Beatrice sighed. Lottie seemed to be confusing Beatrice’s predicament with her own life since she’d left Mr. Graham. Although Beatrice noticed that Lottie hadn’t started taking lovers and living the life of a fast matron.
“I don’t want to be a dashing and scandalous courtesan,” Beatrice said quietly. “And I do have to make a decision, because Lord Hope isn’t the sort of man who sits about waiting for others to make up their minds. He’ll decide it for me if I don’t do it soon.”
“Hmm, that does pose a problem.”
“Yes, it does.” Beatrice looked at her hands in her lap, trying to sort through her feelings. “I wish I knew how he felt for me—or even if he can feel.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s so cold sometimes, Lottie, as if whatever gentleness he once had, whatever capacity to love, was destroyed by his years in the Colonies.” Beatrice looked at her friend to see if she understood.
“You don’t know if he can love you.”
Beatrice nodded miserably.
All of Lottie’s animation seemed to leave her. “It’s so hard to tell, isn’t it? Gentlemen don’t have the same thoughts and goals as we ladies.” Lottie thought for a moment and then said, “I’m not even sure they know themselves when they love a lady or not.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Beatrice thought morosely. How was she to understand Lord Hope’s motives when she didn’t understand the man himself? Had he made love to her because he cared for her? Or for some other, more subtle male reason, perhaps even simply lust? Making the whole situation more difficult was her own desire. Deep inside, a part of her simply wanted him, whether or not he felt the same. And that, she knew, was dangerous. She risked dreadful hurt if all the emotion was only on her side.
At that moment, the carriage pulled up in front of Mrs. Postlethwaite’s town house, and Beatrice’s thoughts turned to other matters. “Do you see Mr. Wheaton’s carriage?”
She glanced up and down the crowded street. Two more carriages were behind them, and a pair of burly men loitered by the house next door. Her eyes narrowed, but they looked nothing like the toughs who had attacked her and Lord Hope the other day. These men were much better dressed for one thing.
“No,” Lottie replied. “But he will’ve entered through the mews so as not to draw attention to himself.”
That certainly made sense. This was only the third clandestine meeting of Mr. Wheaton’s Veteran’s Friends Society. Had it not been a Society meeting, Beatrice probably wouldn’t have gone out at all; Jeremy’s death was too recent. But she was here for Jeremy in a way. He’d been the one to introduce her to Mr. Wheaton’s thoughts on soldiers and what happened to them after they retired from His Majesty’s army. Jeremy had cared deeply for the men who had served under him. He’d wanted them to retire with enough money that they wouldn’t end up begging on the street. One so often saw those pitiful creatures, still in their red coats, missing limbs or an eye, sitting on corners with a tin cup in their hands. Beatrice shuddered. She felt sure Jeremy would understand her being here today.
She descended the carriage with Lottie and gave their names to the butler who answered the door. In a moment, they were being shown into a small but neat sitting room, and Mrs. Postlethwaite was greeting them.
“How kind of you to join us, Miss Corning, Mrs. Graham.” Mrs. Postlethwaite took their hands and squeezed them gently before leading them to a settee.
She was a lady of middling years, dressed always in somber gray and black, her silver hair pulled away from her face into a simple knot and covered with a cap. Mrs. Postlethwaite had lost her husband, Colonel Postlethwaite, to action on the Continent some years ago. She’d been left with a comfortable annual income and time on her hands, which she’d decided to put to use helping the men her husband had led. The men she’d come to know over the years as she followed Colonel Postlethwaite on campaign.
Beatrice glanced about the room as their hostess led them in. Besides Mrs. Postlethwaite, there were perhaps half a dozen gentlemen of middling to elderly years. Beatrice and Lottie were the only other ladies in the room, and Beatrice was grateful that their hostess had made the case to include them in the society.
Mrs. Postlethwaite served tea and small, hard biscuits, and then Mr. Wheaton entered the room. He was a young man of average height, his light brown hair clubbed back simply without powder of any kind. As usual, he wore a preoccupied frown. Mrs. Postlethwaite had once confided that Mrs. Wheaton was in poor health and had been confined to bed for some years now. To have an ailing wife and to deal with all the business being a member of parliament entailed must be a weary burden for the poor man.
Mr. Wheaton had a sheaf of papers in his hand, and he set these down on a table before clearing his throat. The room grew quiet. He nodded in acknowledgment of their attention and said, “Thank you, friends, for coming today. I have some matters of import that I’d like to discuss regarding the bill and the members of parliament we think we can count on to vote in its favor. Now, then . . .”
Beatrice leaned forward as Mr. Wheaton outlined his plans, but a small part of her mind thought about how Jeremy would’ve loved to be here. She’d not fulfilled her promise to him. He’d died before Mr. Wheaton’s bill could be passed. She’d failed in that, but she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t fail the bill itself. She’d do everything in her power to help the bill and all the soldiers who’d fought for England. The bill would pass. She’d see to it.
For Jeremy.
“THE MAN WHO led the attack on you is named Joe Cork,” Vale said as he threw himself into a chair.
Reynaud looked up from the solicitor’s report he was reading and stared at his old friend. He was in a small sitting room to the back of Blanchard House, which he’d commandeered as his study. There was an official study for the earl, of course, but the usurper held it at the moment, and Reynaud’s solicitors were counseling patience. Thus this temporary refuge for business. He’d be damned, though, if he’d give up residence in his own house.
“You found him, then?” he asked Vale.
Vale screwed up his mouth into a comical face. “Not exactly found, no. The blighter appears to have disappeared. But several lowlifes identified him from the description given by my man, Pynch.”
“Pynch?”
“I say, you don’t know Pynch, do you?” Vale scratched his nose. “I acquired him after, well, after Spinner’s Falls. He was my batman in the army and now serves as a rather uppity valet.”
“Ah.” Reynaud tapped the paper in front of him with his pencil. “And how does this pertain to the assassin?”
Vale shrugged. “Well, Pynch was the one I sent to make inquiries. Amazin’ what he can worm out of the most tight-lipped fellows. But it seems this Joe Cork has flown the coop. No one’s seen him for several days.”
Reynaud leaned back in his chair. “Dammit. I’d hoped to find out who had hired him.”
“It’s a setback, I agree.” Vale pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling a moment. “Have you thought about hiring guards?”