To Desire a Devil (33 page)

Lister drew himself up. His ancestors had fought at the Battle of Hastings, he was the fifth-richest man in England, and he
was known for his ill temper. Two of his mistresses appearing at one time on his very doorstep was, of course, disconcerting,
but a man of his experience, stature, and—

“And what the blazes is this?” Evelyn, the most strident of his mistresses, exclaimed as she came around the corner. Tall,
black-haired, and imposing, she looked at him with the same wild passion that usually turned his loins to iron. “If this is
your way of giving me my congé, Algernon, you will regret it, mark my words.”

Lister winced. He hated it when Evelyn called him by his Christian name. He opened his mouth and then wasn’t entirely sure
what to say, a thing that had never before happened to him in his life. This experience was ominously close to one of those
awful dreams even a man of his stature had once in a while. The nightmares in which one stood up to address the House of Lords
and looked down to see that one was wearing only one’s smallclothes. Or the nightmare in which all of one’s mistresses somehow
managed to be in the same place at the same time—and at his house, no less.

Lister felt sweat slide greasily down his back.

Of course, this wasn’t quite all of his mistresses. If it were, his newest light o’ love would have been here, and she—

A dangerously high phaeton rounded the corner, scandalously driven by a sophisticated woman, a little boy in flamboyant purple
and gold livery behind her. Everyone turned to look.

Lister watched the vision approach with the fatality of a man who stands before a firing squad. Francesca drew the horses
to a halt with a flourish. Her pretty little rosebud mouth fell open.

“What eez theez?” she cried in an excruciating French accent. “Your Grace, ’r you having zee joke wit’ your poor petite Francesca?”

There was a long and awful pause.

And then Evelyn pivoted and stared dangerously at him. “Why does
she
have a new phaeton?”

It was at this moment, as the shrill voices of four slighted women rose about him, that the Duke of Lister saw a man across
the street tip his hat. The man wore an eye patch.

Lister blinked. Surely it couldn’t be…

But that thought was driven from his mind as the women converged on him. The House of Lords would have to wait.

R
EYNAUD GLANCED ABOUT
the room, trying to judge his standing, but it was near impossible. The lords still talked avidly among themselves, with
one or two throwing him curious glances. No one smiled at him.

Reynaud balled his fists on his knees.

The usurper took his spot before the table and cleared his throat. He began speaking, but his voice was so low that several
lords shouted for him to speak up. Reginald paused, visibly gulping, and began again in a louder but slightly unsteady voice.

And suddenly Reynaud felt sorry for the man. Reginald was in his sixth decade, a short, stout, red-faced man who wasn’t a
good speaker. Reynaud remembered very little of the man. Had he come to Christmas dinner with his wife once when Reynaud was
down from Cambridge? He couldn’t remember.

The fact was that Reginald simply hadn’t been important. He’d been a distant relation unlikely to inherit the title, since
Reynaud was young and healthy. What a surprise it must’ve been when he received news that he’d become the Earl of Blanchard.
Had he celebrated Reynaud’s supposed death? Reynaud wasn’t even sure he could hold that against the man. Becoming the Earl
of Blanchard had probably been the high point in his life.

Reginald had stuttered to a halt. He’d really not had that much to say to begin with, his basic plea being that he held the
title and was therefore the earl. The chairman nodded, and Beatrice’s uncle resumed his seat with evident relief.

Lord Travers stood and called for a vote.

Reynaud felt the blood rush in his ears, so loud that at first he didn’t hear the verdict. Then he did and a wide grin split
his face.

“. . . this committee therefore will recommend to Our Sovereign King, His Majesty George the Third, that Reynaud Michael Paul
St. Aubyn be given his rightful title as the Earl of Blanchard.”

The chairman continued with the litany of Reynaud’s other titles, but he no longer listened. Triumph was flooding his chest.
The lord sitting beside him clapped him on the back, and the man behind him leaned over the bench saying, “Well done, Blanchard.”

