5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

A s a dancer, particularly as a female dancer, Beatrice was used to a certain degree of notoriety. She was not particularly welcome in the better homes, unless it was to give a private performance with her fellow dancers. Even this, however, was fairly rare since she had parted company with Josiah Galpin's troupe; the plain fact was that wives and mothers did not want her around their menfolk.

All of this was perfectly acceptable to Beatrice, as the trade-off was that she could live more or less as she pleased. She worked when she needed, she slept and rose when she wished, and there were very few people who could place demands on her time.

Something had shifted, however; it was not immediately obvious to Beatrice, but there was an odd undercurrent that seemed to underscore all of her interactions lately. Usually, she could count on a few invitations in a week, sometimes to accompany one gentleman or another to the opera, or the races. Occasionally it would be to dinner, or to a party hosted by someone equally daring.

These invitations had dried up in the past few days, stretching into a week, and then two. Beatrice found herself spending more days and nights at home, alone in her flat, than she cared for. When she did venture out, there was a new quality to the whispers and stares that followed her: instead of having a kind of breathless excitement about it, she caught the ton collectively glaring at her with open derision or disgust.

The audience, too, seemed to be turning on her. They applauded her, but grudgingly, as if they could not deny her talent, but did not relish it the way that they had previously. There were no more flowers, no more gifts delivered to her dressing room, either.

Perhaps strangest of all was that Beatrice had the distinct impression that someone was following her. It was as if someone was constantly just beyond her field of vision, over her shoulder. If she turned to look, there was no one out of the ordinary, but she still got the impression of a jacket tail here, a wisp of unfamiliar scent there. It left her on edge, nervy, and disinclined to go out alone.

When it became apparent that something was indeed wrong, Beatrice resolved to call upon the one person who would not refuse her. It was also unlikely that she would lie to her, either, if she knew what was going on.

So it was that Beatrice resolved to pay a call on Lady Eva, the crushingly beautiful wife of Josiah Galpin. Though they had been one-time romantic rivals, Beatrice was hoping that this was somewhat in the past, as she had no one else to really turn to. Beatrice also hoped that more than a year of married life had dulled Eva's beauty somewhat.

She was disappointed on the latter point, unfortunately. When Beatrice was shown into their well-appointed though small townhouse, Eva's beauty was undimmed, shining like the sun. If anything, she was even lovelier, worries erased from her face and a gentle contentment found there instead. Josiah was nowhere to be seen, however, and Beatrice suspected that he had made himself scarce when he had heard who was calling.

"Beatrice? That is, Miss Heart?" Eva asked, her brows flying up her smooth forehead. "Is everything quite alright?"

Beatrice, having followed the maid that answered the door into a small parlour where Eva was sitting to receive any callers, took off her gloves with sharp little movements. "Hello, Lady Eva," she said coolly, refusing to let Eva see how unsettled she truly was. "I rather imagine that you did not expect me to be one of your callers today."

"I did not," Eva admitted, her velvety voice showing her honesty. "Still, please come in and take a seat. May I offer you something?"

"I would never refuse tea," Beatrice replied, settling herself into a little chair opposite Eva.

Duly, Eva rang for said tea, and they waited in a strained, awkward silence as the maid went to fetch it. Beatrice looked about the parlour, the domesticity of it all, and did her best to keep her lip from curling. There was very little style, but then, Beatrice was used to only allowing the most beautiful of things near her abode.

"I know that face," Eva said softly into the silence, startling Beatrice, who slid her eyes over to stare at her. "You are disapproving of something, but working very hard not to let it be known."

"It's not that I disapprove," Beatrice objected hurriedly. "It's more that... Well, to be honest, I had never expected Josiah to be the sort of man with doilies on his side table, if you take my meaning. It is far more domestic than I would have credited him with."

Eva looked around, her eyes flicking over the furnishings as if seeing them for the first time. A slow smile crept over Eva's face. "I know what you mean," she agreed, to Beatrice's surprise. "I would have been content to remain on a tour of the Continent, but Josiah was eager to settle back in London."

