All About Passion (44 page)

"Will you take me?"

Her excitement was palpable. He waved at the shelves. "If you help me with these references, we can leave immediately after dinner."

"Oh,
thank you!"
The playbill went fluttering; she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him. It was the first time they'd touched since last night, or, more precisely, that morning. She drew back. Their gazes locked. Green and grey without any masks, any veils. Then she smiled, sank onto his lap, and thanked him properly.

The rain stopped at noon; by eight o'clock that evening, Vauxhall Gardens was packed with revelers, all eager to enjoy one last fling. A chill dampness hung in the air; the minor avenues were dark and gloomy yet still crowded, occasional feminine shrieks attesting to their attraction. Gyles inwardly cursed as he steered Francesca through the throng. Who would have believed half of London would turn out on such an evening? The jostling hordes included every class of Londoner, from ladies like Francesca wrapped in velvet cloaks, to shopkeepers' wives, primly neat, looking around curiously, to whores, painted, feathered, bawdily trying to catch gentlemen's eyes.

"If we go through the Colonnades, we'll come out close to our booth." Francesca could see the square outline of what must be the Colonnades ahead. The crowd was so thick, they kept halting, pausing. In one such interval, she looked around, and saw, not ten feet away, Lord Carnegie.

His lordship saw her. His gaze flicked to Gyles, then returned to her. He smiled, bowed. The crowd shifted, blocking him from view. Francesca looked ahead and quelled a shiver. They reached the Colonnades. Gyles turned under the first arch—just as a tide of revelers rolled out in the opposite direction. Francesca was caught, wrenched from Gyles's side and pushed back along the path.

She thought she'd lose her footing and fall. Regaining her balance, she struggled to break free of the melee. Her voluminous cloak was pulled this way, then that.

Hands grabbed at her arms—even through her cloak, she knew it wasn't Gyles. She jerked free, turned, but in the jostling crowd she couldn't see who'd grabbed her.

Dragging in a breath, she tried to forge her way back to the Colonnades. The crowd parted, and Gyles was there.

"Thank heavens!" He hauled her to him, locked her close. "Are you all right?" She nodded, closing her fist in his coat.

"Come on."

Gyles tried to ignore the primitive uneasiness rippling through him. He held her close as they made their way through the Colonnades. They reached the Rotunda. From there, the way was easier, the crowd composed primarily of gentlefolk less inclined to jostle.

As he'd arranged, their guests were waiting in the booth he'd hired. Francesca was disarmed and delighted.

"Thank you," she said when, radiant, she returned to his side. "I didn't expect this. You've been busy."

"It seemed a good idea."

Devil and Honoria were there, as were his mother, Henni, and Horace. The Markhams and Sir Mark and Lady Griswold, old acquaintances who'd grown closer with Francesca's entrance into his life, rounded out the party.

The evening passed pleasantly. The booth was in a prime position; they had an easy stroll to the Rotunda, where seats had been reserved for the ladies for the performance. The gentlemen seated their wives, then retreated to a safe distance to discuss the bills they'd been working on and other important matters, such as the hunting and shooting they might have during the winter. At the end of the performance, Francesca rose, delighted. With Honoria, she headed to where their husbands stood.

"Well!" A crabbed hand shot out and snagged her wrist.

Francesca turned, then smiled. "Good evening."

"And a very good one it is for you, quite clearly." Lady Osbaldestone turned to Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, seated beside her. "Told you it'd happen sooner rather than later." Turning back to Francesca, she released her hand and struck it admonishingly. "Now you've got him in harness, just make sure you keep him right up to the bit, gel! Understand?"

Struggling to hide a grin, Francesca didn't attempt a reply.

"If you don't, just ask Honoria there. She hasn't done too badly at all." Lady Osbaldestone grinned wickedly. Honoria bobbed a curtsy. "Thank you." Smiling, the Dowager touched Francesca's hand. "It's a great joy to see Gyles suitably settled at last, but it is true—you will have to make sure he doesn't slide. At least until the role becomes second nature. Then…" She gave a Gallic shrug signifying that then, all would take care of itself. Parting from the older ladies, Francesca whispered to Honoria, "How do they know?" Honoria glanced at her, then whispered back, "It's written all over your face, and his." Her nod directed Francesca's gaze ahead, to where their husbands stood waiting. Two tall, strikingly handsome, broad-shouldered men with eyes just for them.

