Then he shook his head, shoving them back. “Vale said he’d been looking for the traitor for a year now. He’s obsessed with the search. And he said the traitor had a French mother. My mother was French.”
“Would Lord Vale have you killed if he thought you the traitor?”
Reynaud remembered the man he’d known, a laughing man, a friend to everyone he met. That Vale would never have done such a thing, but then again, that Vale was from the past. Would Vale kill him if he thought he’d betrayed the regiment at Spinner’s Falls? A man might change in many ways in seven years, but could Vale turn into a killer of friends?
“No.” He answered his own silent question. “No, Jasper would never do that.”
“Then who would?” she asked quietly. “If another of the survivors of the massacre thought you were the traitor, would they kill you?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned, thinking, and then shook his head in frustration. “I don’t even know who survived the massacre besides Vale and a man called Samuel Hartley.” Dammit! He wished he could call on Vale for help, but after yesterday afternoon, it seemed impossible. “I don’t know who to trust.”
He looked at her, the full realization dawning on him. “I’m not sure there is anyone I can trust.”
“THEY SAY THE bullet came within inches of his face,” the Duke of Lister drawled, cradling a goblet of wine between his large pale hands.
“At least that close.” Blanchard frowned. “There was blood on his cheek. Although I think that was from a splinter striking him.”
“Pity it wasn’t closer,” Hasselthorpe said as he swirled the wine in his glass. The burgundy liquid was so dark it was nearly black. Like a glass of blood. He set it down on the table beside his chair in sudden distaste. “Had the bullet smashed his skull, you, Lord Blanchard, would have no fear for your title.”
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.”