All About Passion (45 page)

He exhaled. "It's not… comfortable." His gaze shifted to the fire. A moment passed, then he looked into her eyes. "Since we first met, whenever you're in danger—whatever sort of danger, imagined or real, whether I'm with you or not—I feel…" He looked inward, then refocused on her eyes. "I can't describe it—black, icy cold, painful but not physically. A different sort of pain." He hesitated, then added, "A hellish fear."

She returned his gaze, gripped his fingers more tightly.

"If I'm with you, it's not so bad—I can do something—save you, and all ends well. But if I'm not there, yet believe you're in danger—" He looked away. After a moment, he drew in a long breath and turned back to her. "Can you understand?"

She comforted him with her eyes, pressed his hand. "Is that why you placed so many guards on me at the Castle?"

He laughed, short and harsh. "Yes." He rose, and she let him draw his hand from hers, watched as he paced to the hearth, braced one clenched fist on the mantelpiece and stared down at the flames. "If I can't be with you, then I feel
compelled
to do everything I can, to give you every guard I can—to protect you in any way I can." An instant later, he added, "It's not something I can make a rational decision about. It's something I
must
do."

She rose, went to him. "If that's so, then…" She shrugged and touched his arm. "I will bear with the guards—it's no great matter."

He shot her a hard glance. "You don't like footmen dogging your every step."

"Nor do I like my maid spending half her day in my room, simply to watch over my things.
However,
if it will bring you ease, then"—she stepped closer, raising her face to his, speaking directly to his cloudy grey eyes—"I won't let it annoy me. I won't like it, but I don't care about such things—" She paused, held his gaze. "As much as I care for you."

Exultation clashed with something more primitive, with the fear that lingered never far from his mind. For one instant, Gyles felt giddy, then he straightened. "You'll accept whatever guards I assign?"

"As long as you tell me of them, so I'm not surprised to see them." Green eyes met his; her brows rose. He grimaced. "A maid will always be in your room, and a footman will always be with you—in sight of you within the house, within reach outside it."

"Unless I'm with you."

He inclined his head. "And if you go walking anywhere, two footmen will accompany you."

"Anything else?"

"John will take an extra groom when he drives you."

Francesca waited, then asked, "Nothing more?"

He thought before shaking his head.

"Very well." She drew his head down and kissed him. "I will bear with your guards, my lord. And now"—she turned and headed for the door—"I'm going upstairs to dismiss any maids hovering in my room." She glanced back at him. "Will you be long?"

He hesitated, but didn't look at his desk. "No. I'll be up shortly." Smiling, she opened the door and left him.

As she climbed the stairs, she thought over all he'd said, over all the incidents he might construe as dangerous.

The memory of hands grabbing at her in the crowd last night returned. She was almost sure there'd been more than one set—more than one man. Man? Yes, she was sure of that—the hands had been large and clumsy. And rough—not the smooth hands of a gentleman.

Should she mention it? To what purpose, other than to prod an emotion Gyles clearly didn't appreciate feeling?

She didn't believe there was any danger—accidents happened. People in crowds grabbed at each other to steady themselves. No one wished her ill. But she'd seen how deeply the very notion affected Gyles. Real or imagined—he'd admitted it made no odds.

Bearing with guards was a small thing to do; she would do it gladly. It was impossible not to feel touched by his concern, impossible not to feel cherished, no matter the price. Impossible not to see what drove him, what gave birth to his uncomfortable concern. Was it too early to celebrate victory?

Pondering that point, she entered her room.

Late the next morning, Francesca paused in the front hall, surveying the two footmen wrapped in their coats, ready to accompany her on her walk.

She turned to Gyles as he came out of the library—to check on her reaction, she had not a doubt. "I'm only going around the corner to Walpole House. I'll sit with your mother and Henni for a while, then I'll return." She smiled at him. "Don't worry."

He grunted, threw an unsmiling glance at the footmen, then turned back to the library. Unconcerned, she swept to the door, waited for Irving to open it, then sallied forth—aware that Gyles had stopped by the library door, aware to the last of his lingering gaze.

"And the rein was tied securely?"

