“I hope you had a nice visit,” Bea said sincerely.
“Quite. Although I missed the present charming company,” Croydon murmured. “Are you ready to continue our ride?”
“Indeed we are,” Mama cut in. “Why don’t you escort my daughter along the quieter path by the Serpentine, Your Grace? I’ll follow behind after I return Miss Millbank to her chaperone.”
Bea rode to the leafy, shadowed path with Croydon. Here, the walk was sparsely populated, the chatter of crowds replaced by birdsong and buzzing insects. As promised, Mama was following discreetly behind—so discreetly, in fact, that Bea did not even see her.
Bea slid a sidelong glance at her companion, wondering if he would take the opportunity to steal another kiss.Not that he’d have to steal what I would willingly give.The brazen thought warmed her cheeks even more than the sunshine.
The duke’s stallion, Attila, seemed to take a liking to Bea’s mare, Midnight Star; when Attila came too close, Star lurched away with a nervous whinny, jostling Bea in the sidesaddle.
“She’s a bit skittish,” Bea apologized, tightening her grip on the reins.
“I don’t blame her for being shy. Attila, stop being a brute,” Croydon ordered.
Seeing the stallion’s chastised expression, Bea couldn’t help but giggle.
“May I compliment you on your laugh, Lady Beatrice? It is so unaffected and carefree. Qualities that, I daresay, are as rare and admirable as your beauty.”
Bea’s heart raced at the duke’s intent expression, the vivid blue of his eyes.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly.
“As it is just the two of us, could I tempt you to call me by my given name?”
“That…that would be forward, wouldn’t it?”
“Such informality would be improper,” he said gravely. “Unless we had a more intimate connection, that is. I have a question to ask you, my dear. I will, of course, speak to your father, but I wanted to know where your wishes lay first.”
She felt faint with expectation. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Lady Beatrice…would you like to be my wife?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I would like that very much—”
“That’ll teach you to steal from your betters, you filthy guttersnipe!”
The shouting shattered the magical moment. Startled, Bea swung her gaze in the direction of the voices. Two figures were just up ahead on the path. A man on horseback was dragging a boy up by the scruff, lifting the child’s kicking feet clear off the ground. As Bea watched in horror, he raised his other hand, which held a gleaming black horsewhip.
“What the devil?” Croydon muttered.
Instinct propelled Bea into action.
She galloped forward. “Desist, sir! You’re hurting the boy!”
As she pulled to a stop, the man’s gaze roved with slow insolence over her. He had thick jowls and square, pugnacious features. His clothing was costly and ostentatious, gold buttons and fobs scattered over his expansive torso.
“Who are you to interfere in my business?” he demanded.
“I am Lady Beatrice Wodehouse, daughter of the Duke of Hadleigh.” Bea saw with anxiety that the child still suspended from the man’s beefy fist had a swollen eye and bleeding lip. “Let the boy go, sir. Can’t you see that you’re hurting him?”
“Bloody pickpocket deserves a thrashing.” Scowling, the man shook the boy again, the force sending the child’s tattered cap to the ground. “He filched my coin purse and thought he could get away with it!”
Croydon drew up beside Bea. “I am the Duke of Croydon, the lady’s escort. And you are?”
“T. Edgar Grigg, industrialist.” The man smirked. “You may have heard of me.”
Bea did indeed recognize the name. Grigg was a coal merchant whose showy advertisements were seen everywhere in Town. The papers credited him with advancements in the delivery of the resource to London, which had an insatiable need for coal-driven power. His warehouses lined the banks of Regent’s Canal, and some mockingly referred to the miasma of smoke that hung over the city as “Grigg’s Gold.”
