To Taste Temptation (12 page)

She pursed her lips. “Mr. Hartley.”

But she laid her hand in his, and Sam had the pleasure of wrapping his fingers around hers. She descended the steps regally and attempted to withdraw her hand. Instead, he bowed over her hand, brushing his lips against fine kid, the scent of lemon balm bathing his face.

Then he straightened. “Shall we?”

But her expression had softened somehow in the interval that he’d bent over her hand. He stilled, the people around him, his sister, even the hunt, fading into the background as he stared at Lady Emeline. Her lips were parted, red and wet, as if she’d just licked them, and her eyes were uncertain. Had they been alone, he would have caught her, drawn her into his arms until her body met his, and lowered his head to—

“Samuel?”

He jerked his head and his attention to his sister. Rebecca. God! “Yes?”

She looked confused. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He held out his arm to Mademoiselle Molyneux, who took it with a thoughtful look at him. He braced himself and turned to Lady Emeline, his voice deepening. “Shall we?”

His words were the same as moments before, but their meaning had changed fundamentally. Her eyes widened, and he saw her sweet breasts expand as she inhaled.

Then she met his eyes and her chin lifted. “Of course.”

Which left him to ponder, as he escorted the ladies up the steps, what exactly Lady Emeline had meant by those two innocuous words.

Inside the great double doors, Westerton House was ablaze with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of candles. Even the entry hall was warm, giving an unpleasant taste of the heat that would lurk in the ballroom itself. Why anyone would voluntarily attend an event such as this was truly a puzzle to him. He felt sweat start at the base of his spine. He hated crowds. He’d always had, but since Spinner’s Falls...He pushed the thought from his mind, concentrating on his reason for being here.

The ladies surrendered their wraps to a footman, and the articles of clothing were whisked away. Then they were at the entrance to the ballroom itself, and a footman with a magnificent wig was announcing them. The room was cavernous, but that didn’t help the heat, for it was overflowing with people. They literally stood shoulder to shoulder so that one had to wait for an opening to move forward.

Sam caught his arms twitching and had to consciously still the movement. This was his idea of hell. The heat, the shuffle of bodies against bodies, the noise of scores of voices laughing, talking, complaining. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his back. Mademoiselle Molyneux had already found a crony and slipped away into the mass of bodies. Someone bumped against Lady Emeline, still on his right arm, and he found himself baring his teeth at the man. He saw a startled look on a reddened face and then that man, too, was lost. Sam closed his eyes for a moment to try to control the panic that rose in his chest, but with his eyes shut, the worst part nearly overwhelmed his senses.

The
smell
.

Oh, God, the smell of burning wax, foul breath, and sweating bodies. Male sweat. That strong acid stink, that rank musk, that rotten armpit odor. They shoved around him, trying to get past, trying to run away. Some old enough to be grandfathers, some too young to shave, all fearing for their lives, all wanting just to live another day. That was what he smelled: the terror of death. He gasped, but all the air had been sucked into babbling lungs, and he inhaled only the fear of battle and the smell of sweat and blood.

“Mr. Hartley.
Samuel.
”

Her voice was near, and he felt a cool hand on his cheek. With an effort, he opened his eyes.

Her black eyes were staring into his, and he latched on to the sight, trying to focus on only her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He opened his mouth and formed the word carefully, speaking the truth because that was all he could do. “No.”

Her eyes left his for a moment, and he grasped her shoulders to keep his balance. “What is wrong with him, do you know?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him like this,” Rebecca said.

Her black eyes returned to his, and he felt relief. “Come with me.”

He nodded, his throat working convulsively, and stumbled after her like a drunken man. Their progress was slow, and he knew that sweat was running down his cheeks. He kept her constantly in his vision, a guideline to sanity. Then, suddenly, there were doors, and he tumbled out into cool, fresh air. It was a veranda with a low rail. He made it to one end before spewing over the rail and into the bushes.

“He’s ill,” Sam heard Rebecca say as he gulped great breaths of air. “Maybe he ate something spoiled. We should send for a doctor.”

“No.” His voice emerged a strangled rasp. He cleared his throat, fighting to sound normal. “No doctor.”

