All About Passion (46 page)

"I need to assess the relationship of some of the connections. Can I see your effort?"

"Of course." She hesitated. "But I would like it back, please."

"I only need to look at it to see if your combined wisdom knows more than I." She smiled gloriously; her dimple winked. "I'll fetch it for you in a moment."

"After you've dealt with Ferdinand." Gyles waved her to the door. "Perhaps I should brush up my Italian."

At the door, she arched a brow. "I've taught you some new words with which you're becoming quite proficient, but perhaps you're right and it's time for another lesson." With a sultry glance, she left him.

Gyles stared at the door, his mind formulating visions of such a lesson, then he frowned, shifted, grabbed the next letter, plonked it before him, and forced himself to read.
Charles, Ester, and Franni
did not stay late. After seeing their guests to the door, Gyles and Francesca retreated to the library. As usual, Wallace had left the fire blazing. Francesca sank into an armchair with a contented sigh.

"That went well, I thought."

Gyles glanced at her but made no reply. He looked at his desk, then back at her, then crossed to the
chaise.
Sitting, he stretched out his legs. "Charles seemed very grateful. Was there some reason for that?"

He'd noticed the shared glances, the satisfied looks.

"Franni's been pestering them to visit here."

"I see." Gyles watched Francesca. Staring at the flames, she idly twirled one black curl. He let a moment pass, then asked, "Tell me about Franni."

Francesca looked at him. "Franni?"

"She's…" Gyles struggled to find a word that conveyed the reality. "Odd." The way Franni's eyes had gleamed when he'd spoken to her, the way her fingers had fluttered when he'd taken her hand, the way she'd pressed too close as he'd escorted her and Ester to the table—all these were indelibly imprinted on his mind. Throughout, she'd watched him like a hawk, but a cagey hawk—

whenever one of the others had glanced her way, she'd been staring at something else. He'd felt hunted, and felt ridiculous for it. Franni was precisely the cipher he'd first thought her, only more disturbed. Weak and ineffectual, she was a nonentity—certainly no threat. Nevertheless, he'd clung to Francesca's side as much as possible.

But Franni had caught him when they were leaving. The intensity of her regard, the light in her pale blue eyes, had sent a shiver down his spine. Luckily, Ester had noticed and rescued him, giving him a small, helpless smile. As if asking for understanding, forgiveness.

Gyles frowned. "Franni's not normal. What's wrong with her?"

Francesca sighed; she looked into the flames. "I don't know—I've never known. She's been like that, a bit better, a bit worse, since I met her. I've always thought of her as childish, and while that fits in some ways, she's quite forward in others."

She glanced at Gyles. "Neither Charles nor Ester ever said, but I gather her condition has something to do with her mother's death. She died when Franni was very young. I heard from the servants that she—

Franni's mother—threw herself from the tower. It's been boarded up ever since. I wondered if Franni had witnessed it, and if it had turned her mind in some way."

Gyles looked into the heart of the fire, staring at the leaping flames. He knew what effect witnessing a parent's violent death could have on a child. He could imagine all sorts of reactions, could still feel the roil of remembered emotion about his own heart. Yet in all that he couldn't see what emotional reaction could explain all he'd sensed in Franni.

He glanced at Francesca and found her watching him. "Enough of our guests." He sat up. A muted crackle reminded him; he reached into his coat pocket. "I forgot to give this back to you." He held out her annotated copy of the family tree.

She took it. "Did you find what you wanted?"

"Yes." He'd spent the hour before dinner making his own copy. "You and your helpers are to be commended—you've done an excellent job."

Francesca hesitated, then lifted her eyes to Gyles's face. "I've been meaning to ask, apropos of this." She lifted the paper. "The reason we did it was to get an idea of the extent of the family. I wondered… would you be agreeable to us hosting a party? Just for the family, a few close friends and connections. Maybe some dancing, but more an evening to mingle and chat, to get to know each other better." He held her gaze. "The year's almost done."

"It would be an informal affair. I thought perhaps late next week?" Gyles read her wish in her eyes and saw no reason to deny her. He suspected she'd get few acceptances, given the season, given the family, but if, as his countess, she wished to play the matriarch…

"Thursday?"

