Honestly, this woman was given to dramatics. Had she not thought to consider that some who seek fortunes do so with the best of intentions? She had no idea of the circumstances some may be faced with. She was probably some pampered heiress, sitting in her ivory tower with her jewels and morning chocolate, looking down upon all those whose lots in life were less fortunate.

“A bit extreme, I think.”

“Have you gotten to the engraving yet? Then we’ll talk extremes.”

Raising an eyebrow, Colin turned his attention to the drawing. The lines were bolder this time, the figures more realistically portrayed. As he took in the three figures and the finely detailed background, a sliver of dread worked its way between his ribs, like the slow winding of a silken ribbon being tied into an inescapable knot. There was no mistaking Godfrey this time—he couldn’t have been more plainly portrayed if he had posed for the thing.

But it was worse than that. It was the all too familiar balcony, the scene from a night he would rather forget. Synchronized watches, the hooked nose of Mr. Jones—all of it was there, as if plucked from his memory.

Or drawn by another who was there.

Beatrice. Muttering a curse, he dropped the uneaten portion of his toast on his plate and came to his feet.

“Like I said, it’s a good thing you are betrothed. Someone in the ton is out to expose those intent on securing a well-dowered wife. I’d say you are damned fortunate, old man.”

Fortunate? Colin had never felt less fortunate in his life. He had known, thanks to Raleigh, of Beatrice’s clear aversion of fortune hunters, but he never imagined her revulsion was so strong as to prompt her to write the letters. “Indeed. Now, if you will excuse me, I have rather a lot to attend to today. Good day.”

Her immense dislike of men like him wasn’t even the whole problem. In writing this last letter, she opened herself up for Godfrey to recognize her as the author. Only three people had been privy to the scene. It wouldn’t take the man long to put together which of the two of them was the disgruntled debutant.

Stuffing the magazine into his jacket, he paused long enough to collect his hat and greatcoat before heading out into the frosty November morning. It might be entirely too early in the morning for society’s unwritten rules, but he hardly gave a damn. He had to see Beatrice, and he intended to do so at once.

Chapter Twenty-two

The one true advantage to Granville House over Hertford Hall was that the morning sun, on those rare cloudless days, seemed to shine through the haze over the city differently than it did in the country, creating a soft, diffused pink-tinged light that seemed to glow in Beatrice’s studio.

On mornings like this, the inspiration was so heady, she could hardly seem to paint fast enough. Each stroke felt exactly right, every line just so—it was as if someone else guided her hand. She was so intent on her work, she didn’t hear the quiet clip of footsteps until they were practically at her door. Turning Colin’s portrait away from where it could be seen from the doorway, she slipped around toward another painting when the scratch at the door came.

When she bade them to enter, Finnington pushed open the door and dipped his head. “Pardon the interruption of your studio time, my lady, but I thought you might like to know that Sir Colin has arrived and is waiting in the drawing room.”

Colin? Her eyes darted to the clock. She hadn’t lost track of time—it was only eleven o’clock. “Thank you, Finnington. I’ll be down in ten minutes.” She waited until the door clicked shut again before yanking off her apron and scrubbing at the paint spots on her fingers. If he was here this early, it was either an exceedingly good thing or a terribly bad thing.

Eleven minutes later, with a fresh gown and tidied hair in place, she paused outside the drawing room door, drew a steadying breath to slow her pounding heartbeat, and glided into the room.

Colin stood by the window, his arms crossed as he looked out onto the square. She stopped just inside the room, watching him while he wasn’t yet aware of her presence. He looked . . . striking. His black hair, glossy in the late-morning sun, was combed back from his forehead. The sharp line of his jaw was even harsher than usual, the muscles tensed. So somber and serious—exactly the way she imagined he would look in a courtroom.

He looked up suddenly, his gaze going straight to her. The sternness didn’t leave altogether, but his brow relaxed considerably, and he held out a hand to her. “Good morning.”

The music of his voice so early in the day was like an unexpected present, tied with a satin bow and set in her lap. She was definitely going to like waking up to him each morning.

