Hawk’s Nest
HAWK’S NEST
Beatrice’s first instinct upon Lark’s departure was to march right over to Gideon’s Mayfair townhouse and secure his agreement to their plan. But on the way to the door, she caught sight of herself in the looking glass.
Her hair had half escaped its pins. Her eyes looked shadowed. And her lavender gown, pale and proper as half mourning required, did nothing for her complexion beyond making her appear dutifully faded.
Beatrice could hardly claim to be observing mourning as society wished. But the colors were her own matter.
She would set them aside when she felt ready. Not because society’s calendar allowed it. Not because two months had passed. And certainly not because anyone else decided grief had become inconvenient.
Not before.
And not yet.
Still, this mattered. If she meant to ask Gideon to agree to teaching more lessons, she ought to look put together.
So she went upstairs, smoothed her hair, and then opened her jewelry box.
Most of what lay inside was ordinary enough. A strand of seed pearls. A pair of garnet drops. A narrow gold chain she rarely wore.
Her fingers paused over the amethyst brooch.
Grand-mère had given it to her the day before Beatrice and her mother left France for England.
“Souviens-toi de qui tu es,” she had said, fastening it to Beatrice’s traveling cloak. Remember who you are.
Beatrice touched the cool purple stones.
She had worn it when she first came out, back when she had still believed being noticed was a simple pleasure.
Since then, it had remained tucked away.
Too French. Too bold. Too full of the girl she had once been.
But today, against her lavender gown, it felt right.
Respectful, but not invisible.
She pinned it to her bodice.
Then, catching sight of the bouquet of lilacs her maid had placed near the window, she hesitated only a moment before pulling free a few tiny sprigs and tucking them into her hair.
When she looked again, the woman in the mirror still wore mourning, but she looked a little less erased by it.
A little more like herself.
Satisfied, Beatrice drew on her gloves, took up her reticule, and went downstairs before courage could give way to excessive thinking.
She did not ask Drake to call for the carriage, but walked.
It was well past noon now, and Mayfair had settled into its usual polished busyness. Carriages rolled by. Footmen opened doors. A pair of ladies strolled beneath parasols, their heads bent together in confidential conversation.
Beatrice barely saw any of it.
With every step, she rehearsed her request.
Practical. Sensible.
Necessary.
And yet her thoughts kept sliding backward.
To Gideon standing too close to her beside the carriage. To the way he had looked at her mouth. To the slow brush of his thumb across the back of her hand.
Her stomach gave a traitorous little flutter.
But no, this was not the time.
She was going to speak with him about the lessons.
A practical matter.
His practical matter, actually, since he had been the one to decide she required instruction in the art of handling scoundrels. If such knowledge was important for her, then surely it was important for other ladies as well.
In fact, by Gideon’s own logic, he ought to agree at once.
Her request was perfectly justified.
Perfectly reasonable.
By the time Beatrice stood upon the front step of Hawk’s Nest, Gideon Rothmore’s townhouse on Park Street, she was ready.
Mostly.
She had always known where he lived, of course. One did not know a man for most of one’s life without knowing such things. She had even called here once or twice with Dash, years ago, for some mundane purpose she could no longer recall.
But she had never truly been inside Gideon’s home.
Not like this. Alone.
Furthermore, a lady did not generally present herself at a bachelor’s townhouse without a companion. Beatrice was not ignorant of that.
But this was not a social call. She had come to speak with him about the lessons.
A very practical matter. Very innocent.
Beatrice straightened her shoulders, ignoring the flutter beneath her ribs.
These… feelings were a passing fancy. Nothing more. A brief, meaningless awareness of one of her brother’s friends—one who had taken it upon himself to protect her this Season.
For Dash. Of course it was for Dash.
Reminding herself of that very important distinction, Beatrice lifted the knocker and let it fall.
The door opened almost at once. “Good afternoon, madam.”
A servant looked down at her with the careful blankness of a man accustomed to protecting his master from unexpected callers.
“Good afternoon,” Beatrice returned. “Is Lord Hawkins at home?”
“Is the baron expecting you?”
“No.” Beatrice lifted her chin a fraction. “I am Lady Beatrice Beckman. He is not expecting me, but he will see me.”
