To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(49)

“This is important.”

“So is marital harmony.” Vale went to a tray with a decanter and glasses. He held up the bottle. “Brandy?”

“Beatrice was stabbed this morning.”

Vale paused, decanter still in his hand. “Beatrice?”

Reynaud waved an impatient hand. “Miss Corning. She got in the way of an assassination attempt on me.”

“Good God,” Vale said softly. “Is she all right?”

“She fainted and bled quite profusely,” Reynaud muttered, the image of Beatrice’s soft skin violated still fresh in his mind. “But she woke just an hour ago and seemed in her right mind.”

“Thank God.” Vale splashed some brandy into a glass and took a gulp. “And how closely related to you is Cousin Beatrice?”

Reynaud gave him a look. “Not that close.”

“Glad to hear it.” Vale dropped into a cushioned chair. “I hope she recovers fully so that you can then propose to her. Because I tell you now, matrimony truly is a blessed state, enjoyed by all men of good sense and halfway adequate bedroom skills.”

“Thank you for that edifying thought,” Reynaud growled.

Vale waved his glass. “Think nothing of it. I say, you haven’t forgotten how to treat a lady in the bedroom, have you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“You’ve been out of refined society for years and years now. I could give you some pointers, should you need them.”

Reynaud’s eyes narrowed. “This from the man I had to save from an irate whore when we were seventeen?”

“Good God, I’d forgotten that incident.”

“I haven’t,” Reynaud muttered. “She had a big bruiser for a pimp.”

“Yes, well, her argument was with the fact that I refused to pay triple her price when her pimp showed up, not with my bed skills,” Vale pointed out. “Even at seventeen, I could’ve shown you a trick or two—”

“Jasper,” Reynaud growled in warning.

Vale hid a grin in his glass and then sobered as he lowered it. “Who were the assassins?”

Reynaud threw himself into a chair. “Three ruffians, not very skilled at it, I think. They were led by a man with a pronounced walleye.”

“Indeed?” Vale tilted back his head to stare at the ceiling. “Did he have any other interesting characteristics that might make him recognizable?”

“Tall, quick, knew how to use a knife.” Reynaud shrugged. “Not much else, I’m afraid.”

“The color of his hair?”

“Brown.”

“Ah.” Vale considered for a moment. “I’ll send another letter to Munroe. We need him here.”

Reynaud frowned. “You think the attack on me is somehow related to what happened seven years ago?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Look here.” Vale sat forward in his chair, no longer the lazy aristocrat but a man of intense intelligence. “I’d thought we’d hit a dead end in finding the Spinner’s Falls traitor. And then you arrive home, and in the space of little more than a week, two attempts have been made against your life. This is extraordinary!”

“Glad to bring you some joy,” Reynaud muttered.

Vale ignored the sarcasm. “I’m more convinced than ever that you have important information that will either expose the traitor or make him vulnerable in some way.”

“Then you’ve entirely cast off the idea that St. Aubyn was behind the attacks?” Reynaud had already come to this conclusion, but he wanted to hear Vale’s thoughts.

The other man shook his head. “Blanchard is a pompous blowhard, but he has enough brains not to make an attempt against your life. Besides, I know you dislike the man, but he’s never struck me as so thoroughly lacking in morals as to hire an assassin.”

Reynaud scowled. “That’s—”

“Besides, why would Blanchard risk killing you when you gave the gossips such lovely fodder the other night?”

Reynaud swung to glare at his friend.

“I sympathize.” Vale shrugged. “But you must admit your antics on the dance floor did nothing to help your cause.”

“We’re talking about Blanchard—”

Vale waved a hand, interrupting him. “Blanchard’s not the point. We’re getting closer to the Spinner’s Falls traitor. How I’m not sure, but we must be, judging by these attacks on you. If we can get Munroe down here and put our heads together, maybe we can figure this thing out, once and for all.”

“Very well,” Reynaud said slowly. “But perhaps we should send a messenger. A rider would get to Scotland before the mail. Or would you rather go yourself?”

“We’ll send a messenger with a letter.” Vale jumped up and went to rummage in a desk as if intending to write the letter that very moment. “As it happens, I don’t want to leave London at the moment.”

Reynaud looked at him inquiringly and was astonished to see a flush climbing his old friend’s cheeks.

“My wife is, ah, expecting the sixth Viscount Vale,” the other man muttered. “Or perhaps merely an honorable miss—not that I care a whit in either case. I just want a babe with all its toes and not looking too much like its pater.”