Earl Verdante Everleigh's carriage joined the queue at the Hodgson residence, coaches lined twenty deep along the gravel path. He exhaled quietly, taking in the familiar bustle of an event like this.
He almost missed having someone to arrive with.
His son Elias had been meant to accompany him. Instead, a summons from the Silver Eagles had arrived that morning — urgent enough, apparently, to justify missing the season's most anticipated banquet. Verdante hadn't argued. He knew better than most that some summons weren't really requests.
He settled back against the seat and waited.
It was nearly fifteen minutes before the queue moved enough to matter. When the carriage directly ahead of his finally pulled up to the steps, he watched out of habit — the quiet assessment of someone who had spent decades reading rooms before entering them.
Two people stepped out.
He recognised them immediately. The Cornwell siblings. The boy first, turning back to offer his hand with the practiced ease of a dutiful brother. The girl took it — gracious, unhurried, her expression perfectly solemn. They looked, to any casual observer, like two siblings who had weathered grief together and come out the other side intact.
Verdante had not survived this long by being a casual observer.
Interesting.
He followed shortly after and stepped out of his carriage. His arrival was announced at the entrance — his name carrying the particular weight it always did in rooms like this.
Inside, the Hodgson residence was alive with the particular energy of nobility performing ease at one another — the low hum of conversation layered over light music, the warmth of too many people in an elegant space. He had intended to find the Marchioness first, offer his congratulations to Young Master Hodgson on his Academy placement, and get his bearings.
He managed perhaps four steps before the first group found him.
It was, of course, inevitable. Earl Everleigh was not the kind of man people let walk through a room undisturbed.
But he wasn't the only one who had caught the attention of the crowd.
Beatrice walked alongside her brother and felt the room shift slightly as they entered. Eyes moved to them — some curious, some pitying, a few openly assessing. She caught all of it in her periphery without turning her head.
Herrace had champagne in his hand within minutes. He made no move to circulate, no rush to greet anyone. He simply stood close enough that leaving his side would require a deliberate decision on her part.
She hadn't missed that.
The perfect act of an escort on his part.
They stayed like this for a few more minutes when Herrace finally spotted someone of his interest. With an innocent smile on his face, he looked towards Beatrice and put forward his hand, "Sister, I'd like to introduce someone to you. They are a dear friend of mine. We shall go greet them now."
"Oh? They must be dear if my little brother insists on introducing them to me. Let us go then." Beatrice placed her hand into the crook of his hand and followed him.
The family Herrace led her to were minor nobility — presentable, well mannered, the kind that attended events like this more to be seen than to participate. A husband and wife, two sons and a daughter. They greeted Herrace with the particular warmth of people who were genuinely glad to see him.
The introductions moved around the group at a comfortable pace. The husband was cordial. The wife was pleasant and said something kind about Beatrice's dress. The elder son greeted her with easy confidence and moved on. The daughter curtsied and smiled.
Then the second son.
He was introduced as Aldric. Quiet, reasonably good looking, with the kind of face that didn't immediately stand out in a crowd. He bowed at the correct angle and said the correct things. There was nothing technically wrong with any of it.
Except that from the moment Beatrice had walked up, his eyes had not moved from her face. Not when the conversation shifted. Not when his mother said something beside him. Not when Herrace laughed at something the elder son said.
Just. Staying.
Beatrice held her smile and filed it away.
Herrace's quiet over the past weeks suddenly made a great deal of sense.
Beatrice, not wanting to stay for long, tried to excuse herself, "Brother, I shall now go and congratulate the Young Master Hodgson before he gets busy in the banquet." She looked over to the Bachour family and gave them a polite bow, "Have a splendid evening ahead." She purposely did not meet the second son's eye.
Before she could move, Herrace's hand found her elbow — light, almost brotherly.
"Do forgive my sister," he said to the Bachour family, his tone warm and easy. "She has always been rather shy in new company. It is quite endearing, really." He glanced at her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I keep telling her she ought to let people see more of her."
The Bachour family laughed politely. The second son said nothing. He was still looking at her.
