Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

E very ballroom had one.

The perfect stretch of wall from where one could stand and observe, unobserved.

The Duke of Acaster’s ballroom was no exception.

From here, Beatrix could memorize all the details, both large and small, that she would note in the journal she kept expressly for the purpose.

The journal.

It had been a casualty of that afternoon in Hyde Park— lost .

She’d returned to the very spot where she’d practically been trampled by Mr. Blake Deverill’s horse. It hadn’t been there—and left no sign of ever having been.

The panic she’d been holding carefully at bay had immediately assailed her. What if someone had found it? She would be exposed and shunned from society.

The next instant, her good sense had come to her rescue. Her name wasn’t written inside, and she couldn’t be identified by her handwriting. The fact was no one could point a finger in her direction as the author—or authoress, as the case was.

Besides, what had she written that was particularly scandalous? Names…dates…locations…adjectives…a few adverbs.

Well, some of those adjectives and adverbs could’ve been construed as somewhat… pointed . Further, she supposed one might wonder about all those names, dates, and locations in relation to those pointed adjectives and adverbs.

But, again, her name was written nowhere within its covers.

Which might’ve been a tell in and of itself.

If she’d mattered one jot in society.

So, panic subsided, she’d gotten on with it and purchased a new journal, spending precious coin she nearly didn’t have.

Now, from her perfect nook, she noted that Lord Oxnard had danced twice with Miss Barclay, while Lady Oxnard, a known hand at Macao, was otherwise occupied in the card room.

Beatrix’s immediate impulse was to find Artemis and share a snicker.

Except she couldn’t.

Artemis was in Yorkshire, and she had to accept the possibility that Artemis might not return to London at all. While she didn’t need or desire a wide circle of friends, it was nice having the one with whom she could share a gossipy giggle at a ball. A letter once a week wasn’t the same.

Maybe she could make a new friend. Except…she wasn’t sure how precisely one went about it. She’d only been lucky enough to happen upon her friendship with Artemis.

Really, though, how did one make friends?

She could venture from her protective stretch of wall, she supposed, and stand at the periphery of the dancing floor with the other spinsters and wallflowers. From there, she could strike up a conversation with one or two of those spinsters and wallflowers and— possibly —have a new friend.

At least, that was how the sequence of maneuvers followed in her mind.

Except…

She was likely a good five years older than the oldest spinster who yet harbored the hope of being picked, and she was a good ten years older than the wallflowers.

She would have nothing in common with any of them.

There was the further fact that she didn’t dance, so it would be awkward to stand there with a silly, hopeful smile on her face, as if she were waiting for a gentleman to pick her.

Her reason for not dancing wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy dancing.

She did—immensely, in fact.

The freedom of being swept into the flow of music and whirled around and around and around, giddy delight buoyant in one’s chest, was the closest humans came to flying.

Or, at least, that was how she remembered it from eight years ago.

She didn’t dance for two reasons.

First, she had a reputation to uphold. These last eight years, she’d adopted a manner of, well, indifference to gentlemen and frivolities like dancing—and it had succeeded. No one suspected a single, solitary truth about her life. Society assumed she held herself above such things and, mostly, let her be.

Her second reason for not dancing was loosely related to the first. These last few seasons a merry-go-round of unmarried gentlemen had been making sport of her refusal. At every ball, several would seek her out, discovering her private nook, and asked her to dance. She refused each and every one. Yet they seemed either too caught up in their own interests or, plainly, too stupid to realize she understood what was happening.

With absolute certainty, she knew a betting book was involved.

It was the only explanation for the, frankly, insulting behavior.

Tonight, however, she’d only been asked once and thus had only to refuse once, able to cite her injured ankle. Really, it might be worth feigning a permanent limp, for the strict truth was her wrist and ankle were mostly healed, which was, of course, down to the physician sent by Mr. Deverill.

In the end, when her knocker had sounded, she’d done as he’d commanded and opened her front door, both appendages thoroughly throbbing by then due to her additional excursion to Shepherd’s Market to procure Cumberbatch’s castor oil.

