A Sensible Decision
Later that same evening, Gideon sat in a private room at White’s with a cup of tea untouched at his elbow and the sour taste of success in his mouth.
By every sensible measure, the afternoon had gone well.
The ladies had learned. Longstaffe had proved useful. No one had been injured beyond a few bruised dignities, and even those had been borne with surprising good humor.
Beatrice’s Vigilance Society had taken its first proper step toward becoming something more than her own private act of defiance.
But rather than feel satisfied, he felt wound tight.
Too tight.
He had meant to put sensible distance between them. The sort of distance a gentleman put between himself and his closest friend’s sister when he found himself thinking not of her safety, but of her mouth, her waist, and other… parts he had no business thinking about.
Especially after learning what he’d learned.
And then he had gone and nearly kissed her.
On a public street, no less.
Sitting here now, recalling that look on her face, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d not found a proper balance. He had seen it in her eyes. Confusion first. Then hurt.
Gideon’s hand tightened beneath the table.
It was the very opposite of what he intended.
Across the table, Dash was speaking, his voice low and hard, and Gideon forced his attention back to the matter at hand.
Immediately after he and Beatrice had run into Groby on Bond Street, Gideon had returned home and sent word to the men who needed to know.
Groby’s claim could no longer be ignored.
A circumstance that should have commanded every scrap of Gideon’s attention. Because this, at least, was familiar ground. Guilt. Old sins. Duty.
All of that was easier to face than the impossible complication of Beatrice Beckman.
Gideon forced the thought aside and looked again at the men assembled around him, the small circle of friends bound to him since Harrowgate.
All save Grimm, whose absence, under the present circumstances, was perhaps for the best.
The air hung thick with tobacco smoke, and decanters sat half-emptied on the polished table. Beyond the walls, muted sounds of carriages traveling down St. James murmured on, but in that room, the mood was tense.
“According to my source, no petition has been filed,” Blackwell said, one shoulder braced against the mantel. “But he’s secured counsel. Henry Faversham.”
Longstaffe, sprawled along the settee, swore under his breath. “Faversham doesn’t lend his name lightly. If he’s accepted Groby’s case…”
“What case, precisely?” Dash dragged a hand through his hair and then stared into his glass. “Sebastian’s father was meticulous. He would not have left his estate—or his wife—open to challenge.”
“We can’t be certain of that,” Blackwell replied. “Believe me, I have little faith in Groby’s claim. But if there was something Lovington believed buried…”
“No.” Dash’s head came up sharply. “Even then, he would have secured it. He was not careless.”
“He was not,” Gideon said. “But men do not always guard against the past as well as they believe.”
They sat in that silently for a moment before Longstaffe leaned forward. “If Groby does have a legitimate claim, why not bring it forward while Lovington was alive?”
“Because then there would have been someone to contest it.” Gideon grimaced.
Now, with no one but a distant—and very elderly—cousin to stand for the title, any defense would be thin at best. Detached. Lacking weight.
If only—
Sebastian.
Even thinking the name was enough to summon the memory. The spirits. The muddled thoughts. The illusions of immortality.
Gideon pushed it down.
“If Groby wins,” he said at last, “he’ll do more than take the title.”
The dowager—Sebastian’s mother—still lived upon the estate. If Groby succeeded, her marriage would be erased.
Her home, her income and her title, but also the dignity she had carried for decades would all be called into question. She would not merely be uprooted. She would be exposed.
A widow might be pitied, but a woman whose marriage vanished under a legal ruling would become a pariah.
Dash straightened. “You think he’d go that far?”
Blackwell didn’t hesitate to answer. “When has Groby ever been known to be charitable?”
“We need to contain this,” Longstaffe said, frowning. “Before the ton runs away with it. For Lady Lovington’s sake.”
Dash leaned forward. “If we’re going to do that, we need to learn what Groby’s put in front of Faversham. A man with that reputation does not lend his name to a bastard’s wild claim unless he is anticipating a prize at the end of it all.”
Which meant Faversham was confident he could win.
Gideon’s expression hardened. “Then we trace Groby’s movements. Where he has been. Who he has spoken to. When this claim began to take shape.”
Blackwell picked it up at once. “If he has evidence, it came from somewhere.”
“We find it,” Longstaffe added, “And then we discredit it.”
Dash’s jaw set. “And if we cannot?”
That lingered, but Gideon knew the answer at once.
“Then we ensure the duchess is protected.”
It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had required protecting because of what happened at Harrowgate.
Gideon’s gaze lowered briefly to the table.
“I’ll speak with my aunt,” Longstaffe volunteered. “If Groby’s so much as bid ‘good day’ to the duchess, she’ll have heard about it.”
“Do so,” Blackwell said. “I’ll keep tabs on new business with the Lords.”
Dash exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “And I am to do what? Sit here and drink while the rest of you set the world to rights?”
“That wouldn’t be completely useless.” Longstaffe tilted his head. “Faversham is a member at White’s, is he not?”
Blackwell nodded.
“Well then,” Longstaffe went on. “Seeing as Dash has retired from gardening, it can’t hurt to have a set of ears hanging about. Observe. Listen.” His gaze focused on Dash. “And attempt to keep yourself sober enough to remember what you hear.”
Dash snorted softly. “A formidable task.”
Gideon set his cup aside.
“I’ll see to it that he’s watched.” Three heads turned. “Groby,” Gideon clarified. “Where he goes. Who he meets. And where he’s been these past months.”
There.
It was settled, then.
Not resolved. But there was a plan now. And Gideon found, to his considerable relief, that action was far easier than dwelling on the look he had put in Beatrice’s eyes.
It also meant Gideon had a reason not to return to Beckman House just yet, and that, well, it suited him more than it should have.
He did not particularly wish to stand in that ballroom again and face Beatrice’s disappointment. He had seen enough of it for one afternoon.
Even if it meant not seeing her face.
Dash it all.
Gideon rose.
“Let’s get to it, then.”