A Meddling Intruder
Beatrice lowered her arm slowly.
She had not missed.
Pas tout à fait. Not quite.
A fraction to the left, perhaps. But she had calculated the distance, the weight of the blade, the balance in her hand, and the precise force necessary to send it where she wished.
She had not calculated a six-foot baron entering without the courtesy of a knock.
Admittedly, she had expected him to call on her at some point today.
Later, though. Definitely not the exact instant the knife left her fingers.
Inconvenient man.
She had seen it in his expression the night before, that calm, almost paternal inclination to observe. To assess. To impose rules.
Ha!
Served him right to feel the whisper of steel at his cheek.
It was not her little knife, either. Not the slender bodkin she liked to conceal in her coiffure. This blade was longer, better balanced for throwing—borrowed from the kitchens and adjusted carefully to suit her wrist.
She reached for another.
“Dash is not home,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
Gideon, wearing a gentleman’s typical morning attire, hat in hand, did not reply. He merely strolled farther into the ballroom as though near-decapitation were an entirely customary welcome.
Beatrice let her gaze catch just long enough to note his dark coat buttoned over a conservative waistcoat, set off by a white cravat arranged with the sort of effortless symmetry that suggested discipline rather than vanity.
As always, his neat brown hair had been subdued with pomade, not a single strand out of place.
Nothing about him clamored for notice.
He did not need to.
Her brother’s friend possessed an infuriating talent for fitting precisely where he stood.
In the country. In a London ballroom. And now, somehow, here.
He stopped a few paces away and folded his arms across his chest.
Like an older brother. But also… not.
Ma foi.
Beatrice felt a subtle tightening beneath her stays—an awareness she refused to dignify with examination—and lifted her chin.
“If you wish to watch,” she said coolly, “I advise you stand slightly farther to the right.”
One corner of his mouth shifted.
He, however, did not.
Doing her best to ignore him, Beatrice crossed the room, grabbed the handle of the blade, and jerked it out of the target.
“I—apologize if I gave you a fright,” she said stiltedly. But then, she couldn’t help but to add, “Most visitors don’t enter unannounced.”
Gideon—or anyone else who decided to call—should have either been led into the drawing room to wait for her or else escorted here by Mr. Drake, who would have known to knock before intruding. She had been certain to alert the staff to her activities in order to avoid any incidents like this one.
“Ah, my mistake then,” he said far too lightly.
“Apology accepted.”
“I was already aware of your skill with the bow and arrow,” he said. Then, mildly— “This is new.” A question within a nonquestion.
Beatrice turned the blade in her hand, inspecting its surface.
“A lady cannot have too many accomplishments, surely.”
His brow lifted slightly. “True.” He took another step into the room, unhurried. “Though I confess, I had not realized edged weapons had been added to the usual list.”
She selected another blade, weighed it in her hand, and adjusted her grip the way she’d seen in the diagrams. If she had a proper teacher, this would be easier. But alas… “It ought to be.”
He studied the hay bales. The chalked circle. The distance she had measured.
And just as the silence threatened to settle— “Did you enjoy yourself at the ball last night?” he asked.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes slightly.
“Immensely,” she returned. “Et vous, my lord?”
He actually winced a little. “I would have. If not for a minor distraction.”
She threw.
This time the blade struck closer to center.
She didn’t expect him to compliment her, which was good, because he didn’t.
“Your time on the terrace,” he said conversationally, as though remarking upon the weather. “You were in the company of Lady Persephone, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“She seemed… relieved when she returned.”
Beatrice didn’t hear any judgement in his tone, but she turned to face him anyway. “And how is this your concern, my lord?”
She had once called Gideon by his given name, when everyone else used the shortened version of his title–Hawk. But that was before he and Dash had left to train at Sandhurst. Before the war. Before titles and responsibilities settled differently all around.
Gideon regarded her steadily, giving Beatrice a moment to brace for a lecture.
This was precisely why she’d not been bothered by Dash’s recent neglect. It meant fewer inquiries. Fewer stern looks implying an explanation was owed.
