A Safer Distance
Beatrice awoke, braced for consequences.
There would be questions, of course. Reprimands. Almost certainly that particular expression Dash wore when he wished to be both brother and duke and somehow expected her to endure both without complaint.
As she tossed back the counterpane, she was already arranging her defenses.
She would not apologize for following Miss Whitcombe. She would not apologize for intervening. She would not apologize for carrying a bodkin sharp enough to discourage men who failed to understand the word no.
If Dash wished to lecture her, he might do so.
She had survived worse than brotherly disapproval.
Still, by the time she stood at her chamber door—dressed in a practical dove-grey walking muslin, her hair arranged in a simple knot, the bodkin safely tucked away in her jewelry box—Beatrice felt her chest tighten.
As it turned out, she had braced herself for nothing.
By the time Beatrice sat down to breakfast in the morning room, a pot of tea steaming at her elbow and toast arranged neatly upon the plate before her, she had almost succeeded in appearing unconcerned.
Almost.
“Will His Grace be joining me?” she asked the footman as he poured her tea.
“No, my lady. His Grace departed before sunup.”
“I… see.” She lifted her cup with admirable calm. “Off to tend his horticultural pursuits again, I presume?”
“He is, my lady.” And with that, the footman excused himself.
“Of course,” she murmured.
She felt a brief, indignant sting that Dash’s pursuit of Miss Bloomington had taken precedence over his own sister’s safety.
But relief followed quickly on its heels.
No Dash meant no questions. No judgment. No need to explain precisely how she had managed to place herself in danger the night before.
She shuddered to consider what might have occurred had anyone other than Lord Hawkins interrupted that scene in the folly.
She took a measured sip of tea.
Mr. Hatherleigh had not retreated when she’d brandished her weapon.
Lark had warned her. Quite plainly, in fact. But Beatrice? She’d dismissed it—confident in her own abilities.
Overconfident, as it turned out.
By assuming a man would choose preservation over escalation, she’d made a crucial mistake.
Because men were not invariably rational. Especially when thwarted. Even more so, she’d learned, when thwarted twice.
The first interruption had cost him opportunity. But the second… The second had not been about opportunity at all.
It had challenged something far more dangerous.
His pride. His belief that he was entitled to take what he wished—and that no one, least of all a woman, would dare oppose him.
How dare she?
Beatrice buttered her toast with excessive care, considering the matter.
Mr. Hatherleigh was an insufferable creature, possessed of the particular arrogance common to men who had never been made to hear the word no.
She had known men like that existed.
And yet, she had not truly been prepared for one at such close range.
Her skills, she was forced to admit, were optimized for distance. A bow provided a certain civilized separation. So did a thrown blade. Even the bodkin had seemed, in theory, a perfectly useful deterrent.
In her mind, the mere possibility of being stabbed ought to have prompted the bounder’s retreat.
Instead, Hatherleigh had evaded it.
Beatrice set down the knife beside her toast.
Her next maneuver would have been a knee. Directed at the most vulnerable portion of his masculine person. Having grown up with a brother—and with several of Dash’s friends —she knew enough to understand that gentlemen were remarkably delicate in that one particular regard.
Had her knee landed, Hatherleigh would not have continued troubling her.
But what if it had not?
What if he had evaded that as well?
The thought sent an icy chill down her spine.
Because hand-to-hand confrontation had not figured prominently in her preparations. And if Gideon had not intervened, if Hatherleigh had blocked her knee, or simply used his superior strength—
No.
Beatrice reached for her teacup.
It was not enough to be brave. That was the inconvenient truth of it. Bravery, without training, was simply another way to be cornered.
Perhaps a visit to Hatchards would not be misplaced. If there existed some manual that taught strategies for defending one’s self beyond polite society’s expectations, she would find it.
She had no choice but to pivot her strategy.
Because she could not expect someone to intervene every time something like this occurred.
Bumps rose along her arms and the back of her neck.
She’d been… lucky.
In the stunned silence after Hatherleigh’s collapse, Lord Hawkins had looked from the man crumpled on the stones to the bodkin still clenched in Beatrice’s hand, and somehow understood the scene at once.
“How…” Beatrice had been surprised when her voice wavered. “How did you know?”
“I observed Miss Whitcombe dashing through the garden alone. I naturally deduced that you would be involved somehow.”
He had appeared relatively calm. But then Beatrice had slipped the bodkin back into her hair and rubbed her wrist.
