Susanne Dietze - The Reluctant Guardian

He envied Wyling, who dismounted his horse outside his town house on Berkeley Square and assisted the women and children from the coach. Two long days’ travel had taken its toll on Tavin’s body and his nerves. He would not be off his own bay, Raghnall, for a while yet, and their rest would be brief. Come dawn, he and Raghnall would be back on the road to Hampshire.

“But I wish to ride Mr. Knox’s horse again.” Petey Lyfeld’s freckled features were burnished with eagerness as the six-year-old gazed up at Tavin. “Why did you name your horse Ronald?”

Tavin laughed. “Rao-nall.” He spelled Raghnall’s name as he patted the gelding’s broad neck. “It is an old word that means wisdom and power.” A tiny reminder of the Gaelic tongue that had infused his childhood.

“A fitting name for a fine bit of blood and bone.” Petey sounded like his father. “I should like to ride again with you, sir.”

“Me, too.” Eddie, Petey’s ginger-haired four-year-old brother, pushed forward.

“Another day, perhaps.” Gemma inserted herself between the boys. Despite the hours of wearying travel and the boys’ precociousness, her voice was gentle. “We are at Uncle Wyling’s.”

“And I must take my leave.”

The boys’ faces fell. A pang of conscience speared Tavin’s gut, but he wasn’t obligated to give horsey rides to children. What had possessed him to take them up with him, in turns, after they’d left the posting inn today, anyway?

Ever the gracious hostess, Amy inclined her head toward the house. “Will you not at least partake of a cold collation?”

The boys jumped. “Please,” Petey begged. “Say you will.”

“I cannot.” Tavin hoped his smile was apologetic enough to placate the children.

“I want to ride Raghnall more.” Eddie stuck a finger in his mouth. Petey still hopped.

Despite his best intentions, Tavin puffed out an impatient sigh. With every passing minute, his investigation cooled like bread going stale on a windowsill.

Gemma’s lips pinched. “Mr. Knox must be on his way. He is a busy gentleman.”

“Like Papa.” Eddie’s face turned grave.

Tavin almost relented and let the boys take another short ride about the square on Raghnall’s back. Almost.

“Say farewell.” Gemma took her nephews’ hands.

“Good day, sir.” Petey bowed and nudged Eddie, who bent at the waist.

Tavin inclined his head. “Good day, gentlemen.”

At Gemma’s signal, the meek, sparrow-boned nursery maid took them inside the house, but Gemma paused at the stair. “Thank you for your kindness to the boys.”

“They are sweet souls. Besides, everything is my fault.” The words escaped before he thought them through. But when had he ever spoken correctly around her?

Her brows rose. “At last we view things in the same light. Good day, Mr. Knox.”

Such a dismissal should sting; instead, he grinned as he turned Raghnall toward Billingsgate.

He could well imagine Gemma’s delight at never having to see him again, but he didn’t share her antipathy. He hadn’t taken such delight in a sparring match in years.

Granted, he didn’t engage in many verbal clashes. His exchanges were mostly physical. His crooked nose and aching left shoulder attested to that.

So did his work. The Custom House came into view, a place he knew too well. No matter the season, some things never changed: the whiteness of the ionic exterior, the clamor of men and waterbirds, and the smell of decay sweeping in from the Thames. This afternoon, a stiff wind swirled cool air under his coat, prompting him to hurry inside. He left Raghnall and a shiny coin with a lad.

Weak shafts of sunlight streamed through the great room’s nine arched windows. Tavin hurried through, passing the “long room” and its crowds occupied with the tedious business of paying duties. After several turns, he entered a cramped antechamber, furnished with a simple desk and two chairs, testimony that there was little need to accommodate more than one guest—or anyone of significance—in this office. Yet few knew how vital this office’s work was to the Crown.

A blond fellow in a vibrant blue waistcoat rose from behind the desk. With his fair looks and dandified clothing, he reminded Tavin of Gemma’s beau, Beauchamp. His stomach clenched.

Perhaps he should have eaten some of Amy’s cold collation, after all.

He inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Sommers.”

“Mr. Knox. I hope you have good news.”

“Garner’s in a foul mood, I take it? He’ll not appreciate my call, then.”

“Pity. I’d hoped this day might improve.” Sommers rapped on an interior door, entered and returned after a moment, nodding.

Tavin crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him. The closed-up smells of wax and ink harkened a strong sense of familiarity, as did the drab furnishings.

Horatio Garner straightened a sheaf of papers and glanced up. Flickering candlelight from an unadorned candelabrum intensified the shadows under his blue eyes and gave prominence to the gray streaks in his mouse-brown hair.

“You lack the air of a gentleman who bears glad tidings.” No preamble, no greeting. Typical.

“Our antagonist’s name and face remain a mystery. As yet.” A grim determination settled into his bones. He’d solve this riddle if it took decades.

“Then why are you here?” Garner indicated a chair with a brusque gesture. His dark moods were notorious, but Tavin had never taken them to heart. According to snippets of conversation, Tavin understood that the custom agent had lost his family some time ago and had naught but work to keep him company at night.

The similarity between himself and his superior soured his stomach. No. I have Thee, Lord.

Tavin sat in the wobbly chair before the desk. “Four days past, the Sovereign moved contraband from Christchurch into the New Forest. My contact, a fellow by the name of Bill, promised to leave something for me on the crest of Verity Hill, a clue to the nature of the Sovereign’s business.”

That got Garner’s full attention. “What was it?”

“He was interrupted.” Tavin sat back in his chair. The green ribbon was probably no more than a snippet from a village girl’s bonnet. He’d not waste Garner’s time until he knew otherwise. “There was a complication. A lady.”

He recounted the events, omitting details irrelevant to the case. How Gemma’s eyes had blazed with fury when he’d walked in on her and Beauchamp. How she had kept pace with him despite her fear and the pain of her twisted ankle. How she had felt in his arms—soft, sweet, even sopping wet.

“This Miss Lyfeld.” Garner scribbled her name on a scrap of foolscap. “She saw the Sovereign?”

“I’ve no proof the man was the Sovereign, but I believe so. She said his speech was educated, his horse fine. Light eyes, medium build, graying brown hair, like a thousand men in England. I’d have liked to see him myself, but I had to choose whether to identify him or save her.”

“So you chose the girl.” Garner smirked. “Are you besotted?”

Tavin snorted. He’d behaved like a lovesick pup once, and look where that got him—exiled from home in Scotland and working here. “Absolutely not. But I think Thomason would have understood my choice. Besides the fact that I lacked a weapon—”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Garner muttered.

“—I had to remove Miss Lyfeld from danger.”

“You sacrificed the greater good to save the life of one.”

And so the conversation renews again. “With all due respect, each life is—”

“Of value to its creator, I know. At least, according to your faith.” Garner’s mouth twisted. “Miss Lyfeld remembered no other unique characteristics about the Sovereign?”