Beatrice could still hear the echo of Edward’s laugh. It lingered like the faint scent of brandy and trouble.
She focused on smoothing her gloves, pretending her pulse hadn’t jumped, when her mother’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom.
“We’ve been seen long enough. Cecily, dear, fetch your wrap.”
Cecily bounced over, her cheeks pink with delight. “I think the whole room saw him looking at you, Bea,” she whispered.
Beatrice smiled thinly. “Then the whole room needs better things to do.”
Their mother exhaled, subtly shaking her head. “You see why I worry.”
They started toward the doors, the swell of the orchestra rising behind them. Beatrice didn’t mean to glance back, but something—curiosity or foolishness—made her do it anyway.
Edward was standing across the ballroom, half in shadow, his expression unreadable. He inclined his head slightly, as if to acknowledge her retreat or challenge it.
Her chin lifted in return.
The carriage ride home was mercifully brief, though Cecily’s chatter filled every corner of it—a stream of delighted commentary about gowns, partners, and how some duke had glanced at hertwice.
Beatrice stared out the window, feigning interest in the dark blur of passing streetlamps. Her reflection looked composed enough, though her thoughts were anything but.
“Don’t sulk, dear,” her mother said gently beside her. “You were splendid tonight. Mostly.”
Beatrice turned, her mouth curving. “Thank you, Mama.”
The carriage slowed, the lantern outside their townhouse throwing light across the embroidered hem of Lady Moreland’s gown.
As the footman opened the carriage door, cool night air rushed in. Beatrice stepped down first, grateful for the quiet. The city’s sounds were softer here—the distant rattle of wheels, the rustle of leaves in the square.
The entrance hall glowed with lamplight, the faint scent of roses drifting from the vases on the side tables. A footman hurried forward to take their cloaks.
Lady Moreland swept past them toward the stairs, her expression weary. “I am quite fatigued. Beatrice, see that the house is locked up. Cecily, do not chatter all night. It is nearly eleven.”
“Yes, Mama,” they chorused.
Lady Moreland inclined her head and disappeared up the staircase, her pearls glinting once before the shadows swallowed her.
Cecily turned toward the mirror to adjust a pin in her hair. “Do you think we will see him again soon?”
“I’d rather not,” Beatrice answered briskly and handed her gloves to a maid. It annoyed her that she knew whohewas. “The night has been quite long enough.”
She had just begun to climb the stairs when the sound of rapid knocks echoed through the hall.
“At this hour?” Cecily whispered, her eyes wide.
The butler appeared, frowning as he went to the door. He exchanged a few sharp words with someone outside before beckoning Beatrice down.
“My lady, there’s a messenger. He insists it cannot wait.”
He stepped aside, and a young man entered, flushed and panting.
“Pardon, miss—my lady?—”
Beatrice instinctively stepped back as he thrust something toward her. It was a small wicker basket, wrapped in a thin blanket.
And then she heard a faint but unmistakable sound.
A baby’s cry.