Honoria flicked her an understanding glance as they neared. "It feels good, doesn't it?"

"Mmm" was Francesca’s reply. Smiling, she took Gyles's arm, and they turned toward their booth.

"Mmm, what?"

"Mmm-hmm." Francesca dimpled up at him. "Are we dancing, my lord?" Gyles looked to where couples were waltzing in the area before the booths. "Why not?" So they whirled. Gyles was aware of the admiring male glances they drew; he could hardly complain. She was happy so she glowed, her eyes sparkling, her lips curved. That smile and the light in her eyes were all for him.

The dance ended; as they headed back to the booth, they came upon another area of congestion. Gyles held Francesca's hand firmly and led her through; she walked behind him, sheltered by his body. They turned the corner toward the booth door, and the crowd eased.

A lady halted directly in front of Gyles, startling him into halting, too. She smiled like a cat and stepped closer.

"My lord—what a surprise."

Gyles blinked. Her tone was a poor imitation of Francesca's seductive purr. That instant's hesitation encouraged the woman. Smile widening, she pressed close.

"I had heard you were no longer
receiving,
but that can't be right,
surely.
Just because you're married…

well, a leopard doesn't lose his spots overnight,
does he?"

Who the devil is she
? Gyles couldn't recall.

"This
leopard," came a voice from beside him, "is spoken for." The madam's eyes flew wide; to Gyles's surprise, she took an involuntary step back as Francesca stepped between them.

She looked the woman down, then up, then tipped up her nose haughtily. "You may be interested to know that I take an active interest in my husband's social life—all requests for his company on any but business matters should henceforth be addressed to me. And as for his spots, you may be sure I appreciate them and have every intention of enjoying their benefits for many years to come." The woman blinked. So did Gyles.

Francesca's head rose another notch; he would have given a great deal to see her face as she imperiously, asked, "I trust I have made myself clear?"

The unknown lady cast him a very fleeting glance, then—and he would have sworn to her own surprise—bobbed a curtsy. "Indeed, my lady."

"Good." Francesca waved. "You may leave us."

Blushing vividly, the woman did.

Gyles shook his head. Curving a hand about Francesca's waist, he urged her on. "Remind me to send any further importuning ladies your way."

"Do." On the threshold of the booth, she whirled and faced him. Her eyes burned with green fire—not the warm sort. With her chin set the way it was, he could understand why the lady had retreated.

"I'll be happy to deal with them." Her expression stated she would relish the dealing. Her eyes met his, then haughtily, she turned into the box. "I am, I believe, more than a match for them." Gyles wasn't about to argue. She was more, much more, than any who had gone before. Aside from all else, she was a Rawlings—they shared, it seemed, quite a few character traits. Smiling, he stepped into the booth, sliding one hand about her waist to draw her to him. In the aftermath of that scene, in light of the thanks Francesca spent the night bestowing on him, Gyles found it impossible to deny her her wish to visit her old governess in Muswell Hill. She left immediately after luncheon. He retired to the library, confident that with two extra grooms riding with John Coachman, he had no need to fret.

Three hours later, a commotion erupted in the hall. He rose—before he could take a step, Wallace threw open the door. "There's been an incident, my lord."

Before his heart could plummet, Francesca swept in. "No one was hurt." Tugging off her gloves, she crossed toward him. Gyles took in her frown, took in the fact she was clearly unharmed. "What happened?"

A cough drew his attention. John Coachman stood on the threshold beside Wallace. "Highwaymen, m'lord. But what with the lads on top—they were carrying their pistols like you ordered—we came to no harm."

Gyles waved him in and beckoned Wallace as well. "Sit down. I want to hear exactly what happened." Francesca subsided into the armchair beside his desk, the armchair that had become hers. Gyles sat as Wallace and John drew up straight-backed chairs.

John sat. "It was on our way home, m'lord, as we were coming down the hill to Highgate. They was lying in wait in Highgate Wood—three of 'em. Two burly louts and one skinny one. They'd mufflers

'bout their faces and the usual sort o'coats. Run-of-the-mill highwaymen."

"Shots were fired?"

"By our lot, yes. They turned tail and ran."

