To Desire a Devil (4 page)

“Oh, pshaw! I’m as fit as a fiddle, despite what that quack thinks,” Uncle Reggie said stoutly. “I know you have a soft heart,
m’dear, but this can’t be Hope. Three men swore they saw him die, murdered by those savages in the American Colonies. One
of them was Viscount Vale, his friend since childhood!”

“Well, they were obviously wrong,” Beatrice murmured. She frowned as the panting footmen mounted the wide dark-oak stairs
ahead of them. The bedrooms were all on the town house’s third floor. “Mind his head!”

“Yes, miss,” George, the eldest footman, replied.

“If that is Hope, then he’s lost his mind,” Uncle Reggie huffed as they made the upper hall. “He was raving in French, of
all things. About his father! And I know absolutely that the last earl died five years ago. Attended his funeral m’self. You’ll
not convince me the old earl’s alive, too.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice replied. “But I don’t believe the viscount knows his father is dead.”

She felt a pang for the unconscious man. Where had Lord Hope been all these years? How had he gotten those strange tattoos?
And why didn’t he know his father was dead? Dear God, maybe her uncle was right. Maybe the viscount’s mind was broken.

Uncle Reggie gave voice to her awful thoughts. “The man is insane; that’s clear. Raving. Attacking you. I say, shouldn’t you
lie down, m’dear? I can send for some of those lemon sweets you like so much, damn the cost.”

“That’s very kind of you, Uncle, but he didn’t get close enough to lay a hand on me,” Beatrice murmured.

“Wasn’t for lack of trying!”

Uncle Reggie stared disapprovingly as the footmen bore the viscount into the scarlet bedroom. It was only the second-nicest
guest bedroom, and for a moment Beatrice had a pang of doubt. If this was Viscount Hope, then surely he merited the first-nicest
guest bedroom? Or was the point moot since if he was Lord Hope, then he really ought to be in the earl’s bedroom, which, of
course, Uncle Reggie slept in? Beatrice shook her head. The whole thing was too complicated for words, and, in any case, the
scarlet bedroom would have to do for now.

“The man ought to be in a madhouse,” Uncle Reggie was saying. “Might murder us all in our sleep when he wakes.
If
he wakes.”

“I doubt he’ll do any such thing,” Beatrice said firmly, ignoring both her uncle’s hopeful tone in his last words and her
own uneasiness. “Surely it’s only the fever. He was burning up when I touched his face.”

“S’pose I’ll have to send for a physician.” Uncle Reggie scowled at Lord Hope. “And pay for it m’self.”

“It would be the Christian thing to do,” Beatrice murmured. She watched anxiously as the footmen lowered Hope to the bed.
He hadn’t moved or made a sound since his collapse. Was he dying?

Uncle Reggie grunted. “And I’ll have to explain this to my guests somehow. Bound to be gossiping about it this very moment.
We’ll be the talk of the town, take my word.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice said soothingly. “I can supervise here if you wish to attend to our guests.”

“Don’t take too long, and don’t get too close to the blighter. No telling what he might do if he wakes.” Uncle Reggie glared
at the unconscious man before stumping out of the room.

“I won’t.” Beatrice turned to the waiting footmen. “George, please see that a physician is called in case the earl becomes
distracted and forgets the matter.”
Or thinks better of the cost,
she mentally added.

“Yes, miss.” George started for the door.

“Oh, and send Mrs. Callahan up, will you, George?” Beatrice frowned at the pale, bearded man on the bed. He was moving restlessly,
as if he might be waking. “Mrs. Callahan always seems to know what to do.”

“Yes, miss.” George hurried from the room.

Beatrice looked at the remaining three footmen. “One of you needs to go tell Cook to warm some water, brandy, and—”

But at that moment, Hope’s black eyes flew open. The movement was so sudden, his glare so intense, that Beatrice squeaked
like a ninny and jumped back. She straightened and, feeling a little embarrassed of her missishness, hurried forward as Lord
Hope began to rise.

