All About Passion

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.”

“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 understood 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.

“I’m going to shoot her, yes I am-I want, I want and I shall have! You don’t need her now-you have her land. There’s no reason for you to want her now. I want you to want me instead. You must!”

Franni’s stamp echoed through the chapel.

Francesca struggled to free her hand; Gyles crushed her fingers unmercifully. He shifted this way and that, constantly blocking Franni’s attempts to sight her. With his arm braced, she couldn’t stand, couldn’t try to distract Franni. Her cousin was mad-in her heart, she’d suspected it but had never let the thought form-but now Franni was close to threatening Gyles-didn’t he understand how the stories went? If she couldn’t have him for herself, then Franni would play out her plot to the end-she’d kill Gyles rather than let Francesca have him.

It was her grandfather all over again but worse. Francis hadn’t been insane; Franni was. Francis had been stubborn enough to cut off his nose to spite his face. Franni was capable of worse.

“Let me up!” she hissed.

“No!” Gyles hissed back.

He didn’t even look around. Francesca felt frantic. Franni would shoot-

“Franni-stop!” There was enough command in Gyles’s voice to stop everyone. Behind him, Francesca froze, quivering, waiting…

“Franni, I want you to listen to me-listen very carefully-because I want you to understand all that I say. I want you to look into my eyes so you’ll know I’m speaking the truth.” Gyles paused. “All right?”

Francesca waited, then she felt a slight relaxing in Gyles’s grip and assumed Franni had nodded.

“Very well-listen carefully. I love Francesca. I always have, from the first moment I laid eyes on her. I love her completely, unreservedly-do you know what that means, Franni?”

Bowing her head until her forehead touched their clasped hands, Francesca listened, then she heard Franni say, softly, weakly, “You love her?”

“Yes.” There could be no question that one word was the truth-it rang with a conviction no power but one could give. Gyles paused, then said, “You were at our wedding-you heard the words of the service. ‘With my body I thee worship. With my soul I thee adore.’ I said those words, Franni, and they’re true-every one.”

Silence followed, cool, still. Minutes ticked past, then into that stillness, Francesca heard, as if from a great distance, a soft sobbing, falling like rain… Lifting her head, she drew in a deep breath and stood. Gyles’s arm eased and he let her come to her feet by his side, just behind his shoulder.

Franni still held the pistol, but as her sobs grew, the barrel wavered, then sank. Franni lowered her arms, doubling over in unrestrained grief-

“Franni!”

“Aaaah!” Franni shrieked, jumped, jerked the pistol up-

Gyles cursed, half turned, flung himself at Francesca-just as she grabbed wildly at him.

The pistol’s report shattered the stillness and sent echoes crashing about the church.

They fell. In a wild tangle of arms, legs and grabbing hands, they hit the flags between the pews.

Francesca lost her breath. Immediately, she sucked air in. “My God! Are you hurt? Did you get shot?” She tugged and reached around Gyles, hands spread, searching, trying to find out-

“No, dammit! Did you?”

She met Gyles’s gaze, grey and furious. Relief poured through her, and more besides. She smiled. “No.”

He frowned at her. “For the Lord’s sake! Here-sit up.” He struggled to get up but his shoulders had wedged between the pews. He wriggled but couldn’t get free. “You landed beneath me-the floor’s stone, for heaven’s sake! Are you sure-”

Francesca framed his face. Pandemonium raged about them; she ignored it, shut it out, looked deep into his eyes. “What you just said-you meant it, didn’t you?”

Charles and Ester were there, struggling with a now hysterical Franni. Osbert waded in, trying to help. Every sound faded to stillness as Gyles looked down at her. “Every word.”

He found her hand, raised it, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I never wanted to love-and especially not you. Now I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He looked into her eyes; she saw the change in his-the hesitation, the uncertainty. “And you?”

She smiled beatifically, then lifted her head and touched her lips to his. “You know very well I love you…”-she searched for words, then simply said-“as you love me.”

He bent his head and kissed her, gently, lingeringly-she kissed him back, letting the moment sink into her memories, and his.

