There was, perhaps, room for some form of weapon under the bit of flounce of her dress, but given her utter, stark stillness, it was unlikely.
She'd been at the terrifying end of a gun far too often, but this time it was different. Errol wasn't with her. There was no fear that others would be in trouble if she utterly lost it. She didn't have to take care of anyone else with her. These weren't conscious thoughts of hers, but they contributed to what came next.
The daughter of a merchant, Beauty's family had almost always been relatively high in the social world. Her sisters were graceful, lovely creatures whose delicate nature precluded them from the hard work necessary to make a living, once her father's fortunes were lost at sea. Beauty, the least beautiful and youngest of the three, had ever been the sensible one. She'd been the one who managed the small cottage her father took in the countryside when they left Paris. Her hands were the ones that developed callouses. If she'd ever had anything she took pride in, it was in her good sense and reasonable approach to every difficult challenge.
Definitely his jacket, one of the many thoughts said in her head. The others were caught up in the differences -- this man was slightly taller, slightly more slender, and his eyes were harder. But it wasn't his eyes she found that she was focusing on, at the moment. It was, naturally, sensibly, reasonably, the gun. And as the world narrowed to the very end of that very deadly weapon, she let out a sigh, and with as much common sense as one could, fainted dead away.