“He seems sane otherwise.”
“Does he, Bea?”
“Yes. Mostly anyway.” Beatrice sat in the chair before her worktable and bit her lip. “I don’t think he’d ever hurt me or you, Uncle, truly, no matter his state of mind.”
“Humph. I don’t know if I share your optimism.” Uncle Reggie wandered over and peered at her work. “Ah, you’ve started a new project. What is it?”
“Aunt Mary’s old prayer book.”
He gently touched a finger to the disassembled book. “I well remember how she used to carry it to church in the country. It belonged to her great-great-grandmother, you know.”
“I remember her telling me,” Beatrice said softly. “The cover was quite worn through, the spine had cracked, and the pages were coming loose from the stitching. I thought to restitch it and then rebind it in a blue calfskin. It’ll be good as new.”
He nodded. “She would’ve liked that. It’s good of you to take such care of her things.”
Beatrice looked at her hands, remembering Aunt Mary’s kind blue eyes, the softness of her cheeks, and the way she used to laugh full-throatedly. Their household had never been the same without her. Since Aunt Mary’s death, Uncle Reggie had become a less-humorous man, more prone to quick judgments, less able to understand or sympathize with other people’s intentions.
“I enjoy it,” she said. “I only wish she were here to see the result.”
“As do I, m’dear, as do I.” He patted the pages once more and then moved away from her table. “I think I must send him away, Bea, for your safety.”
She sighed, knowing they’d returned to the subject of Lord Hope. “He doesn’t present any danger to me.”
“Bea,” Uncle Reggie said gently, “I know you like to put things to rights, but some things can’t be fixed, and I’m afraid a man this wild is one of them.”
Beatrice set her lips stubbornly. “I think we must consider how it’ll appear if we toss him out of Blanchard House and he regains the title. He won’t look favorably on us.”
Uncle Reggie stiffened. “He won’t get the title—I won’t let him.”
“But, Uncle—”
“No, I’m firm on this, Bea,” he said with the sternness he rarely showed her. “I’ll not let that madman take our home from us. I vowed to your aunt Mary that I’d provide for you properly, and I intend to do so. I’ll agree to let him stay here, but only so I can keep an eye on him and gather proof that he’s not fit for the title.”
And with that, he closed the door to her room firmly.
Beatrice looked down at Aunt Mary’s prayer book. If she didn’t do something, there soon would be bloodshed in her house. Uncle Reggie was adamant, but perhaps she could make Lord Hope see that her uncle was only a stubborn old man.
“UNCLE REGGIE COULDN’T possibly have sent someone to kill you,” Miss Corning said for the third or possibly fourth time. “I’m telling you that you don’t know him. He’s really the sweetest thing imaginable.”
“Maybe to you,” Reynaud replied as he sharpened his long knife, “but you’re not the one displacing him from a title—and monies—he thought were his.”
He examined her from under his eyebrows. Did she think him a madman? Was she afraid to be in his company? What had she thought of his actions just hours before?
But despite his watchfulness, all he saw was irritation on Miss Corning’s face.
“You’re not listening to me.” She paced from the window of his bedroom to where he sat on the edge of the bed and stood before him, arms akimbo like a cook scolding the butcher’s boy. “Even if Uncle Reggie wanted to kill you—which, as I keep telling you, he never would—he’d not be stupid enough to stage an assassination in front of his own house.”
“My house,” Reynaud growled. She’d been haranguing him for the last half hour and showed no signs of stopping.
“You,” Miss Corning stated through gritted teeth, “are impossible.”
“No, I am correct,” he answered. “And you simply don’t want to acknowledge the fact that your uncle may not be nearly as sweet as you think.”
“I—” she began again, her tone indicating she might very well continue the argument until doomsday.
But Reynaud had had enough. He threw aside the knife and whetstone and rose from the bed, nearly in her face. “Besides, if you really did consider me impossible, you would never have kissed me.”
