The Baron’s Open Arms (Scoundrels with Secrets #2)

Hunter, Predator, Prey

Beatrice did not look at the chandeliers.

Most young ladies did, upon entering a ballroom—the glittering cascade of crystal, the candles casting ghostly shadows on the ceiling above.

Nor did she look at the musicians tuning their instruments upon the gallery or the spray of hothouse roses climbing the marble columns.

She looked at the men.

Her gaze moved steadily, deliberately, cataloguing faces as she and her party crossed the threshold.

Colonel Singleton—amiable, harmless, already flushed with drink.

Ashebourne Covington, Earl of Grimstead. Exquisite tailoring. Impeccable posture. A smile that never quite reached his eyes, and just enough of a limp that he was forced to use a cane.

Mr. Percy Hatherleigh, second son of Viscount Dorsham, positioned near the edge of the floor, watching rather than participating. Though, it was a miracle he could see anything at all with his collar so high it brushed his cheekbones.

She did not linger. She never lingered.

But she noted.

“Try not to slip away by yourself this evening, Beatrice dear,” Lady Barrington said kindly as a footman relieved her of her wrap.

“No one expects you to fill your dance card, of course, but there are other unmarried ladies of a similar age in attendance. Bluestockings. I am told you can be quite entertaining.”

The marchioness smiled just warmly enough to make the chastisement difficult to resent.

“I had not realized we were considered diverting.” Beatrice did her best to look serious.

The marchioness laughed, entirely unoffended. “My dear, we must all make our amusements where we can.”

“Of course, and thank you, My Lady, I shall endeavor to appear thoroughly amused.”

“And accompanied, if you please.” Lady Barrington’s glance sharpened only slightly. “A lady may be as independent as she likes, but she ought never be unattended. Even when she is old enough to know better.”

There it was.

Softly said. Kindly meant, perhaps.

A warning and a reminder.

Beatrice was no debutante. She was nearly thirty, unmarried, and very much on the shelf, even if she did happen to be the sister of a duke.

“I shall keep that in mind,” she said.

Lady Barrington gave her an indulgent smile before returning her attention to her daughter.

It was, after all, the truth.

Which suited her very well. Society rarely troubled itself over women it had already dismissed.

Furthermore, the recent death of her sister-in-law, Lady Hannah, after a long illness, meant Beatrice was observing the proper mourning.

Add that observance to spinsterhood, and one became nearly invisible.

As a duke’s sister, she was invited everywhere. But a spinster in muted greys was not expected to flirt. A grieving sister-in-law was not pressed to dance.

Beatrice intended to use every bit of that.

Her gown was fashionable enough to avoid pity, but plain enough to discourage introductions. Dull grey silk. Short sleeves. Long gloves. A narrow strand of seed pearls at her throat.

Nothing meant to draw the eye.

Which was precisely the point.

Beside her, Lady Theodosia Radcliffe glowed in primrose silk as her mother scanned the crowd for advantageous prospects.

Lark stood on Beatrice’s other side, calm, observant, hands folded lightly at her waist. Once companion to Hannah, now companion to Theodosia, Beatrice’s dearest friend was steady as stone.

“I don’t suppose your brother is attending tonight?” Lark murmured, her lips hardly moving.

Beatrice kept her eyes forward. “Mon frère is otherwise occupied.”

Lark’s mouth curved. “Your French is showing.”

“Dash brings it out in me.”

It was true. Beatrice had spent the first years of her life in France, though every governess she’d had since coming to England had made it her personal mission to smooth the accent away. For the most part, they had succeeded.

Except with Dash.

His own accent had always remained far more pronounced, and when Beatrice was vexed with him, worried for him, or both, the old sounds had a way of slipping through.

“Hm.” Lark’s gaze drifted toward the dance floor. “He’s not attended a single ball since you both arrived in London two weeks ago. One would think he’d at least keep up appearances. But I suppose he has been rather single-minded of late, hasn’t he?”

“He certainly is distracted,” Beatrice answered.

Which was, conveniently, exactly the way she preferred it.

A lovelorn duke was far less meddlesome than a vigilant brother. Dash, a widower now, was presently consumed with securing the affections of the lady he deemed his destiny, and so long as the chase did not end in humiliation or heartbreak, Beatrice could scarcely object.

“But what about you?” Lark went on, her voice gentler now. “I know this is not truly why you’ve accepted these invitations. Still, you are here. And before all this, you did love to dance.”

Beatrice said nothing.

“Surely accepting a few offers to dance won’t ruin your mission.”

