Beatrice poured the tea. “Lessons.”
“You and I can teach them what to watch for, and how to interrupt.” Lark accepted her cup, then tilted her head. “But what about the times when one of us must actually subdue a scoundrel?”
“Subdue a scoundrel?” Beatrice repeated.
“Wrestle a rake?”
“Something like that.” Beatrice’s mouth twitched, but then she forced herself to turn serious again.
“They cannot be defenseless."
Lark frowned. “Do you mean to teach the ladies yourself?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Some things, perhaps. But I only learned myself, and this is too important to teach badly. I would not have them think themselves prepared if I have left some dangerous gap in their education.”
“So.” Lark set down her cup. “Someone else, then.”
“Yes.” Beatrice lifted her own cup, taking care to sound entirely practical. “I suppose I ought to ask Lord Hawkins if he’d be willing.”
Lark leaned back. “Do you think he will agree?”
Beatrice’s smile came slowly.
Certain.
And not entirely innocent.
“Yes.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am.” She rose, already reaching for the bell pull. “I shall speak with him today.”
HAWK’S NEST
Beatrice’s first instinct upon Lark’s departure was to march right over to Gideon’s Mayfair townhouse and secure his agreement to their plan. But on the way to the door, she caught sight of herself in the looking glass.
Her hair had half escaped its pins. Her eyes looked shadowed. And her lavender gown, pale and proper as half mourning required, did nothing for her complexion beyond making her appear dutifully faded.
Beatrice could hardly claim to be observing mourning as society wished. But the colors were her own matter.
She would set them aside when she felt ready. Not because society’s calendar allowed it. Not because two months had passed. And certainly not because anyone else decided grief had become inconvenient.
Not before.
And not yet.
Still, this mattered. If she meant to ask Gideon to agree to teaching more lessons, she ought to look put together.
So she went upstairs, smoothed her hair, and then opened her jewelry box.
Most of what lay inside was ordinary enough. A strand of seed pearls. A pair of garnet drops. A narrow gold chain she rarely wore.
Her fingers paused over the amethyst brooch.
Grand-mère had given it to her the day before Beatrice and her mother left France for England.
“Souviens-toi de qui tu es,” she had said, fastening it to Beatrice’s traveling cloak. Remember who you are.
