“Ah, but this is a thing not to be bought. For this you will need all your charm.” She turned at the door and looked him in the eye, her gaze level and solemn. “A wife is what you need. An English wife of good family. For what man can be mad with a sweet, not-too-pretty wife by his side? Obtain a chit such as this and you will be halfway to regaining your title.”
THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and sunny. After making her toilet, Beatrice decided to consult with Cook. She was descending the stairs to the front hall when she heard male voices.
Beatrice halted at the landing and looked over the rail to the hall below. There stood the butler, two footmen, and a gentleman she did not know but who looked—at least from the back—somehow familiar. She continued down the stairs slowly, eyeing the man. He wore a freshly powdered white wig and a black coat of a very fine cut, embroidered about the cuffs in silver and green thread. The butler was saying something to him, but the stranger must’ve sensed her stare. He turned.
And she froze on the stairs.
It was Lord Hope—but a Lord Hope transformed. Gone was the thick beard. His jaw was freshly shaven, revealing his square chin and the hard planes of his cheeks. He must’ve cut his hair very close to his head, for the wig he wore was beautifully curled and powdered and fit him excellently. Beneath the black velvet of his coat, his waistcoat was silver and green brocade, and lace fell at his wrists. He was the very epitome of a fine London gentleman, and Beatrice might have felt a pang of regret for the man she’d nursed for the last week had it not been for two things. First, from his left ear, the black iron cross still dangled, primitive and uncivilized next to the perfection of his white wig. And second, the three tattooed birds still circled his right eye, as permanent as the ebony color of the eye itself.
He wore the trappings of civilization, but no one but a fool would mistake them for anything but a thin veneer covering the savage beneath.
He bowed to her, one leg extended, his arm sweeping down sardonically. “Miss Corning.”
“Lord Hope.” She’d regained some of her self-possession and now finished her descent of the stairs. “You’ve undergone a most remarkable change.”
He shrugged. “To fight demons, one must assume the guise of a demon.”
She looked at him. “I’m not sure I understand what that means.”
“No matter.” He glanced away, and with any other man, she might’ve thought him uncertain. “I go to visit my aunt this morn. Would you care to accompany me?”
It was a civilized invitation, and she rather wanted to know what he was about with this sudden transformation, but she bit her lip. Was it safe?
Her hesitation had lasted a fraction of a second too long. His pleasant expression turned to a scowl. “Are you afraid of me, Miss Corning?”
“Not at all.” She tilted her chin, daring him to call her on the fib.
“Then you won’t mind a simple drive in the city.”
Why did he want her to accompany him? She stared at him, trying to decipher his motivations.
“Come, Miss Corning,” he rumbled softly, “a simple yes or no will do.”
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “On one condition.”
“And that is?” His eyes had narrowed ominously at her words.
She took a breath. “I’ll come if you’ll tell me something about where you’ve been for the last seven years.”
His face darkened, and for a moment she thought he would turn and leave her in the hall. Then he nodded once, sharply. “Done. Go get your wrap.”
She ran up the stairs before he could change his mind.
But when she returned to the hallway, Lord Hope was not there. For a moment, disappointment swept through her. Had he only been playing with her?
Then George the footman said, “’E’s gone back to see Henry, miss. Said ’e wouldn’t be but a minute.”
“Oh.” Beatrice drew a breath, steadying her nerves. “Oh, well, in that case, I’ll call on Henry myself.”
The servants slept under the eaves, of course, way at the top of the town house. But because Henry was a big strong lad, and because he needed nursing, a pallet had been laid for him in a corner of the town-house kitchens. An old screen had been found to place in front of Henry’s pallet when he wanted privacy, but when she entered the kitchen, Beatrice saw that it had been put aside. Lord Hope squatted by the pallet, talking in a low tone to the footman lying there.
Beatrice halted just inside the kitchen door. She couldn’t see Lord Hope’s face—his back was to her—but Henry’s countenance was as brightly lit as if a god had come to visit him. It seemed an intimate moment somehow—even though the principals were surrounded by the bustle of the kitchen—and she didn’t want to intrude. So she stood and watched.
Lord Hope spoke as Henry regarded him intently. She remembered now how Lord Hope had called to the footmen, mistaking them for soldiers. Even then, even when she’d known he was in the midst of some strange delirium, she’d seen his worry. His real care for “his” men. She pressed her trembling fingers to her lips silently. Just when she decided he was entirely self-centered, just when she feared he was nothing but a madman, now he must show this noble side of himself? Dear God, how could she side with her uncle against such a man?
The viscount murmured something more, leaned a little closer to the footman, and placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder. With a final nod, he stood.
He turned and saw her.
Beatrice dropped her hand, smiling brightly.
“I’m sorry, I only meant to be a moment,” he said as he neared. He eyed her curiously.
“It’s no trouble at all.” She tilted her head to look up at him, still dazzled by the whiteness of his wig, the harshness of his tattoos. “Henry seemed pleased to see you.”
