“I’m hurting you,” he said, scowling.
“No,” she replied, but it was already too late.
He rolled off the bed, taking with him all his glorious warmth and his magical mouth.
Beatrice pouted.
“I’ll send for your maid,” he said as he pulled on his boots. “Would you like anything? Tea? Some broth?”
“I’d like some tea,” she replied. She squinted at the window, but the curtains were pulled. “What time is it?”
“Almost night,” he said. “You’ve slept all day.”
“Did I?” How strange to remember morning and then nothing at all until after dark. The thought jogged her brain. “You were hurt!”
He turned to look at her. “What?”
“Your arm. I saw one of the men cut your arm.”
“This?” He pushed back the sleeve of his coat to reveal a torn and rust-stained shirt.
“Yes, that!” She was struggling to sit up now. “Why haven’t you had it seen to?”
He pressed her gently back down. “Because it isn’t of any concern.”
“Maybe not for you—”
“Hush.” His gaze was quite fierce. “You’ve had a stressful day, and your wound must ache. Rest now and I’ll come and see you when you’re properly attired.”
He strode from the room masterfully.
Properly attired? Beatrice frowned and only then realized that she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on under the covers.
Oh, my.
IT WAS AFTER ten by the time Reynaud got to Vale’s house and started banging on the door. Too early for Vale to have returned if he was out at a social event, too late for him to be receiving if he was spending a rare evening at home. Reynaud banged anyway. Vale was his only ally as far as he could see, and at the moment he needed an ally.
The door opened to reveal the face of a disapproving butler, whose expression modified only a little when he saw it was a gentleman knocking.
“Sir?”
Reynaud shouldered past the man. Damned if he’d stand on the step like a beggar. “Is the viscount home?”
The butler’s brows lowered. “Lord and Lady Vale are not receiving this evening. Perhaps if you—”
“I’m not coming back tomorrow,” Reynaud interrupted. “Either you go rouse him from wherever he is, or I’ll get him myself.”
The butler drew himself up and sniffed. “If you’ll wait in the sitting room, my lord.”
Reynaud stalked into the indicated room and spent the next ten minutes pacing from one end to the other. He was just about to give it up and go find Vale himself when the door opened.
Vale strolled in, yawning and wrapping a banyan about his middle. “Much as I’m glad that you’ve returned from the dead, old man, I really must insist that I reserve my evenings at home for my wife.”
“This is important.”
“So is marital harmony.” Vale went to a tray with a decanter and glasses. He held up the bottle. “Brandy?”
“Beatrice was stabbed this morning.”
Vale paused, decanter still in his hand. “Beatrice?”
Reynaud waved an impatient hand. “Miss Corning. She got in the way of an assassination attempt on me.”
“Good God,” Vale said softly. “Is she all right?”
“She fainted and bled quite profusely,” Reynaud muttered, the image of Beatrice’s soft skin violated still fresh in his mind. “But she woke just an hour ago and seemed in her right mind.”
“Thank God.” Vale splashed some brandy into a glass and took a gulp. “And how closely related to you is Cousin Beatrice?”
Reynaud gave him a look. “Not that close.”
“Glad to hear it.” Vale dropped into a cushioned chair. “I hope she recovers fully so that you can then propose to her. Because I tell you now, matrimony truly is a blessed state, enjoyed by all men of good sense and halfway adequate bedroom skills.”
“Thank you for that edifying thought,” Reynaud growled.
Vale waved his glass. “Think nothing of it. I say, you haven’t forgotten how to treat a lady in the bedroom, have you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“You’ve been out of refined society for years and years now. I could give you some pointers, should you need them.”
Reynaud’s eyes narrowed. “This from the man I had to save from an irate whore when we were seventeen?”
“Good God, I’d forgotten that incident.”
“I haven’t,” Reynaud muttered. “She had a big bruiser for a pimp.”
“Yes, well, her argument was with the fact that I refused to pay triple her price when her pimp showed up, not with my bed skills,” Vale pointed out. “Even at seventeen, I could’ve shown you a trick or two—”
“Jasper,” Reynaud growled in warning.
Vale hid a grin in his glass and then sobered as he lowered it. “Who were the assassins?”
Reynaud threw himself into a chair. “Three ruffians, not very skilled at it, I think. They were led by a man with a pronounced walleye.”
“Indeed?” Vale tilted back his head to stare at the ceiling. “Did he have any other interesting characteristics that might make him recognizable?”
“Tall, quick, knew how to use a knife.” Reynaud shrugged. “Not much else, I’m afraid.”
“The color of his hair?”
“Brown.”
“Ah.” Vale considered for a moment. “I’ll send another letter to Munroe. We need him here.”
Reynaud frowned. “You think the attack on me is somehow related to what happened seven years ago?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Look here.” Vale sat forward in his chair, no longer the lazy aristocrat but a man of intense intelligence. “I’d thought we’d hit a dead end in finding the Spinner’s Falls traitor. And then you arrive home, and in the space of little more than a week, two attempts have been made against your life. This is extraordinary!”
“Glad to bring you some joy,” Reynaud muttered.
Vale ignored the sarcasm. “I’m more convinced than ever that you have important information that will either expose the traitor or make him vulnerable in some way.”
“Then you’ve entirely cast off the idea that St. Aubyn was behind the attacks?” Reynaud had already come to this conclusion, but he wanted to hear Vale’s thoughts.