already known.
“Well, isn’t that nice?” A grossly underwhelming summation of how she really was feeling. She had done it! Her words had saved an heiress’s heart. Instead of the mildly interested smile she offered her friend, she wanted to laugh with delight, to throw her hands up and declare victory for her fellow debutant.
“Yes, I’d say so. Heaven knows I’d never make it married to a man who didn’t love me. Not that I have to worry about a fortune hunter. It’s not as though we have pockets to let, but we certainly aren’t worth targeting. Not like you, you poor thing.” Sophie wrinkled her nose. “You must be constantly fighting off unwanted attention.”
“Well, it certainly won’t be a problem after this week.” She said it casually, but excitement once again sprang to life within her.
“Why ever not?”
“Because I’m getting married.”
“I can’t say just yet. We still are waiting until we can get word to Papa and Evie. But I am very, very pleased.”
“It wouldn’t happen to be a certain painter’s son, would it? He was quite concerned for you at the musicale.”
At the mere thought of the man, Beatrice melted a bit, her insides going all soft and warm. She lifted her shoulders, a secretive smile curving her lips. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“Of course you can. Either nod your head for yes or shake it for no. It’s quite simple, really.” She looked to Beatrice with beseeching eyes, begging to be let in on the secret.
“Only under threat of death, I’m afraid. But in a few more days, all will be revealed.”
“You dreadful tease, you. Very well, have your secrets. But tell me, is it a love match?”
She looked so hopeful, so invested in the romance of it all that Beatrice couldn’t help but indulge her.
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“It’s a damn good thing you are already betrothed.”
“On that, we agree,” Colin said, not even looking up as he spread marmalade over his toast. “But in general, ‘Good morning’ is the proper way to greet one’s family.”
Setting his knife down, he took a bite of his breakfast and winked at his cousin. John shook his head and dropped a magazine beside Colin’s plate. “Good morning.” Snagging a sweet bun from the sideboard behind them, he pulled out the chair at Colin’s left and took a seat.
“Good morning to you as well,” Colin replied, the good cheer of the last several days still coloring his tone. With his toast in one hand, Colin picked up the periodical with the other. “Reading ladies’ magazines again, I see.”
“Very funny. I find myself in awe of the brashness of this person. And the magazine itself, for that matter.”
He skimmed the letter first, catching words like “fortune hunters,” “preying,” and “innocents.” As before, the author was providing possible ways to identify a nefarious fortune hunter, the very worst villain, in the humble author’s opinion. In closing, it read:
Honestly, this woman was given to dramatics. Had she not thought to consider that some who seek fortunes do so with the best of intentions? She had no idea of the circumstances some may be faced with. She was probably some pampered heiress, sitting in her ivory tower with her jewels and morning chocolate, looking down upon all those whose lots in life were less fortunate.
“A bit extreme, I think.”
“Have you gotten to the engraving yet? Then we’ll talk extremes.”
Raising an eyebrow, Colin turned his attention to the drawing. The lines were bolder this time, the figures more realistically portrayed. As he took in the three figures and the finely detailed background, a sliver of dread worked its way between his ribs, like the slow winding of a silken ribbon being tied into an inescapable knot. There was no mistaking Godfrey this time—he couldn’t have been more plainly portrayed if he had posed for the thing.
But it was worse than that. It was the all too familiar balcony, the scene from a night he would rather forget. Synchronized watches, the hooked nose of Mr. Jones—all of it was there, as if plucked from his memory.
Or drawn by another who was there.
“Like I said, it’s a good thing you are betrothed. Someone in the
Fortunate? Colin had never felt less fortunate in his life. He had known, thanks to Raleigh, of Beatrice’s clear aversion of fortune hunters, but he never imagined her revulsion was so strong as to prompt her to write the letters. “Indeed. Now, if you will excuse me, I have rather a lot to attend to today. Good day.”
Her immense dislike of men like him wasn’t even the whole problem. In writing this last letter, she opened herself up for Godfrey to recognize her as the author. Only three people had been privy to the scene. It wouldn’t take the man long to put together which of the two of them was the disgruntled debutant.
Stuffing the magazine into his jacket, he paused long enough to collect his hat and greatcoat before heading out into the frosty November morning. It might be entirely too early in the morning for society’s unwritten rules, but he hardly gave a damn. He had to see Beatrice, and he intended to do so at once.
The one true advantage to Granville House over Hertford Hall was that the morning sun, on those rare cloudless days, seemed to shine through the haze over the city differently than it did in the country, creating a soft, diffused pink-tinged light that seemed to glow in Beatrice’s studio.
On mornings like this, the inspiration was so heady, she could hardly seem to paint fast enough. Each stroke felt exactly right, every line just so—it was as if someone else guided her hand. She was so intent on her work, she didn’t hear the quiet clip of footsteps until they were practically at her door. Turning Colin’s portrait away from where it could be seen from the doorway, she slipped around toward another painting when the scratch at the door came.
When she bade them to enter, Finnington pushed open the door and dipped his head. “Pardon the interruption of your studio time, my lady, but I thought you might like to know that Sir Colin has arrived and is waiting in the drawing room.”
Colin? Her eyes darted to the clock. She hadn’t lost track of time—it was only eleven o’clock. “Thank you, Finnington. I’ll be down in ten minutes.” She waited until the door clicked shut again before yanking off her apron and scrubbing at the paint spots on her fingers. If he was here this early, it was either an exceedingly good thing or a terribly bad thing.
Eleven minutes later, with a fresh gown and tidied hair in place, she paused outside the drawing room door, drew a steadying breath to slow her pounding heartbeat, and glided into the room.
Colin stood by the window, his arms crossed as he looked out onto the square. She stopped just inside the room, watching him while he wasn’t yet aware of her presence. He looked . . . striking. His black hair, glossy in the late-morning sun, was combed back from his forehead. The sharp line of his jaw was even harsher than usual, the muscles tensed. So somber and serious—exactly the way she imagined he would look in a courtroom.
He looked up suddenly, his gaze going straight to her. The sternness didn’t leave altogether, but his brow
