“D’you need some help?” Hood asked.
Reynaud shook his head, walking swiftly along the dock. His father’s town house was in the West End of London naturally, and he’d have to get there by foot. He had nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the knife hanging at his side.
Time wavered and slipped away as he staggered.
When next Reynaud was aware, he realized someone was following him. The area he was in was poor. A beggar lolled in a doorway, watching him as he stumbled past. Was the beggar a lookout? Footsteps rushed toward him and Reynaud whirled, the knife in his hand. He braced his feet wide apart, throwing back his head and snarling. Two youths had been coming toward him, but they faltered, their eyes widening at the look on his face.
“Find some other prey,” Reynaud growled, and they scattered.
The sun was overhead now. Reynaud continued, his feet dragging, his knife in his hand. People he met made a wide berth around him. He walked and walked for hours and then suddenly—miraculously—his father’s house was before him.
He squinted, staring, wondering if he was dreaming. But the door with its brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head was still there. He hung his knife by his side and mounted the steps of his home. He was breathing heavily, sweat had cooled down his back, and the very door wavered before his eyes.
Reynaud grit his teeth and knocked. He would not collapse now, so close to his goal. Only minutes more and he would see his father. He would be home.
The door opened to reveal the face of a strange butler. The man’s lip curled as he looked Reynaud up and down. He began to shut the door.
Reynaud slammed his palm flat against the door, preventing it from shutting. “I am Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope. Show me to my father.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my aunt, Kay Kerr, for her help with French phrases—any mistakes are my own; to my agent, Susannah Taylor, for her good humor; to my editor, Amy Pierpont, for bringing this book together; to the super GCP sales team, including Bob Levine; to the wonderful GCP publicity department, including Melissa Bullock, Anna Balasi, and Tanisha Christie; to the amazing GCP art department, particularly Diane Luger; and to my fantastic copy editor, Carrie Andrews, for spotting my more embarrassing grammatical whoppers.
Thank you all!
Prologue
Once upon a time, in a country without a name, a soldier was traveling home from war. He’d marched many miles with three friends, but at a crossroads, each had chosen a different way and continued on while our soldier had stopped to pick a pebble from his shoe. Now he sat alone.
The soldier put his shoe back on, but he was not yet interested in continuing his journey. He’d been many years away at war, and he knew no one waited for him at home. Those who might’ve welcomed his return had long ago died. And if they hadn’t, he wasn’t sure they would recognize the man he’d become over the years. When a man goes away to war, he never returns the same. Fear and want, courage and loss, killing and tedium all work on him subtly, minute by minute, day by day, year by year, until in the end he is entirely changed, a distortion for good or bad of the man he once was.
So our soldier sat on a rock and contemplated these things as the breeze blew coolly against his cheeks. By his side lay a great sword, and it was in honor of this sword that he was named.
For he was called Longsword….
—from Longsword
Chapter One
Longsword’s sword was quite extraordinary, for not only was it heavy, sharp, and deadly, but also it could be wielded only by Longsword himself….
—from Longsword
LONDON, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 1765
Few events are as boring as a political tea. The hostess of such a social affair is often wildly desirous for something—anything—to occur at her party so as to make it more exciting.
Although, perhaps a dead man staggering into the tea was a little too exciting, Beatrice Corning reflected later.
Up until the dead-man-staggering-in bit, things had gone as usual with the tea party. Which was to say it was crashingly dull. Beatrice had chosen the blue salon, which was, unsurprisingly, blue. A quiet, restful, dull blue. White pilasters lined the walls, rising to the ceiling with discreet little curlicues at their tops. Tables and chairs were scattered here and there, and an oval table stood at the center of the room with a vase of late Michaelmas daisies. The refreshments included thinly sliced bread with butter and small, pale pink cakes. Beatrice had argued for the inclusion of raspberry tarts, thinking that they at least might be colorful, but Uncle Reggie—the Earl of Blanchard to everyone else—had balked at the idea.
