Chapter 1

Gregory Hillmot had always been told that rearing girls was a far easier endeavour than bringing up boys. It was an idiom repeated so often that it was accepted as nearly universal truth in society, and Gregory himself believed it. When he had found himself the father of three young girls in short order, his mind had been full of all the joys of the feminine sort: Hair in ribbons, delicate little voices learning to sing along to the pianoforte, all smiles and sugary sweetness. After all, girls were so much easier to keep in hand than boys.

         As the girls grew, Gregory found himself very much of the opinion that the person who first propagated that particular lie should be soundly whipped.

         He was a man with an ordered mind and a sense of strict discipline, relishing in order and regimental structure. As a colonel serving in His Majesty’s army, Gregory had been quite at home in such a straight-lined setting. His wife had been serene, a lily-soft woman, who took everything in stride; where he had been all harsh angles and unyielding reason, Mrs. Hillmot was delicate, nudging things into place with a gentle word or touch of her pale hand. They were a happy union of complete opposites who complemented each other in the best possible way.

         The happy life that they had built for each other came crashing down in an instant: Mrs. Hillmot, his beloved Jane, had sickened after the birth of their last daughter, and had never really recovered. She appeared to simply fade away, her skin becoming paler, her whole existence more gossamer. Then one day, she was gone, leaving Gregory with three young girls, and not a clue as to how to carry on.

         A loud crash interrupted Gregory’s reverie. He had not even been aware that he had slipped away into the past—it simply came over him as easily as falling asleep—as he stared out the window to the rolling hills beyond. He had been contemplating the merits of riding out, and then suddenly had been years away again.

         Thin voices followed the crash, arguing in louder and louder pitches, the words indistinguishable. A fourth voice joined in, pleading and cajoling, weary to the point of breaking. Gregory remained where he was, insulated from the worst of it in his small library. He automatically stood at attention, back rigid and hands folded behind his back as he stared out of the window, distant from the cacophony of the rest of the house.

         Another thud sounded from somewhere in the hall, accompanied shortly after by a stampede of feet. From just outside the library, Gregory could hear the poor, put-upon governess pleading for order and quiet.

         “Please, girls! Your father is trying to—no, Sophia, don’t pull Eliza’s braid so! Florence, that is hardly behaviour becoming of a lady! Really, where did you even learn that gesture—no, I do not wish to see it again! Girls, really!”

         Sighing, Gregory turned on the heel of one impeccably polished boot and made for the library door. He reached it just as something fell against it bodily, flavoured with the squeals of girls in the throes of a heated argument. Steeling himself, he pulled the heavy wooden door open suddenly, and in tumbled a pile of pinafores and ribbons, knees and elbows flying in every direction.

         He could only stare for a moment. The governess was behind them, her starched white cap askew, her hair escaping its moorings as she frantically tried to wade into the melee and sort out the colonel’s daughters. His daughters, meanwhile, were all engaged in some form of wrestling, each one locked onto the other by either limb or braid. As they tussled, they all squealed at each other to either let go, or insisting that they had ruined “it”, whatever “it” was.

         It was only when the pile of adorable miscreants had collided with Gregory’s highly polished boots that they seemed aware of their surroundings. There was a lull in the chaos, and Gregory immediately took advantage of their momentary surprise.

         “Desist!” he barked in a tone and volume he normally resolved for disobedient new recruits to his regiment.

         Immediately, silence descended as the girls froze. The governess, too, became as still as a statue, her eyes wide. Sophia, the youngest, blinked up at her father, her head resting against his boots. Her face broke into a smile, her cheeks dimpling adorably.

         “Hello, Papa!” she chirped into the silence, as if nothing were amiss.

         Gregory stared down, sighed again, and then bent to begin pulling his daughters off each other. When they were all righted and assembled in a line from youngest to oldest, he resumed his military officer’s posture. He stared down his nose at each of them until they individually dropped their heads, shuffling nervously.

         “Now, before I hand out your due punishments for running roughshod all over your governess and behaving like a pack of wild dogs, have any of you anything to say for yourselves? Florence?” Gregory stood before his eldest daughter, who refused to meet his eyes, her jaw stubbornly tight. “Eliza?” The middle daughter, all awkward growth as she left childhood, studied her toes, then shook her head.

         That left Sophia, the youngest and sometime baby of the family. Gregory had a difficult time with this one, as she most favoured his late wife with big brown eyes that always seemed ready to smile. “Sophia?”

         “We were preparing a surprise for you,” she blurted, much to the irritation of her sisters, which manifested in matching sighs and eye-rolls.

         “Sophia!” Florence snapped, glaring down the line to the youngest.

         “Florence,” Gregory warned.

         “Eliza started it!” Sophia interjected.

         “Sophia!” Now it was Eliza’s turn to bark at the youngest, who responded by letting her mouth fall into an unconvincing pout.

