Читать книгу The Reluctant Guardian - Susanne Dietze - Страница 15

Chapter Six

Tavin paced his grandmother’s gold-and-crimson Aubusson rug, no doubt wearing holes into the wool. By his best estimation, he’d waited thirty minutes to be received, twenty minutes past his point of patience.

His occupation demanded waiting, true. Hiding, observing and loitering in cold, in damp, in darkness, all for a case.

But waiting for a woman? That was another matter.

Perhaps he should sit down, but he’d never trusted the dainty-legged, feminine furniture in this room, all painted silk chairs and narrow pink lounges. He’d be seated when all other options were exhausted.

With the click of the latch, the door opened, revealing Groves, the ancient, snub-nosed butler. Striding past the servant in a rustle of plum-colored fabric, the tiny Dowager Duchess of Kelworth bustled into the room. Her lace cap framed her wrinkled cheeks, giving her a maternal appearance, but Tavin wasn’t fooled.

“How nice of you to condescend to visit your grandmother.”

“Forgive my overlong absence, Your Grace.” He bent to kiss the pale, rose-scented wrist of the woman he’d never called Grandmother. He wouldn’t have dared address her as anything but Your Grace or ma’am. Neither, come to think of it, had his mother.

The dowager settled into a Chippendale chair by the hearth. “Tea, dear boy?”

“How thoughtful.” He perched on the fragile-looking sofa where she had bade him to be seated, near enough to note the additional strands of gray peeking out from under her cap. “You are well?”

“I am never unwell. I wouldn’t wish to give my enemies the satisfaction.”

“Indeed not.”

“Nor did I admit to surprise when Caroline mentioned seeing you, at a circus, with children—”

The clatter of cups and silver sounded from the door. The dowager poured fragrant bohea and served buttered bread, which he took despite not wanting it.

“I was with Lord Wyling.” He hoped the explanation was enough. “The boys are his wife’s nephews.”

“Still no heir for him? ’Tis the fault of his wife, for certain. She is but what, a baron’s country relation? What a waste.”

His fingers rapped the arms of his chair. “The Countess of Wyling is a worthy wife to my closest friend.”

Her expression didn’t alter from bland courtesy. “How is your tea? It was our custom to enjoy tea every school holiday, do you recall?”

As if he could forget. Back then, he’d thought those years would be the worst of his life. He’d been a fool. “You taught me many things during those afternoons.”

Like how to pretend he didn’t have a Scottish father.

Tavin’s father might have been too lowborn to wed a duke’s daughter, but he was no pauper. Their home in Perthshire was large and fine, the land abundant with healthy herds of Highland cattle and black-nosed sheep. It was a glorious, rich place where Tavin—although yearning for more attention from his parents—was happy.

And he was Scottish. He had known nothing else, known naught of his English family, until the dowager duchess had appeared like a violent storm, rushing him south as if on a flood. She’d insisted he receive a proper education at Eton—a gift she had not provided his elder brother, Hamish, who was heir to Scottish land, not fitting for her cause.

His grandmother sighed, as if wistful. “I saw more of you in your school days, despite our residence in the same city now. One might be inclined to take offense.”

“I have been traveling on business, Your Grace.”

She waved her hand. “Men and their business. But you are here now. For how long?”

Until Garner freed him from playing nursemaid. “Indeterminate at this time.”

“Then you must come for supper and tell me how your dear brother fares.”

The rich taste of his buttered bread soured on his tongue, and he swallowed it down with a painful jerk. “I would be honored, but you know I cannot provide any information on Hamish.”

She sipped her tea. “’Tis a pity when relations disagree. Even when they are in error, as your mother was. But let us not speak of that. I sense you are not here out of familial duty. Is it something as vulgar as money, then?”

He choked on his tea. “No, Your Grace. I would ask a favor, if I may.”

“Why should you not? My connections are estimable.” Her expression held no trace of self-deprecating mirth or apology. She stated facts, ’twas all.

Why was he less afraid of criminals than the woman before him?

“I require entrance to Almack’s.” And he must have the approval of a patroness to procure a voucher.

Ah, she reacted at last, her brow furrowing like a tilled field. “I may be aged, grandson, but my hearing has not yet gone the way of panniers and powdered wigs. Or so I thought. You said Almack’s?”

