“Your father died five years ago,” she said. “You were thought dead, so my uncle claimed the title.”
Not home, then, he thought bitterly. Not home at all.
“WELL, THAT MUST’VE been awkward,” Lottie said with her usual bluntness the next afternoon.
“It was simply terrible.” Beatrice sighed. “He had no idea, of course, that his father was dead, and there he was holding that huge knife. I was quite nervous, half expecting him to do something violent, but instead he became very, very quiet, which was almost worse.”
Beatrice frowned, remembering the pang of sympathy that’d shot through her at Lord Hope’s stillness. She shouldn’t feel sympathy for a man who might strip Uncle Reggie of his title and their home, but there it was. She couldn’t help but ache for his loss.
She took a sip of tea. Lottie always had such good tea—nice and strong—which was perhaps why she’d fallen into the habit of calling round the Graham town house every Tuesday afternoon for tea and gossip. Lottie’s private sitting room was so elegant, decorated in deep rose and a grayish sort of green one might think was dull but was actually the perfect complement for the rose. Lottie was extraordinarily good with colors and always looked so smart that sometimes Beatrice wondered if she’d bought Pan, her little white Pomeranian, just because he looked so smart as well.
Beatrice eyed the little dog, lying like a miniature fur rug at their feet, alert to the possibility of biscuit crumbs.
“The quiet gentlemen are the ones you have to watch out for,” Lottie stated as she judiciously added a small lump of sugar to her tea.
It took a second for Beatrice to remember the thread of their conversation. Then she said, “Well, he wasn’t very quiet when he first appeared.”
“No, indeed,” Lottie said contentedly. “I thought he’d strangle you.”
“You sound rather thrilled by the prospect,” Beatrice said severely.
“It would give me a tale to dine out on for a year or more, you must admit,” Lottie replied with no trace of shame. She sipped her tea, wrinkled her nose, and added another tiny lump of sugar. “No, it’s been three days, and I’ve heard nothing else but the story of the lost earl bursting into your little political tea.”
“Uncle Reggie said we’d be the talk of the town,” Beatrice said dolefully.
“And for once he’s right.” Lottie tried her tea again and must’ve found it palatable, because she smiled and set aside her cup. “Now tell me: is he or is he not truly Lord Hope?”
“I think he must be,” Beatrice said slowly, choosing a biscuit from the tray on the tiny table between them. Pan raised his head and followed her hand as she transferred the pastry to her plate. “But so far no one who actually knew him from before the war has seen him.”
Lottie looked up from selecting her own biscuit. “What, no one? He has a sister, doesn’t he?”
“In the Colonies.” Beatrice bit into her biscuit and said somewhat indistinctly, “There’s an aunt as well, but she’s somewhere abroad. Her butler was rather vague. And Uncle Reggie said he’d met Hope, but the viscount had been a boy of ten or so at the time, so it doesn’t help.”
“Well, then, what about friends?” Lottie asked.
“He’s too ill to go out yet.” Beatrice bit her lip. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to keep Lord Hope in the scarlet bedroom this morning. “We have sent word to the man who said he witnessed Hope’s death—Viscount Vale.”
“And?”
Beatrice shrugged. “He’s at his country estate. It may be days before he can come.”
“Well! Then you shall simply have to play nurse to a wickedly handsome man—even if he has far too much hair at the moment—who is either a long-lost earl or a black scoundrel who might imperil your virtue. I must say I’m terribly jealous.”
Beatrice glanced down at Pan, who had discovered a fallen lump of sugar near her chair. Lottie’s words made her think of the viscount’s body on hers and how very heavy it had been. How she had, for a small second, almost feared for her life.
“Beatrice?”
Oh, dear. Lottie was sitting bolt upright, her nose practically twitching.
Beatrice affected an unconcerned look. “Yes?”
“Don’t you yes me, Beatrice Rosemary Corning. You sound as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth! What happened?”
Beatrice winced. “Well, he was somewhat delirious that first afternoon . . .”
“Ye-es?”
“And when we took him to a bedroom—”