Beatrice crossed the room and opened the door, expecting a maid or perhaps Mrs. Whitby with some new objection to the mattresses in the ballroom.
Instead, Lady Persephone stood on the other side.
Beatrice blinked. “Lady Persephone?”
“I know I’m early.” Persephone’s expression turned immediately apologetic. “Mr. Drake said I might wait in the drawing room, but then I told him the matter was personal. Very personal. Feminine, even. And I have never seen a butler so eager to place a lady in another lady’s hands. He directed me here at once.”
None of which explained why she was here at this time. But then she shifted, revealing the bundle in her arms.
Gentleman’s breeches. And a linen shirt.
Exactly what Beatrice had suggested when they’d settled the details for the lessons. Only, judging by the doubtful expressions around the room at the time, she had not believed any of the ladies would actually take her up on it.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Persephone continued, lifting the garments sheepishly. “I managed to procure these, but I confess, I’m confused as to how I should go about putting them on.”
Beatrice’s gaze moved over her unexpected guest briefly—the tidy gown, the careful posture, the bright intelligence in her eyes, and yes, the scarring that licked down her neck before disappearing beneath her collar.
Looking utterly baffled, Persephone added, “How do they fit over my undergarments?”
That did it.
The corner of Beatrice’s mouth lifted.
“They don’t,” she said, stepping back to let Persephone in. “It’s good that you’ve come. We’ll have you sorted before anyone else gets here.”
Persephone slipped inside with visible relief while Beatrice shut the door and turned back to her.
“Set those down wherever you like,” she said, her smile warming. “And truly, don’t look so worried. Once you’ve worn breeches, you’ll understand why gentlemen have been so determined to keep them to themselves.”
Persephone let out a small, uncertain laugh. “Is that so?”
“They require no maid, no pins, and—most blessedly—no patience.” Beatrice reached for the borrowed shirt, then paused. “But first, we must get you out of all this.”
Persephone glanced down at her gown. “All of it?”
“The gown, the chemise, and the stays. Breeches are wonderfully simple, but they do not cooperate with half a lady’s wardrobe beneath them.”
Persephone gave a small laugh and turned obediently.
Beatrice began unlacing her gown with brisk efficiency. The fabric loosened, the sleeves slipped down, and a moment later the gown pooled at Persephone’s feet.
And Beatrice saw.
Not merely the pale mark at Persephone’s neck, but the fuller truth of it—scarring that swept over one shoulder, down along her chest, and disappeared around her back.
Beatrice paused only a second.
“I was five,” Persephone said, with a lightness that could not quite disguise an old ache. “I crept into the kitchens for pudding and pulled half a pot of it down upon myself. My mother has always maintained it was God’s way of correcting a greedy child.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “Your mother is wrong.”
The words escaped before Beatrice could soften them.
Persephone blinked but kept her gaze focused on the floor.
Beatrice lifted a shoulder. “It seems an extraordinarily severe punishment for wanting pudding.”
After a moment, Persephone looked up at her. Then, quietly, she smiled.
