“I can imagine.”
At his dry tone, she paused before her door and looked up at him. “But it’s good, isn’t it? Good that the family’s together again, no longer fragmented and apart?”
Gyles studied her eyes, then raised a hand and traced her cheek. “Yes. It’s good.” He hadn’t thought it important until she’d made him see. He glanced at her door. “Now get rid of Millie so we can celebrate your success as you deserve.”
Her brows rose; her green eyes glowed. “Indeed?” The glance she threw him as she opened her door was provocation incarnate. “As you will, my lord.”
It wasn’t as he willed but as they willed.
They came together in the dimness of her room, earl and countess, lover and loved, partners in life. They were partners in truth, bound by a power nothing on earth could break; Gyles no longer saw any point in denying it, in trying to hide it. Saying the words, out aloud, might still be difficult—might always be beyond him—but living their truth was not. Not with her.
She was life and love—his future life, his only love. They came together with the ease of practice, and the power of their own passionate natures, reflected between them, intensified almost beyond bearing now there were no barriers between. He let the last down, deliberately, intentionally—let it sink without a qualm, without regrets. Fate—and she—had shown him, taught him that love was a force beyond his control, a force whose power he coveted and craved. A force that, having once experienced its majesty, its enthralling allure, he could not exist without.
It was a part of him now and forever. As was she. And if there was still an element of his nature that shook with fear at the realization, at the unequivocal knowledge of how much she meant to him, and how much his life now depended on her, she knew and applied the only balm that could ease him, could soothe the soul of the barbarian he was.
She loved him back—with a powerful passion that burned like a flame in the warm darkness of her bed. A flame that joined with his own and heated them, set them afire, consumed them.
Wrapped in her arms, sheathed in her body, he drove into her and drove them on. Their lips met, fused, tongues tangled. Their hearts thundered and rejoiced.
There were moments in life when simplicity held more power than elaborate gestures. When a direct, undisguised act shattered perceptions and cut to the heart of the truth. So it was that they loved—directly, simply, with no guile to shield their hearts, no remnant of separatedness to keep their souls apart.
When, locked together, they tumbled into the void, into the abyss of creation, the only sound either could hear was the beat of the other’s heart.
Later they stirred, parted, then slumped together in the darkness. Gyles reached down and drew the satin comforter up, over their cooling bodies. He collapsed back on the mounded pillows and drew Francesca into his arms, settled her warm curves against him.
After a while, she stretched, languid as a cat and equally boneless, then she wriggled around and draped her arms about his neck. “I’m so pleased.”
Her purr warmed him. He recognized the ambiguity for what it was. “So you should be.”
She wasn’t talking about the party; her soft chuckle confirmed that. “I suppose we should sleep.”
“We should.” She was increasing—she needed her rest. “No need to be greedy. We’ve all our lives ahead of us.”
“Mmm.” She nestled her head on his shoulder.
Within minutes, she was asleep.
All their lives. Gyles listened to the soft huff of her breathing. Then he closed his eyes and dreamed.
Chapter 21
“Do come along! We’ll be late.”
“Nonsense.” Francesca smiled placatingly at Osbert as Irving helped her into her pelisse. “It’s only just three. Lady Carlisle won’t be expecting us so early.”
“Oh, won’t she?” Osbert cast a knowledgeable glance over Francesca’s new green wool coat with its velvet collar and matching velvet muff. “That suits you. Where was I? Oh, yes. Her ladyship and every single one of her guests will be waiting to hear about last night. How the Great Rawlings Experiment went.”
“Experiment?” A sharp rap on the door had Francesca glancing around. She watched as Irving accepted a note.
Laying the note on a salver, Irving brought it to her.
“A young lad said it was from your cousin, ma’am. He expected no reply.”
“Franni?” Francesca unfolded the note. She read it; her emotions swung sharply from the inner joy that had warmed her all day—the joy of knowing that the love she’d always wanted, a love to last a lifetime, was hers—to plunge into worrying concern. The change was abrupt, cold reality slicing keenly into her warm world of earthly bliss.
