“And Carrington?” Dash rose, feeling resigned to patience he did not feel.
“Yes?”
“If Grimstead does anything untoward… you will send word?”
The dignified retainer nodded solemnly. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Dash had known Grimm for half his life, had watched cynicism creep in and take hold… seen him haunt the darker corners of London, seeking distractions that never seemed to satisfy. Like Hawk, Longstaffe, and Blackwell—and like himself—Grimm had come out of Harrowgate marked, each of them scarred in their own way.
Of course Grimm sniffing around worried him.
Dash exhaled a deep breath.
He supposed he would have to make his presence in London official now. Now that she knew he was here, now that she knew who he truly was, he had no further reason to hide.
“Are you the new gardener, señor?” A woman’s voice, rich and lilting, carried across the street as he stepped onto the pavement. Dash squinted against the light, making out little more than her silhouette—dark hair gleaming, her figure lush even in the loose fall of a high-waisted gown.
“Just a friend,” he replied shortly, dismissing her with a nod, though the word twisted bitter in his mouth. Would Ambrosia even grant him that much now? Likely not.
His life might have been easier—simpler—if another woman could stir his interest, be it in body, mind, or spirit. But none did.
Ambrosia—his princesse—was everything. And he doubted that would change anytime soon.
Beckman House had clearly felt Beatrice’s hand in the few days since their arrival. The marble tiles in the entry gleamed, the silver along the sideboard had been polished until it winked in the afternoon light, and the faint scent of beeswax hung in the air.
Servants he had met briefly upon his arrival now scurried about with the crisp efficiency of a household run to standard. None of them had ever met Hannah, yet the windows were respectfully draped in black crepe. The footmen wore black armbands, and the maids had small black ribbons pinned to their caps.
Drake, the new butler—tall, young, and earnest—stepped forward with a bow.
“Drake,” Dash acknowledged, remembering him from that first round of introductions. Beatrice had wasted no time in making the man her right hand, and it showed.
Mr. Edwards, Dash’s valet, no doubt was impatient to get on with his business of ensuring Dash was turned out properly for the Season. Thus far, Dash had avoided him, preferring the anonymity of working-class garb. But the Season would begin soon, and the salver in the hall would start to fill with invitations.
That thought gave him pause. He could see which events Ambrosia attended—and attend them himself. Respectable. Presentable. Close enough to begin weaving himself back into her life.
“Ah, there you are.” Beatrice’s voice floated down from the stairs before she descended, skirts gathered in one hand. She had the look of a general inspecting the troops. “Well? How did it go?”
He hesitated. “Not as I’d hoped.”
Her brows rose. “And yet you look more determined than when you left this morning.”
Dash’s mouth curved faintly.
It wasn’t the way he would have planned it, that was for certain. “I am. Seeing her again… only reminded me what’s at stake.”
“Mm.” Bea tipped her head. “Does this mean you will stop lurking in the shrubbery now?”
“I wasn’t lurking,” he said dryly.
“Of course you weren’t,” she replied, far too sweetly. “You were… strategically observing from a position of concealment.” She smiled, though her gaze was shrewd. “So, what’s the plan, mon frère? And don’t you dare tell me you haven’t one.”
He exhaled through his nose, already moving toward the stairs. “I have the beginnings of one. And when it’s ready, you’ll be the first to know.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes heavenward. “Good. But I hope it doesn’t involve hosting any balls. Your guests would be dodging arrows.”
Dash didn’t so much as blink. “You’ve turned the ballroom into your archery gallery?”
“Of course.” She arched a brow. “You’re not surprised?”
