Without another word, Lord Longstaffe removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“There is a path around to the entrance,” he said. “Lady Beatrice, if you would be so good as to locate Lady Rensleight, she may have her daughter brought home without attracting half the ballroom’s attention.”
Calliope’s eyes widened. “Half the ballroom?”
“None of the ballroom,” he amended. “If we are fortunate.”
And as Lord Longstaffe swept her past Beatrice, he inclined his head. “You were right to intervene,” he murmured. “Next time be certain of the villain before you draw the blade.”
Then he escorted Lady Calliope into the shadows.
Beatrice remained where she was, bodkin in hand, staring at the piece of silk still fluttering in the rosebush.
Don’t hesitate or do. Either way, she seemed to make some misstep.
“Well,” said a familiar voice behind her. “The roses appear to have won.”
Beatrice closed her eyes briefly. Then turned.
Gideon stood at the edge of the path, his expression composed, his gaze moving from the bodkin to the rosebush and then back to her.
“You saw what happened?” she asked.
One shoulder lifted. And then the corner of his mouth. “You struck just before I could stop you.”
Beatrice bit her lip, and then… “You were here.”
“Near enough.”
“And you did not intervene.”
“No.”
Hmmm. He had seen. He had watched. And he had not rushed forward to take over.
“She cried out for help,” Beatrice pointed out.
“That she did.”
“She sounded frightened.”
“Yes.”
“Lord Longstaffe had his hands on her.”
“All true.”
Beatrice glanced back toward the path where Longstaffe and Lady Calliope had disappeared. “But I misread the situation.”
“You saw a young lady in distress and acted.”
Then her gaze flicked back to his. “Were you not worried?”
“About Longstaffe hurting her?
No.”
The answer came too easily.