The short note was in Franni’s unformed hand. Lowering the single sheet, Francesca focused on Osbert. “I won’t be attending Lady Carlisle’s afternoon tea. Please convey my apologies to her ladyship.”
Her voice growing brisk, she turned to Irving. “Have the carriage brought around. Two footmen, as usual.”
“Wait a minute!” Osbert replaced Irving as he bowed and withdrew. “Where are you off to?”
Francesca glanced at the note. “St. Margaret’s Church, Cheapside.”
“What?”
“Osbert, I must go—Franni says to come immediately. She won’t be able to wait long. I can understand that. She and Ginny must be out walking—”
“Not in Cheapside. Not the sort of place ladies go for walks.”
“Regardless, that’s where Franni is, and she’ll have her maid with her, and it’s a church, after all. We’ll be perfectly safe. And I’ll be taking my escort with me.”
“You’re taking me with you.”
“No.” Francesca laid her hand on his arm. “I don’t dare. Franni says she must tell me something about Ester, that she’s ill but concealing it—I have to find out what Franni knows. And she won’t tell me if you’re with me.”
Wallace approached. “The carriage is on its way, ma’am. If I might make so bold, it would be best to take Mr. Rawlings with you.”
Francesca shook her head. “That’s impossible and unnecessary. I’m going to visit a church, meet my cousin, and exchange a few words. I won’t be going anywhere else, I promise you.” Hooves clopped beyond the front door; she whirled. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
“Francesca!”
“Ma’am, if I could suggest—”
Francesca swept out of the house. Osbert and Wallace followed. Wallace halted at the top of the steps, watching with open concern as Francesca was handed into the carriage. Osbert was not so constrained; he followed Francesca to the carriage, lecturing all the way.
When the door shut and he was still on the pavement, he glared. “Gyles won’t like it.”
“Probably not,” Francesca replied, “but I’ll be back before he knows.”
The carriage lurched, then rumbled off. Osbert watched it go through narrowed eyes. “Women!”
A discreet cough at his elbow had him turning. Wallace met his gaze. “If I could suggest, sir . . . the master’s quite experienced in managing females.”
“Yes, I know. Devilish clever in the saddle and all that, but what’s that got to say . . . oh.”
“Indeed, sir. I believe his lordship is presently at White’s. You, of course, could gain instant access, and you could explain the intricacies of the situation.”
Osbert scowled at the corner around which the carriage had disappeared. “I’ll do it. White’s, you say?”
“Indeed, sir.” Wallace waved imperiously. “Here’s a hackney.”
Osbert turned from tossing the jarvey his fare, and saw Gyles framed in the doorway of White’s. “Hoi!”
Pushing through the crowd thronging the pavement, he reached Gyles as he came down the steps.
Gyles frowned. “I thought you were escorting Francesca this afternoon.”
“So did I.” With a curt nod to Devil, one step behind Gyles, Osbert complained, “She
’s gone off to some deuced church in Cheapside.”
“What?”
“That’s what I said. Told her it was no place for the likes of her. So did Wallace—or he tried to, anyway—”
“Why did she go?”
“She got a note from her cousin. She—the cousin—said she had something to tell Francesca about someone called Ester. Francesca seemed to think it perfectly normal for this cousin to have set up a meeting in St. Margaret’s Church in Cheapside. She wouldn’t let me go with her—said the cousin would balk or some such thing—”
Gyles grabbed Osbert’s arms; he only just refrained from shaking him. The familiar black fear was roiling inside him, tentacles tightening about his chest. “Did she take the carriage?”
Osbert nodded. “And two footmen. And there was an extra groom on top, too.”
“Good.” Gyles released Osbert. Devil stepped down, joining them. Gyles looked at Devil, then shook his head. “She’s well guarded, but . . .” He knew she was in danger. Real danger. He thought of Franni, and his blood ran cold. “I don’t like this.”
