To Taste Temptation (6 page)

She stopped, still gazing sightlessly at the street ahead. He didn’t speak. This was a personal matter. She shouldn’t talk about it to a comparative stranger. But he’d been there in that foreign place where Reynaud had died. If only in a small way, he was part of Reynaud.

She sighed. “There was a book of fairy tales we used to look at together as children. Reynaud loved those stories. I can’t remember what they were about exactly, but I keep thinking if only I could read it again...” She was suddenly conscious that her conversation was meandering. She glanced up at him.

Mr. Hartley stared back, his head tilted in interest toward her.

She waved a hand impatiently. “But the book is neither here nor there. If I can find out how his last hours were, then he lives just a little longer in my memory. It doesn’t matter that they are awful moments, do you see? They are Reynaud’s moments, and thus precious. They bring me closer to him.”

He bowed his head as his brows drew together. “I think I understand.”

“Do you? Do you truly?” If he did, he would be the first to understand her. Not even Tante Cristelle could fully comprehend her need to find out everything that had happened to Reynaud in his last days. She watched him in amazement and with a dawning awareness. Maybe he truly was unlike other men. How odd.

He looked up then and caught her eye. That sensuous lower lip curved. “You’re a frightening woman.”

And Emeline realized to her horror that she could come to like Samuel Hartley. Come to like him too much. She hastily looked straight ahead and took a deep breath. “Tell me.”

He no longer pretended that he didn’t know what she asked. “I’m trying to find out why Spinner’s Falls happened. The Wyandot didn’t find our regiment by accident.” He turned to look at her, and she saw that his eyes had hardened to iron—strong, determined, and resolute. “I think we were betrayed.”

The old man was dressed in dirty rags. It hardly seemed likely, so Iron Heart thought, that such a one would hold the key to marrying a princess.

But as he started to turn aside, the old man caught his arm. “Listen! You will live in a marble castle with Princess Solace as your bride. You will have silk clothes to wear and servants to wait upon your every need. All you must do is follow my instructions.”

“And what are your instructions?” Iron Heart asked.

The old wizard grinned—for naturally he was a wizard to know so much. “You must not speak for seven years.”

Iron Heart stared. “And if I am unable to do this?”

“If you utter one word—even one sound—you will be returned to rags and Princess Solace will die.”

Now, this may not seem such a wonderful bargain to you or me, but remember that Iron Heart was presently employed as a street sweeper. He looked down at his feet, shod in tattered leather, then over at the gutter where he would make his bed that night, and in the end he did the only thing he could. He agreed to the wizard’s price.
...

—from
Iron Heart

Tonight the moon was curtained by clouds. Sam glanced at the sky as he paused beside a dark doorway. The moon was waning, anyway, so even when it came out from behind the clouds, its light was thin. He welcomed the thick shadows. It made the night perfect for hunting.

Sam slid now into an alley, moving swiftly past a bundled shape hunched against a wall. The bundle didn’t stir, but a cat sitting by its side paused in her bath to watch Sam with glowing eyes. There was a row of fine stables farther on, nearly twice the size of the ones behind his own rented house. Sam snorted. What did one man need with so many beasts?

A light appeared at one of the stable doors, and a short, sturdy man holding a lantern emerged. Sam froze, drifting back into the shadows. The man set his lantern down on the cobblestones in the mews while he dug in a pocket; then he withdrew a long clay pipe and lit it from the lantern’s flame. Puffing contentedly, he picked up his lantern again and disappeared around the corner of the stables.

Sam grinned. He waited a moment more and then followed in the man’s wake. There was a wall here with a gate, separating the mews from the back garden of the house, that was his target. He passed by the gate. It was too exposed, too likely to have a guard or a lightly sleeping groom nearby. He continued into the shadows beneath a tree that overhung the wall. Eyeing the bricks, he backed a pace and then leapt. The wall was about eight feet tall, and he was just able to fling his arms over the top. Swiftly, he levered himself up, rolled over the top, and landed in a crouch on the other side. He didn’t pause but used his jump’s momentum to run along the wall and duck under a bush several paces away. Here he dropped to the ground and lay on his belly, carefully watching the dark garden.

It was a large, rectangular town garden, planted with small ornamental trees and bushes in a severely geometric pattern. A gravel path led from the mews wall to the back of the house, where no doubt there would be separate servant and master entrances. At the moment, nothing moved in the garden.

