“Oh, Gideon. You know as well as I that I am safer out here than almost anywhere else.”
He exhaled once, controlled.
He had crossed the street because she was alone. Because Dash had entrusted him with more than he ought. Because this woman had a talent for placing herself in the path of danger and then looking surprised when it all went sideways.
But also because seeing her—smiling and entirely too pleased with herself—sent an absurdly pleasant warmth into the hollow place beneath his ribs.
He cleared his throat. “I rather thought you would be at Beckman Hall.”
“Did you?”
“Preparing for this afternoon’s lessons.”
“Oh, but I am preparing. I was considering what sort of… props we might recommend.”
He stilled. “Props.”
“Well, weapons.” She glanced pointedly to the shop behind her.
Gideon’s gaze followed hers, and he finally realized where she was standing. Before the windows of Durs Egg.
In that moment, he would not have been surprised if his eyebrows had vanished into his hairline.
“Not weapons, weapons,” she amended quickly. Then, after the briefest pause— “Although…”
Gideon said nothing. He did not need to.
“Perhaps a small one. A very small one,” she continued, a touch more cautiously now. “A pocket pistol. One of the little ones… easily concealed. A muff pistol, even, might?—”
He couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.
She cut herself off. “Or not,” she said. “I was thinking more along the lines of… less formidable instruments. Since training will be limited.”
“Such as?”
“A parasol with a reinforced tip.” And then, more quickly as she warmed to the subject, “Or a hatpin, one of sufficient length to discourage close acquaintance. A bodkin, like mine perhaps—nothing dramatic. Merely… tools. To give the ladies options. Entirely practical, I assure you.”
Gideon regarded her. His friend’s sister stood before a gunsmith calmly debating the merits of concealed weaponry.
“Practical,” he repeated. And then, glancing back toward the shop, “Should I be worried?”
She slid him a coy glance, lashes lowering, then lifting again—and something in the look was… different.
“Worry?” she echoed, her gloved hand drifting to the hollow at her throat. “Never worry about me, my lord.”
It didn’t matter that she was teasing.
Because once again, the decision, the resolve he’d had the night before, the memory of his conversation with Dash—promises, trust, duty—vanished as though they had never existed.
Gideon found himself looking at her. Not as he ought to, but the way he… wanted to. Lingering on the soft bow of her upper lip. All the colors of blue in her gaze as it held his… as though she could read his mind.
A shout cut through the clatter of the street.
“Mind there! Mind!”
A costermonger’s cart lurched along the pavement, one wheel jumping the uneven stones as the man shoved it forward with more haste than care. The crowd scattered in a flurry of skirts, elbows, and startled exclamations.
Gideon’s hand came to Beatrice’s waist, and he instinctively swept her back against the shopfront, turning his body between hers and the jostling cart. His other hand struck the stone beside her shoulder, bracing them both as the cart rattled past with scarcely an inch to spare.
