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

“Please, Uncle, don’t let your temper fly,” Beatrice said anxiously. He hated being reminded of it, but Uncle Reggie had had an attack of apoplexy just last month—an attack that had absolutely terrified her. “Remember what the doctor said.”

“Oh, pshaw! I’m as fit as a fiddle, despite what that quack thinks,” Uncle Reggie said stoutly. “I know you have a soft heart, m’dear, but this can’t be Hope. Three men swore they saw him die, murdered by those savages in the American Colonies. One of them was Viscount Vale, his friend since childhood!”

“Well, they were obviously wrong,” Beatrice murmured. She frowned as the panting footmen mounted the wide dark-oak stairs ahead of them. The bedrooms were all on the town house’s third floor. “Mind his head!”

“Yes, miss,” George, the eldest footman, replied.

“If that is Hope, then he’s lost his mind,” Uncle Reggie huffed as they made the upper hall. “He was raving in French, of all things. About his father! And I know absolutely that the last earl died five years ago. Attended his funeral m’self. You’ll not convince me the old earl’s alive, too.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice replied. “But I don’t believe the viscount knows his father is dead.”

She felt a pang for the unconscious man. Where had Lord Hope been all these years? How had he gotten those strange tattoos? And why didn’t he know his father was dead? Dear God, maybe her uncle was right. Maybe the viscount’s mind was broken.

Uncle Reggie gave voice to her awful thoughts. “The man is insane; that’s clear. Raving. Attacking you. I say, shouldn’t you lie down, m’dear? I can send for some of those lemon sweets you like so much, damn the cost.”

“That’s very kind of you, Uncle, but he didn’t get close enough to lay a hand on me,” Beatrice murmured.

“Wasn’t for lack of trying!”

Uncle Reggie stared disapprovingly as the footmen bore the viscount into the scarlet bedroom. It was only the second-nicest guest bedroom, and for a moment Beatrice had a pang of doubt. If this was Viscount Hope, then surely he merited the first-nicest guest bedroom? Or was the point moot since if he was Lord Hope, then he really ought to be in the earl’s bedroom, which, of course, Uncle Reggie slept in? Beatrice shook her head. The whole thing was too complicated for words, and, in any case, the scarlet bedroom would have to do for now.

“The man ought to be in a madhouse,” Uncle Reggie was saying. “Might murder us all in our sleep when he wakes. If he wakes.”

“I doubt he’ll do any such thing,” Beatrice said firmly, ignoring both her uncle’s hopeful tone in his last words and her own uneasiness. “Surely it’s only the fever. He was burning up when I touched his face.”

“S’pose I’ll have to send for a physician.” Uncle Reggie scowled at Lord Hope. “And pay for it m’self.”

“It would be the Christian thing to do,” Beatrice murmured. She watched anxiously as the footmen lowered Hope to the bed. He hadn’t moved or made a sound since his collapse. Was he dying?

Uncle Reggie grunted. “And I’ll have to explain this to my guests somehow. Bound to be gossiping about it this very moment. We’ll be the talk of the town, take my word.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice said soothingly. “I can supervise here if you wish to attend to our guests.”

“Don’t take too long, and don’t get too close to the blighter. No telling what he might do if he wakes.” Uncle Reggie glared at the unconscious man before stumping out of the room.

“I won’t.” Beatrice turned to the waiting footmen. “George, please see that a physician is called in case the earl becomes distracted and forgets the matter.” Or thinks better of the cost, she mentally added.

“Yes, miss.” George started for the door.

“Oh, and send Mrs. Callahan up, will you, George?” Beatrice frowned at the pale, bearded man on the bed. He was moving restlessly, as if he might be waking. “Mrs. Callahan always seems to know what to do.”

“Yes, miss.” George hurried from the room.

Beatrice looked at the remaining three footmen. “One of you needs to go tell Cook to warm some water, brandy, and—”

But at that moment, Hope’s black eyes flew open. The movement was so sudden, his glare so intense, that Beatrice squeaked like a ninny and jumped back. She straightened and, feeling a little embarrassed of her missishness, hurried forward as Lord Hope began to rise.

“No, no, my lord! You must remain in bed. You’re ill.” She touched his shoulder, lightly but firmly pushing him back.

And suddenly she was seized by a whirlwind. Lord Hope violently grabbed her, shoved her down on the bed, and fell atop her. He might be thin, but Beatrice felt as if a sack of bricks had landed on her chest. She gasped for air and looked up into black eyes glaring at her malevolently from only inches away. He was so close she could count each individual sooty eyelash.

So close she felt the painful press of that horrid knife in her side.

She tried to press her hand against his chest—she couldn’t breathe!—but he caught it, crushing it in his own as he growled, “J’insiste sur le fait—”

He was cut off as Henry, one of the footmen, bashed him over the head with a bed warmer. Lord Hope slumped, his heavy head thumping onto Beatrice’s breast. For a moment, she was in fear of suffocating altogether. Then Henry pulled him off her. She took a shuddering breath and stood on shaky legs, turning to look at her unconscious patient in the bed. His head lolled, his piercing black eyes veiled now. Would he have really hurt her? He’d looked so evil—demented, even. What in God’s name had happened to him? She rubbed her sore hand, swallowing hard as she regained her composure.