And yet Beatrice couldn’t help thinking there was some truth to the theory.
“If that’s the case, he’ll fall foul with Lord Devereaux,” Sophia said. “The man has a new mistress every six months, though they all look remarkably similar.”
Sybil suddenly gasped. “Quick, Beatrice. Your husband is prowling towards us like a panther in need of an afternoon bite.”
“I’ll lay odds he wants you to inspect the broom cupboard,” Vivienne whispered. “Or he’s lost his sapphire stickpin and needs your help upstairs.”
Beatrice smiled. “It will take an hour to search the room thoroughly.”
Dante approached, looking extremely handsome in his dark blue coat. He bowed. “Ladies. I’ve come to steal my wife.”
“Have you lost something, Dante?” Vivienne teased.
“My mind if I’m to be parted from Beatrice a moment longer.”
The ladies sighed.
Dante offered his hand. “Mrs D’Angelo, might I invite you to take an afternoon stroll?”
Beatrice couldn’t wait to be alone with him. She’d not spoken to him properly since yesterday afternoon. And since making their vows, their friends had monopolised their attention.
She gripped his hand. “I’d like nothing more than to spend an hour alone with you, Dante.”
He led her out into the hall and drew her into his arms. “Am I mistaken, or do your friends assume we intend to do something other than walk?”
“They know we’re in love, know we can barely keep our hands to ourselves.”
He bent his head and kissed her. Their first proper kiss as husband and wife had heat pooling in her belly.
“Tonight, we’ll have hours to indulge our passions, but let’s walk together. I feel like we’ve not spoken for days.”
His comment warmed her as much as his kisses. “Then let me run upstairs, fetch a pelisse and change my shoes. Vivienne said there’s a pretty spot by the lake. Perhaps we can walk there.”
He nodded. “I shall wait for you on the terrace.”
She hurried to their chamber and returned momentarily.
They strolled down to the row of mausoleums, the burial place of Mr Sloane’s ancestors. They talked about the ladies who were moving into Howland Street, about Mr Craddock’s trial. He revealed the conversation he’d had with Lucius Daventry.
“I’ve been assigned a new case.”
Her heart dropped as fast as a brick in a water barrel. “Dante, promise me you’ll be careful.”
“You haven’t asked what it is.”
“Tell me it’s not finding Mr Babington’s murderer.”
“No, love, that’s an impossible feat. There are too many suspects, Mable being one of them.” He paused. “She came to see Daventry three days ago, but he refused to let her speak.”
Good Lord!
“Did she come to confess?”
Dante shrugged. “Daventry told her that good people commit foolish acts in the name of duty. That the world was best rid of a man like Babington, and it was likely someone else with a gripe hired an assassin.”
Mr Daventry’s thoughts would have been for Dante, too. He’d been hurt enough and didn’t need society pointing the finger. Didn’t need his name involved in a scandal.
“Mable kissed his hand and thanked him,” Dante continued. “So, no. I doubt anyone will be hunting for Babington’s killer.”