The Next Step
Considering the next ball was only three days away, Gideon and Beatrice arranged to begin her lessons that very afternoon—which meant that she only had a few short hours to prepare some sort of practice area for them to use.
Seeing as she had already been using the Beckman House ballroom for knife-throwing and archery practice, Beatrice decided that was as good a place as any. A few simple additions ought to be sufficient for their purposes.
Mr. Drake listened to her directions with admirable restraint.
“You wish, my lady,” he said carefully, “for the ballroom floor to be… padded.”
“Temporarily. And only the one corner. We needn’t cover the entire floor.”
“But that will leave the beds without mattresses, my lady.” The prospect appeared to disturb him greatly.
“Just the guest rooms, Mr. Drake.”
He paused just long enough to convey his utter bafflement.
Then he bowed. “Very good, my lady.”
Which meant, in butler language, that he disapproved profoundly—but would execute the order nonetheless.
By mid-morning, three spare mattresses had been conveyed from the upper floors and arranged side by side along the far wall. A thick carpet had been unrolled over them to firm them up, and two long bolsters were positioned to keep the entire arrangement from shifting.
Once she confirmed that the staff had things well underway, Beatrice returned to her bedchamber. Today was Thursday, and she’d promised to meet Lark in the park while Lady Barrington and her daughter made their weekly promenade.
She removed the apron from her day dress, dislodged a few lingering bits of straw from her hair, and added a spencer before heading out.
The night before, when Beatrice had slipped back into the dining room and taken the seat opposite her, Lark had immediately given her a look.
One that conveyed multiple things at once: concern, chastisement, along with the much more specific I know something happened. You will tell me about it. Later.
It was the look of someone who knew her far too well, and there were not many people who did.
Once, there had been Grand mère.
Beatrice had loved her mother, of course.
But it had been her mother’s mother who had known the shape of her heart best. Grand mère, with her clever blue eyes and her soft French endearments, who had understood the private miseries Beatrice could not bring herself to name: how fiercely she missed her father and brother, how lonely she felt in rooms full of relations, even how unsettling it had been to wake one morning and discover her body had crossed some invisible threshold without asking her permission.
Leaving France at fifteen had meant leaving more than grandparents, cousins, aunts, and the easy warmth of the place she had thought would always be home.
It had meant leaving the one person in the world who had made Beatrice feel entirely understood.
She had not expected to find that again.
And yet, oddly enough, Lark had been the unexpected silver lining in her brother’s arranged marriage—one Beatrice could no longer imagine her life without.
“I wasn’t sure you would come today!” Lark called from the bench she’d claimed beneath the shade of one of the larger trees.
She sat a careful distance from Lady Theodosia and her mother, who were engaged with two formidable grand dames whose names Beatrice could not reliably recall.
“It is too fine a morning to waste indoors,” Beatrice replied, crossing the grass more quickly than decorum recommended.
She reached Lark, slightly breathless, and dropped onto the bench beside her.
“And besides,” she added, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “There have been some… developments.”
Lark’s brows shot up.
“Oh dear,” she said. “And I was so enjoying the tranquility.”
“Lord Hawkins called early this morning,” Beatrice said, without further preamble. “He has offered to instruct me in the more physical aspects of self-preservation. We’re to begin this afternoon.”
Lark blinked. “What do you mean, physical aspects of…?”
“Sparring,” Beatrice supplied.
“With Lord Hawkins.”
“Yes.”
“This afternoon.”
“Yes.”
Lark stared at her for one silent moment. Then her eyes narrowed. “Beatrice. What, precisely, happened last night?”
“Well, Mr. Hatherleigh… there was a bit of an… altercation.”
Leaving out the more alarming particulars, Beatrice eventually managed to explain how she had misjudged the degree of obstinance she might encounter.
She omitted the alarming parts, along with the dreadful realization that Lark had been right to worry, and instead skipped to Lord Hawkins’ involvement.
Lark, having resided under the same roof for more than two years, required no further elaboration.
“And what of Mr. Hatherleigh now?” Lark asked quietly, concern plain in her eyes.
“Removed from London,” Beatrice said, attempting to sound matter-of-fact. “And strongly encouraged not to return. Anyway,” she continued briskly, “he should no longer present a danger. Which allows me to redirect my attention toward other gentlemen whose conduct bears observation.”
While she was talking, movement near the water caught Beatrice’s attention.
A gentleman stood at the far edge of the path, half-turned toward the river.
Tall. Lean. Dressed in dark clothes despite the mild morning.
His hat brim shadowed his face, and from this distance she could make out little more than the spare line of him and the pale flash of one hand resting atop a walking stick.
A perfectly ordinary gentleman.
And yet the sight of him made the air seem too thin in her lungs.
She looked harder.
Before she could make out his face, he turned and disappeared beneath the trees.
“Bea?” Lark said.
Beatrice blinked.
“I don’t like it,” Lark continued, mistaking her silence for disagreement. “And I cannot imagine Lord Hawkins will keep this from your brother indefinitely. Once His Grace regains his senses, he is likely to insist you go home.”
Right. She should have known that Lark would disapprove, often leaning on the side of caution to balance out some of Beatrice’s more… creative ideas.
But Gideon had promised, had he not? Not in so many words, perhaps, but in the way he had looked at her. In the grim restraint of his voice… You frightened me last night, Beatrice.
He did not mean to expose her.
He meant to prepare her.
And the more she considered it, the more sensible she felt the arrangement was.
She had no intention of being caught unprepared again.