To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(27)

“Mad?” The old lady’s thin eyebrows rose.

Reynaud looked away. “I was delirious with fever when I arrived. I’m afraid there was a roomful of people to witness me raving like a lunatic.”

“And is that all?”

Reynaud grimaced uncomfortably. “There was an… incident yesterday. I was shot at—”

“Mon dieu!”

He waved away her concern. “It was nothing terrible. But I forgot myself somehow. I thought I was on the battlefield again.”

Silence.

Then Tante Cristelle drew breath. “Ah. Unfortunate. We will need good solicitors and men of business to combat the usurper.”

Reynaud looked up, hope making him feel suddenly weak. “Then you’ll help me.”

“Mais oui.” Tante Cristelle scowled. “And did you think otherwise?”

Reynaud helped her stand, feeling the fragile bones of her arm beneath his hand. “No, but it has been a very long time since I’ve had an ally.”

She shook her skirts into order. “We must plan a campaign, I think. I shall seek out these men of law, for I have maintained the estate of le petite Daniel whilst he sojourned in the Colonies and thus have many contacts. And you, you shall shave.”

“Shave?” Reynaud’s eyebrows shot up in amusement.

Tante Cristelle nodded sharply. “But of course, shave, and also you will need the new clothing, the proper wig, and the elegant shoes. For you must regain the aspect of the so-boring English milord, must you not? Thusly we shall confound our enemies with your very placidity.”

Reynaud clenched his jaw. He hated to ask, but he forced himself to. “I have no monies, Tante.”

She nodded, unsurprised. “I will lend you what you need, and when you become the earl again, you shall pay me back, yes?”

“Yes. Of course.” Reynaud bowed over her hand. “I cannot tell you, Tante, how relieved I am that you are on my side.”

“Tcha!” The old woman made a dismissive sound. “You have not lost your charm, I see, underneath that forest upon your face. But mark you this, nephew: a shave and a haircut are only part of what you’ll need to transform yourself into the respectable English gentleman.”

Reynaud frowned. “What else do you think I need? Name it and I’ll buy it.”

“Ah, but this is a thing not to be bought. For this you will need all your charm.” She turned at the door and looked him in the eye, her gaze level and solemn. “A wife is what you need. An English wife of good family. For what man can be mad with a sweet, not-too-pretty wife by his side? Obtain a chit such as this and you will be halfway to regaining your title.”

THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and sunny. After making her toilet, Beatrice decided to consult with Cook. She was descending the stairs to the front hall when she heard male voices.

Beatrice halted at the landing and looked over the rail to the hall below. There stood the butler, two footmen, and a gentleman she did not know but who looked—at least from the back—somehow familiar. She continued down the stairs slowly, eyeing the man. He wore a freshly powdered white wig and a black coat of a very fine cut, embroidered about the cuffs in silver and green thread. The butler was saying something to him, but the stranger must’ve sensed her stare. He turned.

And she froze on the stairs.

It was Lord Hope—but a Lord Hope transformed. Gone was the thick beard. His jaw was freshly shaven, revealing his square chin and the hard planes of his cheeks. He must’ve cut his hair very close to his head, for the wig he wore was beautifully curled and powdered and fit him excellently. Beneath the black velvet of his coat, his waistcoat was silver and green brocade, and lace fell at his wrists. He was the very epitome of a fine London gentleman, and Beatrice might have felt a pang of regret for the man she’d nursed for the last week had it not been for two things. First, from his left ear, the black iron cross still dangled, primitive and uncivilized next to the perfection of his white wig. And second, the three tattooed birds still circled his right eye, as permanent as the ebony color of the eye itself.

He wore the trappings of civilization, but no one but a fool would mistake them for anything but a thin veneer covering the savage beneath.

He bowed to her, one leg extended, his arm sweeping down sardonically. “Miss Corning.”

“Lord Hope.” She’d regained some of her self-possession and now finished her descent of the stairs. “You’ve undergone a most remarkable change.”

He shrugged. “To fight demons, one must assume the guise of a demon.”

She looked at him. “I’m not sure I understand what that means.”

“No matter.” He glanced away, and with any other man, she might’ve thought him uncertain. “I go to visit my aunt this morn. Would you care to accompany me?”

It was a civilized invitation, and she rather wanted to know what he was about with this sudden transformation, but she bit her lip. Was it safe?

Her hesitation had lasted a fraction of a second too long. His pleasant expression turned to a scowl. “Are you afraid of me, Miss Corning?”

“Not at all.” She tilted her chin, daring him to call her on the fib.

“Then you won’t mind a simple drive in the city.”

Why did he want her to accompany him? She stared at him, trying to decipher his motivations.