To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(36)

“Her son?”

“Yes. He’s Lord Eddings—inherited the title from his father. When my sister, Emeline, married again and settled in the Colonies with her new husband, Tante Cristelle agreed to stay here and help manage the estate.”

Beatrice laid her hand on his sleeve. “You must miss your sister so.”

“I think of her every day.”

An expression of sudden sorrow crossed his features, sharp and fleeting and all the more breathtaking because he so rarely showed any of the softer emotions. She leaned closer to him, drawn by his emotion despite the crowd surrounding them.

“Hope,” a male voice drawled from behind them.

Beatrice looked up to see Viscount Vale’s turquoise eyes watching her curiously. He had a bluish bruise on his jaw. Beside him was his wife, a tall, thin lady with a calm, slightly amused face.

She felt the muscle of Lord Hope’s arm flex beneath her fingers, but his face revealed nothing. “Vale.”

Lord Vale cocked his head. “Pity you’ve shaved off all those whiskers. They gave you a rather Biblical air.”

Lord Hope’s lips twitched.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not at all,” Lord Vale said carelessly. “I suppose you must don the local costume like the rest of us.”

The lady beside him sighed. “Vale,” she said, “are you going to introduce me, or will you continue to trade insults with Lord Hope for the rest of the night?”

“I do beg your pardon, my lady wife.” Lord Vale turned and held out his hand to the lady, who placed her fingers in his. “May I introduce you to Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope and no doubt soon to be the true Earl of Blanchard? Hope, this is my lady wife, Melisande Renshaw, Viscountess Vale.”

The lady made a stately curtsy as Lord Hope bowed over her hand. “An honor, my lady, but we’ve already met, I think. Were you not a dear friend and neighbor of my sister, Emeline?”

Lady Vale’s pale cheeks pinkened delicately. “Indeed, my lord. I spent many a happy afternoon at the Blanchard estate in Suffolk. I know your sister will be very pleased to hear that you are well. The news of your death was a terrible blow to her.”

Lord Hope stiffened, but he only nodded to Lady Vale.

“And this,” continued Lord Vale, “is Hope’s cousin, Miss Corning, whom we met last spring at Mother’s garden party.”

“How do you do, ma’am?” Beatrice murmured as she sank into a curtsy.

When she rose, she saw that the lady and her husband seemed to be exchanging some kind of silent communication.

Lady Vale smiled and turned to Beatrice. “Would you care to stroll with me, Miss Corning, and admire Miss Molyneux’s fine decorations? Vale says we must hold a ball of our own soon, and I would be grateful for your opinion.”

“Of course,” Beatrice said. The gentlemen were outwardly polite, but there was a tension in their stances. Obviously Lord Vale wished to talk with Lord Hope alone.

Lady Vale linked her arm with Beatrice’s, and they began a slow perambulation of the room.

“Do you make your home in London always, Miss Corning?” Lady Vale asked.

“I live with my uncle, ma’am, in Blanchard House.” Beatrice darted a quick look over her shoulder. Lord Vale was talking intently with Lord Hope, but at least they hadn’t come to fisticuffs. She faced forward again. “That is where Lord Hope is staying at the moment as well.”

“Oh. That must be… interesting,” Lady Vale murmured.

“Yes, it certainly is. I believe Lord Hope stays out of pure contrariness.” Beatrice glanced at her companion. “You knew him when he was a boy?”

“He was away at school generally when I visited the Blanchard country estate, but, yes, he was a young boy, not quite a man. I remember that Emeline and I had not yet come out when he bought his commission in the army.”

“What was he like?”

Lady Vale was silent a moment as they made a wide arc. They came to a side hall, and she asked, “Do you mind? I rather dislike crowds.”

“Not at all,” Beatrice replied.

After the brightness of the ballroom, the hallway’s lighting was muted. Tall portraits lined the walls. A few other guests drifted here and there, but they were distant enough not to overhear their conversation.

“You asked about Lord Hope,” Lady Vale began. “I did not see him often when I was young, but I remember being rather in awe of him.”

“Really?”

Lady Vale nodded. “He was so very handsome, even then. But there was more. He was the young heir to the throne, as it were. He almost seemed to have a golden glow about him.”

Beatrice bowed her head, contemplating this information as they walked. What a downfall it must’ve been for a man with a “golden glow” to have been made a slave. How much more humiliating it must’ve been for proud Lord Hope to sink so low. They came to a tall portrait of a man in armor in the style of the last century, and Lady Vale stopped.

She tilted her head, studying the painting. “His hair is quite extravagant, isn’t it?”

Beatrice looked at the painting and smiled. The gentleman had abundant dark curls hanging on either side of his face. “And he’s proud of it, isn’t he?”

“Indeed.”