Laughing with joy.
THAT NIGHT, SAM wore black, the better to slide into the shadows between the buildings. It was well past midnight, and the moon hung high overhead, casting a colorless glow on the earth below. He was on his way home, having already been to see Ned Allen—or what was left of the man. The ex-sergeant had been incoherent with drink. Sam hadn’t been able to get any information from him; he’d have to try again later, perhaps catch the man earlier in the day. Trying to question Allen had been a waste of time, but stalking the shadows was invigorating nevertheless.
He carefully watched the street. A carriage was rumbling closer, but there was no other sign of life. Visiting Ned’s crib had made Sam remember Scarlet Coat. Had his follower given up the chase? He’d not seen the big man again. Strange. What had the man been—
“Mr. Hartley!”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment. He knew that voice.
“I say, Mr. Hartley! What are you doing?”
He’d been the best tracker in the Colonies during the war. It wasn’t vanity that said so; his commanders had told him. Once, he’d snuck right through a camp full of sleeping Wyandot warriors and not a one had been the wiser. And yet one small woman found him out. Could she see in the dark?
“Mr. Hartley—”
“Yes, yes,” he hissed, emerging from the dark doorway he’d been lurking in. He approached the grand carriage. It was stopped in the middle of the road, the horses blowing impatiently. Lady Emeline’s head appeared disembodied, sticking out from the dark curtains that covered the carriage’s window.
He bowed. “Good evening, Lady Emeline. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Come inside,” she said impatiently. “I can’t think what you’re doing out alone so late. Don’t you know how dangerous London can be for a man by himself? But perhaps you are used to the more benign streets of Boston.”
“Yes, that’s probably it,” he said wryly as he climbed inside her elegant carriage. “And may I ask what you’re doing out so late, my lady?” He rapped at the roof before taking the seat across from her.
“I’m returning from a soiree, of course,” Lady Emeline said. She smoothed the shawl that covered her knees. The carriage lurched forward as they started again.
It was dim inside the carriage, the only light a single lantern by her face, but he could see that she was dressed very grandly. She wore a flame-red frock with some type of pattern in yellow. The skirt had been drawn aside to reveal a petticoat in yellow and green. Above, her bodice was square and very low, her breasts pushed up until they formed two soft, white mounds that nearly glowed in the lamplight. Heat seemed to radiate off her, warming his bones.
“It was rather dull, so I came away early,” the lady continued. “You won’t believe, but the punch was gone by ten, and there was hardly much for a midnight supper—only a few meat pies and fruit. Quite scandalous. I can’t think what Mrs. Turner was about, serving such poor refreshments to everyone who matters. But the woman always has been a wigeon. The only reason I attend her parties is in the hope of seeing her brother, Lord Downing. He is a terrible gossip.”
She paused, probably because she’d run out of breath. Sam stared at her, trying to figure out why she was speaking so fast. Had she been drinking spirits at her party? Or was she...? He felt a smile forming and worked to suppress it. No, it couldn’t be. Was Lady Emeline nervous? He’d never thought to see the sophisticated widow out of sorts.
“But why were you about so late?” Lady Emeline asked. Her hands, which had been busy playing with the lace that trimmed her bodice, stilled. “Or, perhaps that is none of my business.” Even in the dim light, he could see the blush that stained her cheeks.
“No, it isn’t your business,” he replied. “But not for the reason you think.”
If she’d been a little black hen, her feathers would’ve ruffled. “I don’t know what you mean to imply by that, Mr. Hartley. I am sure—”
“You think I’ve been to see a whore.” He smiled and slid lower in the carriage seat, canting his legs to the side so that he might cross them. He slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pockets, enjoying himself. “Admit it.”
“I will do no such thing!”
“But that blush on your cheeks says otherwise.”
“I...I—”
He tutted. “Your thoughts are very lewd. I am shocked, my lady, quite shocked.”
For a moment, all she could do was sputter; then her eyes narrowed as she recovered. Sam braced himself. God, he liked sparring with this woman.
“I couldn’t care less how you conduct yourself after dark,” she said primly. “Your affairs are of absolutely no importance to me.”
She’d made an entirely proper statement and was obviously uncomfortable on this ground. If he was a gentleman, he’d let it—her—go, turn the conversation to something dull and polite such as the weather. The problem was that once the prey was within his grasp, it was so very difficult to let go.
Not to mention that polite conversation had always bored him. “My affairs should be of no importance to you, but they are, aren’t they?”
Her brows drew together as she opened her mouth.
“Ah. Ah.” He held up a finger to forestall her denial. “It’s past midnight, and we’re alone in a dark carriage. What’s said here will never see the light of day. Humor me, lady, and be frank.”
She inhaled deeply and sat back, her face entirely hidden by shadows now. “What difference does it make to you if I do find your affairs to be of interest, Mr. Hartley?”
He smiled wryly. “Touché, my lady. I’m sure a sophisticated gentleman of your society would deny it to his death if he was moved by your interest, but I am made of simpler stuff.”
“Are you?” The words were whispered in the dark.
He nodded slowly. “So I tell you: I am moved by your interest. I am moved by you.”