He’d prefer to be cuffed by a beefy-armed smuggler than don high-heeled, beribboned shoes and do the pretty at Almack’s. “I did.”

Glee sparkled like jet in her gray eyes. “Almack’s? The most tedious of places for a gentleman of your age?”

“I do not wish to go—”

“No man does. But you will go. This is delicious.”

“You misunderstand, ma’am.” A headache manifested, pounding directly between his eyes.

“Pah. Why else would you subject yourself to the marriage mart if it wasn’t for a female? Am I wrong?”

The pounding in his head intensified. Could he not just lie? “It is not what you think.”

“Of course it is. You are seven-and-twenty, and finally a lady has caught your eye. But Almack’s, darling? Isn’t this like diving headfirst into a shallow pond?”

“Please, Your Grace?”

“Will you not tell me the lady’s identity? If she is to marry into this family I must ensure she is suitable.”

He stared at the plaster ceiling. “I am not marrying anyone.”

“Yet.” She cackled. “Very well. I shall compose a missive to Lady Cowper the minute you leave. She will not deny my request.” She lifted her shoulders like an excited young girl. Or an imp, bent on mischief. “Your young lady must be remarkable, indeed, to lure you into the hallowed halls of Almack’s. I would have thought such a place would be your worst nightmare.”

Tavin shut his eyes. “You have no idea.”

* * *

Her knees quivering under her gown of snowy gauze, Gemma nodded farewell to the Almack’s patronesses assembled on the raised dais. When Countess Lieven, patroness responsible for Gemma’s vouchers, tipped her dark-curled head and bestowed a hint of a smile on Gemma, Gemma returned the gesture. The countess did not disapprove of her—an achievement not unnoticed by Amy, who grinned.

Gemma turned, her spirits glowing brighter than the gaslit lusters illuminating the great room. The worst was over and the fun could begin. At least for her.

Poor Tavin. Not that he looked ill this evening. He cut a fine figure in his black coat and the required knee breeches. His muscular calves clearly had not required padding any more than his broad shoulders. The man was as handsome in elegant dress as morning clothes.

But his jaw clenched. His fingers fisted and flexed. He adjusted his cuffs and fingered the simple gold stickpin fastened at his neck cloth, all while scanning the room—for what, the Sovereign? Or perhaps freedom from acting as her nursemaid. She scowled.

He made a similar grimace at his beribboned shoes.

Was he not the relation of some nobleman? Surely he had been to London and appeared at court. Danced with ladies and made polite conversation. He should know how to behave here.

Or perhaps he had never entered Almack’s before and felt the weight of its exclusivity, which could intimidate anyone. It certainly did Gemma. She had heard about the patronesses who ruled over the proceedings like begowned feudal lords. Their expectations and standards were of the highest caliber. Indeed, if it were not for Wyling’s diplomatic relationship with Countess Lieven’s husband, Gemma might not have received the vouchers.

These few ladies held the power to grant or deny entrance to anyone, for any reason. Poor family connections, Amy explained, or ill manners. Even jealousy.

It was best for all concerned to please the patronesses. One wouldn’t wish to be denied entrance. Or permission to dance once inside. Or to be on the unfortunate end of their gossiping tongues, since the patronesses held the power to decimate a young woman’s reputation. Gossip and speculation ran through London like pungent water down the Thames. It was a fact she had best not forget.

Help me be mindful and to cause no scandal, God.

Yet she almost did, spying Hugh across the room. His beloved Miss Scarcliff—Pet—stood at his side, a shimmering pearl in her creamy gown and headdress. Her ensemble was the first stare of fashion, and Gemma resisted the urge to touch the lace trim covering her breastbone on her own, far simpler gown. Hugh smiled as Pet took to the floor with a stout gentleman, and then, oh, dear, he approached Gemma.

Amy murmured to Wyling at his approach. Tavin grunted.

She knew how he felt. Speaking to Hugh—while monitoring her tone, word choice and facial expressions—was not going to be easy. Or pleasant.

“Gemma.” By contrast, Hugh sounded as if Christmas had arrived seven months early. “How delightful to see you.” He exchanged greetings with everyone, seemingly oblivious to the distance in their manner, perhaps because his smile-crinkled eyes focused on Gemma all the while. “I hope you might do me the honor of a dance. If you are not otherwise engaged, of course.” His gaze flittered to Tavin, accompanied by an indulgent smile.