         “Enough!” Gregory barked, feeling that they were precariously close to descending into another rout. Wearily, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “And what was this surprise, then? Demonstrating your ability to act like a gang of common ruffians?” he demanded, turning a withering look up on all of them.

         “We were going to put on a performance for you,” Sophia supplied. “We thought you might like some amusement to cheer you.”

         Gregory let this sink in for a moment. He had no notion on how to reply to this revelation, having very little experience with young ladies. He was not sure that it was entirely proper, and it was certainly unlikely to offer any kind of real intellectual benefit to the girls.  He glanced to the governess, who was busy trying to right her cap and apron.

         “We’ve worked very hard on it,” Eliza said into the silence, quietly but earnestly. “We wanted it to be like the theatre.”

         “Especially since some of us are not permitted to go,” Florence added spikily. Gregory shot her a warning glance, and she folded her arms and looked off defiantly.

         With Florence busy staring off into the middle-distance with a petulant set to her chin, and Eliza studying the rug beneath her feet, it was down to Sophia to supply all the hopeful and pleading looks. To Gregory’s discomfort, his youngest daughter seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of these; she stared up like a fawn at Gregory, blinking her large brown eyes slowly.

         A formative point of his military training was to know when, against all odds and reason, he was defeated—Gregory had not risen to the rank of colonel by being foolhardy. Therefore, it was with a heavy sigh that he offered his daughters his hands.

         “Very well,” he said grudgingly, “it seems only right to see this performance that has caused so much furore in our house. Perhaps this will be a good time to see what you have learned from your governess,” he added with a cool look to said governess, who paled a little.

         All previous conflict forgotten, his daughters surrounded him, taking him by the hands and pulling him along toward the sitting room. They chattered the whole way there, which Gregory found impossible to actually follow. Resigned to his fate, Gregory took his appointed seat, noting that the rest of the furniture had been moved aside, save his own chair and one ostensibly for the governess.

         The sitting room, not large to begin with, was cut in half by a series of blankets and other bedclothes thrown over a line strung across the room. The girls disappeared behind this improvised curtain, whispers and not-so-whispered jabs and whingeing leaking out occasionally. There was a distinct sound of scurrying, and then it was silent for a moment.

         The governess, casting sidelong looks at Gregory, took her seat uneasily. The tension radiating from her was practically palpable, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Gregory said nothing to her, folding his right leg over the other.

         With some effort, one section of the homemade curtain was yanked aside, and little Sophia was thrust forward. She had painted cheeks and a little pink bow of a mouth, and on her head was a wilting flower crown that seemed to be held together mostly out of will. The rouged cheeks caused Gregory to stiffen. He glanced to the governess, who was busy patting her forehead with a small handkerchief.

         “We would like to present the story of The Fox and the Maid, as written by the…” Sophia hesitated, her little brow furrowing as she struggled for words. “The illustrated—”

         “Illustrious!” a voice hissed from behind the curtain.

         “—Ill lustres Eliza Hillmot,” Sophia concluded, adding a little bow. Obligingly, Gregory and the governess rewarded this little speech with a smattering of applause. Taking this as encouragement, Sophia took it upon herself to keep up a litany of bows, much to the growing irritation of the other two behind the curtain.

         “Move, Sophia!” one of them said, not even bothering to whisper anymore. “We cannot go on if you do not get yourself off the stage.”

         “But they keep applauding!” Sophia protested. As if to prove her point, she bowed again.

         The improvised curtain began to undulate then, as if hands were seeking purchase behind it at a frantic pace. One of the girls from “backstage,” such as it was, found the split in the curtain before which Sophia was standing and thrust her hand forward. This disembodied hand flailed about for a moment, the fingers curled into determined little claws.

         At last, it clutched the back of Sophia’s dress, and yanked her backward forcefully. Therein followed a great deal of squealing, the unmistakeable sounds of scuffling, all the while punctuated with half-yelled accusations of one or the other ruining the whole proceeding. The curtain was once again an ocean unto itself as it flapped and writhed from the chaos it was valiantly attempting to conceal.

         “Girls, please,” the governess tried, her voice tired and tentative. She half-rose from her chair, clearly unsure of what she ought to do. Gregory, firmly believing that a person’s true mettle was revealed in times of crisis, kept his seat, waiting to see what she would do.

         The governess’ half-hearted attempts at restoring order were roundly ignored; as a result, the commotion from behind the curtain continued to crescendo. There was the sound of something breaking, and at last the much-abused curtain gave up its hold on the line it had been hung on. Sophia was caught under it, while the older two had hold of each other by the arms and hair, hurling accusations as to who was at fault the entire time.

         The governess, at a loss for words, sat heavily back down in her chair and buried her face in her apron for a moment. Gregory, recognising a rout when he saw it, knew that there was no hope of her restoring order. He stood, preparing to wade into the fray.

         The governess, sensing movement, looked up from her apron, her face tired. “I am dismissed, aren’t I?” she asked bleakly.

         “Very,” Gregory agreed. He turned away, ready to begin seizing disorderly daughters and pry them apart.

