2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

F or someone who had been born into a life devoid of fineries, Beatrice Heart had become quite a dab hand at spotting true quality in everything from silks to horses to men. Of course, her estimation of quality could be best described as that which was the loveliest, most expensive, or the rarest, in no particular order. She had a real eye for jewels in particular, their sparkle and shine making her eyes gleam.

It was not simply her tastes that were incongruous with her origins: Beatrice had been born the daughter of poor labourers in a poor labouring village that she had little memory of, only clearly remembering that it was cold and damp. Despite her humble origins, she accepted any and all tribute as her due, as a queen might condescend to accept gifts from her vassals.

Tonight was no exception—she had concluded her performance for the evening and retired to her dressing room. As was her due, she had laid claim to the largest and best dressing room, arranging to have a plush velvet chaise longue installed against one wall. It was here that she would lounge in a silk banyan, awaiting her well-wishers and callers, offering occasional glimpses of her wrists or ankles in payment.

There were the usual posies and bouquets, which she always accepted first; willing stage hands ferried them into her dressing room, pleased at being admitted to the inner sanctum. In this way, she was surrounded by a garden of bounty and delicate floral scent before anyone even laid eyes on her. She fancied herself a master of the tableau vivant , imagining that she arranged herself like a lush painting.

Her dresser, a maid that had by all accounts been at the theatre since the time of Noah's childhood, stood close at hand, ready to receive cards and announce callers. At a nod from Beatrice, she opened the door, accepting the cards being thrust at her.

"Mr Alexander Featherwright," the dresser croaked. After a moment's consideration, Beatrice nodded her assent.

Mr Featherwright was a floppy sort of young man with blond curls that fell across his forehead in a boyishly charming manner. He was always happy to see Beatrice, gazing at her with a kind of awe-inspired adoration, which suited her just fine. As per the norm when he spotted Beatrice, he fell to one knee before her, looking at her hopefully.

"Good evening, Mr Featherwright," she purred, imperiously offering her hand to him, which he gladly accepted.

"Miss Heart, if you are not the most gifted woman in the whole kingdom, I shall turn right around and become a monk," he breathed, all earnest flattery.

Beatrice couldn't help but smile at him. "You are a darling thing, aren't you?" she cooed, placing her other hand in his. From the way his entire mien lightened, it was clear that this was the highlight of the week, as far as he was concerned.

"I've brought you a gift," Mr Featherwright said with a slight blush, adorably bashful. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box, which he offered up shyly to Beatrice.

She took it readily, murmuring her thanks to him. Without hesitating, she released the catch on the box, popping it open. Nestled within on the satin lining was a thin gold bangle, with three little rubies set into the top of it. Beatrice's eyes widened, and she lifted it from the box, holding it up so that the gems could catch the light.

"I—I remember you saying that rubies were a particular favourite of yours," Mr Featherwright offered.

"Indeed they are," Beatrice murmured, bringing the bauble closer to her eye. "And these are truly remarkable ones: Such colour and clarity!"

"Why Miss Heart, perhaps you would have been a jeweller or gem appraiser in a different life," Mr Featherwright said, smiling at her delight.

"No," she said with a cheeky smile, folding her fingers around the bracelet and tucking it closer to herself, "I think I'd make for a better jewel thief." In one fluid, mercurial movement, she rose to her feet, treating the befuddled Mr Featherwright to a quick glimpse of her ankles as she did so. "Can't you imagine me pillaging my way through the Continent's palaces and cathedrals?" She punctuated this with a little twirl, one leg behind the other.

"I can," Mr Featherwright breathed without a trace of irony. He cleared his throat then, straightening his jet-black jacket and crisp white cravat, as if he had just remembered why he had come in the first place. "Miss Heart, if it is not too much of an imposition, might I request the pleasure of your company tonight? I've my carriage, and I thought you might fancy a grand dinner after—"

Beatrice turned back to Mr Featherwright, already weighing the merits of his invitation. However, the dresser, still at her post next to the door, was busy attempting to catch Beatrice's eye. The dresser tilted her head, nodding significantly toward the door. Beatrice quirked one eyebrow questioningly, and the dresser inclined her head again.

This silent exchange of gestures was carried on over Mr Featherwright's head, as he was still perched upon one knee on the floor of Beatrice's dressing room. Though not a word had been spoken, Beatrice clearly understood the meaning: There was a far greater catch awaiting her just outside.

Quickly, Beatrice bent and hauled Mr Featherwright upright with surprising strength. Before he knew what was happening, he was being ushered to the door again.

"What a charmer you are, Mr Featherwright," Beatrice said, laying her other hand on his elbow. "But I could not possibly accept your invitation in the state I am in now ."

"You couldn't?" he protested weakly.

"Oh, certainly not! Why, I am positively done in from my efforts on the stage tonight," Beatrice continued, resting her cheek on his shoulder for a moment. She gazed up at him, fluttering her eyelashes in the most beseeching manner that she knew how. "It would be positively bad of me to be less than radiant for you."

"Oh Miss Heart, you could never—" Mr Featherwright attempted to protest.

