“Nonsense.” Reynaud’s lips twitched. “It would’ve been a perfect hiding place had you not laughed and scared all the doves, which gave away our position to those outside.”
“At least we gobbled the tarts before they discovered us.” Vale sighed. “I never meant to accuse you, Reynaud.”
Reynaud nodded once, curtly. “What did you mean to say, then?”
“Walk with me.”
Reynaud raised an eyebrow at the order but fell into step with his boyhood friend without protest.
“I hear there was an attempt on your life last week,” Vale said in a low voice.
“Someone shot at me, certainly.” Reynaud frowned. “Miss Corning was in the line of fire.”
“Careless.”
“Foolish,” Reynaud corrected grimly. “When I find him, I’ll kill him.”
“Miss Corning means so much to you?” He felt Vale’s curious glance.
“Yes.” The knowledge solidified as he said it. Beatrice Corning did mean a lot to him—how much he wasn’t sure. But he knew he wanted to keep her close. Wanted to keep her safe.
“Indeed?” Vale said thoughtfully. “And does the lady know this?”
“Is that any of your business?”
Vale coughed as if covering a laugh, and Reynaud turned to glare at him.
The viscount held up a conciliatory hand. “I mean no offense, but the lady is exceedingly proper and you… well.”
Reynaud frowned down at the floor. Vale was right. Miss Corning was all that was proper in an English lady. Everything, in fact, that he no longer was. Perhaps that was why his voice was sharp when he said, “I’ll let you know when I want your opinion.”
“No doubt.” Vale’s voice was dry. “And I look forward to the day, but in the meantime, we have other matters to discuss. Did you know Hasselthorpe was shot at last summer?”
“No, I didn’t.” Reynaud glanced to the side of the room, where Lord Hasselthorpe stood with his usual cohorts. The Duke of Lister, Nathan Graham, and, of course, St. Aubyn the pretender were about him, all of them looking rather sour. “You think it’s related?”
“I don’t know,” Vale mused. “Hasselthorpe was winged in the arm—not a grave wound as I understand. He seems to’ve recovered entirely. He was riding in Hyde Park when he was shot. The shooter was never found. It does seem odd.”
o;I think of her every day.”
An expression of sudden sorrow crossed his features, sharp and fleeting and all the more breathtaking because he so rarely showed any of the softer emotions. She leaned closer to him, drawn by his emotion despite the crowd surrounding them.
“Hope,” a male voice drawled from behind them.
Beatrice looked up to see Viscount Vale’s turquoise eyes watching her curiously. He had a bluish bruise on his jaw. Beside him was his wife, a tall, thin lady with a calm, slightly amused face.
She felt the muscle of Lord Hope’s arm flex beneath her fingers, but his face revealed nothing. “Vale.”
Lord Vale cocked his head. “Pity you’ve shaved off all those whiskers. They gave you a rather Biblical air.”
Lord Hope’s lips twitched.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not at all,” Lord Vale said carelessly. “I suppose you must don the local costume like the rest of us.”
The lady beside him sighed. “Vale,” she said, “are you going to introduce me, or will you continue to trade insults with Lord Hope for the rest of the night?”
“I do beg your pardon, my lady wife.” Lord Vale turned and held out his hand to the lady, who placed her fingers in his. “May I introduce you to Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope and no doubt soon to be the true Earl of Blanchard? Hope, this is my lady wife, Melisande Renshaw, Viscountess Vale.”