Beatrice sighed. Lottie seemed to be confusing Beatrice’s predicament with her own life since she’d left Mr. Graham. Although Beatrice noticed that Lottie hadn’t started taking lovers and living the life of a fast matron.
“I don’t want to be a dashing and scandalous courtesan,” Beatrice said quietly. “And I do have to make a decision, because Lord Hope isn’t the sort of man who sits about waiting for others to make up their minds. He’ll decide it for me if I don’t do it soon.”
“Hmm, that does pose a problem.”
“Yes, it does.” Beatrice looked at her hands in her lap, trying to sort through her feelings. “I wish I knew how he felt for me—or even if he can feel.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s so cold sometimes, Lottie, as if whatever gentleness he once had, whatever capacity to love, was destroyed by his years in the Colonies.” Beatrice looked at her friend to see if she understood.
“You don’t know if he can love you.”
Beatrice nodded miserably.
All of Lottie’s animation seemed to leave her. “It’s so hard to tell, isn’t it? Gentlemen don’t have the same thoughts and goals as we ladies.” Lottie thought for a moment and then said, “I’m not even sure they know themselves when they love a lady or not.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Beatrice thought morosely. How was she to understand Lord Hope’s motives when she didn’t understand the man himself? Had he made love to her because he cared for her? Or for some other, more subtle male reason, perhaps even simply lust? Making the whole situation more difficult was her own desire. Deep inside, a part of her simply wanted him, whether or not he felt the same. And that, she knew, was dangerous. She risked dreadful hurt if all the emotion was only on her side.
At that moment, the carriage pulled up in front of Mrs. Postlethwaite’s town house, and Beatrice’s thoughts turned to other matters. “Do you see Mr. Wheaton’s carriage?”
She glanced up and down the crowded street. Two more carriages were behind them, and a pair of burly men loitered by the house next door. Her eyes narrowed, but they looked nothing like the toughs who had attacked her and Lord Hope the other day. These men were much better dressed for one thing.
“No,” Lottie replied. “But he will’ve entered through the mews so as not to draw attention to himself.”
That certainly made sense. This was only the third clandestine meeting of Mr. Wheaton’s Veteran’s Friends Society. Had it not been a Society meeting, Beatrice probably wouldn’t have gone out at all; Jeremy’s death was too recent. But she was here for Jeremy in a way. He’d been the one to introduce her to Mr. Wheaton’s thoughts on soldiers and what happened to them after they retired from His Majesty’s army. Jeremy had cared deeply for the men who had served under him. He’d wanted them to retire with enough money that they wouldn’t end up begging on the street. One so often saw those pitiful creatures, still in their red coats, missing limbs or an eye, sitting on corners with a tin cup in their hands. Beatrice shuddered. She felt sure Jeremy would understand her being here today.
She descended the carriage with Lottie and gave their names to the butler who answered the door. In a moment, they were being shown into a small but neat sitting room, and Mrs. Postlethwaite was greeting them.
“How kind of you to join us, Miss Corning, Mrs. Graham.” Mrs. Postlethwaite took their hands and squeezed them gently before leading them to a settee.
She was a lady of middling years, dressed always in somber gray and black, her silver hair pulled away from her face into a simple knot and covered with a cap. Mrs. Postlethwaite had lost her husband, Colonel Postlethwaite, to action on the Continent some years ago. She’d been left with a comfortable annual income and time on her hands, which she’d decided to put to use helping the men her husband had led. The men she’d come to know over the years as she followed Colonel Postlethwaite on campaign.
Beatrice glanced about the room as their hostess led them in. Besides Mrs. Postlethwaite, there were perhaps half a dozen gentlemen of middling to elderly years. Beatrice and Lottie were the only other ladies in the room, and Beatrice was grateful that their hostess had made the case to include them in the society.
Mrs. Postlethwaite served tea and small, hard biscuits, and then Mr. Wheaton entered the room. He was a young man of average height, his light brown hair clubbed back simply without powder of any kind. As usual, he wore a preoccupied frown. Mrs. Postlethwaite had once confided that Mrs. Wheaton was in poor health and had been confined to bed for some years now. To have an ailing wife and to deal with all the business being a member of parliament entailed must be a weary burden for the poor man.
Mr. Wheaton had a sheaf of papers in his hand, and he set these down on a table before clearing his throat. The room grew quiet. He nodded in acknowledgment of their attention and said, “Thank you, friends, for coming today. I have some matters of import that I’d like to discuss regarding the bill and the members of parliament we think we can count on to vote in its favor. Now, then . . .”
Beatrice leaned forward as Mr. Wheaton outlined his plans, but a small part of her mind thought about how Jeremy would’ve loved to be here. She’d not fulfilled her promise to him. He’d died before Mr. Wheaton’s bill could be passed. She’d failed in that, but she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t fail the bill itself. She’d do everything in her power to help the bill and all the soldiers who’d fought for England. The bill would pass. She’d see to it.
For Jeremy.
“THE MAN WHO led the attack on you is named Joe Cork,” Vale said as he threw himself into a chair.
