Reforming the Rake. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

shop. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation over an ice? What do you think?”

      Beatrice smiled. “Let’s not continue this conversation, but I do think that an ice sounds delicious.”

      They left the shop and headed down the street toward Gunther’s.

      On the way, Beatrice couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think I’m being silly, Ellie?”

      “Truthfully? Yes and no. If you’re interested in him, I don’t think you should give up altogether. It’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? Summerson is exceedingly handsome, wealthy and, so you tell me anyway, as charming as the devil. But, as you pointed out, that’s why so many women feel the same way you do.”

      Beatrice sighed. “Point taken.” Charles Summerson was exactly what she had been waiting for all along, but she had already determined that her previous aspirations were unrealistic. No, the wisest course of action would be to forget him entirely and settle on some nice, staid gentleman who never set her heart to racing—that sort was abundant during the London season.

      Charles slept uncharacteristically late the morning following Lady Teasdale’s ball. Although he tended to keep late-night hours, he usually still managed to rise early enough to exercise his horse in the park before it became too crowded. Last night, sleep had eluded him until the wee hours of the morning, and when he finally did drift off, his dreams had been visited by a golden-haired angel.

      He stretched contentedly in bed and sighed, contemplating recent events. He’d been growing bored of late. Beatrice Sinclair was just the entertainment he needed.

      Then he frowned slightly and sighed again. He really did have to move back to his own house soon. For one, his mother seemed bent on driving him to distraction with her endless matchmaking. More importantly, however, Charles had decided that he was definitely attracted to Beatrice Sinclair—too attracted to her. Just the thought of her sprawled out in the garden right next door, or even worse, sprawled out in bed, separated from him by little more than a few thin walls and the short space of his yard…it was precisely that image that had kept him up all night, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to sleep soundly again until he moved back to his own residence.

      He wasn’t quite sure why he found her so intriguing…whether it was those faint freckles, or her slender feet. Maybe she interested him because she was rather clumsy and talked too much—a relief, when most young ladies pranced about like china dolls and conversed solely on the weather and the latest fashions.

      But he did know that he wanted to learn more about her. It was her fourth season, and he found it peculiar that he’d never even heard her name before. Although he had spent some time on the Continent a few years back when he was working for the War Office, he’d quit that business nearly three years ago and had been in London for most of the last two seasons. Where had Beatrice Sinclair been then? She wasn’t exactly the sort of girl one just missed.

      And, he had to admit, he still wondered how old she was and why she wasn’t married yet. When he’d first seen her on the street, he’d been struck by how innocent she had appeared—it had sent his blood racing, but it had also urged him to be cautious. Charles certainly wasn’t renowned for his scruples, at least where romantic affairs were concerned, but he didn’t make a practice of seducing innocents. It could lead to a lot more trouble than it was worth.

      However, perhaps, Beatrice’s appearances were deceiving. He hoped so. It wasn’t possible to be so beautiful and make it through so many seasons untouched, unless the girl was quite a prude. From what he had observed, she certainly didn’t seem to fit into that category. She didn’t seem to be shy, either. Surely she couldn’t be completely innocent.

      Charles eased out of bed and rang for his valet, Smythe.

      Several minutes later, he watched the elaborate process of his cravat being tied, while his thoughts drifted back to Beatrice Sinclair. Lucy would probably know something about her. His sister had always possessed an uncanny knack for knowing the affairs of everyone in society.

      Charles’s eyes narrowed on Smythe. Servants knew everything, as well. “Have you heard anything about the young lady who’s staying next door, Smythe?”

      The man looked up briefly. “I am acquainted with her maid, my lord. A rather forceful woman,” he answered before turning back to his task.

      “I see,” Charles said, still looking into the mirror. Smythe was just making the final adjustments on his cravat, tugging here and there, but not before Charles caught a glimpse of the jagged scar that cut across the base of his throat. It was a gruesome reminder of his days with the War Office that he usually chose to ignore.

      But then it was covered, and Smythe stepped away, admiring his handiwork.

      “Will that be all my lord?”

      Charles nodded and waved Smythe off. He hadn’t been at all informative.

      Ten minutes later, Charles wandered downstairs to the sunny breakfast room. He was relieved to see that Lucy was there, blessedly alone.

      “Where is Mother?” he asked as he piled his plate with eggs at the serving table.

      She looked up from the paper she was reading. “Off running errands for her dinner party.”

      Smiling knowingly, Charles took a seat across from her at the table. “Ah…will all the suitors be coming over, Lu?”

      She smiled back sweetly. If only he knew whose suitors. “You could say as much, Charles.”

      “Suppose I’ll have to be there, then.”

      Lucy nodded and folded her paper casually in her lap. Still smiling, she replied, “Yes, you’d better. Protection, right?”

      Charles ignored her. He was in too good a humor to let her gibes get to him. “Say, Lucy, you seem rather smug this day. Something happen to put you in such spirits? What have you been up to?”

      Lucy had spent the morning tending to her mother’s errands, as well. She’d already sent her maid over to Lady Sinclair’s, hoping to get some information about Beatrice from her servants. “I had a few errands of my own…I had to go glean some information for Mother, actually. You know how meddlesome she can get.”

      Charles knew. He wasn’t even going to ask Lucy what it was that their mother wanted her to ferret out. But the mention of gleaning information…

      “Say, do you know Beatrice Sinclair at all, Lu?” he asked, hoping that he didn’t introduce the subject too abruptly.

      Startled, she choked on her tea.

      “Lucy? I wasn’t aware that that was a strange question.”

      Lucy wiped her chin and tried to appear nonchalant. “I’m sorry—it wasn’t. Do you know Beatrice Sinclair?”

      He thought carefully of how to proceed. He’d been hoping that Lucy would answer him with a simple yes or no, but clearly she wanted to pry. He didn’t like to reveal too much of his private life to his sister, but he was also curious. “I don’t really know her…but I should like to know her. I met her last night when I returned from the ball. She’s Lady Sinclair’s niece.”

      “Great-niece, actually,” Lucy explained. “She hasn’t been to town for the last few seasons, which would explain why you haven’t met her before. Last time she was here, you would have been on the Continent.”

      Charles nodded. Lucy was being a veritable fount of information. “Is that all you know?”

      “Her father’s Viscount Carlisle. Her brother you might know from your club—Lord Benjamin Sinclair.”

      “We’re acquainted. He was a couple of years behind me in school.” Charles’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You don’t know Sinclair, do you?”

      She smiled with forced patience. “I know of him. His reputation is as black as yours. I’m just very observant. That’s how I know