Beatrice buttered her toast with excessive care, considering the matter.
Mr. Hatherleigh was an insufferable creature, possessed of the particular arrogance common to men who had never been made to hear the word no.
She had known men like that existed.
And yet, she had not truly been prepared for one at such close range.
Her skills, she was forced to admit, were optimized for distance. A bow provided a certain civilized separation. So did a thrown blade. Even the bodkin had seemed, in theory, a perfectly useful deterrent.
In her mind, the mere possibility of being stabbed ought to have prompted the bounder’s retreat.
Instead, Hatherleigh had evaded it.
Beatrice set down the knife beside her toast.
Her next maneuver would have been a knee. Directed at the most vulnerable portion of his masculine person. Having grown up with a brother—and with several of Dash’s friends —she knew enough to understand that gentlemen were remarkably delicate in that one particular regard.
Had her knee landed, Hatherleigh would not have continued troubling her.
But what if it had not?
What if he had evaded that as well?
The thought sent an icy chill down her spine.
Because hand-to-hand confrontation had not figured prominently in her preparations. And if Gideon had not intervened, if Hatherleigh had blocked her knee, or simply used his superior strength?—
No.
Beatrice reached for her teacup.
It was not enough to be brave. That was the inconvenient truth of it. Bravery, without training, was simply another way to be cornered.
Perhaps a visit to Hatchards would not be misplaced. If there existed some manual that taught strategies for defending one’s self beyond polite society’s expectations, she would find it.
She had no choice but to pivot her strategy.
Because she could not expect someone to intervene every time something like this occurred.
Bumps rose along her arms and the back of her neck.
She’d been… lucky.
In the stunned silence after Hatherleigh’s collapse, Lord Hawkins had looked from the man crumpled on the stones to the bodkin still clenched in Beatrice’s hand, and somehow understood the scene at once.
“How…” Beatrice had been surprised when her voice wavered. “How did you know?”
“I observed Miss Whitcombe dashing through the garden alone. I naturally deduced that you would be involved somehow.”
He had appeared relatively calm. But then Beatrice had slipped the bodkin back into her hair and rubbed her wrist.
Gideon’s eyes flashed. “He hurt you.”
“No. No. I’m fine.” Beatrice hated that her plan hadn’t—well, hadn’t gone as planned. Embarrassed, she turned her attention to the man he’d just laid out. “Is he dead?”
Gideon’s mouth twitched. “Regrettably, no.”
“Shall I send for a physician?” She was already turning back toward the manor.