She turned back to the target.
“Lady Persephone is perfectly well,” she said.
Gideon remained where he stood, hands loosely clasped behind his back. “Were you?”
“I—me?” The blade stilled between her fingers. “Of course I was. We both were. Did I not look well?” she countered. It would have been simpler had he accused her of recklessness.
One corner of his mouth shifted. “You looked quite… becoming.”
An actual compliment. Unexpected.
But then his mouth tightened, and he inclined his head slightly. “Blackwell will speak with his sister,” he added. “Discreetly.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed.
“Speak with her how?”
“Beatrice—”
“If Lord Blackwell means to make Lady Persephone feel responsible for Hatherleigh’s predatory behavior, then I will think very poorly of his intelligence.”
Lord Hawkins paused. There it was, then.
She had said too much. Alluded to the ugliness polite society preferred to ignore.
Her chin lifted.
“I meant nothing of the sort,” he said, but then his mouth tightened. “If anyone was responsible, it was Blackwell. He should have seen Hatherleigh circling his sister.”
Beatrice stilled. Because that tightening, she realized, wasn’t disapproval of her, but… anger.
“She did nothing wrong,” Gideon added. “But he is her brother. He will want to know how close he came to failing her.”
“Failing her,” Beatrice repeated softly.
He looked at her strangely, as though he were searching for something. “Yes.”
Her spine stiffened. “Well, what’s done is done. I handled matters.”
“That.” Gideon winced. “Is precisely what troubles me.” He dragged a hand through his hair—an uncharacteristic gesture—and then sighed. “Beatrice,” he began.
“Gideon.”
A faint exhale left him—almost a laugh, almost not.
“My lady,” he amended evenly. “You put yourself in danger last night. And I can’t help but believe that you might do so again. And that… that is what troubles me.”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “You needn’t be troubled.”
“I am aware,” he began almost cautiously, “that you are more than capable of defending yourself in the country.” That was not flattery.
It was fact. “But a London garden is not an open field. There are dangers that… that you might not be so familiar with. There are gentlemen who are not gentlemen at all.” He looked a little uncomfortable.
As though he’d rather not have to explain his meaning.
He did not need to explain his meaning.
Beatrice set the knife down upon the table beside her, wiping her palms down her skirts, and then turned to face him fully.
“I assure you,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “That you have nothing to worry about. I was merely assisting Lady Persephone. Nothing more.”
His gaze shifted—not to her face this time, but to the table beside her. To the row of knives.
“And all this?” he asked mildly.
She shrugged.
“Keeps me entertained.”
His eyes returned to hers, and he cocked one brow.
“What did you suppose?” she asked lightly. “That I have taken it upon myself to cleanse London of its villains?” She allowed the faintest suggestion of amusement to touch her mouth.
He studied her another moment, and then exhaled a low chuckle. “No,” he said. “That would be foolish, even for you.”
A small pause followed.
He cleared his throat—not awkwardly, but as a man recalibrating. Now that they’d settled the matter of last night, she saw there was something else he wished to address.
"Dasborough seems to have misplaced his sense of duty this spring.” That was as near to criticism of Dash as Gideon had ever come. “But you must know, if you should find yourself in want of assistance, I will come in his place. But you must send for me.”
It was not a command, nor was it quite a request.
The poor thing. Beatrice bit back a smile. If this was what he required to assure himself he had not overlooked some duty—
“Of course,” she said gently. “In the event of some misfortune, you shall be my first summons.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He inclined his head, the gesture formal now. “My lady.”
He turned toward the door, and her eyes lingered on his retreating form.
Broad shoulders. Long legs. And other… aspects of his person.
“Gideon.”
He stopped at once. Turned.
“Yes?”
She hesitated, but then… “Thank you.”
Something shifted in his expression—not surprise or even triumph, just something quietly pleased.
“You never have to thank me,” he said.
Then the door closed softly behind him.
Once he was gone, Beatrice turned back to her knives, selecting one of the smaller ones this time. Lighter.
Harder to master.
She adjusted her stance.
Exhaled. And threw.