Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
He lay in an antique bed made for some short ancestor. His feet hung off the end, tangled in the scarlet bedclothes, but it
was a bed. He touched the embroidered coverlet over his chest, half expecting it to dissolve into delirium. He hadn’t slept
on a bed in over seven years, and the sensation was foreign. He was used to furs and a dirt-packed floor. Dried grass if he
was lucky. The silk coverlet was smooth beneath his fingers, the fine cloth catching on rough skin and calluses. He must believe
the evidence.
He was
home.
Triumph surged through him. Months of dogged traveling, most of it afoot, without money, friends, or influence. These last
weeks of wretched fever and purging, the fear that he’d be defeated so close to the goal. All over. Finally. He’d made it
home.
Reynaud stretched for the water glass, wincing. Every muscle in his body ached. His hand trembled so badly that some of the
water spilled on his shirt, but he still swallowed enough to wash down the bun. He twitched at the coverlet, pulling it back
like an old man, and found that he was dressed in his leggings and shirt. Someone had taken off his moccasins, though. He
looked about for them, panicked—they were his only shoes—and saw them under the Tudor chair where his coat lay.
Carefully he inched his way to the edge of the bed and stood, panting. Dammit! Where was his knife? He was too weak to defend
himself without it. He found and used the chamber pot, then made his way to the Tudor chair. Under the blue coat was his knife.
He held it in his right hand, and the familiar worn horn handle made him instantly calmer. Barefoot, he padded back to the
bedside table and pocketed the remaining bun; then he went to the door, moving soundlessly, though the extra effort caused
sweat to break out along his hairline. Seven years of captivity had taught him to take nothing for granted.
So he was not surprised to find a liveried footman stationed in the hall outside his room. He was, however, somewhat startled
when the man moved to bar his exit.
Reynaud cocked an eyebrow and gave the footman a look that for the last seven years had made other men reach for a weapon.
This boy had never had to fight for food or life, though. He did not recognize danger even when it stared him in the face.
“Yer not supposed to leave, sir,” the footman said.
“Sors de mon chemin,”
Reynaud snapped.
The footman goggled at him, and it took a moment for Reynaud to realize he’d spoken in French, the language he’d used for
most of the last seven years. “Ridiculous,” he rasped, the English words strange on his tongue. “I’m Lord Hope. Let me pass.”
“Miss Corning says as how yer to stay right there,” the footman replied, eyeing the knife. The boy swallowed. “She gave me
strict orders.”
Reynaud clenched his knife and started for the footman, intending to move him bodily. “Who the hell is Miss Corning?”
“Me,” came a feminine voice from beyond the footman. Reynaud paused. The voice was low and sweet and terribly cultured. He
hadn’t heard English spoken in such tones in a very, very long time. And the voice… He might move mountains and kill men for
such a voice. Might forget what he’d fought so long for. It was more than attractive, that voice.
It was life itself.
A slip of a girl peered around the footman. “Or is it ‘I’? I can never remember, can you?”
Reynaud scowled. She wasn’t what he’d expected somehow. She was of average height, with gold hair and fair skin and a pleasant
expression. Her eyes were wide and gray. She was very English-looking, which made her exotic. No, that wasn’t right. He swayed
where he stood, trying to clear his mind. It was just that he still wasn’t used to the sight of a blond woman. An
English
woman.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Her pale brown eyebrows flew up. “I thought I’d explained. Pardon me. I’m Beatrice Corning. How do you do?”
And she curtsied as if they stood in the most formal ballroom.
Damned if he’d bow; he was unsteady on his feet as it was. He started forward again, intending to bypass the chit. “I’m Hope.
Where’s my—”
But she touched his arm, and the contact froze him. A wild image of her rounded form lying beneath him as he pressed his length
into her softness filled his head. That couldn’t be a true memory, he knew. Was he still delirious? His body seemed to
know
hers.
“You’ve been ill,” she was saying, speaking slowly and firmly as if to a small child or a village idiot.
“I—” he began, but she was crowding him, moving him inexorably backward, and the only way to continue forward would be to
push past her and perhaps hurt her.
His entire being recoiled at the thought.
So, slowly, gently, she maneuvered him into the scarlet room until he was staring down at her bemusedly by the bed again.
Who was this female?
“Who are you?” he repeated.