“You are frank.”
“Can you admit the same?”
She gasped and for a moment, he thought he’d gone too far and that she’d retreat from this dangerous game. She was a lady of standing, after all, and there were rules and boundaries in her world.
But she slowly leaned forward, her face emerging into the small pool of light cast through the window. She looked him full in the face and arched one black eyebrow. “And if I did?”
And he felt something within his chest leap that she dared to pick up his gauntlet—something like joy. He grinned at her. “Then, my lady, we have a point of mutual interest that bears further discussion.”
“Perhaps.” She sat back against her plush red cushions. “What were you doing out on the streets this late at night?”
He shook his head, smiling slightly.
“You’re not going to tell me.” The carriage was slowing now.
“No.” He glanced at the window. They were outside her town house. It blazed in the night with lit lanterns. He looked back at her. “But I wasn’t with a woman; I give you my word.”
“It shouldn’t matter to me.”
“But it does, doesn’t it?”
“I think you presume too much, Mr. Hartley.”
“I think I don’t.”
A footman opened the carriage door. Sam stepped down and then turned to offer her his hand. She hesitated a moment, as if considering whether to let him help her or not. She was surrounded by the dark interior of the carriage, her pale face and bosom glowing as if lit by a fire from within. She placed her small gloved hand in his. He tightened his fingers over hers as he drew her into the light by the walk.
“Thank you,” she said, and tugged at her hand.
He stared down at her dark eyes, aware that he didn’t want to let her go. But in the end, he opened his hand and let hers slip away. There was no other choice.
He bowed. “Good night, my lady.”
And he walked away into the darkness.
Chapter Five
The wizard winked once, and Iron Heart found himself within the castle’s wa
lls. He was dressed as the king’s own guard, and there, not two paces away, sat the king himself on his golden throne! Well, you can imagine how surprised he was. He opened his mouth to exclaim when he remembered the wizard’s words. He must not speak, else he would return to rags and the princess would die. So Iron Heart shut his mouth and vowed not to let a sound pass his lips. His vow was soon tested, for what should happen next but seven burly knaves rushed into the throne room, bent on killing the king. Iron Heart leapt forward into battle, swinging his sword left and right. The other guards shouted, but by the time they drew their swords, all seven assassins lay dead on the floor....
—from Iron Heart
“Samuel Hartley is the most irritating man,” Emeline said late the next morning.
She was in the little sitting room with Melisande Fleming. This room was one of her favorites; the walls were papered in yellow and white stripes with a thin scarlet line that occasionally repeated. The furnishings were not as new as the ones in her formal sitting room, but they were done in lush reds and oranges in lovely damasks and velvets. One felt just like a cat in the room, as if it would be easy to stretch out on the rich fabrics and purr. Not, of course, that she would do anything so uninhibited, but still, the feeling was there. In actual fact, she and Melisande sat quite properly by the windows. Or rather, Melisande sat and Emeline paced as her friend calmly drank tea.
“Irritating,” Emeline muttered, and straightened a tasseled pillow on the settee.
“So you’ve said before,” Melisande replied. “Four times since I arrived.”
“Have I?” Emeline asked vaguely. “Well, but it’s true. He doesn’t seem to have the first idea of social manners—he danced a jig in this very house just the other day—he always has a bit of a smile on his face, and his boots have no heels.”
“Horrors,” Melisande murmured.
Emeline shot Melisande, who had been her very good friend since nearly the beginning of time, an exasperated look. She sat as she always did, as if she strove to occupy as little space as humanly possible. Her back was straight and prim, her arms almost clapped to her sides, her hands folded in her lap—when she wasn’t drinking tea—and her feet placed neatly side by side on the carpet. She probably never felt an urge to lounge in the pillows piled up on the flame settee. Also—and this was something of a point of contention between the friends—Melisande always wore brown. Sometimes, it was true, she strayed from brown and was seen in gray, but that could hardly be called an improvement, could it? Today, for instance, she was in an impeccably cut sack dress that was an awful shade of dirt brown.
“Why ever did you have that gown made in that fabric?” Emeline asked.
Another lady might look down at herself. Melisande picked up the teapot and calmly poured herself more tea. “It doesn’t show dust.”
“That’s because it’s the same color as dust.”
“There you are.”
Emeline stared at her friend critically. “With your fine, blond hair—”
“It’s dust-colored, too,” Melisande murmured wryly.
“No, it’s not. It’s just that you have very subtle coloring.”
“Dust-colored hair, dust-colored eyes, dust-colored complexion—”
“Your complexion is not dust-colored,” Emeline said sternly, then winced when she realized her gaffe. She hadn’t meant to imply that the rest of her friend was dust-colored.
Melisande shot her an ironic look.
“If you would just wear more vibrant colors,” Emeline said hastily. “A lovely dark plum, for instance. Or crimson. I long to see you in crimson.”
“Then you shall have to pine away,” her friend said. “You were telling me about your new neighbor.”
“He’s quite irritating.”
“You may have mentioned that before.”
Emeline ignored that. “And I don’t know what he does at night.”
Melisande looked at her. One eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly.