She smiled her wonderful, heart-stopping smile. "Thursday. Your mother and Henni will help with the invitations."

He drank in her smile, then let his gaze drift down, over her slenderness to the slight bulge below her waist. It was barely visible, even when she was naked, yet when she lay beneath him and he joined with her, he could tell.

She carried his child—even if it was a girl, he didn't care. Just thinking of it sent a surge of feelings through him, emotions he'd never felt before.

He lifted his gaze to her face, and knew his shields were down, that she could read him like a book. He no longer cared. "Come." Rising, he held out his hand. "Let's go upstairs." She smiled—a knowing, understanding smile—put her hand in his, and let him draw her to her feet. "As I recall, my lord, I need to teach you more Italian."

Two days later, Gyles convened another meeting in a private room at White's. Devil was there, as were Horace and Waring.

"It's Walwyn." Gyles closed the door and waved them to the chairs. Devil sat. "Your heir once removed?"

Gyles nodded. "Walwyn Rawlings—a cousin some number of times removed. We share a greatgrandfather." Fishing his copy of the family tree from his pocket, he handed it to Devil. Devil studied it, then frowned. "You'll need to do something about this principal line—you were an only child, and your father was one of two. And the other was a female."

"Never mind that. Go back to the next generation."

"Eight. And before that another eight." Devil's frown deepened. "I see what you mean. Branches everywhere."

Devil handed the paper to Horace. Horace squinted at it. "This is what Henni and your mother have been helping Francesca with."

Gyles nodded. "And they received help from Lady Osbaldestone and others. I doubt we'd get anything more accurate."

Horace passed the paper to Waring. "Seems clear enough. Osbert's your heir, and after him, Walwyn. But why did you want to know that?"

Waring, likewise, looked up inquiringly.

Gyles told them.

"That's… not comforting." Horace looked deeply troubled.

"Indeed not." Waring had taken notes. "It appears that the first attempt was on your life, but subsequently, once the possibility of an heir more definitely arose, the would-be murderer turned his sights on Lady Francesca."

"Blackguard!" Horace thumped the table. "But it would make sense, I suppose, to remove her first."

"Indeed." Gyles cut the thought off. "But now we're alerted and she's well guarded, we need to focus on laying this would-be murderer by the heels."

Devil sat up. "So what do we know of Walwyn Rawlings?"

"He must be about fifty," Gyles said. "I can only recall meeting him once, about the time of my father's death."

Horace nodded. "I remember. He was the black sheep no one wanted to acknowledge, a thoroughly disreputable sort. He'd been shipped off to the Indies. The family thought they'd seen the last of him, but like a bad penny, Walwyn turned up just after your father died." Consulting the family tree, Horace pointed. "His father, old Gisborne, was still alive then—he sent Walwyn to the right-about. Gisborne sent me a letter warning me to have no truck with Walwyn, that he wasn't to be trusted." Waring wrote steadily. "This Walwyn seems a more likely villain than Mr. Osbert Rawlings, I must say. Do we have a description of Walwyn, any idea where he might be found? Is he married?" Horace snorted. "Unlikely. According to Gisborne, tavern wenches were more Walwyn's style."

"Walwyn," Gyles said, "used to hobnob with those on the fringes of society. He developed a penchant for the company of sailors and, last I heard, he was living above some tavern in Wapping."

"Wapping." The fastidious look on Waring's face elucidated his opinion on that. The thought that the earldom and Lambourn Castle were a considerable step up from a tavern in Wapping resonated in all their minds.

"With your permission, my lord, I'll set some men onto locating Mr. Walwyn Rawlings immediately." Gyles nodded. "And while you're scouring Wapping and the docks, we"—his gaze took in Devil and Horace—"had better scout out nearer pastures. If he so chose, Walwyn could, I suspect, still pass for a gentleman."

"Hmm—while helping Gabriel earlier in the year, I had reason to chat with the owners of the major shipping lines. If Walwyn's haunting shipping, then he might have come to their attention." Devil cocked a brow at Gyles. "I could ask if they'd heard of him."

"Do." After a moment, Gyles said, "I'll place a notice in whatever handbills circulate on the docks. There's no reason we can't ask outright for information on Walwyn's whereabouts, not in that quarter. The offer of a reward might locate him faster than anything else."

