There You Are
Gideon remained bent forward, one hand braced against his thigh, the other pressed rather firmly to the source of his current distress, breathing with great care and very little dignity.
He had not endured such a blow since his time abroad, when an unscrupulous sparring partner had demonstrated precisely why certain tactics were excluded from polite instruction.
It had been memorable.
This, he surmised, would be more so.
For several seconds, there was no sound but their heavy breathing.
His. Hers.
The distant thrum of voices overhead, dulled by walls and stone so it seemed to belong to another world entirely.
And Beatrice…
She stood a few feet from him, utterly still. Not poised. Not composed.
Frozen.
Gideon forced himself not to move. Not to reach for her.
Not to do a single blasted thing that might send her back into whatever dark place had found her.
“Beatrice,” he said, keeping his voice low despite the effort it cost him. “It’s just me.” He swallowed against another wave of pain and tried again. “Gideon.”
That seemed to reach her.
A flicker crossed her face.
Good.
Good.
He held very still. “Just me. And I would be grateful if you did not demonstrate the rest of your training upon my person.”
Not quite a joke. Perhaps necessary, though.
A splinter of light slipped through the rafters above, and her gaze sharpened by degrees, moving from his bent form to his face.
Color drained from her cheeks.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Gideon?”
“There you are,” he said. It was the only thing that mattered.
He had known it was her, of course. Even in the first wild instant, when she had twisted against him with shocking force and blind terror, he had known. Had it been anyone else, he would have ended the struggle at once.
A single blow. A hard one.
Instead, he had held on.
Taken the elbow. The heel. The frantic, breathless fight of her body against his. He had done what he could to contain her without hurting her, enduring until she came back enough to strike with devastating accuracy.
“Beatrice,” he said again, softer this time. “Do you know where you are?”
Her eyes remained fixed on his.
“Yes,” she whispered. “The opera.”
Only then did he let himself breathe.
And yet, even through the rather blinding immediacy of his disabling pain, a shattering realization was moving in. Something far more sobering than his temporary discomfort.
Her reaction to him had not been surprise. Nor even indignation.
She’d been terrified.
Gideon straightened—slowly, with considerable effort—and lifted his gaze to where she stood in the dim light, her breath still uneven, her posture… yes. Frozen.
“Good God, Beatrice,” he managed at last, his voice roughened beyond his liking. “Remind me never to take you unawares again.”
The second attempt at levity fell flat. He had not truly expected otherwise.
Because she was looking at him.
Not with her usual fire. Not with embarrassment. Not even with apology.
Every instinct urged him forward—to reach for her, to take her into his arms. He did neither, however. He had already made that mistake.
Instead, he remained precisely where he was, allowing space between them.
He was dimly aware of stinging along his jaw, throbbing behind his eye, along with a few other insults as a result of her resistance. None of it was consequential.
This had not been about him.
“It’s only me, Bea,” he said, his voice lowered deliberately. “You’re safe.” When she didn’t immediately respond, he added, more softly, “I’m here.”
A pause.
Her breath hitched.
“Yes,” she said at last, the word faint but real. “I saw… I thought…” A flicker of something, recognition, perhaps. “I was following them,” she said, a little more clearly now. “He—he led her away. I thought…” Her brow furrowed. “I thought I could prevent it.”
Gideon inclined his head slightly.
Of course she had.
Of course she would.
“And then?” he prompted, careful still.
“I lost them,” she whispered. “It was dark and I—”
She broke off.
“When I touched you,” Gideon forced himself to continue, “you thought I was someone else.”
“I… I did not know who—only that—”
Her voice faltered again.
And in that moment, Gideon knew.
Not suspected.
Knew.
The certainty moved through him cold and heavy, leaving no room for the small hope he had carried without admitting it.
The hope that he had misunderstood.
That her mission to keep the debutantes of London safe had been born of indignation, or restlessness, or some fierce Beatrice-like refusal to be ornamental for an entire Season.
That the lessons and patrols and sharp-eyed vigilance were merely a cause.
They were not.
“You did not leave Society five years ago because of a broken heart,” he said.
Her eyes found his.
“No,” she answered. “Not a broken… heart.”
His jaw tightened, though he forced the rest of himself to remain still.
“What happened?” He kept his voice low and gentle. “Who hurt you?”
Beatrice shook her head slightly.
Then she drew a careful breath. “It was a masquerade.”
The words came slowly. Carefully, so as not to choose one she couldn’t quite say.
“There was music. And dancing. And too much champagne.” Her gaze drifted past him, not seeing the stairwell now. “Inside, it was so warm. You know how balls become after midnight. Too many candles. Too many bodies. Too much perfume.”
Gideon didn’t move.
She swallowed. “I went outside for air.”
His hands curled once at his sides, but he forced them still again.
“He wore the mask of a wolf,” she said. “Grey velvet. A long muzzle. Little black glass eyes that made it difficult to tell where he was looking.”
She stopped.
The silence stretched.
“He seemed…” Her throat worked. “Charming. At first.”
Gideon’s heart went cold.
Beatrice gave a small, helpless movement of her shoulder, as though even now she hated admitting that much. “I thought I was safe.” Her voice thinned. “I thought—”
She stopped again, lips parted, breath catching on whatever came next.
Then her eyes closed.
“And then I wasn’t.”
Gideon could not remain still a moment longer.
He moved slowly.
One step. Then another.
Giving her every chance to draw back. Every chance to refuse him. And when she did neither—when she only stood there, trembling and silent—
He gathered her into his arms.
“Who?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Gideon. I don’t know. He could have been anyone. And, he’s still out there. I can’t have been his first. Nor was I his last. He is… He could be anyone, Gideon…”
And so it might as well be everyone. Damn his eyes, it explained… everything.
After a moment, she added, so softly he almost missed it, “There was a scent.”
“A scent?”
Beatrice seemed hardly aware she had said it. “Cloves, I think. And citrus. Too much of it.” Her mouth tightened. “I remember that.”
Then she shook her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
But Gideon stored it away.
“But I can’t—” Her breaths turned shallow again. “I need to stop him.”
“Then we stop him,” he said, his hand moving over her hair. “But you do not carry this by yourself. Do you hear me?”
Nothing. Nothing had ever carved at his heart like this. And beneath it—something colder had begun to take hold.
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
“He is finished,” he said quietly.
Beatrice did not know who had hurt her. But he would find out.
He had access where she did not. Sources. Because men… They knew. Even when they pretended not to.
His hand stilled briefly in her hair.
He would find the man who had hurt her.
And God help him when he did.
Because once Gideon had him in hand, mercy would have to come from heaven.
It would not come from him.