To Desire a Devil (34 page)

“The governing process can be obscure to the untrained eye,” Lottie said loftily.

“Why, that’s Lord Phipps,” Beatrice exclaimed in dismay, having finally identified the speaker. “It doesn’t look very good
for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”

For Lord Phipps was the champion of the veteran’s bill in the House of Lords. He was a kindly man but was a bit dry and nondescript
and, as it was obvious now, not a particularly good speaker.

“No, it doesn’t,” Lottie said, subdued. “He is so sweet when he comes to the meetings. He sat and told me all about his ginger
cat once.”

“He got tears in his eyes when he talked about his late wife,” Beatrice said.

“Such a nice man.”

They both watched as a lord in a full-bottomed wig and black and gold robes at the end of the room vainly shouted for order.
Someone threw an orange peel.

“Oh, dear,” Lottie sighed.

There was a commotion by the doors, but since the gallery overhung the room, Beatrice couldn’t at first see who had entered
below them. Then Reynaud strode into the room, and her heart gave a sort of painful leap. He was so handsome, so commanding,
and he seemed farther away from her than ever. Reynaud headed straight to the man in the chair as heads turned to follow his
progress.

“What’s he doing?” Lottie asked. “A peer has to have a writ of summons from the king to join parliament.”

“He must’ve won the title back,” Beatrice said softly. She rejoiced for Reynaud, but she worried about Uncle Reggie. He must
be crushed. “Perhaps he got a special dispensation?”

“From the king himself,” a male voice said from the aisle separating the ladies’ section from the rest of the gallery.

“Nate!” Lottie cried.

Mr. Graham nodded at his wife. “Lottie.” He came to stand by the rail near them. “It’s all over Westminster. Reynaud has been
given the title and the earldom by King George—he actually came to Westminster to do it.”

“But how could he sit in the House of Lords today?” Lottie asked.

Mr. Graham shrugged. “The king issued his writ of summons at the same time.”

“Goodness,” Beatrice said. “Then he’ll be able to vote on Mr. Wheaton’s bill.” Would his vote be for or against the bill?

The peer in the black and gold robes was calling for order. “The noble Earl of Blanchard will now speak on this matter.”

Beatrice gasped and leaned forward.

Reynaud stood and placed one hand on the table in the middle of the room. He paused a moment as the House quieted and then
said, “My lords, this bill has been explained to you at length by the noble Lord Phipps. It is to provide for the well-being
of the gallant men who serve this country and His Majesty, King George, with their bravery, their labor, and sometimes their
very lives. There are those who value this service lightly, who consider the soldiers of this green and glorious isle to be
less than deserving of a decent pension in their old age.”

A lord cried, “Hear him!”

“Perhaps these persons find mealy peasemeal and gruel a banquet. Perhaps these persons think marching for twenty miles through
mud in pouring rain a stroll through a pleasure garden.”

“Hear him! Hear him!” The calls were growing more frequent.

“Perhaps these persons find facing cannon fire relaxing. Enjoy meeting the charge of galloping cavalry. Find the screams of
dying men music to their ears.”

“Hear him! Hear him!”

“Perhaps,” Reynaud shouted above the chant, “these persons love the agony of a severed limb, the loss of an eye, or the infliction
of torture such as
this
.”

And Beatrice covered her mouth in mingled horror and pride. For on his last word, Reynaud flung from his body his coat and
waistcoat and pulled his shirt half down his arms, revealing his upper back. Sudden silence descended on the hall as Reynaud
pivoted in place, the light reflecting off the ugly scars snaking through his tanned skin. In the quiet, the sound of linen
ripping was loud as Reynaud tore off the remainder of the shirt and threw it to the floor.

He raised one hand, outstretched, commanding. “If such a person is in this room, let him vote against this bill.”

The room erupted into cheers. Every peer was on his feet, many were still shouting, “Hear him! Hear him!”

“To order! To order!” the peer in the gold and black robes called to no avail.

Reynaud still stood, his chest bare, his back straight in the middle of the hall, proudly displaying the scars she knew had
shamed him. He glanced up and caught her eye. Beatrice stood up, clapping, the tears standing in her eyes. He nodded imperceptibly
and then was distracted by another peer.

