Chapter 13

"A sharp tongue. Excellent." Agatha tapped her cane on the floor. "Walk with me, child. Let us go to the supper room. I find standing in one place makes me a target for tedious conversations, and I wish to speak with you without Mrs. Finch attempting to throw her daughter under my feet."Beatrice didn't have a choice. She offered her arm, and the Duchess took it, her gnarled hand surprisingly strong. As they walked, the crowd parted for them—a red sea of silk and broadcloth.Beatrice kept her chin high, refusing to look at the staring faces. She had spent six years trying to fade into the background. In the span of a ten-minute dance, Leopold and Agatha had dragged her onto the center stage, handed her a script she hadn't read, and locked the doors behind her. The game had changed entirely, and Beatrice suddenly realized she had no idea what the rules were anymore.The supper room at Ashborne House was a masterpiece of intimidation masquerading as hospitality: long tables groaned under the weight of silver epergnes, roasted meats, and out-of-season fruits shipped in at exorbitant costs. Yet for all the culinary extravagance, the atmosphere was as tense as a courtroom before a verdict.Agatha did not steer Beatrice toward the main tables; she navigated them toward a small, secluded alcove draped in heavy gold velvet, guarded by two footmen who looked more like hired muscle than domestic servants."Sit," Agatha commanded, lowering herself into a plush armchair with a weary sigh. She propped her wooden cane against the table. "My knees are staging a violent rebellion."Beatrice took the opposite chair. She arranged her dark plum skirts, acutely aware of the dozens of eyes attempting to pierce the velvet drapery of their alcove. A footman immediately materialized, pouring a clear, fragrant broth into two porcelain bowls."I detest ballroom food," Agatha said, picking up her spoon. "It is entirely designed for display rather than digestion. Eat the broth, Beatrice. It will settle your stomach."Beatrice picked up her spoon. The broth was hot, tasting richly of chicken and thyme. It grounded her, pulling her back from the surreal ledge she had been teetering on since Leopold took her hand."You are very quiet," Agatha observed."I am currently trying to determine if I am a guest or a hostage, Your Grace," Beatrice replied, taking another spoonful.Agatha barked a laugh. "A fair question. You are a guest, I assure you. But I understand why you feel cornered. Leo is lacking in subtlety.""He told me I was part of a demonstration.""He is an idiot." Agatha rolled her eyes—a remarkably unducal gesture. "Men always assume they understand the mechanics of society because they hold the titles. They do not. Society is run by women, Beatrice. It is a war fought in drawing rooms with invitations and intentional slights. Leo thinks he can simply march in, demand honesty, and march out. He does not understand the fallout.""The fallout is that my family will be hounded by sycophants by tomorrow morning, and every woman of consequence in London will actively plot my demise," Beatrice stated plainly."Yes," Agatha agreed, her blue eyes sharp. "Are you frightened?"

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