She smiled, not hugely, but it seemed completely genuine. “Well, a few things have transpired, giving me reason for a bit of happiness.”
“Such as?”
“A certain letter in a magazine, for starters.” She drew a finger across the spines of the books at her shoulder as she strolled the perimeter.
“It does seem to be the talk of the evening, does it not?” Beatrice would admit nothing to no one, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t allow her friend to draw her own conclusions. After all, if it weren’t for Diana, Beatrice would have never printed such a thing.
“Indeed.” She looked a bit of the old Diana, with her eyes bright and her head held high. “It rather begs the question: What inspired the author to publish such a thing? And it occurred to me that perhaps her own misfortune prompted her to help others avoid her fate.”
“It’s possible.”
“Or perhaps,” she said, pausing to send an entirely too knowing look in Beatrice’s direction, “it was the author’s friend who suffered the misfortune, and that was what inspired the letter.”
Beatrice leaned against a stout writing table placed beneath the shuttered window. “We may never know.” She couldn’t contain an impish grin. It made her exceedingly happy that Diana approved of her tactics. It was far too late for Beatrice to help her, but clearly she had brought her friend some amount of satisfaction.
“More’s the pity. I do hope, however, that we haven’t heard the last of the Daring Debutant.”
Chapter Twelve
The bell above the shop door chimed as Beatrice let herself into the warmth of the art supply store, her smile already overtaking her attempt at a professional facade. Diana’s reaction at the ball earlier that week had been so encouraging, she had been thinking over her statement for days. Would the publisher want more? Would the readers?
“Bonjour, Monsieur Allard.”
He grunted in response, not bothering to look up from his etching. A long, coiled ribbon of steel curled off of the plate as his hands worked in a smooth, continuous arc. “Well, if it isn’t the little troublemaker,” he said without heat, his heavy accent making the words sound almost complimentary.
“Indeed, it is,” she replied with a grin. “I’m here to see my coconspirator.”
He chuckled at this, shaking his head even as his hands remained steady. “I conspire with no one, my lady.” He finished the long peel, brushed it aside, and swiveled in his chair to face her. “What is it that you want now? I wonder. Pigments? Brushes? A selection of canvases, perhaps?”
“As you well know, I am stocked for at least the rest of the month. I’m here because I am dying to know if you have heard anything from your publisher. Are they pleased?”
He took off his spectacles and rubbed them with a soft white cloth from his worktable. “They are, I think. At least I imagine so, since they have asked for another submission for their next publication.”
“They did?” Beatrice resisted the urge to do a highly undignified little dance. If that wasn’t success, then she didn’t know what was.
“They did.” He reseated his spectacles on his great nose and stood, stretching his back. “Apparently, they have already received many requests for another installment, as well as an increase in subscriptions.”
Excellent. There was no surer way to affirm that her words had resonated, and, hopefully, that they would be helpful. She still felt rather rotten about Mr. Godfrey, but with any luck, whispers would quickly subside, and the gist of the article would be what would linger. “I can’t believe it. I wish you had sent word! I wanted to do another engraving, but I thought I would speak with you first.” Already, she was thinking of the advice she could give in the next letter.
“I’m not so sure it would be wise, mademoiselle.”
Her excitement fell like a dropped ball. “Not wise? Why ever not? It is helping people.”
“You’ve said your piece, have you not? I fear that if you push your luck, it may then push back. Comprenez-vous?”
“Don’t be silly, monsieur. We are not talking about national security here. Offering up more advice can only be a good thing.”
“Then why not do so under your own name?”
She opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. Very well. So he had a small point there. “You know full well a female of my standing must take care with her reputation. Writing anonymously serves my purpose while protecting my good name. But remember, monsieur—rules must sometimes be broken for the greater good.”
He grunted, turning his back on her and returning to his chair.
“Please say that you will help me again. Your work was spectacular—without it, the letter wouldn’t have had nearly the impact it did.”
“Pretty words from a pretty girl are all well and good, but they will not work on old Georges.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. Why was he suddenly being so stubborn? “Please, Monsieur Allard? There is more good to be done. You would not send a soldier into battle unarmed, would you?”
He flicked a glance her way before picking up his tools. “Of course not. I don’t see what—”
“Sending young, unprepared girls into the marriage mart is not so different. The consequences last a lifetime, do they not? And though the scars may not be as visible, they can certainly cut just as deep.”
“So much passion for people you may not even know.”
Diana’s tear-streaked face flitted through her mind, strengthening her resolve. Betrayal by a person one thought to love could be the cruelest fate of all. “I believe we call that compassion for our fellow man. Or woman, as the case may be. It’s part of the human condition, I’m afraid.”
The old man sighed, rubbing a hand over his bushy white eyebrows. “I am convinced that if you had been born a man, you could have quite the career as a man of law. Argue, argue, argue.”
“And win?” she asked with a pleading smile.
His gaze rose briefly to the etching on the wall above him, where the pretty young woman smiled encouragingly at him. “Oui, and win.”
Her smile grew to a full-fledged grin. “You, monsieur, are a gem. When is the submission due?”
“Two weeks. Just be sure to give me two days this time for the engraving, d’accord?”
She nodded, wishing he was close enough to kiss his cheeks. “Oui, d’accord.”
Slogging through the wet grass of Green Park, the smell of damp earth and soggy wool filling his nostrils, Colin rubbed the light, misty rain from his eyes and scanned the landscape for Beatrice. The chances of her actually being here were slim, but they hadn’t specified rain or shine. He didn’t want to look too closely at his motivations, but he knew that if there was a chance for seeing her, he’d gladly take it.
He’d already done his prerequisite visits to proper wife candidates today—all of which served not only to depress him, but to make him wonder if the problem was with him and not the dozens of young women who either seemed too boring, too garish, too talkative, or too impossible to imagine living with for the rest of his life. The thought of spending time with Beatrice seemed like breaking out of prison. She was like a pop of crimson red in a box of pastels.
He turned right and headed down Constitution Hill. The wind blew, and he turned his face away from it, tilting his hat to shield him better. Turned as he was, he caught sight of two young women huddled beneath one of the larger trees. He smiled, thoughts of the miserable day falling away as Beatrice looked up and waved, a wide grin on her face.