Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
“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.”
“T
HEY 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, appalled.
“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.”
Lottie waved her hand irritably. “His usual breakfast.”
“Oh.” Beatrice frowned. “Then why—?”
“He said not a word to me the entire time! Instead, he busied himself reading his correspondence and muttering over the scandal
sheets. And mark this—he left the room without bidding me good-bye. And when he came back in a minute later, do you know what
he did?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“He walked to the sideboard, picked up another piece of toast, and strode right by me again without speaking!”
“Ah.” Beatrice winced. “Perhaps he had important business on his mind.”
Lottie arched one eyebrow. “Or perhaps he’s simply a fool.”
Beatrice wasn’t certain what to say to that, so for a moment she was silent. Both ladies perambulated slowly through the crowded
room and stopped with silent consensus before a side table entirely covered in gilded putti.
“That,” Lottie said with consideration, “is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“’Tis, isn’t it? It’s almost as if the maker had a morbid dislike of side tables.” Beatrice tilted her head, examining the
table. “I went to visit Jeremy yesterday.”
“How is he?”
“Not well.” She felt Lottie’s swift glance. “It’s very important that we pass Mr. Wheaton’s bill. The soldiers who would benefit
from this bill are many—perhaps thousands of men, and some of those men served under Jeremy. He cares so passionately about
the bill. I know that it would do him immeasurable good if the veterans got a better pension.”
“I’m sure it would, dear. I’m sure it would,” Lottie said gently.
“He simply . . .” Beatrice had to pause a moment and swallow before she could continue; then she said more steadily, “He simply
needs a reason to… to live, Lottie. I worry for him, I do.”
“Of course you do.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Oates leave him in that room by himself for far too long at a time.” Beatrice shook her head. The Oateses’ reaction
to their son’s horrific injuries when he returned home had long been a source of concern for her. “They’ve given up on him,
I think.”
“I’m sorry, dear.”
“They looked at him when he returned,” Beatrice whispered, “and it was as if he were already dead. As if he meant nothing
to them unless he was entirely whole and well. They’ve now turned to Jeremy’s brother, Alfred, and treat him as if he is the
heir instead of Jeremy.”
Beatrice looked at her friend, and this time she couldn’t keep the tears from swimming in her eyes. “And that horrible Frances
Cunningham! I still get angry when I think how she threw him over when he returned. It’s so shameful.”
“Pity, isn’t it, that no one condemned her for her heartlessness,” Lottie said thoughtfully. “But then he had lost his legs
and wasn’t expected to live.”
“She could’ve at least waited until he was out of the sickroom,” Beatrice muttered darkly. “And she’s married now. Did you
know? To a baronet.”
“A fat, old baronet,” Lottie said with satisfaction. “Or so I’ve heard. Perhaps she got her just deserts after all.”
“Humph.” Beatrice stared a moment at the putti. The one on the corner of the table nearest her looked remarkably like a fat
old man with digestive troubles. Perhaps Frances Cunningham
had
gotten what she’d deserved. “But you understand, don’t you, how important it is that this bill is passed
now
—not a year or two hence?”