The Card Room
Both girls were in safe hands.
For now.
Until the next time. Which, for Beatrice at least, a next time was almost a certainty.
Gideon would be having a word with Dash, and perhaps with Blackwell as well.
With pleasant resolution in mind, Gideon cut toward a side corridor, narrowly evading two matchmaking mothers lying in wait. When he reached the entrance to the smoke-filled male retreat, Gideon paused, taking in the scene with a practiced eye.
Cards slapped against baize. Coins clinked. A gentleman in the corner laughed as he gathered the winnings in front of him.
Spirits flowed more freely perhaps than their hostess for the evening might have wished.
“Hawkins,” Ashebourne Covington, the Earl of Grimstead, called from the nearest table, not bothering to look up from his cards. “Here to lose money, or merely judge the rest of us for doing it?”
“If I meant to lose money,” Gideon said, “I would find a worthier cause than you.”
Gideon stepped further into the room. It was occupied mostly by gentlemen, though there were a few gambling dowagers. He ignored the subtle shift of attention that followed him.
Grimstead—Grimm—grinned. “Ah. A woman, perhaps?”
“God forbid.”
A ripple of amusement passed around the table.
“Careful,” said another. “That sounds dangerously like a vow.”
“Not a vow,” Gideon returned coolly. “Rather an intelligent decision.”
“Dull, though,” Grimm added.
“On the contrary,” Gideon said as he pulled out a chair to join them. “It leaves me with my coin, my freedom, and—most critically—my peace.”
“Bourbon or port, my lord?” A uniformed footman stopped beside Gideon.
“Tea. With two sugars.”
He did not drink spirits. Not since that night.
It dulled edges, and he preferred keeping his sharp.
“Dash is still snubbing society, I see,” Major Jeremiah Penvale—Viscount Longstaffe to most of the ton—said as he flicked a chip into the center of the table.
Longstaffe was broader than the rest of them now, war having carved something harder into him.
A sketchbook lay half-concealed on the side table near his elbow.
“A disgrace to the peerage.” Grimm smirked, not even trying to hide the irony of his words.
“Personally, I find the image of a duke in gardening gloves refreshing,” Longstaffe added.
“Better gloves than shackles,” Camden Rensleight, the Earl of Blackwell, murmured from where he leaned against the ledge over the hearth.
“Perhaps,” Gideon said. “Your aunt was asking after you.”
Longstaffe shook his head. “No good ever follows that sentence.”
“She spoke with great affection.”
“That only confirms it.”
Gideon left it there.
Dash was going to have to endure the gossip. He had earned most of it.
Grimm leaned back. “No respectable rake would demean himself over a woman like Dasborough is doing. Makes us all look bad.”
“Wars have been fought over a single woman, Ashe,” Longstaffe said lazily. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised you didn’t pay attention in history.”
Grimm ignored his best friend’s teasing. “Well, the blighter can fill Miss Bloomington’s garden with prize lilies for all she cares. The lady is not inclined to forgive him.”
Gideon grunted. “You mistake Dash for a man easily discouraged.”
The corner of Longstaffe’s mouth lifted. “He does have a talent for persistence.”
“Obsession,” Grimm corrected. “No dignity in that.”
Laughter circled the table. Familiar.
“As if any of us possess dignity,” Blackwell murmured.
A beat passed, small but deliberate.
“Which makes Dash and his sister’s defiance all the more impressive.” His gaze flicked up. “If Lady Beatrice means to brave the Season while she ought still to be behind closed doors, one would think Dasborough might at least trouble himself to escort her.”
“Escort her,” Gideon repeated.
Blackwell’s expression did not change. “I realize she’s nearly thirty, but she is unmarried.”
Gideon looked at him. “And Lady Persephone? She’s younger than that, and also unmarried, is she not?”
Blackwell’s face went still.
Gideon did not look away from Blackwell. “If we are to discuss inattentive brothers, let us be generous enough to include all offenders.”
“Perse?” Blackwell’s mouth turned down. “My sister knows her way around a ballroom.”
“Does she?” Gideon let his question land softly.
Blackwell’s gaze sharpened. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
“Only that you may wish to take a more particular interest in who has had your sister’s company… beyond the ballroom this evening.”
For a fraction of a second, Blackwell did not move.
Then his gaze shifted—sweeping the room as though seeing it anew.
When his eyes returned to Gideon, his jaw was set.
“I’ll have a name.”
Gideon considered mentioning Hatherleigh, but he did not truly know whether or not the man had anything to do with—whatever it was that had happened with Beatrice.
“It was not I who intervened.” Gideon shrugged. “Ask your sister. I daresay she will provide the more complete account.”
Then Grimm laughed. “It was Dash’s sister, wasn’t it? She was prowling the perimeter like a sentry tonight.”
“Apparently someone needs to.” Longstaffe sent them all an admonishing stare.
Grimm leaned back. “You volunteer, then?”
“I haven’t any sisters.” Longstaffe grimaced. “And I’m damn thankful for that.”
But Blackwell had been staring into his glass, and when he looked up, he met Gideon’s eyes and dipped his chin.
A meaningful silence hovered.
Longstaffe’s gaze settled on the center of the table. “London feels restless this spring.”
“Nothing new there,” Grimm said.
“How so?” Gideon asked.
Longstaffe’s expression lost its faint amusement.
“Groby is in town.”
Silence fell at the table.
A heavy silence.
An old one.
Ashebourne set down his cards. “For what purpose?”
Longstaffe gave him a look. “I doubt he has come for the opera.”
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
Dudley Groby.