Grimly pacing, Gyles nodded. "Around boles on either side of the track." Devil grunted. "Difficult to see how that could be an accident."

"The other incidents, yes, possibly. But not that."

They were in a private room at White's. Gyles had remembered the difficulty Devil had faced soon after his marriage to Honoria. Odd, potentially fatal accidents, just like those happening to him and Francesca. In Devil's case, the accidents had, with Gyles's help, been laid at the door of Devil's then heir. In the present case, however…

"I really cannot see Osbert being in any way involved." Gyles shook his head. "It's laughable."

"I might once have said it was laughable for a Cynster to try to kill another Cynster, too." Gyles shook his head again. "I don't mean because we're related. I mean because he honestly has never wanted the title because the estate goes with it. He was so grateful to Francesca and he likes her—

worships her. Within reason."

Devil's lips twitched. "Of course."

"He's made himself her principal cavalier. I've gone along with it because I trust him, and he's with Francesca at times I'm not." Gyles hesitated, then added, "And because he's using her as a shield."

"The matchmaking mamas are still after him?"

"Presumably while evaluating him as a possible future earl, someone realized he's comfortably plump in the pocket quite aside from what he gets from the estate, and, as a poet, he doesn't indulge in wasteful habits. He doesn't gamble or keep mistresses, or run through his blunt in any other tonnish way. Which brings me back to my point. Osbert doesn't want the title. Killing me or Francesca simply would not be in his best interests."

"All right. Why not one step away? In reality, Charles was one step away from the title. Who's after Osbert?"

Gyles halted. Frowned. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

He waved aside Devil's incredulity. "The Rawlingses are not like the Cynsters. The family's as large, but it's fragmented—one branch doesn't talk to another, news of marriages isn't widely disseminated. After Osbert… we'd need to go back at least two generations, and then see which branch had precedence, then follow it down…" Gyles grimaced. "I'll get Waring onto it."

"Do," Devil stood. He met Gyles's gaze. "It's the most logical, most likely explanation, you know." Gyles turned to the door. "I know."

Francesca fervently hoped Gyles was at White's. She'd heard it was located in St. James. If her husband was there, safe within its portals, he wouldn't be around to see her jauntering about town in the carriage, when she'd told him she was only walking to North Audley Street and back. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. On the contrary—it would save him unnecessary worry. She'd
had
to get a new pair of gloves and sending Millie was impossible as Millie had hands twice the size of hers. Perfectly justifiable, yet who knew how Gyles might react?

But she'd be home soon. She glanced out of the window at the passing buildings. And saw Charles and Ester going up the steps of one.

Francesca leapt up and opened the hatch. "John—stop!"

Two minutes later, she entered the building, a liveried footman behind her, a groom trailing a few yards farther back. Ignoring both, she looked around. The building housed an emporium offering numerous wares for sale. An apothecary shop took up the back counter; it was there she found Charles and Ester.

"My dear!" Ester's eyes widened; she moved to hug Francesca. "Oh, it's good to see you." Ester held her at arm's length, studying her face, then her carriage dress. "You look wonderful! Are you enjoying the capital?"

"Very much." Francesca cast a puzzled glance at Charles. "But I had no idea you were here. Franni?"

"She's here, too." Charles exchanged a glance with Ester, then took Francesca's arm and steered her to the counter's end. "She's at the house we've rented, along with Ginny. We had to come here for more laudanum. They're making up the dose."

Francesca took in the strain in his face. "Is Franni being difficult?" She looked from Charles to Ester. Ester grimaced. "At times. We got your letter that you were here in town—I read it to Franni. She's always shown such interest in your doings. Well, after that, nothing would do but we had to come to London, too. She was so eager—we were going to write, but then we thought we'd just come. It's not difficult finding lodgings at this time of year. But when we got here…" Ester glanced at Charles.

"Franni's been unpredictable. Even-tempered one minute, quite difficult the next." Charles took Francesca's hand. "We wanted to call on you, but it seemed unwise, even though Franni's been so insistent she wants to see you. It would be irresponsible to expose her to the social activities I'm sure you're involved in." Charles's lips twisted. "We thought of writing and inviting you to call on us, but Franni got quite wild. She's been insisting we call at Chillingworth's house, but we didn't feel we could." Francesca opened her mouth to assure him otherwise; Ester put her hand on her arm.

