The Hawk’s Eyes
THE HAWK’S EYES
Gideon had been wandering the edges of the ballroom for the better part of an hour, fulfilling his duty in only the most technical sense.
He had arrived. He had bowed to his hostess. He had exchanged the required number of civilities with gentlemen who had nothing to say and said it at length.
Ordinarily, he would have done more.
He would have stood up with two or three debutantes, asked after their mothers, endured their blushes, and returned them safely to the edge of the room before any mama could convince herself his courtesy had signified something deeper.
Unfortunately, courtesy had a way of being mistaken for encouragement.
And Gideon was not presently prepared to encourage anyone.
The young ladies this Season seemed younger than ever.
Soft-voiced, wide-eyed, dressed in pale silks and hopeful expressions, each one trained to laugh at the proper moment and lower her lashes at the next.
There was nothing wrong with them. That was rather the difficulty.
They were charming, accomplished, obedient, and almost entirely indistinguishable from one another.
They made him feel… not old, exactly, but jaded.
Tonight, for reasons he did not care to examine, even going through the motions seemed beyond him.
The music grated. The chandeliers were too bright. The press of bodies made the air feel close. And through it all ran the wearying certainty that he had endured this exact evening before.
Different ballroom. Different hostess.
Same ridiculous affair.
Perhaps Dash, his oldest friend who also happened to be the Duke of Dasborough, was not so mad after all.
There was a certain appeal in simply ceasing to care what was expected. In ignoring duty and allowing society to say what it wanted.
Gideon, unfortunately, had never possessed quite that talent.
He declined a passing tray of champagne.
When a footman offered lemonade, Gideon looked at it as though the glass had personally insulted him.
No.
He did not want refreshment. He did not want conversation. He did not want to stand at the edge of a ballroom pretending not to notice young ladies casting practiced glances in his direction, when noticing them would only oblige him to be kind.
His gaze drifted over the room and paused, briefly, upon Lady Persephone Rensleight.
She was being led toward the terrace by Mr. Percival Hatherleigh.
Not remarkable, perhaps. Hatherleigh seemed harmless enough—pleasant, polished, and entirely ordinary. Lady Persephone, meanwhile, looked composed. Proper. Perfectly capable of declining the invitation if she wished to do so.
It was none of Gideon’s concern.
Most things this evening, he reflected, were none of his concern.
Unfortunately, before he could make any useful retreat, Lady Longstaffe appeared beside him, gripping his elbow with a surprisingly sturdy hand.
She was small, silver-haired, and exquisitely dressed in lavender silk, her lace cap set at a jaunty angle and her sharp dark eyes bright with the sort of affectionate purpose that made escape nearly impossible.
“Lord Hawkins,” she said, smiling up at him with dangerous affection. “How very elegant you look this evening.”
Gideon bowed. “Not nearly as elegant as you, my lady.”
“Compliments will get you nowhere.” Her fan moved in a slow, accusing arc toward the dance floor. “Did you think I had not noticed your absence from it?”
“Nothing gets by you, does it?”
“Certainly not a handsome bachelor avoiding the dance floor.” Her fan flicked toward the nearest cluster of young ladies. “I believe you have disappointed at least a dozen hopeful creatures already. That is not like you, my dear Lord Hawkins.”
“The evening is young, my lady. Disappointment seems premature.”
“Mm.” Lady Longstaffe’s gaze narrowed, and then swept the room. “Speaking of disappointments, is my nephew in attendance? I have not seen him all evening.”
“I suspect we both know Lord Longstaffe is incapable of disappointing you,” Gideon said. “He is, after all, the apple of your eye.”
She gave a small tut, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Well. He is a very fine young man.”
“A model of virtue.”
“Do not be impertinent, Lord Hawkins.” But her eyes warmed as she looked up at him, the familiarity of years softening the reproof. “Still, I do wish you boys would settle yourselves. All of you. Set up a few nurseries filled before I leave this earth. Is that so much to ask?”
Gideon laughed despite himself.
Only Lady Longstaffe could make a man feel guilty for failing to produce offspring on command.
“I shall convey your expectations to Longstaffe next time I see him.”
“See that you do.”
“He may be in the cardroom,” Gideon said, seizing upon the possibility with unseemly gratitude. “Perhaps I had better look.”
“Perhaps you had,” she said, though her expression suggested she knew very well when a gentleman was escaping her.
Gideon bowed over her hand. “It has been my pleasure, as always, my lady.”
“Always saying the right thing.” She shook her head.
“Just the truth.”
She laughed and dismissed him with a flick of her fan.
By the time Gideon turned toward the cardroom, it had begun to seem less like a refuge and more like salvation.
While playing a game of cards, a man could sit with his back to a wall, say very little, and still appear to be participating in society.
He turned toward the doors.
And this time, was caught by the sight of Lady Beatrice Beckman.
Her brother ought to have escorted her.
But of course, Dash was not here. Dash was presently making a ruin of every expectation attached to his name, his title, and his masculine pride.
His sister, it seemed, had chosen to be somewhat more selective.
The Duchess of Dasborough had been gone barely less than a month. For the wife of a duke—even a wife so briefly held—mourning ought to have meant black silk, closed doors, withdrawn company. A careful retreat for no less than a year.