When he drew back, she smiled through happy tears. “I knew from the moment I saw you that you would never be dull or boring.”

“Dull or boring?” He shoved the front pew forward, then grabbed the back to lever himself from her so he didn’t crush her further against the floor. “Are those the criteria on which you judge my performance?”

He stood and held out a hand. She let him pull her to her feet. “Among others. But now I know so much more, I have even higher standards.”

He met her gaze. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

The wailing and admonitions had gained in volume. They turned to see Franni threshing furiously, sobbing, eyes shut, mouth wide. Osbert and the two footmen were holding her, trying not to hurt her and getting hurt for their pains. Ester, disheveled, having clearly grappled with Franni herself, was trying to frame her niece’s face, speaking soothingly, trying to reach Franni and calm her.

Charles stood before them, facing Franni, the pistol hanging limply in one hand. As they watched, he drew in a huge breath, then turned and saw them. His face was ashen. He looked at the pistol, then stepped down and laid it on the front pew. Approaching them, he lifted his head; bracing himself, he stopped before them.

“I am so sorry.” The words seemed to sap all his strength. He ran a hand through his hair, glanced back at Franni.

He was more shaken than they were. Francesca exchanged a glance with Gyles. “It’s all right.” She took Charles’s hands in hers.

He returned the pressure of her fingers, attempted a smile, but shook his head. “No, my dear. I wish it were, but it’s not all right.” He glanced again at Franni; her sobs were gradually abating. “Ester and I have been afraid something like this would happen. We’ve been watching Franni for years, wondering, hoping…” He sighed, then looked at Francesca and released her hands. “But it wasn’t to be.” Straightening, he glanced at Gyles. “I owe you an explanation.” Francesca and Gyles opened their mouths; Charles held up his hand. “No-please, let me say it. Let me tell you so you can decide for yourselves. So you can understand.”

Francesca and Gyles exchanged a glance. Gyles nodded. “As you wish.”

Charles hauled in a huge breath. “You’ll have heard that Elise, my wife, Franni’s mother, threw herself to her death from the tower at Rawlings Hall. That’s not precisely true. I was with her. She didn’t throw herself.” Charles’s face grew bleak. “She fell while trying to push me over the edge.”

“She tried to kill you?”

“Yes.” The word was a long, painful sigh. “And don’t ask me why-I never knew. But that’s not the whole story. It doesn’t start there. Elise’s mother, Ester’s mother, too, also… went mad. She was incarcerated for a time, but eventually died. I don’t know the details. I wasn’t told, never knew, not until Ester came to live with us a year or so after Franni was born. After Elise started… changing.” Charles dragged in a breath. “It runs in the women of that family, but not all of them are affected. Ester isn’t. The trouble starts, if it’s going to start, sometime after twenty years of age. Elise…” His daze grew distant. “She was so lovely-we were so happy. Then it turned into a nightmare. Delusions that gradually escalated to derangement. Then to violence. Then it ended.”

Francesca reached for Gyles’s hand, grateful for the warmth when his hand enveloped hers.

Charles exhaled, shook his head. “Ester knew about her mother. She didn’t think it wise for Elise to marry-it’s the reason Ester never has. But our fathers, mine and Elise’s, were set on the match. I’m sure Papa didn’t know at the time. He did afterward, of course. As always, such happenings are hidden away. Ester was sent to an aunt in Yorkshire until after Elise and I were married, and Franni was born.”

His gaze exhausted and bleak, Charles looked at Francesca. “I’m so sorry, my dear, that you were caught up in this-we’d been hoping for so long that Franni would be spared… we just kept hoping. We didn’t realize until we were here, in London, that she was truly deteriorating. You have to believe me-we never imagined she’d go… so fast.”

Visibly steeling himself, Charles faced Gyles. “What will you do?”

Gyles looked at Charles and felt nothing but compassion, saw nothing but a man who had loved his wife and sought to protect his only daughter. Raising a hand, he gripped Charles’s shoulder. “I assume you’ll want to take Franni back to Rawlings Hall without delay. Can you manage? What can we do to help?”

Charles blinked. He searched Gyles’s eyes. “You won’t press charges?”