Beatrice smiled.
"Brother worries too much," she said lightly, stepping back. "It is a habit of his."
She gave the family a polite bow and left before anyone could respond.
Beatrice gracefully walked over to the Hodgson family, gave them a formal greeting and congratulated the Young Master Hodgson before she went over to the champagne counter and picked up a glass.
Her eyes roamed around the hall in hopes of finding the Earl. She had known that he had entered the hall just after she had. She wasn't in a haste to approach him though, she had planned to wait and gauge his temperament for a while.
She found him quickly enough — Earl Everleigh, already surrounded, a small orbit of nobles having formed around him the moment he stepped in. He was listening more than talking, which she noted.
She made no move toward him.
Instead she drifted toward a cluster of young women near the far end of the hall. The topic was fashion — new fabrics from the southern provinces, someone's strong opinion on the return of ivory trim — and Beatrice let herself be pulled into it naturally.
She had an eye for these things and she used it. She asked the right questions, offered observations that were specific enough to be interesting, laughed at the right moments. Within a few minutes the group had warmed to her considerably. Names were exchanged. One of them, a Lady Sefton, mentioned that her family had recently acquired a property not far from the Cornwell county — a detail Beatrice stored away without reacting to. Another, a younger girl barely out of her debut season, mentioned her brother was stationed with the Imperial forces near the northern border.
Beatrice smiled and kept listening.
By the time the music started she had three names she hadn't arrived with and a clearer picture of who was connected to whom in this room.
Not a bad start.
The Hodgson family took the floor first — Marchioness Hodgson and her husband, Young Master Hodgson with a partner Beatrice didn't recognise. The hall quieted slightly around the edges, the way it always did when the hosts danced.
She was still watching the Earl when someone appeared at her elbow.
"Miss Cornwell." Aldric Bachour. A small bow, his eyes already doing that thing they did. "Would you honour me with a dance?"
There was no graceful way to refuse. Not here, not with half the room able to see.
"Of course," she said pleasantly.
Aldric danced well. That was the first thing she noticed — his footwork was precise, his lead firm without being forceful, his posture correct. He didn't step on her hem or miscalculate the turn. Whatever his other qualities, someone had taught him properly.
He was also, mercifully, not trying to fill the silence with conversation.
Beatrice let herself settle into the rhythm of it. She kept her expression pleasant, her posture easy, and used the elevated vantage point of the floor to quietly survey the room.
Herrace was watching them from the side, champagne in hand, that familiar smile on his face. Satisfied.
Around the edges of the dance floor she caught the quiet stir of attention — heads tilting toward neighbors, the particular hush of people trying to place an unfamiliar face beside a familiar name. She kept her expression neutral and her back straight.
Earl Everleigh watched Beatrice and the young noble dance in the middle of the floor. It almost reminded him of his older days, when he used to watch the Late Count Cornwell and his fiancée dance in the same manner, Rebecca following Lucas' lead solemnly while all of Lucas' attention was on her.
Beatrice took after her mother in many ways.
He just had to find out if she really did.
The dance ended. Beatrice thanked Aldric with a smile that gave him nothing and stepped off the floor.
She found her way back to the women's group without haste, accepted a fresh glass of champagne, and let the conversation carry her for another quarter of an hour. The conversation had moved on to someone's cousin's disastrous season. Beatrice contributed two sentences and let it carry itself.
It was only when she caught the Earl moving toward the far end of the hall — unhurried, excusing himself from his current company with the ease of a man who had done it a thousand times — that she set her glass down.
"Do forgive me," she said pleasantly to no one in particular. "I must pay my respects."
The balcony doors were open. The evening air met her at the threshold, cooler than she expected, carrying the faint smell of turned earth and late roses from the gardens below. The last of the sunlight was bleeding out across the sky — deep amber at the horizon, fading into something darker above.
Earl Everleigh stood at the railing with his back to the door.
He did not turn when she stepped out. But the slight tilt of his head told her he had heard her come.
She had rehearsed this moment more times than she cared to admit. Standing here now, she found none of it.