Only if necessary…
Lantern light faded before it reached the inside of the gazebo, which was half-screened by climbing ivy and early summer foliage. Romantic enough to excuse privacy, secluded enough to invite it.
Lady Persephone’s voice rose once—soft, uncertain now—cut short by Hatherleigh’s lower reply. Soothing. Intimate. Persuasive.
Then—
A small sound.
Not quite a cry. Not laughter either.
Enough.
Beatrice steadied her breath, and this time allowed her slippers to crunch with the aimless, rhythmic gait of someone lost in a garden reverie.
She stepped into the mouth of the folly, blinking as though only just realizing it was occupied.
“Oh! What a delightful coincidence,” Beatrice said brightly, her tone bordering on the vapid. She ignored Hatherleigh’s dark scowl entirely, focusing her wide, guileless gaze on the ivy-covered columns. “I was just telling myself that I simply must find someone to appreciate our hostess’s remarkable roses. They are quite the talk of the evening, don't you agree? I believe they are a rare French variety, though for the life of me, I can never remember the Latin names. Are you a student of botany, Mr. Hatherleigh?”
Lady Persephone started violently, her hands braced against Mr. Hatherleigh’s chest. His arm—too firmly placed at her waist—dropped at once.
Hatherleigh recovered first, though his jaw remained tight with irritation.
“My lady,” he said smoothly, as though this were all delightfully innocent. “Lady Persephone and I were merely enjoying the evening air.”
“Of course,” Beatrice replied, meeting his eyes. I see you. I know what you are.
“But also the roses, no?” Beatrice insisted, stepping further into the folly, practically wedging herself between them. “I could swear I smelled a hint of clove in the scarlet blooms. Persephone, dear, do come and help me decide if I’m imagining it. And then perhaps the two of us might find your mother? I overheard her mention something about taking your sister home early.”
“Yes, I—Thank you,” Lady Persephone breathed. “I was just about to return.”
A shaft of moonlight cut across the interior, revealing what the shadows had concealed. Lady Persephone’s sleeve had slipped, further exposing the pale ridge of old burn scars trailing from shoulder to collarbone—childhood injury, if gossip were correct.
She moved quickly, too quickly, as she tugged the fabric back into place while putting as much distance between herself and the man who’d pretended to court her as possible.
When Beatrice took her arm, she felt it: the fine tremor beneath silk and glove. The unsteady shift of weight, as though her knees might betray her.
Hatherleigh’s expression tightened for only a fraction of a second before he rearranged it into mild amusement.
“We’ll continue our conversation another time, perhaps, Persephone.”
Another tremor ran through the woman beside her.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Hatherleigh,” Beatrice said lightly. “The lady has heard more than enough.”
Beatrice didn’t wait for an answer, but turned Lady Persephone gently toward the path, making sure to keep a secure hold on the other woman’s arm when she noticed the unsteady weave of her steps.
They were well along the path before Lady Persephone could speak.
“You will not tell anyone… will you?” Her voice was small. Not hysterical, simply shaken.
Beatrice slowed.
“Tell them what?”
“That I…” Persephone swallowed. “That I was foolish enough to…”
“Goodness, no.” If she did that, the poor woman would be trapped with that villain forever.