Sebastian’s bastard brother. Though, if the latest rumors held even a splinter of truth, Groby no longer meant to be called a bastard by anyone. There had been whispers—ugly, persistent ones—that he was set on challenging the circumstances of his birth.
Proof enough, perhaps, to make a claim.
“He’s bound to fail,” Gideon said.
“Is he?” Blackwell asked.
“Lovington had a legitimate heir.”
No one spoke Sebastian’s name.
Sebastian Hartwell, who ought to have been Lovington. Sebastian, who had been dead long enough that even thinking his name felt like pressing a thumb into an old bruise.
There was another relation, of course. A distant cousin. A vicar in his sixties, if Gideon had the story right, tucked away in some parish halfway across the country and only now being urged toward London to defend a title he had likely never expected to inherit.
He had the blood for it.
One hoped he had the spine.
But he was not here.
Groby was.
And that, more than anything, was what set Gideon’s teeth on edge.
“Let’s hope he shows soon.” Gideon set his tea aside and rose, adjusting his cuffs. “I’ll take my leave for now. I’ve a call to make in the morning.”
“On Dash?” Jeremiah asked.
“And his sister.”
Longstaffe grinned. “How gallant.”
“Courtesy,” Gideon said coolly. “Nothing more.”
The major-lord’s gaze danced. “Of course.”
Gideon didn’t bother to explain himself further. They all knew of Dash’s sister’s tendency toward mischief, having visited the Dasborough estate more than once in their younger years. Someone needed to ensure Beatrice Beckman did not get herself caught up in more trouble than she could handle.
And if Dash was determined to neglect that responsibility, it would fall on Gideon.
Which was why, bright and early the next morning—while most of the ton remained blissfully unconscious—Gideon found himself striding along Curzon Street toward Beckman House.
He had known Beatrice as a girl, of course, but judging by the look she had sent him the night before, she was no longer the child who trailed after her brother and his friends in the country.
She was a woman now.
And likely far less manageable.
Not that she had ever been particularly inclined toward management to begin with. It was the reason why Dash mostly elected to leave her to her own devices down at Dasborough Park.
But now that they had returned to London, Lady Beatrice would once again be exposed to the judgment of the ton.
Gideon would spare her that if he could.
She was a grown woman, certainly. And a formidable one. But Dash was absent, society was merciless, and Gideon had known Beatrice too long to pretend he felt no responsibility toward her simply because she was capable of resenting it.
Which she would.
That was the one certainty he could count upon.
Therefore, If he meant to accomplish anything at all, he would need to proceed carefully.
Upon reaching Beckman House, he paused at the foot of the steps to adjust his gloves.
Black crepe framed the lower windows, a lozenge-shaped, black-and-white painted armorial shield was displayed on the door, and mourning ribbons were tied on the knocker.
The duchess—Dash’s young wife in name only—had succumbed to a long illness over the winter. He’d noticed and approved of this observation of grief while passing by last week.
Beatrice’s doing.
The door opened before Gideon could complete his second knock.
“Good morning, my lord.”
The newly hired butler stood squared within the doorway, posture immaculate, gloves pristine, expression arranged into careful neutrality.
He wore a black armband on his sleeve.
“Mr. Drake.”
“My lord,” the butler repeated, lifting his chin. “The duke is not available to receive visitors this morning. He is… unavailable.”
Gideon regarded him mildly.
“Unavailable,” he echoed.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Engaged elsewhere?”
Drake hesitated only slightly. “One might say so.”
Gideon studied the man’s expression. “Pursuing horticultural interests again?”
There it was—the faintest fracture in Drake’s composure. “Yes, my lord.” A pause. “He left at first light.”
Gideon nodded slowly. “Naturally.”
Drake’s lips pressed thin, as though wrestling the appropriate level of disapproval for his less than conventional employer.
“I don’t suppose his valet is happy,” Gideon added carefully.
“No,” Drake agreed gravely. “He is not.”
They regarded one another in shared resignation.
The butler then cleared his throat, slipping back into rigid propriety. “Shall I inform the duke that you called?”
“Not necessary, good man,” Gideon replied. “I should like to see Lady Beatrice.”
A subtle shift—almost relief. “In that case, my lord, you are most fortunate. Her ladyship has been engaged since sunrise.”
“Oh?”
Drake chose his next words with visible caution.
“Her ladyship has been… exerting herself in the ballroom. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll let her know she has a visitor.”
“No need to trouble yourself.” Gideon stepped neatly past him. “I know the way.”
Drake hesitated again, clearly torn between protocol and the peculiar rhythms of this household.
“Very good, my lord,” he conceded at last. “But I would advise caution. The footmen have been managing the recent delivery of… hay.”
Gideon paused.
“Hay.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He knew Beatrice was more accustomed to life out in the country, but what possible reason…?
“Of course.”
Gideon proceeded down the corridor, the house quiet at this hour. Strands of—yes, hay—lay scattered across the polished parquet. He stepped over a small drift of it.
The scent reached him fully now—dry, faintly sweet, unmistakable. Not beeswax and lavender. Not polish and hearth smoke, but something closer to what one would find in a stable. And the scent was growing stronger the closer he got to his destination.
Gideon opened the door, in a manner he’d realize later was far too careless.
The air snapped beside his cheek.
A bright, vicious flash cut past him—so close he felt the breath of it against his skin, a cold whisper where warmth ought to have been.
Then—
Thud.
Behind him, where flowers and statues were normally displayed, a makeshift target had been erected. Bales of hay stacked against paneling. A circle chalked at its center.
And embedded there, quivering faintly—
Not an arrow.
A blade.