knew from listening to the shrew herself. But she couldn’t admit that, nor could she testify to what she’d heard and seen, not without ruining her reputation.
It was tempting, though. She’d been hoping her reputation would appeal to her father. Not only had it not appealed to him, he knew things about her that most didn’t. To him, her reputation was already in tatters.
So what did protecting her reputation even matter?
Because it wasn’t just about her. It was also about Selina. She was on the precipice of a marvelous future, and Beatrix wouldn’t cause her any trouble or pain. Not for anything.
“Pity,” Harry said. “If we had evidence that Lady Rockbourne had a temper, that could justify Rockbourne becoming angry with her.”
“Would it justify him pushing her over the balcony?” Selina asked incredulously.
“No, of course not. Honestly, it will be hard to prove what actually happened without an eyewitness. We either believe the viscount’s version of events, or we investigate whether he might be lying. So far, there does seem to be motivation for him to have at least been angry with her.”
Beatrix suppressed a scowl. “Being angry with someone doesn’t mean they pushed them.”
“No, but it’s our duty to investigate all the evidence.”
Selina was studying Beatrix intently. Before she could ask why Beatrix was defending Tom, Harry thankfully changed the subject.
As soon as they arrived at the house in Cavendish Square—home, Beatrix reminded herself—Beatrix excused herself and went upstairs. Not only did she want to avoid further questions or curious looks from Selina, she had an errand to run.
Going directly to the drawer with the box, Beatrix knelt and removed all the stolen items to a small bag. How to proceed to the receiver shop in Saffron Hill—should she go as a woman or dress in men’s clothing? The latter seemed the better choice, so she quickly changed her clothing. The bag had a long strap that she draped across her shoulder so that the bulk of the goods sat against her hip. She donned her coat over the strap and adjusted the bag so it was hidden by the tail of the coat. Finally, she stuck her knife into her boot and tucked her pistol into the specially designed pocket inside her coat.
After making sure every strand of blonde hair was tucked into her hat, she made her way down the back stairs to the lower level. Escaping this house unnoticed was more difficult than it had been when they’d lived on Queen Anne Street, when the house had been smaller and they hadn’t had a full complement of servants.
That, and she rarely tried to steal away in the middle of the day.
Navigating the lower level, she made her way to the front of the house where a door led to a small exterior landing at the base of a narrow flight of stairs up to the street. She breathed a sigh of relief as she hurried up the stairs.
And ran directly into the cook at the top.
“Oh! My goodness, pardon me,” the older woman said, clutching an armful of parcels that she barely managed to hold on to. Her gaze collided with Beatrix’s, and her eyes widened in surprise, followed by recognition. “Miss Whitford?”
“Er, yes. I would be ever so grateful if you would pretend you didn’t see me.” She gave her an awkward smile. “Thank you!”
Dodging around the woman, Beatrix hurried to Holles Street on her way to Oxford Street. There, she caught a hack heading east to Saffron Hill.
A short while later, she walked into the dim interior of The Golden Lion, the receiver shop that had been, until recently, owned by Rafe. She and Selina had used it to fence some pieces of jewelry Beatrix had stolen a few weeks ago to keep them from losing their house. Selina, with Rafe’s assistance, had since recovered and returned all the items—anonymously, of course.
Beatrix had never enjoyed taking things from people, but something about the act of stealing had always given her a surge of accomplishment, of excitement, of pleasure. Over the past decade, she’d used her skill when it was necessary. In hindsight, she regretted thinking that having a Season to prove herself to her father was necessary. It had been an utter waste of money and energy.
The shop was tidy, with a counter at the back. Shelves bearing a variety of items lined the walls. A rough looking lad, perhaps eighteen or so, lounged near the door. He eyed Beatrix cautiously as she made