He frowned, glancing back toward Henry’s pallet. “I noticed in my army days that it sometimes made a great difference.”
“What did?”
“Visiting the wounded.” He held his arm for her, and she placed her fingertips on his black sleeve as they left the kitchen, very aware of the hard muscle beneath the fabric. “Sitting and chatting with a man laid low. It cheers the man’s spirit, I think. Makes him realize that he is needed in this world. That others wait for his recovery.”
“Did the other officers visit with their wounded men as well?” she asked as they came to the front hall.
“Some did. Not many.” He handed her into the waiting carriage and then climbed in to sit opposite her. “I always thought it a pity more officers did not realize the effectiveness of visiting their wounded men.”
He knocked on the roof to signal the driver that they were ready.
“Perhaps they weren’t as compassionate as you,” she said softly.
He seemed irritated. “Compassion has nothing to do with it. It’s an officer’s duty to look after his men. They are in his charge.”
Beatrice looked at him wonderingly. Duty might be a different motive than compassion, yet the outcome was the same. There’d been a look of awe in Henry’s face when Lord Hope had talked to him. Then, too, if Lord Hope cared so much for a footman he hardly knew but whom he considered one of “his” men, would he not care equally for men who’d actually served in His Majesty’s army?
She licked her lips. “I’ve heard that many men who’ve served in His Majesty’s army become quite destitute when they leave.”
He glanced at her curiously. “Where have you heard that? I wouldn’t think it a lady’s daily conversation.”
“Oh, here and there.” She shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “I’ve also heard that some members of parliament are thinking of presenting a bill that would ensure veterans a fair pension.”
He snorted. “That’ll die a quick death. There’re too many who would rather see the country’s funds go elsewhere.”
“But if enough members back it—”
“They won’t.” He shook his head. “No one cares about the common soldier. Why d’you think they’re paid so poorly?”
Beatrice bit her lip, unsure how to convince him to her cause. “If you become the earl, you’ll sit in the House of Lords and—”
“I haven’t the time to think of sitting in the House of Lords right now.” He grimaced and shook his head. “I must focus all of my mind, my time, my energy in obtaining my title. Once that bridge is crossed, then I’ll contemplate the tangled web of politics, not before then.”
Beatrice’s heart sank. By the time he decided to involve himself in politics, it might be too late for Mr. Wheaton’s bill. Too late for Jeremy.
She bit her lip, glancing out the carriage window as they rumbled along. How, then, could she convince Lord Hope that Mr. Wheaton needed his help to pass the bill now? If only she knew why he made the decisions he did—why he was so obsessed with regaining his title. She straightened and turned to him with determination. It was even more important than ever to find out what had happened to him in the last seven years.
What had turned him into the man he was today.
REYNAUD WATCHED MISS Corning from beneath lowered eyelids. She sat primly on the seat across from him, nibbling at her full bottom lip. What was going through her quick little mind? And why had she brought up parliament of all things? Her uncle was a keen politician. Perhaps she merely wanted to know if he’d become interested in politics once he attained the title. Become like her uncle.
He frowned. That wasn’t likely to happen. He might be wearing a proper wig and clothing, but he’d never settle into complacent English life entirely. His time in the Colonies had changed him, warped him. He was no longer the proper English aristocrat who’d left London seven years ago. Perhaps that was what bothered her now. Perhaps she saw through the trappings of civilization to the man he really was. Sometimes he caught her staring at him with a curious uneasiness, like a deer scenting the air, aware of danger but with no knowledge of the wolf hiding in the trees behind her.
He turned his head to gaze blindly out the carriage window. His aunt had counseled him to find an English wife of good family. Well, wasn’t that exactly what Miss Corning was? Above reproach, a maiden of his enemy’s family? She was perfect for the role of wife. He pushed aside that primitive part of himself that exulted at the thought of this particular woman belonging to him. Instead, he began laying plans. A year ago he would’ve simply carried her off in a raid. Now he must court in the English ways, which meant gaining the lady’s favor.
Across from him, she cleared her throat with a delicate little sound.
He looked up at her.
She smiled, determined and beautiful, from beneath a ridiculously wide-brimmed hat. “I believe you made a promise, my lord?”
He inclined his head, though his pulse picked up. Of course she wouldn’t forget their bargain.
And indeed her next words solidified his thought. “I know ’tisn’t any of my business, but could you tell me where you were all these years?”
He looked at her silently, struggling not to bat her down with harsh, dismissive words.
The color rose in her cheeks, but she held his gaze even as she tilted her chin up. “Please.”
Courage would be an asset in the mother of his children.
“It is your business,” he said. “I was in the American Colonies.”
“Yes, I know,” she said gently, “but where? And why? Did you lose your memory? Who you were? I’ve heard strange cases of injured men forgetting who and what they were.”
“No. I always knew who I was.” He looked at her, so sheltered from the world. Would such a tale shock her? Repulse her? But she had asked. “I was captured by Indians.”
“Indeed.” Her gray eyes widened. “But surely you haven’t been with them for seven years?”