Behind him, Rebecca made a sound of distress. He wished he could face her, reassure her that nothing was wrong.

“Mr. Hartley,” Lady Emeline murmured very close to him. She laid her hand on his shoulder. He hunched it. Shameful for any woman to see him like this, let alone
her.
“You’re ill. Please satisfy your sister’s worry and let us send for a physician.”

Sam closed his eyes, willing his body to stop shaking, to stop betraying him with phantom fears. “No.”

Her hand fell away. “Rebecca, can you wait with your brother whilst I fetch some wine? Perhaps that will revive him.”

“Yes, certainly,” Rebecca replied.

And then Lady Emeline started to leave him. He heard a low groaning and realized dimly that it was himself, but he couldn’t stop the sound, nor the urge to make her stay by his side. He turned, meaning to keep her there, but instead he was brought up short by what he saw.

Lord Vale stood in the doorway to the ballroom.

J
ASPER SHUT THE
French doors behind him, smiled his careless, charming smile, and said, “Emmie! Godsblood, hadn’t expected to see you here.”

All Emeline could think was,
How am I to get him out of the way?
Hardly a kind sentiment for a man she’d known all her life, but there it was. It was imperative to get Samuel away before Jasper saw how bad his condition was. Somehow she knew that Samuel would hate to have another man see him like this.

It had happened so suddenly in the ballroom. She’d felt him stiffen as they’d entered the house but thought nothing of it. Many would be nervous at such a gathering of the ton. But he’d slowed as they’d advanced into the ballroom. Even allowing for the awkwardness of moving through the crowd, Samuel had walked oddly. Until she had at last looked up into his face and had seen he was in agony. What kind of agony—whether mental or physical—she did not know, but everything about him, from the closed eyes to the pale and sweating face to the way he suddenly clutched her hand bespoke great pain. The idea that this strong man was in pain made her almost paralyzed. It was as if she’d felt a corresponding pain deep within her own being. She’d led him out of the ballroom as quickly as possible, the whole time aware of his silent agony.

And now she must deal with Jasper.

Emeline squared her shoulders and assumed her most haughty expression—the one she’d learned in the nursery growing up the daughter of an earl. But as it turned out, there was no need. Jasper wasn’t even looking at her. His eyes were fixed behind her, presumably on Samuel.

“Hartley? I say, it is Corporal Hartley, isn’t it?” Jasper asked.

“Yes.” The single word was clipped out from behind her.

Emeline turned and saw that Samuel was upright now, no longer leaning against the railing, although his face was still pale and shone with sweat. He was unmoving, as though waiting for something. Beside him, Rebecca hovered hesitantly, looking from one man to the other, her expression clearly confused.

Jasper took a step closer. “I haven’t seen you since...” His voice trailed off as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the name.

“Since Spinner’s Falls.”

“Yes.” All the usual amusement was gone from Jasper’s face, and without it, Emeline saw the lines carved beside his long nose and too-wide mouth.

“Did you know we were betrayed?” Samuel asked softly.

That startled Jasper. He drew his hairy brows together. “What?”

“Someone betrayed the regiment. Do you know anything about that?”

“Why would I?”

Samuel shrugged. “You were in debt to Clemmons.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Deeply in debt. Every veteran of the regiment that I’ve talked to since my arrival in England remembers that fact clearly. You were in danger of being drummed out of the army, stripped of your rank, disgraced.”

Jasper’s head reared back as if he’d been hit. “That’s—”

“The massacre at Spinner’s Falls saved you from having to pay that debt.”

Jasper slowly flexed his fingers, and Emeline felt a prickle on the back of her neck at the aggression in the air. “What exactly are you implying, Hartley?”

“You had a reason to betray us,” Samuel stated softly.

“You think I sold my men to the French?” Jasper’s tone was almost casual, but his face was graven.

“Perhaps,” Samuel said in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. He swayed slightly where he stood—he wasn’t as recovered as he’d like them to think. “Or to the Wyandot Indians. The same result in either case. They knew we would be there at Spinner’s Falls. They knew and they waited, and when we came, they killed us all—”

Jasper’s big fists balled, and he took a step toward Samuel.

