“I didn’t say?—”
“You thought it.”
“I did not.”
His brows lifted.
She looked away first. “I have no claim on where you spend your evenings.”
“No,” he said quietly.
She needed to leave. Before she said something foolish. But then…
“Though, I would not have you believe that of me,” he added. “Not now.” A little half smile. “Not ever, really.”
Gideon dragged a hand over his jaw, looking suddenly even more tired than before. “I was seeing to a matter of business.”
Business?
At her confusion, he added, “I preferred not to be recognized.”
So… it was a costume. He had dressed thusly so as not to be seen.
Business.
Beatrice believed him.
And then she knew.
“That man,” she said slowly. “Mr. Groby.”
His expression provided her answer.
“You have been… watching him.”
Gideon looked toward the window rather than at her. “I have been attempting to learn what he is about.”
“In brothels.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Among other places.”
Beatrice sat back, the sharp little sting she had felt moments before giving way to something else.
Gideon was a respected member of society. Wealthy. Titled. He was by no means required to stay up all night loitering in foul rooms instead of the comfort of his own home.
But he was doing it anyway.
For that friend he and Dash lost: Sebastian Hartwell. For the Duchess of Lovington, perhaps, and a legacy that wasn’t even his own.
Because Gideon Rothmore carried responsibility as though it had been stitched into the lining of his coat.
“And that is why you sent Lord Longstaffe to teach the lessons?” she asked.
Gideon’s gaze dropped to his hands. After a moment, he nodded. “Partly. Yes.”
Beatrice held her breath. “And the other reason?”
At that, his gaze came back to hers.
