To Desire a Devil
If all went according to his plans.
The little procession exited the room, and Hasselthorpe returned his gaze to the guests, frowning slightly. The people nearest to where the man had fallen were in small knots, talking in low, excited murmurs. Something was afoot. One could watch the ripple of some news spreading outward through the crowd. As it reached each new knot of gentlemen, eyebrows shot up and bewigged heads leaned close together.
Young Nathan Graham was in a gossiping group nearby. Graham was newly elected to the House of Commons, an ambitious man with the wealth to back his aspiration and the makings of a great orator. He was a young man to watch and perhaps groom for one’s own use.
Graham broke away from the circle and strode to where Hasselthorpe and Lister stood in a corner of the room. “They say it’s Viscount Hope.”
Hasselthorpe blinked, confused. “Who?”
“That man!” Graham gestured to the spot where a maid was cleaning up the broken vase.
Hasselthorpe’s mind momentarily froze in shock.
“Impossible,” Lister growled. “Hope has been dead for seven years.”
“Why would they think it’s Hope?” Hasselthorpe asked quietly.
Graham shrugged. “There was a resemblance, sir. I was close enough to study the man’s face when he burst into the room. The eyes are… well, the only word is extraordinary.”
“Eyes, extraordinary or not, are hardly proof enough to resurrect a dead man,” Lister stated.
Lister had cause to speak with flat authority. He was a big man, tall with a sloping belly, and he had an undeniable presence. Lister was also one of the most powerful men in England. It was natural, then, that when he spoke, men took care to listen.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Graham gave a small bow to the duke. “But he was asking after his father.”
Graham had no need to add, And we stand in the Earl of Blanchard’s London residence.
“Ridiculous.” Lister hesitated, then said, lower, “If it is Hope, Blanchard’s just lost his title.”
He looked significantly at Hasselthorpe. If Blanchard lost the title, he would no longer sit in the House of Lords. They’d lose a crucial ally.
Hasselthorpe frowned, turning to the life-sized portrait hanging by the door. Hope had been a young man, perhaps only in his twentieth year, when he’d sat for it. The painting depicted a laughing youth, pink and white cheeks unblemished, black eyes merry and clear. If the madman had been Hope, he’d suffered a sea change of monumental proportions.
Hasselthorpe turned back to the other men and smiled grimly. “A lunatic cannot unseat Blanchard. And in any case, no one has proved he’s Hope. There is no cause for alarm.”
Hasselthorpe sipped his wine, outwardly cool and composed, while inside he acknowledged the unfinished end to his sentence.
There was no cause for alarm… yet.
IT HAD TAKEN four footmen to lift Viscount Hope, and even now they staggered under his weight. Beatrice watched the men carefully as she and her uncle trailed behind them, worried they might let him fall. She’d persuaded Uncle Reggie to take the unconscious man to an unused bedroom, although her uncle had been far from happy with the matter. Uncle Reggie had initially been of a mind to toss him into the street. She took a more cautious view, not only from Christian charity, but also from the niggling worry that if this was Lord Hope, they’d hardly help their case by throwing him out.
The footmen staggered into the hall with their burden. Hope was thinner than in his portrait, but he was still a very tall man—over six feet, Beatrice estimated. She shivered. Fortunately, he’d not regained consciousness after glaring at her so evilly. Otherwise she wasn’t sure they would’ve been able to move him at all.
“Viscount Hope is dead,” Uncle Reggie muttered as he trotted beside her. He didn’t sound as if he believed his protest himself. “Dead these seven years!”
“Please, Uncle, don’t let your temper fly,” Beatrice said anxiously. He hated being reminded of it, but Uncle Reggie had had an attack of apoplexy just last month—an attack that had absolutely terrified her. “Remember what the doctor said.”
“Oh, pshaw! I’m as fit as a fiddle, despite what that quack thinks,” Uncle Reggie said stoutly. “I know you have a soft heart, m’dear, but this can’t be Hope. Three men swore they saw him die, murdered by those savages in the American Colonies. One of them was Viscount Vale, his friend since childhood!”
“Well, they were obviously wrong,” Beatrice murmured. She frowned as the panting footmen mounted the wide dark-oak stairs ahead of them. The bedrooms were all on the town house’s third floor. “Mind his head!”
“Yes, miss,” George, the eldest footman, replied.
“If that is Hope, then he’s lost his mind,” Uncle Reggie huffed as they made the upper hall. “He was raving in French, of all things. About his father! And I know absolutely that the last earl died five years ago. Attended his funeral m’self. You’ll not convince me the old earl’s alive, too.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice replied. “But I don’t believe the viscount knows his father is dead.”
She felt a pang for the unconscious man. Where had Lord Hope been all these years? How had he gotten those strange tattoos? And why didn’t he know his father was dead? Dear God, maybe her uncle was right. Maybe the viscount’s mind was broken.
Uncle Reggie gave voice to her awful thoughts. “The man is insane; that’s clear. Raving. Attacking you. I say, shouldn’t you lie down, m’dear? I can send for some of those lemon sweets you like so much, damn the cost.”
“That’s very kind of you, Uncle, but he didn’t get close enough to lay a hand on me,” Beatrice murmured.