Sam got to his feet and made his way to the back of the house, eschewing the graveled walk for fear of the sound. As he approached the house, he saw that the servant’s entrance was partly belowground; there was a well with steps leading down to the door. Above was a kind of balcony or terrace with a low, ornamental wall and French doors. A light flickered behind the French doors. Sam crept up the curving granite stairs and close to the glass doors. The man within had not bothered to draw the curtains, and he was as well lit as if he stood on a stage.

Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale, half sat, half lay on a great red velvet wing chair. One long leg draped over the chair’s arm and swung absently as he turned a page in the great book on his lap. A large buckle shoe lay overturned beside the chair; the foot on the swinging leg was clad only in a stocking.

Sam snorted softly and crouched by the window, enjoying the fact that the man never knew he was being watched from without. Vale had commanded the Light Company of the 28th. Where the other former soldiers he’d talked to had aged and changed in the six years since he’d seen them, Renshaw—now Viscount Vale—was the same. His face was long and thin, with deep lines bracketing a wide mouth and a too-large nose. He wasn’t a handsome man, and yet his face was impossible to dislike. The eyes drooped at the corners, rather like a hunting dog’s, appearing always slightly sad, even when he was in good cheer. The rest of Vale looked like he’d never outgrown the lankiness of adolescence. His arms and legs were long and bony, his hands and feet overlarge as if he still waited for his limbs to fill out. Yet Vale was the same age as Sam. As Sam considered him, Vale licked his thumb and turned another page in his book; then he picked up a crystal glass with ruby liquid and sipped from it.

Sam remembered Vale as a good officer, though not as commanding as Reynaud. He’d been too relaxed to bother instilling respect in the men. Instead, he’d been the one who others had gone to with their problems and their petty arguments. Vale was as likely to dice with the common soldiers as dine with the officers. He’d always been in a good mood, always ready to tell a joke or play a prank on his fellow officers. It’d made him a favorite of the troops. He wasn’t the type of man anyone would think could betray an entire regiment.

And yet if Sam’s information was true, someone had. He patted his pocket, feeling the paper within. Someone had alerted the French and their Wyandot Indian allies, told them exactly where the 28th would be. Someone had conspired to massacre an entire regiment of his fellow soldiers at Spinner’s Falls. That possibility had driven Sam to England. He had to find the truth. Find if there was a reason for so many to have died that fall day six years ago. And when he found the man responsible, maybe then he could reclaim his soul, reclaim the life he’d lost at Spinner’s Falls.

Was Vale the right man? The viscount had been in debt to Clemmons, and Clemmons had died in the massacre. But Vale had fought bravely,
gallantly,
at Spinner’s Falls. Could such a brave officer murder an entire regiment just to get rid of one man? Wouldn’t he be marked? Wouldn’t he bear the scars of his depravity on his face? Or would he, six years later, be sitting contentedly in his library reading a book?

Sam shook his head. The officer he thought he’d known six years ago would never have done such a thing. But he’d only been with the 28th for a little over a month. Maybe he’d never really known Vale. His instinct was to confront Vale, here and now, but he would get no answers that way. Better to approach him obliquely at a social gathering. That was why he’d sought the services of Lady Emeline. On the thought of that lady, Sam withdrew, making his way back through the dark garden. What would Lady Emeline think if she found out his true reason for asking for her help? She still grieved for her brother, but would she want to upset her social standing to accuse a peer? He grimaced as he went over the mews wall again.

Somehow he thought that Lady Emeline would not be happy with the course he’d set.

“No! No! No!” Emeline exclaimed the next morning.

Rebecca froze, her foot half lifted, her expression terrified. They were in Emeline’s town house ballroom where she was attempting to teach the American girl a few of the newer dance steps. Tante Cristelle assisted at the harpsichord, which had been especially carried into the room by two burly footmen. The ballroom floor was parquet, polished to a high gleam, and mirrors lined one entire wall. Rebecca, with her raised foot and terrified expression, was reflected countlessly in the mirrors. Emeline took a deep breath and tried to modify her own expression, pasting on a smile.

Rebecca didn’t look reassured.

Emeline sighed. “You must move easily. Gracefully. Not like a...a...” She searched for a phrase that would not involve the word
elephant.

“Drunken sailor.” Samuel Hartley’s voice echoed in her ballroom. He sounded amused.

Rebecca lowered her foot with a thump and glared at her brother. “Thank you very much!”

Mr. Hartley shrugged and strolled into the room. He was neatly turned out in brown and black, but the bruise on his chin was turning yellowy-green, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes.