Gyles held his gaze. “Franni’s a Rawlings. Despite her illness, she’s family, and she can’t help how she is.”

Charles looked down. Francesca squeezed his arm. His throat worked, then he whispered, “Thank you.”

Gyles dragged in a breath, and looked again at Franni, now slumped, exhausted, supported by Ester and one of the footmen. “I’d offer to help carry her to the carriage, but I think it might be best if Francesca and I left. Franni will be more docile with us gone.”

Charles nodded.

“If you can manage it, call at the house before you leave London. We’d like to know all’s well.” Gyles held out his hand.

Charles gripped it. “I will-and again, thank you.”

“Take care.” Francesca stretched up to kiss her uncle’s cheek. “All of you.”

Charles’s lips twisted. He turned away as Osbert came up, looking more serious than Francesca had ever seen him. “I’ll stay with Charles-help get the girl into the hackney.”

Gyles clapped him on the shoulder. “Drop by tomorrow and fill us in.”

Osbert nodded and turned back to the group before the altar. Francesca took one last look at Franni, eyes closed, head back, mouth agape, sagging against Ester, who was gently brushing back her wispy hair.

“Come.” Gyles turned Francesca. His arm about her, he guided her from the chapel.

“I want, I want, and I shall have.” In the dark warmth of the carriage, wrapped in Gyles’s arms, Francesca repeated the litany. “That Franni got from our grandfather. It was one of his favorite sayings.”

Gyles held her close. She’d made no demur when he’d lifted her into his lap the instant they’d started off. He needed to hold her, to reassure the barbarian that all was well and she was here, still with him, safe and unhurt. She seemed equally content to rest against him, her head on his shoulder, one hand splayed on his chest, over his heart. “I thought you never met old Francis.”

“I didn’t. Papa told me-he explained about Grandfather, about how stubborn he was. He wanted me to know just in case…”

Gyles thought of a man farsighted enough to protect his daughter into any possible future. “I’m sorry I never met your father.”

“He’d have liked you-approved of you.”

Never had Gyles felt more conscious of his own happiness, his own good fortune. He thought of all he had-all Charles had not had a true chance to enjoy. “Poor Franni. Not only did she inherit madness from her mother, but she also absorbed old Francis’s peculiar madness.”

“I didn’t say anything before-to Charles. It would only upset him more. Ester told me Francis spent a great deal of time with Franni, and that that had pleased Charles.”

Gyles pressed a kiss to Francesca’s curls. “Best leave him with that memory.”

The carriage rattled on. They’d pulled the leather flaps down over the windows, shutting out the chilly night, creating a dark, companionable cave.

“Thank you for not pressing charges.”

“I meant what I said about Franni being family.”

She’d taught him, made him see, what family in the wider sense was about-the support, the net of caring. After a moment, he added, “In a way, we’re indebted to Franni. If she hadn’t been there to appear as the cipher I thought I wanted to wed, then I would have realized who Francesca Rawlings was before we sealed the matter, and then it wouldn’t have been sealed at all.”

“Would you really not have married me if you’d known who I was? Known that Francesca Rawlings was me?”

Gyles laughed. “I knew the instant I set eyes on you that you were the last woman I should marry if I wanted a meek, mild-mannered cipher as wife. And I was right.”

At her soft humph he smiled, but then sobered. “If Franni hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t be here now, married, in love, expecting our first child. My only regret is that my appearing at Rawlings Hall seems to have acted as a catalyst for her delusions.”

“If not you, then some other.” Francesca was silent for some time, then murmured, “Fate moves in mysterious ways.”

Gyles stroked her hair. “We won’t be able to visit Rawlings Hall. Franni will do better without seeing us again.”

“I feel for Charles and Ester. To have watched and waited all Franni’s life, only to have their worst dreams come true.”

“We can still help-make sure Charles can hire the best carers for Franni. And we can make sure Charles and Ester get away every now and then-we can invite them to Lambourn in summer.”

“We could make it an annual arrangement that they visit, so they don’t get shut away, and the family don’t lose track of them.”

