To Desire a Devil by Elizabeth Hoyt

Although I think that was from a splinter striking
     him.”
    “Pity it wasn’t closer,” Hasselthorpe said as he swirled the wine in his glass. The burgundy liquid was so dark it was nearly
     black. Like a glass of blood. He set it down on the table beside his chair in sudden distaste. “Had the bullet smashed his
     skull, you, Lord Blanchard, would have no fear for your title.”
    Blanchard, predictably, choked on his wine.
    Hasselthorpe watched him, a faint smile playing around his mouth. They sat at his dining table, the ladies having retired
     to the sitting room for their tea. Soon they’d have to join them, and he’d have to put up with Adriana and her incredibly
     foolish conversation. His wife of twenty-some years had been regarded as a great beauty when she’d come out, and the years
     had done very little to dim her lovely form. Unfortunately, they’d done nothing to brighten her mind, either. Adriana was
     the one emotional decision he’d made in a life of calculated gamesmanship, and he’d been paying for it ever since.
    “He was brave enough,” Blanchard muttered grudgingly. “Got my niece off the street at the risk of his own life. But the feller
     thought he was fighting Indians.”
    Lister stirred. “Indians? What, the savages in the Colonies?”
    “That’s what he was raving about,” Blanchard said. He looked from Hasselthorpe to Lister, his eyes calculating. “I think he’s
     mad.”
    “Mad,” Hasselthorpe murmured. “And if he’s mad, he certainly can’t gain the title. Is that what you plan?”
    Blanchard jerked a single nod.
    “That’s not bad,” Hasselthorpe said. “And it saves you from having to kill the man, too.”
    “Are you insinuating that I was behind the attempt on Lord Hope’s life?” Blanchard sputtered.
    “Not at all,” Hasselthorpe said smoothly. He was aware that Lister watched them under hooded eyes. “Just pointing out a fact.
     One that every intelligent man in London will be thinking—no doubt including Lord Hope himself.”
    “Damn your eyes,” Blanchard whispered. His face had gone white.
    Lister laughed. “Don’t worry yourself over it, my lord. After all, the gunman missed. Thus, it hardly matters who tried to
     kill the lost Lord Hope.”
    Hasselthorpe raised his glass to his lips, murmuring softly, “Not unless they try again.”
    “I DON’T UNDERSTAND gentlemen,” Beatrice announced a day later as she and Lottie strolled about the vast warehouse showroom of Godfrey and Sons
     furniture makers. She squinted in disapproval at several gentlemen across the room who seemed to be vying for the attentions
     of a pretty redheaded girl by demonstrating who could lift a heavy-looking stuffed chair above their head the highest. “I
     cannot understand why Lord Hope kissed me yesterday and then accused
me
of kissing
him.
”
    “Gentlemen are an enigma,” Lottie replied gravely.
    “They are.” Beatrice hesitated, then said quietly, “He seemed… confused during the shooting incident.”
    Lottie glanced at her. “Confused?”
    Beatrice grimaced. “He was talking about Indians and forming a line of defense.”
    “Good Lord.” Lottie looked troubled. “Did he know where he was?”
    “I don’t know.” Beatrice frowned, remembering those minutes huddled next to the carriage. Her heart had stopped when she’d
     realized that Lord Hope was about to run into the open to go to Henry the footman. “I… I don’t think so.”
    “But that’s madness,” Lottie whispered in horror.
    “I know,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m afraid that Uncle Reggie will use it against Lord Hope to keep the title.”
    Lottie looked at her. “But if he is mad… Bea, dear, surely it’s better that he not inherit the title?”
    “The matter is more complicated than that.” Beatrice closed her eyes for a moment. “Lord Hope seems perfectly fine—if hostile—most
     of the time. Should a man be deprived of his title because of one moment of