To Desire a Devil

Reynaud raised an eyebrow at the order but fell into step with his boyhood friend without protest.

  “I hear there was an attempt on your life last week,” Vale said in a low voice.

  “Someone shot at me, certainly.” Reynaud frowned. “Miss Corning was in the line of fire.”

  “Careless.”

  “Foolish,” Reynaud corrected grimly. “When I find him, I’ll kill him.”

  “Miss Corning means so much to you?” He felt Vale’s curious glance.

  “Yes.” The knowledge solidified as he said it. Beatrice Corning did mean a lot to him—how much he wasn’t sure. But he knew he wanted to keep her close. Wanted to keep her safe.

  “Indeed?” Vale said thoughtfully. “And does the lady know this?”

  “Is that any of your business?”

  Vale coughed as if covering a laugh, and Reynaud turned to glare at him.

  The viscount held up a conciliatory hand. “I mean no offense, but the lady is exceedingly proper and you… well.”

  Reynaud frowned down at the floor. Vale was right. Miss Corning was all that was proper in an English lady. Everything, in fact, that he no longer was. Perhaps that was why his voice was sharp when he said, “I’ll let you know when I want your opinion.”

  “No doubt.” Vale’s voice was dry. “And I look forward to the day, but in the meantime, we have other matters to discuss. Did you know Hasselthorpe was shot at last summer?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Reynaud glanced to the side of the room, where Lord Hasselthorpe stood with his usual cohorts. The Duke of Lister, Nathan Graham, and, of course, St. Aubyn the pretender were about him, all of them looking rather sour. “You think it’s related?”

  “I don’t know,” Vale mused. “Hasselthorpe was winged in the arm—not a grave wound as I understand. He seems to’ve recovered entirely. He was riding in Hyde Park when he was shot. The shooter was never found. It does seem odd.”

  “Hasselthorpe has aspirations to be prime minister,” Reynaud pointed out. “It may’ve simply been a political assassination gone awry.”

  “Of course, of course,” Vale murmured. “But I can’t help noting that he was shot shortly after I tried talking to him about Spinner’s Falls.”

  Reynaud halted and stared at Vale. “Really?”

  “Yes.” Vale glanced about the ballroom. “I say, do you know where my lady wife and your Miss Corning have got to?”

  “They went into the portrait gallery.” Reynaud nodded toward the hall leading off the ballroom. “Do you think Hasselthorpe knows something about this business?”

  “Perhaps.” Vale started walking again, and Reynaud fell into step. “Or perhaps someone else merely thinks he does. Or the thing isn’t related at all and I’m merely chasing unicorns.”

  Reynaud grunted. Vale might like to play the simpleton, but he’d known the man since childhood and wasn’t fooled. Vale was one of the most clever men he knew. “I thought at first that the attempt on me must’ve been Reginald St. Aubyn’s doing.”

  “And now?”

  “Miss Corning pointed out that he’d have to be a half-wit to try and kill me on his own front step.”

  “Ah.”

  “If the attempt against me is linked to the shooting of Lord Hasselthorpe, then it’s got something to do with Spinner’s Falls,” Reynaud said thoughtfully. “But what?”

  “I think you know something,” Vale said.

  Reynaud stopped, eyeing the other man narrowly. “What do you mean?”

  Vale held up his palms. “I’m not accusing you. I just think you must have some information about the traitor that we haven’t considered.”

  Reynaud frowned. “I separated from you at the Indian camp and never saw you again until the other day. What could I possibly know that you don’t?”

  “I don’t know.” Vale shrugged. “But I think we should meet with Munroe and pool our individual recollections.”

  “Munroe survived the camp?” Reynaud’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t thought of the naturalist in years.

  “Aye, but he’s scarred.” Vale looked away. “He lost an eye in that camp, Reynaud.”

  Reynaud grimaced. He knew well what fate befell Indian captives. Seven years of his life had been lost, and now it seemed it was all because someone—one of their own—had betrayed them at Spinner’s Falls.

  “Then let’s meet with Munroe and figure this thing out,” he said with decision. “Let’s find the bastard and make sure he hangs.”

