She looked back down at the living man. His eyes were closed, but she remembered them well. Black, angry, and glittering, they were identical to the eyes in the portrait.
Beatrice’s heart froze in wonder.
Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, the true Earl of Blanchard, was alive.
RICHARD MADDOCK, LORD Hasselthorpe, watched as the Earl of Blanchard’s footmen lifted the unconscious lunatic from where he’d collapsed on the floor of the sitting room. How the man had gotten past the butler and footmen in the hall was anyone’s guess. The earl should take better care of his guests—the room was filled with the Tory elite, for God’s sake.
“Damned idiot,” the Duke of Lister growled beside him, putting voice to his own thoughts. “Blanchard should’ve hired extra guards if the house wasn’t safe.”
Hasselthorpe grunted, sipping his abominably watered-down wine. The footmen were almost to the door now, obviously laboring under the weight of the savage madman. The earl and his niece were trailing the footmen, speaking in low tones. Blanchard darted a glance at him, and Hasselthorpe raised a disapproving eyebrow. The earl looked hastily away. Blanchard might be higher in rank, but Hasselthorpe’s political influence was greater—a fact that Hasselthorpe usually took care to use lightly. Blanchard was, along with the Duke of Lister, his greatest ally in parliament. Hasselthorpe had his eye on the prime minister’s seat, and with the backing of Lister and Blanchard, he hoped to make it within the next year. gue
Once upon a time, in a country without a name, a soldier was traveling home from war. He’d marched many miles with three friends, but at a crossroads, each had chosen a different way and continued on while our soldier had stopped to pick a pebble from his shoe. Now he sat alone.
The soldier put his shoe back on, but he was not yet interested in continuing his journey. He’d been many years away at war, and he knew no one waited for him at home. Those who might’ve welcomed his return had long ago died. And if they hadn’t, he wasn’t sure they would recognize the man he’d become over the years. When a man goes away to war, he never returns the same. Fear and want, courage and loss, killing and tedium all work on him subtly, minute by minute, day by day, year by year, until in the end he is entirely changed, a distortion for good or bad of the man he once was.
So our soldier sat on a rock and contemplated these things as the breeze blew coolly against his cheeks. By his side lay a great sword, and it was in honor of this sword that he was named.
For he was called Longsword….
—from Longsword
Chapter One
Longsword’s sword was quite extraordinary, for not only was it heavy, sharp, and deadly, but also it could be wielded only by Longsword himself….
—from Longsword
LONDON, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 1765
Few events are as boring as a political tea. The hostess of such a social affair is often wildly desirous for something—anything—to occur at her party so as to make it more exciting.
Although, perhaps a dead man staggering into the tea was a little too exciting, Beatrice Corning reflected later.
Up until the dead-man-staggering-in bit, things had gone as usual with the tea party. Which was to say it was crashingly dull. Beatrice had chosen the blue salon, which was, unsurprisingly, blue. A quiet, restful, dull blue. White pilasters lined the walls, rising to the ceiling with discreet little curlicues at their tops. Tables and chairs were scattered here and there, and an oval table stood at the center of the room with a vase of late Michaelmas daisies. The refreshments included thinly sliced bread with butter and small, pale pink cakes. Beatrice had argued for the inclusion of raspberry tarts, thinking that they at least might be colorful, but Uncle Reggie—the Earl of Blanchard to everyone else—had balked at the idea.
Beatrice sighed. Uncle Reggie was an old darling, but he did like to pinch pennies. Which was also why the wine had been watered down to an anemic rose color, and the tea was so weak one could make out the tiny blue pagoda at the bottom of each teacup. She glanced across the room to where her uncle stood, his plump bandy legs braced and hands on hips, arguing heatedly with Lord Hasselthorpe. At least he wasn’t sampling the cakes, and she’d watched carefully to make sure his wineglass was filled only once. The force of Uncle Reggie’s ire had made his wig slip askew. Beatrice felt a fond smile tug at her lips. Oh, dear. She gestured to one of the footmen, gave him her plate, and began slowly winding her way across the room to put her uncle to rights.
Only, a quarter of the way to her goal she was stopped by a light touch at her elbow and a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t look now, but His Grace is performing his famous imitation of an angry codfish.”
Beatrice turned and looked into twinkling sherry-brown eyes. Lottie Graham was only a smidgen over five feet, plump, and dark-haired, and the innocence of her round, freckled face was entirely belied by the sharpness of her wit.
“He isn’t,” Beatrice murmured, and then winced as she casually glanced over. Lottie was quite correct, as usual—the Duke of Lister did indeed look like an enraged fish. “Besides, what does a codfish have to get angry about anyway?”
“Exactly,” Lottie replied, as if having made her point. “I don’t like that man—I never have—and that’s entirely aside from his politics.”
“Shh,” Beatrice hissed. They stood by themselves, but there were several groups of gentlemen nearby who could overhear if they’d wished. Since every man in the room was a staunch Tory, it behooved the ladies to hide their Whig leanings.
“Oh, pish, Beatrice, dear,” Lottie said. “Even if one of these fine learned gentlemen heard what I’m saying, none of them have the imagination to realize we might have a thought or two in our pretty heads—especially if that thought doesn’t agree with theirs.”
“Not even Mr. Graham?”
Both ladies turned to look at a handsome young man in a snowy white wig in the corner of the room. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright, and he stood straight and strong as he regaled the men about him with a story.
“Especially not Nate,” Lottie said, frowning at her husband.
Beatrice tilted her head toward her friend. “But I thought you were making headway in bringing him to our side?”