To Taste Temptation (14 page)

“Perhaps.” Emeline smiled quickly at Jasper and then turned to Samuel, bracing herself for the contact. “Will your sister join us?”

“No.” Samuel laid his long fingertips against the back of a chair. “She sends her apologies and pleads a migraine.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Emeline gestured to a chair. “Please. Won’t you sit, Mr. Hartley?”

He inclined his head and sat. His hair was tightly braided in a military queue today, every strand contained and controlled, and the sight made her perversely want to take it apart. To let his hair stream round his shoulders and run her fingers through it until it pulled at his scalp.

The maids bustled in with tea at that moment, and Emeline was glad to take the chance to calm herself. She sat and oversaw the placement of the tea things and kept her eyes down, away from the wall and away from
him.
Just last night he’d kissed her in this very room. He’d pressed her against the wall beside the window, and he’d traced her lips with his tongue, and she’d bit him. She’d tasted his blood.

Her teaspoon clattered as Emeline’s hand trembled. She glanced up, right into Samuel’s dark stare. His face looked carved from stone.

She cleared her throat and glanced away. “Tea, Jasper?”

“Yes, please,” he replied cheerfully.

Was he completely oblivious to the undercurrents between her and Samuel? Or perhaps he was aware and chose not to notice. They had a very civilized understanding, after all. She didn’t expect him to live like a monk before marriage—or indeed afterward, if it came to that—and perhaps he was equally tolerant.

She handed the teacup to Jasper and asked without looking up, “Mr. Hartley?”

There was a silence. Jasper noisily stirred sugar into his tea—he had a horrible sweet tooth—and took a sip.

“Tea, Mr. Hartley?”

She stared at her fingers curled around the teapot handle until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Jasper must surely know something was wrong. She looked up.

Samuel still watched her. “Yes. I’d like some tea.” But that wasn’t what his deep voice said.

She shuddered, actually felt the tremor run through her, and knew she was embarrassingly hot. The teapot rattled against the cup as she poured. Abominable man! Did he want to humiliate her?

Meanwhile, Jasper had his dish of tea balanced precariously on one knee. He seemed to have forgotten it after a couple of sips, and now the cup sat, just waiting for a sudden movement to crash to the floor.

“Sam said something earlier about a Dick Thornton, Emmie,” he said. “I don’t recall a Thornton. ’Course with over four hundred men in the regiment originally, one didn’t know them all by name. Most by sight, but not by name.”

Samuel had placed his own cup on a side table next to his chair. “After Quebec, there were less than that.”

Emeline cleared her throat. “Mr. Thornton was a common soldier? I never would have guessed from meeting him the other day. His speech was quite clear.”

“Thornton was a private when we knew him in the war,” Samuel said. “He was great friends with another soldier, MacDonald—”

“The redheaded twins!” Jasper exclaimed. “Always together, always up to a bit of mischief.”

Samuel nodded. “That’s right.”

Emeline looked from one man to the other. They’d seemed to have made some strange male accord without any help from her. “You know this MacDonald as well?”

Jasper sat forward, nearly upsetting the cup of tea. “Damn me, now I remember. Bad business, that. Weren’t MacDonald and his friend Brown brought up on charges of murder and—
ahem!
” He cut off the rest of his sentence with a cough and an embarrassed glance at Emeline.

She raised her eyebrows. From the look the gentlemen exchanged, whatever the
bad business
was about, it must be horrible enough that they deemed it unsuitable for her ears. She sighed in frustration. Men were so silly sometimes.

“Did MacDonald survive the massacre?” Jasper asked.

Samuel shook his head. “No. Thornton said he saw MacDonald fall, and Brown must’ve died in the assault as well. We would’ve heard of his court-martial if he had survived.”

“But we don’t know for certain about Brown.”

“No.”

“We ought to ask Thornton, see if he knows,” Jasper mused.

Samuel elevated his eyebrows.
“We?”

Jasper looked like a little boy embarrassed—an expression Emeline was familiar with from childhood. It was one he often used to get his own way without too much argument. “I thought I might help you in your inquiries, since I’m not the traitor.”

