But as the laughter grew louder, Beatrice noticed immediately when Hatherleigh returned to Lady Persephone’s side, bringing her a glass of champagne this time. Then when that one was gone, he brought another. All the while, smiling and fawning. And when he reached out to touch the young lady’s arm, he didn’t pull back, but moved closer.
Lady Persephone, not normally singled out, glowed beneath it.
Across the room, Persephone’s mother remained utterly oblivious to the machinations near the potted plant.
Hatherleigh’s restraint was slipping.
His hand settled lower at Lady Persephone’s waist. Not indecent. Not quite.
But possessive.
And then… There it was—that glint. Not affection.
Hatherleigh leaned down, speaking close to Lady Persephone’s ear, and motioned toward the terrace.
When she hesitated, his expression shifted—subtle as a draft beneath a door. A faint lift of one shoulder. A hint of impatience.
“As you wish,” he seemed to imply. “I’ll give my attention to some other lady.” He glanced away, dismissively.
Lady Persephone’s spine straightened at once. A spark of injured pride flared in her eyes. She touched his sleeve, and whatever she said put that smile back on Hatherleigh’s face.
He offered his arm.
This time, Lady Persephone slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and together, they turned toward the terrace doors.
Toward the dark.
Beatrice set down the untouched lemonade she had been holding for the better part of an hour and made her move.
Not hurried. She must be careful.
She kept them in sight, adjusting her course as other guests drifted across her path. When cool air slipped into the ballroom, she didn’t have to see the doors open and close to know what Mr. Hatherleigh was up to, and a few seconds later, she silently followed them onto the patio.
Where the flowers, the lights… It was lovely. So romantic.
So deceptively dangerous.
Music from within dulled to a distant thrum, and although lanterns flickered along the stone balustrade, there were more shadows than illumination.
Beatrice was just close enough to see the pale shimmer of Lady Persephone’s gown vanish between the hedges.
Walking gingerly over the gravel, Beatrice kept her distance, only moving closer when the couple slipped into the shelter of the gazebo.
Of course.
A ripple of laughter drifted back to her—breathless, a little giddy.
Then his voice.
Too low for words to carry clearly. Smooth but calculated. He spoke to her in the sort of tone that suggested admiration.
A foreboding chill moved through Beatrice.
She had heard that voice before.
Not his voice, precisely—but its likeness. That flattering intimacy that suggested a young woman had been singled out above all others.
She halted, fingertips brushing the little knife hidden in her hair.