Her brows knit. “Can’t you remember? I’ve already told you. I’m Beatrice—”
“Corning,” he finished for her impatiently. “Yes, that I understand. What I don’t understand is why you’re in my father’s
house.”
A wary expression crossed her face, so quickly he almost thought he’d imagined it. But he hadn’t. She was hiding something
from him, and his senses were put on the alert. He glanced uneasily around the room. He was cornered here if an enemy attacked.
He’d have to fight his way to the door, and there wasn’t much room to maneuver.
“I live here with my uncle,” she said soothingly, as if she sensed his thoughts. “Can you tell me where you’ve been? What
has happened to you?”
“No.”
Brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless.
He shook his head violently, banishing the phantom. “No!”
“It’s all right.” Her gray eyes had widened in alarm. “You don’t have to tell me. Now, if you’ll just lie down again—”
“Who is your uncle?” He could feel some imminent danger raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
She closed her eyes and then looked at him frankly. “My uncle is Reginald St. Aubyn, the Earl of Blanchard.”
He gripped his knife harder. “What?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “You need to lie down.”
He grasped her arm. “What did you say?”
Her pink tongue darted out to lick her lips, and he realized, incongruously, that she smelled of flowers.
“Your father died five years ago,” she said. “You were thought dead, so my uncle claimed the title.”
Not home, then,
he thought bitterly.
Not home at all.
“W
ELL, THAT MUST’VE
been awkward,” Lottie said with her usual bluntness the next afternoon.
“It was simply terrible.” Beatrice sighed. “He had no idea, of course, that his father was dead, and there he was holding
that huge knife. I was quite nervous, half expecting him to do something violent, but instead he became very, very quiet,
which was almost worse.”
Beatrice frowned, remembering the pang of sympathy that’d shot through her at Lord Hope’s stillness. She shouldn’t feel sympathy
for a man who might strip Uncle Reggie of his title and their home, but there it was. She couldn’t help but ache for his loss.
She took a sip of tea. Lottie always had such good tea—nice and strong—which was perhaps why she’d fallen into the habit of
calling round the Graham town house every Tuesday afternoon for tea and gossip. Lottie’s private sitting room was so elegant,
decorated in deep rose and a grayish sort of green one might think was dull but was actually the perfect complement for the
rose. Lottie was extraordinarily good with colors and always looked so smart that sometimes Beatrice wondered if she’d bought
Pan, her little white Pomeranian, just because he looked so smart as well.
Beatrice eyed the little dog, lying like a miniature fur rug at their feet, alert to the possibility of biscuit crumbs.
“The quiet gentlemen are the ones you have to watch out for,” Lottie stated as she judiciously added a small lump of sugar
to her tea.
It took a second for Beatrice to remember the thread of their conversation. Then she said, “Well, he wasn’t very quiet when
he first appeared.”
“No, indeed,” Lottie said contentedly. “I thought he’d strangle you.”
“You sound rather thrilled by the prospect,” Beatrice said severely.
“It would give me a tale to dine out on for a year or more, you must admit,” Lottie replied with no trace of shame. She sipped
her tea, wrinkled her nose, and added another tiny lump of sugar. “No, it’s been three days, and I’ve heard nothing else but
the story of the lost earl bursting into your little political tea.”
“Uncle Reggie said we’d be the talk of the town,” Beatrice said dolefully.
“And for once he’s right.” Lottie tried her tea again and must’ve found it palatable, because she smiled and set aside her
cup. “Now tell me: is he or is he not truly Lord Hope?”
“I think he must be,” Beatrice said slowly, choosing a biscuit from the tray on the tiny table between them. Pan raised his
head and followed her hand as she transferred the pastry to her plate. “But so far no one who actually knew him from before
the war has seen him.”
Lottie looked up from selecting her own biscuit. “What, no one? He has a sister, doesn’t he?”
“In the Colonies.” Beatrice bit into her biscuit and said somewhat indistinctly, “There’s an aunt as well, but she’s somewhere
abroad. Her butler was rather vague. And Uncle Reggie said he’d met Hope, but the viscount had been a boy of ten or so at
the time, so it doesn’t help.”
“Well, then, what about friends?” Lottie asked.
“He’s too ill to go out yet.” Beatrice bit her lip. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to keep Lord Hope in the scarlet
bedroom this morning. “We have sent word to the man who said he witnessed Hope’s death—Viscount Vale.”
“And?”
