All About Passion

  “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?”

  “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.

  Chapter 20

  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 great-grandfather.” 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.