“He’s won it,” Mr. Graham shouted. “They’ll vote, but I think it a mere formality. Your uncle can no longer vote on the Lords,
and Hasselthorpe and Lister haven’t shown.”

Lottie leaned toward him. “You must be disappointed.”

Mr. Graham shook his head. “I’ve decided Hasselthorpe isn’t a leader I want to be following.” He looked sheepishly at Beatrice.
“I’m almost certain he was behind that scene at Miss Molyneux’s ball. In any event, I intend to vote for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”

“Oh, Nate!” Lottie cried, and threw her arms most improperly about his neck.

Beatrice looked down, smiling as Lottie and Mr. Graham embraced.

“Sir! Sir!” a servant called. “Gentlemen are not allowed in the ladies’ side of the gallery!”

Mr. Graham raised his head only fractionally. “She’s my wife, dammit.” And while gazing in a most romantic manner into Lottie’s
eyes, he added, “And my love.”

And he kissed her again.

This was too much for Beatrice’s already overwrought emotions. She found herself wiping tears from her cheeks. In order to
give her friends more privacy and to compose herself, she slipped from the gallery, quietly descending the back stairs. In
the dark passageway below, she stood by herself, leaning a little against the wall.

Why had he done it? Just last night he said he never wanted to talk of his scars again. Then why reveal them to a roomful
of strangers? Did the bill mean so much to him—or, wonderful thought, had he done it for her after all? Beatrice felt selfish,
wanting his reason to endorse the bill to be her. The lives of so many soldiers were at stake. Perhaps he’d done it simply
of noble consideration for the veterans. But then there’d been that glance he’d given her… Oh, she must not read too much
into a mere glance!

While she’d been silently contemplating all this, the lords had quieted, but now they roared again, and she could tell by
the shouts of “Blanchard! Blanchard!” that Reynaud had carried the day for Mr. Wheaton’s bill. Her heart was nearly overflowing.
She turned blindly to return to the gallery, but in doing so bumped into a large male form.

Beatrice looked up with an apologetic smile on her face, but it died when she saw the man she’d run into. “Lord Hasselthorpe!”

The peer looked ghastly. His face was blanched a greenish white, and it shone with sweat. He’d been staring at the closed
doors to the Lords, but at her voice, he turned to her and his eyes seemed to focus and then grow cold.

“Lady Blanchard.”

“T
O THE TRUE
Earl of Blanchard!” Vale cried, not a little inebriated, as he held up a foaming tankard of ale.

“Blanchard! Blanchard!” Munroe, Hartley, and most of the rest of the rather seedy tavern they sat in cheered. Vale had stood
the entire small, smoky room drinks twice already.

They were at a booth in the corner, the table scarred and pitted from numerous previous patrons. The barmaid was buxom and
pretty and had at first obviously held high hopes for them. Now, however, after a half hour of concentrated effort, she’d
turned her ample charms on a table of sailors sitting nearby. Reynaud couldn’t help but think how different her seduction
of Vale would’ve ended seven years ago.

“I thank you. I thank you all.” Reynaud was on only his second pint despite Vale’s urging to drink more. He still had a niggling
fear of not being completely alert—perhaps a leftover from his years of captivity. “Without your help today, gentlemen, this
would’ve been a far more difficult endeavor. Therefore, to Munroe, who so ably diverted a certain duke and requested the presence
of another gentleman of importance at Westminster.”

“Huzzah!” shouted the tavern customers, most of whom had no idea what was being said. Even the barmaid waved her cloth.

Munroe merely smiled and inclined his head.

Reynaud turned to Vale. “To Jasper, who gave the deciding vote to pass Mr. Wheaton’s veteran’s bill!”

“Huzzah!”

Vale actually blushed, the color running high over his hangdog face. Of course, that might’ve been the ale as well.

“And to Hartley, who delayed the main opposition to the bill!”

Hartley also inclined his head to the cheers of the crowd, though his eyes were still grave. He waited until the surrounding
tavern regulars had quieted and turned back to their own affairs and then said, “There’s something you all ought to know about
Hasselthorpe.”

“What’s that?” Suddenly Vale didn’t look drunk at all.

“He denies telling Munroe that the traitor’s mother was French.”

Where another man might sputter into protestations, Munroe merely raised his eyebrows. “Indeed.”

