To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(7)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Well, then, what about friends?” Lottie asked.

“He’s too ill to go out yet.” Beatrice bit her lip. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to keep Lord Hope in the scarlet bedroom this morning. “We have sent word to the man who said he witnessed Hope’s death—Viscount Vale.”

“And?”

Beatrice shrugged. “He’s at his country estate. It may be days before he can come.”

“Well! Then you shall simply have to play nurse to a wickedly handsome man—even if he has far too much hair at the moment—who is either a long-lost earl or a black scoundrel who might imperil your virtue. I must say I’m terribly jealous.”

Beatrice glanced down at Pan, who had discovered a fallen lump of sugar near her chair. Lottie’s words made her think of the viscount’s body on hers and how very heavy it had been. How she had, for a small second, almost feared for her life.

“Beatrice?”

Oh, dear. Lottie was sitting bolt upright, her nose practically twitching.

Beatrice affected an unconcerned look. “Yes?”

“Don’t you yes me, Beatrice Rosemary Corning. You sound as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth! What happened?”

Beatrice winced. “Well, he was somewhat delirious that first afternoon . . .”

“Ye-es?”

“And when we took him to a bedroom—”

“Something happened in a bedroom?”

“It really wasn’t his fault—”

“Oh, my goodness!”

“But somehow he pulled me down on the bed and he fell, too.” Beatrice glanced at Lottie’s excited face and closed her eyes very tightly to say, “On top of me.”

There was a small silence.

Beatrice peeked.

Lottie was goggling at her and seemed—miraculously—speechless.

“Nothing happened, really,” Beatrice said somewhat weakly.

“Nothing!” Lottie found her power of speech to nearly shout. “You were compromised.”

“No, I wasn’t. The footmen were there.”

“Footmen don’t count,” Lottie said, and rose to yank vigorously on the bellpull.

“Of course footmen count,” Beatrice said. “There were three of them. What are you doing?”

“Ringing for more tea.” Lottie looked critically at the demolished tea tray. “We’ll need another pot and a new plate of biscuits, too, I think.”

Beatrice looked down at her hands. “The thing is . . .”

“Yes?”

Beatrice took a breath and looked at her suddenly sober friend. “He was rather frightening, Lottie.”

Lottie sat down, her pretty lips tightening. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. At least”—Beatrice shook her head—“for a moment I couldn’t breathe. But that was nothing. It was the look in his eyes. As if he wouldn’t mind killing me.” She scrunched her nose. “You must think me a fool.”

“Of course not, dear.” Lottie bit her lip. “Are you sure he’s safe to have in your uncle’s house?”

“I don’t know,” Beatrice admitted. “But what else are we to do? If we throw him into the street and he is the earl, we’ll be judged most harshly. He might bring criminal proceedings against my uncle. I have taken the precaution of posting guards at his door.”

“That sounds wise.” Lottie still looked troubled. “Have you thought what you’ll do if he is the earl?”

The maid trotted in at that moment, distracting Lottie and saving Beatrice from having to answer her friend. The truth was that her chest began to tighten in a panicked sort of way when she thought of what the future might bring. If the man in the scarlet bedroom was Viscount Hope and if he succeeded in taking back the title, both she and Uncle Reggie would be out of their home. They’d lose the estates and monies they’d become used to in the last five years, and that would aggravate Uncle Reggie terribly. What would such a situation do to him? He might protest that the apoplexy attack he’d had was nothing, but she’d seen his white, sweaty face and the way he’d gasped for breath. Just the memory made her press her hand to her chest. Dear God, she couldn’t lose Uncle Reggie, too.

And she truly didn’t want to discuss the matter at the moment.

So when Lottie plopped back down on her exquisite white and rose striped settee and looked at her expectantly, Beatrice smiled and said, “I thought we were to discuss Mr. Graham and the veteran’s bill today. I’ve had word that Mr. Wheaton would like to have another secret meeting before—”

“Oh, pooh on Nate and the veteran’s bill.” Lottie pulled a tasseled gold silk cushion on her lap and hugged it. “I’m sick to death of politics and husbands as well.”

The maid bustled back in with a laden tray at that minute. Beatrice watched her friend as the fresh tea things were arranged. Lottie always spoke carelessly, but Beatrice was beginning to worry that something was really wrong between her and Mr. Graham. They’d had a fashionable marriage, of course. Nathan Graham was the scion of a rather new wealthy family, while Lottie came from an old but impoverished name. Theirs had been an eminently practical union, but Beatrice thought it had been a love match as well—at least on Lottie’s part. Had she been wrong?

The maid bustled out again, and Beatrice said softly, “Lottie . . .”

Her friend was pouring the tea, her gaze resolutely fixed on the teapot in her hand. “Did you hear that Lady Hasselthorpe cut Mrs. Hunt dead at the Fothering’s musicale yesterday? I’ve heard wild speculation that it signals Lord Hasselthorpe’s disapproval of Mr. Hunt, but one can’t help wonder if Lady Hasselthorpe did it entirely accidentally. She is such a ninny.”

Lottie held out a full teacup, and maybe it was her imagination, but Beatrice thought she saw pleading in her friend’s eyes. And what could she do? She was a maiden who’d reached the overripe age of four and twenty without ever receiving an offer. What did she know about matters of the heart anyway?

Beatrice sighed silently and took the teacup. “And how did Mrs. Hunt respond?”

THE PROBLEM WITH marriage, Lottie Graham reflected, was that there was such a difference between what one dreamed the matrimonial state would be like and, well, the reality.

Lottie sat back down on her settee—Wallace and Sons, bought just last year for a truly scandalous sum—and stared at the cooling tea things. She’d seen Beatrice to the door after babbling at her dearest friend in the world for a solid half hour. Poor Beatrice must heartily regret coming over for their weekly tea.