Beatrice shrugged. “He’s at his country estate. It may be days before he can come.”
“Well! Then you shall simply have to play nurse to a wickedly handsome man—even if he has far too much hair at the moment—who
is either a long-lost earl or a black scoundrel who might imperil your virtue. I must say I’m terribly jealous.”
Beatrice glanced down at Pan, who had discovered a fallen lump of sugar near her chair. Lottie’s words made her think of the
viscount’s body on hers and how very heavy it had been. How she had, for a small second, almost feared for her life.
“Beatrice?”
Oh, dear. Lottie was sitting bolt upright, her nose practically twitching.
Beatrice affected an unconcerned look. “Yes?”
“Don’t you
yes
me, Beatrice Rosemary Corning. You sound as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth! What happened?”
Beatrice winced. “Well, he was somewhat delirious that first afternoon . . .”
“Ye-es?”
“And when we took him to a bedroom—”
“Something happened in a
bedroom
?”
“It really wasn’t his fault—”
“Oh, my goodness!”
“But somehow he pulled me down on the bed and he fell, too.” Beatrice glanced at Lottie’s excited face and closed her eyes
very tightly to say, “On top of me.”
There was a small silence.
Beatrice peeked.
Lottie was goggling at her and seemed—miraculously—speechless.
“Nothing happened, really,” Beatrice said somewhat weakly.
“Nothing!” Lottie found her power of speech to nearly shout. “You were compromised.”
“No, I wasn’t. The footmen were there.”
“Footmen don’t count,” Lottie said, and rose to yank vigorously on the bellpull.
“Of course footmen count,” Beatrice said. “There were three of them. What are you doing?”
“Ringing for more tea.” Lottie looked critically at the demolished tea tray. “We’ll need another pot and a new plate of biscuits,
too, I think.”
Beatrice looked down at her hands. “The thing is . . .”
“Yes?”
Beatrice took a breath and looked at her suddenly sober friend. “He was rather frightening, Lottie.”
Lottie sat down, her pretty lips tightening. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. At least”—Beatrice shook her head—“for a moment I couldn’t breathe. But that was nothing. It was the look in his eyes.
As if he wouldn’t mind killing me.” She scrunched her nose. “You must think me a fool.”
“Of course not, dear.” Lottie bit her lip. “Are you sure he’s safe to have in your uncle’s house?”
“I don’t know,” Beatrice admitted. “But what else are we to do? If we throw him into the street and he
is
the earl, we’ll be judged most harshly. He might bring criminal proceedings against my uncle. I have taken the precaution
of posting guards at his door.”
“That sounds wise.” Lottie still looked troubled. “Have you thought what you’ll do if he is the earl?”
The maid trotted in at that moment, distracting Lottie and saving Beatrice from having to answer her friend. The truth was
that her chest began to tighten in a panicked sort of way when she thought of what the future might bring. If the man in the
scarlet bedroom was Viscount Hope and if he succeeded in taking back the title, both she and Uncle Reggie would be out of
their home. They’d lose the estates and monies they’d become used to in the last five years, and that would aggravate Uncle
Reggie terribly. What would such a situation do to him? He might protest that the apoplexy attack he’d had was nothing, but
she’d seen his white, sweaty face and the way he’d gasped for breath. Just the memory made her press her hand to her chest.
Dear God, she couldn’t lose Uncle Reggie, too.
And she truly didn’t want to discuss the matter at the moment.
So when Lottie plopped back down on her exquisite white and rose striped settee and looked at her expectantly, Beatrice smiled
and said, “I thought we were to discuss Mr. Graham and the veteran’s bill today. I’ve had word that Mr. Wheaton would like
to have another secret meeting before—”
“Oh, pooh on Nate and the veteran’s bill.” Lottie pulled a tasseled gold silk cushion on her lap and hugged it. “I’m sick
to death of politics and husbands as well.”
The maid bustled back in with a laden tray at that minute. Beatrice watched her friend as the fresh tea things were arranged.
Lottie always spoke carelessly, but Beatrice was beginning to worry that something was really wrong between her and Mr. Graham.
They’d had a fashionable marriage, of course. Nathan Graham was the scion of a rather new wealthy family, while Lottie came
from an old but impoverished name. Theirs had been an eminently practical union, but Beatrice thought it had been a love match
as well—at least on Lottie’s part. Had she been wrong?