         From behind him, there was a barely audible, “Oh thank heavens.”

Chapter 2

         For someone that had been born into a life devoid of fineries, Beatrice Heart had become quite a dab hand at spotting true quality in everything from silks, to horses, to men. Of course, her estimation of quality could be best described as that which was the loveliest, most expensive, or the rarest, in no particular order. She had a real eye for jewels in particular, their sparkle and shine making her eyes gleam.

         It was not simply her tastes that were incongruous with her origins: Beatrice had been born the daughter of poor labourers in a poor labouring village that she had little memories of, only clearly remembering that it was cold and damp. Despite her humble origins, she accepted any and all tribute as her due, as a queen might condescend to accept gifts from her vassals.

         Tonight was no exception—she had concluded her performance for the evening, and retired to her dressing room. As was her due, she had laid claim to the largest and best dressing room, arranging to have a plush velvet chaise lounge installed against one wall. It was here that she would lounge in a silk banyan, awaiting her well-wishers and callers, offering occasional glimpses of her wrists or ankles in payment.

         There were the usual posies and bouquets, which she always accepted first; willing stage hands ferried them into her dressing room, pleased at being admitted to the inner sanctum. In this way, she was surrounded by a garden of bounty and delicate floral scent before anyone even laid eyes on her. She fancied herself a master of the tableau vivante, imagining that she arranged herself like a lush painting.

         Her dresser, a maid that had by all accounts been at the theatre since the time of Noah’s childhood, stood close at hand, ready to receive cards and announce callers. At a nod from Beatrice, she opened the door, accepting the cards being thrust at her.

         “Mr. Alexander Featherwright,” the dresser croaked. After a moment’s consideration, Beatrice nodded her assent.

         Mr. Featherwright was a floppy sort of young man with blond curls that fell across his forehead in a boyishly charming manner. He was always happy to see Beatrice, gazing at her with a kind of awe-inspired adoration, which suited her just fine. As per the norm when he spotted Beatrice, he fell to one knee before her, looking at her hopefully.

         “Good evening, Mr. Featherwright,” she purred, imperiously offering her hand to him, which he gladly accepted.

         “Miss Heart, if you are not the most gifted woman in the whole kingdom, I shall turn right around and become a monk,” he breathed, all earnest flattery.

         Beatrice couldn’t help but smile at him. “You are a darling thing, aren’t you?” she cooed, placing her other hand in his. From the way his entire mien lightened, it was clear that this was the highlight of the week, as far as he was concerned.

         “I’ve brought you a gift,” Mr. Featherwright said with a slight blush, adorably bashful. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box, which he offered up shyly to Beatrice.

         She took it readily, murmuring her thanks to him. Without hesitating, she released the catch on the box, popping it open. Nestled within on the satin lining was a thin gold bangle, with three little rubies set into the top of it. Beatrice’s eyes widened, and she lifted it from the box, holding it up so that the gems could catch the light.

         “I—I remember you saying that rubies were a particular favourite of yours,” Mr. Featherwright offered.

         “Indeed they are,” Beatrice murmured, bringing the bauble closer to her eye. “And these are truly remarkable ones: Such colour and clarity!”

         “Why Miss Heart, perhaps you would have been a jeweller or gem appraiser in a different life,” Mr. Featherwright said, smiling at her delight.

         “No,” she said with a cheeky smile, folding her fingers around the bracelet and tucking it closer to herself, “I think I’d make for a better jewel thief.” In one fluid, mercurial movement, she rose to her feet, treating the befuddled Mr. Featherwright to a quick glimpse of her ankles as she did so. “Can’t you imagine me pillaging my way through the Continent’s palaces and cathedrals?” She punctuated this with a little twirl, one leg behind the other.

         “I can,” Mr. Featherwright breathed without a trace of irony. He cleared his throat then, straightening his jet-black jacket and crisp white cravat, as if he had just remembered why he had come in the first place. “Miss Heart, if it is not too much of an imposition, might I request the pleasure of your company tonight? I’ve my carriage, and I thought you might fancy a grand dinner after—”

         Beatrice turned back to Mr. Featherwright, already weighing the merits of his invitation. However, the dresser, still at her post next to the door, was busy attempting to catch Beatrice’s eye. The dresser tilted her head, nodding significantly toward the door. Beatrice quirked one eyebrow questioningly, and the dresser inclined her head again.

         This silent exchange of gestures was carried on over Mr. Featherwright’s head, as he was still perched upon one knee on the floor of Beatrice’s dressing room. Though not a word had been spoken, Beatrice clearly understood the meaning: There was a far greater catch awaiting her just outside.

         Quickly, Beatrice bent and hauled Mr. Featherwright upright with surprising strength. Before he knew what was happening, he was being ushered to the door again.

         “What a charmer you are, Mr. Featherwright,” Beatrice said, laying her other hand on his elbow. “But I could not possibly accept your invitation in the state I am in now.”

