He just stared for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. “She’s taking notes? What does this notebook look like, Lucy?”
She debated whether to tell him or not—what if he went looking for the book and stole it? Her mother would never forgive her, not to mention that Lucy would no longer be able to hold it over his head. But she knew he’d get the information out of her sooner or later. She tried to describe the book as vaguely as possible. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve seen the outside of the notebook too often…it’s always open when I see her with it. But I do believe it’s leather. Oh, and small, so she can fit it in her pocket.”
Charles had spent several years after university working for the War Office and easily recognized evasion. But his sister was as formidable as any French spy he had ever encountered, and he decided to drop the questioning for the moment. He’d find and destroy the book later.
“You’re very helpful, Lu. I can’t thank you enough…and I shall see you later this evening.” And with a roguish grin, he rose from the chair and headed back to his room, deciding that his ride in the park could wait.
Chapter Two
B eatrice Sinclair sat very still, holding a slender pen poised over a blank page in her well-worn journal. She wrote three words, but crossed them out almost immediately. She waited for more words, better words, to spill forth. They didn’t.
Frowning, she laid her notebook on her lap, realizing she was too distracted to give her writing the thought that it deserved. How could she concentrate on fiction when reality—her personal reality—was in such a shambles?
She looked around her bedroom for literary inspiration. The walls of her great-aunt Louisa’s house were papered, variously, with pastoral scenes or with complicated floral motifs. Beatrice’s bedroom was a pastoral room. Shepherds and milkmaids cavorted about the walls, and had the added bonus of having trompe l’oeil clouds painted on the ceiling. Personally, she would have preferred to be outside, but Louisa had just called her back indoors; she disapproved of young ladies getting too much sun. A single freckle could spoil a girl’s chances completely, or so she claimed.
Beatrice turned her attention back to her journal and sighed. She’d kept it since her first season, five years earlier. Initially, it had been a diary in the true sense of the word, a place where she’d related each day’s events—Beatrice had quickly realized that if she didn’t occupy her mind in some useful fashion, she’d risk becoming as empty-headed as the rest of the ton. However, as the season drew to a close and she read over her diary, she’d realized bleakly how dull her life had become: party after dinner after ball, all with the sole purpose of snagging some unsuspecting male. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been even slightly interested in any of the gentlemen she met at these endless social events, but she had a difficult time dredging up the faintest enthusiasm for most of them.
By the end of that first season, Beatrice had resigned herself to one thing: in looking for a husband, reality and fantasy would never agree, and the less imagination one had, the better. Where were broad shoulders in the real world? Razor-sharp wit? Tall, dark and handsome? Clearly, these things didn’t exist, and if one could accept that, one would never be disappointed by reality.
Unfortunately, this revelation came too late. By the end of her first season she’d earned the moniker “Cold Fish Beatrice” for her repeated refusals. By her second and third seasons, the many proposals she’d once received had all but dried up.
So she’d spent two years at home in the country and now—older, wiser and much reformed—she was ready to embark on yet another season. This time, though, she had a plan. Wisdom helped her realize that she needed an outlet for her imagination, so, at the sage age of twenty-three, Beatrice had stopped keeping a diary and had turned to fiction. This way, she hoped, she could invent whatever romantic hero she pleased, and resign herself to the stooped shoulders of reality.
So far, her plan wasn’t working out as she had expected, but the season was only a few weeks old.
“Beatrice, this is not acceptable.”
Louisa was glaring at her with extreme annoyance. Even when pleased, her great-aunt was a sight to behold, with her steel-gray hair, her steel-gray eyes, her long nose and her tall, thin body. When Louisa was irritated, however, intimidating took on a whole new meaning. She could incite fear in the stoutest of hearts with a simple curl of her lip, and all that saved Beatrice from quaking in her seat now was the knowledge that, deep down—very deep, perhaps—her aunt was generous, caring and devoted to her family.
Beatrice was afraid she knew what “this” meant, although she asked all the same, biding for time. “I’m sorry, Louisa—what precisely is not acceptable?”
Louisa snorted indelicately. “Your sister informs me that you don’t plan to attend Lady Teasdale’s ball this evening. Why did you not discuss this with me?”
Beatrice began guiltily, “Well…Eleanor mentioned something about there being a new production of King Lear at Drury Lane, and that she had no one to attend with her—”
“Beatrice, you already promised that you’d go to Lady Teasdale’s. Besides, Eleanor is only sixteen! She hardly needs to be going to the theater. I should never have told your father that she could come visit you, even if it was for only a few weeks. King Lear. Humph,” Louisa sniffed. “There’s a man with three daughters for you…and look what happened to him. It’ll only give Eleanor ideas. I’m just glad Helen isn’t here to see it.”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic, Auntie. You couldn’t find three daughters more devoted to their father than Eleanor, Helen and me, and I can assure you that Eleanor’s motives are innocent. She just loves the theater.”
Louisa rolled her eyes. “Back to the subject at hand, Beatrice. Truth is, Eleanor knows that you don’t want to go to the Teasdales’, and as she’s too young to go herself, she figures there’s no harm in you missing the ball.”
“Is there?” Beatrice asked hopefully.
Louisa assumed mock disbelief. “Have you gone off and gotten married without telling me, Beatrice Sinclair? Of course there’s harm in missing the ball—you’re a desperate case.”
Beatrice was used to these comments and knew that Louisa didn’t really mean them…not entirely, anyway. She put on her most innocent face, which was sure to irritate her aunt. “I can’t believe you would accuse me of avoiding Lady Teasdale’s.”
Louisa snorted again. “Do I look like a fool? You’ve been telling me that you didn’t want to go since arriving here last month. Yes, Lady Teasdale is tiresome, but her balls are always well attended, especially by eligible young men.” She sighed. “You’re not even giving it a chance, Bea. The season has been in full swing for two weeks, and I made your father a promise.”
“I know, Louisa…. I only thought that, as I have already been to Lady Teasdale’s annual ball three times in the past—without, I should remind you, much success—”
“Who needs reminding? Clearly, you are not married.”
Beatrice counted to five, praying she wouldn’t lose her temper. “Clearly.”
“And how old are you?”
She almost didn’t answer. Louisa managed to mention her age at least twice a day, and Beatrice had little doubt that she
