Lady Chester and Mrs. Langford had their heads bent toward each other, their fans lifted strategically to shield their mouths. “It did rather look like him, but it doesn’t make sense. His father is a viscount, after all. And a wealthy one at that,” Mrs. Langford replied, her trilling voice carrying over the din.
“But didn’t I hear somewhere that his father wishes for him to work?”
Beatrice almost rolled her eyes. Yes, working would be so much more scandalous than marrying a person he had no affection for in a bid to get his hands on her dowry.
“Shhh, he’s coming.”
The hushed admonishment had Beatrice’s stomach sinking. There were a good ten minutes before their dance was at hand. Perhaps he was just passing by. She tried her best to blend into the clump of matrons loitering in the area. Please don’t let him want to speak to me. Please don’t let him want to—
“Lady Beatrice, I’m so glad that I found you.”
Drat. She turned, raising her brows. “Oh? Is it time for our dance already, Mr. Godfrey?”
He looked quite a bit worse for the wear since she had seen him earlier in the evening, with his pale skin looking waxen and his hair finger-combed to the side. “That’s just it,” he said, his spirit-laced breath assailing her. “I’ve had some unexpected business come up. I do hope you’ll forgive me if I miss our dance.”
Beatrice bit the inside of her lip. Her emotions couldn’t seem to figure out whether to be joyful at the news or to swamp her with guilt. “Well, I can certainly understand if you have more pressing matters to attend to. Thank you for letting me know.”
He offered a slightly off-kilter bow. “Of course, my lady. And I do hope you’ll save a dance for me next time.”
“Absolutely,” she assured him, nodding for emphasis—too much emphasis. Apparently, the guilt won out. Although there was a smidge of happiness, as well. “Good evening to you, sir.”
With a nod, he turned and bobbed his way through the crowd, his body adopting the sort of loose-limbed movements of one well and truly in his cups. So had he discovered his likeness in the drawing? It was hard to tell. She didn’t detect any anger in him, just . . . distress. Worry. But what else could have caused the change in mood?
She supposed she was going to have to make a greater effort to be nice to the man now. If he was suffering any ill effects from the inadvertent likeness in the letter, then it was the least she could do. As she watched him disappear around the bend, another face in the crowd caught her attention—Diana. Beatrice hurried toward her, anxious to hear how she was doing. She needn’t have rushed—her friend stayed where she was, planted beside a potted tree near the wall as she scanned the assembly. When Diana saw her, her face brightened and she lifted a hand in greeting. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight.”
“Were you?” Beatrice replied, innocence coloring her tone. Diana was the only person Beatrice could think of who might suspect the truth of the letter. “Well, I’m always delighted to see you. Shall we take a turn about the room?”
Her friend glanced around the crowded hall. “Perhaps somewhere more private?”
Nodding, Beatrice linked arms with her and started forward. “I stumbled upon the library earlier. Why don’t we try there?”
It took only a few minutes to return to the room, and Beatrice was happy to see that a fire still burned in the grate. Lighting a few candles with it, she turned to Diana and smiled. “You look much improved from when last I saw you.”
She smiled, not hugely, but it seemed completely genuine. “Well, a few things have transpired, giving me reason for a bit of happiness.”
“Such as?”
“A certain letter in a magazine, for starters.” She drew a finger across the spines of the books at her shoulder as she strolled the perimeter.
“It does seem to be the talk of the evening, does it not?” Beatrice would admit nothing to no one, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t allow her friend to draw her own conclusions. After all, if it weren’t for Diana, Beatrice would have never printed such a thing.
“Indeed.” She looked a bit of the old Diana, with her eyes bright and her head held high. “It rather begs the question: What inspired the author to publish such a thing? And it occurred to me that perhaps her own misfortune prompted her to help others avoid her fate.”
“It’s possible.”
“Or perhaps,” she said, pausing to send an entirely too knowing look in Beatrice’s direction, “it was the author’s friend who suffered the misfortune, and that was what inspired the letter.”
Beatrice leaned against a stout writing table placed beneath the shuttered window. “We may never know.” She couldn’t contain an impish grin. It made her exceedingly happy that Diana approved of her tactics. It was far too late for Beatrice to help her, but clearly she had brought her friend some amount of satisfaction.
“More’s the pity. I do hope, however, that we haven’t heard the last of the Daring Debutant.”
Chapter Twelve
The bell above the shop door chimed as Beatrice let herself into the warmth of the art supply store, her smile already overtaking her attempt at a professional facade. Diana’s reaction at the ball earlier that week had been so encouraging, she had been thinking over her statement for days. Would the publisher want more? Would the readers?
“Bonjour, Monsieur Allard.”
He grunted in response, not bothering to look up from his etching. A long, coiled ribbon of steel curled off of the plate as his hands worked in a smooth, continuous arc. “Well, if it isn’t the little troublemaker,” he said without heat, his heavy accent making the words sound almost complimentary.
“Indeed, it is,” she replied with a grin. “I’m here to see my coconspirator.”
