To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(72)

“He did not,” Hartley said even as Vale nodded happily. “I threw him down the stairs.”

Vale pursed his lips and looked skyward. “Not my recollection, but I can see how your memory of the event may’ve become hazy.”

“Now, look here,” Hartley began quietly, a thread of amusement in his voice.

“Gentlemen,” Reynaud said, “we need to come to the crux of the matter, for it is indeed only a week after my wedding, and my lovely wife will eventually expect me to wait attendance on her.”

“Very well.” Hartley nodded, serious now. “What have you discovered since I last saw you, Vale?”

“There are rumors both that the Spinner’s Falls traitor was a nobleman and that his mother was French,” Vale said promptly.

Hartley cocked his head. “And where did you get this information?”

“Munroe,” Reynaud said, Vale having informed him at their previous meeting. “The first bit of information he had from a colleague in France; the second—”

“He got it from Hasselthorpe,” Vale said, “although he didn’t deign to share the information with me until a month or so ago.”

Hartley looked at him curiously. “Why ever not?”

Vale looked embarrassed.

“I expect because of me,” Reynaud said. “My mother was French.”

“Of course.” Hartley nodded.

“No doubt he thought that if I was already dead, there was no point in casting doubt upon my name,” Reynaud said drily. “But since it happens that I’m not dead . . .”

“Now we need to think of who else among the survivors had a French mother,” Vale said grimly. “Because whoever it is must be the traitor.”

“But there isn’t anyone else,” Hartley said.

Reynaud grimaced. “If you’re suggesting it’s me—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hartley snapped. “Just listen. There’s you, me, Vale here, Munroe, Wimbley, Barrows, Nate Growe, and Douglas—I’ve talked to them all.”

“Yes.” Vale said. “And all are from London and probably had ancestors running about in blue at the time of the Roman invasion.”

“Thornton, Horn, Allen, and Craddock are dead,” Hartley continued, “but we investigated them thoroughly. None of these men had French mothers. There simply isn’t anyone else who survived who could be the man.”

“Then perhaps it was someone killed,” Reynaud said softly. “Though that doesn’t make sense.”

“Who else had a French mother?” Vale asked.

“Clemmons had a French sister-in-law,” Hartley said thoughtfully.

“Did he?” Vale stared. “I had no idea.”

Hartley nodded. “He mentioned it once. A younger brother’s wife, but she is dead.”

“It doesn’t fit in any case,” Reynaud said impatiently. “Not unless Munroe’s source was inaccurate.”

Hartley shook his head.

“We need to talk to Munroe, see if he has any recollection,” Reynaud said.

“I sent a messenger to him some weeks ago,” Vale said. “But the man hasn’t responded.”

Reynaud grunted. Munroe was well known as a recluse, but they needed his memories, too. Perhaps he’d have to take Beatrice on a trip to Scotland.

But first there were more pressing matters to attend to.

“I plan to plead my case before the special committee of parliament tomorrow,” he said to the other two. “So that I can regain my title as the Earl of Blanchard. And I’d like your help.”

Vale raised an eyebrow. “You have it, of course, but what do you have in mind?”

Reynaud glanced about them to make sure no one was paying special attention to their conversation, then said, “I have an idea . . .”

BEATRICE LAID OUT her bookbinding tools carefully. She was always excited to begin a new project. She liked the anticipation of taking either an old and falling-apart book and putting it in order or taking what was essentially a sheaf of papers and turning it into a lovely book. It was almost an art, really. And she liked her tools and materials to be just so. The different-sized bonefolders aligned perfectly, the needles in their little box, the spools of thread lined up along the upper edge of her worktable. Later she’d look through her supplies of pretty paper and calf’s hide, but for the moment she was interested only in cutting, folding, and sewing.

She hummed softly to herself as she worked, quite content, and thus it was with some surprise that she heard the clock in the hall and realized that it was almost time for dinner. Footsteps and male voices sounded in the hall, and she cocked her head, listening for her husband’s voice. She looked up when the door to her little sitting room opened.

“Ah, there you are,” Reynaud said as he walked in.

She smiled because it seemed she could not help but smile like a fool when she saw her husband. Every day she was married to him, she became more enthralled with him—and the knowledge made her uneasy. He’d still not said that he loved her, and he rarely showed her affection except in the privacy of their bedroom. Perhaps that was normal in a society marriage. Perhaps most gentlemen had trouble expressing affection.

God, she hoped so.