Page 24 of From Rakes to Riches

“I love you too, darling Sonia.” Gemma wiped a tear from Sonia’s cheek, her own eyes moist. The greatest gift John Broadbent had given Gemma was his daughter, and she would be forever grateful to him for that.

Gemma believedher admonishment to Sonia would be the end of any speculation about Lord Guy.

She saw nothing of Guy for the next days, not at the theatre, or in Hyde Park, or at Vauxhall, or at any soiree or garden party she, Sonia, Aunt Margot, and Tristan attended. No matter how much she gazed about for him while pretending not to, Gemma never spied him. Guy did not even put in an appearance at a garden party hosted by Helena and Ash at their Berkeley Square home.

“Oh, he is galloping about the country somewhere,” Helena answered when Sonia eagerly inquired as to Guy’s whereabouts.

“Looking over the duke’s Surrey house?” Sonia asked, pretending innocent curiosity.

“Perhaps.” Helena remained vague, but Gemma noticed her friend’s little smile before she turned away to wave ladies toward the rose bushes at the end of the garden.

Maddening.

Guy continued to be elusive, despite Gemma’s constant vigilance, until, of all people, her stepson Tristan brought news of him.

Tristan visited often, his excuse that he wished to make certain that the ladies of his “female family,” as he called Gemma, Sonia, and Aunt Margot, were safe and well. Gemma had long ago realized he simply liked their companionship.

Tristan at age thirty had not married, though he sometimes wistfully expressed a wish to. Old for his age, Tristan enjoyed discussing horses rather than doing any riding himself, preferred drinking tea laced with brandy and wearing warm slippers to having a jolly tramp through the countryside. He needed an amiable wife who would be content to stay indoors and keep him company.

Aunt Margot and Sonia had departed to shop, in spite of rain that had begun to pour down, and Gemma received Tristanherself. She admitted she was pleased to see him, as the solitude she’d pretended she desired was wearing thin.

“How are you today, Gemma?” Tristan greeted her as he settled into a chair by the fire and accepted a cup of tea. The housekeeper, used to Tristan, had no doubt added a dollop of spirits. “Not too tired from our sojourn in Surrey, are you?”

“Not at all,” Gemma said. “It was a welcome outing.”

“London will become stifling hot before too long.” Tristan’s voice grew weary. “You are lucky in your friends. Such a beautiful home the duke has in Surrey. Lord Guy Lovell will buy the place, he tells me, fitting it out for himself.”

Gemma’s breath caught, and the teacup she’d raised trembled. “He will live there in truth?” Did this mean he would spend most of his time in Surrey? Dashing any hopes of Gemma seeing him in London before the Season’s end?

“He says so. He has returned to his digs at Albany in Piccadilly for now until the purchase goes through.” Tristan took a glum sip of tea. “Though I don’t fancy his chances of living long enough to enjoy that grand home.”

Gemma jerked her wandering thoughts back to Tristan. “You do not? Why?”

Tristan scowled over his teacup. “Because he’s gone and done a foolish thing, hasn’t he? Accepted a challenge by that coxcomb, Wakefield, to a duel. Wakefield is a terrible shot, so he has convinced a friend to stand in for him, one Ross Symmonds, whoisa dead shot.” Tristan sighed heavily. “I fear that our friend Guy might be for it.”

Gemma stared at him, her teacup frozen halfway to her lips, her blood turned to ice. Tristan lost his frown and became solicitous.

“Oh, my dear, I should not have told you so abruptly. I know Mr. Cooke was lost to a duel. Never worry. I am certain Lord Guy will prevail. He is a crack shot, and his second is the Duke ofAshford. The duke may talk sense into both him and Wakefield before the event.”

Gemma scarcely heard him, dazed thoughts spinning in her head. Tristan tried to converse on topics more innocuous, but he gave up before long, finished his tea, and departed.

Gemma saw Tristan to the door, her farewells wooden. Her legs were so stiff she was surprised she didn’t shatter into pieces when Tristan gave her shoulder a pat before he stalked out of the house.

“James,” Gemma called in a firm tone to the footman after he’d closed the front door. “Please fetch my carriage.”

8

Gemma gathered her shawl close as rain beat on the top of the closed landau, puddling in the street, and raising a mist. She peered through the water-streaked carriage window at the grand edifice that was Albany, the highly fashionable residence of aristocratic bachelors in Piccadilly.

She could not descend and enter the house herself without either ruining her already fragile reputation or causing apoplexy to the residents. Instead, she’d sent the footman James, whom she’d recruited to accompany her, inside with a message.

Gemma wondered whether Guy would bother to answer, if he even was at home. She clasped her hands in gloves that could not warm her, though the air was only a tad cool.

Just as she was beginning to despair, James emerged from the house and dashed through the rain to the carriage. Gemma’s heart sank when she spied no one behind him in the mists.

“He’s coming, madam,” James said breathlessly through the open window.

“Thank you.” Gemma numbly handed him a coin with shaking fingers. “Take yourself indoors somewhere and find a hot drink.”

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