To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(2)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“You courageous soul, you,” Lottie said. “I’ll stay here and guard the cakes.”

“Coward,” Beatrice murmured.

She had a smile on her lips as she started again for her uncle’s circle. Lottie was right, of course. The gentlemen who gathered in her uncle’s salon were the leading lights of the Tory Party. Most sat in the House of Lords, but there were commoners here as well, such as Nathan Graham. They would all be outraged if they found out that she held any political thoughts at all, let alone ones that ran counter to her uncle’s. Generally she kept these thoughts to herself, but the matter of a fair pension for veteran soldiers was too important an issue to neglect. Beatrice had seen firsthand what a war wound could do to a man—and how it might affect him for years after he left His Majesty’s army. No, it was simply—

The door to the blue salon was flung savagely open, cracking against the wall. Every head in the room swiveled to look at the man who stood there. He was tall, with impossibly wide shoulders that filled the doorway. He wore some type of dull leather leggings and shirt under a bright blue coat. Long black hair straggled wildly down his back, and an overgrown beard nearly covered his gaunt cheeks. An iron cross dangled from one ear, and an enormous unsheathed knife hung from a string at his waist.

He had the eyes of a man long dead.

“Who the hell’re—” Uncle Reggie began.

But the man spoke over him, his voice deep and rusty. “Où est mon père?”

He was staring right at Beatrice, as if no one else in the room existed. She was frozen, mesmerized and confused, one hand on the oval table. It couldn’t be…

He started for her, his stride firm, arrogant, and impatient. “J’insiste sur le fait de voir mon père!”

“I… I don’t know where your father is,” Beatrice stuttered. His long stride was eating up the space between them. He was almost to her. No one was doing anything, and she’d forgotten all her schoolroom French. “Please, I don’t know—”

But he was already on her, his big, rough hands reaching for her. Beatrice flinched; she couldn’t help it. It was as if the devil himself had come for her, here in her own home, at this boring tea of all places.

And then he staggered. One brown hand grasped the table as if to steady himself, but the little table wasn’t up for the task. He took it with him as he collapsed to his knees. The vase of flowers crashed to the floor beside him in a mess of petals, water, and glass shards. His angry gaze was still locked with hers, even as he sank to the carpet. Then his black eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell over.

Someone screamed.

“Good God! Beatrice, are you all right, my dear? Where in blazes is my butler?”

Beatrice heard Uncle Reggie behind her, but she was already on her knees beside the fallen man, unmindful of the spilled water from the vase. Hesitantly, she touched his lips and felt the brush of his breath. Still alive, then. Thank God! She took his heavy head between her palms and placed it on her lap so that she might look at his face more closely.

She caught her breath.

The man had been tattooed. Three stylized birds of prey flew about his right eye, savage and wild. His commanding black eyes were closed, but his brows were heavy and slightly knit as if he disapproved of her even when unconscious. His beard was untrimmed and at least two inches long, but she made out the mouth beneath, incongruously elegant. The lips were firm, the upper one a wide, sensuous bow.

“My dear, please move away from that… that thing,” Uncle Reggie said. He had his hand on her arm, urging her to get up. “The footmen can’t remove him from the house until you move.”

“They can’t take him,” Beatrice said, still staring at the impossible face.

“My dear girl . . .”

She looked up. Uncle Reggie was such a darling, even when red-faced with impatience. This might very well kill him. And her—what did this mean for her? “It’s Viscount Hope.”

Uncle Reggie blinked. “What?”

“Viscount Hope.”

And they both turned to look at the portrait near the door. It was of a young, handsome man, the former heir to the earldom. The man whose death had made it possible for Uncle Reggie to become the Earl of Blanchard.

Black, heavy-lidded eyes stared from the portrait.

She looked back down at the living man. His eyes were closed, but she remembered them well. Black, angry, and glittering, they were identical to the eyes in the portrait.

Beatrice’s heart froze in wonder.

Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, the true Earl of Blanchard, was alive.

RICHARD MADDOCK, LORD Hasselthorpe, watched as the Earl of Blanchard’s footmen lifted the unconscious lunatic from where he’d collapsed on the floor of the sitting room. How the man had gotten past the butler and footmen in the hall was anyone’s guess. The earl should take better care of his guests—the room was filled with the Tory elite, for God’s sake.

“Damned idiot,” the Duke of Lister growled beside him, putting voice to his own thoughts. “Blanchard should’ve hired extra guards if the house wasn’t safe.”

Hasselthorpe grunted, sipping his abominably watered-down wine. The footmen were almost to the door now, obviously laboring under the weight of the savage madman. The earl and his niece were trailing the footmen, speaking in low tones. Blanchard darted a glance at him, and Hasselthorpe raised a disapproving eyebrow. The earl looked hastily away. Blanchard might be higher in rank, but Hasselthorpe’s political influence was greater—a fact that Hasselthorpe usually took care to use lightly. Blanchard was, along with the Duke of Lister, his greatest ally in parliament. Hasselthorpe had his eye on the prime minister’s seat, and with the backing of Lister and Blanchard, he hoped to make it within the next year.

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.