He chuckled at this, shaking his head even as his hands remained steady. “I conspire with no one, my lady.” He finished the long peel, brushed it aside, and swiveled in his chair to face her. “What is it that you want now? I wonder. Pigments? Brushes? A selection of canvases, perhaps?”
“As you well know, I am stocked for at least the rest of the month. I’m here because I am dying to know if you have heard anything from your publisher. Are they pleased?”
He took off his spectacles and rubbed them with a soft white cloth from his worktable. “They are, I think. At least I imagine so, since they have asked for another submission for their next publication.”
“They did?” Beatrice resisted the urge to do a highly undignified little dance. If that wasn’t success, then she didn’t know what was.
“They did.” He reseated his spectacles on his great nose and stood, stretching his back. “Apparently, they have already received many requests for another installment, as well as an increase in subscriptions.”
Excellent. There was no surer way to affirm that her words had resonated, and, hopefully, that they would be helpful. She still felt rather rotten about Mr. Godfrey, but with any luck, whispers would quickly subside, and the gist of the article would be what would linger. “I can’t believe it. I wish you had sent word! I wanted to do another engraving, but I thought I would speak with you first.” Already, she was thinking of the advice she could give in the next letter.
“I’m not so sure it would be wise, mademoiselle.”
Her excitement fell like a dropped ball. “Not wise? Why ever not? It is helping people.”
“You’ve said your piece, have you not? I fear that if you push your luck, it may then push back. Comprenez-vous?”
“Don’t be silly, monsieur. We are not talking about national security here. Offering up more advice can only be a good thing.”
“Then why not do so under your own name?”
She opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. Very well. So he had a small point there. “You know full well a female of my standing must take care with her reputation. Writing anonymously serves my purpose while protecting my good name. But remember, monsieur—rules must sometimes be broken for the greater good.”
He grunted, turning his back on her and returning to his chair.
“Please say that you will help me again. Your work was spectacular—without it, the letter wouldn’t have had nearly the impact it did.”
“Pretty words from a pretty girl are all well and good, but they will not work on old Georges.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. Why was he suddenly being so stubborn? “Please, Monsieur Allard? There is more good to be done. You would not send a soldier into battle unarmed, would you?”
He flicked a glance her way before picking up his tools. “Of course not. I don’t see what—”
“Sending young, unprepared girls into the marriage mart is not so different. The consequences last a lifetime, do they not? And though the scars may not be as visible, they can certainly cut just as deep.”
“So much passion for people you may not even know.”
Diana’s tear-streaked face flitted through her mind, strengthening her resolve. Betrayal by a person one thought to love could be the cruelest fate of all. “I believe we call that compassion for our fellow man. Or woman, as the case may be. It’s part of the human condition, I’m afraid.”
The old man sighed, rubbing a hand over his bushy white eyebrows. “I am convinced that if you had been born a man, you could have quite the career as a man of law. Argue, argue, argue.”
“And win?” she asked with a pleading smile.
His gaze rose briefly to the etching on the wall above him, where the pretty young woman smiled encouragingly at him. “Oui, and win.”
Her smile grew to a full-fledged grin. “You, monsieur, are a gem. When is the submission due?”
“Two weeks. Just be sure to give me two days this time for the engraving, d’accord?”
She nodded, wishing he was close enough to kiss his cheeks. “Oui, d’accord.”
* * *
Slogging through the wet grass of Green Park, the smell of damp earth and soggy wool filling his nostrils, Colin rubbed the light, misty rain from his eyes and scanned the landscape for Beatrice. The chances of her actually being here were slim, but they hadn’t specified rain or shine. He didn’t want to look too closely at his motivations, but he knew that if there was a chance for seeing her, he’d gladly take it.
He’d already done his prerequisite visits to proper wife candidates today—all of which served not only to depress him, but to make him wonder if the problem was with him and not the dozens of young women who either seemed too boring, too garish, too talkative, or too impossible to imagine living with for the rest of his life. The thought of spending time with Beatrice seemed like breaking out of prison. She was like a pop of crimson red in a box of pastels.
He turned right and headed down Constitution Hill. The wind blew, and he turned his face away from it, tilting his hat to shield him better. Turned as he was, he caught sight of two young women huddled beneath one of the larger trees. He smiled, thoughts of the miserable day falling away as Beatrice looked up and waved, a wide grin on her face.
How on earth did she manage to look so remarkably charming when he felt like a half-drowned rat? He picked up his pace, eager to speak with her again. “Good afternoon, Lady Beatrice,” he said when he finally reached them, nodding in greeting to her and her maid. The mousy servant ducked her head and stepped back a few paces, wordlessly offering Colin and Beatrice some privacy.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Beatrice teased, looking every bit as delighted to see him as he was to see her. His head buzzed a bit with the knowledge, warming his blood and making it impossible not to grin at her.
“I can’t imagine why so few are out to enjoy the fine weather. We practically have the park to ourselves.” Which suited him perfectly. Even after several weeks among the ton, he still had trouble adjusting to the concept of prying eyes constantly being turned in his direction. In everyone’s direction, really—the whole bloody beau monde seemed to make a career out of seeing and being seen.
