Flirting With Fortune

a thing before. Not that I’d need to, of course. Heaven knows no fortune hunter would ever have a use for me.”

She had a way of saying things no one else would get away with and somehow come across as charming. At least Beatrice thought so—Marianne’s raised brow seemed to indicate she thought otherwise. “Yes, well, I think it reeks of bitterness. Perhaps the author was tired of not being asked to dance and she decided to paint all men of discerning taste in a negative light in order to force their hands.”

“Quite a bit of effort to go through merely to win a dance partner, don’t you think?” Beatrice had intended to keep her mouth shut, but Marianne’s theory was completely ridiculous, and she didn’t want her to go spreading that sort of discrediting speculation around. “I think the author wished to help the innocent young women preparing to make their debuts next year.”

Marianne made a delicate sound of disbelief. “Don’t be so gullible, Beatrice. No one does something like that without hope for personal gain.” She gave her cheeks a little pinch and turned away from the mirror. “I’ll leave you to your gossip.”

With a condescending smile, she glided from the room, her golden gown swishing behind her with the exaggerated sway of her hips. Beatrice rolled her eyes and turned back to Sophie. “Good riddance.”

Her friend giggled, completely without rancor for the high-and-mighty Marianne. “Don’t mind her. She’s just miffed that something else other than her legendary beauty and divine pianoforte talent has captured the attention of all present.”

“All present? You mean you and me?”

“No, silly—I mean everyone. Haven’t you heard the whispers and conjecture going on out there? Everyone is positively rapt to know who the author is. And not only that,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “they’re all atwitter about the identity of the fortune hunter.”

“The fortune hunter?” Beatrice squeaked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—the letter spoke in very general terms.”

Sophie clasped Beatrice’s hand in earnest. “The letter, yes. The drawing, well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it? Surely you saw the resemblance. I mean, if I did, it’s impossible to believe that you did not. Did you?”

Well, then—good thing they were in the retiring room. Her stomach rebelled all over again, with a surge of guilty nerves racing through her. “Well,” she hedged, “I think it could be any number of gentlemen, or more likely, just a conglomeration of several into one.”

“I can scarce believe you can’t see it. Honestly, if it’s not Mr. Godfrey, I’ll eat my slippers.”

Curses. That was exactly what she was afraid of. Although, if anyone was going to have her foot in her mouth, it would doubtless be Beatrice.

Oblivious to her distress, Sophie spun an escaped curl around her finger. “The author is one brave, bold soul.”

Beatrice glanced at her friend in the mirror, surprised by the unknowing compliment. A bit of the anxiousness ebbed away at the kind words. “She is a bit brave, isn’t she?”

“A bit? A good deal more than that, I should think. I’d never have it in me to be so brilliant.”

The knot in Beatrice’s stomach further unraveled and she smiled hugely at her friend. “Of course you do— more so, I should think.”

“Now, that’s a load of hogwash, and we both know it.” She winked at Beatrice’s reflection, her cheeks blushing merrily. “But I’m glad someone does. The letter may not be useful to me, but if it helps even one girl avoid the fortune hunter’s snare, then I say bravo.”

Beatrice very nearly hugged her. She was right—even if her drawing caused Mr. Godfrey a bit of discomfort, it very well might be helping to save a fellow debutant from poor Diana’s fate. Even if it were only one less girl duped by a fortune hunter, it would be well worth the risk and minor scandal for Mr. Godfrey. All guilt aside, he was exactly the sort she was warning against.

Sophie pursed her lips, her finger still twirling the same dark curl. “Do you think she is here now? The author, I mean. She was at Lady Churly’s, so it stands to reason she’d be here, don’t you think?”

That was a question she could answer with absolute honesty. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

* * *

The Westmoreland ball was proving to be quite a bit more entertaining than the last one Colin had attended. Here, he gladly released himself from the need to write his name on the dance cards of only the ladies on his list of suitable wives. So far, he had claimed dances with half a dozen young ladies of varying stations and backgrounds.

Unfortunately, he had yet to find the lady for whom he had reserved two waltzes, just in case one of hers was already claimed. Taking another sip of champagne, he scanned the room for the golden-haired nymph who had assured him that she would be there.

“Looking for someone?” Aunt Constance nodded in greeting, causing the ostrich feather affixed to the front of her emerald green turban to sway regally.

He offered her a bland smile, unwilling to reveal that that was exactly what he had been doing. “Taking it all in. Are you enjoying yourself this evening, Aunt?”

“One never enjoys oneself at a society ball, dear boy. One merely tolerates the evening as best one can.”

Every now and again, her dry humor made an appearance. Colin chuckled, clinking his glass to hers. “Well, then, here is to enduring the evening in style.”

She chuckled and took a sip, glancing out over the attendants as if she were surveying her kingdom. “Of course, it’s always slightly more entertaining when the ton is abuzz about something. Just look at the number of people here tonight. That dreadful letter has created quite a bit of interest for the Little Season.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said, the words low to prevent them from traveling. Just another reminder to stay vigilant. He must not give the ton any reason to doubt his family’s standing. If someone asked a direct question about his finances, he refused to lie about it, which made keeping up appearances all the more vital.

As he started to lift his goblet, something made him look to the right, as if an unseen hand turned him by the chin.

And that was when he saw her.

He froze, his glass halfway to his lips, as his gaze locked on Lady Beatrice’s small form slipping through the crowd. Her dark blond hair was studded with tiny jewels that flashed with every step she took. Her gown, a pale blue creation that shimmered in the candlelight as if shot with slivers of silver, suited her perfectly. She looked ethereal, and beautiful, and completely enchanting.

He lowered his glass and took a steadying breath. “Will you excuse me, Aunt? I’ve still a few dances free for the night, and I’d best get to filling them before it’s too late.”

She waved him away with her free hand. “Go, go. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything on my account.”

He wove his way through the crowd, but it was slow going. Damn, he’d never catch up to her in this crush. As he stepped around a pair of matrons chatting behind opened fans, he lost her completely. He paused, scanning the vicinity for another glimpse of her, and saw that she had stopped by the refreshment table.

He hurried in that direction, arriving just as she turned away from the table, lemonade in hand. Her lips parted in surprise before she broke into a pleased grin.

“Well, if it isn’t Sir Colin Tate.”

It was hard not to think of the last time he had seen her, when they had indulged in their illicit, impromptu dance. He offered her a perfectly polite smile, even as he allowed his eyes to convey his pleasure at seeing her again. “Lady Beatrice, lovely to see you here.”

Her eyes, dark, glittering sapphires in the warm glow of the chandelier above her, offered nothing but delight as she took a small step closer. “And you, sir. Allow me to introduce my friend Miss Sophie Wembley.”

It had totally escaped his attention that the lady beside them was turned toward the conversation as well. At mention of her name, the girl beamed up at him with a broad smile. He bowed and said, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Wembley.”