Tavin’s head snapped back as if he’d been struck. “No.”

Gemma was too amused to be insulted by his discomfiture. It felt pleasant—if perhaps not righteous—to be the one laughing at their odd relationship for a change.

Since this might be her only chance to have privacy with Hugh, she placed her hand on his outstretched arm. “I would be honored, Hugh.”

Passing by the set containing Miss Scarcliff and her stout partner, Hugh led her to the far corner of the floor to square off for a cotillion with three other couples. While they waited for the music to begin, Hugh inclined his head toward her. “You look well.”

So did he. His tall, lean form was well suited for the obligatory finery. “Thank you.”

“Do say you forgive me.” Under the light chatter of the other couples, he spoke just loud enough for her to hear. He looked so sad, and he didn’t tear his gaze from her for a half second. Anyone watching—and someone most certainly did watch—could not miss his intensity.

Tender emotion lapped over her, washing away the offense of his rejection. He wanted to explain, she could see that now. He knew he had hurt her. And he appeared grieved, too.

Perhaps Miss Scarcliff had tricked him into an engagement. He hadn’t wished to break with Gemma, but something terrible had occurred, something wicked, which trapped him into a betrothal to a scheming debutante. Little else could explain his actions. “Oh, Hugh.”

“I was a cad, surprising you on the street like that.” Their hands touched for the dance, and her fingers twitched to grip his. Would it draw too much attention if they quit the floor? If only she could hear his side of the events and help her oldest friend through this terrible circumstance.

The patterns of the dance separated them, then drew them together. “I thought you were angry, but then I thought, not my Gem.”

How well he knew her. As a rule, she was usually hurt, then angry.

“My Gemma was not angry with me at all. She only wished I’d remembered my manners. I shouldn’t have told you my news in public. Nor should I have intruded on your outing with your beau.”

She stumbled and drew sharp glances. That was what plagued him? Interrupting her outing with her... “Beau?”

“I never guessed you and Mr. Knox—well, you may be a summer bride yet.” He wiggled his brows.

Her foot landed square on his. Accidentally, of course. Had the act been purposeful, she might have ground down harder with her heel.

He winced. “Have a care, Gem. Wouldn’t want to get a reputation as a poor dancer.”

To think she had imagined him trapped by a scheming Miss Scarcliff. Cristobel had been right about Hugh all along.

Earlier she’d desired to quit the dance with him. Now she just wanted to quit him. Impossible, of course. Much as she would prefer to jerk her chin toward the ceiling and leave him on the floor of Almack’s, she could not. Instead, she fantasized about ripping the diamond stickpin from his neck cloth and snapping it in twain with her bare hands.

Focusing on the pin’s gleam kept her gaze from his face, at least, while she followed the patterns of the dance. Together. Apart. Hands meeting. Good thing she wore gloves. Otherwise, he would balk at the iciness of her touch.

“Is something wrong?” His eyebrows rose to his hairline.

Other than his manners? “What makes you think such a thing?”

“Your silence. But I suppose you are concentrating on the steps since Knox watches us.”

If Hugh knew Tavin was paid to watch her, he might not sound so smug.

It was their turn to execute a move in the center. While she circled Hugh, Tavin strolled past in her line of sight. His bored expression didn’t change when their gazes locked.

“Mr. Knox isn’t my anything, Hugh. He’s a friend of the family.”

“If you say so.” He looked at her as if, were they alone, he might tap her nose.

The strains of violins sounded their final, lingering notes, and she curtsied while Hugh bowed. He offered his arm and led her to Amy, who waited under a gilt mirror beside a young fellow with high shirt points, an unexpressive face and sandy-blond hair curled over his ears. Where was Tavin? Amy’s eyes sparkled. “Gemma, may I introduce Mr. Scarcliff, Hugh’s future brother-in-law?”

Mr. Scarcliff inclined his head, forcing his shirt points into his cheeks. Did the fashion cause him pain? His bland expression didn’t alter, so he was either uninjured or accustomed to the sensation. “When Hugh speaks of you, it is with utmost affection.”