She’d had no choice but to send him away.
And now, it seemed, she was on her own once more.
“My lady.”
Beatrice started.
Mr. Drake stood in the doorway, his expression faintly apologetic. She had not heard him knock. Perhaps he had not wished to disturb her. Perhaps the entire household had become accustomed to moving carefully around broken people.
“Miss Montague is here to see you,” he said. And then, after a brief hesitation, “I can tell her you are indisposed, if you prefer.”
But Beatrice was already standing, fingers brushing at her face to check for tears—finding none, thankfully. “No. Please send her in.”
“Tea, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Talking with Lark almost always made Beatrice feel better. Moping alone would change nothing. It certainly had not helped Dash.
So when Lark swept inside, Beatrice made every effort to greet her with her usual warmth.
Lark was not fooled for an instant.
“Your eyes are red,” she said the moment they had sat. Her gaze sharpened with concern. “What has happened? You’ve been crying.”
“I am perfectly well,” Beatrice said, which was such an obvious lie that Lark’s expression softened.
“Oh, Beatrice.” Lark leaned forward. “You’ve heard, haven’t you?”
Beatrice stilled.
Heard what?
But before she could ask, Lark hurried on. “I wanted to come myself. I knew you would be disappointed, especially after Lady Persephone and Lady Calliope had to bow out, and now with us returning to the country so abruptly…”
“Of course,” Beatrice said quickly.
The lie slipped out before she fully understood what she was lying about.
But she saw Lark’s pale face then. The anxious pinch around her mouth. The way her gaze flicked toward the mantel clock, as though she had already stayed too long.
Whatever this was, Lark did not need Beatrice’s distress added to it.
“That is why…” Beatrice lifted one hand vaguely toward her face. Her red eyes. Her earlier tears. “I was simply… disheartened.”
Lark’s expression softened further. “I knew you would be.”
“Lord Barrington?” Beatrice asked carefully. “His health?”
The old marquess had taken ill earlier this year, and last Beatrice had heard, he’d yet to fully recover. It was the most likely thing she could think of that would take Lark away from London early.
Lark nodded, worry overtaking sympathy. “An apoplexy, they think. Or something very near it. Theodosia is trying to be brave, but she is dreadfully frightened. We’re to leave for the country at once.”
“At once,” Beatrice repeated.
The words settled heavily.
First Persephone. Then Calliope. Now Theodosia and Lark.