         “You couldn’t?” he protested weakly.

         “Oh, certainly not! Why, I am positively done in from my efforts on the stage tonight,” Beatrice continued, resting her cheek on his shoulder for a moment. She gazed up at him, fluttering her eyelashes in the most beseeching manner that she knew how. “It would be positively bad of me to be less than radiant for you.”

         “Oh Miss Heart, you could never—” Mr. Featherwright attempted to protest.

         “Of course you understand, you are such a darling boy,” she cooed, somewhat underscoring her flattering words by pushing him out the door with a surprising amount of force.

         She allowed herself a moment to regain her composure. Retaking her seat upon the lounge, she attempted an air of casualness, her posture relaxed. It was imperative to Beatrice that she not appear as if she were truly waiting to receive callers; rather, they simply happened upon her, and she would let them pay their calls by chance.

         After suitably arranging her banyan again, she gave the nod to her dresser. In somewhat elevated tones, the dresser read the name on the next card.

         “His Honour, Judge Derrick Horner,” the dresser proclaimed loud enough for everyone waiting in the hall to hear. This set off a round of murmurs, which was quickly cut off when the door was shut behind this new, more illustrious caller.

         He entered the room grandly, surveying it with cool grey eyes as if he owned everything within. He was dressed fashionably, with a double-breasted coat and a pinked collar so high that it brushed along his sharp jaw. His breeches were dove grey, and he wore them tucked into polished leather boots in deference to the questionable spring weather.

         “Why, what an unexpected delight this is,” Beatrice murmured, sitting up and smiling coyly at the judge.

         “I’m delighted you think so,” he replied, his eyes lighting upon Beatrice. He came forward to accept her offered hand, but it was done with an air of bemusement. “I hope that I am not keeping you from some other delights this evening.”

         Beatrice gave a casual little flip of her hand. “I’m sure that I can be spared for one evening.”

         “Mm,” the judge agreed, staring down his long, sharp nose at Beatrice. “Would you care to accompany me to Vauxhall this evening? I’ve heard there is a new display of fireworks that is being readied.”

         “Is there? Well, I suppose one must spend the evening doing something,” Beatrice sighed, not wishing to appear overeager. Casually, she stood and went to sit at her dressing table, fussing at her reflection. The judge watched this with interest, his nostrils flaring a little.

         “Very good. My carriage awaits you then, dear lady,” he said, bowing over Beatrice’s hand and daring to press a kiss to her knuckles.

         Beatrice maintained her cool, distant composure. “I shall be with you shortly,” she said. He withdrew, and Beatrice sat for a moment, butterflies in her stomach. The judge was always an interesting evening, though a challenging one. He was a powerful man, and he was quite aware of it.

         Still, he was never boring, and he had more money than Croesus. It was largely thanks to him that Beatrice was able to maintain a large and spacious flat near the Park, a luxury reserved almost exclusively for the wealthy and titled. He was the distant heir to a title, and had a nobleman’s taste for collecting beautiful things; Beatrice was happy to be collected…for now.

         She began to attend to her toilette, wiping away the stage makeup and removing the heavy wig with relief. With sharp fingernails, she scratched at her itchy scalp, fingers digging into the hair that she kept cropped daringly short. She turned her head this way and that, admiring the turn of her neck and trying to ascertain the better angles of her face.

         Candlelight was exceptionally flattering, and here among the gifts and flowers piled high, it was easy for Beatrice to feel secure, a little smug even. She felt entitled to a little vanity, as it had been necessary for her to scramble and claw her way to her current position. She admired her bottle-green eyes, the cat-like way they tilted up in the corners. Her face, not quite as full as fashion dictated these days, was still comely by nearly any measure, if a little sharply boned.

         Lifting her porcelain pot of face cream, she worked it carefully, deliberately, into her face and neck. Though her talent put the great and good of London into the theatre seats, it was her looks that guaranteed a steady supply of male companionship. It was only through their largesse that she was able to live as she did; it was imperative that she do everything in her power to preserve her face for as long as possible.

         Her hands paused for a moment mid-swipe on her cheekbones. Sometimes, when she was quite alone with her thoughts and staring into the mirror, a little tickle of fear would run through her. Beatrice knew that this life she led would not last forever, and it was at these moments that a creeping fear for the future would snap at her heels.

         Aggressively, Beatrice shook her head. She dipped her fingers into the face cream again, scented with lavender and orange blossom, and vigorously rubbed it into her jaws.

         “Be gone,” she muttered aloud to her doubts. She could not afford to be distracted tonight—the judge would smell the insecurity on her like blood in the water, and he would pounce without hesitation.

         Yours is a strange lot, some unbidden part of her mind whispered. Lonely, but never alone; vulnerable, but untouchable.

         Quickly, she crammed these thoughts down as well, burying them beneath layers of silk and lace. She dressed quickly in a dark gold silk gown with wine-red velvet ribbon about the hem in stripes, her dresser helping her to button the back. She selected matching red gloves, her favourite colour.

