“I always trouble myself on your account.”
Beatrice’s mouth curved faintly.
“Well, you needn’t. And it’s not that risky. The ton’s obsession with discretion tends to do at least half the work for me.”
“But what if that’s not enough?”
Beatrice adjusted a curl at her temple with deliberate care.
Her cinnamon-brown hair was swept high in elegant coils. Concealed within them, the slender bodkin she had practiced with until her wrist ached.
“I’ll rely on other skills,” she said mildly.
Lark’s gaze flicked towards Lady Theodosia, ever watchful. “And if those fail?”
“I cannot predict every possible scenario. At some point, one must simply… act.”
The first time she had brought down a stag in the woods beyond their estate, there had been a moment of shock. She had known what to expect—or thought she had—but the reality had still been… somewhat disturbing.
This would be no different.
Except, of course?—
Men were not deer.
She would simply have to proceed and expect the unexpected.
They’d crossed to an advantageous position in the ballroom, where Lark positioned herself just far enough from her charge to avoid appearing oppressive, though near enough to intervene.
“It’s not even as though Lady Barrington needs me.” Lark’s mouth twisted in irritation. “She is more than capable of assessing her daughter’s prospects without me.”
“And frightening the worst of them away,” Beatrice murmured, allowing herself the smallest smirk.
She watched the marchioness redirect a too-eager gentleman with nothing more than a raised brow and a polite smile.
How different might things have been, Beatrice wondered, had her own mother possessed even half that vigilance?
The thought passed quickly.
“I suppose that’s one debutante you needn’t watch over,” Lark said softly.
Beatrice didn’t bother responding.
Her attention had already shifted—caught by a suspicious figure lingering near the French doors.
Mr. Percy Hatherleigh.
His posture was deceptively idle. To most, he might have appeared harmless. But Beatrice noticed the subtle gleam in his eye.
And then she saw who he was watching.
Lady Persephone Rensleight stood nearby, partially hidden by an arrangement of greenery. The unfortunate burn scar curling up her neck remained visible even above the unusually modest cut of her gown.
Beatrice had taken her for a companion at an earlier ball, but later discovered she was actually Lady Calliope Rensleight’s elder sister.
And presently… she was alone.
Their mother, Lady Blackwell, was occupied across the room, entertaining the gentlemen vying for her younger daughter’s dance card.
