She felt Gideon’s gaze on her before he answered. “Do you remember what I told you about Groby?”
“That he was attempting to claim the Lovington title?”
“Yes.” He watched her hands move over his arm. “I have been… somewhat involved in efforts to thwart that claim.”
“Ah.” It didn’t surprise her. Not really.
“Hatherleigh appears to have been hired to discourage me from continuing.”
“Well, murder tends to be rather discouraging.”
“When done properly, I suppose. But that’s what you get when you pay the first lout with a grudge rather than handling your own affairs like a proper gentleman.”
“I take it you’re not particularly discouraged, then.”
“Not in the slightest.”
Beatrice continued cleaning the torn skin, but her thoughts had shifted.
Gideon had placed himself in danger.
For Sebastian’s mother. For Sebastian’s legacy. For a dukedom that had never been his to protect.
He had no claim to any of it except loyalty.
And guilt.
And Beatrice was all too aware that her first instinct was to tell him to stop.
To caution him. Scold him. Perhaps even demand he remove himself from the matter before Groby could make another attempt.
The words rose automatically.
Then faltered.
Because Gideon was not reckless.
Not truly.
And he was not careless.
“You will be cautious,” she said instead.
His gaze lifted to hers.
It had not been a question.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then one corner of his mouth moved faintly. “That is what I tell myself about you.”
Beatrice looked down at the cloth in her hand, stained pink with his blood.
“It is rather alarming,” she said slowly, “when someone you… care about might be in danger.”
Gideon did not move.
“Alarming is too small a word,” he said.
