All About Passion (47 page)

"Much to my amazement. I don't think Mitchell or Carsden has been in the House since their investiture."

Francesca grinned. "Well their wives felt it was time they said something—did something—useful. Will it help?"

"Every vote helps. But I wanted to ask—how many have you and Honoria spoken to? Do you have any idea which others might be inclined to support us?"

Eyes sparkling, Francesca leaned forward. "Well…"

They traded names and opinions; from there it was a short step to the overall numbers, the increasing possibilities of success. They lost track of the time, only remembered it when Francesca suddenly shivered and looked down at the cooling water.

Gyles frowned. "Damn—I forgot." He stood. "I'll ring for more hot water."

"No—don't bother. I was finished anyway." She pointed at a towel. Gyles turned to pick it up as she rose. He turned back—and stopped, his mind wiped clean. Dropping her sponge in the water, Francesca straightened and looked up, instantly noted the stillness that had claimed him, his fixed gaze—the flames flickering behind the grey of his eyes. She let her gaze roam swiftly, then she smiled, reached for the towel, tugged it from his slack grasp. Dropped it on the floor and reached out her arms to him.

"I'll write to Lady Godsley that I was in fear of taking a chill. And now, my lord, you had better warm me up."

Gyles met her gaze, then reached for her, locked his hands about her slender waist, and lifted her from the tub.

Five days later, their select band of searchers still hadn't found Walwyn, hadn't unearthed the slightest trace of him, which only made them even more wary, more suspicious. According to Walwyn's sister's husband, "the old reprobate" was definitely in London, but where and in what guise they had no idea. Leaving yet another meeting at White's, Gyles returned home in time to dress for dinner. Tonight was Francesca's family party, her attempt to gather the clan. He hoped for her sake the family would rally and enough would attend for the event to be deemed a success. She, his mother, and Henni had had their heads together for the past week, organizing and ordering. Although Francesca had regaled him with their preparations, distracted by his search for Walwyn, Gyles hadn't taken much in. He did know tonight's dinner was to be a small affair with, aside from Francesca, only his mother, Henni, and Horace present.

"There were simply too many to invite," his mother told him when he joined them in the drawing room.

"Indeed." Henni took up the tale as he moved to greet her. "Even restricting the list to the heads of the different branches—why, there were over fifty, plus spouses—and if we'd selected amongst them, well—that would have caused ructions, which is precisely what we're attempting to heal." She frowned up at him as he straightened. "You're looking a trifle peaked, dear. Have you been busy with your parliamentary business?"

"Among other things." Gyles turned as Francesca slipped her hand through his arm. He smiled. As she exchanged some comment with Henni, he took in her appearance.

Tonight, she'd chosen to wear old gold. Her gown was of lush silk in that deep, rich shade that invoked the idea of treasure, the silk shawl draped over her elbows a medley of subtly contrasting hues, all golds and soft browns. Her hair was piled high, artfully cascading to brush her shoulders, the black locks a dramatic contrast against her ivory skin. From her ears, gold earrings dangled; a simple gold chain encircled her throat. And in the midst of the gold, her eyes glowed, intense as any emerald. She glanced at him.

"You look exquisite." Gyles raised her hand to his lips, let his gaze touch hers.

"Dinner is served, my lord."

As one they turned. Joined by Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace, they moved into the small dining room.

By eight-thirty that evening, Gyles was more distracted than he'd been all week. From his position beside Francesca at the top of the stairs leading down to their ballroom, he craned his neck, looking back along the row of guests waiting to greet them.

He couldn't see the end of the line.

Francesca nudged him. He hauled his gaze back to the elderly lady waiting to speak with him. He took her wizened hand, racking his brain for her name.

"Cousin Helen has traveled up from Merton to be with us tonight." Gyles shot a grateful glance at Francesca, then murmured polite phrases to Cousin Helen, who then informed him, in a voice that would have done credit to a sergeant major, that she was deaf as a post. Patting his hand, she moved on down the stairs. Gyles caught Francesca's fleeting grin as she turned to greet their next guests.

There had to be three hundred of them—three hundred Rawlingses, plus an assortment of others. Gyles was relieved to welcome Devil and Honoria.