  “HE’S SET A date to plead his case before the parliamentary committee.” Lord Blanchard whispered the news as if the potted plant behind them might have ears.

  Lister raised an eyebrow, looking bored as always as he surveyed the crowded ballroom. “Are you surprised?”

  Blanchard’s face reddened. “You needn’t sound so unaffected. If St. Aubyn gets my title, your political career will be a toss-up as well.”

  Lister shrugged, though his face had turned stony.

  “Come, gentlemen,” Hasselthorpe said softly. “Fighting among ourselves does not serve our cause.”

  “Well, then what does?” Blanchard was looking sullen. “None of you have offered your support to me. I am alone—even my niece has turned against me. Hope is courting her, the bastard.”

  “Is he?” Hasselthorpe turned to glance at Hope, who was walking with Vale about the perimeter of the ballroom. “A clever stratagem. If he has a wife, he can dispel these rumors of insanity. A man always looks more settled with a wife by his side.”

  “Indeed,” Lister drawled. “Wouldn’t you agree, Graham?”

  Nathan Graham blinked. He’d been staring at his feet as if lost in thought. “What?”

  “I say, a wife makes the man’s career,” Lister said. “Don’t you agree?”

  Graham’s handsome face flushed. There were rumors flying about the ballroom tonight that he’d argued with his wife. He answered steadily enough, though. “Naturally.”

  Lister’s eyes narrowed as if he scented blood.

  Hasselthorpe pursed his lips. “I haven’t seen an event filled with such luminaries of our society in quite some time.”

  Lister turned to him, a puzzled question in his eyes.

  Hasselthorpe smiled. “I confess, I admire Miss Molyneux’s courage.”

  “What do you mean?” Blanchard asked.

  Hasselthorpe shrugged. “Only that if her nephew has an attack of madness in such a venue, all of society will see.”

  Young Graham was the first to understand. His face went blank as he darted a look at Lord Hope across the room.

  Lister opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by Adriana, who came fluttering over to land at Hasselthorpe’s side. She wore a pale yellow and lavender gown and looked like nothing so much as a particularly frivolous butterfly.

  “Darling!” she crowed. “Oh, do come leave your stuffy political discussions and dance with me. I’m sure these gentlemen won’t mind if you pay a tiny bit of attention to your wife.”

  And she batted her eyes at Lister, Blanchard, and Graham.

  Lister, who’d been eyeing the soft expanse of her exposed bosom, bowed. “Not at all, ma’am.”

  “There, you see! His Grace has given his kind permission.” Adriana curtsied flirtatiously.

  Hasselthorpe sighed. If he protested, Adriana would only cajole and flatter in ever more irritating ways until he was forced to give in or make a scene. “Very well. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

  The others bowed as his wife latched on to him and dragged him toward the dance floor.

  “I thought young Bankforth was squiring you about the dance tonight,” he muttered.

  She giggled, as gay as a girl in the schoolroom instead of a woman in her fortieth year. “I wore him out, poor thing. Besides”—she maneuvered him into the proper position—“you know how you love to dance!”

  Hasselthorpe sighed again. He loathed dancing, and he’d told Adriana so on many an occasion. For some reason, she chose to thin
k he was teasing when he protested. Or perhaps her brain was too small to keep track of the information for any length of time.

  Hasselthorpe looked over his wife’s head as he waited for the music to start and saw Blanchard staring daggers across the room. It wasn’t hard to find the object of his gaze—Lord Hope was making his way to Miss Corning, who sat in a corner with Mrs. Graham. He looked back at Blanchard. If looks could kill, Lord Hope would be lying bleeding on the floor. Interesting. It seemed Blanchard’s hatred of Hope was personal.

  It made one wonder what such an intense animosity would drive a man to do.

  “NOW TELL ME,” Beatrice said a little later. “What’s so urgent that you needs must pull me away from Lady Vale?”

  “I wanted you to hear it from me,” Lottie said solemnly. They sat together at the side of the ballroom on a gold silk settee. A statue of a Greek god to one side and a potted plant to the other gave them a measure of privacy.

  “Your manner is terribly secretive,” Beatrice said. Her eyes drifted to her friend’s belly. Could it be…?

