When He Doesn’t
WHEN HE DOESN’T
Beatrice was saved from responding when the music came to an end, effectively concluding the waltz and, along with it, their conversation. She dropped her arms, loosened her hand, stepped back a little awkwardly, and then dipped into a hasty curtsy. “My thanks,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes.
“Beatrice—” He reached for her, but she was already withdrawing.
If she lingered, he would only continue to press in that quiet manner of his. And his questions were beginning to sound less like questions at all. Which probably meant she’d revealed too much.
The trouble with Gideon was that he listened. And now he would be watching even more closely. She couldn’t even say that this was special treatment from him; anyone of his acquaintance was subject to his monitoring.
Not that it was any of his concern.
Rather than face Lark right away, Beatrice made her way to the retiring room, one of the few places where a lady might have a little privacy.
Once inside, Beatrice removed her gloves and then poured a careful measure of scented water onto her wrists. She took a deep breath. Held it. Released it.
It was just a dance. Only Gideon.
Lavender and powder hung in the air, and the chilled water steadied her until she caught sight of herself in the looking glass. Eyes perhaps brighter than usual, cheeks a little flushed…
And glinting from where it was tucked neatly between carefully pinned cinnamon strands: the bodkin.
Was that the only reason he’d claimed a dance, to get close enough to see if the jewel in her hair was a weapon?
Beatrice scrunched up her face. Dash it all.
Because she was willing to admit, at least to herself, that he hadn’t been entirely wrong to think it was how she came by her confidence.
“I thought you might be in here.” Lark’s heart-shaped face appeared in the mirror beside hers.
Beatrice hadn’t even heard her enter.
“You danced,” Lark added, unable to disguise her satisfaction. “A waltz, no less.”
“Lord Hawkins only asked because Dash has been neglecting his fraternal duties.” Beatrice sighed. “He’s determined to compensate.”
Lark’s brows lifted. “He did not look as though he were compensating.”
“That,” Beatrice said dryly, “is because he performs obligation exceedingly well.” She replaced her gloves. “Has Lady Barrington released you?”
“For the moment. She is occupied with comparing Lord Blackwell's calendar for the coming weeks with Theodosia’s.”
Beatrice exhaled faintly. “An earl. I was certain Lady Barrington would settle for nothing short of a duke as a son-in-law.”
“Blackwell is not merely an earl,” Lark pointed out. “He is richer than half the dukes in England.”
“Dash is a duke,” Beatrice said. “And unmarried again.”
Lark met her eyes in the mirror. “Unmarried, yes. Available?” Her brows lifted. “Hardly.”
Beatrice could only shake her head. “True.” Mrs. Bloomington had yet to accept any of her brother’s attempts at courting, but he still showed no signs of giving up. At this rate, he might continue tending to her garden until they were both old and frail.
Beatrice glanced over her shoulder toward the door, drying her hands. “Would it not be prudent for these mothers to consider a gentleman’s character in addition to his title?”
“Prudent? Certainly. Probable?” Lark gave a small shake of her head. “Not especially.”
Then her expression sobered.
“But I did not follow you to discuss Lord Blackwell. There is a problem.”
Beatrice’s attention sharpened. “What sort of problem?”
“Hatherleigh.”
Beatrice stilled.
“You said he was the gentleman who followed Lady Rensleight onto the terrace.”
“Yes.”
“He has moved on.” Lark’s gaze flicked toward the opposite side of the ballroom. “Miss Eleanor Whitcombe.”
“But she is scarcely seventeen.”
“Not even approved for the waltz. And yet he convinced her to take the floor.” Lark paused. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.” A faint glance. “Though Lord Hawkins is, admittedly, distracting.”
Beatrice did not indulge the implication. Instead, she frowned, vexed with herself for allowing her attention to wander.
Beatrice remembered the girl well—pale taffeta, excessive lace, ribbons arranged in earnest optimism. Bright enough. Eager to please.
Far too eager.
And that, unfortunately, was precisely the sort of eagerness a man like Hatherleigh would prey upon.
“Best see what he’s up to, then.” Beatrice nudged her friend back toward the ballroom.
And since Mr. Hatherleigh had not grown inventive since the last ball, it took no time at all for Beatrice and Lark to locate him.
Them, rather.
He had positioned Miss Whitcombe near one of the taller palms flanking the terrace doors—far enough from the center of the room to suggest privacy, close enough to appear innocent.
At the same time, Lark caught sight of Lady Theodosia, drifting dangerously away from her mother, and hesitated.
“Go,” Beatrice murmured. “I’ll see to Miss Whitcombe.”
Lark searched her face only a moment before nodding and slipping back to her charge, while Beatrice backed into the wall and simply… watched.
Hatherleigh’s posture remained easy. His smile attentive. He listened with exaggerated care as Miss Whitcombe spoke, nodding as though each word were a revelation.
Then he glanced up.
For the briefest second, Beatrice thought his gaze met hers. A flicker… of annoyance?
But no—his attention drifted smoothly back to the girl, and he lifted two glasses from a passing tray.
Champagne.
Miss Whitcombe laughed—a little too loudly—as he placed it into her hand.
Beatrice fisted her hands at her side.
She could interrupt now. Invent a summons. Draw the girl away before Hatherleigh tested anything further.
Only… Miss Whitcombe appeared far too flattered by the attention. More than content. And the last thing Beatrice wished was to create was a scene.
So she continued to watch, and just as she expected, when supper was announced, Mr. Hatherleigh did not lead the younger woman into the dining room, but toward the nearest exit.
Miss Whitcombe hesitated in that uncertain way of girls not yet practiced in refusing gentlemen, and then she went with him.