Honoria nodded regally, the twinkle in her eye telling him there was no point trying to hide his astonishment.

"I never imagined there would be this many."

"You underestimated the power of curiosity—what lady in her right mind would turn down an invitation from your new countess?"

"I've never claimed to comprehend the minds of ladies."

"Very wise." Honoria cast a glance over the now teeming ballroom. "From what Devil told me of your family tree, there might well be more Rawlingses than Cynsters."

Devil turned from Francesca in time to catch that; he looked around and nodded. "It's possible."

"Heaven forbid!" Gyles muttered
sotto voce
.

Honoria threw him a disapproving look; Devil grinned, then, sobering, caught Gyles's eye. "Seems an excellent opportunity to further our recent activities."

The thought had occurred to Gyles. Surely someone present would know where Walwyn was. "You start. I'll join you when I'm free."

Devil nodded.

"What activities?" Honoria asked.

"I told you we're looking for supporters for our bills." Devil steered her down to the ballroom's floor. Gyles turned to greet the next guests—cousins and connections even more distant, they'd all answered Francesca's call with an alacrity he found both disarming and disconcerting. As if they'd been waiting for the opportunity to replace the distance developed over recent decades with a more cohesive framework, a stronger sense of shared purpose based on familial ties.

Quite aside from their number, that sense of togetherness distracted him. The line was thinning when a typically tall and lanky male Rawlings, his face lined and weather-beaten, his clothes sober and unfashionable, approached, a tall, plainly dressed lady on his arm. The man smiled at Francesca and bowed stiffly, but it was the stiffness of disuse rather than haughtiness.

"Walwyn Rawlings, my dear."

Francesca smiled and gave him her hand.

Gyles only just stopped himself from grabbing her and thrusting her behind him. Walwyn continued, "Allow me to present my wife, Hettie. We married over a year ago, but I confess I've yet to spread the news through the family." He nodded to Gyles, smiling pleasantly, then glanced at the throng in the ballroom. "It looks like tonight will do the job for me."

"I'm so pleased you could join us." Francesca smiled at Hettie and shook hands. "You live in Greenwich, I believe?"

"Yes." Rising from her curtsy, Hettie glanced at Walwyn. Her voice was soft and sweet. "Walwyn's the curator of the new museum there."

Walwyn offered Gyles his hand. "Maritime stuff, you know."

Gyles grasped Walwyn's hand and shook it. "Indeed?"

They'd been wrong—on a number of counts. Gyles spent a few minutes chatting with Walwyn—enough to convince himself beyond reasonable doubt. Walwyn had nothing to do with the attacks on Francesca. The years of hard living had stripped Walwyn of any ability to dissemble—the man was as open as the day. And besotted with his wife. Gyles recognized the signs. Where neither his family nor society had held the power to reform Walwyn, love in the guise of gentle Hettie had triumphed. Guilt—or was it fellow feeling?—prompted Gyles to beckon Osbert over. He introduced Walwyn and his wife and charged Osbert to take them about and introduce them to his mother and others of the clan. Osbert was pleased to be of use. As he tucked his wife's hand protectively in his arm, Walwyn caught Gyles's eye and inclined his head, his gratitude plain to see.

Watching them go down the steps, Gyles inwardly shook his head. How foolish they'd been not to mention their search to their wives. A simple question to Francesca, Henni, or even Honoria would have got them a result a week ago.

"Gyles?"

He turned, smiled and greeted another Rawlings.

Beside him, Francesca smiled and charmed, inwardly amazed. Intrigued. She'd embarked on her plans to draw the Rawlings family together out of a sense of duty, a feeling that, as Gyles's countess, it was what she should do. Now she'd succeeded, it was patently apparent that the evening was giving rise to something considerably more powerful and profound than social discourse.

The rush of family feeling, rediscovered for some, novel to others, including herself, was a tangible tide flowing through the room. A tide their guests dived into and contributed to with an eagerness that was itself a reward.

"Come. Let's go down."

The end of the long line had finally arrived. She glanced at Gyles, handsome as sin beside her. With a smile, she laid her hand on his sleeve; together they descended to join their guests—their family. Some saw and turned; others followed suit. She saw their smiles, saw them raise their hands. Had to blink back tears when spontaneous applause rolled through the room. She smiled, graciously joyous, upon them all, then glanced at Gyles, and saw pride, undisguised, in his eyes.