“No, no, my lord! You must remain in bed. You’re ill.” She touched his shoulder, lightly but firmly pushing him back.

And suddenly she was seized by a whirlwind. Lord Hope violently grabbed her, shoved her down on the bed, and fell atop her.
He might be thin, but Beatrice felt as if a sack of bricks had landed on her chest. She gasped for air and looked up into
black eyes glaring at her malevolently from only inches away. He was so close she could count each individual sooty eyelash.

So close she felt the painful press of that horrid knife in her side.

She tried to press her hand against his chest—she couldn’t breathe!—but he caught it, crushing it in his own as he growled,
“J’insiste sur le fait—”

He was cut off as Henry, one of the footmen, bashed him over the head with a bed warmer. Lord Hope slumped, his heavy head
thumping onto Beatrice’s breast. For a moment, she was in fear of suffocating altogether. Then Henry pulled him off her. She
took a shuddering breath and stood on shaky legs, turning to look at her unconscious patient in the bed. His head lolled,
his piercing black eyes veiled now. Would he have really hurt her? He’d looked so evil—
demented,
even. What in God’s name had happened to him? She rubbed her sore hand, swallowing hard as she regained her composure.

George returned and looked shocked when Henry explained what had happened.

“Even so, you shouldn’t have hit him so hard,” Beatrice scolded Henry.

“’E was hurting you, miss.” Henry sounded mulish.

She brushed a trembling hand over her hair, checking that her coiffure was still in place. “Yes, well, it didn’t actually
come to that, although I admit for a moment I was fearful. Thank you, Henry. I’m sorry; I’m still a bit discomposed.” She
bit her lip, eyeing Lord Hope again. “George, I think it wise to place a guard at the viscount’s door. Day and night, mind
you.”

“Yes, miss,” George replied sturdily.

“It’s for his own sake as well as ours,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m sure he’ll be fine once he recovers from this illness.”

The footmen exchanged uncertain glances.

Beatrice put a bit more steel in her voice to cover her own worry. “I would be obliged if Lord Blanchard didn’t hear of this
incident.”

“Yes, ma’am,” George answered for all the footmen, although he still looked dubious.

Mrs. Callahan arrived at that moment, bustling into the room. “What’s all the bother, then, miss? Hurley’s said there’s a
gentleman who’s collapsed.”

“Mr. Hurley is correct.” Beatrice gestured to the man on the bed. She turned to the housekeeper eagerly as a thought occurred
to her. “Do you recognize him?”

“Him?” Mrs. Callahan wrinkled her nose. “Can’t say as I do, miss. Very hairy gentleman, isn’t he?”

“Says ’e’s Viscount Hope,” Henry stated with satisfaction.

“Who?” Mrs. Callahan stared.

“Bloke in the painting,” Henry clarified. “Pardon me, miss.”

“Not at all, Henry,” Beatrice replied. “Did you know Lord Hope before the old earl’s death?”

“I’m sorry, no, miss,” Mrs. Callahan said. “Came on fresh when your uncle was made the earl, if you remember.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Beatrice said in disappointment.

“Practically the whole staff was,” Mrs. Callahan continued, “and them that had stayed… Well, they’re gone now. It’s been five
years, after all, since the old earl passed.”

“Yes, I know, but I had hoped.” How could they say for certain who the man was until someone who’d actually known Hope identified
him? Beatrice shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter at the moment anyway. No matter who he is, it’s our duty to care for
this man.”

Beatrice ordered her troops and gave out assignments. By the time she’d consulted with the physician—Uncle Reggie hadn’t forgotten
to send for him after all—supervised Cook making gruel, and planned for a nursing regimen, the political tea was long over
with. Beatrice left Lord Hope—if that was indeed who he was—under the eagle eye of Henry and drifted down the stairs to the
blue sitting room.

It was empty now. Only the damp stain on the carpet gave any evidence of the dramatic events of several hours before. Beatrice
stared at the stain for a moment before turning and inevitably facing the portrait of Viscount Hope.