         As she slipped her feet into dark red silk pumps, she allowed herself one last admiring, almost defiant look in the large, floor-length mirror in the corner of her dressing room. Beatrice lifted her chin proudly, her lips curling a little. She had an evening of fine dining, the best champagne, and all the other delights that Vauxhall had to offer to look forward to, and she looked every inch the part.

         Who has time for loneliness when one’s plate is so full of amusements?she asked herself as she left her dressing room, a fur-trimmed capelet about her shoulders. Perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, Beatrice slammed the door on her dressing room and that thought.

Chapter 3

         The pleasure gardens at Vauxhall were a sight to behold on any given night, but with the promise of spring just around the corner, they were heavy with anticipation. There were amusements of every kind, from dancing to pantomimes, to a hot air balloon that would take guests up for a bird’s eye view of London. Of course, the main point was to see and be seen, and the fashionable people of the ton were out in force as soon as the weather permitted.

         Beatrice, ever a performer, was quite happy to be seen and admired on the arm of Judge Horner. His position was not the highest in the land, but he had built himself grand holdings and dined with some of the highest-ranking families. It was also no secret that he was in line for a title from an ailing and distant uncle.

         They perambulated slowly, with nearly everyone they passed stopping to stare as they walked by. Beatrice, with her dancer’s ability, managed to walk in such a way that it was less a mode of transportation and more a graceful undulation. Judge Horner, straight-backed and in a tall black hat, cut an imposing figure next to her. Several people approached him, but he did not hesitate to stare down those that he felt were not up to snuff. Thus, only those with something to offer, be it money, position, or title, were permitted in his presence.

         They had dined well, and the judge had seen to it that Beatrice was never without a glass of champagne, decorated with candied violets floating on the top. Beatrice did not drink deeply, but she enjoyed the way the bubbles tickled her tongue as she sipped. They paused, watching a troupe of acrobats that had been shipped in from India. They wore bells on their ankles so that every athletic feat they performed was accompanied by jaunty jingling.

         “A skill that is beyond even you, I think,” Judge Horner said at last, ducking his head closer to Beatrice’s.

         She nodded absently, watching the performance intently. Fascinated, she could not take her eyes from their hands and feet, arched into unfamiliar shapes. She tilted her head, the feathers on her silk bonnet arching over her ear as she did so.

         There was a slight tugging on her arm, and she was brought back to herself. The judge was staring down at her with all the warmth of a marble statue. Beatrice blinked up at him, aware that he had likely been saying something. He was not the sort of man who liked being ignored—that was the whole reason for his chasing after a woman like Beatrice.

         “I’m sure you’re right,” she said at last, smiling one of her coy little smiles up at him.

         “Perhaps you might like to see the maze?” he offered, glancing about. “It is bound to at least be quieter; we might then hear each other speak.”

         Beatrice glanced toward the lower half of the gardens where an impromptu hedge maze was being cultivated. It was not yet complete, the hedges still being pruned into shape. There were no lights to speak of, just the overflowing glow from the gardens proper. She bit her lip, considering. It would leave them both open to rumour, but if she were being honest, she was already a somewhat infamous woman in London.

         She glanced up to the judge and found him still impassively staring down at her. “If nothing else, it will keep the more impudent of the prying eyes away,” he said with a significant sweep of his eyes to their surroundings.

         Beatrice, too, looked about and found that they had become something of a side attraction themselves. The ton were all staring at them, some whispering behind gloved hands and fans. Beatrice did not mind that—was rather used to it, in fact—but she was rather perturbed that it was detracting attention away from the splendid performance in front of them. As a performer herself, she was incensed.

         “Let us adjourn, then, Your Honour,” Beatrice sniffed, putting her nose into the air and her free hand atop the judge’s elbow.

         Gratified, Judge Horner led the two of them into the maze. The moment that they turned the first corner, the sounds from the wider gardens was considerably dulled. Though the hedges were not completed yet, they still had something of an insulating effect, making Beatrice feel as if she had stepped through a doorway into a different world. Unconsciously, she seized tighter onto the judge’s elbow.

         He chuckled a little, but it was not a sound of amusement. Beatrice had the distinct impression that he was having a laugh at her expense, and she immediately loosed her grip in spite of her misgivings. Nevertheless, she refused to let him see that she was uncertain, and she sallied forth as if she knew precisely where she was going.

         The path, however, being gravel was proving rather more of a challenge than she had expected. She had only gone a few paces when a pebble became lodged in her shoe, causing her to wince. Windmilling a little with one arm, she sought purchase on the hedge as she attempted to balance on one foot.

         “Is something the matter?” the judge asked, looming uncomfortably close to Beatrice.

         “No, it’s nothing to be concerned over,” Beatrice said with a casual wave of one hand. “Simply a stone in my shoe. If I had known the terrain would be so questionable tonight, I’d have worn my walking boots.”