Before she could even greet the man, the physician had briskly informed her there was no point in refusing his services as he’d already been compensated. From there, he’d efficiently determined nothing was broken and wrapped her limbs, all the while teaching her how to do it herself. He’d even asked if she had castor oil, as it was known to settle the inflammatory tendencies of injured muscles. She’d assured him that, as it happened, she did have castor oil on hand.

Just now, a silver tray bearing a dozen coupes of bubbly champagne floated within arm’s reach, and on impulse, she lifted one. Though she didn’t usually imbibe libations at society events—after all, her livelihood depended on her mind being sharp—she decided tonight could be an exception.

By the time the coupe was half empty, her ankle was barking its displeasure less stridently and she ventured from her protective stretch of wall. Who knew champagne possessed healing properties?

Quite a few monks in France, likely.

Her attention bounced around the ballroom in time to the lively quartet of stringed instruments, allowing her to take in the atmosphere without making a single observation.

Was this how enjoyment felt?

It might even be tempting the corners of her mouth into a ceilingward position.

Then her gaze snagged on a figure on the opposite end of the dancing floor—a broad set of shoulders, to be exact—and all beginnings of a smile fell decidedly in the past.

Mr. Deverill…

Here.

Of course, he was here.

Where wasn’t he these days?

And what a sight he presented, dressed in evening blacks cut to perfection across his form. Her gaze lifted and didn’t stop lifting until it reached…his mouth.

Oh, his mouth .

A mouth that belonged on a woman.

That the possessor was a man— this man—well, it held a decided allure that she didn’t understand.

Of course, these qualities were the easily observable that anyone could see.

If she were to record him in her journal tonight, what could she write that society didn’t already know?

The rasp running alongside the deep timbre of his voice that held a soft note of Irish lilt… His scent of fresh pine and open sea that made one want to keep inhaling him… The spark within his eyes that spoke of intelligence and drive and something else, too— ruthlessness .

Society only thought it had dubbed him Lord Devil for his physical appearance, but it was that which sparked within those aquamarine depths that conjured the devil.

What more could she say that society didn’t yet know?

The strength of those muscles beneath superfine… The feel of his masculine, long-fingered hands… That when they held one in their grasp, one felt entirely secure.

One could like that feeling.

If one didn’t put it from her mind.

She was staring at his hands.

Her gaze shifted…

And found itself staring at his mouth— again .

She was just about to turn her attention to the opposite end of the room when she saw a lady approach him.

Lady Standish —an attractive widow of one year who had the reputation of pursuing her passions with, erm , great vigor.

Of course.

Of course, Lady Standish would try her luck with Lord Devil.

That little tidbit would most definitely be going into the journal tonight.

She averted her gaze. She didn’t need to watch to know how events would unfold.

Her attention landed on an interesting figure— the Duchess of Acaster , the widow of the sixth duke and a renowned beauty.

Only a few months ago, she’d met the woman over a dinner held by Artemis’s brother, the Duke of Rakesley. At the time, it had been widely assumed Rake would ask the duchess to marry him. Instead, he’d run off with his jockey and married her.

Leaving the duchess in the metaphorical lurch.

For Beatrix harbored a suspicion about the woman.

Bluntly, that she was penniless.

Beatrix knew the signs—the remade dresses…the fact that the duchess had never once hosted a party of her own neither before nor after she’d become a widow.

Tonight, however, the duchess was both playing hostess to this ball and wearing a vibrant fuchsia silk gown in the first stare of fashion.

Beatrix’s mind was quick to fit the puzzle pieces together: The dress would’ve been a gift from the recently elevated Seventh Duke of Acaster as a way of showing his gratitude to her for helping him throw this come-out ball for his sisters, the Ladies Saskia and Viveca, and for introducing them around society.

Unbidden, another puzzle piece slotted into place.

As tonight’s hostess, the duchess would’ve been the one to oversee the guest list. She would’ve approved the invitation to Mr. Blake Deverill.

In the interest of gaining a feel for the man through eyes other than her own—for the gossip pages, of course, not to assuage her own curiosity—Beatrix found herself closing the distance between herself and the duchess.

The duchess’s brow lifted in mild surprise to find Beatrix standing at her side. As it wasn’t her way, Beatrix didn’t waste precious time with small talk. “What do you know of that man?”

