All About Passion (49 page)

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 fogshrouded 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."