         “Ah, but then you would have deprived me of the chance to come to your rescue,” the judge said, taking her hand and kneeling in the gravel.

         Though he spoke chivalrously, there was something malignant in his face as he knelt before Beatrice. Her heart was fluttering wildly in her chest, and she had the strangest impulse to simply take off and run. She tamped down the urge, covering her unease with a smile.

         The judge, meanwhile, had released Beatrice’s hand, and taken her foot into both of his hands. Sliding her shoe off, he made a casual effort at shaking out the offending pebble, but made no hurry about it. With his long fingers wrapped about her ankle like a shackle, balanced on her other foot, she was well and truly caught.

         He glanced up at Beatrice, and there was something predatory in those eyes. She’d seen engravings of giant reptiles from Africa, monsters that laid in wait in the water, biding their time, and then would spring forth, snapping their jaws around unexpecting passers-by. It was all-too easy for her to believe that she was in great danger of being pulled beneath the murky water just now.

         As if sensing her unease, the judge laid her shoe aside carelessly. His grip on her ankle tightened as she attempted to slide it from his grasp. He tutted a little, chuckling mirthlessly again.

         “No, no, my pretty one,” he said. “You have led me on a merry chase these last months, and I was content to chase you…for a while.”

         “And now?” Beatrice asked, swallowing hard, refusing to let her voice betray any of her nerves.

         “Now,” the judge continued, his white teeth flashing in the dark, “I have caught you, and it is time for you to make good on your end of our little arrangement.”

         “I do not recall entering into any arrangement,” Beatrice insisted, trying again to slide her foot away from the judge.

         Though he chuckled again, his fingers tightened cruelly around her ankle, the bones in her foot beginning to grind together painfully. Beatrice refused to cry out, lifting her chin defiantly. “Now, you know as well as I do how this sort of thing is meant to work.” His dark eyebrows knitted together a little, his mouth firming into a cruel slash. “I believe that you also know that I have within my power to end your career, here and now.”

         “And how will you manage that?” Beatrice scoffed. “As if anyone will be put off by a dancer with a questionable reputation—it’s practically a requirement.”

         Judge Horner shifted his grip so that his thumb was pressing into the soft little hollow where the front of her leg met her ankle, causing Beatrice to wince. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “Though I have no doubt that I could make things uncomfortable for you in the manner that you suggest, I had something more…direct in mind.” He finished the sentence by pressing his thumb in harder.

         Fear, real and sickening, slid through Beatrice’s stomach. She had a very visceral paranoia about losing her ability to provide for herself, losing her gateway to independence. Instinctually, she attempted to wrest her leg away from Horner again, but to no avail.

         Yanking her leg back down, he shifted and stood abruptly, nearly unbalancing Beatrice completely. His hands snaked about her waist, closing like vices of iron along her sides. “I do admire your spirit, little minx, but it is time to stop playing coy,” he said, pulling her in close against him.

         For all of her fear, it was anger that flashed up in Beatrice’s eyes. This seemed to amuse him, for he smiled cruelly down at her again, finding her stiffening posture an incentive to keep pressing his advantage. Beatrice reasoned that it was likely that no one had ever told him no before, and her resistance was as intriguing to him as her shapely legs. He no doubt had done this little intrigue countless times before, and had grown bored with the ease with which he conquered other dancers and actresses. He had figured that for all of her control and distance, Beatrice would fold like all of the others.

         What he had clearly not counted on, was the fact that Beatrice was no ordinary theatre girl. She was renowned for her bright, shiny spine as much as her ability to turn neatly and leap higher than the other dancers. She’d made a vow to herself when she was younger that she would never allow herself to be at the mercy of a man.

         The second thing that Judge Horner had not counted on was that while travelling through Italy with her former partner’s dance troupe, they had crossed paths with a group of men from the Far East. Beatrice, the consummate student of human movement, had been fascinated by a series of strange exercises they did. She had also been intrigued by a particularly slight man that all of the others gave a wide berth. He had liked the way that she poured tea, and she had liked the way that he moved through the world without fear, despite his size.

         Right in this moment, however, she mostly liked that he had taught her the simplest and easiest means of breaking someone’s nose. With her fingers curled back, revealing the firm lower edge of her palm, she struck neatly and quickly, thrusting her hand upward into the tip of Horner’s nose. Her erstwhile teacher had referred to it as a tiger’s paw, which Beatrice was quite tickled by.

         She was also immensely gratified by the way that the judge’s head snapped back, his eyes watering as blood immediately began to pour from his nose, black and shining in the dark. He released Beatrice immediately to cradle his face; Beatrice took advantage of this to sweep up her discarded shoe, and scampered a few paces away.

         Horner, still bleary-eyed, swung out wildly with one hand, grasping for Beatrice. He swore all the while, calling her every foul name he could think of.

         “Really, Your Honour, I’d have thought you’d have more imagination than that,” Beatrice said. “I’ve had worse insults slung at me by altar boys.”

