She poured water into a small cup and held it out to him.
He sipped some and gave her back the cup. “Have you thought what it would mean if Hope becomes the Earl of Blanchard?”
She set the cup on one of the crowded tables, frowning. “I just told you, Uncle Reggie and I will have to move out of the town house—”
“Yes, but beyond that, Bea.” Jeremy waved aside her loss of a home. “He would replace your uncle Reggie in the House of Lords.”
Beatrice slowly sank back into her seat. “Lord Hasselthorpe would lose a vote.”
“And, more importantly, we might gain one,” Jeremy said with significance. “Do you know what Hope’s political leanings are?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
“His father was a Tory,” Jeremy mused.
“Oh, then he probably is, too,” Beatrice said, disappointed.
“Sons don’t always follow in their father’s political footsteps. If Hope votes in favor of Mr. Wheaton’s bill, we may win at last.” The high color had spread over Jeremy’s face in his excitement, so now he glowed as if he were being consumed by a fire within. “My men—the soldiers who served and fought so valiantly under me—would get the pension they deserve.”
“I’ll find out which way he leans politically. Perhaps I can convince him to our side.” Beatrice smiled, trying to share Jeremy’s enthusiasm, but inside she was doubtful. Lord Hope seemed solely focused on his own affairs. She’d seen nothing so far to make her think he would care one way or the other about common soldiers.
FIVE DAYS OF a sickbed had made Reynaud damnably restless. Annoying as Miss Corning’s regular visits to his room were—she seemed to think it normal to simply swan in without inquiring first if he wanted her company—the fact was that he’d grown used to her. Used to teasing her and arguing with her. And where was the woman today? He’d seen neither hide nor hair of her.
Reynaud dragged himself from the bed, pulled on his old blue coat, and snatched up his knife before throwing open the door to his room. A young footman was stationed outside his room—presumably to keep him from running amok in his own house.
Reynaud glared at the fellow. “Tell Miss Corning I’d like a word with her.”
He started to close the door, but the man said, “Can’t.”
Reynaud paused. “What?”
“Can’t,” the footman said. “She’s not here.”
“Then when is she expected back?”
The footman stepped back nervously before catching himself and straightening. “Not too long, I expect, but I can’t say for sure. She’s visitin’ Mr. Oates, and sometimes she stays there a fair while.”
“Who,” Reynaud inquired gently, “is Mr. Oates?”
“Mr. Jeremy Oates, that is,” the man said, becoming chatty. “Of the Suffolk Oates. Family with quite a bit of money, or so I’m told. ’E and Miss Corning have known each other a long, long time, and she likes to visit ’im three or four times a week.”
“Then he’s an aging gentleman?” Reynaud asked.
The footman scratched his head. “Don’t think so. A young, ’andsome gentleman, so I hear.”
It occurred to Reynaud at this point that although he’d seen Miss Corning every day since his return to England, he didn’t actually know much about the woman. Was this Oates—this proper English gentleman—a beau? Or a fiancé? The thought spurred a primitive part of him, and he blurted the next question.
“Is she engaged to him?”
“Not yet,” the footman replied, winking cheerfully. “But can’t be long, can it, if she visits ’im so often? ’Course, there is the matter of ’is—”
But Reynaud wasn’t listening anymore. He pushed past the ass and started for the stairs.
“Oy!” the footman called from behind him. “Where’re you goin’?”
“To meet Miss Corning at the door,” Reynaud growled. His legs were shakier than he’d realized, and it only made him more irritable. He gripped the banister with one hand as he descended slowly. He moved like a goddamned old man.
“I’m not supposed to let you leave your room,” the footman said, suddenly beside him. He took Reynaud’s elbow to help him, and so weak was Reynaud that he didn’t even protest the familiarity.