“I don’t either. Nor did Wallace,” Osbert averred.
“I don’t like the sound of Cheapside either.” Devil raised a brow at Gyles. “Your call.”
Gyles considered. “Osbert—grab a hackney. You and I are going to Cheapside.”
“Excellent!” Osbert strode off.
Devil raised both brows. “And me?”
“I need someone to take a clear and concise message to Francesca’s uncle.”
“Ah, I see.” Devil’s gaze followed Osbert down the steps. “Charles Rawlings?”
“Yes. He and his party are staying at Bertram’s in Duke Street. He said he’d be busy getting ready to leave tomorrow, but I need him to come to St. Margaret’s in Cheapside. Tell him Franni’s there.”
“Francesca’s cousin?”
“Yes. I don’t know what’s going on—what Franni’s up to—but . . .” Every instinct was screaming. Gyles met Devil’s green gaze. “Can you make sure Charles gets the message?”
“Of course. And then?”
“Just that.” Gyles hesitated, then added, “Whatever comes after, I suspect it’ll be best kept within the family.”
Devil held his gaze, then nodded and clapped Gyles on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure the message gets through with all speed.”
Devil strode off toward Duke Street, two blocks away. Gyles made for the hackney Osbert had waiting.
“St. Margaret’s in Cheapside,” Gyles ordered the jarvey. “Fast as you can.”
Francesca sat on the leather seat of her carriage, swaying as it rolled through the streets. Beyond the windows, the day slowly faded. She recognized the great houses along the Strand, then the road narrowed through the Fleet. At one point, John Coachman pulled up and the groom scurried around, lighting the carriage lamps. Then the carriage rocked on, slowing as the horses climbed the hill to St. Paul’s, then, the clop of their hooves echoing from the stone facades, started down the farther slope, into a part of London Francesca had never seen.
Soon, wisps of fog laid pale fingers across the windows. The road angled nearer the river; the fog grew denser, shops and taverns shrouded in the sulfurous murk.
Francesca frowned; the pricklings of unease, the stirrings of presentiment, were growing too strong to ignore. Why had Franni chosen such a place? Osbert had been right—Ginny would never have taken Franni walking here. The chill outside penetrated the carriage; a shiver slithered down Francesca’s spine.
Something was dreadfully wrong.
She would only find out what was going on if she went on and met Franni. Even here, the environs of a church would be safe, and she had four burly men with her.
The road grew narrower. As the surface grew rougher and the carriage jolted along, she tried to think how to manage the coming meeting, how best to ensure their safety—Franni’s, Ginny’s, and her own—without throwing Franni off her stride.
The city’s bells tolled four o’clock as the carriage slowed, then halted. The carriage dipped as the groom and footmen descended, then the carriage door was opened.
“Ma’am?”
John had halted the carriage beside the church’s lych-gate. Francesca held out her hand; one of the footmen helped her down. Steps led to a path through the church’s graveyard. Francesca studied the dark bulk of the church, barely visible through the gloom, then glanced back.
“You.” She waved at the groom. “Stay here with John. You two”—she gestured to the footmen, both thickset and reassuringly solid—“come with me.”
They didn’t question her dispositions. One footman opened the lych-gate and stepped through. “Your pardon, ma’am, but I think I should lead the way.”
Francesca nodded. What had Franni been thinking of?
Was she really here?
That, at least, was answered as they approached the church. Most of the building was dark but light shone from the nearer end of the transept. Flickering lamplight illuminated a chapel; Francesca glimpsed a figure pacing. The windows were stained and ornate; she couldn’t see through them, but the figure’s stiff gait left no doubt in her mind.
“That’s my cousin.” She looked around. “How do I get in?”
There was no direct access to the chapel; they followed the massive walls of grey stone to the church’s main door. It was ajar. Francesca retreated, waving the footmen back. She halted along the wall, ten paces from the door. “You’ll need to wait here. My cousin is simpleminded. She won’t speak if she sees strange men with me.”
