Blanchard, predictably, choked on his wine.
Hasselthorpe watched him, a faint smile playing around his mouth. They sat at his dining table, the ladies having retired to the sitting room for their tea. Soon they’d have to join them, and he’d have to put up with Adriana and her incredibly foolish conversation. His wife of twenty-some years had been regarded as a great beauty when she’d come out, and the years had done very little to dim her lovely form. Unfortunately, they’d done nothing to brighten her mind, either. Adriana was the one emotional decision he’d made in a life of calculated gamesmanship, and he’d been paying for it ever since.
“He was brave enough,” Blanchard muttered grudgingly. “Got my niece off the street at the risk of his own life. But the feller thought he was fighting Indians.”
Lister stirred. “Indians? What, the savages in the Colonies?”
“That’s what he was raving about,” Blanchard said. He looked from Hasselthorpe to Lister, his eyes calculating. “I think he’s mad.”
“Mad,” Hasselthorpe murmured. “And if he’s mad, he certainly can’t gain the title. Is that what you plan?”
Blanchard jerked a single nod.
“That’s not bad,” Hasselthorpe said. “And it saves you from having to kill the man, too.”
“Are you insinuating that I was behind the attempt on Lord Hope’s life?” Blanchard sputtered.
“Not at all,” Hasselthorpe said smoothly. He was aware that Lister watched them under hooded eyes. “Just pointing out a fact. One that every intelligent man in London will be thinking—no doubt including Lord Hope himself.”
“Damn your eyes,” Blanchard whispered. His face had gone white.
Lister laughed. “Don’t worry yourself over it, my lord. After all, the gunman missed. Thus, it hardly matters who tried to kill the lost Lord Hope.”
Hasselthorpe raised his glass to his lips, murmuring softly, “Not unless they try again.”
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND gentlemen,” Beatrice announced a day later as she and Lottie strolled about the vast warehouse showroom of Godfrey and Sons furniture makers. She squinted in disapproval at several gentlemen across the room who seemed to be vying for the attentions of a pretty redheaded girl by demonstrating who could lift a heavy-looking stuffed chair above their head the highest. “I cannot understand why Lord Hope kissed me yesterday and then accused me of kissing him.”
“Gentlemen are an enigma,” Lottie replied gravely.
“They are.” Beatrice hesitated, then said quietly, “He seemed… confused during the shooting incident.”
Lottie glanced at her. “Confused?”
Beatrice grimaced. “He was talking about Indians and forming a line of defense.”
“Good Lord.” Lottie looked troubled. “Did he know where he was?”
“I don’t know.” Beatrice frowned, remembering those minutes huddled next to the carriage. Her heart had stopped when she’d realized that Lord Hope was about to run into the open to go to Henry the footman. “I… I don’t think so.”
“But that’s madness,” Lottie whispered in horror.
“I know,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m afraid that Uncle Reggie will use it against Lord Hope to keep the title.”
Lottie looked at her. “But if he is mad… Bea, dear, surely it’s better that he not inherit the title?”
“The matter is more complicated than that.” Beatrice closed her eyes for a moment. “Lord Hope seems perfectly fine—if hostile—most of the time. Should a man be deprived of his title because of one moment of confusion?”
Lottie cocked her head, looking skeptical.
Beatrice hurried on. “And there’s more to consider. If Lord Hope attains the title, he might take his vote in parliament and cast it for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”
“I’m as much in favor of Mr. Wheaton’s bill as you,” Lottie said, “but I don’t know if I want it passed at your expense.”
“If it was just me, I don’t think I’d mind,” Beatrice said. “I know it would be hard to live in reduced circumstances in the country after being in London all these years, but I think it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s Uncle Reggie I worry about. I’m truly afraid that losing the earldom might kill him.” She pressed her hand to her chest to ease the ache there.
“There is no way for everyone to win, is there?” Lottie said somberly.
“I’m afraid not,” Beatrice replied. They strolled in silence for a moment before she said, “The whole thing was terrible, Lottie. Poor Henry was quite soaked in his own blood, Uncle Reggie was shouting, the servants were in an uproar, and Lord Hope was striding about with a dueling pistol, looking like he wanted to kill someone. Then, two hours later, he says I kissed him when clearly he kissed me. And until that point, I didn’t even think he liked me.”
Lottie cleared her throat delicately. “Well, to be absolutely correct, he doesn’t have to like you to want to kiss you.”
Beatrice looked at her, appalled.
“I’m sorry, but there it is.” Lottie shrugged and then said entirely too innocently, “Of course, generally speaking, the lady does like the gentleman when they kiss.”
Beatrice pressed her lips together, though she knew her face was warming.
Lottie cleared her throat. “Do you? Like Lord Hope, that is?”
“How could I like him?” Beatrice asked. “He’s surly and sarcastic and quite possibly mad.”
“And yet you kissed him,” Lottie reminded her.
“He kissed me,” Beatrice said automatically. “It’s just that he has such an intense way of looking at one, as if I’m the only other human in the world. He’s so full of passion.”