Had the whispers grown louder? Had her accidental nicking of Lord Longstaffe already been exaggerated into something scandalous? Was Lark here to advise Beatrice to leave London immediately and never return?
Lark winced. “You missed the ball last evening.”
Beatrice’s brows drew together. “I was…” Well. “Yes.”
“There was… an incident. With Miss Whitcombe,” Lark said.
“What kind of incident?”
“She was discovered in the library. Alone. With Sir Garrett Kline.”
Beatrice went very still.
Kline.
She knew the name. A gentleman well known to be down on his luck.
Beatrice feared the rest of the story.
“They were not merely conversing,” Lark continued quietly. “Her hair had come loose. Her gown—” She broke off. “But that’s not the worst of it. She did not appear… willing.”
A cold weight settled in Beatrice’s chest. “You saw her?”
Another wince. “She was in tears when we found them. Lady Barrington, Lady Longstaffe, and Lady Zelda wished to escape to the library to sip some brandy in peace. Lady Theodosia and I were with them.
“Lady Barrington, of course, found it imperative to declare the poor girl compromised. To… well, anyone who’d listen.” Lark said.
Miss Whitcombe, Beatrice guessed, possessed only a modest dowry and no powerful relations inclined to scrutinize Sir Garrett Kline’s intentions.
Whether he decided to do “the honorable thing” or not she would have little protection from the consequences.
And Beatrice had not been there.
“I should have been there,” she said under her breath. Instead, she’d luxuriated in a night at home alone. And she’d spent most of it thinking about herself.
“It isn’t your fault. It’s possible you might not even have noticed. The ballroom was darker than usual. Very dramatic. And it was a masked ball, you know.”
A masked ball…
A chill slid down Beatrice’s spine.
How had she failed to know she was missing a masked ball?
Lark was wrong. If Beatrice had been there, she’d have been twice as watchful as usual. She would have noticed. And then…done whatever was necessary to save the rather foolish, and now very pitiable, Miss Whitcombe.
“If I had been there…” Beatrice continued, her voice tightening. “I would have been watching. I would have seen something.”
Silence stretched between them.
She had only missed one evening. One. And a young woman’s life was ruined.
Beatrice pressed a hand to her stomach.
What about all the other ballrooms?
All the invitations she had declined because two engagements in one evening were impossible. All the musicales, assemblies, garden parties, and private routs where any young lady might step away for air and find herself alone with the wrong gentleman.
This was not enough. She was not enough.
