He nodded, though a faint frown lingered.
Careful not to venture too near the unconscious Mr. Hatherleigh, Beatrice had stepped carefully out of the folly and then made her way back to the path and toward the terrace.
Beatrice lifted her tea, blowing lightly across the surface before taking a cautious sip.
Despite the… kerfuffle in the folly, she had prevented the unthinkable. Miss Whitcombe had escaped.
The thought sat for a moment. Not a true failure, then.
Successful, perhaps. But not without consequence.
And not for her, but for Mr. Hatherleigh.
Before sleeping—and then again upon waking—Beatrice had entertained several possibilities regarding the villain’s fate.
Likely, the odious man had regained consciousness to find himself subjected to one of Lord Hawkins’s unhurried but devastating lectures. The sort delivered in low tones, from which there was no dignified escape.
And after that…
It was possible Gideon and one or two of his acquaintances had deposited the man into the Thames.
That was Beatrice’s preferred conclusion.
She imagined Hatherleigh waking to black water closing over his face, his fine coat gone heavy as lead, his boots filling, his limbs thrashing against the cold and the current and the sheer indignity of it all.
Good.
Let him splutter. Let him choke on river water. Let him learn, briefly and memorably, what it felt like to have something happen to his person without his permission.
Then… his lungs would fill with water, and after that, his bloated body swept out to sea.
Beatrice took another sip of tea.
The scenario was satisfying, if not especially probable.
A discreet knock sounded at the door.
“A caller, my lady. Baron Hawkins. Shall I have him wait in one of the drawing rooms until you’ve finished here?”
Beatrice did not look up immediately, but folded her napkin with deliberate care. It appeared as though that lecture would be coming her way after all—just not from Dash. She should have known.
“You are certain he did not ask for my brother, Mr. Drake?”
The butler hesitated. “He did, initially. Though he did not appear surprised to learn His Grace was not at home. In fact… he seemed quite prepared to make do with you instead.”
Make do. She practically snorted.
For half a second, Beatrice considered leaving Gideon to cool his heels in the blue drawing room. It would be proper. Something anyone would expect when making a visit before noon.
But that might imply reluctance, or even fear on her part, and it certainly would not do to leave him with that impression.
“You may send him in,” she said, pouring a splash of milk into a second cup of tea.
Best to address matters directly. She had, after all, questions of her own.
By the time Gideon appeared in the doorway, she had arranged her expression into one of mild civility. Not defensive. Definitely not ashamed or embarrassed.
“Beatrice,” he said.
