The footmen staggered into the hall with their burden. Hope was thinner than in his portrait, but he was still a very tall man—over six feet, Beatrice estimated. She shivered. Fortunately, he’d not regained consciousness after glaring at her so evilly. Otherwise she wasn’t sure they would’ve been able to move him at all.
“Viscount Hope is dead,” Uncle Reggie muttered as he trotted beside her. He didn’t sound as if he believed his protest himself. “Dead these seven years!”
“Please, Uncle, don’t let your temper fly,” Beatrice said anxiously. He hated being reminded of it, but Uncle Reggie had had an attack of apoplexy just last month—an attack that had absolutely terrified her. “Remember what the doctor said.”
“Oh, pshaw! I’m as fit as a fiddle, despite what that quack thinks,” Uncle Reggie said stoutly. “I know you have a soft heart, m’dear, but this can’t be Hope. Three men swore they saw him die, murdered by those savages in the American Colonies. One of them was Viscount Vale, his friend since childhood!”
“Well, they were obviously wrong,” Beatrice murmured. She frowned as the panting footmen mounted the wide dark-oak stairs ahead of them. The bedrooms were all on the town house’s third floor. “Mind his head!”
“Yes, miss,” George, the eldest footman, replied.
“If that is Hope, then he’s lost his mind,” Uncle Reggie huffed as they made the upper hall. “He was raving in French, of all things. About his father! And I know absolutely that the last earl died five years ago. Attended his funeral m’self. You’ll not convince me the old earl’s alive, too.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice replied. “But I don’t believe the viscount knows his father is dead.”
She felt a pang for the unconscious man. Where had Lord Hope been all these years? How had he gotten those strange tattoos? And why didn’t he know his father was dead? Dear God, maybe her uncle was right. Maybe the viscount’s mind was broken.
Uncle Reggie gave voice to her awful thoughts. “The man is insane; that’s clear. Raving. Attacking you. I say, shouldn’t you lie down, m’dear? I can send for some of those lemon sweets you like so much, damn the cost.”
“That’s very kind of you, Uncle, but he didn’t get close enough to lay a hand on me,” Beatrice murmured.
“Wasn’t for lack of trying!”
Uncle Reggie stared disapprovingly as the footmen bore the viscount into the scarlet bedroom. It was only the second-nicest guest bedroom, and for a moment Beatrice had a pang of doubt. If this was Viscount Hope, then surely he merited the first-nicest guest bedroom? Or was the point moot since if he was Lord Hope, then he really ought to be in the earl’s bedroom, which, of course, Uncle Reggie slept in? Beatrice shook her head. The whole thing was too complicated for words, and, in any case, the scarlet bedroom would have to do for now.
“The man ought to be in a madhouse,” Uncle Reggie was saying. “Might murder us all in our sleep when he wakes. If he wakes.”
“I doubt he’ll do any such thing,” Beatrice said firmly, ignoring both her uncle’s hopeful tone in his last words and her own uneasiness. “Surely it’s only the fever. He was burning up when I touched his face.”
“S’pose I’ll have to send for a physician.” Uncle Reggie scowled at Lord Hope. “And pay for it m’self.”
“It would be the Christian thing to do,” Beatrice murmured. She watched anxiously as the footmen lowered Hope to the bed. He hadn’t moved or made a sound since his collapse. Was he dying?
Uncle Reggie grunted. “And I’ll have to explain this to my guests somehow. Bound to be gossiping about it this very moment. We’ll be the talk of the town, take my word.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Beatrice said soothingly. “I can supervise here if you wish to attend to our guests.”
“Don’t take too long, and don’t get too close to the blighter. No telling what he might do if he wakes.” Uncle Reggie glared at the unconscious man before stumping out of the room.
“I won’t.” Beatrice turned to the waiting footmen. “George, please see that a physician is called in case the earl becomes distracted and forgets the matter.” Or thinks better of the cost, she mentally added.
“Yes, miss.” George started for the door.
“Oh, and send Mrs. Callahan up, will you, George?” Beatrice frowned at the pale, bearded man on the bed. He was moving restlessly, as if he might be waking. “Mrs. Callahan always seems to know what to do.”
“Yes, miss.” George hurried from the room.
Beatrice looked at the remaining three footmen. “One of you needs to go tell Cook to warm some water, brandy, and—”
But at that moment, Hope’s black eyes flew open. The movement was so sudden, his glare so intense, that Beatrice squeaked like a ninny and jumped back. She straightened and, feeling a little embarrassed of her missishness, hurried forward as Lord Hope began to rise.
“No, no, my lord! You must remain in bed. You’re ill.” She touched his shoulder, lightly but firmly pushing him back.
And suddenly she was seized by a whirlwind. Lord Hope violently grabbed her, shoved her down on the bed, and fell atop her. He might be thin, but Beatrice felt as if a sack of bricks had landed on her chest. She gasped for air and looked up into black eyes glaring at her malevolently from only inches away. He was so close she could count each individual sooty eyelash.
So close she felt the painful press of that horrid knife in her side.
She tried to press her hand against his chest—she couldn’t breathe!—but he caught it, crushing it in his own as he growled, “J’insiste sur le fait—”
He was cut off as Henry, one of the footmen, bashed him over the head with a bed warmer. Lord Hope slumped, his heavy head thumping onto Beatrice’s breast. For a moment, she was in fear of suffocating altogether. Then Henry pulled him off her. She took a shuddering breath and stood on shaky legs, turning to look at her unconscious patient in the bed. His head lolled, his piercing black eyes veiled now. Would he have really hurt her? He’d looked so evil—demented, even. What in God’s name had happened to him? She rubbed her sore hand, swallowing hard as she regained her composure.