  “I’ve left Nathan.”

  Beatrice’s gaze snapped up. “But why?” She stared at Lottie in bewildered concern. “I thought you loved Mr. Graham.”

  “I do,” Lottie said. “Of course I do. But that just makes it so much worse.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  Lottie sighed, and for the first time, Beatrice saw that her friend was truly weary. There were faint mauve half circles beneath her eyes, and she squeezed her hands together as if to control a tremor. “I love him, and I think he still loves me, but he no longer cares. I… I’m a thing to him, Bea.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, dear. Can you explain it to me?”

  “Oh!” Lottie lifted her hands from her lap and balled them into fists. “Oh, it’s so very difficult to articulate.”

  Beatrice placed her hand around one of Lottie’s fists. “I’m listening.”

  Lottie inhaled and closed her eyes. “It’s as if I’m one of the things he owns or possesses. He has a carriage, he has a butler, he has a town house, and he has a wife. I fill a position, as it were, and he might love me, somewhere deep underneath his everyday exterior, but I could be anyone, Bea.” She opened her eyes and stared at her friend with something very like despair. “I could be Regina Rockford or Pamela Thistlewaite or that girl who married the Italian count.”

  “Meredith Brightwell,” Beatrice murmured. She’d always had a better memory for names than Lottie.

  “Yes,” Lottie said. “Any of them. I fulfill a… a space in his life, nothing more. If I died, he’d mourn and then go out and find another to fill that space again.”

  “Surely not,” Beatrice murmured, not a little shocked. Was this truly what marriage was like? Did the love and compliments and courting really not last?

  “Believe me, it’s all true.” Lottie wiped her eyes with one wrist. “I couldn’t take that anymore. I may be naive, but I want to be loved—loved for myself, not the position I hold—so I left.”

  Beatrice swallowed, looking down at her hand still clasped with Lottie’s. “Where are you staying?”

  “At Papa’s house,” Lottie said. “He isn’t pleased, and Mama’s worried about the scandal, but they’ll let me stay.”

  “But . . .” Beatrice frowned. “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know.” Lottie laughed, but the sound caught and she quieted. “Perhaps I’ll be scandalous and take a lover.”

  She didn’t look particularly excited at the thought.

  Beatrice glanced across the ballroom. A minuet had started, and couples were pacing gracefully on the dance floor. She could see Lord Hope making his way toward them, and her heart gave a kind of skip in her chest. And beyond him, suddenly clear, was Mr. Graham—Nate—staring rather wistfully at them.

  “Perhaps you can try talking to him.” Even as she said it, she knew the suggestion was hopelessly inadequate.

  Lottie smiled wearily. “I’ve tried. It hasn’t worked.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beatrice said helplessly. “I am so sorry.”

  She sat with Lottie, saying nothing and watching as Lord Hope approached them. She felt guilty because even knowing that Lottie’s whole life was in turmoil and that her friend was deeply hurt, she still rejoiced at the sight of him. Lord Hope looked so strong, stood so straight. He was still too thin, but his face had begun to fill out a bit, his cheeks and eyes no longer so hollow. He was handsome in a daunting sort of way, even with the grim expression he habitually wore, and she couldn’t help the gladness she felt at the sight of him.

  He continued cleaving relentlessly through the crowd until he stood before them. He bowed. “Ladies.”

  “My lord,” Beatrice said rather breathlessly.

  He glanced at the dancers. “This dance is ending soon, I think. Might I have the honor of the next one, Miss Corning?”

  “I… I’m flattered, of course.” Beatrice bit her lip. “But I really think not.”

  “Go ahead, Bea.” Lottie had straightened with Lord Hope’s approach, and now she smiled widely. “Really. I do so wish to see you dance.”

  Beatrice turned to look in her friend’s eyes. Sorrow still lurked there, though Lottie was determined to appear as if nothing were wrong. “You’re sure?”

  Lottie nodded firmly. “Yes, certainly.”

  Beatrice held out her hand, and Lord Hope took it. He glanced at Lottie and said with a crooked smile, “Thank you.”

