To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(3)

Black, heavy-lidded eyes stared from the portrait.

She looked back down at the living man. His eyes were closed, but she remembered them well. Black, angry, and glittering, they were identical to the eyes in the portrait.

Beatrice’s heart froze in wonder.

Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, the true Earl of Blanchard, was alive.

RICHARD MADDOCK, LORD Hasselthorpe, watched as the Earl of Blanchard’s footmen lifted the unconscious lunatic from where he’d collapsed on the floor of the sitting room. How the man had gotten past the butler and footmen in the hall was anyone’s guess. The earl should take better care of his guests—the room was filled with the Tory elite, for God’s sake.

“Damned idiot,” the Duke of Lister growled beside him, putting voice to his own thoughts. “Blanchard should’ve hired extra guards if the house wasn’t safe.”

Hasselthorpe grunted, sipping his abominably watered-down wine. The footmen were almost to the door now, obviously laboring under the weight of the savage madman. The earl and his niece were trailing the footmen, speaking in low tones. Blanchard darted a glance at him, and Hasselthorpe raised a disapproving eyebrow. The earl looked hastily away. Blanchard might be higher in rank, but Hasselthorpe’s political influence was greater—a fact that Hasselthorpe usually took care to use lightly. Blanchard was, along with the Duke of Lister, his greatest ally in parliament. Hasselthorpe had his eye on the prime minister’s seat, and with the backing of Lister and Blanchard, he hoped to make it within the next year.

If all went according to his plans.

The little procession exited the room, and Hasselthorpe returned his gaze to the guests, frowning slightly. The people nearest to where the man had fallen were in small knots, talking in low, excited murmurs. Something was afoot. One could watch the ripple of some news spreading outward through the crowd. As it reached each new knot of gentlemen, eyebrows shot up and bewigged heads leaned close together.

Young Nathan Graham was in a gossiping group nearby. Graham was newly elected to the House of Commons, an ambitious man with the wealth to back his aspiration and the makings of a great orator. He was a young man to watch and perhaps groom for one’s own use.

Graham broke away from the circle and strode to where Hasselthorpe and Lister stood in a corner of the room. “They say it’s Viscount Hope.”

Hasselthorpe blinked, confused. “Who?”

“That man!” Graham gestured to the spot where a maid was cleaning up the broken vase.

Hasselthorpe’s mind momentarily froze in shock.

“Impossible,” Lister growled. “Hope has been dead for seven years.”

“Why would they think it’s Hope?” Hasselthorpe asked quietly.

Graham shrugged. “There was a resemblance, sir. I was close enough to study the man’s face when he burst into the room. The eyes are… well, the only word is extraordinary.”

“Eyes, extraordinary or not, are hardly proof enough to resurrect a dead man,” Lister stated.

Lister had cause to speak with flat authority. He was a big man, tall with a sloping belly, and he had an undeniable presence. Lister was also one of the most powerful men in England. It was natural, then, that when he spoke, men took care to listen.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Graham gave a small bow to the duke. “But he was asking after his father.”

Graham had no need to add, And we stand in the Earl of Blanchard’s London residence.

“Ridiculous.” Lister hesitated, then said, lower, “If it is Hope, Blanchard’s just lost his title.”

He looked significantly at Hasselthorpe. If Blanchard lost the title, he would no longer sit in the House of Lords. They’d lose a crucial ally.

Hasselthorpe frowned, turning to the life-sized portrait hanging by the door. Hope had been a young man, perhaps only in his twentieth year, when he’d sat for it. The painting depicted a laughing youth, pink and white cheeks unblemished, black eyes merry and clear. If the madman had been Hope, he’d suffered a sea change of monumental proportions.

Hasselthorpe turned back to the other men and smiled grimly. “A lunatic cannot unseat Blanchard. And in any case, no one has proved he’s Hope. There is no cause for alarm.”

Hasselthorpe sipped his wine, outwardly cool and composed, while inside he acknowledged the unfinished end to his sentence.

There was no cause for alarm… yet.

IT HAD TAKEN four footmen to lift Viscount Hope, and even now they staggered under his weight. Beatrice watched the men carefully as she and her uncle trailed behind them, worried they might let him fall. She’d persuaded Uncle Reggie to take the unconscious man to an unused bedroom, although her uncle had been far from happy with the matter. Uncle Reggie had initially been of a mind to toss him into the street. She took a more cautious view, not only from Christian charity, but also from the niggling worry that if this was Lord Hope, they’d hardly help their case by throwing him out.

The footmen staggered into the hall with their burden. Hope was thinner than in his portrait, but he was still a very tall man—over six feet, Beatrice estimated. She shivered. Fortunately, he’d not regained consciousness after glaring at her so evilly. Otherwise she wasn’t sure they would’ve been able to move him at all.

“Viscount Hope is dead,” Uncle Reggie muttered as he trotted beside her. He didn’t sound as if he believed his protest himself. “Dead these seven years!”