To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(38)

“Careless.”

“Foolish,” Reynaud corrected grimly. “When I find him, I’ll kill him.”

“Miss Corning means so much to you?” He felt Vale’s curious glance.

“Yes.” The knowledge solidified as he said it. Beatrice Corning did mean a lot to him—how much he wasn’t sure. But he knew he wanted to keep her close. Wanted to keep her safe.

“Indeed?” Vale said thoughtfully. “And does the lady know this?”

“Is that any of your business?”

Vale coughed as if covering a laugh, and Reynaud turned to glare at him.

The viscount held up a conciliatory hand. “I mean no offense, but the lady is exceedingly proper and you… well.”

Reynaud frowned down at the floor. Vale was right. Miss Corning was all that was proper in an English lady. Everything, in fact, that he no longer was. Perhaps that was why his voice was sharp when he said, “I’ll let you know when I want your opinion.”

“No doubt.” Vale’s voice was dry. “And I look forward to the day, but in the meantime, we have other matters to discuss. Did you know Hasselthorpe was shot at last summer?”

“No, I didn’t.” Reynaud glanced to the side of the room, where Lord Hasselthorpe stood with his usual cohorts. The Duke of Lister, Nathan Graham, and, of course, St. Aubyn the pretender were about him, all of them looking rather sour. “You think it’s related?”

“I don’t know,” Vale mused. “Hasselthorpe was winged in the arm—not a grave wound as I understand. He seems to’ve recovered entirely. He was riding in Hyde Park when he was shot. The shooter was never found. It does seem odd.”

“Hasselthorpe has aspirations to be prime minister,” Reynaud pointed out. “It may’ve simply been a political assassination gone awry.”

“Of course, of course,” Vale murmured. “But I can’t help noting that he was shot shortly after I tried talking to him about Spinner’s Falls.”

Reynaud halted and stared at Vale. “Really?”

“Yes.” Vale glanced about the ballroom. “I say, do you know where my lady wife and your Miss Corning have got to?”

“They went into the portrait gallery.” Reynaud nodded toward the hall leading off the ballroom. “Do you think Hasselthorpe knows something about this business?”

“Perhaps.” Vale started walking again, and Reynaud fell into step. “Or perhaps someone else merely thinks he does. Or the thing isn’t related at all and I’m merely chasing unicorns.”

Reynaud grunted. Vale might like to play the simpleton, but he’d known the man since childhood and wasn’t fooled. Vale was one of the most clever men he knew. “I thought at first that the attempt on me must’ve been Reginald St. Aubyn’s doing.”

“And now?”

“Miss Corning pointed out that he’d have to be a half-wit to try and kill me on his own front step.”

“Ah.”

“If the attempt against me is linked to the shooting of Lord Hasselthorpe, then it’s got something to do with Spinner’s Falls,” Reynaud said thoughtfully. “But what?”

“I think you know something,” Vale said.

Reynaud stopped, eyeing the other man narrowly. “What do you mean?”

Vale held up his palms. “I’m not accusing you. I just think you must have some information about the traitor that we haven’t considered.”

Reynaud frowned. “I separated from you at the Indian camp and never saw you again until the other day. What could I possibly know that you don’t?”

“I don’t know.” Vale shrugged. “But I think we should meet with Munroe and pool our individual recollections.”

“Munroe survived the camp?” Reynaud’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t thought of the naturalist in years.

“Aye, but he’s scarred.” Vale looked away. “He lost an eye in that camp, Reynaud.”

Reynaud grimaced. He knew well what fate befell Indian captives. Seven years of his life had been lost, and now it seemed it was all because someone—one of their own—had betrayed them at Spinner’s Falls.

“Then let’s meet with Munroe and figure this thing out,” he said with decision. “Let’s find the bastard and make sure he hangs.”

“HE’S SET A date to plead his case before the parliamentary committee.” Lord Blanchard whispered the news as if the potted plant behind them might have ears.

Lister raised an eyebrow, looking bored as always as he surveyed the crowded ballroom. “Are you surprised?”

Blanchard’s face reddened. “You needn’t sound so unaffected. If St. Aubyn gets my title, your political career will be a toss-up as well.”

Lister shrugged, though his face had turned stony.

“Come, gentlemen,” Hasselthorpe said softly. “Fighting among ourselves does not serve our cause.”

“Well, then what does?” Blanchard was looking sullen. “None of you have offered your support to me. I am alone—even my niece has turned against me. Hope is courting her, the bastard.”

“Is he?” Hasselthorpe turned to glance at Hope, who was walking with Vale about the perimeter of the ballroom. “A clever stratagem. If he has a wife, he can dispel these rumors of insanity. A man always looks more settled with a wife by his side.”