Gideon’s eyes flashed. “He hurt you.”
“No. No. I’m fine.” Beatrice hated that her plan hadn’t—well, hadn’t gone as planned. Embarrassed, she turned her attention to the man he’d just laid out. “Is he dead?”
Gideon’s mouth twitched. “Regrettably, no.”
“Shall I send for a physician?” She was already turning back toward the manor.
“No.”
Gideon stepped into her path, not touching but unmistakably blocking her retreat.
“You will return to Miss Montague,” he said quietly. He didn’t sound angry so much as he exuded authority. “And you will remain at her side until the coachman deposits you safely at Beckman House. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“And you will speak of this to no one.”
Beatrice lifted her chin. “You are issuing orders now?”
“I am preventing further ones from becoming necessary.”
He meant Dash. He meant society.
Quelle peste. She folded her arms across her chest. “I am capable of handling myself.” She’d intended to knee him in the groin. If her leg could reach high enough, bound up in all her heavy skirts…
“Yes,” he agreed mildly. “I noticed.”
That pricked.
Her jaw tightened.
“I did not require rescuing.”
“No,” he said evenly. “You required a safer distance.”
A safer…
Yes. The distinction was infuriating.
He held her gaze a moment longer, then added, softer, “Beatrice. You do not get to be singularly brave at the expense of your own well-being.”
But… this was about her well-being!
And protection. And justice!
Still, with a glance at the unconscious Hatherleigh, she had conceded that now might not be the time to argue her position.
She drew a breath, then let it go.
“Very well,” she’d said at last. “I shall do as you… suggest. Which means I will remain suitably ornamental until conveyed home.”
“Thank you.”
He did not sound triumphant, only relieved.
But she still didn’t move.
“Gideon?”
“Yes?”
She had questions—several. What he intended to do with the man at their feet. How he had known she required assistance. Whether he meant to inform her brother.
But she asked none of them.
“Thank you,” she said instead.
He nodded, though a faint frown lingered.
Careful not to venture too near the unconscious Mr. Hatherleigh, Beatrice had stepped carefully out of the folly and then made her way back to the path and toward the terrace.
Beatrice lifted her tea, blowing lightly across the surface before taking a cautious sip.
Despite the… kerfuffle in the folly, she had prevented the unthinkable. Miss Whitcombe had escaped.
The thought sat for a moment. Not a true failure, then.
Successful, perhaps. But not without consequence.
And not for her, but for Mr. Hatherleigh.
Before sleeping—and then again upon waking—Beatrice had entertained several possibilities regarding the villain’s fate.
Likely, the odious man had regained consciousness to find himself subjected to one of Lord Hawkins’s unhurried but devastating lectures. The sort delivered in low tones, from which there was no dignified escape.
And after that…
It was possible Gideon and one or two of his acquaintances had deposited the man into the Thames.
That was Beatrice’s preferred conclusion.
She imagined Hatherleigh waking to black water closing over his face, his fine coat gone heavy as lead, his boots filling, his limbs thrashing against the cold and the current and the sheer indignity of it all.
Good.
Let him splutter. Let him choke on river water. Let him learn, briefly and memorably, what it felt like to have something happen to his person without his permission.
Then… his lungs would fill with water, and after that, his bloated body swept out to sea.
Beatrice took another sip of tea.
The scenario was satisfying, if not especially probable.
A discreet knock sounded at the door.
“A caller, my lady. Baron Hawkins. Shall I have him wait in one of the drawing rooms until you’ve finished here?”
Beatrice did not look up immediately, but folded her napkin with deliberate care. It appeared as though that lecture would be coming her way after all—just not from Dash. She should have known.
“You are certain he did not ask for my brother, Mr. Drake?”
The butler hesitated. “He did, initially. Though he did not appear surprised to learn His Grace was not at home. In fact… he seemed quite prepared to make do with you instead.”
Make do. She practically snorted.
For half a second, Beatrice considered leaving Gideon to cool his heels in the blue drawing room. It would be proper. Something anyone would expect when making a visit before noon.
But that might imply reluctance, or even fear on her part, and it certainly would not do to leave him with that impression.
“You may send him in,” she said, pouring a splash of milk into a second cup of tea.
Best to address matters directly. She had, after all, questions of her own.
By the time Gideon appeared in the doorway, she had arranged her expression into one of mild civility. Not defensive. Definitely not ashamed or embarrassed.
“Beatrice,” he said.
“Gideon.”