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, n
o, 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.
He bowed and said, “Good sir, I have thirty gold coins in this purse that I will give to you in exchange for your sword.”
“I do not wish to offend, sir, but I will not part with my sword,” Longsword replied.
And the Goblin King narrowed his eyes….
—from Longsword
Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. He was too late.
Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, woke with his heart pounding hard and fast, but he made no movement, no outward sign that he was aware. He lay still, continuing to breathe quietly as he assessed his surroundings. His arms were by his side, so they’d left off the rope that usually staked his hands to the ground. A mistake on their part. He’d wait silently until they were asleep, and then he’d gather his knife, the tattered blanket, and the dried meat he’d hoarded and buried beneath the side of the wigwam. This time he’d be far away when they woke. This time…
But something wasn’t right.
He inhaled carefully and smelled… bread? He opened scratchy eyes and his world swung dizzily, caught between the past and the present. For a moment, he thought he’d cast up his accounts and then everything steadied.
He recognized the room.
Reynaud blinked in bemusement. The scarlet room. In his father’s house. There was the tall casement window, draped in faded scarlet velvet and letting in bright sunshine. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and a single small painting of overblown pink roses ornamented the wall near the window. Below stood the overstuffed Tudor armchair, which his mother had hated but which his father had forbidden her to throw out, because old Henry VIII was said to have sat in it. Mater had banished it here the year before she died, and Father had never had the heart to move it after. Reynaud’s blue coat lay across the chair, carefully folded. And beside the bed, on a small table, were two buns and a glass of water.
He stared hard at the food for a moment, waiting for it to disappear. He’d dreamed too many dreams of bread and wine and meat, dreams that vanished on waking, for him to take this abundance at face value right away. When the buns were still there a moment later, he lunged for them, his skeletal fingers scrabbling at the plate. He grasped one of the buns and tore it in pieces, shoving them into his mouth. Chewing drily, he looked around.
He lay in an antique bed made for some short ancestor. His feet hung off the end, tangled in the scarlet bedclothes, but it was a bed. He touched the embroidered coverlet over his chest, half expecting it to dissolve into delirium. He hadn’t slept on a bed in over seven years, and the sensation was foreign. He was used to furs and a dirt-packed floor. Dried grass if he was lucky. The silk coverlet was smooth beneath his fingers, the fine cloth catching on rough skin and calluses. He must believe the evidence.
He was home.
Triumph surged through him. Months of dogged traveling, most of it afoot, without money, friends, or influence. These last weeks of wretched fever and purging, the fear that he’d be defeated so close to the goal. All over. Finally. He’d made it home.
Reynaud stretched for the water glass, wincing. Every muscle in his body ached. His hand trembled so badly that some of the water spilled on his shirt, but he still swallowed enough to wash down the bun. He twitched at the coverlet, pulling it back like an old man, and found that he was dressed in his leggings and shirt. Someone had taken off his moccasins, though. He looked about for them, panicked—they were his only shoes—and saw them under the Tudor chair where his coat lay.
Carefully he inched his way to the edge of the bed and stood, panting. Dammit! Where was his knife? He was too weak to defend himself without it. He found and used the chamber pot, then made his way to the Tudor chair. Under the blue coat was his knife. He held it in his right hand, and the familiar worn horn handle made him instantly calmer. Barefoot, he padded back to the bedside table and pocketed the remaining bun; then he went to the door, moving soundlessly, though the extra effort caused sweat to break out along his hairline. Seven years of captivity had taught him to take nothing for granted.
So he was not surprised to find a liveried footman stationed in the hall outside his room. He was, however, somewhat startled when the man moved to bar his exit.
Reynaud cocked an eyebrow and gave the footman a look that for the last seven years had made other men reach for a weapon. This boy had never had to fight for food or life, though. He did not recognize danger even when it stared him in the face.
“Yer not supposed to leave, sir,” the footman said.
&n
bsp; “Sors de mon chemin,” Reynaud snapped.
The footman goggled at him, and it took a moment for Reynaud to realize he’d spoken in French, the language he’d used for most of the last seven years. “Ridiculous,” he rasped, the English words strange on his tongue. “I’m Lord Hope. Let me pass.”
“Miss Corning says as how yer to stay right there,” the footman replied, eyeing the knife. The boy swallowed. “She gave me strict orders.”
Reynaud clenched his knife and started for the footman, intending to move him bodily. “Who the hell is Miss Corning?”
“Me,” came a feminine voice from beyond the footman. Reynaud paused. The voice was low and sweet and terribly cultured. He hadn’t heard English spoken in such tones in a very, very long time. And the voice… He might move mountains and kill men for such a voice. Might forget what he’d fought so long for. It was more than attractive, that voice.
It was life itself.
A slip of a girl peered around the footman. “Or is it ‘I’? I can never remember, can you?”
Reynaud scowled. She wasn’t what he’d expected somehow. She was of average height, with gold hair and fair skin and a pleasant expression. Her eyes were wide and gray. She was very English-looking, which made her exotic. No, that wasn’t right. He swayed where he stood, trying to clear his mind. It was just that he still wasn’t used to the sight of a blond woman. An English woman.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Her pale brown eyebrows flew up. “I thought I’d explained. Pardon me. I’m Beatrice Corning. How do you do?”
And she curtsied as if they stood in the most formal ballroom.
Damned if he’d bow; he was unsteady on his feet as it was. He started forward again, intending to bypass the chit. “I’m Hope. Where’s my—”