To Desire a Devil
“I think of her every day.”
An expression of sudden sorrow crossed his features, sharp and fleeting and all the more breathtaking because he so rarely showed any of the softer emotions. She leaned closer to him, drawn by his emotion despite the crowd surrounding them.
“Hope,” a male voice drawled from behind them.
Beatrice looked up to see Viscount Vale’s turquoise eyes watching her curiously. He had a bluish bruise on his jaw. Beside him was his wife, a tall, thin lady with a calm, slightly amused face.
She felt the muscle of Lord Hope’s arm flex beneath her fingers, but his face revealed nothing. “Vale.”
Lord Vale cocked his head. “Pity you’ve shaved off all those whiskers. They gave you a rather Biblical air.”
Lord Hope’s lips twitched.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not at all,” Lord Vale said carelessly. “I suppose you must don the local costume like the rest of us.”
The lady beside him sighed. “Vale,” she said, “are you going to introduce me, or will you continue to trade insults with Lord Hope for the rest of the night?”
“I do beg your pardon, my lady wife.” Lord Vale turned and held out his hand to the lady, who placed her fingers in his. “May I introduce you to Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope and no doubt soon to be the true Earl of Blanchard? Hope, this is my lady wife, Melisande Renshaw, Viscountess Vale.”
The lady made a stately curtsy as Lord Hope bowed over her hand. “An honor, my lady, but we’ve already met, I think. Were you not a dear friend and neighbor of my sister, Emeline?”
Lady Vale’s pale cheeks pinkened delicately. “Indeed, my lord. I spent many a happy afternoon at the Blanchard estate in Suffolk. I know your sister will be very pleased to hear that you are well. The news of your death was a terrible blow to her.”
Lord Hope stiffened, but he only nodded to Lady Vale.
“And this,” continued Lord Vale, “is Hope’s cousin, Miss Corning, whom we met last spring at Mother’s garden party.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Beatrice murmured as she sank into a curtsy.
When she rose, she saw that the lady and her husband seemed to be exchanging some kind of silent communication.
Lady Vale smiled and turned to Beatrice. “Would you care to stroll with me, Miss Corning, and admire Miss Molyneux’s fine decorations? Vale says we must hold a ball of our own soon, and I would be grateful for your opinion.”
“Of course,” Beatrice said. The gentlemen were outwardly polite, but there was a tension in their stances. Obviously Lord Vale wished to talk with Lord Hope alone.
Lady Vale linked her arm with Beatrice’s, and they began a slow perambulation of the room.
“Do you make your home in London always, Miss Corning?” Lady Vale asked.
“I live with my uncle, ma’am, in Blanchard House.” Beatrice darted a quick look over her shoulder. Lord Vale was talking intently with Lord Hope, but at least they hadn’t come to fisticuffs. She faced forward again. “That is where Lord Hope is staying at the moment as well.”
“Yes, it certainly is. I believe Lord Hope stays out of pure contrariness.” Beatrice glanced at her companion. “You knew him when he was a boy?”
“He was away at school generally when I visited the Blanchard country estate, but, yes, he was a young boy, not quite a man. I remember that Emeline and I had not yet come out when he bought his commission in the army.”
“What was he like?”
Lady Vale was silent a moment as they made a wide arc. They came to a side hall, and she asked, “Do you mind? I rather dislike crowds.”
“Not at all,” Beatrice replied.
After the brightness of the ballroom, the hallway’s lighting was muted. Tall portraits lined the walls. A few other guests drifted here and there, but they were distant enough not to overhear their conversation.
“You asked about Lord Hope,” Lady Vale began. “I did not see him often when I was young, but I remember being rather in awe of him.”
“Really?”
Lady Vale nodded. “He was so very handsome, even then. But there was more. He was the young heir to the throne, as it were. He almost seemed to have a golden glow about him.”
Beatrice bowed her head, contemplating this information as they walked. What a downfall it must’ve been for a man with a “golden glow” to have been made a slave. How much more humiliating it must’ve been for proud Lord Hope to sink so low. They came to a tall portrait of a man in armor in the style of the last century, and Lady Vale stopped.
