He glanced at Francesca and found her watching him. “Enough of our guests.” He sat up. A muted crackle reminded him; he reached into his coat pocket. “I forgot to give this back to you.”
He held out her annotated copy of the family tree.
She took it. “Did you find what you wanted?”
“Yes.” He’d spent the hour before dinner making his own copy. “You and your helpers are to be commended-you’ve done an excellent job.”
Francesca hesitated, then lifted her eyes to Gyles’s face. “I’ve been meaning to ask, apropos of this.” She lifted the paper. “The reason we did it was to get an idea of the extent of the family. I wondered… would you be agreeable to us hosting a party? Just for the family, a few close friends and connections. Maybe some dancing, but more an evening to mingle and chat, to get to know each other better.”
He held her gaze. “The year’s almost done.”
“It would be an informal affair. I thought perhaps late next week?”
Gyles read her wish in her eyes and saw no reason to deny her. He suspected she’d get few acceptances, given the season, given the family, but if, as his countess, she wished to play the matriarch… ”Thursday?”
She smiled her wonderful, heart-stopping smile. “Thursday. Your mother and Henni will help with the invitations.”
He drank in her smile, then let his gaze drift down, over her slenderness to the slight bulge below her waist. It was barely visible, even when she was naked, yet when she lay beneath him and he joined with her, he could tell.
She carried his child-even if it was a girl, he didn’t care. Just thinking of it sent a surge of feelings through him, emotions he’d never felt before.
He lifted his gaze to her face, and knew his shields were down, that she could read him like a book. He no longer cared. “Come.” Rising, he held out his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She smiled-a knowing, understanding smile-put her hand in his, and let him draw her to her feet. “As I recall, my lord, I need to teach you more Italian.”
Two days later, Gyles convened another meeting in a private room at White’s. Devil was there, as were Horace and Waring.
“It’s Walwyn.” Gyles closed the door and waved them to the chairs.
Devil sat. “Your heir once removed?”
Gyles nodded. “Walwyn Rawlings-a cousin some number of times removed. We share a great-grandfather.” Fishing his copy of the family tree from his pocket, he handed it to Devil.
Devil studied it, then frowned. “You’ll need to do something about this principal line-you were an only child, and your father was one of two. And the other was a female.”
“Never mind that. Go back to the next generation.”
“Eight. And before that another eight.” Devil’s frown deepened. “I see what you mean. Branches everywhere.”
Devil handed the paper to Horace. Horace squinted at it. “This is what Henni and your mother have been helping Francesca with.”
Gyles nodded. “And they received help from Lady Osbaldestone and others. I doubt we’d get anything more accurate.”
Horace passed the paper to Waring. “Seems clear enough. Osbert’s your heir, and after him, Walwyn. But why did you want to know that?”
Waring, likewise, looked up inquiringly.
Gyles told them.
“That’s… not comforting.” Horace looked deeply troubled.
“Indeed not.” Waring had taken notes. “It appears that the first attempt was on your life, but subsequently, once the possibility of an heir more definitely arose, the would-be murderer turned his sights on Lady Francesca.”
“Blackguard!” Horace thumped the table. “But it would make sense, I suppose, to remove her first.”
“Indeed.” Gyles cut the thought off. “But now we’re alerted and she’s well guarded, we need to focus on laying this would-be murderer by the heels.”
Devil sat up. “So what do we know of Walwyn Rawlings?”
“He must be about fifty,” Gyles said. “I can only recall meeting him once, about the time of my father’s death.”
Horace nodded. “I remember. He was the black sheep no one wanted to acknowledge, a thoroughly disreputable sort. He’d been shipped off to the Indies. The family thought they’d seen the last of him, but like a bad penny, Walwyn turned up just after your father died.” Consulting the family tree, Horace pointed. “His father, old Gisborne, was still alive then-he sent Walwyn to the right-about. Gisborne sent me a letter warning me to have no truck with Walwyn, that he wasn’t to be trusted.”
Waring wrote steadily. “This Walwyn seems a more likely villain than Mr. Osbert Rawlings, I must say. Do we have a description of Walwyn, any idea where he might be found? Is he married?”
Horace snorted. “Unlikely. According to Gisborne, tavern wenches were more Walwyn’s style.”
“Walwyn,” Gyles said, “used to hobnob with those on the fringes of society. He developed a penchant for the company of sailors and, last I heard, he was living above some tavern in Wapping.”
“Wapping.” The fastidious look on Waring’s face elucidated his opinion on that.
The thought that the earldom and Lambourn Castle were a considerable step up from a tavern in Wapping resonated in all their minds.
“With your permission, my lord, I’ll set some men onto locating Mr. Walwyn Rawlings immediately.”
Gyles nodded. “And while you’re scouring Wapping and the docks, we”-his gaze took in Devil and Horace-“had better scout out nearer pastures. If he so chose, Walwyn could, I suspect, still pass for a gentleman.”
“Hmm-while helping Gabriel earlier in the year, I had reason to chat with the owners of the major shipping lines. If Walwyn’s haunting shipping, then he might have come to their attention.” Devil cocked a brow at Gyles. “I could ask if they’d heard of him.”
“Do.” After a moment, Gyles said, “I’ll place a notice in whatever handbills circulate on the docks. There’s no reason we can’t ask outright for information on Walwyn’s whereabouts, not in that quarter. The offer of a reward might locate him faster than anything else.”
“Good idea.”
Waring nodded. “I’ll have my men look for suitable handbills.”
“Think I’ll visit some of the older Rawlingses,” Horace said. “Long-lived folks. It’s possible they may have heard something about Walwyn.”
“So we’ve all got something to do.” Gyles rose. Devil did, too.
Frowning, Horace lumbered to his feet. “But, I say, no need to tell the ladies, what? It’ll only frighten them.”
Gyles and Devil looked at Horace, then exchanged a glance.
“As Francesca’s already under constant guard, and she’s aware of a possible threat, there seems little point in belaboring the matter and raising what might be an unnecessary fuss.” Gyles glanced at Waring. “I think, for the moment, all inquiries should remain confidential.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Indeed.” Horace turned to the door. “No need for the Rawlingses to provide the ton with the last scandal of the year. Aside from anything else, our ladies wouldn’t thank us for that.”
“Chillingworth.”
Gyles halted and turned. He’d left Devil with friends in the gaming room but had yet to quit White’s; he’d been strolling absentmindedly toward the door. He hadn’t recognized the voice that had hailed him, and had to dredge his memory to locate the name of the portly gentleman stumping his way.
Lord Carsden eventually halted before him; leaning on his cane, he looked up at him from under scraggy brows. “Hear you, St. Ives, Kingsley and some others are thinking of proposing a few amendments in the spring session.”
Gyles nodded, his mind racing. Carsden rarely concerned himself with politics, but he did have a vote.
“Mind if I inquire what the substance of your amendments might be? I’ve heard they might be worth supporting.”