“Failing her,” Beatrice repeated softly.
He looked at her strangely, as though he were searching for something. “Yes.”
Her spine stiffened. “Well, what’s done is done. I handled matters.”
“That.” Gideon winced. “Is precisely what troubles me.” He dragged a hand through his hair—an uncharacteristic gesture—and then sighed. “Beatrice,” he began.
“Gideon.”
A faint exhale left him—almost a laugh, almost not.
“My lady,” he amended evenly. “You put yourself in danger last night. And I can’t help but believe that you might do so again. And that… that is what troubles me.”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “You needn’t be troubled.”
“I am aware,” he began almost cautiously, “that you are more than capable of defending yourself in the country.” That was not flattery. It was fact. “But a London garden is not an open field. There are dangers that… that you might not be so familiar with. There are gentlemen who are not gentlemen at all.” He looked a little uncomfortable. As though he’d rather not have to explain his meaning.
He did not need to explain his meaning.
Beatrice set the knife down upon the table beside her, wiping her palms down her skirts, and then turned to face him fully.
“I assure you,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “That you have nothing to worry about. I was merely assisting Lady Persephone. Nothing more.”
His gaze shifted—not to her face this time, but to the table beside her. To the row of knives.
“And all this?” he asked mildly.
She shrugged.
“Keeps me entertained.”
His eyes returned to hers, and he cocked one brow.
“What did you suppose?” she asked lightly. “That I have taken it upon myself to cleanse London of its villains?” She allowed the faintest suggestion of amusement to touch her mouth.
He studied her another moment, and then exhaled a low chuckle. “No,” he said. “That would be foolish, even for you.”
A small pause followed.
He cleared his throat—not awkwardly, but as a man recalibrating. Now that they’d settled the matter of last night, she saw there was something else he wished to address.
"Dasborough seems to have misplaced his sense of duty this spring.” That was as near to criticism of Dash as Gideon had ever come. “But you must know, if you should find yourself in want of assistance, I will come in his place. But you must send for me.”
It was not a command, nor was it quite a request.
The poor thing. Beatrice bit back a smile. If this was what he required to assure himself he had not overlooked some duty?—
“Of course,” she said gently. “In the event of some misfortune, you shall be my first summons.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He inclined his head, the gesture formal now. “My lady.”
He turned toward the door, and her eyes lingered on his retreating form.
Broad shoulders. Long legs. And other… aspects of his person.
“Gideon.”
He stopped at once. Turned.