Beatrice sighed. Uncle Reggie was an old darling, but he did like to pinch pennies. Which was also why the wine had been watered down to an anemic rose color, and the tea was so weak one could make out the tiny blue pagoda at the bottom of each teacup. She glanced across the room to where her uncle stood, his plump bandy legs braced and hands on hips, arguing heatedly with Lord Hasselthorpe. At least he wasn’t sampling the cakes, and she’d watched carefully to make sure his wineglass was filled only once. The force of Uncle Reggie’s ire had made his wig slip askew. Beatrice felt a fond smile tug at her lips. Oh, dear. She gestured to one of the footmen, gave him her plate, and began slowly winding her way across the room to put her uncle to rights.
Only, a quarter of the way to her goal she was stopped by a light touch at her elbow and a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t look now, but His Grace is performing his famous imitation of an angry codfish.”
Beatrice turned and looked into twinkling sherry-brown eyes. Lottie Graham was only a smidgen over five feet, plump, and dark-haired, and the innocence of her round, freckled face was entirely belied by the sharpness of her wit.
“He isn’t,” Beatrice murmured, and then winced as she casually glanced over. Lottie was quite correct, as usual—the Duke of Lister did indeed look like an enraged fish. “Besides, what does a codfish have to get angry about anyway?”
“Exactly,” Lottie replied, as if having made her point. “I don’t like that man—I never have—and that’s entirely aside from his politics.”
“Shh,” Beatrice hissed. They stood by themselves, but there were several groups of gentlemen nearby who could overhear if they’d wished. Since every man in the room was a staunch Tory, it behooved the ladies to hide their Whig leanings.
“Oh, pish, Beatrice, dear,” Lottie said. “Even if one of these fine learned gentlemen heard what I’m saying, none of them have the imagination to realize we might have a thought or two in our pretty heads—especially if that thought doesn’t agree with theirs.”
“Not even Mr. Graham?”
Both ladies turned to look at a handsome young man in a snowy white wig in the corner of the room. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright, and he stood straight and strong as he regaled the men about him with a story.
“Especially not Nate,” Lottie said, frowning at her husband.
Beatrice tilted her head toward her friend. “But I thought you were making headway in bringing him to our side?”
“I was mistaken,” Lottie said lightly. “Where the other Tories go, there goest Nate as well, whether he agrees with their views or no. He’s as steadfast as a titmouse in a high wind. No, I’m very much afraid he’ll be voting against Mr. Wheaton’s bill to provide for retired soldiers of His Majesty’s army.”
Beatrice bit her lip. Lottie’s tone was nearly flippant, but she knew the other woman was disappointed. “I’m sorry.”
Lottie shrugged one shoulder. “It’s strange, but I find myself more disillusioned by a husband who has such easily persuaded views than I would be by one whose views were entirely opposite but passionately held. Isn’t that quixotic of me?”
“No, it only shows your own strong feeling.” Beatrice linked her arm with Lottie’s. “Besides, I wouldn’t give up on Mr. Graham yet. He does love you, you know.”
“Oh, I do know.” Lottie
examined a tray of pink cakes on the nearby table. “That’s what makes the whole thing so very tragic.” She popped a cake into her mouth. “Mmm. These are much better than they look.”
“Lottie!” Beatrice protested, half laughing.
“Well, it’s true. They’re such proper little Tory cakes that I’d’ve thought they’d taste like dust, but they have a lovely hint of rose.” She took another cake and ate it. “You realize that Lord Blanchard’s wig is crooked, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Beatrice sighed. “I was on my way to setting it right when you waylaid me.”
“Mmm. You’ll have to brave Old Fishy, then.”
Beatrice saw that the Duke of Lister had joined her uncle and Lord Hasselthorpe. “Lovely. But I still need to save poor Uncle Reggie’s wig.”
“You courageous soul, you,” Lottie said. “I’ll stay here and guard the cakes.”
“Coward,” Beatrice murmured.