She skittered back, and he felt a spear of rage shoot through him. She should not fear him. It wasn’t right.
Then her lush mouth parted in what looked like outrage. For a moment she couldn’t speak, and then she burst out, “It was you who kissed me!”
He took a step toward her. She took a step back. He stalked her silently across the room, waiting for fear to turn her eyes dark. Hadn’t she realized what he’d shouted, out there by the carriage?
Didn’t she know he was mad?
He bent over her, leaning down until the wisps of hair near her ear brushed his lips, inhaling the scent of sweet English flowers. “You returned the kiss; don’t think I didn’t notice.”
And he had. Her soft lips had opened beneath his for just a fraction of a second before he’d turned and run toward the wounded footman. That kiss would be burned in his memory forever. He angled his head and looked into her eyes.
Instead of going dark with fear, they were snapping with green sparks. “I thought you were about to die!”
Foolish girl.
“Tell yourself that if it assuages your delicate sensibilities,” he murmured, “but the fact remains that you. Kissed. Me.”
“What an arrogant thing to say,” she whispered.
“Granted.” He inhaled. Her skin smelled clean and womanly, with that hint of a flowery soap that Indian women never had. It was a nostalgic scent for him, conjuring the memory of other civilized women he’d once known—his mother, his sister, forgotten young girls he’d squired to balls long ago. She smelled of England itself, and for some reason he found the thought unbearably arousing and at the same time utterly frightening. She had no defenses against him.
He no longer belonged in her world. “But did you enjoy the kiss?”
“And if I did?” she whispered.
He brushed his lips—softly, delicately—against her jaw. “Then I pity you. You should run screaming from me. Can’t you see the monster I am?”
She looked up at him with brave clear gray eyes. “You’re not a monster.”
He closed his eyes, not wanting to see her face, not wanting to take advantage of that purity. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Then tell me,” she said urgently. “What happened in the Colonies? Where have you been for seven years?”
“No.” Brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood. He was too late. He pushed away from her, afraid she’d see the demons laughing behind his eyes.
“Why not?” she called. “Why can’t you tell me? I can never understand you until I’ve heard what happened to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “There’s no need for you to understand me.”
She threw her hands in the air. “You’re impossible!”
“And we are back where we started.” He sighed.
She frowned at him, her gray eyes sparking with displeasure as she tapped one small foot. “Very well,” she said at last, “I’ll lay aside the matter of your past for now, but you can’t ignore the fact that someone tried to kill you today.”
“I’m not.” He turned and gathered the knife, whetstone, and the piece of leather he’d been using to sharpen the knife. “I don’t think it’s any of your concern.”
“How can it not be my concern?” she demanded. “I was there. I saw that third shot. The first two might have been random, but the third was most definitely aimed at you.”
“And again, I say that this is none of your business.”
He stowed the whetstone and leather in the top of a chest of drawers, but
he hung the knife at his waist. He’d had it for seven long years, used it to butcher deer and bear, and once, years ago now, he’d killed a man with it. The knife wasn’t a friend—he had no emotional attachment to it—but it had served him well, and he felt safer, more whole, with it at his side.
He looked curiously at Miss Corning, still standing by the bed across the room. “Why do you persist?”
“Because I care,” she said, “no matter how much you try to hold me at arm’s length, I still can’t help but care. And because I am the only one who might get you to understand that Uncle Reggie had nothing to do with the shooting. Think: If it wasn’t Uncle Reggie, then someone else has tried to kill you.”
“And who do you think that might be?”
“I don’t know.” She hugged her waist and shivered. “Do you?”
He frowned down at the top of the chest of drawers. It held only a basin and a pitcher of water—nothing like the furniture that’d been in his old rooms in this house. But then again it was richly appointed compared to the wigwams he’d lived in for many years. For a brief moment, he felt dizzy with displacement. Did he belong anywhere anymore? The demons surged forward to take control.
