wealthy one at that,” Mrs. Langford replied, her trilling voice carrying over the din.
“But didn’t I hear somewhere that his father wishes for him to
Beatrice almost rolled her eyes. Yes, working would be so much more scandalous than marrying a person he had no affection for in a bid to get his hands on her dowry.
“Shhh, he’s coming.”
The hushed admonishment had Beatrice’s stomach sinking. There were a good ten minutes before their dance was at hand. Perhaps he was just passing by. She tried her best to blend into the clump of matrons loitering in the area.
“Lady Beatrice, I’m so glad that I found you.”
Drat. She turned, raising her brows. “Oh? Is it time for our dance already, Mr. Godfrey?”
He looked quite a bit worse for the wear since she had seen him earlier in the evening, with his pale skin looking waxen and his hair finger-combed to the side. “That’s just it,” he said, his spirit-laced breath assailing her. “I’ve had some unexpected business come up. I do hope you’ll forgive me if I miss our dance.”
Beatrice bit the inside of her lip. Her emotions couldn’t seem to figure out whether to be joyful at the news or to swamp her with guilt. “Well, I can certainly understand if you have more pressing matters to attend to. Thank you for letting me know.”
He offered a slightly off-kilter bow. “Of course, my lady. And I do hope you’ll save a dance for me next time.”
“Absolutely,” she assured him, nodding for emphasis—too much emphasis. Apparently, the guilt won out. Although there was a
With a nod, he turned and bobbed his way through the crowd, his body adopting the sort of loose-limbed movements of one well and truly in his cups. So had he discovered his likeness in the drawing? It was hard to tell. She didn’t detect any anger in him, just . . . distress. Worry. But what else could have caused the change in mood?
She supposed she was going to have to make a greater effort to be nice to the man now. If he was suffering any ill effects from the inadvertent likeness in the letter, then it was the least she could do. As she watched him disappear around the bend, another face in the crowd caught her attention—Diana. Beatrice hurried toward her, anxious to hear how she was doing. She needn’t have rushed—her friend stayed where she was, planted beside a potted tree near the wall as she scanned the assembly. When Diana saw her, her face brightened and she lifted a hand in greeting. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight.”
“Were you?” Beatrice replied, innocence coloring her tone. Diana was the only person Beatrice could think of who might suspect the truth of the letter. “Well, I’m always delighted to see you. Shall we take a turn about the room?”
Her friend glanced around the crowded hall. “Perhaps somewhere more private?”
Nodding, Beatrice linked arms with her and started forward. “I stumbled upon the library earlier. Why don’t we try there?”
It took only a few minutes to return to the room, and Beatrice was happy to see that a fire still burned in the grate. Lighting a few candles with it, she turned to Diana and smiled. “You look much improved from when last I saw you.”
She smiled, not hugely, but it seemed completely genuine. “Well, a few things have transpired, giving me reason for a bit of happiness.”
“Such as?”
“A certain letter in a magazine, for starters.” She drew a finger across the spines of the books at her shoulder as she strolled the perimeter.
“It does seem to be the talk of the evening, does it not?” Beatrice would admit nothing to no one, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t allow her friend to draw her own conclusions. After all, if it weren’t for Diana, Beatrice would have never printed such a thing.
“Indeed.” She looked a bit of the old Diana, with her eyes bright and her head held high. “It rather begs the question: What inspired the author to publish such a thing? And it occurred to me that perhaps her own misfortune prompted her to help others avoid her fate.”
“It’s possible.”
“Or perhaps,” she said, pausing to send an entirely too knowing look in Beatrice’s direction, “it was the author’s friend who suffered the misfortune, and that was what inspired the letter.”
Beatrice leaned against a stout writing table placed beneath the shuttered window. “We may never know.” She couldn’t contain an impish grin. It made her exceedingly happy that Diana approved of her tactics. It was far too late for Beatrice to help her, but clearly she had brought her friend some amount of satisfaction.
“More’s the pity. I do hope, however, that we haven’t heard the last of the Daring Debutant.”
The bell above the shop door chimed as Beatrice let herself into the warmth of the art supply store, her smile already overtaking her attempt at a professional facade. Diana’s reaction at the ball earlier that week had been so encouraging, she had been thinking over her statement for days. Would the publisher want more? Would the readers?
He grunted in response, not bothering to look up from his etching. A long, coiled ribbon of steel curled off of the plate as his hands worked in a smooth, continuous arc. “Well, if it isn’t the little troublemaker,” he said without heat, his heavy accent making the words sound almost complimentary.
“Indeed, it is,” she replied with a grin. “I’m here to see my coconspirator.”
He chuckled at this, shaking his head even as his hands remained steady. “I conspire with no one, my lady.” He finished the long peel, brushed it aside, and swiveled in his chair to face her. “What is it that you want now? I wonder. Pigments? Brushes? A selection of canvases, perhaps?”
“As you well know, I am stocked for at least the rest of the month. I’m here because I am dying to know if you have heard anything from your publisher. Are they pleased?”
He took off his spectacles and rubbed them with a soft white cloth from his worktable. “They are, I think. At least I imagine so, since they have asked for another submission for their next publication.”
“They did?” Beatrice resisted the urge to do a highly undignified little dance. If that wasn’t success, then she didn’t know what was.
“They did.” He reseated his spectacles on his great nose and stood, stretching his back. “Apparently, they have already received many requests for another installment, as well as an increase in subscriptions.”
Excellent. There was no surer way to affirm that her words had resonated, and, hopefully, that they would be helpful. She still felt rather rotten about Mr. Godfrey, but with any luck, whispers would quickly subside, and the gist of the article would be what would linger. “I can’t believe it. I wish you had sent word! I wanted to do another engraving, but I thought I would speak with you first.” Already, she was thinking of the advice she could give in the next letter.
“I’m not so sure it would be wise, mademoiselle.”
Her excitement fell like a dropped ball. “Not wise? Why ever not? It is helping people.”
“You’ve said your piece, have you not? I fear that if you push your luck, it may then push back.
“Don’t be silly, monsieur. We are not talking about national security here. Offering up more advice can only be a good thing.”
“Then why not do so under your own name?”
She opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. Very well. So he had a small point there. “You know full well a female of my standing must take care with her reputation. Writing anonymously serves my purpose while protecting my good name. But remember, monsieur—rules must sometimes be broken for the greater good.”
