Hunter, Predator, Prey #2
“I believe I shall seek out some lemonade,” she said lightly, pushing away from the wall.
“Is that what you are calling it this evening?”
Beatrice’s stare locked with Lark’s, with the faintest hint of a smile before she drifted away—not toward the dance floor, but toward its periphery.
Ignoring the table displaying cups of warm lemonade, she walked past the musicians, taking note of other lurking gentlemen but mostly keeping watch of the pair.
She paused beside Lady Wetherby long enough to exchange a few pleasantries she forgot the moment they were spoken.
The dowager lacked a certain conversational awareness, happy to carry on with minimal input from whoever she was speaking to.
This made it easy enough for Beatrice to watch the room without appearing to do so.
Hatherleigh had all his attention on Lady Persephone, so Beatrice moved in that direction, keeping her pace unhurried. But near the refreshment table, she noticed a young debutante cornered by a gentleman who had either failed to notice her discomfort or had noticed and liked it.
Beatrice adjusted course.
Her ivory fan slipped neatly from her fingers and clattered against the parquet at his feet.
“Oh, how dreadfully clumsy of me,” she said, all wide eyes and harmless flutter.
The gentleman was forced to stop and retrieve it.
In that brief interruption, the young lady escaped toward her cousins.
Beatrice accepted the fan with a grateful, empty-headed smile.
Then she continued on her way. Ah, they were on the dance floor now.
Hatherleigh danced adequately, did nothing improper.
Not at first.
But the hour was still young.
When the waltz ended, he bowed over Lady Persephone’s hand and returned her to the edge of the floor with impeccable civility. Perhaps she had been wrong in her assessment earlier, or else Hatherleigh had changed his mind.
Either way, Beatrice marked the interaction and returned to surveying others in the room.
Twirling figures, leering eyes.
Time advanced. Candles burned lower. The room warmed.
But as the laughter grew louder, Beatrice noticed immediately when Hatherleigh returned to Lady Persephone’s side, bringing her a glass of champagne this time.
Then when that one was gone, he brought another.
All the while, smiling and fawning. And when he reached out to touch the young lady’s arm, he didn’t pull back, but moved closer.
Lady Persephone, not normally singled out, glowed beneath it.
Across the room, Persephone’s mother remained utterly oblivious to the machinations near the potted plant.
Hatherleigh’s restraint was slipping.
His hand settled lower at Lady Persephone’s waist. Not indecent. Not quite.
But possessive.
And then… There it was—that glint. Not affection.
Hatherleigh leaned down, speaking close to Lady Persephone’s ear, and motioned toward the terrace.
When she hesitated, his expression shifted—subtle as a draft beneath a door. A faint lift of one shoulder. A hint of impatience.
“As you wish,” he seemed to imply. “I’ll give my attention to some other lady.” He glanced away, dismissively.
Lady Persephone’s spine straightened at once. A spark of injured pride flared in her eyes. She touched his sleeve, and whatever she said put that smile back on Hatherleigh’s face.
He offered his arm.
This time, Lady Persephone slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and together, they turned toward the terrace doors.
Toward the dark.
Beatrice set down the untouched lemonade she had been holding for the better part of an hour and made her move.
Not hurried. She must be careful.
She kept them in sight, adjusting her course as other guests drifted across her path. When cool air slipped into the ballroom, she didn’t have to see the doors open and close to know what Mr. Hatherleigh was up to, and a few seconds later, she silently followed them onto the patio.
Where the flowers, the lights… It was lovely. So romantic.
So deceptively dangerous.
Music from within dulled to a distant thrum, and although lanterns flickered along the stone balustrade, there were more shadows than illumination.
Beatrice was just close enough to see the pale shimmer of Lady Persephone’s gown vanish between the hedges.
Walking gingerly over the gravel, Beatrice kept her distance, only moving closer when the couple slipped into the shelter of the gazebo.
Of course.
A ripple of laughter drifted back to her—breathless, a little giddy.
Then his voice.
Too low for words to carry clearly. Smooth but calculated. He spoke to her in the sort of tone that suggested admiration.
A foreboding chill moved through Beatrice.
She had heard that voice before.
Not his voice, precisely—but its likeness. That flattering intimacy that suggested a young woman had been singled out above all others.
She halted, fingertips brushing the little knife hidden in her hair.
Only if necessary…
Lantern light faded before it reached the inside of the gazebo, which was half-screened by climbing ivy and early summer foliage. Romantic enough to excuse privacy, secluded enough to invite it.
Lady Persephone’s voice rose once—soft, uncertain now—cut short by Hatherleigh’s lower reply. Soothing. Intimate. Persuasive.
Then—
A small sound.
Not quite a cry. Not laughter either.
Enough.
Beatrice steadied her breath, and this time allowed her slippers to crunch with the aimless, rhythmic gait of someone lost in a garden reverie.
She stepped into the mouth of the folly, blinking as though only just realizing it was occupied.
“Oh! What a delightful coincidence,” Beatrice said brightly, her tone bordering on the vapid.
She ignored Hatherleigh’s dark scowl entirely, focusing her wide, guileless gaze on the ivy-covered columns.
“I was just telling myself that I simply must find someone to appreciate our hostess’s remarkable roses.
They are quite the talk of the evening, don't you agree? I believe they are a rare French variety, though for the life of me, I can never remember the Latin names. Are you a student of botany, Mr. Hatherleigh?”
Lady Persephone started violently, her hands braced against Mr. Hatherleigh’s chest. His arm—too firmly placed at her waist—dropped at once.
Hatherleigh recovered first, though his jaw remained tight with irritation.
“My lady,” he said smoothly, as though this were all delightfully innocent. “Lady Persephone and I were merely enjoying the evening air.”
“Of course,” Beatrice replied, meeting his eyes. I see you. I know what you are.
“But also the roses, no?” Beatrice insisted, stepping further into the folly, practically wedging herself between them.
“I could swear I smelled a hint of clove in the scarlet blooms. Persephone, dear, do come and help me decide if I’m imagining it.
And then perhaps the two of us might find your mother?
I overheard her mention something about taking your sister home early. ”
“Yes, I—Thank you,” Lady Persephone breathed. “I was just about to return.”
A shaft of moonlight cut across the interior, revealing what the shadows had concealed. Lady Persephone’s sleeve had slipped, further exposing the pale ridge of old burn scars trailing from shoulder to collarbone—childhood injury, if gossip were correct.
She moved quickly, too quickly, as she tugged the fabric back into place while putting as much distance between herself and the man who’d pretended to court her as possible.
When Beatrice took her arm, she felt it: the fine tremor beneath silk and glove. The unsteady shift of weight, as though her knees might betray her.
Hatherleigh’s expression tightened for only a fraction of a second before he rearranged it into mild amusement.