That had no place here.
But before Gideon could force himself back to the matter of Lady Beatrice’s vigilantism and the less… ignoble aspects of their lessons, Dash set down his glass.
“There is something you should know about Beatrice,” he said. “In confidence.”
Gideon looked up. “Oh?”
“Beatrice made quite the splash when she came out,” Dash said. “And she delighted in it.” His mouth twitched. “If there were any redeeming qualities to society, Bea found them. She danced, laughed, made friends all too easily, and never waited for some gentleman to row her across a lake if she could take the oars herself.”
Dash looked into his glass and gave a short huff of laughter.
“Even before that, you remember what she was like. Always underfoot. Demanding to be included in any exploit she got wind of.”
Gideon said nothing. Just nodded.
“She was just as enthusiastic about joining in every ball, every dance.” Dash went on quietly. “For that short time she spent in society, my sister was the life of the party.”
“Where was I during all of this?” Gideon asked. “I’ve no memory of it.”
“It was around five years ago. You were… otherwise occupied,” Dash said gently.
Ah.
Six years ago, Gideon’s father had died and left the estates in chaos. Gideon had had no choice but to spend the months that followed buried in ledgers, untangling debts and mismanagement left behind.
Before that, he had been wandering the continent, behaving as recklessly as an aristocratic heir was expected to do.
Gideon had known Beatrice before, of course.
Summers at Dasborough Park. Muddy boots. Sharp eyes.
Newly arrived with her mother, she’d seemed incredibly French those first few years, until she… had not.
She’d followed Dash and his friends everywhere—across fields, along the beach—keeping just enough distance to pretend she had not followed at all.
They had called her a pest and Beatrice had accepted the title with magnificent disdain.
If caught, she never apologized. She merely looked at them from beneath dark lashes, chin lifted, as if the fault lay with them for noticing.
Gideon could not remember her having friends of her own in those days.
And yet, she’d seemed to prefer it that way.
Which made this version of Beatrice that Dash was describing seem all the more distant. Impossible, almost…
“But then,” Dash said, “the morning after some dreadful masked affair—she announced she was finished with Society.”
Gideon went still.
“What happened?”
Dash winced slightly.
“A broken heart seems the most likely explanation.” He shrugged. “So I let it go. I thought she would eventually recover, as most young ladies do from such disappointments.” He took another drink. “But she… didn’t.”
It must have been serious then, whatever relationship left her so disillusioned with society and romance in general. The thought evoked a sharp, inexplicable irritation. As though the man in question had committed a personal offense to Gideon.
The notion that some witless fool had hurt her?—