"Good idea."

Waring nodded. "I'll have my men look for suitable handbills."

"Think I'll visit some of the older Rawlingses," Horace said. "Long-lived folks. It's possible they may have heard something about Walwyn."

"So we've all got something to do." Gyles rose. Devil did, too. Frowning, Horace lumbered to his feet. "But, I say, no need to tell the ladies, what? It'll only frighten them."

Gyles and Devil looked at Horace, then exchanged a glance.

"As Francesca's already under constant guard, and she's aware of a possible threat, there seems little point in belaboring the matter and raising what might be an unnecessary fuss." Gyles glanced at Waring.

"I think, for the moment, all inquiries should remain confidential."

"Indeed, my lord."

"Indeed." Horace turned to the door. "No need for the Rawlingses to provide the ton with the last scandal of the year. Aside from anything else, our ladies wouldn't thank us for that."

"Chillingworth."

Gyles halted and turned. He'd left Devil with friends in the gaming room but had yet to quit White's; he'd been strolling absentmindedly toward the door. He hadn't recognized the voice that had hailed him, and had to dredge his memory to locate the name of the portly gentleman stumping his way. Lord Carsden eventually halted before him; leaning on his cane, he looked up at him from under scraggy brows. "Hear you, St. Ives, Kingsley and some others are thinking of proposing a few amendments in the spring session."

Gyles nodded, his mind racing. Carsden rarely concerned himself with politics, but he did have a vote.

"Mind if I inquire what the substance of your amendments might be? I've heard they might be worth supporting."

Hiding his surprise, Gyles waved to an anteroom. "I'll be happy to explain." He led the way into the room, and was immediately collared by Lord Malmsey.

"Just the fellow I was after," his lordship declared. "Heard a whisper there's some amendments in the wind that perhaps I ought to take note of, what?"

Gyles ended holding court to four peers, all with a newfound interest in the political sphere. He outlined the basics of what their group intended to propose; all four gentlemen frowned, nodded, and, ultimately, stated their interest in supporting the cause.

None mentioned who had activated their heretofore dormant political consciences and steered them in the group's direction; Gyles was too wise to ask. But when he reached home later that afternoon and headed upstairs to dress for the evening, he paused outside Francesca's door. He hesitated, then tapped.

Light footsteps approached. The door opened, and Millie looked out.

Her eyes grew round when she saw him.

Gyles put his finger to his lips, then beckoned her out. She stepped over the threshold; he put out a hand to stop her closing the door. With his other hand, he gestured down the corridor. "I wish to speak with your mistress—she'll ring when she needs you."

The little maid looked scandalized. "But, m'lord—she's in her bath." Gyles looked down at her. "I know." It was where Francesca usually was at this time of day, relaxing prior to donning her evening gown.

"Off you go." He waved Millie away.

Looking positively horrified, the maid backed, then turned tail and went. Gyles grinned and slipped through the door.

A hip bath stood on a rug facing the fire; Francesca, black curls piled high on her head, was sitting facing the flames. Wisps of steam rose, wreathing about her as she smoothed a soapy sponge down one gracefully extended arm while softly crooning what sounded like an Italian lullaby. Gyles listened for a moment, then closed the door.

"Who was it, Millie?"

He strolled forward. "Not Millie."

She tipped her head back against the rim and watched as he neared. Smiled delightedly. "Good evening, my lord. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

He halted by the bath's side and smiled down at her. Let his gaze roam the curves of her breasts, sheening wet and laced with suds. "I believe my pleasure is rather greater than yours." She arched a brow; he reached for her hand, lifted it, bent and pressed a kiss to her wet knuckles, then turned her hand and ran his tongue over her palm, then sucked lightly at the pulse point at her wrist. He raised his head reluctantly. "You taste good enough to eat." Their gazes met, held; she raised both brows in question. After a moment, he smiled, squeezed her hand and released it. "We have to be at the Godsleys by eight."

Drawing up a chair, he sat. "I wanted to ask if you're acquainted with Lady Carsden." Francesca nodded. "We meet quite frequently. She moves in the same circles."

"And Lady Mitchell?"

"Indeed, but Honoria knows her better than I." Drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms about them, she searched his face. "Have their husbands spoken to you?"