He craved the privacy and anonymity he had enjoyed at the Inn.
Although, if he were still at Lincoln’s Inn, he would have never met Beatrice, something that seemed remarkably distasteful. It was like imagining never having seen a proper sunset, or the heather fields near his estate, or the crashing waves of the ocean. She was almost a force of nature to him, and he couldn’t bring himself to wish things had happened differently.
“Perhaps we should have been so clever as those who stayed indoors. I had such grand hopes of painting in the park with you, but clearly the weather had other ideas.” She looked utterly adorable with the rain misting on her upturned face, clinging to her eyelashes and causing the fine hairs around her temples to curl into delicate corkscrews.
Two completely inane thoughts came to him as he smiled at her like some sort of besotted fool. First, he’d had no idea her eyelashes were quite so long. And second, it was utterly absurd that he should even notice a woman’s eyelashes—he wasn’t entirely certain if he had ever noticed his own lashes, for heaven’s sake.
Even with that thought bouncing around in the suddenly empty chamber of his head, he couldn’t stop himself from bantering with her a bit. “What, you mean you let a little thing like rain get in the way of painting? Not very dedicated to the arts, I see.”
She scrunched her nose at him, making a face that he couldn’t help but laugh at. “Oddly enough, oil paints and rain are not the best of companions. Although, we could always start a new movement. ‘Smears on Canvas’ could change the art world forever.”
He couldn’t imagine any other lady of the ton having braved the elements to come to the park at all, let alone to meet a nobody like him. He didn’t want to cut the day short, but he could hardly keep her out in this mess. “Hmm, perhaps not. We aren’t far from my father’s studio. Perhaps we could move there for a dry place for you to work.”
She gaped at him. “Your father had a studio nearby, and you are just now telling me this?”
“No great secret, really. He had intended to take on a few apprentices to help increase his production, but found that he didn’t like handing over any part of his art to others. He didn’t mind sharing his techniques, but once he started a portrait, it was his until the very last stroke.” No matter how much time it took. When Father was in the midst of one of his paintings, the rest of the world faded to gray, with the only color found in the bristles of his brush and the vision in his mind.
“Well, then,” she said, putting her hands to her hips and raising an imperious eyebrow, “if you can get us there within the next quarter hour, I might consider forgiving you for this tragic oversight.”
Her tone was grave as she looked down her nose at him—an impressive feat, considering her diminutive height—but her eyes sparkled merrily with a light all their own. They reminded him of the deep-water lake not far from his estate, on those rare, brilliantly sunny days that made the water look as though fire kissed its rippling surface.
And there he went again. Yanking his mind away from its poetic turn, he gave her a smart salute that would have made his cousin John proud. “Yes, my lady. At once, my lady.”
She rolled her eyes at his cheek. “Very good—though enough with the ‘my lady’ business. And you gave in entirely too easily, by the way. I was completely prepared to beg, if necessary.”
“It’s not too late. Since I’ve already thrown myself upon your mercy, I’d be more than happy to turn the tables.”
“No, no, I think I shall save it for another occasion. One never knows when one will have need of that sort of thing. Now, then,” she said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, “let us be off. I’m assuming it’s walking distance?”
He nodded, enjoying the weight of her hand on his arm. It was a shame his greatcoat shielded him from her heat. “If you don’t mind another five or ten minutes in the rain.”
“Oh, pish—I’m much hardier than I appear, I assure you. I am a country girl, first and foremost.”
They started forward, their g
aits in easy synchronization, as if they’d been walking together like this for years. He gave her a sideways glance, sizing up her petite form. “I’ll admit—you look as though a strong wind could carry you away. I have a hard time picturing you traipsing through the countryside in all types of inclement weather.”
“My eldest sister, Evie, is much more of the traipsing type, although more often than not she’s on horseback. But I do get out quite a bit. The rolling hills of our estate call to me like a siren. I’ve painted dozens upon dozens of landscapes, all perfectly bucolic and safe. One of these days I’ll have the opportunity to visit a truly rugged landscape and really stretch my repertoire.”
“You mean you doona find Green Park a challenge?” He guided them around a puddle and onto the main path leading to the street.
She shrugged. “One must make do with what one has to work with. I suppose I should be happy that London has this and Hyde Park. I’d be lost without some small bit of nature around me.”
“I don’t know about that. Have you ever attempted to paint the buildings of London? You may find architecture just as inspiring as nature.”
“From time to time I try the view from my studio in Granville House, but straight lines and orderly shingles hold little interest for me.”
Now, there was where they differed. After a lifetime lacking structure, he found comfort in all things logical. “Really? I adore straight and orderly. I like for things to be neat and methodical.”
“Good heavens, then you may wish to part ways with me now. Nothing about me is orderly.” Her fingers gripped his arm just the slightest bit tighter as she spoke.
“Fair warning, then? I should probably take heed. After all, five minutes into our first meeting, you already had me breaking rules. Such a terrible influence.”
“I know, I know. Mama has tried her best with me, but I shall never follow anyone’s path but my own.”
“Thank God,” he murmured.
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