* *
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 and introduced her to Amy. “How good of you to call with such haste.”
“After receiving your letter informing me you’d arrived in town, ’twas all I could do not to rush and bid you welcome.” Frances grinned.
The vouchers still lay on the table, and Amy’s cheeks pinked. “Pardon the mess. We just now received vouchers for Almack’s. Will you be in attendance next Wednesday, Miss Fennelwick?”
“Oh, no. I attended twice my come-out year.” She inclined her head at a sympathetic angle. “I am sorry to bear such ill tidings, but the place is a dreadful bore. It may be a bastion of exclusivity, but I prefer to remain home with a book.”
“But the status of having vouchers is important, is it not?”
Frances selected a biscuit. “I suppose Almack’s is as good a place as any to meet a gentleman. But I am a bluestocking. It is a badge I wear with pride, not the scorn others attach to it. I do not need a husband, so I am freed from playing by the stifling rules imposed upon marriage-minded females.”
“I do not require a husband, either.” As much as Gemma longed for adventure, a family of her own and freedom from Cristobel, she loved Petey and Eddie. They were enough for her. “I would simply like to experience all of London that I can.”
Again Stott entered the room with the salver. At Amy’s nod, he left and returned, Tavin at his heels, clad in another formfitting black coat, his gaze intense. Gemma’s breath caught—how foolish—and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his until the weight of another pair of eyes drew her gaze away.
Frances’s lips turned up in a smirk. Heat flooded Gemma’s cheeks.
She’d told Frances she didn’t want a husband, but it was obvious Frances didn’t believe her now.
* * *
Sitting still was harder than it should have been, considering a decent percentage of Tavin’s career was spent waiting, immobile. But standing. Even now, he would have preferred to stand outside the box at Astley’s Amphitheatre, keeping watch from the hall. But the boys had begged and it would have seemed odd to say no, so he took his seat in the box with Gemma and her family.
“Am-a-zing!” Petey cried as a trick rider galloped past.
Eddie looked up at Tavin. “That horse is as fine as Raghnall!”
Was he? Tavin hadn’t been watching. Not the riders or the pantomimes or acrobats who made the boys clap and laugh. Nor did he watch Gemma, although from the corners of his eyes he could see how she doted on her nephews, reading the program aloud to them and patting their arms. Love for the boys glowed on her features, adding an extra dimension to her beauty.
Not that he should think of that. He focused on the crowd, searching for a lone man peering at Gemma a second too long. Even though it was a waste. No one hunted Gemma.
Then Tavin saw the family in a box across the ring. His chest filled with dread. His aunt, the Duchess of Kelworth, was still beautiful, regal in bearing. A worthy duchess. Her husband, his mither’s brother, hadn’t joined her today, just the silvery-haired girls. While their eyes were wide as they watched the trick riders, they didn’t clap like Gemma’s nephews.
Beautiful girls, his cousins. Helena, the eldest, was near old enough for marriage now. How she’d changed from the little girl who’d begged him to push her higher on the swings. Would he have recognized her or her younger sisters if they had not been seated with their mother?