"Well, I am glad that married life agrees with both of you," Beatrice said. She checked her tone as Eva's eyes hardened a little, unsure if she had been insulted. Impulsively, Beatrice reached across the table, laying a hand on Eva's in an uncharacteristically warm gesture. "No, I mean it," she said emphatically. "I would have been very upset to come here and to have seen both of you looking miserable. I am glad that you are both happy. It is not the life I would wish for myself, but I am... It's good to see that someone in London is happy."

Eva appeared to absorb this, her dark eyes searching Beatrice's face. She continued this silent, meditative observance even as the maid reappeared with a tea tray. Wordlessly, Eva poured for Beatrice, who took her tea without milk or sugar. When they had both been served and taken a couple of sips, Eva spoke at last.

"I must confess that I had wondered how our next meeting would be," she said, a cautious smile on her face. "I know that things had been...awkward between us, but I want you to know that I have been so very pleased to hear of all of your successes." Eva paused here, and Beatrice's sharp eyes immediately cut to her.

"You know something," she said, less a question than a statement.

Eva hesitated. "I might," she admitted. "I had heard that things might be...well, a little more difficult of late."

"Difficult?" Beatrice repeated with a strange little laugh. "I suppose that might be one way of putting it."

Eva put her teacup down with a soft clank against the matching saucer. She placed both of her hands in her lap, and leaned forward, pitching her voice a little lower as if afraid that they might be overheard by as-yet unseen persons.

"Miss Heart—Beatrice—you should know that I make no judgements on how you comport yourself. What you do with yourself is your own affair, insomuch as I am concerned." She paused, glancing down to idly push a teaspoon forward to be more in line with the others. "However, you must know that not all of London feels the same as I do."

Beatrice allowed herself a little sigh. "Believe me, I am quite aware. I have been on the stage in one way or another since I was only eight years old—I have seen all of the censure the ton has to offer. That is," she amended, "I thought I had."

Eva nodded. "It seems that you have fallen afoul of someone in particular who has taken up a grudge against you." She looked at Beatrice expectantly, clearly believing that she would fill in that gap willingly.

Beatrice, cagey as a cat, did not answer immediately, however. Instead, she lifted her teacup and sipped again, humming appreciatively. She was immensely fond of tea, and the blend Eva had on offer was tolerably good. She did not anticipate Eva's patience, unfortunately, and found that her hostess merely continued to gaze at her, blinking her large brown eyes impassively.

"I may have some idea of who is behind all of this," Beatrice relented finally. "It is entirely possible that it is all down to one man in particular, actually."

Eva, lifting her own teacup, raised one eyebrow queryingly. "It seems like an awful lot of vitriol for a—what, a lover's quarrel of some sort?"

"Well," Beatrice hedged, "it may not be just a quarrel. It may be that I...well, I may have put a man's nose quite out of joint , you might say."

Blankly, Eva stared at Beatrice, her eyes searching her face. "You've offended someone? Well, that may not be the wisest course of action, but—"

"No, that's not—well, yes, I suppose I did offend him, but—no, the point is that I may have ended our quarrel by breaking his nose," Beatrice announced with forced casualness, as if it were of no more consequence than discussing the latest gloves from Paris.

Eva's eyes widened. "Oh Beatrice, you didn't!" she breathed. "Who was this man?"

"His Honour, Judge Derrick Horner," Beatrice announced, saying it far more bravely than she felt after the fact.

"Oh, good Lord," Eva gasped, pressing her fingers to her mouth. "Viscount Bartholemew's great-nephew?" At Beatrice's nod, Eva only looked more distressed, her eyes dancing back and forth across the table. Suddenly, she rang a small brass bell on the side table, summoning the maid again.

Beatrice's stomach fell, certain that she was on the verge of being asked to leave. To her immense relief, when the maid entered, Eva said, "Go at once and tell Cook to send up any cake that we might have at the ready. If we haven't one, I want you to fly like the wind down to the bakery and get the first one you see. Don't dawdle!"

