His gaze exhausted and bleak, Charles looked at Francesca. “I’m so sorry, my dear, that you were caught up in this-we’d been hoping for so long that Franni would be spared… we just kept hoping. We didn’t realize until we were here, in London, that she was truly deteriorating. You have to believe me-we never imagined she’d go… so fast.”
Visibly steeling himself, Charles faced Gyles. “What will you do?”
Gyles looked at Charles and felt nothing but compassion, saw nothing but a man who had loved his wife and sought to protect his only daughter. Raising a hand, he gripped Charles’s shoulder. “I assume you’ll want to take Franni back to Rawlings Hall without delay. Can you manage? What can we do to help?”
Charles blinked. He searched Gyles’s eyes. “You won’t press charges?”
Gyles held his gaze. “Franni’s a Rawlings. Despite her illness, she’s family, and she can’t help how she is.”
Charles looked down. Francesca squeezed his arm. His throat worked, then he whispered, “Thank you.”
Gyles dragged in a breath, and looked again at Franni, now slumped, exhausted, supported by Ester and one of the footmen. “I’d offer to help carry her to the carriage, but I think it might be best if Francesca and I left. Franni will be more docile with us gone.”
Charles nodded.
“If you can manage it, call at the house before you leave London. We’d like to know all’s well.” Gyles held out his hand.
Charles gripped it. “I will-and again, thank you.”
“Take care.” Francesca stretched up to kiss her uncle’s cheek. “All of you.”
Charles’s lips twisted. He turned away as Osbert came up, looking more serious than Francesca had ever seen him. “I’ll stay with Charles-help get the girl into the hackney.”
Gyles clapped him on the shoulder. “Drop by tomorrow and fill us in.”
Osbert nodded and turned back to the group before the altar. Francesca took one last look at Franni, eyes closed, head back, mouth agape, sagging against Ester, who was gently brushing back her wispy hair.
“Come.” Gyles turned Francesca. His arm about her, he guided her from the chapel.
“I want, I want, and I shall have.” In the dark warmth of the carriage, wrapped in Gyles’s arms, Francesca repeated the litany. “That Franni got from our grandfather. It was one of his favorite sayings.”
Gyles held her close. She’d made no demur when he’d lifted her into his lap the instant they’d started off. He needed to hold her, to reassure the barbarian that all was well and she was here, still with him, safe and unhurt. She seemed equally content to rest against him, her head on his shoulder, one hand splayed on his chest, over his heart. “I thought you never met old Francis.”
“I didn’t. Papa told me-he explained about Grandfather, about how stubborn he was. He wanted me to know just in case…”
Gyles thought of a man farsighted enough to protect his daughter into any possible future. “I’m sorry I never met your father.”
“He’d have liked you-approved of you.”
Never had Gyles felt more conscious of his own happiness, his own good fortune. He thought of all he had-all Charles had not had a true chance to enjoy. “Poor Franni. Not only did she inherit madness from her mother, but she also absorbed old Francis’s peculiar madness.”
“I didn’t say anything before-to Charles. It would only upset him more. Ester told me Francis spent a great deal of time with Franni, and that that had pleased Charles.”
Gyles pressed a kiss to Francesca’s curls. “Best leave him with that memory.”
The carriage rattled on. They’d pulled the leather flaps down over the windows, shutting out the chilly night, creating a dark, companionable cave.
“Thank you for not pressing charges.”
“I meant what I said about Franni being family.”
She’d taught him, made him see, what family in the wider sense was about-the support, the net of caring. After a moment, he added, “In a way, we’re indebted to Franni. If she hadn’t been there to appear as the cipher I thought I wanted to wed, then I would have realized who Francesca Rawlings was before we sealed the matter, and then it wouldn’t have been sealed at all.”
“Would you really not have married me if you’d known who I was? Known that Francesca Rawlings was me?”
Gyles laughed. “I knew the instant I set eyes on you that you were the last woman I should marry if I wanted a meek, mild-mannered cipher as wife. And I was right.”
At her soft humph he smiled, but then sobered. “If Franni hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t be here now, married, in love, expecting our first child. My only regret is that my appearing at Rawlings Hall seems to have acted as a catalyst for her delusions.”
“If not you, then some other.” Francesca was silent for some time, then murmured, “Fate moves in mysterious ways.”
Gyles stroked her hair. “We won’t be able to visit Rawlings Hall. Franni will do better without seeing us again.”
“I feel for Charles and Ester. To have watched and waited all Franni’s life, only to have their worst dreams come true.”
“We can still help-make sure Charles can hire the best carers for Franni. And we can make sure Charles and Ester get away every now and then-we can invite them to Lambourn in summer.”
“We could make it an annual arrangement that they visit, so they don’t get shut away, and the family don’t lose track of them.”
Francesca wriggled in his arms so she could look into his face. The carriage had reached the City; courtesy of the streetlamps, more light was seeping past the flaps, enough to see. “I was thinking… Honoria told me about the gathering the Cynsters have at Somersham. I think we should do something similar at Lambourn, don’t you?”
Gyles looked into her face and smiled. “Whatever pleases you, my lady. You may create whatever traditions you please-I and all I have are yours to command.”
Delighted, not so much by the words as by the expression in his eyes, in his face presently devoid of any fashionable mask, Francesca smiled back. Inside, her heart rejoiced.
All she’d ever wanted, all she would ever need, was here, and hers. After last night, she’d been prepared to accept the reality without any declaration. Now she had it all-an enduring love and the words that acknowledged it clearly stated between them.
She studied his eyes, his face-the angular planes that gave so little away. Perhaps they owed Franni one thing more. “Why was it so difficult for you to say it-to utter such a small, simple word?”
He laughed, but not in amusement. “A small, simple word-only a woman would describe it as that.”
He hadn’t answered her question. Her eyes on his, Francesca waited.
He sighed and let his head fall back against the squabs. “It’s hard to explain, but as long as I didn’t say it aloud, didn’t openly admit it, then enough doubt existed so I could pretend I wasn’t taking a chance, that I wasn’t risking misery and destruction by being so foolish as to love you.”
Francesca frowned. Why…? Then she realized. Reaching up, she framed his face, made him meet her eyes. “I will always be here-I will always be with you. You may put as many guards about me as you wish, for however long it takes for you to accept that.”
Gyles read her eyes, then forced himself to say, “I learned very young that when you love, you leave yourself open to unimaginable hurt.”
“I know-but it’s still worth it.”
Gyles studied her eyes, then kissed her lightly, drew her back into his arms and rested his cheek against her hair. She was right. Nothing was more contrary than love. Nothing left a man more vulnerable, yet nothing could bring him such joy. In order to reap the harvest of love, it was necessary to accept the risk of losing that same love. Love was a coin with two sides, gain and loss. To secure the gain, one had to embrace the risk of loss.