And yet?—
Nothing happened.
The set progressed as expected. Gentlemen bowed. Ladies smiled. Conversations rose and fell in pleasant, predictable patterns. The same arrangements were played by the orchestra, already becoming far too familiar-sounding.
Beatrice observed and waited.
And waited.
And found, to her mild surprise, that she was becoming rather… bored.
Her gaze wandered. To the dancers. To the doors. To the clusters of matrons and their ever-watchful eyes.
She searched briefly for her brother as well at one point, having hardly seen him since they’d arrived in London, but Dash was, of course, nowhere to be seen.
Was he making any progress with Mrs. Bloomington? Or were all his efforts destined to prove in vain, confirming every whisper the ton so dearly loved to repeat?
The thought might once have amused her.
But not now. Not after the past few years.
Dash had sacrificed enough already. His marriage to Lady Hannah had been noble, certainly. Heroic, even. He’d saved a vulnerable young woman from not only an unhappy union, but most likely a dangerous one. And yet, Beatrice had never quite been able to shake the sense that an even darker truth had followed that marriage into the house and lingered there, unspoken.
She did not know what it was.
Only that there was… something.
Once, not long after Dash’s marriage, she had overheard him and Gideon in the library. They had not been arguing, exactly, but she’d sensed that very darkness even from the hallway. Something about an old friend. Sebastian… and Harrowgate, the school Dash had attended while she’d still lived in France.
The announcement of the supper dance stirred Beatrice from her thoughts, drawing movement and renewed energy from the assembly.
Beatrice drew in a slow breath.
This was not the time for old shadows. She was in a ballroom. There was music. Candlelight… And Beatrice had come here with a purpose.
She turned slightly, meaning to find her friend among the crush.
And then?—
A flicker of pastel caught at the edge of her vision.
Lady Calliope Rensleight—Persephone’s younger sister—was making her way toward the French doors leading to the terrace.
She was one of the acknowledged beauties of the Season, and impossible to mistake for her quieter sister. Calliope had dark hair, bright blue eyes, and flawless, milk-pale skin, and by the tilt of her head, she knew the effect she had.
And not three paces behind her?—
Viscount Longstaffe.
Large. Self-assured. Purposeful.
Beatrice had not considered Lord Longstaffe a threat. But where gentlemen of the ton were concerned, she could never be sure.
So, of course, she followed.
As at every other ball, the terrace lay in half-shadow, lanterns casting uneven pools of light across gravel and hedges.
When Calliope’s pale gown flashed briefly ahead before disappearing around a bend in the path, Beatrice quickened her step.