  Then he was leading Beatrice through the crowd, his shoulders wide and strong beside her. They came to the dance floor and paused as the music ended with a flourish. The dancers curtsied and bowed to their partners and then drifted from the dance floor. Beatrice and Lord Hope took their positions, waiting patiently for the music to begin again. She snuck a look at him, standing beside her. He seemed preoccupied.

  She cleared her throat. “Did your discussion with Lord Vale go well?”

  “Yes.” The music began and the figures of the dance took them away from each other a moment. Lord Hope was frowning fiercely when they drew near again. “Why do you ask?”

  “He is your friend,” she replied, and then said, lower, “I worry about you.”

  They paced away. A gentleman nearby tripped and jostled against Lord Hope. He froze and glared at the man but then seemed to recover himself.

  When they came together again, she whispered, “Are you feeling well?”

  “Of course,” he snapped, a little too loud.

  Heads turned.

  He paced about her as she stood, and even though it was part of the dance, she felt as if a great predator prowled around her.

  Then something awful happened.

  The same man who had jostled Lord Hope before tripped and bumped into him again, this time much harder, shoving Lord Hope a step. Lord Hope whirled on the man, drawing out his huge knife from under his coat. The dancers nearby stumbled to a halt. A woman screamed.

  The man turned white, backing up with his hands raised. “I… I say, I’m dreadfully sorry!”

  “What do you mean by it?” Lord Hope demanded. “You deliberately ran into me.”

  Beatrice started forward. “My lord—”

  But Lord Hope grabbed the other man by the neck. “Answer me!”

  Dear God, had he gone mad again? Gentlemen were shoving their ladies behind them, and the crowd was backing away, leaving a wide cleared space in the middle of the dance floor.

  “Reynaud,” Beatrice said softly. She touched the arm that held his raised knife. “Reynaud, let the man go.”

  He’d paused at the sound of his name on her lips, and now he turned his head, his black eyes blank and frightening.

  Beatrice swallowed and whispered, “Reynaud, please.”

  Lord Hope let the man go so abruptly he staggered.

  “We’re leaving.” With his free hand, Lord Hope grabbed Beatrice’s arm and began towing her through the crowd. He still gripped the bare knife in
his other hand.

  And as they went, the mass of people parted before them, some half falling in their haste to get away from Lord Hope. On every face they passed, Beatrice saw the same expression.

  Fear.

  Chapter Eight

  Longsword raised his mighty sword. The dragon roared again and blew searing flames at him. But Longsword had lived seven long years in the kingdom of the goblins, and fire was no longer a thing he feared. He jumped through the blast and swung his sword hard, driving it between the dragon’s eyes. The great beast staggered and fell dead, but as it did so, it dropped the most beautiful lady in the world. Longsword saw that the lady would be smashed on the rocks beneath her, and he ran to catch her in his strong arms.

  The lady clutched at his broad shoulders and looked at him with eyes the color of the sea. “You have saved my life, kind knight, and for this I give you my gratitude. But if you will save the life of my father the king, I will give you my hand in marriage. . . .”

  —from Longsword

  Beatrice rose early the next morning, summoning her maid and dressing quickly in a simple blue and white striped gown. She breakfasted by herself—both Uncle Reggie and Lord Hope appeared to be still abed—and then on impulse she asked for the carriage. It was much too early to be making social calls, but she knew that Jeremy often had trouble sleeping, and he liked to have company when he was awake in the morning. And besides, she needed to talk to someone about the events of the night before.

  So it was that a half hour later, after arguing her way past the odious Putley, Beatrice was pouring tea for Jeremy and herself.

  “What did you wear?” he asked as she carefully placed the teacup in his hands. She’d filled it only partially full—he was sitting against two pillows, but his fingers trembled, and she was worried he might spill the hot tea on himself.

  “My bronze,” she replied, stirring rich cream into her cup. “Remember, I showed you the pattern and a swatch of the material last summer before I had it made?”

  “The silk that had a kind of iridescence?” At her nod he smiled. “Reminded me of the way brandy sparkles in a glass when you hold it to the light.” He sipped his tea and laid his head back against the pillows, his eyes closed. “You must’ve been beautiful.”