And yet, Beatrice Beckman stood beneath the chandeliers in muted grey.
Not quite defiance. Not quite obedience.
The fabric absorbed the light rather than reflected it, softening her edges at first glance. One might have mistaken her for subdued. Unremarkable, even.
Gideon knew better.
There had never been anything unremarkable about Dash’s little sister.
Her shoulders were back, her chin level, her posture composed in a way that did not suggest ease so much as purpose.
Her hair, a deep polished mahogany which he more often remembered in braids, had been swept high, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
Her storm-blue eyes moved across the ballroom with uncommon focus.
Watching.
Like a stable cat in the yard: quiet, apparently indifferent, and alert to… what, exactly?
Gideon narrowed his eyes.
What the devil was she about?
With Dash otherwise occupied—playing gardener to the enigmatic Miss Ambrosia Bloomington—there was no one to properly mind his sister.
And if anyone required minding, it was Beatrice.
Gideon had just marked her position along the wall, when—
“My dear Lord Hawkins,” came a familiar, honeyed voice, “you are a most disappointing man.”
Gideon turned.
“And why is that, madam?” he asked, though privately he wondered how, in the space of one evening, he had become such a general source of disillusionment.
The widowed Dona Carlotta stood in his path, oozing sophistication, and set her gloved hand lightly against his chest. “Every day I check my salver in vain. I had quite expected an invitation to drive, now that spring has arrived.”
Gideon inclined his head, allowing a faint smile.
“My apologies, madam. The Season has made a scoundrel of my memory.”
Had he promised her a drive? Quite possibly.
Her lashes lowered. “We need not trouble ourselves with Hyde Park, you know,” she murmured. “I’m amenable to a visit. There are… more private entertainments to be had.”
Ordinarily, Gideon might have been tempted to explore such entertainments.
Carlotta Fernandez y Ortiz was a very lovely woman. And very willing.
But tonight… “I should not wish to detain you from more deserving company.” Gideon shifted his feet, trying to be discreet as he searched the walls behind her.
Dona Carlotta dropped her hand. “How considerate,” she said, lips curving. “Although I can’t imagine any company more deserving than yours.”
Gideon managed an apologetic wince. “And I am honored…”
Glancing over her shoulder, her gaze followed his for the briefest moment, then returned, bright with amusement.
“Not honored enough, you scoundrel,” she continued, her tone thoughtful rather than jealous. “Who is it that’s captured your attention this evening?”
“No one, Carlotta. Just… duty calling.”
It was the truth, after all.
Gideon’s attention by now had drifted fully beyond her, to the place along the wall where Beatrice had been standing.
Now empty.
When he straightened, the widow gave a soft, knowing laugh.
“Then by all means, I shall not… detain you.”
Gideon inclined his head, just enough to be polite.
But it was already too late.
Beatrice Beckman was gone.
A prickle moved over the back of his neck, not alarm precisely, but recognition.
He knew that look. Had known it since she was twelve years old, mud to her knees and chin lifted in defiance after following the boys somewhere she had expressly been told not to go.
If she had left the ballroom, she had likely found the one place she ought not be and inserted herself into it with alarming efficiency.
He would have wagered his new curricle on it.
Gideon exhaled slowly.
He gave her the space of a minute. Two.
Enough time, he told himself, for a lady to make use of the retiring room and return without incident.
She did not.
Gideon shifted his weight, and then, not panicking, but as a favor to good old Dash, Gideon checked the supper room, then the cloakroom, and then turned toward the terrace doors.
Just in time to see them pushed open—by Beatrice. At her side, Lady Persephone Rensleight, who appeared… pale, shaken.
Something had happened.
The two parted ways after a brief exchange of words, with Lady Persephone returning to her mother’s side while Beatrice made her way toward Lady Barrington and Miss Montague. As though nothing had occurred at all.
And where were their brothers in all of this?
Blackwell had abandoned the dance floor at the first opportunity.
And Dash—
Dash was off tending his beloved’s blasted garden. Or his broken heart. Or whatever particular piece of romantic ruin had claimed him this evening.
Meanwhile, his sister seemed to be moving from ballroom to terrace and back with suspicious efficiency, emerging with pale young ladies who looked as though they would rather be anywhere else.
Beatrice must have felt him watching, because the next moment, she looked over.
Their gazes met.
Familiar, yes. Gideon had known those storm-blue eyes since she was a girl with scraped knees and arrows in her hand.
But this was not that.
Her eyes widened first, recognition flashing through them. Then they narrowed, just enough to tell him she had read the reprimand in his stare and resented it on principle.
Gideon lifted one brow.
Beatrice’s chin rose.
Ah. Yes.
Half-mourning or not, Beatrice Beckman had not come here merely to test the boundaries of propriety.
She was up to something she oughtn’t be.
And damned if she did not look magnificent doing it.
The thought struck him with such force that Gideon went still.
Beatrice looked away first—not in surrender, but with the cool dismissal of a lady who had no intention of being managed from across a ballroom.
Only after Lady Barrington had gathered both young women safely into her little party did Gideon allow himself to exhale.