Dear God, it felt good to be addressed by his title finally. The chairman wound down and Reynaud stood. The men about him
crowded close, offering congratulations, and Reynaud couldn’t help but feel a bit of cynicism at his sudden popularity. He’d
gone from being a madman to one of the most influential men in the kingdom. Beatrice had been right. He had great power now—power
he could use to effect good if he wished.

Over the heads of the crowd, he saw Reginald standing by the door. He was alone now, his power gone. Reginald caught his eye
and nodded. It was a graceful gesture, an acknowledgment of defeat, and Reynaud wanted to go to him, but he was prevented
by the press of bodies. In another moment, Reginald had left the room.

The committee began filing out, and Lord Travers came to offer Reynaud his congratulations. “That’s done, then, what? I’ll
have the secretary draw up the official committee recommendation to be sent to His Majesty.”

“Ah. As to that,” Reynaud began, but there was a commotion in the doorway. A tall, ruddy-faced young man with strikingly prominent
blue eyes came into the room.

“Your Majesty!” Lord Travers exclaimed. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

“Come to sign a paper, what?” King George replied. “What a dingy little room this is.” He turned and examined Reynaud. “You’re
Blanchard?”

“I am.” Reynaud bowed low. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“Captured by savages, or so we’re told by Sir Alistair Munroe,” the king said. “Bound to be a good tale in that, what? We
would be most pleased if you’d come to tea and tell us the story. Bring your lady wife as well.”

Reynaud fought back a grin and bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Now, where’s that recommendation?” the king asked, looking around as if it might appear out of thin air.

“You’ve come to sign the recommendation?” Lord Travers asked in mild astonishment. He snapped his fingers urgently at the
servant by the door. “Walters, fetch a pen and paper, if you will. We must prepare the committee’s recommendation for His
Majesty’s signature.”

The servant left the room at a dead run.

“And then there’s the writ so you can sit in the House of Lords,” the king said cheerfully. He motioned to an attendant. “We’ve
had it already drawn up, just in case.”

“Your Majesty is quite prepared, I see,” Lord Travers said somewhat drily. “Had I known Your Majesty’s plans, I would’ve had
some papers already prepared. As it is, we’ll have to work fast, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, yes?” The king raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed, sire,” Lord Travers said somberly. “The House of Lords is convening at this moment.”

“W
HAT THE HELL’RE
you doing?” Lord Hasselthorpe roared. It was the Colonial, Samuel Hartley, climbing into his carriage as if he had every
right.

“Sorry,” the other man said. “I thought you’d stop to give me a ride.”

“What?” Hasselthorpe glanced out the window. They were almost on the outskirts of London. “Is this robbery? Have you commandeered
my carriage?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Hartley shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, slumping a bit in the seat, his legs taking up
too damned much of the room. “I merely saw your carriage stopped and thought I’d ask for a ride. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I have a session of the House of Lords to attend at Westminster Palace. Of course I mind!”

“Then you’d better tell your coachman,” Hartley said maddeningly. “We’re driving in the opposite direction.”

Once again, Hasselthorpe rose and pounded on the roof of the carriage.

Ten minutes later, after a ridiculous argument with his coachman, who seemed to’ve entirely lost his sense of direction, Hasselthorpe
once again took his seat.

Hartley shook his head sadly. “Good help is hard to find. Do you think your driver’s drunk?”

“That or mad,” Hasselthorpe grumbled. At the rate they were going, the session might very well be over by the time they got
to Westminster Palace. He clutched his memorandum book in sweaty hands. This vote was an important one—it would demonstrate
his ability to lead and direct the party.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Hartley drawled, interrupting his thoughts. “Who were you referring to when you told Sir Alistair
Munroe that the Spinner’s Falls traitor had a French mother?”

Hasselthorpe’s mind went entirely blank. “What?”

