unmindful of the fact they were blocking the way of anyone who might wish to pass them. Beatrice slowed, glaring at their dark greatcoats as they lumbered along, offering jovial jabs and slaps on one another’s backs as they walked, their voices gratingly loud.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. At this rate, she was sure to be here when the bells tolled the hour. She started to speed up, to attempt to slip between them and the storefronts on the right, when she suddenly realized she knew them.
On the outside was Lord Bridgemont, the young heir to the Earl of Marks, in the middle was Mr. Bickett, if she wasn’t mistaken, and on the left was Mr. Knight. It was jarring to see them so completely uninhibited. One would think they would at least wait until they were inside their club to engage in such behavior. They laughed in unison, the bawdy sort of sound that could only mean that they were speaking of the sort of things not meant for young ladies’ ears.
Which, of course, meant that she wanted to hear what they were saying.
Softening her footsteps, she steadily closed the distance between them, straining to filter out the sounds of the traffic. Keeping her head down and counting on her small stature to provide some amount of inconspicuousness, she advanced until she was only a few steps behind them and could clearly make out their words.
“You really should go to the Carlisle ball t’night, Knight.” Mr. Bickett paused, then promptly tilted his head back and laughed. “T’night, Knight!”
“S’right, Knight—you should spend the night with him,” added Bridgemont, and the three of them laughed all over again. The stagnant odor of spirits trailed in their wake, making Beatrice wrinkle her nose.
“You’re on your own, m’afraid. I’ve got my pockets lined with my father’s blunt, and I intend to spend every penny at the legendary Madam V’s tonight. I’ll leave you to your horse-faced heiresses—be sure to dance with one for me.”
Mr. Bickett groaned, shaking his head. “S’hardly worth it. Might as well hold out for the new crop come spring. God knows only the dregs are left now. ’Course, I’m still bitter over Rochester bagging that Dowling chit right out from under me. Now he’s free to tup his mistress, and I’m still trying to find a dowry attached to a female I can stand to look at for more than five minutes.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Mr. Knight said, elbowing his friend. “You can always look at the pretty ones while dancing with the rich ones.” More laughter and back-slapping.
Beatrice came to an abrupt halt, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. Of all the disgusting, vile, awful . . . She made a sound perilously close to a growl as she glared after the men. Rose came to stand beside her, worry clouding her dark eyes as she waited for Beatrice to move.
Clenching her jaw, Beatrice lifted her chin and started forward again. Her steps were heavy for once, her half boots connecting solidly with the pavement. It was all too much to bear. For Bickett to speak of Diana so callously, to actually
envy
her horrible husband, it was just so
wrong.
She needed to get home. As anger built like trapped steam within her, propelling her forward, she felt compelled by the need to
do
something, to help protect the unsuspecting young women of the
ton
from such greedy scoundrels. Someone had to warn them of the nefarious intentions of single-minded fortune hunters like Bickett—and Godfrey for that matter. And Rochester and heaven knew how many others.
As if of its own volition, her right hand tingled with the need to pick up her tools and express her emotions in her artwork. An idea began to form in the back of her head, one that was risky and ill-advised and somewhat mad.
As far as she was concerned—it was perfect.
• • •
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
Beatrice smiled brightly as she strode to the counter of the artist supply shop, behind which she knew her quarry would be.