“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.
