All About Passion

  “No, they’re not!” A frown leaped into Franni’s eyes. Her hands tightened about the pistol—it hadn’t wavered in the least. But the feel of the wooden butt between her hands seemed to reassure her. The tension gradually lessened; Franni’s shoulders lowered. “You just don’t understand. Gyles wants to marry me—there’s no point you trying to say that isn’t so, because I know! I know how such things are done—I’ve read about it in books. He walked with me and listened politely—that’s how gentlemen show their interest.” Her expression stern, Franni frowned at Francesca. “You can stop trying to tell me I’m wrong. You didn’t see Gyles’s face when he turned and looked at me just before you joined him at the altar.”

  No, but Francesca could imagine it—could imagine the draining of expression, the momentary blankness, the dawning horror. Gyles had thought he was marrying Franni—she could recall the moment when he’d stared at her cousin, then his gaze had whipped around to her.

  Franni nodded. “Gyles wanted to marry me, but the earl had to marry you, because you had the land.”

  Her jaw set; her pale eyes blazed. “Grandpa was a fool! He told me I was just like him and he was going to make sure I got the best inheritance, not you, because you were devil’s spawn. So he changed his will, and my papa inherited Rawlings Hall. But Grandpa was stupid—the best inheritance was that silly piece of land you got!” Her eyes were twin flames. “It should have been mine!” Franni leaned forward. “It would have been mine but for you.”

  Francesca said nothing. Despite Franni’s rantings, the pistol barrel remained pointed at her chest. She felt faint, the cold and shock draining life from her; she was suddenly very aware of that other life—such a precious life—she carried within her. Slowly reaching with one hand, she gripped the back of the pew beside her.

  “It’s all Grandpa’s fault, but he’s dead so I can’t even tell him—”

  Franni raged on, heaping scorn on Francis Rawlings, the man in whose honor they both were named.

  It was the longest journey Gyles had ever taken. Francesca was in danger; he knew it with a certainty he couldn’t deny. He might be generations removed from his barbarian ancestors, but some instincts remained, dormant but not dead.

  As the hackney raced through the City, then out past St. Paul’s, he struggled to keep his mind focused, to ignore any thought of Francesca coming to harm. If he thought of that, acknowledged the reason for that roiling black fear and thus gave it credence, gave it purchase in his mind, he, and therefore she, would be doomed. The barbarian within couldn’t face, couldn’t endure, that.

  He concentrated on the fact that once he was with her, she’d be safe. He could and would rescue her. He had twice before. There was no question—not in his mind, not in his heart, not even in his soul—that he would save her. Whatever it took, he would do. Whatever was demanded, he would give.

  They rattled into Cheapside. The jarvey had proved a demon driver, swearing and cursing his way through the tangled thoroughfares. They’d covered the distance in record time; although the road had narrowed to a single lane, the jarvey cracked his whip and they raced on.

  “Tip him well and tell him to wait,” Gyles said, as the reckless pace slowed. Osbert had remained silent all the way; he only nodded now as, grim-faced, Gyles reached for the door. He was out on the cobbles before the hackney halted.

  John Coachman was waiting beside the town carriage.

  “Thank God, m’lord. Her ladyship went up to the church twenty minutes ago. She told us to wait here. She took two footmen with her—Cole and Niles. I think they’re up there”—John gestured to the fog-shrouded church yard—“but I can’t be sure, and we didn’t like to yell.”

  Gyles nodded. “Osbert, come with me. John—wait here. Mr. Charles Rawlings will be along soon—send him straight up to the church.”

  Gyles opened the lych-gate and strode up the path, Osbert at his heels. They both slowed as some way to the left through the thickening fog they saw a light glimmering through the transept windows. Gyles halted. A single figure was outlined, but he couldn’t make out details.

  “Francesca?” Osbert whispered.

  It was the hair that decided it. “No. I think that’s Franni.” She seemed to be stationary. Gyles strode on.

  Alerted by their footsteps, Cole and Niles materialized from the gloom.

  “Her ladyship’s in there, m’lord—she told us to wait here. The door’s open so we can hear if she calls.”

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “Just some distant talking—can’t make anything out.”