Then he shook his head, shoving them back. “Vale said he’d been looking for the traitor for a year now. He’s obsessed with the search. And he said the traitor had a French mother. My mother was French.”
“Would Lord Vale have you killed if he thought you the traitor?”
Reynaud remembered the man he’d known, a laughing man, a friend to everyone he met. That Vale would never have done such a thing, but then again, that Vale was from the past. Would Vale kill him if he thought he’d betrayed the regiment at Spinner’s Falls? A man might change in many ways in seven years, but could Vale turn into a killer of friends?
“No.” He answered his own silent question. “No, Jasper would never do that.”
“Then who would?” she asked quietly. “If another of the survivors of the massacre thought you were the traitor, would they kill you?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned, thinking, and then shook his head in frustration. “I don’t even know who survived the massacre besides Vale and a man called Samuel Hartley.” Dammit! He wished he could call on Vale for help, but after yesterday afternoon, it seemed impossible. “I don’t know who to trust.”
He looked at her, the full realization dawning on him. “I’m not sure there is anyone I can trust.”
“THEY SAY THE bullet came within inches of his face,” the Duke of Lister drawled, cradling a goblet of wine between his large pale hands.
“At least that close.” Blanchard frowned. “There was blood on his cheek. Although I think that was from a splinter striking him.”
“Pity it wasn’t closer,” Hasselthorpe said as he swirled the wine in his glass. The burgundy liquid was so dark it was nearly black. Like a glass of blood. He set it down on the table beside his chair in sudden distaste. “Had the bullet smashed his skull, you, Lord Blanchard, would have no fear for your title.”
Blanchard, predictably, choked on his wine.
Hasselthorpe watched him, a faint smile playing around his mouth. They sat at his dining table, the ladies having retired to the sitting room for their tea. Soon they’d have to join them, and he’d have to put up with Adriana and her incredibly foolish conversation. His wife of twenty-some years had been regarded as a great beauty when she’d come out, and the years had done very little to dim her lovely form. Unfortunately, they’d done nothing to brighten her mind, either. Adriana was the one emotional decision he’d made in a life of calculated gamesmanship, and he’d been paying for it ever since.
“He was brave enough,” Blanchard muttered grudgingly. “Got my niece off the street at the risk of his own life. But the feller thought he was fighting Indians.”
Lister stirred. “Indians? What, the savages in the Colonies?”
“That’s what he was raving about,” Blanchard said. He looked from Hasselthorpe to Lister, his eyes calculating. “I think he’s mad.”
“Mad,” Hasselthorpe murmured. “And if he’s mad, he certainly can’t gain the title. Is that what you plan?”
Blanchard jerked a single nod.
“That’s not bad,” Hasselthorpe said. “And it saves you from having to kill the man, too.”
“Are you insinuating that I was behind the attempt on Lord Hope’s life?” Blanchard sputtered.
“Not at all,” Hasselthorpe said smoothly. He was aware that Lister watched them under hooded eyes. “Just pointing out a fact. One that every intelligent man in London will be thinking—no doubt including Lord Hope himself.”
“Damn your eyes,” Blanchard whispered. His face had gone white.
Lister laughed. “Don’t worry yourself over it, my lord. After all, the gunman missed. Thus, it hardly matters who tried to kill the lost Lord Hope.”
Hasselthorpe raised his glass to his lips, murmuring softly, “Not unless they try again.”
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND gentlemen,” Beatrice announced a day later as she and Lottie strolled about the vast warehouse showroom of Godfrey and Sons furniture makers. She squinted in disapproval at several gentlemen across the room who seemed to be vying for the attentions of a pretty redheaded girl by demonstrating who could lift a heavy-looking stuffed chair above their head the highest. “I cannot understand why Lord Hope kissed me yesterday and then accused me of kissing him.”
“Gentlemen are an enigma,” Lottie replied gravely.