The servant blinked. “Of course, my lady. If you would be so kind as to wait here.”
The door opened wider, and Beatrice stepped into the entry hall.
Polished wood. Quiet carpets. No excessive gilding or fashionable clutter arranged to impress callers. Everything was handsome, orderly, and understated.
Rather like the man himself, annoyingly enough.
The faint scent of tea and leather lingered in the air. Gideon.
She had just enough time to regret noticing that before the servant returned.
“If you will come this way, my lady. Lord Hawkins will receive you.”
She straightened.
Lessons. The Vigilance Society. For the greater good of ladies throughout England.
The servant opened a door on the right, and Beatrice stepped inside.
Gideon sat behind a large desk, papers spread before him in tasteful disorder, his attention fixed on a document covered in some of the tiniest writing she had ever seen.
Even so, he looked up the moment she entered.
And rose.
“Lady Beatrice.”
His eyes smiled before his mouth did.
The servant withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
And with all those nerves suddenly returned, Beatrice’s gaze slipped past Gideon.
The room came into focus.
Orderly. Spare. Dark wood, clean lines, a single window admitting the afternoon light. Aside from the papers scattered across his desk, everything appeared to be in its proper place.
Just like the foyer, it suited him.
And Gideon—standing before her in shirtsleeves, his coat discarded, cuffs rolled to his forearms—suited it even more.
A faint smear of ink marked one of his fingers. He had been working, not idling. She had interrupted something that mattered, and he was looking at her as though she mattered too.
Beatrice realized, a moment too late, that she had not spoken.
That she was staring.
And that she had quite forgotten why she had come.
“Won’t you have a seat?” His eyes were laughing. At her? Perhaps. And it was just what she needed to jerk her thoughts back to the task at hand.
“Thank you.” And then, since she was here on business, she added, “My lord.”
Smoothing her hands down her skirt, she lowered herself onto the small sofa he indicated, facing the hearth.
Gideon took the spot beside her. Closer, even, than he’d been while they’d rowed the boat together.
And when she turned to face him… their knees touched.
Gideon’s gaze flicked briefly to the flowers tucked into her hair.
“Very pretty,” he said.
Beatrice’s hand lifted halfway before she caught herself and lowered it again. “They were in a vase.”
A corner of his mouth moved.
“I don’t think they’re improper,” she said, because apparently her mouth had decided to defend itself without being asked. “The flowers, I mean. I am still in mourning.”
His expression softened. “I did not think otherwise.”
“No. Of course not.” She straightened. “I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
That ought to have helped.
It did not.
Because she was still painfully aware of how close he sat. Of the place where his knee brushed hers, so lightly it might have been accidental, except…
Neither of them moved away.
His heat reached her by degrees, through the fabric of his trousers, through her gown, through every sensible layer that ought to have prevented it.
The words she had prepared deserted her entirely.
Gideon, who appeared far less disconcerted than she felt—which was unfair, really—moved the conversation forward with appalling ease.
“I was surprised,” he said, “when I learned how fond you had grown of the duchess.”
Lady Hannah.
Beatrice looked down at her hands.
“I was as well,” she admitted. “Surprised.”
That was the truth of it.
When Dash had brought Lady Hannah home to Dasborough Park, Beatrice had expected duty. Awkwardness. Perhaps even resentment, though she would have been ashamed to name it. Lady Hannah had been ill, gentle, and already fading, and the whole house had seemed to dim around her.
But her sister-in-law had been kind.
And lonely. And Beatrice had understood loneliness far better than she wished to.
But she had not come here to speak of Hannah.
She drew in a breath, but before she could speak, Gideon shifted slightly. “I have thought of yesterday more than I ought,” he said.
Beatrice blinked.
“I enjoyed it. The garden party,” he clarified. “The archery. The river. Even the rowing, despite nearly being swept along to the channel.”
“We were not.” She would have gotten them out of that current, with or without his assistance.
“No,” he admitted, though he did so with a lopsided, slightly mischievous smile. “But I enjoyed it, nonetheless.”
Oh.
That… oh.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes. “You seemed happy.”
The words were quiet.
“Because I won?” She didn’t know why it came out like a question.
“Perhaps. No matter the reason. I liked seeing you that way.”