Emeline knew she had to intervene before the men came to blows. “Stop it, Samuel! Stop saying these things.”

He never took his eyes from the other man. “Why?”

“Please, Samuel, come away from Jasper.”

“Why?” Samuel finally turned his eyes, glancing quickly from her to Jasper. “Who is he to you?”

She bit her lip. “A friend. He’s—”

But Jasper spoke for himself. “I’m her fiancé.”

All lauded the captain of the guard for his bravery, strength, and loyalty, although many wondered why such a man would stubbornly refuse to speak even one word. But what really put the feather in Iron Heart’s cap was when he saved the king’s life a third time. The castle was attacked by a fire-breathing dragon, and Iron Heart fended off the loathsome beast with great swings of his sword. After this, the king pronounced that there was only one award fit for such a gallant man. He must guard the king’s most precious possession—the princess royal herself....

—from
Iron Heart

“Fiancé?”
Sam felt as if he’d taken a fist to the gut.

His lungs deflated, the breath leaving his body with a
whoosh
as he slowly turned his head and met Lady Emeline’s sweet black eyes.

“We haven’t formally announced it yet, but we’ve had an understanding for ages,” she whispered.

How could this woman be engaged to another man and he not know it? It was as if he’d suddenly lost something that he’d not fully been aware of wanting in the first place. Which was lunacy. She was a titled aristocrat, the daughter, sister, mother, and widow of titled aristocrats. Her world was so far outside of his that he might as well be a child trying to grasp the moon in the night sky.

Impossible.

But he had no more time for further thoughts on Lady Emeline. This was the wrong place, anyway. If he’d not been made ill by the smell of other men’s bodies, if he’d not had that overpowering memory of the massacre, he never would’ve chosen to accuse Vale here. But having done it, there was no point in regrets.

“I didn’t betray us,” Vale said. He was standing casually now, yet the man looked as if he were ready to attack.

Sam tensed.

At the same time, Rebecca touched his shoulder. “Come away, Samuel. Please come away.” And he saw that she was trying not to cry. God, what had he done?

“You didn’t seem insane six years ago when I knew you,” Vale said conversationally. “What makes you think we were betrayed?”

Sam eyed him. Vale had the type of face that one instinctively trusted, a funny, open countenance habitually wrapped in a smile. Of course, Sam had known several men who smiled when they killed. “You were in debt to Lieutenant Clemmons. Everyone knew that.”

“So?”

“So, Clemmons died in the massacre, effectively nullifying the debt.”

Vale gave an incredulous bark of laughter. “You think I killed two hundred and forty-six men so I wouldn’t have to pay my debt to Clemmons? You
are
mad.”

Maybe he was. Rebecca stood crying behind him, and Lady Emeline was watching him warily as if he might suddenly try to climb the walls. Vale stared at him with no fear in his eyes.

Sam remembered how the viscount had looked that day, astride his horse, trying to reach Colonel Darby through the mess of fighting men. The bay had been shot out from under Vale, and Sam had seen him jump clear of the falling horse. Stand and open wide his mouth in a battle cry Sam hadn’t heard, swing his sword savagely, and watch in despair as Darby was pulled from his own horse and killed. And then Vale had continued fighting even as the battle was clearly lost.

Sam should be apologizing to Vale and backing away. This man couldn’t be the traitor. But something inside whispered,
A brave man isn’t necessarily an honest man.
MacDonald had been a brave soldier, too, before his arrest. Deep in his belly, Sam needed to find out the truth of Spinner’s Falls.

Lady Emeline shook herself as if coming out of a trance and marched to the doors, her small back militantly straight. A footman was lingering there, gawking at the spectacle, and she pointed at him. “You. Bring some wine and biscuits, please. Thank you.” And she firmly closed the doors on his face.

“Is that all you have?” Vale asked. “My gambling debts led you to believe that I’d betrayed our regiment, then had myself captured by Indians and Reynaud killed?”

Lady Emeline flinched. Vale didn’t seem to notice.

