Beatrice recognized the fact the moment she sat down, though it had been years since she had hosted tea in London—and at that time, her mother had arranged everything.
Four delicate famille rose porcelain cups, their thin rims traced in silver. A sterling teapot engraved with the Beckman crest. And a tiered stand laden with cakes, cucumber sandwiches cut into precise triangles, and strawberries so red and glossy they had no business appearing in London at this time of year.
All of it arranged for guests who had not yet arrived.
Beatrice sighed and leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting toward the tall windows overlooking the street.
The previous evening lingered.
Not in any truly alarming way, no. The matter had been managed. Lord Longstaffe had shown remarkable discretion, and Lady Calliope had seemed more concerned with her gown than anything else.
Still…she had assaulted a viscount. For what turned out to be no real reason at all.
She flushed anew at the memory, but then straightened, brushing the thought aside. Nothing had occurred that could not be explained.
A carriage rattled past the window outside, trundling down Curzon Street. Somewhere down the block, a horse stamped impatiently.
When footsteps sounded in the corridor, she sat up at once.
At last.
But when the door opened, it was only the butler who entered.
“A message for you, my lady.”
Beatrice accepted the folded note, already recognizing Lark’s hand.
A faint unease stirred as she broke the seal.
Dearest Bea,
I heard about what happened.
Pray do not alarm yourself over last night. I am quite certain the story has not traveled beyond the Blackwell household—and ours. Though there has been… some discussion.
Lady Calliope’s mother has claimed us for tea at Lion’s Manor this afternoon, and Lady Barrington would not refuse her. Which is why Lady Theodosia and I cannot make our visit today.
We shall discuss everything soon.
Your devoted conspirator,
Lark
P.S. Truly, it is not half so terrible as you imagine. Though perhaps slightly more than you would prefer.
Beatrice lowered the paper slowly.
So.
Lady Calliope had shared the incident. And now… there had been discussion.
She folded the note and set it beside her untouched tea.
“You may clear the table, Mr. Drake,” she said. “It appears my guests shall not be joining me for tea today after all.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Beatrice pushed back her chair and rose. She had just reached the foot of the staircase, on her way to her room, when a firm knock sounded at the front door.