The maid, so thrown off by such a sudden request, sort of trotted in place for a moment before whirling for the door quickly. She stopped, remembering that she had forgotten to curtsy, and then scampered out the door. At Beatrice's bewildered look, Eva shrugged.

"This is a crisis far too big for just tea," she explained. "This clearly requires cake, and a great deal of it, I expect."

In spite of her trepidation, Beatrice couldn't help but bark out a laugh, which made Eva smile in return.

Several moments were spent in companionable silence then, with Beatrice surreptitiously glancing about the room, still a little baffled that the worldly Mr Galpin could have settled into such a domestic setting.

The maid returned shortly, her nose red from the cold and looking a little winded. There was a selection of little Queen cakes arranged on a tray, and some other dainty cakes with icing and candied rose petals on top. After they had both eaten several bites, Eva fixed Beatrice with her dark eyes again.

"What is your plan now?" Eva asked into the space between bites of cake.

"Plan? For what, precisely?" Beatrice asked, her brows raising a little.

"I imagine you will need to make a plan to either weather this storm or to make amends," Eva explained, pressing her fork onto some crumbs of cake. "I would presume that an apology of some sort would go a long way—"

"Hah!" Beatrice interjected, sneering a little and popping one of the candied rose petals into her mouth.

"—but I am not sure that such a thing is possible now, for a variety of reasons," Eva finished.

"I'd rather eat my hat than apologise to that cretin, and it's a very good hat. I've been through scandal before; I am sure that I shall court it again before I am done," Beatrice said with forced casualness.

"I'm not sure any of us has been through anything like this before," Eva argued gently. "The very fact that you are here, taking tea with me ought to be proof positive of that."

Beatrice paused, caught by Eva's logic. She was right, of course, which only made the pit in Beatrice's stomach grow a little more jagged. Eva, catching the stricken look on Beatrice's face, impulsively reached across the table and took her hand.

"You must be careful, Beatrice," she said, her voice lowered. "I mean it—Judge Horner is notorious for his temper and cruelty, both in and out of the courtroom. It's unlikely he is simply going to let this go, particularly if you have humiliated him. He could very easily ruin you."

Beatrice glanced away, her jaw tightening. It was hard to ignore what Eva said, mostly because Beatrice knew it to be very true. She had known that Judge Horner had a reputation, but had believed, foolishly, that she could keep him in hand. She'd never had trouble dandling the male of the species before, and it was entirely possible that this had caused her to grow arrogant.

Not that she would ever admit that out loud, of course.

"Perhaps if you were to leave London for a while," Eva suggested. "Not forever, but just long enough for the scandal to die down. Or," she said with her thickly-fringed eyes crinkling at the corners, "at least until a better one comes along."

"Perhaps," Beatrice agreed. "It is rather hard to secure invitations when one has been labelled persona non grata ." There was a lull in the conversation as she idly swirled her tea gently in her cup. "But then, I do not know where I would go; it's not as if I have any real connections outside of London."

"Have you no family to go to?" Eva inquired.

Beatrice wrinkled her nose. "Oh heavens, no."

"What about any acquaintances on the Continent? Though, you may not wish to depart; one hears such troubling tidings from France," Eva mused, a neat line forming on her forehead as she did so.

"I thought all of that business with Napoleon was settled," Beatrice replied. She had more than a passing interest in politics, finding that gentlemen frequently liked to discuss it.

Eva offered a little shrug. "It seems perhaps not."

"Well, in any case, I have no interest in leaving England. I want to be able to return to London fairly quickly when the time is right," Beatrice said decidedly. "The trouble is, I do not know where that is. It's not as if I can holiday in Bath, not if I want to completely avoid the ton."

Eva nodded in agreement. "That seems wise; if you are among them, it keeps the rumours alive." She paused again, lifted her cup, then put it back down. "Give me some time to make inquiries—I might know someone who could help."