“Why would he lie about such a thing?” Reynaud set down his tankard of ale, wishing he’d not drunk even that. They were close
to something here; he could feel it.

“Perhaps it was his first statement that was the lie,” Hartley said softly.

“What d’you mean?” Vale asked.

“When he told Munroe that the traitor’s mother was French, Reynaud was still thought dead. Hasselthorpe risked nothing by
throwing suspicion on him. Further, he knew that there was a good chance that Munroe would never reveal his information—the
news would be too harrowing for Vale to take. Why stir up trouble when the man who might be the traitor is dead?”

Munroe nodded. “That’s true. I nearly never told Vale. But I began to think that the truth, even if bitter, was better than
lies.”

“And a good thing you did, too,” Hartley said. “Because when Reynaud returned, Hasselthorpe was then backed into a corner.
Should he continue his lie and implicate a now-live man? Or should he call Munroe the liar? Either way, he needed to draw
suspicion away from himself fast.”

“Then you think Hasselthorpe is the true traitor,” Reynaud said quietly. “Why?”

“Think of it.” Hartley leaned forward. “When Vale went to question Hasselthorpe, the man was shot—but not fatally. A glancing
wound, as I understand it. He then left London altogether and sequestered himself at his estate near Portsmouth. When Munroe
questioned him, he told a lie that prevented further interrogation. And remember this: Hasselthorpe’s older brother was Thomas
Maddock—Lieutenant Maddock of the Twenty-eighth of Foot.”

“You think he killed so many to get the title?” Vale frowned.

Hartley shrugged. “It’s certainly a reason to betray the regiment. Isn’t that something we’ve been searching for all along—a
motive to betray the Twenty-eighth? I asked around—Hasselthorpe was the younger brother. He came into the title shortly after
Maddock’s death. In fact, Maddock died after their father had passed away, but he seemed to’ve never heard the news that his
father was dead. He was killed at Spinner’s Falls before it could reach him.”

“This is all well and good,” Munroe cut in, his broken voice grating. “We’ve established why Hasselthorpe might’ve betrayed
the regiment, but I still don’t see how he could’ve done the deed. Only the officers who marched with the Twenty-eighth knew
our destination. It was kept secret precisely so we wouldn’t be ambushed.”

Reynaud stirred. “Only the officers of the Twenty-eighth—and the superiors who ordered them on their route.”

“What are you thinking?” Vale turned to him eagerly.

“Hasselthorpe was an aide-de-camp to General Elmsworth at Quebec,” Reynaud said. “If Maddock didn’t tell him the route—they
were brothers, after all—then it wouldn’t have been very hard to discover it. Elmsworth may’ve made him privy to it himself.”

“He would’ve had to get the information to the French,” Munroe pointed out.

Reynaud shrugged, pushing away his tankard of ale altogether. “He was in Quebec. Do you remember? It was swarming with the
French troops we’d captured, French citizens, and Indians who’d supported both sides. It was chaos.”

“He could’ve done it easily,” Hartley said. “The question now is did he indeed do it? We have supposition and conjecture but
no real facts.”

“Then we’ll have to find the facts,” Reynaud said grimly. “Agreed?”

The other men nodded. “Agreed,” they said in unison.

“To discovering the truth,” Vale said, and raised his tankard.

They all raised their tankards and knocked them together, solemnizing the toast.

Reynaud toasted the sentiment with the rest. He drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. “And to seeing the traitor
swing, goddamn his eyes.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Another round on me,” Reynaud called.

Vale leaned close, blasting Reynaud with the ale on his breath. “Shouldn’t a newly wedded man such as yourself go home?”

Reynaud scowled. “I’ll go home soon.”

Vale wagged his shaggy eyebrows. “Had a falling-out with the missus?”

“None of your goddamned business!” Reynaud hid his face in his tankard of ale, but when he lowered it, Vale was still staring
at him rather blearily. And had it not been for the ale, Reynaud probably wouldn’t have said, “She thinks I don’t know how
to care, if you must know.”

“Doesn’t she know you care for her?” Hartley asked from across the table.

Wonderful. Both he and Munroe had been listening in like a pair of gossiping biddies.

Munroe stirred. “She needs to know, man.”

“Go home,” Vale said solemnly. “Go home and tell her you love her.”

And for the very first time Reynaud began to think that Vale’s romantic advice might—just might—be correct.