  Gyles nodded. “Remain here. When Mr. Charles Rawlings arrives, direct him inside. Tell him to be as quiet as he can, at least until we learn what’s going on.”

  The men stepped back. Beckoning Osbert to follow, Gyles entered the church. The padded carpet muffling their steps was a boon. Quickly, he made his way to where flickering light shone from the side chapel.

  Gyles heard Franni’s voice as he neared.

  “I thought he loved me, but he couldn’t have! He gave you the best inheritance even though he’d never seen you!”

  “Franni—”

  “No—don’t try to argue! People always tell me I don’t understand but I do! I do!”

  Still in the shadows, Gyles stepped to where he could see through the archway—and froze. He put out a hand to stop Osbert following. “Franni’s there, with Francesca.” His voice was a thread, carrying no further than Osbert. “Franni’s standing before the altar, one step up. Francesca’s by the second pew in the central aisle.” Gyles drew a tight breath, let it out with the words, “Franni’s holding a pistol aimed at Francesca.”

  Osbert did nothing. His gaze locked on the tableau before him, Gyles murmured, “Stay here and keep out of sight. Franni’s high-strung—she’ll get a shock if she sees you—she doesn’t know you. We don’t want to alarm her and have her pull the trigger.” Gyles paused to moisten his dry lips. “In a moment I’m going in. Stay out here, out of sight, but get into a position where you can watch and witness whatever happens. Just don’t let her see you.”

  He sensed Osbert’s nod. Osbert wasn’t his ideal as a second, but thus far Osbert was managing well. Still as a statue, Gyles listened once more to Franni’s ranting.

  “I know the truth. Gyles’s loves me—me!—but he had to marry you to get the land. Now he’s got it, he would marry me if he could, but he can’t.” Franni paused; her gaze had never left Francesca. “Not while you live.”

  Franni’s voice lowered. “Of course, he should kill you—that’s what he should do—anyone can see that. But he’s too noble, too softhearted.” Franni straightened and lifted her chin. “So I’m going to kill you for him, and then he and I will marry, just as we’ve always wanted.”

  Her voice had taken on the singsong cadence of one reciting a bedtime story.

  “Franni.” Francesca held out a hand. “This won’t work.”

  “It will, it will, it will!” Franni stamped her foot. Francesca flinched. The pistol didn’t waver as Franni launched into another diatribe about how everyone thought she was helpless.

  Gyles didn’t think they’d make that mistake again. He saw Francesca raise her hand and speak—the torrent of Franni’s words swept her appeal aside.

  He wanted to let Francesca know he was there, reassure her so she didn’t do anything rash. It wasn’t easy to force his attention from Franni—instinct as old as time had him focused on her—but he shifted his gaze to his wife, kept it there. He knew when Francesca realized. She lifted her head a little, to the side, as if searching for him with her senses, then she straightened and drew her hand from the pew.

  “So I’m going to take care of things my way.” Franni waved the pistol, but immediately brought it to bear again, aimed at Francesca.

  Francesca folded her arms over her waist—with a pang, Gyles recognized the instinctive action, the innate urge to protect their unborn child.

  “So.” His wife’s usual
warm tones were strained. “What are you going to do? Are you going to shoot me here—in a church?”

  Franni’s slow smile was taunting, cruel. “No—this is Papa’s pistol and I have to take it back. I’d rather it wasn’t smelling of powder. I’ll use it if I have to, but I’ve thought of a better plan.” Her smile grew colder, her eyes emptier. “A much better plan. You’re going to disappear.”

  Abruptly, Franni refocused and flicked a glance to Francesca’s right, to the side of the chapel draped in shadow. “These men will take you away.”

  Francesca looked. Three men stepped forward; she’d been so intent on Franni she hadn’t noticed them at all. John Coachman’s words rang in her head: two burly men and one scrawny one. John had been describing the highwaymen who’d attacked her carriage. Was it coincidence these three fitted the description?

  All three stared at her; one licked his lips. Francesca felt her eyes flare; she fought an urge to step back. The men saw her reaction; they leered and shuffled to the other end of the pew, meaty hands hanging at their sides, opening and closing as if impatient to get hold of her.