“Because I’ve been racking my brain, and the only veteran of Spinner’s Falls who had a French mother that I remember is Reynaud
St. Aubyn,” Hartley said. “Of course, your brother was there as well, wasn’t he? Lieutenant Thomas Maddock. A brave soldier
as I remember. Perhaps he wrote you about another soldier who had a French mother?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hasselthorpe said. “I never told Munroe anything about soldiers with French mothers.”

Hartley was silent a moment, staring at him.

Hasselthorpe felt sweat dampen his armpits.

Then Hartley said softly, “No? How strange. Munroe remembers the conversation vividly.”

“Perhaps he’d been drinking,” Hasselthorpe snapped.

The Colonial smiled as if he’d revealed something damning and said lightly, “Perhaps. You know, I hadn’t thought about your
brother Thomas for a very long while.”

Hasselthorpe licked his lips. He was too hot. The carriage felt like a trap.

“He was your older brother, wasn’t he?” Hartley asked softly.

As the end of his year on earth drew nearer, Longsword grew more and more despondent until Princess Serenity feared for his
very life. Yet although he was distracted and moody, in his body he remained healthy and strong. She decided then that the
problem must lie with his mind, and to find out the matter, she questioned him closely, both day and night. So vexed was her
husband that in the end he could do naught but confess his story. How he had made a very bad bargain with the Goblin King.
How he could remain on the earth for only one year unless he could find someone to take his place in the kingdom of the goblins
of their own volition.

And how if Longsword failed to find his replacement, he would be damned to labor for the Goblin King for all eternity….

—from
Longsword

“Westminster is so very masculine, isn’t it?” Lottie mused as they stopped and glanced about the great hall.

“Masculine?” Beatrice stared at the high vaulted ceiling, nearly black with age. “I don’t know what you mean by
masculine,
but I do think it could do with a good cleaning.”

“What I mean by
masculine,
” Lottie said, linking her arm with Beatrice’s, “is stodgy and self-important and much too serious to notice mere womenfolk.”

Beatrice eyed her friend, who was looking elegant as usual in a deep purple and brown striped gown. She’d just taken off her
fur hood, but her cheeks were rosy from the cold outside, and her eyes snapped with an aggression that Beatrice wasn’t sure
had anything to do with Westminster Palace’s architecture.

“It’s a building, Lottie.”

“Exactly,” Lottie said. “And all buildings—at least the great ones—have a sort of spiritual sense about them. Did I ever tell
you about the chill I felt in St. Paul’s last spring? Quite mysterious. It sent a shiver down my spine.”

“Perhaps you were standing in a draft,” Beatrice said practically. They’d reached the end of the hall and had come to a passage.
“Which way now?”

“To the right,” Lottie said decisively. “The left leads to the Commons’ Strangers Gallery, so the right must be the way to
the gallery for the lords.”

“Hmm.” This seemed rather haphazard, but as Beatrice had never visited parliament before and Lottie had, she followed her.

And as it turned out, whether by luck or accident, Lottie was exactly right. They turned right down a narrow passage that
led to a set of double doors. To the side was a staircase that led upward. Once at the top, they each gave the waiting servant
two shillings and were admitted to the ladies’ side of the visitor gallery.

Below them was a hall with tiered benches arranged on either side rather like the choir in a cathedral. The benches were covered
in red cushions. Between the rows of benches was a long wooden table, and at the end of the hall stood several single chairs.
The gallery overhung the hall and ran around three sides.

“I thought they were in session,” Beatrice whispered.

“They are,” Lottie replied.

Beatrice examined the noble members of the House of Lords. “They don’t look like they’re doing very much.”

And they didn’t. Some men wandered the chamber or chatted together in small groups. Others lounged on the cushions, more than
one dozing. A gentleman stood at the end and appeared to be talking, but the noise in the hall was so loud that Beatrice couldn’t
hear him. Some of the lords appeared to be heckling the poor man.