She tried to press her hand against his chest—she couldn’t breathe!—but he caught it, crushing it in his own as he growled, “J’insiste sur le fait—”
He was cut off as Henry, one of the footmen, bashed him over the head with a bed warmer. Lord Hope slumped, his heavy head thumping onto Beatrice’s breast. For a moment, she was in fear of suffocating altogether. Then Henry pulled him off her. She took a shuddering breath and stood on shaky legs, turning to look at her unconscious patient in the bed. His head lolled, his piercing black eyes veiled now. Would he have really hurt her? He’d looked so evil—demented, even. What in God’s name had happened to him? She rubbed her sore hand, swallowing hard as she regained her composure.
George returned and looked shocked when Henry explained what had happened.
“Even so, you shouldn’t have hit him so hard,” Beatrice scolded Henry.
“’E was hurting you, miss.” Henry sounded mulish.
She brushed a trembling hand over her hair, checking that her coiffure was still in place. “Yes, well, it didn’t actually come to that, although I admit for a moment I was fearful. Thank you, Henry. I’m sorry; I’m still a bit discomposed.” She bit her lip, eyeing Lord Hope again. “George, I think it wise to place a guard at the viscount’s door. Day and night, mind you.”
“Yes, miss,” George replied sturdily.
“It’s for his own sake as well as ours,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m sure he’ll be fine once he recovers from this illness.”
The footmen exchanged uncertain glances.
Beatrice put a bit more steel in her voice to cover her own worry. “I would be obliged if Lord Blanchard didn’t hear of this incident.”
“Yes, ma’am,” George answered for all the footmen, although he still looked dubious.
Mrs. Callahan arrived at that moment, bustling into the room. “What’s all the bother, then, miss? Hurley’s said there’s a gentleman who’s collapsed.”
“Mr. Hurley is correct.” Beatrice gestured to the man on the bed. She turned to the housekeeper eagerly as a thought occurred to her. “Do you recognize him?”
“Him?” Mrs. Callahan wrinkled her nose. “Can’t say as I do, miss. Very hairy gentleman, isn’t he?”
“Says ’e’s Viscount Hope,” Henry stated with satisfaction.
“Who?” Mrs. Callahan stared.
“Bloke in the painting,” Henry clarified. “Pardon me, miss.”
“Not at all, Henry,” Beatrice replied. “Did you know Lord Hope before the old earl’s death?”
“I’m sorry, no, miss,” Mrs. Callahan said. “Came on fresh when your uncle was made the earl, if you remember.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Beatrice said in disappointment.
l went according to his plans.
The little procession exited the room, and Hasselthorpe returned his gaze to the guests, frowning slightly. The people nearest to where the man had fallen were in small knots, talking in low, excited murmurs. Something was afoot. One could watch the ripple of some news spreading outward through the crowd. As it reached each new knot of gentlemen, eyebrows shot up and bewigged heads leaned close together.
Young Nathan Graham was in a gossiping group nearby. Graham was newly elected to the House of Commons, an ambitious man with the wealth to back his aspiration and the makings of a great orator. He was a young man to watch and perhaps groom for one’s own use.
Graham broke away from the circle and strode to where Hasselthorpe and Lister stood in a corner of the room. “They say it’s Viscount Hope.”
Hasselthorpe blinked, confused. “Who?”
“That man!” Graham gestured to the spot where a maid was cleaning up the broken vase.
Hasselthorpe’s mind momentarily froze in shock.
“Impossible,” Lister growled. “Hope has been dead for seven years.”
“Why would they think it’s Hope?” Hasselthorpe asked quietly.
Graham shrugged. “There was a resemblance, sir. I was close enough to study the man’s face when he burst into the room. The eyes are… well, the only word is extraordinary.”