“I’m relieved you have acquitted yourself,” Samuel began rather stiffly, “but I’m not so sanguine—”

“Oh, come, Samuel!” Emeline burst out. “You know Jasper isn’t the traitor. Admit it.” She glared at him, only belatedly realizing that she’d used his Christian name.

Samuel made a pretty, overshowy bow to her. “As my lady wishes.” He turned to Jasper. “I admit your innocence, if only to appease
your
fiancée.”

“Kind of you, I’m sure.” Jasper smiled with exposed teeth.

Samuel bared his teeth back.

Emeline straightened determinedly. “So it is decided, then. You will investigate the massacre and its aftermath. Together.”

Jasper raised his eyebrows at Samuel.

Who nodded grimly. “Together.”

Day after day and night after night, Iron Heart guarded Princess Solace. He stood behind her as she ate her meals. He followed her as she paced the royal gardens. He rode beside her as she hunted with her falcons. And he listened with a grave face as she told him her thoughts, her feelings, and the deepest secrets that lay hidden in her heart. It is a strange fact, but a true one nonetheless: a lady may come to love a man though he speak not a word....

—from
Iron Heart

Rebecca cracked the door to her room and peered out. The hall outside seemed deserted. Moving quietly, she tiptoed into the hall and shut the door behind her. She was supposed to be lying down with an aching head. Evans had already supplied her with a scented cloth and the instructions to keep it on her forehead for the next half hour. But since the headache had only been an excuse in the first place, Rebecca didn’t feel any guilt about not following orders. What she did feel was a sneaking fear of her own maid. Hence her furtive movements.

She crept down the stairs and headed toward the back of the house, to the door that led out to the garden. She’d been so frightened when Samuel had had that fit in the ballroom the night before. Her elder brother always seemed so solid, so strong and in control. To see Samuel suddenly shivering and white had terrified her. Samuel was the rock she leaned on. Without him, who would be her support?

Voices came from above, and Rebecca paused. The voices coalesced into two maids arguing over the cleaning of the fireplace grates, and she relaxed. The back passage was dark, but the door was just ahead. It was ridiculous, after the fear she’d felt for her brother in the ballroom, to then feel betrayed when he revealed his real reason for coming to England. She had been the one to beg to come on this trip. She’d been so happy—so
grateful
—when he acquiesced to her pleas. Now, her disappointment was in proportion to her initial happiness.

Rebecca pushed open the door that led into the back garden and fled into the sunlight. Perhaps because the true owners rented the town house out, its garden had a dismal air of neglect. There were no flowers, at least none in bloom. Instead, there were a few gravel paths bordered with shoulder-height hedges. Here and there, an ornamental tree grew, and sometimes the hedges parted to reveal a square or circle with miniature hedges cut into intricate patterns. Benches lined the path at frequent intervals in case the walker became tired of this monotonous scenery.

Rebecca wandered down one of the paths, letting her hand idly brush the scraggly hedges as she passed. Her emotions for Samuel were overwrought, she knew. She felt as if she were always nagging him for his attention, like a little child, instead of a grown woman. Why she should feel this way, she wasn’t clear. Perhaps—

“Good afternoon.”

Rebecca started at the voice and swung around. The hedge parted to her right to reveal another one of the little square openings, and a man rose from the bench inside. He was red-haired, and for a moment she couldn’t place him. He stepped forward, and she realized that it was Samuel’s army friend, the one they’d met in the street. She couldn’t remember his name.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there.”

He smiled, revealing lovely white teeth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s all right.” There was a pause, and she glanced around the otherwise deserted garden. “Um...why...?”

“You must be wondering what I’m doing in your lovely garden.”

She nodded gratefully.

“Well, actually I came to call upon your brother,” he said with a wry, confiding smile. “But he isn’t in, so I came out here to wait for his return. I’d hoped we could catch up a bit, your brother and I. I don’t see many men from the old regiment anymore. Most died, you know, in the massacre, and the ones who didn’t were scattered to other regiments immediately afterward.”

