemma right? Does it have naught to do with the truth? Tavin shifted to lean his shoulder against the trunk. Forgiveness seemed far too embarrassing—too intimate—for his parents to discuss with him and Hamish. Not that they knew what he’d done. They’d died before he’d traversed down his current path.

  And the dowager duchess, with her grudges and schemes? Her scolds were shaming, not edifying. The only parent Tavin had witnessed extending grace to a child was Gemma.

  She was no mother, but he knew of no other who poured herself out for another the way she did. When Eddie or Petey fell short, what did Gemma do?

  He scrunched his eyes, and in his mind he saw her cling to the boys’ small hands. She did not withhold affection or love. Like God?

  He might not have a Bible at his disposal, but he’d committed some Scriptures to heart. God’s promises of unending love were certain. Tavin had repented, grieved over his sins, begged for forgiveness. Mayhap it was time Tavin believed God granted it and lived accordingly. As a changed man.

  Changed. Yes, that was it. So much in him had changed. Gemma had more than something to do with it, but the peace filling his chest came from the Lord.

  With rain speckling his boots and cuffs, he began with the Lord’s Prayer. And then, gazing on the candlelit window on the second story, he asked the Almighty to help him believe. And then he chose to believe it.

  He puffed out a breath. He may be free from the shackles of his sin, but he was not released from the burden of his duty. Not yet. He’d committed to arresting the Sovereign, and he would do so. Not because he mus
t to earn God’s grace, but because he’d given his word. But after he finished with the Sovereign?

  Tavin’s chin tilted up. What should he do when he had fulfilled his obligation? Do You want me to continue on for Garner, Lord? Or do You have something new for me? Grant me patience as I await Your word and Your provision.

  Gemma’s silhouette shifted at the window. He resisted the urge to toss a pebble at her window. But he was no callow youth. Nor was he free. Not in that way.

  Nevertheless, a smile tipped his lips. If I did not have this occupation preventing me, I would call on you, Gemma Lyfeld. I would woo you and marry you. I would take you and the boys and show you a grand adventure far away from here.

  As if Gemma whispered in his ear, he knew what she’d want him to do. Go home to Perthshire. He uncrossed his ankles and stared up at her window while the thought took root and grew like gorse along his bones. Home.

  Summer in the Trossachs was a fine place, among the lochs and oak-covered hummocks where his fither hunted roe buck. The tors would be covered in wildflowers soon: saxifrage and clumps of purple heather. When he was small, his clothes had been scented with their spicy blooms—a better smell than mud-damp boy, or so his nursemaid had insisted.

  He should go home and see Hamish. Tell him he loved him despite the harsh row they’d had, where Hamish had blamed Tavin for turning English and Tavin had accused Hamish of stealing everything he loved.

  Gemma’s silhouette receded and the ocher glow disappeared. Sleep well, my sweet. The Lord and I will watch over you.

  With a groan, the kitchen door opened. The small figure of a woman exited the house and hobbled along the puddled garden path curving toward the necessary. One hand clutched a shawl as she disappeared behind the vine-covered brick privy.

  Tavin tucked his chin into his chest, better obscuring his white shirt collar. The rain spatters thickened, as did the breeze, and he pulled his coat collar more snug around his nape. After a minute, the maidservant dashed past in a streak of white nightclothes. She struggled to open the door, but it appeared stuck. Swollen from the damp, no doubt.