Uninvited
Gideon watched Beatrice disappear toward the supper room, and for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to breathe.
She had not forgiven him, not yet. But she had not turned away when he took her hand. She had not ordered him back to London. She had agreed to meet him on the terrace in a quarter of an hour.
A quarter of an hour.
After twenty-eight days, he could endure fifteen more minutes.
Probably.
He stepped out onto the terrace rather than remaining in the ballroom. The night air was warm, fragrant with roses and cut grass, and the music softened behind him as he moved down the stone steps.
It struck him, vaguely, how easy it was for him to do this.
Walk alone into darkness.
Choose solitude.
Exist in the shadows.
No chaperone. No fear whatsoever of who might follow, who might notice, what explanation he might require afterward.
A man’s freedom was a thoughtless thing.
He had known before, but Beatrice had shown him that he hadn’t really.
And yet, even that thought could not hold him for long. Because mostly, damn him, he was thinking of her.
The silver fox mask. Her mouth beneath it. The wary hope in her eyes when he had told her he was wrong.
He wanted to kiss her.
God, he wanted to kiss her.
Not in Dasborough’s drawing room, half-mad with hunger and guilt. Not against a tree, all desperation and restraint. But properly. Taking his time. Certain she’d have no regrets.
He crossed the lawn toward the folly at the edge of the formal gardens.
It was a pretty little thing, set upon a low rise, its pale columns gleaming beneath the moonlight.
Climbing roses wound up one side, heavy with fresh blooms. Beyond it, a pair of stone nymphs guarded a narrow path leading deeper into the garden, and urns of summer flowers spilled color even in the dimness.
Dash had done well with the place.
Or more likely his mother. Perhaps Beatrice as well. Eventually, Ambrosia would add her touch.
Gideon mounted the shallow steps and entered the folly. The floor was paved in cool stone, patterned in a circle beneath the roof. From here, the house glowed through the trees, music drifting across the lawn in faint, graceful fragments.
The west garden at Rothmore Manor could use something like this. A proper stone path lined with shrubs and flowers, a folly to offer shade in the summer or shelter from the rain. His mother would call it frivolous and then sit in it every afternoon.
A place where a woman might walk in the evening and feel both private and safe.
He saw it before he could stop himself.
Beatrice at Rothmore Manor.
Beatrice arguing with his gardener about where the lavender ought to go. Beatrice striding across his study with a book in one hand and a list of grievances in the other. Beatrice in his morning room, at his table, in his bed—
No.
Well… yes.
But not only that.
Beatrice in his life.
The certainty came so quietly, so simply, that it nearly robbed him of breath.
When she came out here—because she would, she must—he would ask her.
Not demand. Not announce to her or to Dash or anyone else. Not present marriage as the only honorable solution to kisses and near-ruin.
Ask.
He would ask whether she might ever imagine a life with him. Whether he might earn a place in her plans instead of forcing one. Whether she could love him.
And if she said no—
Gideon shoved both hands into his pockets and paced across the stone floor.
If she said no, he would accept it.
Eventually.
After some private agonizing and perhaps the end of his existence.
He turned back toward the garden path, rehearsing and discarding words with each step.
Beatrice, I wish to marry you.
Too abrupt.
Would you do me the honor—
Too formal. She would laugh at him, and worse, she would be right.
My little archer, I have come to surrender.
Better.
Possibly insane.
The sound of footsteps on the path stilled him. His pulse kicked once, hard and foolish.
He turned.
Later, he would curse himself for not noticing at once.
The footfalls had been all wrong.
Too heavy. Too slow.
But he had been too caught up in imagining her there. Too busy planning romantic persuasion like some green youth in his first season.
The figure that emerged between the rose-covered columns was not Beatrice.
A man.
He wore a mask shaped like a wild boar. Dark leather, bristling with coarse black hair along the brow, the snout grotesquely elongated, and tusks curving upward on either side of his mouth. The effect was vulgar. Deliberately so. A beast’s face over a gentleman’s clothes.
He stepped into the moonlight.
“Lord Hawkins.”
Gideon knew that voice.
The foolish warmth inside him vanished.
“Hatherleigh. What do you think you’re doing here?”