  Fear rushed over Francesca’s skin and left it crawling. Her breath was trapped in her chest. She thought Gyles was close, but was he? She had footmen outside . . . with the thought came the realization that this was a church. There’d be a door leading out of the vestry, most likely on the other side of the church from where her footmen waited. The church stood on a corner—she’d been vaguely aware of the lane beyond the graveyard. In this fog, she could be whisked away and none of her husband’s servants would know.

  “No. That won’t work.” It was all she could think of to say.

  “Yes, it will.” Franni nodded continually; the pistol remained steady in her hands. “The men will keep you, then when you have the baby, they’ll bring it to me, then they can dispose of you however they want. That seemed only fair. After all, Gyles won’t want you—he’ll have me. He’ll have forgotten about you by then.”

  Francesca swung to face Franni, instinctively tightening her arms about their baby. How had Franni known? Then she realized. Franni didn’t know—having babies after being married was what happened in books.

  “I have it all worked out. Ester told me it would be best if I don’t have babies of my own, so instead, I’ll have your baby to raise, and you’ll be gone, so Gyles will marry me and I’ll be Lady Chillingworth.”

  “No, Franni—it won’t happen like that.”

  Franni gasped and looked up. The pistol wobbled, but she immediately steadied it. Then she smiled, so sweetly, so happily, Francesca could have wept.

  “You’ve come.”

  The warmth in Franni’s voice was unmistakable, the change in her demeanor equally so. Satisfied she’d accepted his appearance, Gyles walked forward. His gaze raked the three men—that was enough to make them step back.

  “Yes, Franni. I’m here.” He met Francesca’s eyes briefly. “Sit down.” She did, sinking onto the pew. Stepping past, he halted in front of Franni, directly between her and Francesca. “Give me the pistol.” Gyles held out his hand commandingly.

  Dazzled, delighted to see him, Franni eased her grip—then her gaze suddenly sharpened. She clutched the pistol and abruptly stepped back, to the side, bringing Francesca once more into sight. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Gyles, struggling to read his face. “No-oo!” The word was low, rumbling, defiant. Her gaze flicked from him to Francesca. The pistol was once more trained on Francesca’s chest. “You’re being noble. Chivalrous. You men—come here and tie him up!”

  “I wouldn’t advise you to try that.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Franni’s eyes snapped; her jaw set. “He’s just being noble and chivalrous. He’s an earl—they’re supposed to be like that. He has to say he doesn’t want her dead because she’s his wife. He’d feel guilty if he told the truth, but the truth is, he wants her dead so he can marry me, because he loves me. Me!” She flicked a wild-eyed glance at the men. “Now come and tie him up!”

  The men shifted uneasily. The scrawny one cleared his throat. “You say the pretty lady’s his wife—and he’s an earl?”

  Gyles looked at the men. “How much is she paying you?”

  The men eyed him warily. “Promised us a hunnerd, she did,” the scrawny one said. “But she only paid a guinea down.”

  Gyles reached into his pocket, drew out his card case, extracted a card and pencil, then scribbled on the back of the card. “Here.” He slipped case and pencil away and held the card out at arm’s length. “Take this to the address written on the card and Mr. Waring will give each of you one hundred pounds.”

  “No!” Franni cried.

  The men glanced at her, then at Gyles. “How’d we know that’s what’ll happen?”

  “You don’t, but if you don’t take the card and go now, I can guarantee you’ll get nothing—and if you’re still around by the time I’m free, I’ll hand you over to the watch for questioning about a carriage that was recently attacked in Highgate Wood.”

  One of the beefy men stirred, glanced at his companions, then lumbered along between the pews. He took the card, frowned at the writing, then glanced at his fellows. “ ‘Carn—let’s go.”

  The three turned and tramped out of the chapel via the second archway.

  “No, no, no, no, nooooo!” Franni wailed. She gnashed her teeth, stamped her feet, and backed until she met the altar. Her head swung wildly; the pistol waved, too, but she corrected it, brought it to bear on Francesca, sighting—

  Gyles pushed the front pew forward and stepped across Francesca. “Franni! Enough. Things are not going to happen the way you thought.”

