Not Enough
Early the next morning, just as Beatrice pushed her empty plate aside, Mr. Drake appeared in the doorway.
“Miss Montague is here to see you, my lady. Shall I—”
“Yes.” Beatrice was already on her feet, and she reached the drawing room just as Lark was shown in.
An unexpected wave of relief came first, followed just as quickly by sheer pleasure.
“Lark,” she said, crossing the room at once. “You’re out early.”
Lark gave her a small smile. “I knew you’d be awake.”
Beatrice took her hands briefly, then released them. “You must sit. Drake?” She turned to the butler. “Will you be so kind as to bring in some fresh tea?”
Drake bowed and withdrew.
Beatrice gestured toward the settee, watching as Lark removed her gloves. There was something… not quite right. Not in any obvious way. But Lark, who wasn’t easily unsettled, seemed to lack her usual calm.
Beatrice hesitated.
Ordinarily, she would have launched at once into an account of the previous day—the garden party, the archery, her triumph over a field of overconfident gentlemen. Perhaps even her wayward thoughts about Gideon. It would have amused Lark.
Instead, she said, “Have you not slept?”
Lark gave a small, humorless smile. “A few hours.”
A quiet unease began to gather.
“What is it?” Beatrice asked at last. “Has something happened?”
Had the whispers grown louder? Had her accidental nicking of Lord Longstaffe already been exaggerated into something scandalous? Was Lark here to advise Beatrice to leave London immediately and never return?
Lark winced. “You missed the ball last evening.”
Beatrice’s brows drew together. “I was…” Well. “Yes.”
“There was… an incident. With Miss Whitcombe,” Lark said.
“What kind of incident?”
“She was discovered in the library. Alone. With Sir Garrett Kline.”
Beatrice went very still.
Kline.
She knew the name. A gentleman well known to be down on his luck.
Beatrice feared the rest of the story.
“They were not merely conversing,” Lark continued quietly. “Her hair had come loose. Her gown—” She broke off. “But that’s not the worst of it. She did not appear… willing.”
A cold weight settled in Beatrice’s chest. “You saw her?”
Another wince. “She was in tears when we found them. Lady Barrington, Lady Longstaffe, and Lady Zelda wished to escape to the library to sip some brandy in peace. Lady Theodosia and I were with them.
“Lady Barrington, of course, found it imperative to declare the poor girl compromised. To… well, anyone who’d listen.” Lark said.
Miss Whitcombe, Beatrice guessed, possessed only a modest dowry and no powerful relations inclined to scrutinize Sir Garrett Kline’s intentions.
Whether he decided to do “the honorable thing” or not she would have little protection from the consequences.
And Beatrice had not been there.
“I should have been there,” she said under her breath. Instead, she’d luxuriated in a night at home alone. And she’d spent most of it thinking about herself.
“It isn’t your fault. It’s possible you might not even have noticed. The ballroom was darker than usual. Very dramatic. And it was a masked ball, you know.”
A masked ball…
A chill slid down Beatrice’s spine.
How had she failed to know she was missing a masked ball?
Lark was wrong. If Beatrice had been there, she’d have been twice as watchful as usual. She would have noticed. And then…done whatever was necessary to save the rather foolish, and now very pitiable, Miss Whitcombe.
“If I had been there…” Beatrice continued, her voice tightening. “I would have been watching. I would have seen something.”
Silence stretched between them.
She had only missed one evening. One. And a young woman’s life was ruined.
Beatrice pressed a hand to her stomach.
What about all the other ballrooms?
All the invitations she had declined because two engagements in one evening were impossible. All the musicales, assemblies, garden parties, and private routs where any young lady might step away for air and find herself alone with the wrong gentleman.
This was not enough. She was not enough.
Additionally, she wasn’t convinced she’d be in London until Season’s end. If Dash abandoned his pursuit of Mrs. Bloomington, if he insisted they all return to Dasborough Park—
Who would keep watch then?
And when would she see Gideon again?
The last thought popped into her mind seemingly out of nowhere. Beatrice shook her head. That was of no consequence.
Lark had begun pacing again, her agitation poorly concealed.
“I was there, Bea,” she said. “There were too many people. Too many rooms. Not even you could have been everywhere at once.”
Beatrice watched her.
And then—quite suddenly—her thoughts shifted.
“What if,” she said slowly, “I could be?”
Beatrice leaned forward, the idea forming even as she spoke. “What if I wasn’t the only one?”