The man’s mouth curved beneath the grotesque snout of the boar mask.
“Attending a ball.”
“You were told to remove yourself from society.”
“Ah.” Hatherleigh gave a faint sigh. “Yes. I do recall that charming little conversation.”
Conversation.
Gideon’s hands curled at his sides.
He recalled Hatherleigh bleeding onto the floor of a private room while Blackwell held the door and Longstaffe stood between them and murder. He recalled the man begging. Swearing he would leave London, England, the earth itself if necessary.
They ought to have thrown the bastard into the Thames when they’d had the chance.
“You were fortunate to walk away at all,” Gideon said. “My mercy has limits. Seems you’re set on testing them.”
Hatherleigh’s smile thinned. “Careful, Hawkins. This is a wedding celebration. One ought not to make threats among the roses.”
“If you are here for Lady Beatrice—”
“Ah, the hellion.” Hatherleigh clicked his tongue. “Still playing sentry, are you?”
Gideon took one step forward.
Hatherleigh’s bravado faltered, though it was only for a moment.
“If you go near her,” Gideon said quietly, “or any lady of the ton, ever again, I will not leave enough of you for your valet to dress.”
Hatherleigh’s gaze flicked over him, assessing the threat. “Always so chivalrous. But you are mistaken. I am not here for Lady Beatrice. Not tonight.”
Those last two words slid coldly beneath Gideon’s skin.
“I’ll attend to that matter another time,” Hatherleigh added. The hell he would.
Gideon nearly moved toward him then.
Nearly.
But something in the man’s tone stopped him. Smug. Certain. Not merely taunting.
“Then why are you here?” he asked.
“For a far more profitable purpose.”
“Profitable?”
Hatherleigh laughed under his breath. “You arrogant fool. Do you truly believe you can insert yourself into other people’s business without consequences?”
The words struck oddly, uncomfortably familiar. And then Gideon remembered: he had said something almost identical just a few short weeks ago.
To Beatrice.
A slightly different shape. The same ugly core.
You cannot continue inserting yourself into danger.
His jaw tightened.
Other people’s business.
Other people’s.
And Hatherleigh wasn’t currently after Beatrice, so this must be unrelated to the Vigilance Society’s activities.
And then, all at once, Gideon remembered.
A dim, foul-smelling club on the wrong side of town. Groby seated at a table with a handful of men no decent hostess would invite past her kitchens. Hatherleigh among them, face shadowed, cup in hand, looking far too comfortable beside a man who trafficked in legal threats and rotten claims.
At the time, Gideon had dismissed it as one scoundrel keeping company with another.
But Hatherleigh was here now.
At Dasborough Park.
Masked. Presumably uninvited.
And speaking of profit.
Gideon’s pulse slowed.
“Groby.”
For the first time, Hatherleigh went still.
Then he smiled.
“When a man loses all respectable avenues of funding his life,” Hatherleigh said, “he is forced to consider alternatives.”
“Respectable?” Gideon’s mouth curled. “That is a generous description of seducing heiresses.”
“One does what one must.”
“You must have been offered quite the sum,” Gideon said, “if you are willing to sacrifice any chance of reentering society.”
Hatherleigh scoffed. “I lost that the moment your precious little Lady Beatrice interfered at the Middleton ball.”
At Beatrice’s name, Gideon’s blood chilled.
A quarter of an hour had passed. More than that.
Only moments ago, he had wanted her to appear with a desperation that bordered on agony.
Now he prayed every servant in the house had misplaced the supper, shattered the punch bowl, and allowed the main course to be carried off by foxes if only it kept her inside.
“If you have so much as touched a hair on her head—”
“I told you.” Hatherleigh’s smile sharpened. “Lady Beatrice can wait.”
Gideon eased one step nearer.
Hatherleigh’s hand slid beneath his coat.
“Careful.”
A small flintlock pocket pistol emerged from beneath the black superfine and leveled at his chest.
Hell.
“Tonight,” Hatherleigh continued, “I earn my reward. A mutual acquaintance of ours has begun to understand that you mean to stand in his way.”
“I’ve made him that nervous, have I?” Gideon said.
Hatherleigh’s eyes flashed from behind the boar mask. “You have been rather plain in your desire to oppose his claim.”