“Spinner’s Falls,” she whispered.

The name of the battle was engraved on her brain now. Samuel had never mentioned it to her. She’d had no inkling how important the event was to him until the ball last night.

Impulsively, she leaned toward the man. “Can you tell me about Spinner’s Falls? What happened there? Samuel doesn’t talk of it.”

His eyebrows shot up, but he nodded. “Of course, of course. I understand exactly.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and began strolling, his chin against his chest as he thought.

“The regiment was marching back from Quebec,” he began. “After taking the fort from the Frenchies. Quebec was well fortified, and there’d been a long siege all that summer, but we’d prevailed in the end. Then it was autumn, and it was thought best by those in command to retire before the weather became inclement in winter. We began marching south, toward Fort Edward. None but the officers knew our route. The Indians lurked in the woods all around us. Our commander, Colonel Darby, wished to make the fort without alerting the savages to our presence.”

“But that didn’t happen,” Rebecca said softly.

“No.” He sighed. “No, it didn’t. The regiment was attacked in the second week. We were marching only two abreast, and the line was strung out over almost half a mile when we were ambushed.” He stopped talking.

Rebecca waited, but he didn’t resume. They’d come to the far end of the garden by the back gate that led into the mews. She stopped and looked at Samuel’s friend. What was his name? Why was she so terrible at remembering names?

“What happened then?”

He tipped his head up to squint at the sky, then darted a look at her from the corner of his eye. “They attacked from both sides, and most of the men were killed. You know that the savages liked to cut off the scalps of their victims with their hatchets, as a kind of war trophy. You can imagine my dismay”—he patted his hair ruefully—“I actually heard one fellow shout to another that he wanted my scalp, it was so pretty.”

Rebecca looked at the tips of her shoes. She wasn’t sure if she was happy now to have finally heard something of what her brother had endured. Perhaps it would’ve been better to remain in ignorance.

“’Course,” Samuel’s friend was still speaking, “MacDonald wasn’t so fortunate.”

Rebecca blinked and glanced up. “What?”

He smiled a friendly smile and patted his hair again. “MacDonald. Another soldier, a friend of mine. His hair was as gingery as mine. The Indians took his scalp clean off, poor sod.”

“Y
OU NEVER TOLD
her how St. Aubyn died, did you?” Sam asked that afternoon. They rode in Vale’s carriage, heading into the east end of London. Thornton hadn’t been at his place of business, and so now they had decided to try Ned Allen, the surviving sergeant. Sam only hoped he was sober.

Vale turned from the window. “Emmie?”

Sam nodded.

“No. Of course I didn’t tell her that her beloved brother was crucified and then burned alive.” Vale flashed a grim smile. “Would you?”

“No.” Sam held the other man’s gaze, feeling a reluctant gratitude that Vale had stood firm against what had probably been a determined assault by Lady Emeline for information. He’d seen how the lady worked. Once she set her mind to it, only a very strong man would be able to hold out against her. Vale obviously was such a man. Damn him.

The viscount grunted and nodded. “Then we don’t have a problem.”

“We might.”

Vale raised his eyebrows.

The carriage lurched around the corner, and Sam grabbed the leather strap hanging by his head. “She wants to know what happened. How Reynaud died.”

“Christ.” Vale closed his eyes as if in pain.

Sam looked away. He realized now that a craven part of him had been hoping the other man didn’t care about Lady Emeline. That their engagement was a purely practical matter. Obviously that wasn’t so.

“You mustn’t tell her,” Vale was saying. “There’s no need for her to live with that image in her mind.”

“I know that,” Sam growled.

“Then we’re in accord.”

Sam nodded once.

Vale looked at him and started to say something, but the carriage lurched to a stop. He glanced out the window instead. “What a lovely part of London you’ve brought me to.”

They were in the East End stews. The crumbling buildings were packed so closely together that sometimes only a walkway wide enough for a man separated them. They’d have to make the rest of the journey on foot.

Sam raised his eyebrows politely. “You can stay behind in the carriage if you’re afraid.”

The other man snorted.