Since curious ears could be listening, she didn’t name the man. She did, however, jut her chin in his direction. Though a good thirty men stood in that direction, there could be but one man— truly .

The duchess’s eyes lit with understanding, even as she gave a little shrug that men surely found entrancing. Renowned beauties tended to render men entranced. Beatrix wouldn’t know this from her own experience of the opposite sex, but she’d witnessed it aplenty in her years of observing balls from the periphery.

“Nothing, really,” said the duchess.

Somehow, that answer confirmed something for Beatrix. “And yet he’s here.”

“I believe the duke has business dealings with him.” The duchess conveyed utter indifference to the matter of Blake Deverill.

But Beatrix was getting at something bigger… “Don’t you find it odd that a man none of us knew existed a year ago is suddenly everywhere?”

The duchess canted her head as if considering both the man and Beatrix’s words. At last, she said, “He doesn’t seem the sort of man who would be denied entry into any place he wanted to be.”

An insightful observation, to be sure. But, still, it didn’t satisfy an as-yet undefined feeling inside Beatrix. “Which only further begs the question,” she pressed. “Why is he so hellbent on being in these rooms?”

In truth, she was posing the question to herself.

“Ah, I’ve found you, at last!” came an overloud exclamation from the ever-affable Earl of Wrexford, a man with the personality of an excitable spaniel.

The you in question was the duchess, who smiled her beautiful smile when it was clear—to Beatrix’s eyes, at least—she wanted to wince.

Beatrix took the opportunity to slip away, even though a few lines concerning a budding courtship between the Duchess of Acaster and the Earl of Wrexford could bring her a nice chunk of coin. She had other matters to pursue.

Across the room, Lady Standish turned dramatically and directed a saucy glance over her shoulder toward Mr. Deverill.

The lady’s meaning was clear.

He was to follow.

Would he, though?

Beatrix had her answer in a trio of seconds.

He followed.

Beatrix’s feet would’ve been wise to remain planted where they were.

Or better yet, return to her protective stretch of wall.

What she shouldn’t do was give chase.

And very, very wrongly, she did.

Her pursuit was neither swift nor nimble, but rather dogged—as she did all things in life, it seemed.

She entered a dimly lit corridor with all manner of paired-up couples—none the couple she sought. A door leading outside stood at the end, and she pushed it open only wide enough to cock an ear for the sound of voices.

On the verge of retreat, she heard it—the low murmuration of quiet conversation between a man and a woman.

Without conscious thought, her body followed her ear, and she was silently easing along the stone wall, toward those voices. Deverill and Lady Standish stood below the terrace, which left Beatrix lucky. She could crouch in the corner and listen.

The first words she’d caught with any sort of clarity were those from a giggly Lady Standish. “Or even here, if you like.”

Beatrix’s brow crinkled. What could that mean?

A raspy groan escaped Deverill. “If you keep that up, I might just have to.”

Oh.

Heat crawled through Beatrix, and suddenly her dress felt too confining. Really, she could hardly draw breath.

“That’s the idea.” Lady Standish’s voice had gone a few octaves lower.

“Meet me in Mivart’s in one hour.”

“That long?” No mistaking the pout in the woman’s voice.

“I’m worth the wait.”

He would say that.

“And your room number?” asked Lady Standish, undeterred by his arrogance—possibly further intrigued by it.

“The entire top floor is mine. Tell the concierge you’re my new amanuensis.”

An incredulous scoff carried on the air. “Do I look like a servant?”

A masculine chuckle followed. “He’ll know what it means.”

Beatrix only just didn’t snort.

Even she knew what it meant.

It meant Lady Standish was one lady of many.

Not that the lady in question would care.

After all, Lord Devil was one in many.

“But it’s gone midnight.” The lady’s protest was weak.

“I work all hours, my lady,” rumbled from his chest. “And I always deliver on time.”

Beatrix knew what that meant, too. The blush burned the tips of her ears.

Before she could think through her actions, her feet were moving.

Within three minutes, she was out of Acaster’s mansion and crossing St. James’s Square.

One hour.

She had one hour—well, fifty-seven minutes—to see for herself how the devil lived.