"Of course you understand, you are such a darling boy," she cooed, somewhat underscoring her flattering words by pushing him out the door with a surprising amount of force.

She allowed herself a moment to regain her composure. Retaking her seat upon the lounge, she attempted an air of casualness, her posture relaxed. It was imperative to Beatrice that she not appear as if she were truly waiting to receive callers; rather, they simply happened upon her, and she would let them pay their calls by chance.

After suitably arranging her banyan again, she gave the nod to her dresser. In somewhat elevated tones, the dresser read the name on the next card.

"His Honour, Judge Derrick Horner," the dresser proclaimed loud enough for everyone waiting in the hall to hear. This set off a round of murmurs, which was quickly cut off when the door was shut behind this new, more illustrious caller.

He entered the room grandly, surveying it with cool grey eyes as if he owned everything within. He was dressed fashionably, with a double-breasted coat and a pinked collar so high that it brushed along his sharp jaw. His breeches were dove grey, and he wore them tucked into polished leather boots in deference to the questionable spring weather.

"Why, what an unexpected delight this is," Beatrice murmured, sitting up and smiling coyly at the judge.

"I'm delighted you think so," he replied, his eyes lighting upon Beatrice. He came forward to accept her offered hand, but it was done with an air of bemusement. "I hope that I am not keeping you from some other delights this evening."

Beatrice gave a casual little flip of her hand. "I'm sure that I can be spared for one evening."

"Mm," the judge agreed, staring down his long, sharp nose at Beatrice. "Would you care to accompany me to Vauxhall this evening? I've heard there is a new display of fireworks that is being readied."

"Is there? Well, I suppose one must spend the evening doing something," Beatrice sighed, not wishing to appear overeager. Casually, she stood and went to sit at her dressing table, fussing at her reflection. The judge watched this with interest, his nostrils flaring a little.

"Very good. My carriage awaits you then, dear lady," he said, bowing over Beatrice's hand and daring to press a kiss to her knuckles.

Beatrice maintained her cool, distant composure. "I shall be with you shortly," she said. He withdrew, and Beatrice sat for a moment, butterflies in her stomach. The judge was always an interesting evening, though a challenging one. He was a powerful man, and he was quite aware of it.

Still, he was never boring, and he had more money than Croesus. It was largely thanks to him that Beatrice was able to maintain a large and spacious flat near the Park, a luxury reserved almost exclusively for the wealthy and titled. He was the distant heir to a title, and had a nobleman's taste for collecting beautiful things; Beatrice was happy to be collected...for now.

She began to attend to her toilette , wiping away the stage makeup and removing the heavy wig with relief. With sharp fingernails, she scratched at her itchy scalp, fingers digging into the hair that she kept cropped daringly short. She turned her head this way and that, admiring the turn of her neck and trying to ascertain the better angles of her face.

Candlelight was exceptionally flattering, and here among the gifts and flowers piled high, it was easy for Beatrice to feel secure, a little smug even. She felt entitled to a little vanity, as it had been necessary for her to scramble and claw her way to her current position. She admired her bottle-green eyes, the cat-like way they tilted up in the corners. Her face, not quite as full as fashion dictated these days, was still comely by nearly any measure, if a little sharply boned.

Lifting her porcelain pot of face cream, she worked it carefully, deliberately, into her face and neck. Though her talent put the great and good of London into the theatre seats, it was her looks that guaranteed a steady supply of male companionship. It was only through their largesse that she was able to live as she did; it was imperative that she do everything in her power to preserve her face for as long as possible.

Her hands paused for a moment mid-swipe on her cheekbones. Sometimes, when she was quite alone with her thoughts and staring into the mirror, a little tickle of fear would run through her. Beatrice knew that this life she led would not last forever, and it was at these moments that a creeping fear for the future would snap at her heels.

Aggressively, Beatrice shook her head. She dipped her fingers into the face cream again, scented with lavender and orange blossom, and vigorously rubbed it into her jaws.

"Be gone," she muttered aloud to her doubts. She could not afford to be distracted tonight—the judge would smell the insecurity on her like blood in the water, and he would pounce without hesitation.

Yours is a strange lot, some unbidden part of her mind whispered. Lonely, but never alone; vulnerable, but untouchable.

Quickly, she crammed these thoughts down as well, burying them beneath layers of silk and lace. She dressed quickly in a dark gold silk gown with wine-red velvet ribbon about the hem in stripes, her dresser helping her to button the back. She selected matching red gloves, her favourite colour.

As she slipped her feet into dark red silk pumps, she allowed herself one last admiring, almost defiant look in the large, floor-length mirror in the corner of her dressing room. Beatrice lifted her chin proudly, her lips curling a little. She had an evening of fine dining, the best champagne, and all the other delights that Vauxhall had to offer to look forward to, and she looked every inch the part.

Who has time for loneliness when one's plate is so full of amusements? she asked herself as she left her dressing room, a fur-trimmed capelet about her shoulders. Perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, Beatrice slammed the door on her dressing room and that thought.