She had thought—
She had started to think there was more to her than being a Halifax Hellion. She had begun to believe that there was something worthwhile in her beneath all the scandal, or perhaps even a part of it. She had started to think that the scandal they’d courted and the gossip they’d engendered had been worth it, because it had taught her to be brave.
Only now she did not know. It was that same recklessness that had brought her here, to this moment. It was her own heedlessness that had hurt Bea.
Regret was an acid taste in her mouth when she finally found the girl.
Her own impetuosity had led to it, Matilda thought. Had led to all of it: Bea’s distress over the discovery of Matilda and Christian together; the girl’s flight; and now, finally, the place where Bea had been hidden all along, deep inside the piled-up furnishings in the library.
She was nestled mostly beneath a mountain of heavy velvet draperies—puce and a nauseous ochre—and screened by the furniture and palms and paintings that Matilda had collected from across the house. A suit of armor had come dismantled and lay in pieces around her; the helmet was tucked into the crook of Bea’s arm. She looked fast asleep, but when Matilda approached, Bea’s hazel eyes came open, her expression mutinous.
“Shh!” she whispered urgently, her eyes going to her lap.
Matilda followed the girl’s gaze. In her lap were three orange kittens in a dozing pile; the white wrinkled muslin dress was ragged with loose threads worked free by tiny claws. Angelica Kauffman was curled half-inside the dull metal helmet, the remaining kittens sleepily nursing.
Relief stole Matilda’s breath. “Bea,” she gasped. “Oh, thank God. We looked—we’ve been looking—how long have you been here?”
“All day,” Bea whispered back. “I found Angelica Kauffman in here. She put the kittens on me. I didn’t know what to do, so I just—didn’t move.”
“And you didn’t hear us calling for you?”
When Bea spoke, her voice wobbled a little. “I did. I did. I tried to call back but I didn’t want to disturb the kittens.”
Matilda sank down to the ground beside the girl, whose face was dusty and tear-tracked. “Christian has been out of his head with worry.”
Bea looked down, blinking hard as she touched one kitten’s tiny squashed nose with the tip of her finger. “I’m sorry. I… I wanted him to worry. I was—jealous. Of him. Of you.” Her voice wobbled again. “I know it was wrong of me.”
“Jealous?”
Bea looked fixedly down at the kitten and would not meet Matilda’s gaze. “You have everything. You have freedom and art and—and Christian upending our lives to please you.”
“Bea,” she murmured. “Christian would do the same for you. He wants you to be happy.”
She felt raw and exposed, as if a feather-light touch would bruise her skin.
She’d had no special freedom. She had been caught within the restrictions of their society just as much as Bea was, as Christian was. And yet—
And yet she had always had Margo. And Spencer, and Henry Mortimer. She had always known, in her heart of hearts, that however raucously they acted, whatever scandal they courted to spare another girl some humiliation, she would not be alone.
She’d had Margo. She still had Margo, and she felt a sudden sharp desire to write to her twin and to tell her that she was sorry.
She was intensely sorry that she had not appreciated what Margo had given her. Companionship, acceptance, loyalty. Love. A warm-hearted generous wellspring of love. It had been so much easier to act as they had with the knowledge that Margo was by her side.
Christian had not had that—he and Beatrice had been separated by twenty years, both so foolishly determined to protect the other. But she felt a sudden rush of assurance, a flooding tide that took her fears and drained them away.
She could be there for them both. She had something to offer them both—becauseof her past, not in spite of it.
“I’m glad,” she said slowly, “that you are all right. I’m so glad. We should track down Christian—he will want to know as soon as possible that you are home.”
Bea’s eyes flew wide. “Track him down? What on Earth do you mean?”
“He’s out searching for you.” At Bea’s look of frank astonishment, Matilda blinked. “Did you not realize? We assumed you had gone down to the beach—or worse—”
Bea’s lips had parted, her wide mouth frozen in an expression of dismay. “He’s outside? In the dark?”
“He’ll be so relieved—”
Bea’s fists clenched in her skirts. “Find him!” Tears had filled her hazel eyes again, but they did not fall. She stared ferociously into Matilda’s face. “Go. Go and find him before he gets hurt because of me.”
