The coachman ran to the steps, and Reynaud followed with Miss Corning, damnably aware of how exposed they were. Her form was warm next to his, small and delicate. It seemed to take minutes, but they were within the house again in seconds. No more shots rang out, and Reynaud slammed the door behind him.
“Dear God.” Miss Corning was looking at Henry, the wounded soldier.
But he wasn’t a soldier, Reynaud realized all at once. Henry was the footman who’d been guarding his bedroom door. His head spun as burning bile backed up into his throat. The sergeant was the butler, the women the maids, and there were no soldiers, only footmen staring at him warily. And the Indians? In London? Reynaud shook his head, feeling as if his brain would explode from the pain.
Dear God, maybe he was mad.
BEATRICE BENT OVER a small prayer book, picking apart the binding. She found it easier to think when her hands were busy. So after Henry had been seen to, after Lord Hope had retired to his room, after she’d calmed the servants and sent them back to work, after all had been restored to order in her home, she’d retreated here to her own rooms to contemplate the events of this afternoon.
Although, she’d not come to any firm conclusions when a knock sounded at her door. She sighed and looked up at a second tap.
“Beatrice?”
It was Uncle Reggie’s voice, which was odd, because he hardly ever visited her in her rooms, but then this had been a very odd day. She set the book down on the little table she worked at and rose from her chair to let him in.
“I wanted to make sure that you were unharmed, m’dear,” he said once he’d entered. He glanced vaguely around the room.
Beatrice felt a pang of remorse. In all the excitement of the shooting, she’d not had a chance to talk to her uncle. “I’m quite all right—not even a scratch. And you? How do you feel?”
“Oh, nothing can hurt an old man like me,” he blustered. “’Course, that impostor did knock me against the wall a bit.” He peered at her from under his bushy eyebrows as if waiting for a reaction.
Beatrice frowned. “He did? But why?”
“Bloody arrogance, if you ask me,” her uncle replied heatedly. “He was raving about Indians in the woods. Started ordering the servants about and told me to get out of the way. I think the man is mad.”
“He did save me.” Beatrice looked down at her slippers. Lord Hope’s sanity was the very subject she’d been grappling with when Uncle Reggie had interrupted her. “Perhaps he was merely confused by the suddenness of the events. Perhaps he spoke in haste when he talked of Indians.”
“Or perhaps he’s mad.” Uncle Reggie’s voice softened at her look. “I know he saved your life, and don’t think I’m not grateful the bastard risked his life for you. But is it safe to have him in the house? What if he wakes one morning and decides I’m an Indian—or you?”
“He seems sane otherwise.”
“Does he, Bea?”
“Yes. Mostly anyway.” Beatrice sat in the chair before her worktable and bit her lip. “I don’t think he’d ever hurt me or you, Uncle, truly, no matter his state of mind.”
“Humph. I don’t know if I share your optimism.” Uncle Reggie wandered over and peered at her work. “Ah, you’ve started a new project. What is it?”
“Aunt Mary’s old prayer book.”
He gently touched a finger to the disassembled book. “I well remember how she used to carry it to church in the country. It belonged to her great-great-grandmother, you know.”
“I remember her telling me,” Beatrice said softly. “The cover was quite worn through, the spine had cracked, and the pages were coming loose from the stitching. I thought to restitch it and then rebind it in a blue calfskin. It’ll be good as new.”
He nodded. “She would’ve liked that. It’s good of you to take such care of her things.”
Beatrice looked at her hands, remembering Aunt Mary’s kind blue eyes, the softness of her cheeks, and the way she used to laugh full-throatedly. Their household had never been the same without her. Since Aunt Mary’s death, Uncle Reggie had become a less-humorous man, more prone to quick judgments, less able to understand or sympathize with other people’s intentions.
“I enjoy it,” she said. “I only wish she were here to see the result.”
“As do I, m’dear, as do I.” He patted the pages once more and then moved away from her table. “I think I must send him away, Bea, for your safety.”
She sighed, knowing they’d returned to the subject of Lord Hope. “He doesn’t present any danger to me.”
“Bea,” Uncle Reggie said gently, “I know you like to put things to rights, but some things can’t be fixed, and I’m afraid a man this wild is one of them.”
Beatrice set her lips stubbornly. “I think we must consider how it’ll appear if we toss him out of Blanchard House and he regains the title. He won’t look favorably on us.”
Uncle Reggie stiffened. “He won’t get the title—I won’t let him.”
“But, Uncle—”
“No, I’m firm on this, Bea,” he said with the sternness he rarely showed her. “I’ll not let that madman take our home from us. I vowed to your aunt Mary that I’d provide for you properly, and I intend to do so. I’ll agree to let him stay here, but only so I can keep an eye on him and gather proof that he’s not fit for the title.”
And with that, he closed the door to her room firmly.
Beatrice looked down at Aunt Mary’s prayer book. If she didn’t do something, there soon would be bloodshed in her house. Uncle Reggie was adamant, but perhaps she could make Lord Hope see that her uncle was only a stubborn old man.
“UNCLE REGGIE COULDN’T possibly have sent someone to kill you,” Miss Corning said for the third or possibly fourth time. “I’m telling you that you don’t know him. He’s really the sweetest thing imaginable.”
“Maybe to you,” Reynaud replied as he sharpened his long knife, “but you’re not the one displacing him from a title—and monies—he thought were his.”
He examined her from under his eyebrows. Did she think him a madman? Was she afraid to be in his company? What had she thought of his actions just hours before?
But despite his watchfulness, all he saw was irritation on Miss Corning’s face.