Mary put her gaze on Bee's deep coat pocket. "You'd shoot them."
A chill shivered up Bee's spine, but she put a gay smile to her lie. "I promised I'd only carry it, not use it."
Mary let her brows rise high to denote her skepticism. "You've carried that pistol of your father's for years. Why give up now when you got yourself a smuggler?"
"Men!" announced Aunt Gertrude, clutching a letter to her generous bosom and staring at Bee as she entered the Yellow Salon. "Glorious men."
Bee smoothed the loose tendrils of her hair and examined the lady dear to her heart. "I'm sorry, Aunt. I'm late and—”
"Come in, my girl! Just there. Do sit."
Bee hurried to take a seat on the gold damask chair her aunt indicated. "Of course. What did you—?"
"Where have you been?"
"Out to the greengrocers."
"I wish you would leave that to the kitchen staff, sweet." Her aunt held aloft a parchment letter. "No matter. I have news. Glorious. A party."
"Wonderful." Bee nodded at her aunt's letter. "Whose?"
"The post. And we have this, too!" The lady raised sheets of the local newspaper. "The balls at the Castle Rooms."
Festivities at the public rooms had resumed months ago. Brighton society attended. Local belles graced the rooms, so said theSussex Advertiser, and Aunt Gertrude, who lived for dining, dancing and gossip, had insisted that Bee and her two sisters start to attend. Their mourning period for their brother and father was over and their maternal aunt had set her very own modiste to the task of sewing wardrobes befitting their station and her generous pocketbook.
"'Lady Winterbotham sponsors an intimate dinner,'" her aunt read with glee, one finger aloft. "'Lord and Lady Gort host a waltzing party.'"
"Grand." Bee loved to see her aunt so enthused. A dreary Gertrude was a misery to contend with. "And you are invited?"
The lady grinned and strode to the window that overlooked the street. The sun shone down on the passersby who hunched into the brisk breeze that blew up the Steyne from the coast. She whirled to face Bee. "Yes, yes. You too. Without your pistol in your pocket."
"Oh, Aunt." The lady loved to tease Bee about her agility with her weapon.
"What's more, we will host a celebration."
"We will? A dinner party?"
"Not merely dinner! I think…a shooting party. Though I will ask you to allow the gentlemen to bag a few birds."
Bee cast her eyes heavenward. December was not prime hunting season. But her aunt didn't care about rules of the calendar. "I promise I'll allow the men to excel."
"And you'll not kill anyone."
"I promise."Could no one forget this?On one of her solitary rides at dawn, Bee had mistaken one of Aunt Bee's tenants for a poacher and fired off. Part of his ear gone, he was shaken. Bee was happy—he was too—that she'd not murdered him.
"Do, my chick. We want husbands, live ones. Rich ones. We shall sing and dance."
"Dancing?" Bee didn't want to dine or dance. Not with anyone except Alastair. "At a hunt?"
In the hall, Simms the butler was greeting someone. Bee cocked an ear and prayed it was a caller. Someone to distract her aunt from this idea.
"A breakfast! Luncheon!" Aunt Gertrude clasped her chubby hands together, a look of ecstasy upon her face. "I shall have my maid clean my diamonds."
Bee was lost. "Do your diamonds go well with hunting apparel?"
"Absolutely." Aunt Gertrude might be flamboyant, a bit outré, but she was a pillar of Brighton society, the Countess of Marsden who was renowned for her dinner parties and musicales. She followed every shred of society's gossip. Recounted it like gospel. Wished for companionship and society. Pined for frivolity since the scandal of Bee’s father’s ruin and later, his death had cut them all from most engagements. As of last month, they were out of mourning officially and her aunt had ordered not only a thorough cleaning of Marsden Hall, but also supplies of victuals, whiskey and champagne. Stocking the house along with her order of new formal gowns for the three sisters had heralded her aunt's impending freedom. "We must return to our rightful places."
Bee gave a painful smile. She wanted to share her aunt's enthusiasm for life. But Bee and her sisters no longer had 'rightful places' in society. Their father's reckless behavior had ended that. He'd been a viscount, fourth of his line, possessed of home, land, and a few priceless works of art, but he'd lost all to his penchants for horses, cards and gin. Notoriously, even theLondon Timeswhich normally listed mostly those among the merchant or laboring classes who’d lost all, had named him among the 'Bankrupts'. Bee suspected other local papers had reprinted the hideous news.