The footmen exchanged glances. The one who’d led the way shifted. “It’s just that, ma’am, we’ve orders to keep you always in sight.” He glanced at the fog-shrouded night. “In such places, within reach.”
Francesca shook her head. “I’m going in, and you are not, but you can see the door from here, so you can watch and make sure no one else goes in. I’ll leave the door open, so if anything goes amiss, I can call and you’ll hear.” She held up a hand to stay any protests. “That is what we are going to do. Remain here.”
She marched to the church door, sure they wouldn’t disobey her direct orders. A quick glance as she reached the door confirmed that; the pair stood watching, fog draping their shoulders. Francesca stepped into the church.
It was old—ancient. And the cold was intense, as if it seeped from the very stones. Francesca quelled a shiver, glad of her pelisse and muff. There was no light beyond the distant glow shed from the chapel.
Ruts had been worn in the flags. To conceal this, threadbare runners had been laid over rush matting. Francesca’s feet sank into the padding as she walked down the darkened nave, then turned left. A heavily carved screen hung with shadows partly hid the chapel. There were two archways, one on either side, worked into the screen. Francesca made for the one on the left through which the lamplight beckoned most strongly.
She halted in the archway. Before the altar on which a single lamp stood, Franni paced.
Relief swept Francesca. Franni wore a heavy cloak, the skirts jerking as she walked, the hood back so the lamplight sheened her fair hair, drawn back into the usual loose knot at her nape. Francesca stepped forward. “Franni?”
Franni whirled, pale blue eyes wide, then she recovered, straightened, and smiled. “I knew you’d come.”
“Of course.” Five rows of short pews flanked a central aisle. All empty. As she started up the aisle, Francesca scanned the area around the altar. “Where’s Ginny?”
“I didn’t need her—I left her at the hotel.”
Francesca halted. “You came alone?”
Franni giggled, ducked her head, then shook it, her gaze locked on Francesca. “No. Oh, no.”
Francesca remained where she was, level with the second pew. She stared at Franni, at the glow that lit her eyes, and listened to her high-pitched giggling. Fear slithered, ice-cold, down her spine. “Franni, we should leave. My carriage is waiting.” She held out a hand, beckoned. “Come.
You like driving in carriages.”
Franni grinned. “I do. Yes, I do. And I’ll be driving around in carriages a lot more soon.” From the folds of her cloak, she raised a pistol and pointed it at Francesca. “When you’re gone.”
Francesca stared at the pistol, at the round black mouth. Fear locked about her heart. She knew nothing about guns, but firearms fascinated Franni; she loved the bang. Francesca had no idea if Franni knew how to load and prime a pistol, or if she could shoot one, yet the long barrel was pointed directly at her chest. Supporting it with both hands, Franni held the pistol steady.
A faint sound broke the spell, eased the icy grip of shock. Francesca realized she’d stopped breathing. Dragging in a breath, she lifted her gaze to Franni’s face.
Her breath caught again. Franni’s expression was triumphant, her eyes afire with undisguised intent.
“I figured it out, you see.”
“Figured out what?” Francesca forced the words out. If she screamed, she’d be dead before the footmen reached her. Turning and running would end the same way. “I don’t understand.”
Talking—spinning out the time. That was her only option. While she lived, there was hope—she could see no further than that. She could hardly believe she was here, talking to Franni over the yawning mouth of a pistol. “What are you talking about?”
Franni’s expression turned smugly condescending. “It was obvious but you didn’t see it, and there was no need to tell you—not before. He married you for your land, you see. I didn’t have the right land, and he had to have it—I quite see that. But he met me and fell in love with me—why else did he come back to speak with me a second time? He didn’t even want to see you.”
Francesca stared. “Gyles?”
Franni nodded, still smug, increasingly superior. “Gyles Rawlings. That’s his name. Not Chillingworth—he’s the earl.”
“Franni, they’re one and the same.”