The door popped open, and the Becketts spilled out. They were of the same height, short for a man and tall for a lady, and they wore opposing expressions, Mr. Beckett a wide, welcoming grin and Mrs. Beckett a cautious, serious sort of half smile. Both possessed dark, tightly curling hair and open arms.
“You are Lady Alexandra?” Mrs. Beckett asked with a deep curtsy.
“Oh yes, and do not do that. Please.” Lady Alexandra hugged herself. “And please, call me Alex. I… do not wish to stand out. And my brother calls me that, so I am used to it.”
Mr. Beckett took Alex under his wing and ushered her into the house.
Lucy followed them inside, but Mrs. Beckett stopped her short in the hall. She peered over her shoulder at her husband and Lady Alex until they both disappeared up the stairs. “Did anyone see you?”
“Of course not.”
“Her father’s a marquess. If he discovers where his daughter is, he’ll?—”
“I’m aware.”
“Powerful men do not enjoy having their political and dynastic pawns simply… disappear. If they know where she is, they will use all that power to chase after her. And to destroy Hawthorne House if they must. Do you understand the risk we take in doing this?”
The walls seemed to narrow, and chains squeezed Lucy’s lungs. She left the house, the morning air no easier to breathe than that indoors.
Not when Mrs. Beckett followed closely behind. “We risk the futures of those who need us.”
“Not all those who need us.” Lucy spun, standing her ground on the gravel drive. “Just those who won’t be missed, the working women, the plain miss and missus. But there are others.” Like her mother. “It may seem they do not need us because they have lovely gowns and jewels and—” She exhaled a large push of air. “Wealth does not protect them. Not really. They need us, too. Lady Alex needs us.”
“It is a risk.”
“But shouldn’t we try? Shouldn’t we at least discover if it is possible?”
“You know I’d like to, but…” She cursed, looking up at the house.
“Lady Alex will be our great experiment, Mrs. Beckett.”
“Or our great ruination.”
“It will not come to that. I have an idea.” She took Mrs. Beckett’s hands, pulled her into the shadows close to the house, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “We need someone in their circles, a woman who can move among them, learn their routines, gain their trust.”
“And you know someone?”
“Me.”
Mrs. Beckett pulled away.
“No, listen. My grandfather is a viscount, and though my mother fell out of favor with the ton”—a euphemism for having birthed a bastard and married a farmer—“my father is wealthy, and I have a large dowry. My sister-in-law’s father is an earl. For the right price, I can find the right husband. One who will not question what I’m doing as long as I appear to do as he says.” Or one who supported the cause as well. Finding that sort of man would be like finding a fresh inch of water in the Thames—impossible.
“You’d marry yourself off for Hawthorne?”
“In a blink.” It was her whole life, her meaning, her only purpose.
“That might work,” Mrs. Beckett said after a pause. “You’d have to be careful. It still has its risks.”
“But I would better know which risks were worth taking and which were not.”
“I can’t let you marry like that.”
“Not everyone can enjoy a great love like you and Mr. Beckett do.”
“Your brother and Ophelia.”
“They are rare.”