She tilted her head, studying the painting. “His hair is quite extravagant, isn’t it?”
Beatrice looked at the painting and smiled. The gentleman had abundant dark curls hanging on either side of his face. “And he’s proud of it, isn’t he?”
“Indeed.”
They were silent for a moment.
Then Beatrice said, “There’s a portrait of Lord Hope that hangs in the sitting room of Blanchard House. It’s always been there, ever since I arrived when I was nineteen. I think it must’ve been painted when he was about the age you speak of. He’s so handsome and looks so lighthearted. I used to think he was hiding a mischievous thought when he was painted. I confess I’ve spent hours staring at that painting. It rather fascinated me.” She felt Lady Vale turn and look at her and knew she was blushing. “You must think me a fool.”
“Not at all,” the other lady said gently. “Merely a romantic.”
“But you see, since Lord Hope’s return . . .” She had to pause and swallow because her throat had tightened. “He was captured and held by Indians. Did you know?”
“No, I did not,” the other woman murmured.
Beatrice nodded, taking a deep breath. “I don’t see anything of that young boy in him anymore—the laughing boy in the painting. The things that happened to him in the Colonies were so very terrible that they changed him. He’s grim now. Intent only on regaining his title. It’s as if he’s forgotten what he was before, as if he’s forgotten how to enjoy life.”
Beatrice thought about that. “But Lord Vale seems more free somehow. He is happy, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” Beatrice said doubtfully. It was true that Lord Hope was still adjusting to his return, but would time truly heal him? Would he become more lighthearted, or had his experience seared him so deeply he was changed forever? She thought of something else. “Does Lord Vale truly think Lord Hope betrayed their regiment?”
“What?”
Beatrice turned to look at Lady Vale. The hallway was dim, but the lady’s eyes seemed puzzled. “Lord Hope said that when your husband came to visit him last week, Lord Vale accused him of being the traitor who betrayed their regiment at Spinner’s Falls.”
“Surely not!”
“I do assure you.”
Lady Vale sighed. “Gentlemen sometimes do not seem able to express themselves properly, and I must admit that my husband, though he loves to talk, is not always effective in communicating. He’s never thought Lord Hope could be the traitor.”
“Really?” Relief swept through her.
“Yes,” Lady Vale said with certainty. “But the problem is, if Lord Hope has gotten the notion that my husband distrusts him, it may be rather hard to dispel the thought.”
“Oh, dear,” Beatrice murmured. “Gentlemen can be so boneheaded sometimes, can’t they? What if they can’t work it out?”
The other lady looked grave. “Then I fear it may be the end of their long friendship.”
“And Lord Hope needs a friend very much right now,” Beatrice whispered.
“BEWARE,” REYNAUD GROWLED. “I’ve lived too long away from society. I no longer bother calling out a man who insults me.”
“When have I insulted you?” Vale hissed. “’Twas you who hit me, man!”
They still stood almost in the middle of the damned ballroom, and if they talked too loud, they risked causing a scene. He was already the object of curious scrutiny. If he lost control here, in the midst of his aunt’s ball, it would do irreparable harm to his cause.
Cold sweat slid down his back, but Reynaud still bared his teeth in a parody of a grin. “I struck you because you had the damnable gall to accuse me of betraying our regiment.”
“I did not.”
“You most certainly did.”
“I did—” Vale cut himself off to breathe forcefully through his nostrils. “We sound like lads nearly come to blows over sweetmeats.”
“Huh,” Reynaud grunted, looking away. He felt an unaccountable urge to shuffle his feet.
For a moment, both men stood silent, the chatter of the crowd rising around them.
Vale laughed under his breath. “Remember when we stole those strawberry tarts from the cook at my father’s house?”
“Which never would’ve happened had you not decided we should hide in the dovecote.”
“Nonsense.” Reynaud’s lips twitched. “It would’ve been a perfect hiding place had you not laughed and scared all the doves, which gave away our position to those outside.”
“At least we gobbled the tarts before they discovered us.” Vale sighed. “I never meant to accuse you, Reynaud.”
Reynaud nodded once, curtly. “What did you mean to say, then?”
“Walk with me.”
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.”