Beatrice adjusted the fall of her skirts and took chase—slipping through the thinning crowd and out the terrace doors a breath behind them. And although her pulse remained steady, for half a second, Lark’s words from earlier almost made her hesitate. “What if he doesn’t withdraw?”
He will. Of course he will.
Beatrice followed more purposefully, and almost as though he followed a script, Hatherleigh led the girl into the gardens.
He moved with quiet efficiency, and whatever he had murmured to Miss Whitcombe was persuasive enough to hasten her steps as well.
Beatrice increased her own pace to match.
The lantern light thinned as they moved deeper into the gardens, and the music from the ballroom dulled to a distant pulse. A folly stood ahead, its stone columns half-swallowed by ivy.
Hatherleigh’s destination, of course.
Beneath the dome, there was only darkness. Shadows.
Beatrice watched as he guided the girl inside, pulling against a small amount of resistance now, Miss Whitcombe’s glove crinkling around his clawlike fingers.
“I—I’m not sure if I—”
But Mr. Hatherleigh interrupted the breathless protest. “Oh, come now, surely you knew what you were doing.”
Beatrice slowed to catch her breath before stepping nearer, and then intentionally let the gravel shift beneath her slipper when she moved into the threshold of the folly.
Her eyes adjusted quickly to the low light.
To the left—a movement. The dark line of Hatherleigh’s coat.
“Miss Whitcombe?” she called, bright and unbothered, as though she had stumbled upon nothing more alarming than a forgotten fan. “There you are. Your mother has need of you.”
The girl shifted, attempting to free herself.
Hatherleigh kept his arms locked around her.
Beatrice took another step forward. Not afraid.
“You must come at once,” she continued lightly, her tone leaving no room for question. “She was quite insistent.”
No accusation. Only expectation.
For another heartbeat, Hatherleigh remained precisely as he was.
Then, very slowly, he straightened.
“My dear Lady Beatrice,” he said without turning, “you have mistaken the situation. I suggest you return to the ball.”
Closer now, Beatrice saw better.
Not fully—Hatherleigh still blocked most of his prey—but enough.
Miss Whitcombe’s ribbons had slipped. One glove hung half-pulled from her wrist. And when she managed to peer around his arm, Beatrice caught the glint of tears tracking down her cheeks.
“Come along, Miss Whitcombe.” Beatrice took a step closer.
“Miss Whitcombe is not your concern,” he continued, his tone no longer indulgent. “Nor your business.”
“Oh,” Beatrice said coolly, moving even closer, “but her well-being is very much my business, sir.”
He finally glanced over his shoulder, and the expression on his face was not embarrassment or shame. It was irritation.
His hand loosened.
Miss Whitcombe fled at once—skirts in hand, slipping past Beatrice and racing toward the glow of the house.
Although Hatherleigh had reached for her, he’d missed. He took a few quick steps around the folly and positioned himself between Beatrice and the path.
Backing her up against the low railing. Beyond it, a drop—and the tangle of rose bushes below.
“You interfere too often,” he said.
Beatrice reached for her hair, drew the bodkin free in one smooth motion, and raised it between them.
Steady.
At first.
The sight of it should have changed matters. In all her imaginings, this had been the moment when a man stepped back. When he understood that she was not helpless. That she was not some frightened girl to be cornered and managed and persuaded into silence.
For one brief, shining instant, confidence rose in her.
“Do not come any closer,” she said.
Hatherleigh stopped.
His gaze dropped to the knife.
Surprise moved across his face—not fear, precisely, but rather an offended astonishment. Then…
He laughed.
The sound was quiet at first. Almost disbelieving.
“You foolish woman.”
Heat crawled up Beatrice’s throat.
His eyes lifted from the blade to her face, and whatever surprise had been there hardened into something colder.
“Do you truly imagine you know how to use that?”
When he moved closer still, Beatrice steadied her wrist, forcing herself to think.
Sticking him in the eye would stop him—but only if she struck cleanly, and she would have but one chance. The neck would be easier. It was softer.
Her grip tightened.
As distasteful as the thought of stabbing him was, she would not be overpowered by any man again.
“If you think I won’t use this, you are sadly mistaken, my good sir.”
Another laugh. And then…
For such a dull-looking gentleman, he moved faster than she anticipated.
Reaching up with his right hand, he caught hold of her wrist, her knife arm. It should have set her off balance. And yet, she did not cower. No, Beatrice fisted her free hand and punched.
Striking with all her might against this man’s arrogance.
He let out a grunt of pain, but it wasn’t enough, and when she tried again, his other hand caught her forearm, effectively blocking the assault.
“Enough of this,” he murmured, no longer amused. “Drop it.”
She clutched the bodkin even tighter.
Her vision turned white, and then red. Every muscle in her body coiled tight. The legs were stronger than the arms, after all.
She allowed him to draw her in, just that slightest bit closer, intending to use the momentum, but just as she went to attack with her knee—
A shadow charged through the darkness.
Hatherleigh’s grip went slack, releasing her immediately, as he was driven sideways into one of the columns. The sound of bone cracking against stone should have made her wince, but both the adrenaline and disgust she felt for his actions muted any sympathy she may have had.
For a moment, he stood there, stunned and swaying. Then he turned his head, slowly, almost stupidly, and Beatrice saw the blood at his temple.
It gleamed black-red in the moonlight.
He blinked.
Took one staggering step.
And… Simply dropped to the terrace stones as though the strings holding him upright had been cut.
Beatrice lurched back, one hand flying to her throat.
And brushing his hands as though he’d finished a particularly filthy task…
Gideon.