“Wasn’t for lack of trying!”
Uncle Reggie stared disapprovingly as the footmen bore the viscount into the scarlet bedroom. It was only the second-nicest guest bedroom, and for a moment Beatrice had a pang of doubt. If this was Viscount Hope, then surely he merited the first-nicest guest bedroom? Or was the point moot since if he was Lord Hope, then he really ought to be in the earl’s bedroom, which, of course, Uncle Reggie slept in? Beatrice shook her head. The whole thing was too complicated for words, and, in any case, the scarlet bedroom would have to do for now.
“The man ought to be in a madhouse,” Uncle Reggie was saying. “Might murder us all in our sleep when he wakes. If he wakes.”
“S’pose I’ll have to send for a physician.” Uncle Reggie scowled at Lord Hope. “And pay for it m’self.”
“It would be the Christian thing to do,” Beatrice murmured. She watched anxiously as the footmen lowered Hope to the bed. He hadn’t moved or made a sound since his collapse. Was he dying?
Uncle Reggie grunted. “And I’ll have to explain this to my guests somehow. Bound to be gossiping about it this very moment. We’ll be the talk of the town, take my word.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice said soothingly. “I can supervise here if you wish to attend to our guests.”
“Don’t take too long, and don’t get too close to the blighter. No telling what he might do if he wakes.” Uncle Reggie glared at the unconscious man before stumping out of the room.
“I won’t.” Beatrice turned to the waiting footmen. “George, please see that a physician is called in case the earl becomes distracted and forgets the matter.” Or thinks better of the cost, she mentally added.
“Yes, miss.” George started for the door.
“Oh, and send Mrs. Callahan up, will you, George?” Beatrice frowned at the pale, bearded man on the bed. He was moving restlessly, as if he might be waking. “Mrs. Callahan always seems to know what to do.”
“Yes, miss.” George hurried from the room.
Beatrice looked at the remaining three footmen. “One of you needs to go tell Cook to warm some water, brandy, and—”
But at that moment, Hope’s black eyes flew open. The movement was so sudden, his glare so intense, that Beatrice squeaked like a ninny and jumped back. She straightened and, feeling a little embarrassed of her missishness, hurried forward as Lord Hope began to rise.
“No, no, my lord! You must remain in bed. You’re ill.” She touched his shoulder, lightly but firmly pushing him back.
And suddenly she was seized by a whirlwind. Lord Hope violently grabbed her, shoved her down on the bed, and fell atop her. He might be thin, but Beatrice felt as if a sack of bricks had landed on her chest. She gasped for air and looked up into black eyes glaring at her malevolently from only inches away. He was so close she could count each individual sooty eyelash.
So close she felt the painful press of that horrid knife in her side.
She tried to press her hand against his chest—she couldn’t breathe!—but he caught it, crushing it in his own as he growled, “J’insiste sur le fait—”
He was cut off as Henry, one of the footmen, bashed him over the head with a bed warmer. Lord Hope slumped, his heavy head thumping onto Beatrice’s breast. For a moment, she was in fear of suffocating altogether. Then Henry pulled him off her. She took a shuddering breath and stood on shaky legs, turning to look at her unconscious patient in the bed. His head lolled, his piercing black eyes veiled now. Would he have really hurt her? He’d looked so evil—demented, even. What in God’s name had happened to him? She rubbed her sore hand, swallowing hard as she regained her composure.
George returned and looked shocked when Henry explained what had happened.
“Even so, you shouldn’t have hit him so hard,” Beatrice scolded Henry.
“’E was hurting you, miss.” Henry sounded mulish.
She brushed a trembling hand over her hair, checking that her coiffure was still in place. “Yes, well, it didn’t actually come to that, although I admit for a moment I was fearful. Thank you, Henry. I’m sorry; I’m still a bit discomposed.” She bit her lip, eyeing Lord Hope again. “George, I think it wise to place a guard at the viscount’s door. Day and night, mind you.”
“Yes, miss,” George replied sturdily.
“It’s for his own sake as well as ours,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m sure he’ll be fine once he recovers from this illness.”
The footmen exchanged uncertain glances.
Beatrice put a bit more steel in her voice to cover her own worry. “I would be obliged if Lord Blanchard didn’t hear of this incident.”
“Yes, ma’am,” George answered for all the footmen, although he still looked dubious.
Mrs. Callahan arrived at that moment, bustling into the room. “What’s all the bother, then, miss? Hurley’s said there’s a gentleman who’s collapsed.”
“Mr. Hurley is correct.” Beatrice gestured to the man on the bed. She turned to the housekeeper eagerly as a thought occurred to her. “Do you recognize him?”
“Him?” Mrs. Callahan wrinkled her nose. “Can’t say as I do, miss. Very hairy gentleman, isn’t he?”
“Says ’e’s Viscount Hope,” Henry stated with satisfaction.
“Who?” Mrs. Callahan stared.
“Bloke in the painting,” Henry clarified. “Pardon me, miss.”
“Not at all, Henry,” Beatrice replied. “Did you know Lord Hope before the old earl’s death?”
“I’m sorry, no, miss,” Mrs. Callahan said. “Came on fresh when your uncle was made the earl, if you remember.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Beatrice said in disappointment.