Francesca wriggled in his arms so she could look into his face. The carriage had reached the City; courtesy of the streetlamps, more light was seeping past the flaps, enough to see. “I was thinking… Honoria told me about the gathering the Cynsters have at Somersham. I think we should do something similar at Lambourn, don’t you?”

Gyles looked into her face and smiled. “Whatever pleases you, my lady. You may create whatever traditions you please-I and all I have are yours to command.”

Delighted, not so much by the words as by the expression in his eyes, in his face presently devoid of any fashionable mask, Francesca smiled back. Inside, her heart rejoiced.

All she’d ever wanted, all she would ever need, was here, and hers. After last night, she’d been prepared to accept the reality without any declaration. Now she had it all-an enduring love and the words that acknowledged it clearly stated between them.

She studied his eyes, his face-the angular planes that gave so little away. Perhaps they owed Franni one thing more. “Why was it so difficult for you to say it-to utter such a small, simple word?”

He laughed, but not in amusement. “A small, simple word-only a woman would describe it as that.”

He hadn’t answered her question. Her eyes on his, Francesca waited.

He sighed and let his head fall back against the squabs. “It’s hard to explain, but as long as I didn’t say it aloud, didn’t openly admit it, then enough doubt existed so I could pretend I wasn’t taking a chance, that I wasn’t risking misery and destruction by being so foolish as to love you.”

Francesca frowned. Why…? Then she realized. Reaching up, she framed his face, made him meet her eyes. “I will always be here-I will always be with you. You may put as many guards about me as you wish, for however long it takes for you to accept that.”

Gyles read her eyes, then forced himself to say, “I learned very young that when you love, you leave yourself open to unimaginable hurt.”

“I know-but it’s still worth it.”

Gyles studied her eyes, then kissed her lightly, drew her back into his arms and rested his cheek against her hair. She was right. Nothing was more contrary than love. Nothing left a man more vulnerable, yet nothing could bring him such joy. In order to reap the harvest of love, it was necessary to accept the risk of losing that same love. Love was a coin with two sides, gain and loss. To secure the gain, one had to embrace the risk of loss.

How much he’d changed since the day he’d set out for Rawlings Hall. His home had been cold, lacking warmth, lacking life-he’d set out to find a wife to rectify the deficiency. He’d found her, and now she was his. His sun, warming his house, nurturing his family, giving meaning to his life. She was literally the center of his universe.

He decided he might as well tell her. After a moment, he murmured, “It didn’t all happen at once, you know.”

“Oh?” She wriggled and he let her turn once again so she could see his face, and he could see hers.

Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “Body, mind, heart, and soul.” His eyes on hers, he pressed a kiss to her palm. “My body was yours from the first instant I saw you-you claimed it as yours on our wedding night. My mind and heart you fought for and won-they’re now yours for all eternity.” He paused, sobering as he looked into her emerald eyes. “And as for my soul, it’s yours, freely offered-yours to take and chain as you choose.”

Francesca held his gaze and thought her heart would burst, with joy, with a happiness too profound to contain. Freeing her arms, she slid her hands over his shoulders, skating one to his nape as she raised her face to his. “Thank you, my lord. I accept.”

She sealed the bargain with a kiss-a kiss that promised a lifetime of bliss in the shackles of an enduring love.

They had only one formal engagement remaining before leaving for Lambourn-Lady Dalrymple’s Christmas dinner. It was early December, weeks before Christmas, but the last of the ton would soon depart the capital and return to their estates. Gyles would have given a great deal to escape earlier to Lambourn and escape the inevitable roasting from one of the few of his kind who would also be at the dinner.

There was to be no escape.

Francesca, superb in a gown of sea-green silk, drew all eyes, not just because of her lush curves but more so because of the radiant happiness glowing in her eyes, coloring her voice, implicit in her every gesture. To the irritation of his rakish self, he seemed incapable of doing anything other than beam with proprietorial pride.

Devil, of course, saw and understood, as few others would. From across the table set with silver and glittering crystal and the rich tones of Limoges dishes, Devil grinned-devilishly-and raised his glass in a private toast.

Gyles had no difficulty making out his words.

“Welcome to the club.”