The door opened and a footman set the step. The servant watched them with a knitted brow as they descended. “Shall I come with you, my lord? ’Tisn’t safe hereabouts.”

“We’ll be fine.” Vale clapped the man on the shoulder. “Stay and guard the carriage until our return.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam led the way down a dark alley.

“He’s right,” Vale said behind him. “Do we really need to visit Ned Allen?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t have many others to question. There weren’t a lot of survivors, as you know. And Allen was an officer.”

“Hardly any survivors at all,” Vale muttered. There was a splash and he swore.

Sam hid a grin.

“What happened to your lieutenant? Horn, wasn’t it?”

“Matthew Horn. He’s traveling the continent, last I heard.”

“And the naturalist?”

“Munroe?” Vale’s voice was casual, yet Sam knew he’d somehow won the other man’s complete attention.

They entered a tiny courtyard, and Sam cast a swift glance around. The buildings here looked like they’d been erected hastily after the great fire and were already in the process of decaying. They leaned ominously into the small courtyard, which, judging from the smell, was also the local privy.

“The man who survived with you,” Sam said. There had been a civilian naturalist attached to the 28th, a quiet Scotsman who had been one of the men taken captive by the Wyandot.

“Alistair Munroe’s up in Scotland, last I heard. He has a great drafty castle and doesn’t go out much.”

“Because of his wounds?” Sam asked softly. They ducked into the alley that led to the house Allen had a room in. Vale hadn’t answered. Sam looked back.

Vale’s eyes held demons, and Sam had the uneasy feeling that they might mirror his own. “You saw what those savages did to him. Would you want to go out with scars like that?”

Sam looked away. It had taken almost a fortnight for the rescue party to track the Wyandot Indians back to their camp, and in that time, the captured soldiers had been tortured. Munroe’s wounds had been particularly gruesome. His hands...Sam pushed the thought aside and kept walking, keeping a keen eye on the doorways and shadows they passed. “No.”

Vale nodded. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Still,” Sam said. “We ought to write him a letter.”

“I’ve tried. He never writes back.” Vale quickened his steps until he was breathing down Sam’s neck. “Who are you watching for?”

Sam glanced at him. “I was followed the other day.”

“Really?” Vale sounded cheerful. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” And that fact disturbed him.

“You must’ve stirred something—or someone—up. Who had you been to see?”

Sam stopped beside a low lintel. “Ned Allen lives through here.”

Vale merely looked at him and raised his shaggy eyebrows.

“I’d talked to three soldiers,” Sam said impatiently. “Barrows and Douglas—”

“Don’t remember them.”

“You wouldn’t. They were just foot soldiers and probably spent most of the massacre cowering under one of the supply wagons. They didn’t seem to know anything. The third soldier was a pioneer in the army—”

“One of the fellows who cleared trees and such to make way for the marching column.”

“Yes.” Sam grimaced. “He described how he used his ax to decapitate one of the attacking Indians. He was quite proud of himself. He didn’t tell me much beyond that. And I’d tried to talk to Allen, but he was too drunk the first time I tracked him down. I doubt either Allen or the pioneer sent my follower.”

Vale smiled. “Interesting.”

“If you say so.” Sam ducked to enter the building. Inside, it was cold and dark. He made his way mostly by feel and memory.

Behind him, Vale swore.

“All right back there?” Sam drawled.

“Fine. Enjoying the quaint scenery,” the viscount shot back.

Sam grinned. They climbed a series of stairs, and then he led the way to Allen’s room. It was much as it had been before—smelly and small. Ned Allen lay in a corner, reduced to a bundle of rags.

Sam sighed and approached the man. The smell grew worse as he neared.

“Good God,” Vale muttered as he followed. He toed Allen. “Stinking drunk.”

“I don’t think so.” Sam hunkered by the prone man and rolled him to his back. The man turned all of apiece, as if he were made of wood. A knife stuck out of his chest, the handle made of white bone. “He’s dead.”

Vale crouched beside him and stared. “Damn me.”

“No doubt.” Sam rose swiftly and wiped his hands against his breeches.