To Desire a Devil Read Online Free

eyes in the portrait.
    Beatrice’s heart froze in wonder.
    Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope, the true Earl of Blanchard, was alive.
    R ICHARD M ADDOCK , L ORD Hasselthorpe, watched as the Earl of Blanchard’s footmen lifted the unconscious lunatic from where he’d collapsed on the
     floor of the sitting room. How the man had gotten past the butler and footmen in the hall was anyone’s guess. The earl should
     take better care of his guests—the room was filled with the Tory elite, for God’s sake.
    “Damned idiot,” the Duke of Lister growled beside him, putting voice to his own thoughts. “Blanchard should’ve hired extra
     guards if the house wasn’t safe.”
    Hasselthorpe grunted, sipping his abominably watered-down wine. The footmen were almost to the door now, obviously laboring
     under the weight of the savage madman. The earl and his niece were trailing the footmen, speaking in low tones. Blanchard
     darted a glance at him, and Hasselthorpe raised a disapproving eyebrow. The earl looked hastily away. Blanchard might be higher
     in rank, but Hasselthorpe’s political influence was greater—a fact that Hasselthorpe usually took care to use lightly. Blanchard
     was, along with the Duke of Lister, his greatest ally in parliament. Hasselthorpe had his eye on the prime minister’s seat,
     and with the backing of Lister and Blanchard, he hoped to make it within the next year.
    If all 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
.”
    “Eyes, extraordinary or not, are hardly proof enough to resurrect a dead man,” Lister stated.
    Lister had cause to speak with flat authority. He was a big man, tall with a sloping belly, and he had an undeniable presence.
     Lister was also one of the most powerful men in England. It was natural, then, that when he spoke, men took care to listen.
    “Yes, Your Grace.” Graham gave a small bow to the duke. “But he was asking after his father.”
    Graham had no need to add,
And we stand in the Earl of Blanchard’s London residence.
    “Ridiculous.” Lister hesitated, then said, lower, “If it is Hope, Blanchard’s just lost his title.”
    He looked significantly at Hasselthorpe. If Blanchard lost the title, he would no longer sit in the House of Lords. They’d
     lose a crucial ally.
    Hasselthorpe frowned, turning to the life-sized portrait hanging by the door. Hope had been a young man, perhaps only in his
     twentieth year, when he’d sat for it. The painting depicted a laughing youth, pink and white cheeks unblemished, black eyes
     merry and clear. If the madman had been Hope, he’d suffered a sea change of monumental proportions.
    Hasselthorpe turned back to the other