hear it. Tavin forced a smirk. “I shall end up reporting on her passion for Gunter’s ices.”
“Something will have hurt her. Or she dreams of something. When you learn what, you’ll know who she really is. Harmless little come-out, as you say, or something more dangerous.”
Harmless, no. But dangerous? Only to Tavin, it seemed. The woman had a strange effect on him—on his circumstances and to something inside of him he’d rather not think about. At least not here, under Garner’s too-watchful eye.
He shifted on the hard chair. Truth be told, he’d rather never think of it. “Are you certain? Because if I could just go back to Hampshire—”
Garner waved away the request like a dust mote. “She’s heartbroken over that Beauchamp fellow. Vulnerable. You’ll see a new side to her. Take advantage of it.”
Tavin stood. “You’d best prepare for a tedious report. No doubt I’ll be kept waiting in the library while she mopes and wails in self-pity.”
* * *
There was a wail, after all. The sound from somewhere upstairs reached Tavin the minute Wyling’s hook-nosed butler, Stott, showed him into the Chinese-styled drawing room. Then the cry trilled into laughter.
The boys, of course. But another laugh joined in, giddy and excited. It had to be Amy’s, because Gemma wouldn’t be—
Cackling like the children. She was still laughing when she came into the room, alone. No sign of swelling appeared around her eyes, which sparkled with mirth; nor were there red blotches on her heart-shaped face. She pressed her lips together, stifling further giggles. “Welcome, Mr. Knox. What a surprise.”
Yet he was the shocked one. Hadn’t she loved Beauchamp? Planned their wedding for years, written his name in her diary and sighed when he walked into the room?
He bowed. “Am I interrupting?”
“Oh, no. The boys were ready for a snack. Wyling and Amy are out, but I expect them home soon. Won’t you take a seat?”
He hesitated. He’d not sat alone with a female in a room since—beyond recall. But he nodded. She sat away from the fire as if she were overwarm. He dropped to a plush armchair between her and the fireplace. “I have but one question. What are your plans?”
“Plans?” Her gaze met his. And his breath hitched.
She was pretty. He had thought her pleasant from the moment they’d met, but this was different. Pink lips, wide-eyed, of slender form. What was wrong with Beauchamp, choosing another over her? The man was a dolt.
She blinked. What had they been talking about?
“I shall ring for tea.” She sprang up, sending the summery scent of lavender wafting through the air. “Just the thing to warm your bones. It must be chill out, indeed.”
After instructing the footman to bring refreshments, she resumed her seat. “My plans, you said? For the day, 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
