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“Of course, I am coming with you,” he said with a dismissive tone. “Did you think I would trust you to return home without any more attempts to rejoin the masquerade?”

The dimly lit carriage interior prohibited Beatrice from seeing his face, but his voice held a note of annoyance. Not quite the romantic night she had envisioned in her mind. She handed him the mask in frustration.

“Do you mind holding that for a moment? I need to find my spectacles.” She opened the reticule and rummaged through her things until she encountered the rounded metallic edges. She took her spectacles and put them on.

Ah, all better now.

She looked at the man sitting across from her and almost regretted being able to see clearly once again. His eyes were narrowed, his nostrils flared, his jaw set.

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” she said testily. “I am quite capable of delivering myself home. You needn’t have bothered.”

There was a pause as he drummed his fingers against his knee, a calculating gleam in his eyes. “Don’t you have a chaperone?”

“Of course, I do.” She lifted her chin and pointedly looked away. “My aunt, Agnes.”

Beatrice gazed into the night through the carriage window. She could barely see anything in the dark, but it was better than looking at Mr. Lewis’s annoyed features.

“And where is your Aunt Agnes now?”

Beatrice shrugged. “Home. Sleeping.”

“So you tricked her.” His voice was full of accusation.

Beatrice turned back to him and raised her eyebrows. “Was I supposed to take her with me?”

“You were supposed to stay at home,” came his immediate reply.

Beatrice scoffed. “Who are you to command me?”

He heaved a sigh and shifted in his seat. “I am not commanding you”—She scoffed—“I am not. I am just pointing out that as a young gentlewoman, you should be at home sleeping and not attending scandalous masquerades.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Lewis,” she said in a mockingly meek tone, her eyelashes fluttering. “The only reason I was at the masquerade is because nobody had pointed it out to me before.” She punctuated the last words with a biting tone and a tilt of her chin.

“No need to be sarcastic.”

“I wasn’t.” Beatrice smiled politely, assuming a very meek expression she was adept at.

Mr. Lewis let out a chuckle, his facial features relaxing for the first time since she’d met him tonight. “So, tell me, truly. What was that about? Why such desperation to see the masquerade?”

“I already told you,” she said airily.

“No.” He shook his head, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his face dangerously close to hers. “What you told me were poor excuses. You can’t truly expect me to believe that you heard of the infamous masquerade and decided that was the one thing you wanted to do before you got married. There must be more to it.”

Beatrice lowered her eyes, her fingers fiddling with the tips of her gloves. “You shall think me foolish.”

A snort. “I do not mean to be rude,” he said as he leisurely settled back into his seat, his arm carelessly draped across the back. “But I already think you foolish.”

Beatrice opened her mouth to deliver a scathing setdown, but another thought entered her mind instead.

He was rude and dismissive, true. But at the moment, he was her only ally.

She’d been naive to think she could complete her plans on her own. She’d read a lot about London, and since her favorite fictional stories involved brazen and strong young women who achieved many things independently, she had never thought she’d need an accomplice.

Mr. Lewis had already assisted her at the masquerade, albeit reluctantly. Was it far-fetched to hope for more help from him?

Judging by his exceptionally surly demeanor, it was. Nevertheless, Beatrice had nothing else to lose. If she never asked, the answer would always be no. By taking a chance, she risked the possibility of receiving a yes instead.

She drummed her fingers against the seat, watching him with narrowed eyes. “Very well. I suppose you are right. I have nothing to lose by telling you the truth.”