Sam hadn’t wanted to speak of this in front of her, but now it was inevitable. “There was a letter detailing our plans to march to Fort Edward. It included a map with drawings that could be deciphered by the Indians.”

Vale leaned against the rail. “How do you know about this letter?”

“I have it.”

Rebecca had stopped crying and now said wonderingly, “That’s why you wanted me to attend this ball, isn’t it? It had nothing to do with me at all.
You
wanted to meet Lord Vale.”

Damn.
Sam stared at his younger sister. “I—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

“Or me,” Lady Emeline said. Her words were quiet, but Sam knew not to take that as a sign she wasn’t angry. “Reynaud was killed because of that battle. Didn’t you think I had a right to know?”

Sam frowned. His head hurt, his mouth tasted like acid, and he didn’t want to deal with the women in his life. This was man’s business, although he wasn’t such a fool as to say that aloud.

Apparently, Vale had no such qualms. “Emmie, this will only open old wounds for you. Why don’t you and Miss...” He looked uncertainly at Rebecca.

“This is Miss Hartley,” Lady Emeline said coolly. “Mr. Hartley’s sister.”

“Miss Hartley.” Vale nodded, urbane even when accused of treason. “Why don’t you two go back into the house and enjoy the ball?”

Sam nearly groaned. Didn’t Vale know anything about women?

Lady Emeline smiled tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I believe I will stay here.”

Vale opened his mouth again, the fool.

“I’ll stay, too,” Rebecca said before Vale could speak.

Everyone swung in her direction. Rebecca’s cheeks pinkened, but she tilted her chin defiantly.

Lady Emeline cleared her throat. “We’ll just sit here.”

She marched to a marble bench set against the railing. Rebecca followed her. Both ladies sat down, crossed their arms, and assumed nearly identical expressions of expectation. In any other circumstances, it would’ve been funny.
Damn.
Sam raised an eyebrow at Vale.

Who shrugged helplessly. God only knew where the man got his reputation as a rake.

The footman returned with a glass of wine on a tray. Samuel took it and sipped. He spat the first mouthful over the rail into the bushes before downing the rest of the glass, feeling marginally better.

Vale cleared his throat when the footman had left. “Yes, well. Where did this letter you have come from? How are we to know it wasn’t forged?”

“It’s not forged,” Sam said. He felt more than saw Lady Emeline purse her lips. How dare she sit in judgment of him? “I received it from a Delaware Indian—he’s part English on his mother’s side. The man is a friend I’ve known for many years.”

“That strange little Indian who came to visit you at your place of business last spring!” Rebecca exclaimed. “I remember now. He was in your office when I went to bring you your luncheon.”

Sam nodded. His offices were near the docks in Boston, a place his sister didn’t usually visit. But that day he’d forgotten the basket that Cook had packed for his luncheon, and Rebecca had fetched it for him.

“You were so distracted afterward,” Rebecca murmured. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. As if he were a stranger. “And angry. You were in a black mood for days. Now I know why.”

Sam frowned, but he couldn’t address his sister’s worry right now. He looked at Vale. “Coshocton—the Indian—obtained the letter from a French trader who had been living among the Wyandot. It was the Wyandot who attacked us.”

“I know that,” Vale retorted. “But how do you know it was someone from our side who wrote the blamed thing? It could’ve been a Frenchie or—”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “It was written in English. And besides, whoever wrote it knew too much. You remember that our march to Fort Edward was secret. Only the officers and a few of the trackers knew we marched instead of taking canoes down Lake Champlain.”

Vale stared. “The lake passage was the more usual way, I remember.”

Sam nodded. “Anyone hearing where we were headed would assume we went by water, not land.”

Vale pursed his lips, then seemed to come to a decision. “See here, Hartley. My debt was high, I don’t deny it, but I was quite able to pay it.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Were you?”

“Yes. In fact, I did.”

Sam stared. “What?”

“I quietly paid the debt to Clemmons’s estate.” Vale glanced away as if embarrassed. His voice was gruff. “Least I could do, don’t you know, under the circumstances. Doubt any of the men you talked to knew that, but you can contact my solicitors if you wish. I’ve got the papers to prove it.”

