A Dash of Help for… Dash
Beatrice did not rush right home to Beckman House. She chose the quieter streets instead, her pace unhurried.
She had spent more than an hour with Gideon.
She had said what was necessary—secured his agreement, explained her purpose, justified it as best she could—without saying too much.
Or so she hoped, at least. There had been a point during their conversation when his demeanor had changed, and he’d given in far too easily after that.
He had understood.
But just what was it that he thought he knew? The possibilities were… unsettling.
Ultimately, he hadn’t really hesitated. He had agreed, in fact, with a seriousness that had taken her slightly aback.
As though it mattered to him.
As though she mattered.
Her fingers brushed together.
He had taken her hand. But in a comforting sort of way.
It wasn’t as though he’d kissed her.
A cat darted from behind a hedge, streaking across her path. Beatrice startled, and then laughed at herself.
Gideon saw her as his friend’s younger sister. Nothing more.
She drew in a breath and quickened her pace.
There were more pressing concerns.
Lark must be told they could move forward. Lady Theodosia must be consulted. Arrangements must be made.
They would gather women who were not entirely vulnerable, and not overly trusting. Women who could see danger clearly enough to help others avoid it.
And it would begin with Gideon’s lessons.
Those thoughts—far more sensible ones—occupied her mind as Beckman House came into view.
This afternoon she would practice, she decided. The bow. The knives. Something physical. Something that required no thought at all.
But she had scarcely crossed the threshold when unexpected activity in the foyer drew her to a sudden halt.
Mr. Edwards—her brother’s valet—was descending the stairs, directing two footmen who bore a large trunk between them.
Beatrice frowned.
“What is this?”
“Oh—my lady.” Edwards bowed, stepping aside as the footmen maneuvered awkwardly past. “It is well you have returned. His Grace has given instructions that his belongings are to be packed at once.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“Packed?”
“And yours, my lady. He’s set on the entire household returning to Dasborough Park first thing in the morning.”
What?
“That is… quite different from the original plan.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She’d worried that this might happen, but it still felt… so sudden. Her thoughts exploded at once.
The ladies. The arrangements. The lessons she had only just set into motion—
Unfinished.
All of it.
Her fingers tightened around her gloves.
“Where is my brother now?”
It was just like Dash. To make a decision and simply act. To then expect the world—his household, his sister—to follow.
“He is in his rooms, my lady.”
There was something in Edwards’ tone—careful, almost hopeful—that suggested he would not object if she attempted to interfere.
Beatrice inclined her head.
“Thank you.”
But she did not hurry. There was no purpose in arriving flustered.
By the time she reached the door to the master’s chamber, she had her composure set firmly in place.
She knocked.
“What is it?” came his voice from within—rough, frayed at the edges.
Without being invited, Beatrice opened the door and stepped inside.
Trunks stood open. A valise lay half-filled upon the bed. Shirts folded with varying degrees of care. Papers stacked—and not.
A disorder that must have had Edwards in quiet despair.
Beatrice closed the door behind her.
For a moment, she kept silent.
She took him in. Seated. Slumped forward, his head in his hands.
Dash had shed his coat and cravat, but for the first time in days, he wore something approaching proper attire. He looked more like himself.
Except for the defeat that seemed to burn from within.
“Mr. Edwards says we’re leaving?” she said.
Her broken brother pushed upright, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair.
Oh dear. Mrs. Bloomington must have been quite firm in her refusal.
“I’m sorry, Bea. I should have asked you first. I’ve been a horrid brother the past few months, haven’t I? I should have taken you about this Season, given you the attention you deserve.”
Beatrice shook her head. “Did you really think that was why I came? I only wish you had let me help you. That you would have let me go to her—”
“Non. I appreciate it, ma s?ur. Truly. But it should not fall to you to rectify my mistakes. Besides, I’ve disrupted her life too much already. I cannot undo that, but… I can respect her wishes going forward.”
Beatrice regarded him in silence.
It was not like her brother to surrender.
Nor was it easy to understand how any woman might refuse him. He was handsome, charming, capable—when he chose to be—and, if permitted, would move heaven and earth for the object of his affection.
“You are sure?” she asked.
Dash nodded.
Beatrice inclined her head.
“Very well. I’ll pack. Mrs. Hargrave will be glad to have her ballroom back, I imagine. She complains the straw finds its way into every room.” Beatrice spoke lightly. “I far prefer hunting in the country, anyway. These Mayfair gentlemen make such a fuss when one little arrow goes astray.”
Dash gave a short laugh. “Go on, then. We’ll leave at sunup.”
Beatrice moved toward the door, but then paused.
Dash glanced up. “I’m fine, Bea.”
They both knew he was lying. But knowing he’d prefer licking his wounds alone, she inclined her head and slipped out.
Not toward her room, though.
To the study.
She did not sit at once. Instead, she stood for a moment at the desk, fingers resting lightly against its edge…
It couldn’t hurt, could it?
Then she drew out a piece of paper. And she wrote.
Dear Mrs. Bloomington,
I don’t believe we have been introduced…
She kept her words sparse. Precise. There was no need to embellish. When she had finished, she read it through once, folded it, and sealed it.
A pull of the bell brought Drake at once.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Have this delivered to Mrs. Bloomington, on Audley Street. At once.”