The Reluctant Guardian. Susanne Dietze

or the remainder of the Season, since Hugh has made plans of his own?”

      His shock must have shown on his face, for she laughed again. “I cannot say what the rest of the Season holds, but tomorrow, I take the boys to the circus.”

      He leaned forward, about to speak, when the tea things arrived. He declined sugar, accepted the delicate cup and set it, untasted, on the table beside him. “You may not be in mourning over Beauchamp, but the circus? If Garner’s correct and you are in danger, public settings are foolish places to be.”

      “Astley’s Amphitheatre is not dangerous except to the trick riders and acrobats.”

      “Really, Gemma. Can you not sit home and embroider something like other females?” He’d used her Christian name. He should not have, and yet he couldn’t help himself. Might as well get her permission, since he’d be sure to do it again. “May I call you Gemma? Perhaps you might call me by my given name, too.”

      Her cheeks flushed. “I am not certain that is proper.”

      “Little between us is.”

      “Very well, then. Tavin.”

      His name sounded sweet—if shy—on her lips, and it brought a strange rush of pleasure to his chest. “Was that so difficult?”

      “I shall keep the answer to that a secret.” She smiled, but no trace of levity reached her eyes. “I am sorry to be the cause of so much trouble. You do not need to come to the circus, you know. Wyling will attend.”

      “You are not trouble.” Although protecting her at a place like Astley’s would prove more difficult than at a supper party. “This is my occupation.”

      “You want to catch the Sovereign desperately.”

      There was no use denying it. “Yes.”

      “Will you tell me why? Beyond his crimes, something drives you.”

      A shaft of panic surged up his spine, cold as ice. Could he tell her? Explain his past, or how he might be free once he completed this particular job? “It is a complicated matter.”

      She folded her hands on her lap and peered at him. “I shall be honest with you, despite your ability to return the favor. I will not curl up and embroider away my Season. He will never find me here, and I’ll not cower in fear that he might. We will enjoy every minute of our time in London, the children and I. We shall visit with old friends and see the Tower and the menagerie. We shall sail on the Thames and watch balloons ascend.”

      “This is about the boys?”

      “Everything is about the boys.”

      Tavin couldn’t break the contact of their locked gazes. Garner had been correct, after all. In light of Hugh’s defection, she’d revealed her heart. Tavin hadn’t even had to wheedle it from her. What had Garner said? She would be harmless? Dangerous? She was neither.

      What she truly cared about, the thing that could break her, was the fate of her nephews. She was fierce when it came to those sticky, hopping children. Something his mother had never been for him and his brother, Hamish.

      “But if you’d married Beauchamp?” That didn’t make sense.

      “I’d have lived next door and seen them daily. As it stands now, well, the result is the same. Despite Amy and Wyling’s invitation to take me with them to Portugal for Wyling’s diplomatic task, I will never leave Hampshire, because the boys are there.” She smiled. “This is my one chance to experience London. Am I understood?”

      With a pang in his chest, he nodded. Her one chance, before she went home to sit on the shelf, an old maid, an ape leader, any of those derogatory terms indicating she was dependent, undesired, past marriageable age. Tavin understood now. He admired the lack of self-pity in her tone and words. Respected the glint of determination in her eyes.

      But he didn’t like it.

      He drained his tea, the delicate bohea as unappetizing as ditch water after this conversation. “It would be my pleasure to escort you to Astley’s on the morrow.”

      “We shall be ready for you.”

      He snorted. He had a feeling neither of them would be ready for what lay ahead of them.

      * * *

      Fire. All around her. So hot. Gemma turned, searching for escape, but flames surged up the walls and curtains, blocking her escape. She gasped to scream, but smoke filled her chest, and her call died in her clogged throat.

      Mama. Papa. God help me.

      Brighter than noonday sun, the flames grew closer, curling over the library furniture. Then, at her feet, prickles. She would be next to burn. But the flames licked damp, cold. She jerked—

      She sat up in bed, the coverlet twisted around one leg and buried under her body. Moist with sweat, her night rail clung to her. The mauve light of dawn crept around the curtains’ seams. The house was still and quiet, unlike her thundering heart.

      Gemma flopped against the pillows. Lord. Help me.

      God was there. It was the one thing she knew. No matter what she had done, the Lord promised to never leave or forsake her. She had to keep repeating what she knew was true.

      I am forgiven by God. I am forgiven.

      But she couldn’t repeat one thing she didn’t know. Would Mama and Papa still be alive if she had gone to bed that night when they had asked?

      The nightmare shrouded her all day, dampening the prospect of a lighthearted day at the circus with the boys. She prepared early, changing into a muslin walking gown, and wandered to the drawing room where Amy perched on the settee with a stack of letters and a delighted smile.

      “Gem, come see.” Amy waved a piece of vellum like a fan.

      “Something from Cristobel?” At last.

      “I fear not, but good news, nonetheless. Vouchers for Almack’s. We have been deemed worthy to receive entrance to that estimable bastion of respectability,” Amy joked. “There will be enough eligible men there to make you forget Hugh.”

      Gemma’s eyes rolled. “I can never forget Hugh. He’s our neighbor.”

      “He doesn’t have to be. Your neighbor, that is. Not if you leave Verity House.” Amy pulled Gemma to sit beside her. “You did not love him, so you’ll soon heal from his, er...”

      “Jilt.”

      “He didn’t jilt you. Well, in principle, I suppose, but now that we harbor no expectations, I shall insist to Peter that I have need of you.” Assurance shone from Amy’s eyes. “After the Season, you’ll come with Wyling and me to Portugal. He’ll be delighted I’ll have your company while he’s occupied in diplomatic matters. What say you?”

      Portugal sounded exotic, colorful and distant as the moon. If only it could truly be. Gemma dropped the Almack’s vouchers onto the table. “What of the boys?”

      Amy’s shoulders slumped. “They are not your sons, Gem.”

      “But I love them as if they are.”

      “I know.” Amy shook her head. “And losing you would be difficult for them. We shall continue to pray on the matter. And, for today, we shall enjoy the circus.”

      Very well. “I’m unsure which will prove more entertaining—the pantomimes and riders in the ring, or Tavin, wishing he were anywhere else?”

      Amy stifled her laugh when the butler, Stott, entered with a silver tray. “Perhaps that’s him now.”

      But the silver salver bore a calling card for one Frances Fennelwick, not Tavin Knox.

      “Do show her in.” Gemma rose in anticipation.

      Dressed like the summer sky in a blue gown, blonde Frances made a fetching sight. Gemma welcomed the dainty miss