“They are.” Beatrice hesitated, then said quietly, “He seemed… confused during the shooting incident.”
Lottie glanced at her. “Confused?”
Beatrice grimaced. “He was talking about Indians and forming a line of defense.”
“Good Lord.” Lottie looked troubled. “Did he know where he was?”
“I don’t know.” Beatrice frowned, remembering those minutes huddled next to the carriage. Her heart had stopped when she’d realized that Lord Hope was about to run into the open to go to Henry the footman. “I… I don’t think so.”
“But that’s madness,” Lottie whispered in horror.
“I know,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m afraid that Uncle Reggie will use it against Lord Hope to keep the title.”
Lottie looked at her. “But if he is mad… Bea, dear, surely it’s better that he not inherit the title?”
“The matter is more complicated than that.” Beatrice closed her eyes for a moment. “Lord Hope seems perfectly fine—if hostile—most of the time. Should a man be deprived of his title because of one moment of confusion?”
Lottie cocked her head, looking skeptical.
Beatrice hurried on. “And there’s more to consider. If Lord Hope attains the title, he might take his vote in parliament and cast it for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”
“I’m as much in favor of Mr. Wheaton’s bill as you,” Lottie said, “but I don’t know if I want it passed at your expense.”
“If it was just me, I don’t think I’d mind,” Beatrice said. “I know it would be hard to live in reduced circumstances in the country after being in London all these years, but I think it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s Uncle Reggie I worry about. I’m truly afraid that losing the earldom might kill him.” She pressed her hand to her chest to ease the ache there.
“There is no way for everyone to win, is there?” Lottie said somberly.
“I’m afraid not,” Beatrice replied. They strolled in silence for a moment before she said, “The whole thing was terrible, Lottie. Poor Henry was quite soaked in his own blood, Uncle Reggie was shouting, the servants were in an uproar, and Lord Hope was striding about with a dueling pistol, looking like he wanted to kill someone. Then, two hours later, he says I kissed him when clearly he kissed me. And until that point, I didn’t even think he liked me.”
Lottie cleared her throat delicately. “Well, to be absolutely correct, he doesn’t have to like you to want to kiss you.”
Beatrice looked at her, ap
palled.
“I’m sorry, but there it is.” Lottie shrugged and then said entirely too innocently, “Of course, generally speaking, the lady does like the gentleman when they kiss.”
Beatrice pressed her lips together, though she knew her face was warming.
Lottie cleared her throat. “Do you? Like Lord Hope, that is?”
“How could I like him?” Beatrice asked. “He’s surly and sarcastic and quite possibly mad.”
“And yet you kissed him,” Lottie reminded her.
“He kissed me,” Beatrice said automatically. “It’s just that he has such an intense way of looking at one, as if I’m the only other human in the world. He’s so full of passion.”
Lottie raised her eyebrows.
“I’m explaining it badly,” Beatrice said. She thought a moment. “It’s as if the only music one had ever heard was a penny whistle. One would probably think it was quite all right, that music was a rather nice thing but nothing very special. But what if one then attended one of Mr. Handel’s symphonies? Do you see? It would be overwhelming, beautiful and strange and complex, and so utterly compelling.”
“I think I understand,” Lottie murmured. Her brows knit.
Across the room, one of the gentlemen misjudged the chair’s weight and dropped it. The chair smashed to the ground, the other gentlemen doubled over in laughter, and the young lady’s chaperone escorted her from the showroom, scolding her all the way. The proprietor hurried over to the scene of his wrecked merchandise.
Beatrice shook her head. “I’ll never understand men.”
“Listen, dear,” Lottie said. “Do you know what my husband did this morning?”
“No.” Beatrice shook her head. “But I don’t really—”
“I’ll tell you,” Lottie said without regard for her friend’s answer. “He came down to breakfast, ate three eggs, half a gammon steak, four pieces of toast, and a pot of tea.”
Beatrice blinked. “That seems like quite a lot of food.”
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