She went to him, a slight blush heating her cheeks and a not so slight grin on her lips. “Good morning to you as well.” Lifting onto her toes, she kissed him full on the lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your morning visit? And how can I make it happen again?”

He chuckled reluctantly, as if wanting to remain stern, but unable to do so. Good. If he was going to surprise her for a visit, she wanted it to be on good terms.

“I’d have come earlier, if I had known it was your wish. As it happens,” he said, his voice reverting to Serious Colin, “I came after my breakfast was interrupted with a certain magazine being dropped on my plate.”

Beatrice’s enthusiasm slipped, sliding backward toward caution. “Oh?”

He reached into his jacket and extracted a rather rumpled copy of A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion. “Imagine my surprise when I opened it this morning.”

His voice was soft, not at all accusing. How best to proceed? He didn’t seem angry or censorious, but clearly he wasn’t happy. Now that he was so close, she could see the faint lines creasing the skin surrounding his eyes. She accepted the magazine, looking over her handiwork once more. “Recognize my superior drawing skills, did you?” Her words were light and teasing even as worry tightened her throat. There was no telling what he would say.

“I recognized something, to be sure.”

“Sir Godfrey?”

“Him, the background, the point of the scene.” He shook his head, running a hand at the back of his neck. “Did you not consider that he would see this? He’d know in moments that it was one of the two of us, and we all know I am not the artist of my family.”

Dread coiled within her, just like when she first realized that she had unintentionally drawn Mr. Godfrey in the last letter. She lifted her chin. “I don’t know about that. All I know is that he had tried to ruin my life—and very nearly succeeded.” The familiar fire of righteous anger sparked to life within her as she looked at the scene again. “So what if he recognizes me? If he says anything, it will only be confirming that he is a heartless fortune hunter.”

“And once he sees this, do you think he will be feeling particularly rational about it?”

She put a hand to her middle to try to soothe the building turmoil. She wasn’t wrong. Perhaps imprudent, but not wrong. “And will you be ashamed of me if he does?” Her chin hitched up a bit higher, an almost unconscious defense.

He looked down at her, frustration dulling his stony gaze. With a sigh, he reached for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. “Never, a stór. But worry and shame are two very different things. I doona want you to be hurt if Godfrey should open his mouth.”

The warmth of his touch soaked into her skin, calming her. “I’m making a difference for the ladies of the ton, Colin. If it can help someone avoid a similar trap, then I can handle a bit of scandal.”

“A bit of scandal? Practically naming a well-liked son of a peer as a villain in a publication distributed to half the manors, halls, and mansions in England may qualify as something more than a bit.”

He was very good at putting things in a way that made them sound much worse than they were. She hoped. “I still stand behind it. I’m proud of it, actually. I had hoped you might be as well.”

He made no effort to hide his disbelief. “You were planning on telling me, then?”

“Yes, of course.” She paused, tilting her head. “Someday, anyway.” She grinned impishly, a sly, closemouthed upturning of her lips designed to elicit at least a small smile from him.

“Someday? You mean when we’re old and gray and I haven’t the strength to chastise you?”

“Something like that.”

Offering a very slight smile, he pulled her to him, slow but steady. “I’m fairly certain there is a statute of limitations on how long after an incident a confession holds value.”

“Well, there must be some mystery between us. How else are we to keep life interesting?”

“Somehow,” he said, dropping a soft, altogether too quick kiss on her upturned lips, “I doona think that will be a problem for the two of us.”

“I—” She paused, a sound from below catching her attention. “What was that?” She pulled away from him, hating the loss of his warmth but too curious not to investigate the muffled noises arising from beyond the partially closed door.

“What—”

“Shh!” She put her finger to her lips, dashing on the toes of her slippers for the door. She could hear voices, both male and female, rising from the entry hall below. The echo on the marble was distorting the words, making it impossible to discern what anyone was saying—or who was saying it, for that matter.

Grasping the knob, she pulled it open and poked her head out. A servant dashed by, rushing toward the entry hall and all of the commotion below. Just as the footman descended the stairs, someone came up in the opposite direction. All at once, Beatrice recognized the blond woman ascending the last few steps, and she gasped in surprise.