Insofar as it was possible, he would protect Beatrice’s privacy. Her fear. Her confession. The wild, terrible moments in that darkened passage beneath the theater.
No one need know.
Only that morning, Beatrice had come to him with those sleepless blue eyes and restless thoughts. And what had he done?
He’d invited her inside, and gone on to break every rule he’d ever set for himself. And somehow… he suffered zero regret for having broken them.
Not as he ought.
He could still see her in his drawing room. Her hands gripping his shoulders. The stunned, almost disbelieving look that crossed her face when pleasure took her…
Gideon, God help him, had been glad to be used that way.
The thought should have sat badly with him. It didn’t.
And then later, in the passages beneath the theater, he had learned something about Beatrice Beckman that made everything else seem almost simple.
He had learned of the nightmare she carried. What she had endured.
The truth beneath her crusade.
Even now, Gideon burned inside at the thought of it.
Someone had taken from her what no man had any right to take. Had left fear under her skin. Had made weapons and fighting feel safer than trust.
And yet, for all that, Beatrice trusted him.
That morning, with her wanting. That evening, with her fear.
And that… that changed everything.
For nearly half the Season now, Gideon had considered protecting Beatrice to be something of a duty. As a friend to Dash, but also in a more general sense.
And he’d protected her, but he’d done so… passively.
No longer.
He would keep her safe. More than safe.
Gideon set his cup on the table and that small sound returned him fully to the room.
Blackwell and Longstaffe both looked at him.
“I am looking for a particular guest. A man,” Gideon said at last.
Blackwell’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”
“He attended a masquerade five years ago. I need the guest lists from every event of that kind held during the Season. Private balls, subscription assemblies, routs—anything where masks were worn and names were recorded.”
Longstaffe leaned back slightly. “You must have more.”
Gideon’s hand remained on the arm of his chair.
“He wore the mask of a wolf.”
Blackwell tutted, shaking his head. “You’ll have to give us more than that.”
“Grey velvet. Black glass covering the eyes. There might be a particular scent about him,” Gideon said. The detail might be reaching, but he would not discount the memory. “A cologne. Cloves and orange peel. Strong. As though it meant to hide something fouler beneath it.”