Reynaud looked up from the solicitor’s report he was reading and stared at his old friend. He was in a small sitting room to the back of Blanchard House, which he’d commandeered as his study. There was an official study for the earl, of course, but the usurper held it at the moment, and Reynaud’s solicitors were counseling patience. Thus this temporary refuge for business. He’d be damned, though, if he’d give up residence in his own house.
“You found him, then?” he asked Vale.
Vale screwed up his mouth into a comical face. “Not exactly found, no. The blighter appears to have disappeared. But several lowlifes identified him from the description given by my man, Pynch.”
“Pynch?”
“I say, you don’t know Pynch, do you?” Vale scratched his nose. “I acquired him after, well, after Spinner’s Falls. He was my batman in the army and now serves as a rather uppity valet.”
“Ah.” Reynaud tapped the paper in front of him with his pencil. “And how does this pertain to the assassin?”
Vale shrugged. “Well, Pynch was the one I sent to make inquiries. Amazin’ what he can worm out of the most tight-lipped fellows. But it seems this Joe Cork has flown the coop. No one’s seen him for several days.”
Reynaud leaned back in his chair. “Dammit. I’d hoped to find out who had hired him.”
“It’s a setback, I agree.” Vale pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling a moment. “Have you thought about hiring guards?”
“Already have.” Reynaud sat forward. “But not for myself. For Miss Corning. They came too close to her last time. If the knife wound had been a little higher . . .” He trailed off, not liking to think about it. He’d dreamed about Beatrice’s blood on his hands last night.
Vale’s shaggy eyebrows arched up his forehead. “Do you think they’ll target her as well as you? Surely if you simply stay away from the gel, she’ll be safe?”
“But I don’t propose to stay away from her,” Reynaud said.
“Ah.” Vale stared at him for a moment, and then a wide smile spread across his face. “Like that, is it?”
“That,” Reynaud snarled, “is none of your business.”
“Indeed?” Vale was grinning like an idiot now. “Well, well, well.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I have no idea. I just like saying it. Well, well, well. Makes one sound uncommonly insightful.”
“Not you it doesn’t,” Reynaud muttered.
Vale ignored him. “Have you asked the question yet? I’m rather good at it, if I do say so myself. I got three different ladies to agree to marry me while you were gone. Did you know? Some didn’t actually make it to the altar, but that’s another problem altogether. Perhaps you’d like some pointers on—”
“I would not like any pointers from you, damn your hide,” Reynaud growled.
“But are you sure the chit even cares for you?”
Reynaud thought back to Beatrice eagerly parting her legs for him, her eyelids lowered, her throat suffused in a blush of desire. “I don’t believe that’s a problem.”
“You never know,” Vale said chattily. “Emeline threw me over for Samuel Hartley, and the man’s not nearly as handsome as I.”
Reynaud blinked. “You were engaged to my sister?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, you did not.”
“Well, I was,” Vale said airily. “Not that it lasted once Hartley put his fascinatin’ hooks into her. Now, my second fiancée threw me over for a curate.”
Reynaud looked at him.
“A butter-haired curate.” Vale nodded. “I assure you. ’Course, that’s how I came to be married to my own sweet wife, but at the time you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. I don’t suppose Miss Corning knows any butter-haired curates, does she?”
“She had better not,” Reynaud growled. And right then he determined that this thing would not drag on with Beatrice. He needed a wife. She’d already given herself to him. It was as simple as that.
And tonight he’d prove it to her.
IN THE MIDDLE of the night, Beatrice woke and opened her eyes to a single candle shining in her bedroom. It should’ve startled her—frightened her, even—but instead she lay quietly and watched as Lord Hope set the candle on a small table near the door.
“What are you doing?” Beatrice asked.
“Coming to see you,” he said, equally matter-of-fact. He had on a red and black banyan, and his head was bare.
He took off the banyan.
“See you seems to be a euphemism,” she observed.
He paused, his hands on the buttons of his shirt. “You’re right.” And he drew the shirt off over his head.
For the first time, she felt a flicker of fear. He hadn’t smiled. He was serious and intent, as if he performed a grim duty.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
“It seems I do,” he replied. He sat on a chair to remove his shoes. “You seem to be uncertain of me—of us together. I intend to make sure there are no uncertainties after tonight.”
She noted that he made no mention of love, and she felt disappointment shoot through her.
“Seducing me won’t prove anything,” she said.
“Won’t it?” He sounded unconcerned. “That remains to be seen.”
She watched him a moment as he stripped off his stockings, breeches, and smallclothes. He seemed entirely comfortable with his own nudity, but she felt her breath quicken. When he’d bedded her the day before, she’d been in shock, only half aware of what was going on. Now she was wide awake, her senses almost too alert to him. He stood tall and proud, his skin an even light brown over his entire body. His arms and shoulders were leanly muscled, like a laborer’s. She remembered that he’d told her he’d had to hunt for his food. There was black curling hair on his chest, but it wasn’t thick, and she could see the dark brown points of his nipples.