“I have been plain in my desire to rid Mayfair of vermin.”
“Then consider this consequence.”
The pistol did not waver.
Gideon kept his breathing slow.
Too far to lunge. Too open to risk it. The folly’s open design allowed for no cover, and Hatherleigh had positioned himself between Gideon and the path back toward the terrace.
Foolish bastard—but not entirely stupid.
“How much is he paying you?” Gideon asked.
Hatherleigh’s mouth twitched. “Enough.”
“Enough to hang?”
“You assume I mean to be caught.”
“Just considering the odds. Shooting a baron at a ducal wedding ball isn’t about to go unnoticed.”
“An unfortunate quarrel in the gardens.” Hatherleigh shrugged. “A man known for violence. Simply defending myself. These things happen.”
“Bit of a reach.”
“But who will be there to contradict me? You’ll be dead.”
Gideon watched him carefully.
The grip on the pistol was too tight, enough to whiten his knuckles slightly. Hatherleigh was nervous, then. Angry. Eager. But nervous.
Good but also bad.
Nervous men made mistakes. But they could be… twitchy.
“Those toys aren’t exactly known for their accuracy,” Gideon said.
Hatherleigh’s eyes narrowed. “Won’t matter at this distance.”
“Perhaps. Unless your hand shakes.”
“It won’t.”
“It is shaking now.”
It was not. Not yet.
But Hatherleigh glanced down for the briefest instant.
There.
Gideon shifted his weight, readying himself.
Hatherleigh’s gaze snapped back. “Don’t move.”
Gideon went still again.
Patience.
Wait for an opportunity. Wait for rage. Wait for the mistake.
“Groby doesn't have money to pay you,” Gideon said.
“He will. Once he’s got the title.”
“A long shot.”
“He has what he needs.”
“What?”
“Evidence.” Hatherleigh’s hand rose to the edge of his mask, wiping away the sheen of sweat gathered there. “Enough of it.”
Gideon went still. “And when you cease to be useful?”
Hatherleigh said nothing.
“Men like that don’t keep loose ends,” Gideon said.
“He needs me.”
“No. He needs someone desperate enough to do what he would not risk himself.”
Hatherleigh’s nostrils flared.
“And if you think he will protect you afterward,” Gideon continued, “Then you’re more of a fool than I believed.”
“Silence.”
Gideon could see the resolve solidify in Hatherleigh’s face as his finger squeezed the trigger, and he realized in that moment that he’d miscalculated somewhere.
A strange noise like wind and then a thwack.
A grunt from Hatherleigh right before the flash.
A bang cracked through the garden.
Fire tore across Gideon’s upper arm and the force of it drove him back against one of the folly’s pillars.
For a moment, the garden tilted.
Then, through the ringing in his ears, he saw her.
Beatrice.
Not fleeing.
Flying toward the man who had just shot him.
The sight was so wrong—so wildly, impossibly wrong—that Gideon could only stare as she closed the distance.
Too fast for Hatherleigh to recover.
She caught his pistol arm with both hands, stepped sharply to the outside, and twisted his wrist down and back exactly as Gideon had shown her. Thumb toward the weakness. Elbow locked. Weight turned through the shoulder rather than fighting against strength.
Hatherleigh cried out, and the pistol clattered onto the stone.
Gideon lunged forward, blood hot beneath his sleeve, every instinct roaring at him to get between them.
But Beatrice did not need him between them.
She pivoted behind Hatherleigh, keeping hold of his wrist, and drove her knee hard against the back of his. When his leg buckled, she followed him down, using his own momentum to send him sprawling face-first onto the stone floor of the folly.
Before Gideon could reach them, Beatrice had one knee planted between Hatherleigh’s shoulder blades and his arm wrenched neatly behind his back.
Hatherleigh wheezed into the stones.
Beatrice looked up, breathless, flushed, and…
Utterly magnificent.
Gideon stopped dead.
For one stunned second, all he could do was stare.
“What,” he said, voice rough with pain and disbelief, “did you just do?”
Her mouth curved.
Not sweetly.
Triumphantly.
“You should know,” she said. “You’re the one who taught me.”