Sam closed his eyes. His head was pounding, and he felt like an idiot.

“Who else had reason to betray the company of soldiers besides Jasper?” Lady Emeline asked quietly. “Because I’ve known Jasper all my life, and I cannot believe he would do something that would end in Reynaud’s death.”

Viscount Vale grinned. “Thank you, Emeline, although I notice you don’t acquit me of treason.”

She merely shrugged.

“But she’s right.” Vale sobered. “I didn’t betray the regiment, Hartley.”

Sam stared at the aristocrat. He didn’t want to believe him; he’d come all the way to England because he’d been looking for answers. He’d hoped Vale would be the key to everything. That he could finally put Spinner’s Falls to rest. But any motive for Vale to have betrayed the regiment seemed to have evaporated. Besides, he knew now in his gut that Vale wasn’t the traitor. And if he hadn’t had his gut telling him Vale was innocent, there was Lady Emeline. She trusted the man, damn him.

Lady Emeline got to her feet and shook out her skirts. “I believe that means someone else is the traitor, doesn’t it?”

“Y
OU SHOULD RETURN
to the festivities,” Emeline told Jasper. “Rebecca and I are more than ready to return home.”

She didn’t include Samuel in her words, but he was the one she was most worried about. He no longer wavered as he stood, but his face was still pale and shining with sweat.

But she made sure not to look at him as she addressed Jasper. She knew that Samuel wouldn’t welcome her solicitation in front of another man. “I don’t think it wise to go through the ballroom again—Rebecca has had enough excitement for the night. I’ll send word to Tante Cristelle to meet us in front of the house, and we can walk around by the mews.”

“Non.”

Emeline jumped and whirled at the single word. Her nerves were obviously more ragged than she’d thought.

Tante Cristelle stepped from the shadows near the doors. “Inside they whisper of two gentlemen arguing.” She scowled at the gentlemen, though only Jasper had the grace to look ashamed. “Therefore, I shall remain and put the gossip to rest. I shall have a footman summon the carriage to the mews.”

“But how will you return home?” Emeline asked.

Tante gave an expressive shrug. “I have many of the friends, do I not? It will not be so hard to find a carriage.” She darted a glance at Rebecca, who had begun to look wilted. “You go and put all right at home,
ma petite.
”

Emeline smiled in weary gratitude at the old lady. “Thank you, Tante.”

Tante Cristelle snorted. “It is you who have the harder part, I think, to manage these two bulls.” She nodded and slipped back inside the ballroom.

Emeline squared her shoulders and turned back to her
bulls.

“I’ll escort you to your carriage.” Jasper was already holding out an arm for her, and she took it, chiding herself not to feel hurt that Samuel did not do the same.

She was quiet as Jasper led her down the Westerton garden and out into the mews, conscious all the while that Samuel trailed her with his sister. As they made a streetlamp on the side road, she glanced up at Jasper. “Thank you. Make sure you don’t stay out too late.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jasper grinned down at her. “I’ll be sure to be tucked into bed before midnight. Wouldn’t want to turn into a pumpkin.”

Emeline wrinkled her nose in exasperation at Jasper’s careless reply. That only made him smile wider. The carriage came rattling around the corner.

Emeline said hastily, “I’d like you and the Hartleys to come to tea tomorrow at my house so we can discuss all of this further.” It wasn’t a very graceful invitation; she didn’t even look at Samuel or Rebecca, though they must have heard.

Jasper quirked an eyebrow at her. He might act comical at times, but that didn’t mean he took orders from her. For a moment, she held her breath.

Then he smiled again. “Of course. Sleep well, my sweet.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips over her temple. Jasper had kissed her like this dozens, perhaps hundreds of times, in the years they’d known each other. But this time, Emeline was conscious that Samuel was standing somewhere behind her in the dark, watching. She felt strangely flustered, which was nonsense. She owed the colonial nothing—less than nothing since it appeared that Jasper had been his target all along.

“Good night, Jasper.”

He nodded and then turned to Samuel. “Tomorrow, then?”