He looked so young, so carefree! She stepped closer, pulled as always by some attracting force she couldn’t resist. She’d
been nineteen when she’d first seen the portrait. The night she’d arrived at Blanchard House with her uncle, the new Earl
of Blanchard, it had been very late. She’d been shown a room, but the excitement of a new house, the long carriage ride, and
London itself had caused sleep to escape her. She’d lain wide awake for half an hour or more before pulling on a wrapper and
padding down the stairs.

She remembered peeking into the library, examining the study, creeping through the halls, and somehow, inevitably—fatefully,
it seemed—she’d ended up here. Here where she stood right now, only a pace before the portrait of Viscount Hope. Then, as
now, it was his laughing eyes that had drawn her gaze first. Slightly crinkled, full of mischief and wicked humor. His mouth
next, wide, with that slow, sensual curve on the upper lip. His hair was inky black, drawn straight back from a wide brow.
He lounged in a relaxed pose against a tree, a fowling gun held casually through the crook of one arm, two spaniels panting
adoringly up at that face.

Who could blame them? She’d probably worn the same expression when she’d first seen him. Maybe she still did. She’d spent
innumerable nights gazing at him just like this, dreaming of a man who would see inside her and love her only for herself.
On the night of her twentieth birthday, she’d crept down here, feeling excited and on the verge of something wonderful. The
first time she’d ever been kissed, she’d come here to contemplate her feelings. Funny how now she couldn’t quite remember
the face of the boy whose lips had so inexpertly met her own. And when Jeremy had returned, broken from the war, she’d come
here.

Beatrice took one last look at those wicked ebony eyes and turned aside. For five long years, she’d mooned over a painted
man, a thing of dreams and fantasy. And now the flesh-and-blood man lay only two floors above her.

The question was, beneath the hair and beard, under the dirt and madness, was he the same man who’d sat for this portrait
so long ago?

Now, the Goblin King had long envied Longsword his magical sword, for goblins are never content with what they already have.
As dusk began to fall, the Goblin King appeared before Longsword, wrapped in a rich velvet cloak.

He bowed and said, “Good sir, I have thirty gold coins in this purse that I will give to you in exchange for your sword.”

“I do not wish to offend, sir, but I will not part with my sword,” Longsword replied.

And the Goblin King narrowed his eyes….

—from
Longsword

Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. He was too late.

Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, woke with his heart pounding hard and fast, but he made no movement, no outward sign that
he was aware. He lay still, continuing to breathe quietly as he assessed his surroundings. His arms were by his side, so they’d
left off the rope that usually staked his hands to the ground. A mistake on their part. He’d wait silently until they were
asleep, and then he’d gather his knife, the tattered blanket, and the dried meat he’d hoarded and buried beneath the side
of the wigwam. This time he’d be far away when they woke. This time…

But something wasn’t right.

He inhaled carefully and smelled…
bread
? He opened scratchy eyes and his world swung dizzily, caught between the past and the present. For a moment, he thought he’d
cast up his accounts and then everything steadied.

He recognized the room.

Reynaud blinked in bemusement. The scarlet room. In his father’s house. There was the tall casement window, draped in faded
scarlet velvet and letting in bright sunshine. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and a single small painting of overblown
pink roses ornamented the wall near the window. Below stood the overstuffed Tudor armchair, which his mother had hated but
which his father had forbidden her to throw out, because old Henry VIII was said to have sat in it. Mater had banished it
here the year before she died, and Father had never had the heart to move it after. Reynaud’s blue coat lay across the chair,
carefully folded. And beside the bed, on a small table, were two buns and a glass of water.

He stared hard at the food for a moment, waiting for it to disappear. He’d dreamed too many dreams of bread and wine and meat,
dreams that vanished on waking, for him to take this abundance at face value right away. When the buns were still there a
moment later, he lunged for them, his skeletal fingers scrabbling at the plate. He grasped one of the buns and tore it in
pieces, shoving them into his mouth. Chewing drily, he looked around.