“Oh yes,” Beatrice said, nodding. “Mr. Cahill and Lord Dunston located themselves in the pit and did a terrific amount of raising their glasses and bowing and smiling up at me. Then, as the final touch, they sent two bunches of violets to me and I made sure to hold them high enough so that my gentleman might perceive it.”
“Do you have any clue at all who it might be?” Rosalind asked. “Did any gentleman appear to give himself away?”
“No, I noted nothing unusual in any of the gentlemen in the various boxes. But, though I did not discover him, I must imagine he is pacing and raging over the violets just now.”
Juliet suddenly laughed. “He ought to be friends with Van Doren. I suppose he was raging against the violets too.”
“Naturally, Van Doren said it was not at all appropriate and then Papa took them so we would not cause talk. That part was quite right, as a lady cannot stop a gentleman from sending flowers, she can only refuse them when they arrive. In any case, the violets were only part of the ruse.”
“Poor Van Doren,” Viola said, though there did not seem to be much actual pity in her voice, “he has not a clue what is going on. In the dark, as always.”
Beatrice nodded, though she noticed that she did not tell her sisters that Lady Clara had been there, trying to get Van Doren’s attention. Nor did she mention her father’s notion of him being thought devilishly handsome.
After all, it was her season, not Van Doren’s. Why should anybody make a fuss over him? And what if he did go off and marry the likes of Lady Clara? It was nothing to her—she had her true love out there somewhere, just now raging over the violets. He might even be tearing at his hair over it.
Though Beatrice was not so very fond of self-reflection when it caused her discomfort, she could not avoid some of it now. It occurred to her that she was irked by Van Doren’s sudden popularity because his attention had always been onher.
She did not need or want the attention, of course, but she supposed she’d got used to it. It seemed very strange that his eyes and his thoughts were poised to go elsewhere.
“Well, Bea,” Cordelia said, “we will see what sort of gentlemen callers turn up on the morrow. Perhapshewill come.”
“And you will know him as soon as you set eyes on him,” Juliet said. “I shall write an ode about it—Ode to the Mysterious Gentleman. Once I have perfected it, I will write it out in calligraphy, have it framed, and give it to you as a wedding present.”
“Capital idea, Juliet,” Viola said.
Beatrice was thoughtful for a moment, then she said, “I do not think we will seehimon the morrow. As we know from Darden, he has been tortured by tragedy. I expect we will have to escalate our plan over time to drive him to it.”
“Tortured by tragedy,” Cordelia said with the slightest of sighs. “Now that’s something to think about.”
“Darden says my false suitors from the YBC will call on the house on the morrow. I did ask what the purpose could be and he said he has every suspicion that my tortured gentleman will be lured to the neighborhood and watching carefully who goes in and who goes out.”
“So tortured,” Viola said wistfully.
“I only hope,” Beatrice said, “the poor gentleman is able to get some sleep tonight. I would not wish to know that he had tossed and turned and never felt rest. I would not want his health to suffer over me.”
“You would not?” Juliet asked, apparently surprised to hear it.
“Well, not terribly, anyway,” Beatrice said.
*
Matthew had notgot much sleep the night before. He found himself tossing and turning and reviewing what he’d witnessed at the theater. The hunt for Beatrice’s dowry had begun. He was certain he ought to stop it, he just did not know how.
Now, he found himself hurrying across the street to call on the Benningtons in all haste. He would not have thought of it, had not Marcus alerted him to the arrivals to that house. According to Marcus, a stream of gentlemen on horseback had just made a terrible ruckus in arriving and going in.
He had the feeling of the Benningtons coming under siege, as certainly that was the case. A stream of men, all looking to line their pockets with Beatrice’s dowry, were headed toward Portland Place. And she, innocent and misguided Beatrice, would perceive none of their real intentions.
Tattleton showed him into the Benningtons’ drawing room and what he viewed was precisely what he had feared.
Beatrice held court on the sofa, surrounded by a slew of ersatz admirers. She wore a charming muslin with a blue ribbon round the waist.
She nodded to acknowledge him but did not stop her talking.
“I really decided I must include the stalwart nature of Henry the Fifth because he just refused to give up,” she said.
“And you find that quality attractive,” Mr. Cahill asked, as a statement, more than a question.
“Indeed, so I must,” Beatrice said. “I would wonder at the lady who did not.”
