“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.