Lark winced. “Beatrice…”
“I know.” Beatrice softened at once. “You cannot do what I do. And I would never ask you to risk your position with Lady Barrington.”
Relief flickered across Lark’s face, followed quickly by guilt.
“But Lark, you do help—in an equally important way.” Beatrice leaned closer.
“You know which families are attending which balls. You know which gentlemen the mamas refuse introductions to their daughters. You know which girls are too trusting, which companions are inattentive. You hear things, Lark. Things that I don’t. ”
She had Lark’s full attention.
“All of that matters,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps as much as hiding behind the shrubs with my bodkin.”
At that, Lark almost smiled.
“What if there were more of us?” Beatrice asked. “Not all doing the same thing. Some watching. Some warning. Some passing along information. Some simply creating interruptions at precisely the right moment.”
“A watchful sort of sisterhood,” Lark said slowly.
“Yes.” Beatrice’s heart began to beat faster. “Patrolling Mayfair.”
Lark’s brows rose.
“A society,” Beatrice said.
“A society?”
“Yes. Quiet. Discreet. No officers. No minutes. Certainly no gentlemen.”
“Certainly not.”
“Just women who pay attention,” Beatrice said. “Who are dedicated to knowing when to interrupt. When to warn. When to send a footman. When to drop a fan or spill lemonade or suddenly require a friend’s assistance in the retiring room.”
Lark studied her for a long moment.
Then, softly, “The Vigilance Society.”
Beatrice blinked.
Then smiled.
“The Vigilance Society,” Beatrice repeated. “I rather like that.”
Lark’s brows lifted. “But how…?”
“We teach them.” Beatrice said.
The words settled between them.
Lark was thinking, though. Beatrice could almost see the calculations taking place—propriety, reputation, risk.
“It would have to be discreet,” Lark said at last. “If it’s going to be effective.”
“Yes.”
“And the ladies carefully chosen.”
“Without question.”
A pause.
Then Lark said, “Lady Theodosia could help with that.”
Seeing as Beatrice herself was not always the most sociable creature in a ballroom, it was not a bad suggestion.
“She can be trusted?” Beatrice asked.
“Absolutely.” Lark nodded. “I’ve already told her a little of what we’ve been doing, and she hasn’t breathed a word. She’ll fully support this.”
Beatrice considered that.
“Furthermore, she has influence,” Lark continued. “Respectability. The sort of qualities we would be wise to borrow, if we mean this to work.”
“Borrowing respectability,” Beatrice murmured. “How very strategic.”
She ought to have had respectability of her own as the daughter of a duke. But arriving in London with Dash when they both should have been observing their grief behind black drapes—quietly, visibly, and to society’s satisfaction—had rather complicated matters.
“Exactly. And more importantly, she knows the right young ladies. Who will be sympathetic and who can be trusted.” Lark paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “She also has an uncanny ability to know when someone is lying to her.”
Beatrice lifted her brows.
Lark’s mouth curved faintly. “Which I’m sure could come in handy.”
Beatrice drew a slow breath, and the Vigilance Society settled even more firmly in her mind.
She could picture it. A handful of young ladies—half a dozen at least—moving through a ballroom with awareness. Not waiting to be chosen or cornered, but watching in return.
Not helpless.
Not easy prey.
Capable.
The thought sent a quiet thrill through her.
Mr. Drake entered then with the tea, placing the tray with maddening precision. Neither woman spoke until he withdrew once more.
The moment the door closed, Lark turned back to her.
“And so… lessons?
Beatrice poured the tea. “Lessons.”
“You and I can teach them what to watch for, and how to interrupt.” Lark accepted her cup, then tilted her head. “But what about the times when one of us must actually subdue a scoundrel?”
“Subdue a scoundrel?” Beatrice repeated.
“Wrestle a rake?”
“Something like that.” Beatrice’s mouth twitched, but then she forced herself to turn serious again.
“They cannot be defenseless."
Lark frowned. “Do you mean to teach the ladies yourself?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Some things, perhaps. But I only learned myself, and this is too important to teach badly. I would not have them think themselves prepared if I have left some dangerous gap in their education.”
“So.” Lark set down her cup. “Someone else, then.”
“Yes.” Beatrice lifted her own cup, taking care to sound entirely practical. “I suppose I ought to ask Lord Hawkins if he’d be willing.”
Lark leaned back. “Do you think he will agree?”
Beatrice’s smile came slowly.
Certain.
And not entirely innocent.
“Yes.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am.” She rose, already reaching for the bell pull. “I shall speak with him today.”