To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(23)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

And she froze on the stairs.

It was Lord Hope—but a Lord Hope transformed. Gone was the thick beard. His jaw was freshly shaven, revealing his square chin and the hard planes of his cheeks. He must’ve cut his hair very close to his head, for the wig he wore was beautifully curled and powdered and fit him excellently. Beneath the black velvet of his coat, his waistcoat was silver and green brocade, and lace fell at his wrists. He was the very epitome of a fine London gentleman, and Beatrice might have felt a pang of regret for the man she’d nursed for the last week had it not been for two things. First, from his left ear, the black iron cross still dangled, primitive and uncivilized next to the perfection of his white wig. And second, the three tattooed birds still circled his right eye, as permanent as the ebony color of the eye itself.

He wore the trappings of civilization, but no one but a fool would mistake them for anything but a thin veneer covering the savage beneath.

He bowed to her, one leg extended, his arm sweeping down sardonically. “Miss Corning.”

“Lord Hope.” She’d regained some of her self-possession and now finished her descent of the stairs. “You’ve undergone a most remarkable change.”

He shrugged. “To fight demons, one must assume the guise of a demon.”

She looked at him. “I’m not sure I understand what that means.”

“No matter.” He glanced away, and with any other man, she might’ve thought him uncertain. “I go to visit my aunt this morn. Would you care to accompany me?”

It was a civilized invitation, and she rather wanted to know what he was about with this sudden transformation, but she bit her lip. Was it safe?

Her hesitation had lasted a fraction of a second too long. His pleasant expression turned to a scowl. “Are you afraid of me, Miss Corning?”

“Not at all.” She tilted her chin, daring him to call her on the fib.

“Then you won’t mind a simple drive in the city.”

Why did he want her to accompany him? She stared at him, trying to decipher his motivations.

“Come, Miss Corning,” he rumbled softly, “a simple yes or no will do.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “On one condition.”

“And that is?” His eyes had narrowed ominously at her words.

She took a breath. “I’ll come if you’ll tell me something about where you’ve been for the last seven years.”

His face darkened, and for a moment she thought he would turn and leave her in the hall. Then he nodded once, sharply. “Done. Go get your wrap.”

She ran up the stairs before he could change his mind.

But when she returned to the hallway, Lord Hope was not there. For a moment, disappointment swept through her. Had he only been playing with her?

Then George the footman said, “’E’s gone back to see Henry, miss. Said ’e wouldn’t be but a minute.”

“Oh.” Beatrice drew a breath, steadying her nerves. “Oh, well, in that case, I’ll call on Henry myself.”

The servants slept under the eaves, of course, way at the top of the town house. But because Henry was a big strong lad, and because he needed nursing, a pallet had been laid for him in a corner of the town-house kitchens. An old screen had been found to place in front of Henry’s pallet when he wanted privacy, but when she entered the kitchen, Beatrice saw that it had been put aside. Lord Hope squatted by the pallet, talking in a low tone to the footman lying there.

Beatrice halted just inside the kitchen door. She couldn’t see Lord Hope’s face—his back was to her—but Henry’s countenance was as brightly lit as if a god had come to visit him. It seemed an intimate moment somehow—even though the principals were surrounded by the bustle of the kitchen—and she didn’t want to intrude. So she stood and watched.

Lord Hope spoke as Henry regarded him intently. She remembered now how Lord Hope had called to the footmen, mistaking them for soldiers. Even then, even when she’d known he was in the midst of some strange delirium, she’d seen his worry. His real care for “his” men. She pressed her trembling fingers to her lips silently. Just when she decided he was entirely self-centered, just when she feared he was nothing but a madman, now he must show this noble side of himself? Dear God, how could she side with her uncle against such a man?

The viscount murmured something more, leaned a little closer to the footman, and placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder. With a final nod, he stood.

He turned and saw her.

Beatrice dropped her hand, smiling brightly.

“I’m sorry, I only meant to be a moment,” he said as he neared. He eyed her curiously.

“It’s no trouble at all.” She tilted her head to look up at him, still dazzled by the whiteness of his wig, the harshness of his tattoos. “Henry seemed pleased to see you.”

He frowned, glancing back toward Henry’s pallet. “I noticed in my army days that it sometimes made a great difference.”

“What did?”

“Visiting the wounded.” He held his arm for her, and she placed her fingertips on his black sleeve as they left the kitchen, very aware of the hard muscle beneath the fabric. “Sitting and chatting with a man laid low. It cheers the man’s spirit, I think. Makes him realize that he is needed in this world. That others wait for his recovery.”

“Did the other officers visit with their wounded men as well?” she asked as they came to the front hall.

“Some did. Not many.” He handed her into the waiting carriage and then climbed in to sit opposite her. “I always thought it a pity more officers did not realize the effectiveness of visiting their wounded men.”

He knocked on the roof to signal the driver that they were ready.

“Perhaps they weren’t as compassionate as you,” she said softly.

He seemed irritated. “Compassion has nothing to do with it. It’s an officer’s duty to look after his men. They are in his charge.”

Beatrice looked at him wonderingly. Duty might be a different motive than compassion, yet the outcome was the same. There’d been a look of awe in Henry’s face when Lord Hope had talked to him. Then, too, if Lord Hope cared so much for a footman he hardly knew but whom he considered one of “his” men, would he not care equally for men who’d actually served in His Majesty’s army?

She licked her lips. “I’ve heard that many men who’ve served in His Majesty’s army become quite destitute when they leave.”