         Irate, he looked up, his grey eyes burning. His shirt front and crisp white cravat were both thoroughly ruined, a surprising amount of blood pouring forth from his nose. Idly, Beatrice wondered if she might have broken it.

         “You will regret this,” he spat, attempting to staunch the flow from his nose with a hastily dug out handkerchief.

         “I regret many things, Judge Horner,” Beatrice said coolly, sounding infinitely more composed than she was currently feeling. “I doubt that this will be one of them.” With a proud toss of her head, she turned her back on him, shoulders confidently back. As if she were out for nothing more than a Sunday turn about the park, she sauntered leisurely away.

At least, she did until she reached the first turn in the maze; after she had ensured that she was out of his line of sight, she picked up her feet earnestly, lifting her hem a little and dashing back to the main part of the gardens. She did not stop until she was back among the crowd.

In spite of her brave words, she could not believe what she had just done. She attempted her usual calm, dispassionate veneer, but she kept her hands clutched together tightly to ensure they would not visibly tremble.

Chapter 4

         Though the sun had not yet risen, Gregory was already awake, shaved, and dressed. He was a creature of habit, and the timetable set forth by his time in the army was one he stuck to rigorously. He did not see the point in putting off the day, wishing to keep himself as busy as possible. Allowing himself the indulgence of laying about in bed was out of the question, no matter that he was not currently in active service.

         Besides which, he had a heavy task set out for himself today, and he preferred to dispense with it early. It would be easier, after all, to get it done whilst his three incorrigible daughters still slept. With a determined set of his jaw, he gave himself one last look in the mirror, and then dismissed his valet, who silently withdrew.

         On booted feet, Gregory went downstairs, taking up position in the small library that he used as an office. The fire was not yet lit, and the rooms were still chilled in the grey pre-dawn. He did not mind; he was used to a degree of discomfort, preferring it to being overly pampered. He reached for the bell-pull next to the fireplace, then took his place in the hard-backed, leather-upholstered chair behind the small but heavy desk.

         It was some moments before a servant answered, a sleepy hall boy of no more than twelve. The household was used to Gregory rising early, but not at being summoned at this hour; it was typically only a scullery maid and a hall boy awake now, quietly moving through the house to wake the other servants and light the fires for the morning.

         “You rang, sir?” he asked timidly, not used to addressing the colonel.

         “Please send for Mrs. Byrd at once,” Gregory replied. He expected it would be some moments before the governess was roused and made herself presentable.

         It was wholly unexpected, then, that she appeared within only a few moments. It was more expected, however, that she appeared already wearing a travelling dress and pelisse, a simple poke bonnet on her head. Mrs. Byrd entered the library with her head held high, but her shoulders slumped the moment she saw the colonel’s face.

         “Good morning, sir,” she said politely enough, but her voice as strained.

         “I shall not shilly-shally about, Mrs. Byrd,” Gregory said in quick, clipped words. “I see that you have already packed, wasting no time. Good.”

         “I thought it best I leave before the girls wake,” she explained. “I did not see the point in lingering after yesterday’s…events.”

         “Too right you are,” Gregory agreed. Reaching into his desk, he withdrew an envelope that he had prepared the night before. “I believe this is all that is owed to you,” he said handing it over.

         With well-mannered reluctance, the governess hesitated when reaching for her remaining wages, as mentions of anything pecuniary were always a little vulgar. Her practicality as a servant won out, however, and she eventually snapped it up, tucking it into a deep pocket.

         She did not move immediately, shifting about before Gregory’s desk. He had already moved on, not seeing the point in drawing the hole business out with any sort of emotional farewell.

         “Was there something else?” he asked, his attention already turned to locating his pipe. It had been a trying morning already, and he was fond of a turn about the grounds before breakfast, pipe in hand, to settle his mind. He located it, then withdrew a worn tobacco pouch from one of the drawers.

         “I wonder if I might inquire if there was any sort of reference included in your generous packet?” Mrs. Byrd asked, lowering her voice a little.

         Gregory glanced up, his brow furrowed a little as he went about the business of packing the bowl of his pipe. It was a particularly good blend, enriched with vanilla and spice, and he was perturbed at not being able to savour it.

         “And what sort of reference should I have included, Mrs. Byrd?” he asked, making no such effort at modulating his voice in deference to the hour or subject. “As far as I can tell, you have made no progress with my girls at all. They are just as wild, wilder even, than when you first arrived.”

         “Well, I’m not sure I would agree,” Mrs. Byrd objected without much conviction.

         “Wouldn’t you?” Gregory shot back, clamping the stem of his pipe in his teeth and replacing the pouch in the drawer forcefully. “I daresay I haven’t seen any indication to the contrary. They’ve no manners at table, they do not paint or embroider, and the only French I’ve heard from them does not bear repeating.”

         “I can hardly be blamed for all of that!” the governess protested.

