Even cast in the ugly light of cowardice, the prospect was appealing to Bea, whose courage was not yet an established fact. She had shown flashes of fearlessness—calling an imperious duke to account in the middle of the Skeffingtons’ drawing room, confronting a murderer on the Larkwells’ terrace during a ball—but only after decades of timidity.
Years versus moments, she thought, unable to know with any reasonable certainty which was the anomaly.
But she had her suspicions, bolstered by six seasons on the fringes of society, spluttering stupidly in response to banal questions and examining her fingers with unwarranted fascination.
It would be so easy—effortless, really—to succumb to her insecurities, to simply sink into them like a rock falling to the bottom of the Thames, and it was the ease itself that terrified her.
She would not cower as a duchess the way she had cowered as a debutante.
No, she would not.
So she would establish herself with the staff in a manner that made her feel competent and capable, ensure the household ran according to her dictates and then retire to the library.
It was a simple matter of self-respect.
Kesgrave apparently thought so too because he nodded with approval.
But not only approval, Bea noted with concern. There was a hint of relief in the gesture as well.
Had she really been that transparent in her anxiety? Certainly, she had begun their engagement in a paroxysm of dread over the splendor of his position: the large house, the huge staff, the massive estate, the outsized influence, the vast sway over the fate of thousands. But in the successive week, she had made every effort to appear comfortable with it, smothering—with success, she’d believed—the moments of self-doubt that sprung up at unexpected times, such as when he mentioned with effortless offhandedness possessing a pinery.
Clearly, her efforts had been less than successful. He knew everything.
Well, not quite everything, she thought, resolving never to tell him about her propensity to flinch.
“A worthy goal,” Kesgrave said of her plan, “although I don’t believe too much exertion will be required. You already have Jenkins’s devotion, and Marlow is still too bewildered by your refusal to submit to his withering glare to resist your efforts for long.”
His assessment of the current state of affairs was only partially right. Having observed her in a series of outlandish costumes, his groom did indeed appear to favor her. But whatever gains she had made with the butler by arrogantly demanding entrance to the house a few days before had vanished. In the interval since the encounter, his confusion had hardened into dislike. Given the way she had flouted his authority, the transformation was not extraordinary.
“I’m gratified that you agree,” Bea said with a deliberately bland smile as she reached for the doorknob. “Shall I send Mr. Stephens in or just assume he knows what my foot on his ear means?”
“Presumably, my steward is lying across the threshold in your scenario because he is prostrate with awe of me?” he asked.
Although he had drawn the correct conclusion, she disavowed it with innocent confusion and insisted the position would improve Mr. Stephens’s ability to hear. “The better to respond to your summons promptly, of course,” she said.
Kesgrave was not fooled for a moment. “Take precisely that tact with Marlow and you will have him eating oats out of your hand like a newborn foal by dinner.”
Bea rather doubted that, but the mention of the evening meal made her aware of the lateness of the hour and all the detecting she had yet to do. “And what time will that be?”
“Not very late. Settling this business should take only a few more hours,” he said, glancing at the wall clock, which read one-thirty. “Perhaps six? I thought we could have an informal meal in our bedchamber—en famille, as it were.”
Her heart fluttered almost painfully, not in anticipation of the delights of intimacy—although, of course, they held infinite appeal—but in pure pleasure at the description. Not since her parents had died had she felt the lovely warmth of family.
Calmly, as if unaffected by his statement, she agreed to the schedule and stepped out into the hallway to find Mr. Stephens striding toward her with a tray of tea. Although she darted an amused glance at Kesgrave, she managed to restrain her humor enough that she was able to return the steward’s murmured greeting with a respectful one of her own. Similarly, she resisted the urge to ask him to pause so that she may press her hand against the teapot to determine how long he had been standing in the corridor waiting for her to emerge.
The door to the study closed, and Bea, slightly daunted by the next step, returned to her bedchamber to fetch a shawl. Finding one suited to the spring weather was not as difficult as she’d expected because Dolly was in her dressing room unpacking her trunks and she located the garment with unnerving efficiency. The maid appeared to know her wardrobe better than she, and Bea felt a sudden burst of gratitude to her cousin Flora, who had recently stolen into her room at Portman Square and taken the suit she typically wore on her investigations. If she had not, Russell’s brown topcoat would have joined the pile of chemises and petticoats stacked on the dresser.
Readily, Bea imagined the blank deference with which Dolly would have held out her cousin’s old pants and said, “Your breeches, your grace.”
It was pure fantasy, and yet still she flinched.
Leaving the house was also easier than she’d anticipated, for as a duchess she did not have to account for her movements to anyone. Aunt Vera was not there to cluck over the impropriety of an unmarried lady going out on her own. Flora was not a few steps behind to ask what plan was secretly afoot. There was only a single footman dressed in pristine livery who opened the door for her and abstained from asking questions.
Happily, she stepped into the brisk air and thought about the lengths
