To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(5)

George returned and looked shocked when Henry explained what had happened.

“Even so, you shouldn’t have hit him so hard,” Beatrice scolded Henry.

“’E was hurting you, miss.” Henry sounded mulish.

She brushed a trembling hand over her hair, checking that her coiffure was still in place. “Yes, well, it didn’t actually come to that, although I admit for a moment I was fearful. Thank you, Henry. I’m sorry; I’m still a bit discomposed.” She bit her lip, eyeing Lord Hope again. “George, I think it wise to place a guard at the viscount’s door. Day and night, mind you.”

“Yes, miss,” George replied sturdily.

“It’s for his own sake as well as ours,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m sure he’ll be fine once he recovers from this illness.”

The footmen exchanged uncertain glances.

Beatrice put a bit more steel in her voice to cover her own worry. “I would be obliged if Lord Blanchard didn’t hear of this incident.”

“Yes, ma’am,” George answered for all the footmen, although he still looked dubious.

Mrs. Callahan arrived at that moment, bustling into the room. “What’s all the bother, then, miss? Hurley’s said there’s a gentleman who’s collapsed.”

“Mr. Hurley is correct.” Beatrice gestured to the man on the bed. She turned to the housekeeper eagerly as a thought occurred to her. “Do you recognize him?”

“Him?” Mrs. Callahan wrinkled her nose. “Can’t say as I do, miss. Very hairy gentleman, isn’t he?”

“Says ’e’s Viscount Hope,” Henry stated with satisfaction.

“Who?” Mrs. Callahan stared.

“Bloke in the painting,” Henry clarified. “Pardon me, miss.”

“Not at all, Henry,” Beatrice replied. “Did you know Lord Hope before the old earl’s death?”

“I’m sorry, no, miss,” Mrs. Callahan said. “Came on fresh when your uncle was made the earl, if you remember.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Beatrice said in disappointment.

“Practically the whole staff was,” Mrs. Callahan continued, “and them that had stayed… Well, they’re gone now. It’s been five years, after all, since the old earl passed.”

“Yes, I know, but I had hoped.” How could they say for certain who the man was until someone who’d actually known Hope identified him? Beatrice shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter at the moment anyway. No matter who he is, it’s our duty to care for this man.”

Beatrice ordered her troops and gave out assignments. By the time she’d consulted with the physician—Uncle Reggie hadn’t forgotten to send for him after all—supervised Cook making gruel, and planned for a nursing regimen, the political tea was long over with. Beatrice left Lord Hope—if that was indeed who he was—under the eagle eye of Henry and drifted down the stairs to the blue sitting room.

It was empty now. Only the damp stain on the carpet gave any evidence of the dramatic events of several hours before. Beatrice stared at the stain for a moment before turning and inevitably facing the portrait of Viscount Hope.

He looked so young, so carefree! She stepped closer, pulled as always by some attracting force she couldn’t resist. She’d been nineteen when she’d first seen the portrait. The night she’d arrived at Blanchard House with her uncle, the new Earl of Blanchard, it had been very late. She’d been shown a room, but the excitement of a new house, the long carriage ride, and London itself had caused sleep to escape her. She’d lain wide awake for half an hour or more before pulling on a wrapper and padding down the stairs.

She remembered peeking into the library, examining the study, creeping through the halls, and somehow, inevitably—fatefully, it seemed—she’d ended up here. Here where she stood right now, only a pace before the portrait of Viscount Hope. Then, as now, it was his laughing eyes that had drawn her gaze first. Slightly crinkled, full of mischief and wicked humor. His mouth next, wide, with that slow, sensual curve on the upper lip. His hair was inky black, drawn straight back from a wide brow. He lounged in a relaxed pose against a tree, a fowling gun held casually through the crook of one arm, two spaniels panting adoringly up at that face.

Who could blame them? She’d probably worn the same expression when she’d first seen him. Maybe she still did. She’d spent innumerable nights gazing at him just like this, dreaming of a man who would see inside her and love her only for herself. On the night of her twentieth birthday, she’d crept down here, feeling excited and on the verge of something wonderful. The first time she’d ever been kissed, she’d come here to contemplate her feelings. Funny how now she couldn’t quite remember the face of the boy whose lips had so inexpertly met her own. And when Jeremy had returned, broken from the war, she’d come here.

Beatrice took one last look at those wicked ebony eyes and turned aside. For five long years, she’d mooned over a painted man, a thing of dreams and fantasy. And now the flesh-and-blood man lay only two floors above her.

The question was, beneath the hair and beard, under the dirt and madness, was he the same man who’d sat for this portrait so long ago?

Chapter Two

Now, the Goblin King had long envied Longsword his magical sword, for goblins are never content with what they already have. As dusk began to fall, the Goblin King appeared before Longsword, wrapped in a rich velvet cloak.