  “Yes, they are! Yes, they are!”

  Her heart in her mouth, Francesca stood. “Franni—”

  Gyles turned his head. “Sit down!”

  Francesca did. Forced herself to do it. Franni only had one pistol, one shot. Better he faced that one shot than her—she knew that was how he felt. It wasn’t how she felt, but . . . she was no longer in a position to think only of herself. She made herself sit still, fists clenched in her lap. She listened to Gyles talk calmly, as if Franni wasn’t bordering on hysteria with a loaded pistol in her hands.

  “Listen to me, Franni.” Gyles cut off Franni’s wailing assertions. “I know you’ve been trying to make things happen. I want you to tell me all the things you’ve done. Was it you who stretched the rein across the path up to the downs at Lambourn?”

  Francesca frowned.

  “Yes, but it didn’t work. It didn’t make her fall from her horse and die.”

  “No.” Gyles trapped Franni’s gaze and grimly held it. “But Franni—I use that track more than Francesca. I was the one who found the rein stretched across the path. It was pure luck I wasn’t riding at the time, or I might have fallen and died.”

  Franni’s jaw slowly fell. Her mouth worked weakly as she sought for words. “I didn’t mean that to happen—it wasn’t supposed to be you. It was supposed to be her. I put a stone in her little mare’s hoof so she’d ride one of the big horses and fall for certain.” She blinked blankly. “I did everything right, but it didn’t work.”

  “No, it didn’t. Was it you who tore up Francesca’s riding cap and stuffed it in the vase?”

  “Yes.” Franni nodded; the movement rocked her whole body. “It was a silly hat—it made her look nice. Interesting. I didn’t want you seeing her in it.”

  “And was it you who put the poison in Francesca’s dressing?”

  Franni frowned. “Why didn’t that work? It’s hers—no one else uses it.”

  “I did—and I smelled the poison.”

  “Oh.” Franni looked crestfallen, but she’d yet to lower the pistol. She stared at Gyles. “I always tried to do things that would hurt only her—I didn’t want to harm anyone else. I didn’t even want to harm her, but she has to die—you do see that, don’t you?”

  The sincerely beseeching look in her eyes made Gyles feel ill. Poor Franni. He u
nderstood Francesca’s protectiveness, and Charles’s and Ester’s. . . . ”How did you hire the men?”

  Smugness returned to Franni’s eyes. “Ginny’s old. She sleeps a lot. Especially when I slip some of my laudanum into her tea.”

  “So you drugged your maid and slipped out. What did you do then?”

  “I asked a coachman to take me to a place where I could find men who would kill others for money.”

  Gyles blinked. “Did any of these men harm you?”

  Franni looked at him blankly. “No.”

  Gyles didn’t know whether to believe her or not.

  He felt a tug on the back of his coat. Francesca whispered, very low, “She answers direct questions literally—honestly.”

  Small mercies. “Very well.” He captured Franni’s gaze again. “Now, you don’t want to hurt me, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You want to make me happy?”

  She smiled. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Then give me the pistol.”

  Franni considered, then nodded. “I’ll give it to you after I’ve shot her.”

  She moved to sight Francesca; Gyles moved, too, blocking her view. Franni frowned at him. “Why are you stopping me? We have to get rid of her—you know that. I’ll do it—you don’t have to.”

  Gyles inwardly sighed. “Franni, I’m prepared to swear on that Bible behind you that I’ll only be happy if Francesca is my wife, alive and by my side. If you want to make me happy, then shooting Francesca isn’t the right thing to do.”

  Franni’s face blanked; Gyles could almost see her mind working. Fingers touched his, slipped into his hand. He briefly squeezed—Francesca squeezed back, clung. He inwardly frowned. Was she trying to warn him?

  “No!”

  The negative thundered about them. He refocused on Franni to see her transformed. Her head was high, her eyes blazed; her spine was rigid. Her grip on the pistol had tightened.

  “I won’t have it! That’s not how it will be. I want you to marry me, and you shall. I want it to happen so it will. I’m going to shoot her—”

  Franni ducked to the side, trying to see Francesca. Closing his hand hard on Francesca’s fingers, Gyles held her down, kept her behind him.