They reached the ballroom floor and he lifted her hand, touched his lips to her fingers.

"They're yours." He held her gaze. "As am I."

Others approached, and they had to turn aside. Later, with a shared glance and a nod, Gyles drifted from her side. But the triumph remained; it grew as the evening progressed precisely as she, Lady Elizabeth, and Henni had hoped, with a light and festive air.

Gyles moved through the crowd, chatting easily, receiving compliments innumerable on his exquisite wife. Eventually, he found Horace, then Devil, alerting them to Walwyn's presence and his exoneration. Devil grimaced. "So now the question is: if not Walwyn, then who?"

"Precisely." Gyles looked around. "Try as I might, I cannot bring myself to believe that any here tonight wish either Francesca or me harm."

"No sly glances, no hard looks?"

"Nary a one. Everyone seemed honestly pleased to meet us."

Devil nodded. "I've been listening and watching, and I agree—I haven't picked up the slightest sign of discontent, let alone malevolent intent."

"That's what's missing. There's not the smallest whiff of malignancy." Devil went to nod, then laughed and clapped Gyles on the shoulder. "We're hardened cases. Here we are, put out because there's no dragon present to vanquish."

Gyles grinned. "True." He glanced at Devil. "I suspect that, as far as tonight goes, we'd be wiser to set the problem aside and enjoy ourselves."

Devil had found Honoria. She was watching them through the crowd. "And if we don't, we'll only bring an inquisition down on our heads."

"There is that. We'll meet tomorrow and see where we stand."

They parted, Devil to cross the room to Honoria, Gyles to circulate until he found his way to Francesca's side. He was standing beside her, conscious of pride and something more primal, when Charles, a late arrival, came to make his bow.

"Only me." He smiled at Francesca. "This wouldn't do for Franni, as you know, but I couldn't miss the occasion."

"I'm very glad you came." Francesca pressed his hands. "Is Ester well?"

"Indeed—she's sitting with Franni."

"And Franni?"

Charles's eyes dimmed. "She's… well, it's hard to say. Her behavior's erratic… difficult." He forced a smile. "But in general terms, yes, she's well."

A lady approached Francesca—with a last smile for Charles, she had to turn away. Charles shifted to Gyles's side. "This is a remarkable turnout. You must be pleased."

"Indeed—Francesca's worked wonders."

"I always knew she would."

"I do recall you being very certain of her abilities. For that, and your wise counsel last August, you have my undying gratitude."

"Ah, well." Charles looked at Francesca. "It seems to me the right choice was made all around." Gyles was sure he heard Fate chuckling.

Charles turned back to him. "You'll understand if I don't remain long. We're returning to Hampshire the day after tomorrow, so tomorrow will be busy."

Gyles felt a pang of relief. He held out his hand. "I'll wish you and Ester and Franni a good journey now, in case I don't see you before you leave. But now you're here, do take the opportunity to meet some of the others."

"I will." Charles released his hand, took his leave of Francesca, then wandered into the crowd. Gyles watched him go. He liked Charles, had from the first, but he was glad to know Franni would soon be leaving London, would, within days, be hidden away once again in deepest Hampshire. He now understood Charles's wish to live quietly, removed from the eyes of the polite world. Protected from that world, from the whispers, the pointing fingers.

Society was not kind to those like Franni. Gyles understood Charles's stance and respected him for it. He glanced at Francesca. He understood her, too, enough to know that loyalty and devotion came naturally, a part of her she wouldn't deny. A part he couldn't ask her to deny. Explaining his nebulous unease over Franni was something he'd rather not attempt, given Francesca saw Franni as merely childish, backward, disturbed because of her mother's death.

There was more to Franni's strangeness than that—he would take his oath on it—yet she was such a helpless soul, how could he speak against her?

Over the past week, the plans for tonight had taken all Francesca's time; he hadn't had to worry she'd try to visit Franni. Given Francesca's character, forbidding her to see her cousin was out of the question, persuading her to that end wasted breath. But if Franni would soon be gone, he wouldn't need to speak, to steer Francesca from her company purely to ease his very likely unjustified, totally amorphous concern.