“What?”
Beatrice turned to look at Lady Vale. The hallway was dim, but the lady’s eyes seemed puzzled. “Lord Hope said that when your husband came to visit him last week, Lord Vale accused him of being the traitor who betrayed their regiment at Spinner’s Falls.”
“Surely not!”
“I do assure you.”
Lady Vale sighed. “Gentlemen sometimes do not seem able to express themselves properly, and I must admit that my husband, though he loves to talk, is not always effective in communicating. He’s never thought Lord Hope could be the traitor.”
“Really?” Relief swept through her.
“Yes,” Lady Vale said with certainty. “But the problem is, if Lord Hope has gotten the notion that my husband distrusts him, it may be rather hard to dispel the thought.”
“Oh, dear,” Beatrice murmured. “Gentlemen can be so boneheaded sometimes, can’t they? What if they can’t work it out?”
The other lady looked grave. “Then I fear it may be the end of their long friendship.”
“And Lord Hope needs a friend very much right now,” Beatrice whispered.
“BEWARE,” REYNAUD GROWLED. “I’ve lived too long away from society. I no longer bother calling out a man who insults me.”
“When have I insulted you?” Vale hissed. “’Twas you who hit me, man!”
They still stood almost in the middle of the damned ballroom, and if they talked too loud, they risked causing a scene. He was already the object of curious scrutiny. If he lost control here, in the midst of his aunt’s ball, it would do irreparable harm to his cause.
Cold sweat slid down his back, but Reynaud still bared his teeth in a parody of a grin. “I struck you because you had the damnable gall to accuse me of betraying our regiment.”
“I did not.”
“You most certainly did.”
“I did—” Vale cut himself off to breathe forcefully through his nostrils. “We sound like lads nearly come to blows over sweetmeats.”
“Huh,” Reynaud grunted, looking away. He felt an unaccountable urge to shuffle his feet.
For a moment, both men stood silent, the chatter of the crowd rising around them.
Vale laughed under his breath. “Remember when we stole those strawberry tarts from the cook at my father’s house?”
Reynaud raised an eyebrow. “I do. We were caught and whipped.”
“Which never would’ve happened had you not decided we should hide in the dovecote.”
“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.”
“Hasselthorpe has aspirations to be prime minister,” Reynaud pointed out. “It may’ve simply been a political assassination gone awry.”
“Of course, of course,” Vale murmured. “But I can’t help noting that he was shot shortly after I tried talking to him about Spinner’s Falls.”
Reynaud halted and stared at Vale. “Really?”
“Yes.” Vale glanced about the ballroom. “I say, do you know where my lady wife and your Miss Corning have got to?”
“They went into the portrait gallery.” Reynaud nodded toward the hall leading off the ballroom. “Do you think Hasselthorpe knows something about this business?”
“Perhaps.” Vale started walking again, and Reynaud fell into step. “Or perhaps someone else merely thinks he does. Or the thing isn’t related at all and I’m merely chasing unicorns.”
Reynaud grunted. Vale might like to play the simpleton, but he’d known the man since childhood and wasn’t fooled. Vale was one of the most clever men he knew. “I thought at first that the attempt on me must’ve been Reginald St. Aubyn’s doing.”
“And now?”
“Miss Corning pointed out that he’d have to be a half-wit to try and kill me on his own front step.”
“Ah.”
“If the attempt against me is linked to the shooting of Lord Hasselthorpe, then it’s got something to do with Spinner’s Falls,” Reynaud said thoughtfully. “But what?”