“I am in mourning.” Beatrice smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts, the dull grey silk a useful reminder of the role she had chosen. “And I have no wish to encourage attentions I cannot return. A dance can imply more than I mean to offer.”

“You are aware,” Lark murmured, a teasing smile touching her mouth, “that a single waltz need not lead to a proposal. Even in Mayfair, a lady may enjoy one dance without signing away her future.”

Beatrice snorted softly.

This was the ton, after all.

“Perhaps some ladies may,” she said. “But not me.”

Lark’s smile faded a little.

Beatrice lowered her voice. “I can’t be distracted by waltzes, Lark. Or flirtation.”

Her gaze moved over the glittering room—the chandeliers, the silk gowns, the polished shoes, the easy smiles.

For one sharp moment, she longed for the quiet woods at Dasborough Park.

She would not have set foot in a London ballroom at all if she had not known what hunted here. Not wolves or bears. Something worse. Men with good names, good coats, and manners polished enough to hide the rot beneath.

“I know,” Lark said quietly. “But truly, Bea… this undertaking of yours. It’s terribly risky. And with me bound to Theodosia’s side all evening, I cannot be nearby if you require assistance.”

“I’ll be careful. I promise. You have your charge.

Your position.” Beatrice’s tone softened.

Lark lacked the security of a wealthy relation.

Dash had offered her continued residence after his wife’s death, but she declined, preferring employment to dependence.

“You mustn’t trouble yourself on my account. ”

“I always trouble myself on your account.”

Beatrice’s mouth curved faintly.

“Well, you needn’t. And it’s not that risky. The ton’s obsession with discretion tends to do at least half the work for me.”

“But what if that’s not enough?”

Beatrice adjusted a curl at her temple with deliberate care.

Her cinnamon-brown hair was swept high in elegant coils. Concealed within them, the slender bodkin she had practiced with until her wrist ached.

“I’ll rely on other skills,” she said mildly.

Lark’s gaze flicked towards Lady Theodosia, ever watchful. “And if those fail?”

“I cannot predict every possible scenario. At some point, one must simply… act.”

The first time she had brought down a stag in the woods beyond their estate, there had been a moment of shock. She had known what to expect—or thought she had—but the reality had still been… somewhat disturbing.

This would be no different.

Except, of course—

Men were not deer.

She would simply have to proceed and expect the unexpected.

They’d crossed to an advantageous position in the ballroom, where Lark positioned herself just far enough from her charge to avoid appearing oppressive, though near enough to intervene.

“It’s not even as though Lady Barrington needs me.” Lark’s mouth twisted in irritation. “She is more than capable of assessing her daughter’s prospects without me.”

“And frightening the worst of them away,” Beatrice murmured, allowing herself the smallest smirk.

She watched the marchioness redirect a too-eager gentleman with nothing more than a raised brow and a polite smile.

How different might things have been, Beatrice wondered, had her own mother possessed even half that vigilance?

The thought passed quickly.

“I suppose that’s one debutante you needn’t watch over,” Lark said softly.

Beatrice didn’t bother responding.

Her attention had already shifted—caught by a suspicious figure lingering near the French doors.

Mr. Percy Hatherleigh.

His posture was deceptively idle. To most, he might have appeared harmless. But Beatrice noticed the subtle gleam in his eye.

And then she saw who he was watching.

Lady Persephone Rensleight stood nearby, partially hidden by an arrangement of greenery. The unfortunate burn scar curling up her neck remained visible even above the unusually modest cut of her gown.

Beatrice had taken her for a companion at an earlier ball, but later discovered she was actually Lady Calliope Rensleight’s elder sister.

And presently… she was alone.

Their mother, Lady Blackwell, was occupied across the room, entertaining the gentlemen vying for her younger daughter’s dance card.

Completely unaware.

Beatrice’s focus sharpened.

Hatherleigh moved then—closing the distance far too casually—and within moments, he’d engaged Lady Persephone in conversation.

She blushed.

Nodded.

And when the first waltz of the evening began, she allowed him to lead her onto the floor. Couples swirled across the polished boards in calculated intimacy. Laughter rose. Fans fluttered. Gloves brushed.

Now, a man asking a woman for a dance was not normally cause for concern, but the way Hatherleigh had been eyeing Lady Persephone beforehand… Beatrice did not trust it.

It had not been admiring or lustful or even shocked disgust at the sight of Lady Persephone’s scarred skin. It had been calculating. In the way a wolf would evaluate its prey before deciding to pounce.

Whether he sought some sort of financial or material gain from her or something more nefarious, Beatrice couldn’t be sure.

But she intended to find out.