To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(3)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

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.”

“I doubt he’ll do any such thing,” Beatrice said firmly, ignoring both her uncle’s hopeful tone in his last words and her own uneasiness. “Surely it’s only the fever. He was burning up when I touched his face.”

“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.”