She had a smile on her lips as she started again for her uncle’s circle. Lottie was right, of course. The gentlemen who gathered in her uncle’s salon were the leading lights of the Tory Party. Most sat in the House of Lords, but there were commoners here as well, such as Nathan Graham. They would all be outraged if they found out that she held any political thoughts at all, let alone ones that ran counter to her uncle’s. Generally she kept these thoughts to herself, but the matter of a fair pension for veteran soldiers was too important an issue to neglect. Beatrice had seen firsthand what a war wound could do to a man—and how it might affect him for years after he left His Majesty’s army. No, it was simply—
The door to the blue salon was flung savagely open, cracking against the wall. Every head in the room swiveled to look at the man who stood there. He was tall, with impossibly wide shoulders that filled the doorway. He wore some type of dull leather leggings and shirt under a bright blue coat. Long black hair straggled wildly down his back, and an overgrown beard nearly covered his gaunt cheeks. An iron cross dangled from one ear, and an enormous unsheathed knife hung from a string at his waist.
He had the eyes of a man long dead.
“Who the hell’re—” Uncle Reggie began.
But the man spoke over him, his voice deep and rusty. “Où est mon père?”
He was staring right at Beatrice, as if no one else in the room existed. She was frozen, mesmerized and confused, one hand on the oval table. It couldn’t be…
He started for her, his stride firm, arrogant, and impatient. “J’insiste sur le fait de voir mon père!”
“I… I don’t know where your father is,” Beatrice stuttered. His long stride was eating up the space between them. He was almost to her. No one was doing anything, and she’d forgotten all her schoolroom French. “Please, I don’t know—”
But he was already on her, his big, rough hands reaching for her. Beatrice flinched; she couldn’t help it. It was as if the devil himself had come for her, here in her own home, at this boring tea of all places.
And then he staggered. One brown hand grasped the table as if to steady himself, but the little table wasn’t up for the task. He took it with him as he collapsed to his knees. The vase of flowers crashed to the floor beside him in a mess of petals, water, and glass shards. His angry gaze was still locked with hers, even as he sank to the carpet. Then his black eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell over.
Someone screamed.
“Good God! Beatrice, are you all right, my dear? Where in blazes is my butler?”
Beatrice heard Uncle Reggie behind her, but she was already on her knees beside the fallen man, unmindful of the spilled water from the vase. Hesitantly, she touched his lips and felt the brush of his breath. Still alive, then. Thank God! She took his heavy head between her palms and placed it on her lap so that she might look at his face more closely.
She caught her breath.
The man had been tattooed. Three stylized birds of prey flew about his right eye, savage and wild. His commanding black eyes were closed, but his brows were heavy and slightly knit as if he disapproved of her even when unconscious. His beard was untrimmed and at least two inches long, but she made out the mouth beneath, incongruously elegant. The lips were firm, the upper one a wide, sensuous bow.
“My dear, please move away from that… that thing,” Uncle Reggie said. He had his hand on her arm, urging her to get up. “The footmen can’t remove him from the house until you move.”
“They can’t take him,” Beatrice said, still staring at the impossible face.
“My dear girl . . .”
She looked up. Uncle Reggie was such a darling, even when red-faced with impatience. This might very well kill him. And her—what did this mean for her? “It’s Viscount Hope.”
Uncle Reggie blinked. “What?”
“Viscount Hope.”
And they both turned to look at the portrait near the door. It was of a young, handsome man, the former heir to the earldom. The man whose death had made it possible for Uncle Reggie to become the Earl of Blanchard.
Black, heavy-lidded eyes stared from the portrait.
She looked back down at the living man. His eyes were closed, but she remembered them well. Black, angry, and glittering, they were identical to the eyes in the portrait.
Beatrice’s heart froze in wonder.
Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, the true Earl of Blanchard, was alive.
RICHARD MADDOCK, LORD Hasselthorpe, watched as the Earl of Blanchard’s footmen lifted the unconscious lunatic from where he’d collapsed on the floor of the sitting room. How the man had gotten past the butler and footmen in the hall was anyone’s guess. The earl should take better care of his guests—the room was filled with the Tory elite, for God’s sake.