“That’s not what I meant!” Emeline fluffed a pillow rather overhard.
“I am relieved,” Melisande replied. “But I’m wondering what Lord Vale thinks of this colonial.”
Emeline stared. “Jasper has nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Hartley.”
“Are you sure? Would he approve of your association with the man?”
Emeline wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to discuss Jasper.”
“I must say, I’m outraged on Lord Vale’s behalf,” Melisande said without heat as she plunked a spoonful of sugar into her tea.
“I’m sure Jasper would be flattered if he only knew.” Emeline sat on the edge of a beautiful gold velvet chair. Her mind immediately reverted to her original theme. “It’s just that I ran across Mr. Hartley last night quite late. I was coming home from Emily Turner’s soiree—you were right; I never should have gone—”
“Told you.”
“Yes, and I’ve just said so.” Emeline bounced a little in her chair. Melisande could be so didactic sometimes. “Anyway, there he was, skulking in a quite suspicious manner in a dark alley.”
“Perhaps he makes his living as a footpad,” Melisande said. She was examining the tray of sweets that the maid had left them.
Emeline frowned. It was very hard sometimes to tell when her friend was jesting and when she was not. “I don’t think so.”
“How reassuring,” Melisande said, and chose a tiny pale yellow cake.
“Although he does seem to move very quietly,” Emeline mused, “which I would think would be most helpful if one was a footpad.”
Melisande had popped the cake into her mouth, and she merely raised her eyebrows now.
“But no. No.” Emeline shook her head decisively. “Mr. Hartley isn’t a footpad. So that leaves the question, What was he doing walking about so late?”
Melisande swallowed. “The most obvious answer is an assignation.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” Emeline didn’t know why her friend’s suggestion so nettled her. It was, as she said, obvious. Emeline took a steadying breath. “I asked and he said most explicitly that he had not been to see a lady.”
Melisande coughed dryly. “You asked a gentleman if he was returning from a tryst with a female.”
Emeline blushed. “You always make things sound so awful.”
“I merely repeated your words.”
“It wasn’t like that at all. I made an inquiry; he replied most properly.”
“But, dearest, don’t you see that he would deny an assignation to you in any case?”
“He didn’t lie to me.” Emeline knew she spoke too vehemently. Her face and neck were hot. “He didn’t.”
Melisande looked at her with eyes that were suddenly weary. This was a sore point for her friend. Melisande was nearly eight and twenty and had never married, despite having a very respectable dowry. She’d been engaged once, nearly ten years ago, to a young aristocrat whom Emeline had never really liked. And her dislike had proven well founded. The cad had thrown Melisande over for a dashing titled widow, leaving Melisande with an unnaturally cynical view of gentlemen in general.
Yet, despite her own views, Melisande merely nodded now at Emeline’s rather silly assertion that a gentleman she hardly knew would tell her the truth about so private a matter.
Emeline smiled in gratitude. Brown or not, Melisande was the dearest friend imaginable.
“If he wasn’t returning from an assignation,” Melisande said thoughtfully, “then perhaps he’d been to a gaming hell. Did you ask him where he’d been?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, but I really don’t think it was anything as prosaic as a gaming hell.”
“Interesting.” Melisande stared out the window. The little sitting room was at the back of Emeline’s town house and overlooked the garden. “What does your aunt think of him?”
“You know Tante.” Emeline wrinkled her nose. “She is worried that his sister might not wear shoes.”
“Does she wear shoes?”
“Of course.”
“What a relief,” Melisande murmured. “Tell me, is your Mr. Hartley a tall gentleman with lovely brown hair, unpowdered and clubbed back?”
“Yes.” Emeline stood and moved to the window. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I believe he is doing something gentlemanly in his back garden.” Melisande nodded out the window.
Emeline looked and felt an odd little nervous jolt when she saw Mr. Hartley’s form just over the wall that divided the gardens. He was handling a very long gun.
At that moment, a small form catapulted down her own garden path, followed more slowly by a thin little man. Daniel had come out for his morning walk.
“What do you think he is about with that great gun?” Melisande asked idly.
Mr. Hartley had put down his gun again and now seemed to be peering into the barrel—a position that appeared inherently dangerous.
“Lord knows,” Emeline muttered. She had a great desire to abandon her very good friend and find some pretext to go into her garden. Wigeon! “Something masculine, no doubt.”
“Mmm. And Daniel out there so near to him.” Melisande looked at her over a cup of tea, her eyes amused. “A concerned mama might very well go out to see what her neighbor was doing.”
SAM WAS AWARE of the boy well before he actually saw him. The brick wall between the gardens was six feet tall, but the sounds of a boy could easily be heard—a skipping run in dry leaves, a panting cry to “come see!” and finally the scrabbling of boots on tree bark as the lad scrambled up a tree. There was a relative silence then, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing as the boy watched him.
Sam sat on a marble bench beneath the wall, his Kentucky rifle laid across his knees. He took a long piece of wire from his pocket and threaded it through the touchhole, working it back and forth to scrape out any corrosion. Then he blew into the tiny hole and sighted down the barrel.
To Taste Temptation Page 7
