Tavin’s lips twitched. “Serious business, indeed. May I accompany you?”
“It is unnecessary.” Gemma spoke before the boys begged Mr. Knox to please do.
“May we go inside now?” Petey hopped.
“Manners, my love.” Gemma released their hands. “Nellie, would you to take the children in? I shall join you in a moment.”
Gemma watched until they disappeared into the depths of the bookstore. When she turned back, Tavin leveled her with a frown.
“Ignoring my rules already, Miss Lyfeld?”
“Hardly. I am not alone. Nellie is here, as are the boys.”
“Feeble protection, honestly.”
“I left word for you. What else could I do? You were not to be disturbed, according to Stott.”
“Disturb me. Always.” He leaned closer and, oh, there was that wood smell again. “From now on, take me or Wyling with you.”
Lovely wood smell or not, this was absurd. “’Tis most impractical.”
“We must all bear the inconvenience for now.” He gestured to the door. “Now that we understand one another, do you care to look at books?”
“Not particularly. I’d rather throw one at something.”
“I shall find a shield for myself, then.”
Did everything she say and do amuse him? She gripped her reticule and turned. Catching sight of another familiar face, a grin pulled at her cheeks. Hugh, on Piccadilly of all places, smiling down at her. Now, God willing, everything would be well.
A young lady clung to his arm.
Yellow curls peeped from under a silk bonnet embellished with snow-white feathers, framing a schoolroom-fresh face. A bow under the bosom of her white pelisse accentuated her generous curves, inviting the eye to linger most improperly on her ample décolletage.
Gemma fingered the linen fichu at her neck.
Hugh’s shining face radiated excitement. “Gem, pleasant journey and all that? So good to see you. And you as well, Mr. Knox.”
“Mr. Beauchamp.” A genuine smile spread over Mr. Knox’s lips, as if he were relieved.
“How delightful to see you.” Gemma’s glance flicked at his companion.
Hugh turned to the girl on his arm. “Where are my manners? Abysmal of me. May I present Mr. Knox, and this lady before you is, of course, my Gem—Miss Lyfeld.”
Something inside Gemma fluttered at his possessive words.
His smile grew wider, if possible. “Gem, Mr. Knox, may I present Miss Patrice Scarcliff? Pet, I call her.”
Pet? What sort of name was that for—
“My fiancée.” Hugh beamed. “I had planned to tell you about our betrothal back in Hampshire, but the opportune moment did not present itself.”
Gemma’s lungs stopped functioning. So did her mouth.
“Felicitations.” Tavin’s congratulations ripped her back to the moment, to Piccadilly, to her nephews waiting inside.
“Felicitations,” she repeated, staring at the sweet-faced Pet.
She couldn’t look away from the lady’s pretty face. Because for a hundred shiny gold sovereign coins, she couldn’t have forced herself to smile at Hugh.
At dawn the next morning, the wind whistled cold and shrill around Tavin’s ears, drowning out the sounds of everything but the pounding of Raghnall’s hooves on the fog-soaked turf. The faster he pushed the gelding over the verdant slopes of Richmond Park, the more distance Tavin placed between himself and his troubles.
Especially the frustrating female with light brown hair, who no doubt slept snug in her bed in Wyling’s town house.
Tavin dug his heels into the blood bay’s flanks, enjoying the sensation of being pulled backward for the briefest moment when the horse increased its pace. No impediments blocked their way. Situated a dozen miles from London, Richmond Park was deserted at this hour. The sun had yet to penetrate the dull blue-gray of clouded dawn. Galloping like this had a way of clearing his head. At this speed, his frustrations vanished. He heard nothing, felt nothing but his own thudding heartbeat and the whip of the wind. At least, until today.
The Sovereign would continue his operation in Hampshire, but Garner would keep Tavin with Gemma. There’d be no wedding in her future. No Beauchamp to take Gemma off his hands.
He’d wring the dandy’s neck if he could find it under the yards of linen Beauchamp called a neck cloth. Tavin may have forgotten a great deal about females and rules and expectations, but even he knew when a gentleman crossed a line.
The betrothal may not have been documented, but hadn’t there been some verbal understanding? For years? He needed only to close his eyes to see Gemma’s eyes, lifeless with shock, when that dandified Beauchamp had announced his betrothal to the infant at his side.
Hugh Beauchamp had ruined everything. Both for Gemma and for Tavin.
God help us. He should have prayed it already. Should have given thanks for his blessings: the rich mahogany of Raghnall’s coat, the sweet fragrance of wet grass, merry birdcalls, Raghnall’s nicker when Tavin turned him back to London. Reminders, each one, that God’s mercies were new every morning.
And they were especially sweet, considering he might have missed them all if, six years ago, he’d received the punishment he deserved and moldered in a stark, stinking prison. Instead, he’d received the chance to repay his debt.
It was natural, perhaps, that such thoughts directed him to the Custom House. Despite the early hour, Garner sat behind the desk in his chilly chamber, papers in hand.
“Something happened?” Garner’s brow rose. “The girl recalled something more about the Sovereign’s appearance?”
“Nothing like that.” Tavin recounted Gemma’s all-too-ordinary life and the tale of Hugh’s betrothal. As expected, Garner shook his head.
“Could she be an agent, working for an unknown group?”
“Hardly, unless she passes codes at the linen drapers.” His tone bordered on insubordinate, but he couldn’t stop himself. “She’s a country miss. All she cares about is her family.”
Garner’s gaze pierced him, its effect almost like pressure on Tavin’s chest. “Everyone cares about something with such intensity they rarely speak of it, because it has the power to break them. Even her. She holds a secret. It would be wise to befriend her and uncover it.”
Tavin’s brow furrowed. The request was a violation, unnecessary and uncouth. He wouldn’t do it. He would watch her, protect