“Damned idiot,” the Duke of Lister growled beside him, putting voice to his own thoughts. “Blanchard should’ve hired extra guards if the house wasn’t safe.”
Hasselthorpe grunted, sipping his abominably watered-down wine. The footmen were almost to the door now, obviously laboring under the weight of the savage madman. The earl and his niece were trailing the footmen, speaking in low tones. Blanchard darted a glance at him, and Hasselthorpe raised a disapproving eyebrow. The earl looked hastily away. Blanchard might be higher in rank, but Hasselthorpe’s political influence was greater—a fact that Hasselthorpe usually took care to use lightly. Blanchard was, along with the Duke of Lister, his greatest ally in parliament. Hasselthorpe had his eye on the prime minister’s seat, and with the backing of Lister and Blanchard, he hoped to make it within the next year.
If all went according to his plans.
The little procession exited the room, and Hasselthorpe returned his gaze to the guests, frowning slightly. The people nearest to where the man had fallen were in small knots, talking in low, excited murmurs. Something was afoot. One could watch the ripple of some news spreading outward through the crowd. As it reached each new knot of gentlemen, eyebrows shot up and bewigged heads leaned close together.
Young Nathan Graham was in a gossiping group nearby. Graham was newly elected to the House of Commons, an ambitious man with the wealth to back his aspiration and the makings of a great orator. He was a young man to watch and perhaps groom for one’s own use.
Graham broke away from the circle and strode to where Hasselthorpe and Lister stood in a corner of the room. “They say it’s Viscount Hope.”
Hasselthorpe blinked, confused. “Who?”
“That man!” Graham gestured to the spot where a maid was cleaning up the broken vase.
Hasselthorpe’s mind momentarily froze in shock.
“Impossible,” Lister growled. “Hope has been dead for seven years.”
“Why would they think it’s Hope?” Hasselthorpe asked quietly.
Graham shrugged. “There was a resemblance, sir. I was close enough to study the man’s face when he burst into the room. The eyes are… well, the only word is extraordinary.”
“Eyes, extraordinary or not, are hardly proof enough to resurrect a
dead man,” Lister stated.
Lister had cause to speak with flat authority. He was a big man, tall with a sloping belly, and he had an undeniable presence. Lister was also one of the most powerful men in England. It was natural, then, that when he spoke, men took care to listen.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Graham gave a small bow to the duke. “But he was asking after his father.”
Graham had no need to add, And we stand in the Earl of Blanchard’s London residence.
“Ridiculous.” Lister hesitated, then said, lower, “If it is Hope, Blanchard’s just lost his title.”
He looked significantly at Hasselthorpe. If Blanchard lost the title, he would no longer sit in the House of Lords. They’d lose a crucial ally.
Hasselthorpe frowned, turning to the life-sized portrait hanging by the door. Hope had been a young man, perhaps only in his twentieth year, when he’d sat for it. The painting depicted a laughing youth, pink and white cheeks unblemished, black eyes merry and clear. If the madman had been Hope, he’d suffered a sea change of monumental proportions.
Hasselthorpe turned back to the other men and smiled grimly. “A lunatic cannot unseat Blanchard. And in any case, no one has proved he’s Hope. There is no cause for alarm.”
Hasselthorpe sipped his wine, outwardly cool and composed, while inside he acknowledged the unfinished end to his sentence.
There was no cause for alarm… yet.
IT HAD TAKEN four footmen to lift Viscount Hope, and even now they staggered under his weight. Beatrice watched the men carefully as she and her uncle trailed behind them, worried they might let him fall. She’d persuaded Uncle Reggie to take the unconscious man to an unused bedroom, although her uncle had been far from happy with the matter. Uncle Reggie had initially been of a mind to toss him into the street. She took a more cautious view, not only from Christian charity, but also from the niggling worry that if this was Lord Hope, they’d hardly help their case by throwing him out.