Emeline narrowed her own eyes. What activities were keeping the colonial from sleeping at night? “Was there something you needed, Mr. Hartley?”

“Indeed,” he replied. “I find I have an urgent need to come supervise my sister’s dancing lesson.”

Rebecca
harrumphed
at his words, but a shy smile crept over her lips. She was obviously pleased at her brother’s attention.

Emeline was not. Merely the presence of the man in her ballroom disrupted her concentration. “We are very busy here, Mr. Hartley. There are only two days remaining before Rebecca’s first ball.”

“Ah.” He bowed with ironic precision. “I understand the gravity of the situation.”

“Do you?”

“Ahem!”
Tante cleared her throat with a horrible grinding noise. Both Emeline and Mr. Hartley turned to stare at her. “The child and I need a short rest from our exertions. A walk about the garden, perhaps? Come,
ma petite,
I will instruct you on elegant conversations when strolling in so boring a garden.” She held out her hand to Rebecca.

“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” Rebecca replied weakly as she followed the older lady.

Emeline waited, her foot tapping, as her aunt and Rebecca walked to the door and exited the room; then she whirled on Mr. Hartley. “You’ve interrupted this morning’s lesson. What are you doing here?”

He raised his eyebrows and stepped so close, his breath brushed her cheek. “Why do you care?”

“Care?” She opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “It isn’t that I
care;
it’s simply—”

“You’re in a bad mood.” He pursed his lips and tilted his head as if he were examining a suspect piece of fruit. “You’re often in a bad mood.”

“That’s not true.”

“You were in a bad mood yesterday.”

“But—”

“You were in a bad mood when first I met you at Mrs. Conrad’s salon.”

“I was
not
—”

“And while your mood was not precisely
bad
when we came to tea, it certainly could not be termed
good
.” He smiled kindly at her. “But perhaps I have the case wrong. Perhaps you’re usually a lady with a sunny disposition, and it’s only my advent into your life that has turned you sour.”

She gaped at him—actually gaped, her mouth hanging ajar like the greenest debutante. How dare he? No one spoke to her in this manner! He had turned away now and was idly plinking the harpsichord in a very annoying manner. She caught him glancing slyly at her, his mouth curving at the corner; then he went back to watching his fingers abuse the harpsichord.

Emeline took a deep breath and twitched her skirts straight. She hadn’t been the belle of innumerable balls for nothing.

“I hadn’t realized my voice was so sharp, Mr. Hartley,” she said as she wandered closer to where he stood. She kept her eyes downcast and worked to look woebegone—not a very familiar expression. “Had I known the distress my unladylike surliness would cause you, I would have died a thousand deaths rather than acted so. Please accept my apology.”

She waited. It was his turn. Now he would be covered in shame because he’d made a lady apologize so abjectly. Perhaps he would even stutter. She tried not to smirk.

Instead there was only silence. His long fingers played on the harpsichord keys without any notion of music. If he continued much longer, she would go mad.

Finally, she looked up.

Mr. Hartley wasn’t even paying attention to his hands. Instead he was watching her with a faintly amused expression. “When was the last time you apologized to a man?”

Oooh! He was the most provoking oaf!

“I don’t know,” she said sadly. “Years, perhaps.” She stepped closer and placed her hand on the keys beside his. Then she looked up at him and slowly let her mouth curve into a very small smile. “But I do know he was most satisfied with my apology.”

His hands stilled, the room suddenly hushed. His eyes were intent in an almost frightening way. For the life of her, Emeline could not look away from him. She watched as his gaze drifted over her face, coming finally to rest on her mouth. Without even thinking, her lips parted. His eyes narrowed and he took a step toward her, closing the space between them and raising his arms—

The door to the ballroom opened.

“We are ready now, yes?” Tante Cristelle said. “Another hour, I think, no more. My hands, they will be crippled if I play longer at that instrument.”

“Yes, of course,” Emeline gasped. Her face was probably as red as a boiled beet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Mr. Hartley had somehow contrived to place himself on the other side of the harpsichord—a distance that was more than respectable. When had he done that? She hadn’t even seen him move.

“Are you all right, Lady Emeline?” the girl asked innocently. “You look hot.”

Oh, these terrible colonials with their blunt ways! Emeline saw the horrid man smirk, though she doubted anyone else caught his expression.

“Quite.” Emeline twitched her left sleeve forward. “Shall we begin again with those dance steps? Mr. Hartley, this will no doubt bore you to tears. We give you leave to go about your business.”