Chapter Twenty-Five
Nicholas had risen this morning with an unusual sense of purpose, and not merely because he would be seeing Bea again tonight.His early meeting with Fletcher, the Bow Street Runner he’d hired, had finally produced a genuine lead.
Bea had admitted she knew B.Adroit’s identity.And for now, that truth had to be enough.She had not given him a name.And he did not press her for one.She’d looked terribly distressed.But Nicholas had assured her she needn’t betray her friend.Fletcher was close to learning the truth.He already had an address.It was only a matter of time before he had a name.It would be easier this way for both of them.
And Fletcher hadn’t disappointed.He’d informed Nicholas this morning that the anonymous caricaturist delivered his drawings with predictable regularity.Fletcher had traced the bloke to a residence in Mayfair.He’d assured Nicholas he had only to conduct a bit more investigating to learn the precise identity of the cartoonist.Apparently, Fletcher suspected the man had used a household servant to deliver the drawings for him.
The thought had simmered in Nicholas’s mind all afternoon, the slow burn of impending revelation.At last, he might meet the culprit behind those maddening drawings, might demand an explanation, or a correction, or perhaps a cessation entirely.One way or another, the sketches would end.Nicholas would see to it.He would not allow B.Adroit to ruin everything Nicholas had worked for.
However, like most things in his world, this too took patience.And Nicholas could wait for confirmation.He wanted the cartoonist’s identity to be certain, after all.Despite his father’s demands for immediacy, certainty took time.
Speaking of his father, the man hadn’t even bothered to summon him this time.Instead, he’d merely sent a note.So certain he’d be obeyed by his only son that he didn’t even feel a meeting was necessary.
The Winslow chit makes rash statements, the missive had read.See to it that you marry her soon and teach her to keep her mouth shut.The outburst at Hillary’s salon was unforgivable.
So, Father had heard about the incident at Hillary’s salon, just as Nicholas suspected he would.Predictable, but no matter.It was better that Father didn’t see him again untilafterthe older man learned he’d voted against his wishes.
And he did have every intention of voting for the reform bill.He’d been privately weighing the decision, but after Bea’s impassioned speech to Sir Edwin, he’d been convinced.Not just by her words but by her conviction.Bea was right.And her certainty was appealing.His father would be furious, but for the first time in his life, Nicholas no longer cared.
Instead of replying, he’d crumpled his father’s note in his fist and tossed it directly into the fire where it belonged.
By the timeNicholas reached Winslow’s town house that evening, all thoughts were eclipsed by the sight before him.
Bea stood in the foyer in a gown of pale pink muslin, light, summery, impeccably chosen.The color warmed against her skin, the neckline framed the graceful line of her collarbone, and the bows at her sleeves lent her a softness in direct contrast to the restless tension he sensed beneath it.
Something in her posture—too correct, too contained—made Nicholas’s own breath draw tighter.
Her coolness toward him wasn’t disdain.He knew that tone well, could recognize it at twenty paces.This was different.This was distance.A retreat.A silent pulling inward that he could not, for the life of him, explain.
Especially after the way she’d looked at him in Parliament yesterday.
“Are you all right?”he whispered as he escorted her outside.
“Did you…m…meet with the Bow Street Runner?”she asked, her voice shaking a little.
Was that what she was worried about?That he would learn the identity of someone she was protecting?He understood her concern, but he would not lie to her.“Yes,” he replied.“He’s close to getting a name.”
Her shoulders dropped a bit as if with relief.But she remained tense.
His words from yesterday echoed through his head…B.Adroit is about to regret the day he was born.He hadn’t meant it as a physical threat…more as a bit of exaggeration.But he couldn’t blame her if she was worried he would do something to harm her friend.“I only intend to speak with him,” he assured her.“To ask him to stop.There won’t be pistols at dawn or anything brutish.”
She gave him a tentative smile, but her mouth remained tight.
The four of them—Bea, her parents, and Nicholas—settled into Winslow’s carriage.They were all going to the same dinner party tonight.The duchess fussed with her gloves, while the duke gazed out the window with the air of a man surveying his personal dominion.Bea sat next to Nicholas with her hands folded neatly, fingers giving the tiniest betraying twitch every few seconds.
Why wouldn’t she look at him?
Before he could puzzle it out, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Chelmsford’s grand town house, all blazing lamplight and an unavoidable swarm of Tories at their most self-satisfied.Voices drifted out—braying laughter, pompous pontificating, half-baked policy pronouncements.
Nicholas helped Bea down from the coach.
“For the record, my father has threatened me with bodily harm if I say anything untoward this evening,” she whispered.
“Where is the fun in that?”Nicholas answered lightly.
A flicker—so quick he might have imagined it—passed through her eyes.Guilt.Yes.But something deeper.Something that had absolutely nothing to do with tonight’s dinner.
He almost reached for her hand.He wanted to squeeze it.To assure her he would be at her side this evening…whatever may occur.