"Were they armed?"

"I'spect so, m'lord, but I didn't see any pistols."

Gyles frowned. "Check with the grooms. If they were highwaymen, they would have been armed."

"Aye." John eased to his feet. "If you've finished with me, m'lord, I need to check the horses."

"Yes, and well done, John. Please convey my thanks"—Gyles glanced at Francesca and saw her summon a smile for the coachman—
"our
thanks to both grooms." John bobbed to Gyles, then Francesca. "I'll tell 'em, you may be sure." Wallace rose and repositioned the chairs. Gyles flicked him a glance:
Find out what you can and tell me
later.
Wallace bowed and followed John out, shutting the door.

Gyles considered Francesca. Her frown, more in her eyes than her expression, had returned. She glanced at him. He raised a brow.

"I just never imagined being set upon by highwaymen so close to town. It was not pleasant." Gyles rose, crossed to her chair, drew her to her feet, then closed his arms around her. "Were you frightened?"

She clung. "No—well, a little. I didn't know what was going on—I didn't know our grooms were armed or that it was they who had shot. I thought
we
were being shot at!" Gyles tightened his hold, rocked her slightly, laid his cheek against her hair. "It's all right. Nothing came of it."
Thank God.
"I'm afraid such occurrences are not unheard of, which is why I ordered John to take two grooms. At this time of year with the wealthy leaving London, the outskirts of the capital provide the richest pickings."

But highwaymen usually waylaid travelers at night, or at least in the evening. Broad daylight was too risky.

Francesca eased back. "I must go and change. I think I'll take a long bath." Her liking for relaxing baths had not escaped Gyles. He released her. "We're dining in tonight, aren't we?"

"Yes. The roundabout is slowing, so it'll just be the two of us." She opened her eyes at him. "Will you be bored?" Gyles raised a brow. "You'll have to see to it I'm not."

"Ah—the duties of your countess." With a die-away air, she curtsied and turned to the door. "I'll go and fortify myself." Gyles laughed. The door closed behind her; his laughter faded. He returned to his desk. She'd said she valued honesty—that she wanted honesty from him. When, after dinner, they entered the library, Gyles considered the truth, considered how much he could bring himself to reveal. Considered why it was necessary.

Francesca headed for the desk and his latest list of references. He caught her hand. "No." She turned to him, brows rising. He gestured to the
chaise.
"Let's sit. I want to talk to you." Intrigued, she sat nearer the fire. He sat beside her. The fire was roaring; Wallace had built it up while they'd dined.

Better not to think too much. Better just to ride into battle like his forebears and expect to win. He shifted his gaze from the fire to her eyes, from crackling flames to vibrant green. "We appear to have a problem. Things—odd things—have been happening. I accept that there's no reason to imagine they're intentional"—he blocked out the vision of the rein tied across the track—"yet… I can't help but be concerned."

Silk shushed as she faced him. "You mean the highwaymen? But you said such things are expected."

"Not quite expected, and not occurring like that. In daylight, no pistols waving, and"—his gaze locked with hers—"the carriage was driving
into
London, not out."

"But it must have been… well, an accident that my carriage was attacked."

"Must have been." Gyles felt his face harden. "Like that incident with your special dressing—it
must
have been
an accident. Yet…"

She tilted her head, her eyes steady on his. "Yet what?"

"What if it wasn't." He took her hand, simply held it, felt its warmth in his. "What if, for some reason we can't at present fathom, someone has designs on your life?"

If it hadn't been for his tone and the expression in his eyes, Francesca might have smiled. Instead, remembering the father he'd lost, imagining what she hoped she now meant to him, she curled her fingers and gripped his. "No one has designs on my life. There's no reason anyone would seek to harm me. As far as I know, I have no enemies."

He looked down at their twined hands. After a moment, he returned the pressure of her fingers. "Be that as it may, that's not, of itself, the problem I alluded to."

She tried to see his eyes, but he continued to look at their linked hands.

"Our problem, one we need to discuss and come to some agreement over"—he glanced up—"is my concern."

The veils started to shimmer, to lift. It wasn't, she'd discovered, normal practice for John Coachman to take one groom, let alone two fully armed. She held Gyles's gaze. "Tell me of this concern." Not a demand, an encouragement.