"My dear, you need to understand that it's not simply a matter of the effect socializing might have on Franni, although we're certainly exercised by that thought. The truth is, we couldn't guarantee Franni's behavior. She's unpredictable, rebellious and, I'm afraid, secretive, too." Ester exchanged a glance with Charles, then continued, "Franni's slipped out alone, without Ginny, twice. And you know how watchful Ginny is. Charles and I are afraid to leave Franni, but sometimes we must. We're very concerned." Ester lowered her voice. "We're sure something's afoot, but we've no idea what. It may be something to do with Franni's gentleman visitor."

"Did you ever learn who he was?"

Ester shook her head. "You know how difficult it is to talk sensibly with Franni when she doesn't wish it."

Charles had noticed the footman. "I'm glad to see you're not going about alone." Francesca didn't mention the groom, who was pretending to look at mufflers. "Chillingworth insists." She waved the point aside. "But I have a suggestion, one that might help with Franni. You say she's been pressing to come to Green Street—she may have convinced herself that was what would happen when you got to London, and she's reacting because it hasn't. So why not visit—why not bring her to dinner tonight?" She held up a hand. "Before you say anything, this would be a quiet family dinner, just the three of you and Gyles and myself."

Ester and Charles exchanged a glance. "But," Ester said, "surely you have plans—"

"No, none. This week it's grown quiet—many have already left town. There'll be a few parties next week to celebrate the year's end, then we'll retire to the country."

Francesca was looking forward to it, to seeing the folly in the snow. "Tonight, there's nothing, so we'll be at home. If you bring Franni to dinner, there'll be no social whirl to unnerve her, but she can see the house and visit as she's wished. Maybe that will calm her."

Ester and Charles exchanged a long look.

Francesca suddenly recollected that Gyles would return to Green Street soon, and he'd expect her to be there. "I must go." She grasped Charles's hand. "Say you'll come." Charles smiled. "You're very persuasive, my dear."

Francesca beamed. "Seven, then. I know Franni doesn't like waiting."

"If it's not too much trouble, dear."

"No, no—seven." Making a mental note to tell Ferdinand, Francesca waved and hurried to the door. She was in the hall letting Irving take her pelisse when the front door opened and Gyles strolled in. He considered her, then raised a brow. "Was that our carriage just rounding the corner?"

"Yes." She swept up to him, stretched up to kiss his cheek, then slid an arm through his. "I had to get new gloves. I took a groom and a footman, and they were with me all the time, so there was no possibility of danger." She glanced at him. "Are you satisfied?" He sighed and steered her into the library. "I suppose I'll have to be." He hesitated, then added, "I don't want you to feel caged."

She smiled, telling him with her eyes that his protectiveness no longer bothered her, then she crossed to the
chaise.
"I met Charles and Ester while I was out. I invited them to dine with us tonight—you don't mind, do you?"

Pausing before his desk, Gyles took in the happiness shining in her face. "No—of course not." Francesca held her fingers out to the fire. "Franni's here, too, of course, so there'll be five at table." Gyles was grateful she was warming her hands and not looking at him. Rounding the desk, he sat and reached for the pile of correspondence awaiting his attention.

Francesca leaned back. "I said seven—I told Irving to tell Ferdinand." Gyles's lips twitched. "I wonder—"

A knock fell on the door; Wallace entered and bowed. "Ferdinand wishes to know if he might speak with you, my lady. About dinner tonight."

Gyles looked down at his papers.

Francesca sighed. "I will see him in the parlor. Wallace, you will attend this meeting, too." Wallace bowed. "I'll fetch him, my lady."

Wallace withdrew. Francesca stood and stretched. "At least dealing with Ferdinand keeps my Italian from growing rusty."

Gyles looked up. "Before you go—"

She turned; he laid aside the letter he'd been perusing. "You made a copy of the family tree—what did you do with it?"

Something—consciousness?—flashed through her eyes; it was immediately overlaid by curiosity.

"We—your mother, Henni, and I—elaborated. Added on all the branches and connections we could. Why?"