To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(79)

Lister felt sweat slide greasily down his back.

Of course, this wasn’t quite all of his mistresses. If it were, his newest light o’ love would have been here, and she—

A dangerously high phaeton rounded the corner, scandalously driven by a sophisticated woman, a little boy in flamboyant purple and gold livery behind her. Everyone turned to look.

Lister watched the vision approach with the fatality of a man who stands before a firing squad. Francesca drew the horses to a halt with a flourish. Her pretty little rosebud mouth fell open.

“What eez theez?” she cried in an excruciating French accent. “Your Grace, ’r you having zee joke wit’ your poor petite Francesca?”

There was a long and awful pause.

And then Evelyn pivoted and stared dangerously at him. “Why does she have a new phaeton?”

It was at this moment, as the shrill voices of four slighted women rose about him, that the Duke of Lister saw a man across the street tip his hat. The man wore an eye patch.

Lister blinked. Surely it couldn’t be…

But that thought was driven from his mind as the women converged on him. The House of Lords would have to wait.

REYNAUD GLANCED ABOUT the room, trying to judge his standing, but it was near impossible. The lords still talked avidly among themselves, with one or two throwing him curious glances. No one smiled at him.

Reynaud balled his fists on his knees.

The usurper took his spot before the table and cleared his throat. He began speaking, but his voice was so low that several lords shouted for him to speak up. Reginald paused, visibly gulping, and began again in a louder but slightly unsteady voice.

And suddenly Reynaud felt sorry for the man. Reginald was in his sixth decade, a short, stout, red-faced man who wasn’t a good speaker. Reynaud remembered very little of the man. Had he come to Christmas dinner with his wife once when Reynaud was down from Cambridge? He couldn’t remember.

The fact was that Reginald simply hadn’t been important. He’d been a distant relation unlikely to inherit the title, since Reynaud was young and healthy. What a surprise it must’ve been when he received news that he’d become the Earl of Blanchard. Had he celebrated Reynaud’s supposed death? Reynaud wasn’t even sure he could hold that against the man. Becoming the Earl of Blanchard had probably been the high point in his life.

Reginald had stuttered to a halt. He’d really not had that much to say to begin with, his basic plea being that he held the title and was therefore the earl. The chairman nodded, and Beatrice’s uncle resumed his seat with evident relief.

Lord Travers stood and called for a vote.

Reynaud felt the blood rush in his ears, so loud that at first he didn’t hear the verdict. Then he did and a wide grin split his face.

“. . . this committee therefore will recommend to Our Sovereign King, His Majesty George the Third, that Reynaud Michael Paul St. Aubyn be given his rightful title as the Earl of Blanchard.”

The chairman continued with the litany of Reynaud’s other titles, but he no longer listened. Triumph was flooding his chest. The lord sitting beside him clapped him on the back, and the man behind him leaned over the bench saying, “Well done, Blanchard.”

Dear God, it felt good to be addressed by his title finally. The chairman wound down and Reynaud stood. The men about him crowded close, offering congratulations, and Reynaud couldn’t help but feel a bit of cynicism at his sudden popularity. He’d gone from being a madman to one of the most influential men in the kingdom. Beatrice had been right. He had great power now—power he could use to effect good if he wished.

Over the heads of the crowd, he saw Reginald standing by the door. He was alone now, his power gone. Reginald caught his eye and nodded. It was a graceful gesture, an acknowledgment of defeat, and Reynaud wanted to go to him, but he was prevented by the press of bodies. In another moment, Reginald had left the room.

The committee began filing out, and Lord Travers came to offer Reynaud his congratulations. “That’s done, then, what? I’ll have the secretary draw up the official committee recommendation to be sent to His Majesty.”

“Ah. As to that,” Reynaud began, but there was a commotion in the doorway. A tall, ruddy-faced young man with strikingly prominent blue eyes came into the room.

“Your Majesty!” Lord Travers exclaimed. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

“Come to sign a paper, what?” King George replied. “What a dingy little room this is.” He turned and examined Reynaud. “You’re Blanchard?”

“I am.” Reynaud bowed low. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“Captured by savages, or so we’re told by Sir Alistair Munroe,” the king said. “Bound to be a good tale in that, what? We would be most pleased if you’d come to tea and tell us the story. Bring your lady wife as well.”

Reynaud fought back a grin and bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Now, where’s that recommendation?” the king asked, looking around as if it might appear out of thin air.

“You’ve come to sign the recommendation?” Lord Travers asked in mild astonishment. He snapped his fingers urgently at the servant by the door. “Walters, fetch a pen and paper, if you will. We must prepare the committee’s recommendation for His Majesty’s signature.”