         “Then who, precisely, is to blame?” Gregory asked practically. Taking up a small bit of reed, he lit it from the candlestick on his desk, and used it to light his pipe. He puffed a few times, encouraging it to burn, filling the library with the warm smoky smell. “As I recall, that was precisely why you were hired; indeed, I do believe that is the entire point of a governess.”

         “That may be so, sir, but I was not hired to tame a bunch of wild bantlings!” Mrs. Byrd’s voice cracked a little as she spoke.

         “As I recall, I told you from the outset that the girls were in some difficulties, having lost—lost their mother,” Gregory said, faltering only a little and recovering himself quickly. “And you assured me, in the most unequivocable terms, that it was nothing you could not handle.” He paused, pulling open another draw and withdrawing a folded letter. “In fact, you wrote when you accepted the position, ‘I have no fear of misbehaving children, having successfully tamed more than a few in my years as a governess to Lord Henley. I shall see to it that your girls will be fit for the finest dining rooms without delay,’” Gregory read out, holding the letter up.

         Mrs. Byrd blanched a little as he read, her mouth pressing into a grim line. “I obviously was mistaken,” she said. “But I bet you, have some compassion: I will never be able to take another position without a character from you.”

         Gregory considered, leaning back as much as his straight-backed chair would allow. He reached up and took his pipe in one hand, taking in Mrs. Byrd, then replaced it between his teeth. “Very well,” he said, withdrawing a sheet of paper from the centre drawer. “I shall not be unkind, but neither shall I be needlessly flattering. I wish that you had only shown so much pluck when it came to my girls.”

         Mrs. Byrd made a small sound, which caused Gregory to look up at her from beneath his brow as he wrote. She did not say anything, but her meaning was clear: As far as she was concerned, there was not enough pluck in the world to bring the Hillmot children to heel.

         Gregory finished writing quicky, signing it with no flourish. He folded the reference over, and sealed it with a wax wafer. He passed it over, Mrs. Byrd taking it in both hands. She turned toward the door, then paused for a moment, looking back at Gregory as she turned the letter over in her hands.

         “I wish you luck, Colonel,” she said with a lingering look. “I suspect you will need it.”

         Gregory said nothing to that, and Mrs. Byrd was gone without another word. He waited for a few moments as she cleared the hallway, on her way back to York and to the agency from whence she had come.

After the muffled sounds of her leaving had ended, silence reigned in the house once more. There was only the ticking of the grand clock in the main hall to break the stillness, and the occasional chirping of a bird that heralded the coming sunrise. It was a peaceful moment, but Gregory took no pleasure or comfort in the stillness. If he were still for too long, his thoughts would gain a foothold, and their constant companion lately was grief.

Not wishing to allow himself to be idle long enough for that to happen, he tapped out his pipe, replacing it on the desk for now as it cooled. With a slap of his knees, he fairly sprang from his chair, the legs squeaking a little against the wood floor as he did so. His stride was long and confident as he left the library, crossed the large main hall, and then climbed the stairs.

Once at the top, he automatically turned right, down toward the nursery where the girls all slept. He made no effort to moderate his steps, having no intention of letting his daughters laze about abed, particularly after they had driven off yet another governess. Though he was not inclined to tolerate any impertinent comments from Mrs. Byrd, he could not fully repute them. He also knew that he had his own hand to play in their poor manners: After his wife had died, he had felt unmoored, moving through life, but not really living it, and his daughters had likewise been cast adrift.

The door to the nursery was slightly ajar, and quietly, he pushed it open, fully intending to rouse his errant daughters. The scene within, however, made him pause. All was still and silent, save for quiet snuffles as the girls slept. With one hand on the door latch still, Gregory surveyed the beds. All were tucked up tightly, sleeping soundly, faces unlined with conflict or worry.

At one end of the nursery, the door to the governess’ alcove was open, showing an empty room on the other side. It would have to be filled, and quickly, as Gregory himself knew very, very little about what it was to properly rear girls. He had some idea of the basics, what their accomplishments should be, but beyond that, he was completely at a loss. It had never occurred to him that he would have to do so on his own, without his wife by his side.

Opposite this alcove, against the other wall, as far as possible from the others, Florence’s bed stood. She, too, was wrapped up tightly in her blankets against the cold, the fire behind the screen in the hearth having gone out through the night. The fact that she had to sleep in the nursery still was a source of constant fighting between father and daughter. She insisted that she was too old to still sleep within, and Gregory held firm that when she conducted herself like a young lady, she would be treated as such. It was a stalemate, with neither willing to yield.

Despite his irritation at the trio for their conduct, and particularly for their having driven off another governess, Gregory could not bring himself to wake them just yet. Quietly, he withdrew, closing the door behind him. He sighed, retreating back down the hallway whence he had come. Mentally, he began preparing the advertisement he would put in the York papers. No doubt it would spark no small comment from the neighbourhood that the latest governess had fled like all the others, but there was nothing to be done about it. He did not know what sort of person could possibly begin to take on this task, however.

Perhaps I would be better served by asking for a lion tamer, he mused grimly.