“Perhaps we’ll have better luck with the Vigilance Society next year,” Lark suggested.
Beatrice swallowed and forced herself to sit straighter. “Perhaps it is for the best. You were kind to come.”
“I could barely get away.” Lark glanced again toward the clock. “Theodosia told her mother there was some last-minute shopping she required me to do, but I must hurry.”
The ache in Beatrice’s chest sharpened.
She understood, of course. Lark had no choice but to go, her duties had always come first. It was simply the nature of her situation. But… a small, hurting, selfish part of Beatrice didn’t want her to leave. Not now.
“I am so sorry,” Beatrice said, and hated how little the words could do.
“So am I.” Lark rose reluctantly. “For Lord Barrington, of course. For Theodosia. And for this.” Her voice gentled. “We’ll try again next year, I promise. I know how much it means to you.”
Beatrice stood too. “It meant something to all of us.”
Lark crossed the space between them and drew her into a warm embrace.
For a moment, Beatrice let herself hold on.
Then Lark drew back, squeezed her hands, and was gone almost as quickly as she had arrived.
A few minutes later, Beatrice stood alone in the drawing room once more.
Only now, the silence was different.
Heavier.
Gideon would keep out of her life. Dash was lost. Lark was leaving. The Vigilance Society was essentially finished before it had ever begun.
And Beatrice, who had spent all Season insisting women must not depend upon rescue, found herself standing in the middle of the room with no plan, no partner, and no one to save.
GONE
Two days later, still smarting after what was possibly the most horribly bungled proposal in the entire history of England, Gideon sat in his study with a headache forming behind his eyes.
In front of him, a list of names spread across his desk like an accusation.
The list, which was put together by Lady Longstaffe and a few of her dowager friends at the request of her nephew, was ungainly. So much so that it was practically useless.
Masks.
Damnable things.
A wolf. A fox. A harlequin. A monk. Three devils. Two kings. Half a dozen men whose disguises had been recalled only as “dark.” Several who had arrived late. A few notes as to who had left early. But beyond that—nothing.
Gideon pushed back from the desk and dragged a hand through his hair.
He’d tried returning to Beckman House, but Mr. Drake had proved immovable, insisting Beatrice was out every time Gideon called.
An affront, certainly.
Also damned insulting.
If she would simply agree to see him once, she might help him make sense of this.
Or she might hate him all the more for trying.
If that were even possible.