For one suspended moment, Beatrice forgot the room, the lessons, the society, the entire reason she had walked halfway across Mayfair.
Gideon’s jaw tightened, and he looked down, rubbing his thumb once along the ink-stained side of his finger.
“I only mean,” he said, with rather less ease. “It… suits you.”
Beatrice’s thoughts scattered like frightened pigeons.
Why had she come here? To stare at Gideon’s shirtsleeves?
No.
His hands?
Absolutely not.
The lessons.
Yes!
The lessons!
She straightened. “I had a—There is a matter I wished to discuss with you.” There. Back to practicality. “The lessons you gave me—”
Gideon blinked, and then, with a shake of his head, sharpened his attention.
“Would you be willing to offer them to others?” Beatrice asked with no further preamble. “Not to just anyone, of course. Only a select few ladies.”
A small pause.
“Not that I expect any of them to be half so capable as I am,” she added, a touch too quickly. “But—well—I cannot be everywhere at once. And so it seems only sensible that there should be… more than one of me.”
She stopped.
That had not come out quite as intended.
Beside her, Gideon did not laugh outright, but she felt the amusement in him. That familiar, quiet, contained warmth.
But then he shifted. His knee brushed hers, lightly enough that she could pretend it was accidental.
Then his leg settled there more firmly.
“More than one of you,” he repeated.
“In a manner of speaking,” she managed.
“I see.”
Did he?
She drew in a breath and forced herself to continue more evenly, outlining what she and Lark had discussed. The select nature of the group. The discretion required.
As she spoke, the plan seemed to take firmer shape. Details settled into place.
All the while, Gideon’s leg remained against hers.
Firm. Warm.
Beatrice shifted—only a little—intending, perhaps, to put a perfectly proper inch of space between them. Her knee slid against his.
Gideon’s gaze did not leave her face.
She swallowed and continued, though her voice had gone just a touch less certain.
“Lark is going to ask if Lady Theodosia would be willing to assist us,” she added. “She knows far more people than we do—and whom to trust among them.”
Gideon said nothing, but was watching her. Closely.
She looked away at once.
“My grand-mère used to say, Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir.” Beatrice’s fingers brushed the amethyst brooch at her bodice. “It is better to prevent a hurt than to repair one.”
He nodded at that, and she went on, encouraged..
“This is prevention. And if it succeeds…” She lifted her chin. “Well, you do seem determined to protect me. This way, you might protect dozens of ladies as well.”
Gideon still had not spoken.
But then—
“Dozens of other ladies are not my responsibility.” His tone was not unkind. Merely certain. “Nor are they yours.”
Not his responsibility.
Not hers???
She straightened at once and drew her knees back, putting a proper inch between them.
“And who decided it’s not? You?” she demanded.
“These young ladies do not attend such events unguarded.” He was frowning. “They have fathers. Brothers. Companions whose sole purpose is to see them safely through an evening.”
“And yet they fail.”
Gideon’s brows drew together slightly.
She pressed on. “I was not at the masked ball last evening,” she said. “And a young lady—Miss Whitcombe—was discovered alone. In the library. With a gentleman who ought never to have been permitted near her.”
Gideon went very still.
“She was not protected,” Beatrice continued, her voice steadier now. “Not by her companions. Not by the other gentlemen in attendance. Not by anyone.” A small pause. “And now, in the eyes of society, she is ruined.”
Silence settled between them.
“If those tasked with safeguarding these ladies are not equal to it,” she went on, more sure of herself than ever, “then it seems only sensible that the ladies themselves should be better prepared.”
Her chin lifted slightly.
“They may at least learn how to recognize danger. How to avoid it. And, if necessary… how to assist one another.”
Gideon still said nothing until, finally—he exhaled.
“Very well.”
Beatrice lit at once. “Oh—Gideon, that is—”
“But.”
The single word halted her.
“Before I agree, I need to understand something.”
Her fingers tightened in her lap. “What?”
“This is not a passing concern for you.” His voice was quieter now. “It is not merely kindness, or indignation, or some attempt to liven up your Season.”
Beatrice went still.
“You speak of these dangers as though you know them too well.”
His gaze held hers.
“Why?”