To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(20)

The sergeant threw back his shoulders. “Hurley, my lord.”

Reynaud nodded. He placed the dueling-pistols box on a side table and opened it. The pistols within looked like they might be from his grandfather’s time, but they had been properly oiled and maintained. Reynaud took them out, checked to see if they were loaded, and stepped to the door.

“Keep away from the doorway,” he instructed the sergeant. “The Indians might still be out there.”

“Dear God, he’s insane,” St. Aubyn muttered.

Reynaud ignored him and ducked out the door.

The street was strangely quiet—or perhaps it just seemed so after the chaos of the shooting. Reynaud didn’t pause but ran swiftly down the steps and dropped to the ground by Miss Corning, who was nearly underneath the carriage.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. Quite.” She frowned and touched a finger to his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He took her hand and licked his blood from her fingertip, making her gray eyes widen. “You still have my knife?”

“Yes.” She showed him his knife, hidden among her skirts.

“Good girl.” He looked at the soldiers… except now they were a coachman and two footmen. Reynaud blinked fiercely. Concentrate. “Did you see where the shots were coming from?”

The coachman shook his head, but one of the footmen, a tall fellow with a missing front tooth, said, “A black carriage pulled away very fast just after you dragged Henry into the house, my lord. I think the shots may’ve come from inside the carriage.”

Reynaud nodded. “That makes sense. But we’ll take Miss Corning in with all precaution just in case. Mr. Coachman, please go first. I’ll follow with Miss Corning while the footmen come behind.” He handed one of the pistols to the footman who had spoken. “Don’t shoot, but make sure anyone watching can see that you’re armed.”

The men nodded, and Reynaud rose with his little company. He wrapped one arm about Miss Corning, covering as much of her body with his as he could. “Go.”

The coachman ran to the steps, and Reynaud followed with Miss Corning, damnably aware of how exposed they were. Her form was warm next to his, small and delicate. It seemed to take minutes, but they were within the house again in seconds. No more shots rang out, and Reynaud slammed the door behind him.

“Dear God.” Miss Corning was looking at Henry, the wounded soldier.

But he wasn’t a soldier, Reynaud realized all at once. Henry was the footman who’d been guarding his bedroom door. His head spun as burning bile backed up into his throat. The sergeant was the butler, the women the maids, and there were no soldiers, only footmen staring at him warily. And the Indians? In London? Reynaud shook his head, feeling as if his brain would explode from the pain.

Dear God, maybe he was mad.

BEATRICE BENT OVER a small prayer book, picking apart the binding. She found it easier to think when her hands were busy. So after Henry had been seen to, after Lord Hope had retired to his room, after she’d calmed the servants and sent them back to work, after all had been restored to order in her home, she’d retreated here to her own rooms to contemplate the events of this afternoon.

Although, she’d not come to any firm conclusions when a knock sounded at her door. She sighed and looked up at a second tap.

“Beatrice?”

It was Uncle Reggie’s voice, which was odd, because he hardly ever visited her in her rooms, but then this had been a very odd day. She set the book down on the little table she worked at and rose from her chair to let him in.

“I wanted to make sure that you were unharmed, m’dear,” he said once he’d entered. He glanced vaguely around the room.

Beatrice felt a pang of remorse. In all the excitement of the shooting, she’d not had a chance to talk to her uncle. “I’m quite all right—not even a scratch. And you? How do you feel?”

“Oh, nothing can hurt an old man like me,” he blustered. “’Course, that impostor did knock me against the wall a bit.” He peered at her from under his bushy eyebrows as if waiting for a reaction.

Beatrice frowned. “He did? But why?”

“Bloody arrogance, if you ask me,” her uncle replied heatedly. “He was raving about Indians in the woods. Started ordering the servants about and told me to get out of the way. I think the man is mad.”

“He did save me.” Beatrice looked down at her slippers. Lord Hope’s sanity was the very subject she’d been grappling with when Uncle Reggie had interrupted her. “Perhaps he was merely confused by the suddenness of the events. Perhaps he spoke in haste when he talked of Indians.”

“Or perhaps he’s mad.” Uncle Reggie’s voice softened at her look. “I know he saved your life, and don’t think I’m not grateful the bastard risked his life for you. But is it safe to have him in the house? What if he wakes one morning and decides I’m an Indian—or you?”

“He seems sane otherwise.”

“Does he, Bea?”

“Yes. Mostly anyway.” Beatrice sat in the chair before her worktable and bit her lip. “I don’t think he’d ever hurt me or you, Uncle, truly, no matter his state of mind.”

“Humph. I don’t know if I share your optimism.” Uncle Reggie wandered over and peered at her work. “Ah, you’ve started a new project. What is it?”