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

“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.

“Practically the whole staff was,” Mrs. Callahan continued, “and them that had stayed… Well, they’re gone now. It’s been five years, after all, since the old earl passed.”

“Yes, I know, but I had hoped.” How could they say for certain who the man was until someone who’d actually known Hope identified him? Beatrice shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter at the moment anyway. No matter who he is, it’s our duty to care for this man.”

Beatrice ordered her troops and gave out assignments. By the time she’d consulted with the physician—Uncle Reggie hadn’t forgotten to send for him after all—supervised Cook making gruel, and planned for a nursing regimen, the political tea was long over with. Beatrice left Lord Hope—if that was indeed who he was—under the eagle eye of Henry and drifted down the stairs to the blue sitting room.

It was empty now. Only the damp stain on the carpet gave any evidence of the dramatic events of several hours before. Beatrice stared at the stain for a moment before turning and inevitably facing the portrait of Viscount Hope.

He looked so young, so carefree! She stepped closer, pulled as always by some attracting force she couldn’t resist. She’d been nineteen when she’d first seen the portrait. The night she’d arrived at Blanchard House with her uncle, the new Earl of Blanchard, it had been very late. She’d been shown a room, but the excitement of a new house, the long carriage ride, and London itself had caused sleep to escape her. She’d lain wide awake for half an hour or more before pulling on a wrapper and padding down the stairs.

She remembered peeking into the library, examining the study, creeping through the halls, and somehow, inevitably—fatefully, it seemed—she’d ended up here. Here where she stood right now, only a pace before the portrait of Viscount Hope. Then, as now, it was his laughing eyes that had drawn her gaze first. Slightly crinkled, full of mischief and wicked humor. His mouth next, wide, with that slow, sensual curve on the upper lip. His hair was inky black, drawn straight back from a wide brow. He lounged in a relaxed pose against a tree, a fowling gun held casually through the crook of one arm, two spaniels panting adoringly up at that face.