To Taste Temptation

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “Really? I thought you didn’t like balls and social gatherings.” She was pleased, of course, that he’d thought of her, but his sudden interest in her schedule seemed rather odd.

  “Yes, but now that we’re in London...” Samuel let his sentence trail as he drank some coffee. “I thought you might like to go out. See the city, meet some people. You’re only nineteen. You must be bored to death, rattling around this place with just me to keep you company.”

  Well, that wasn’t quite true, Rebecca reflected as she tried to think of a reply. Actually, she was surrounded by many other people—servants. There seemed to be scores of servants in this London town house Samuel had rented. Just when she thought she’d met them all, an odd maid or bootblack boy who she’d never seen before would suddenly pop up. Indeed, right now there were two footmen standing by the wall ready to wait on them. One she thought was named Travers, and the other...fiddlesticks! She’d quite forgotten the other’s name, although she knew for certain that she’d seen him before. He had jetty hair and amazing green eyes. Not, of course, that she should be noticing the color of a footman’s eyes.

  Rebecca poked at her cold eggs. She was only used to Cook and Elsie at home in Boston where she lived with Samuel. Growing up, she’d eaten most of her suppers with Cook and the elderly maid, until she was deemed a lady and made to sit in the dining room with Uncle Thomas. Her uncle had been a dear, and Rebecca loved him, but dining with him had been rather a trial. His dinner conversation had been so flat when compared to the lively nightly gossip she’d had with Cook and Elsie. The conversation at meals had improved a little when Samuel had come to live with her on the death of Uncle Thomas, but not by much. Samuel could be terribly witty when he wanted to, but so often he seemed distracted by business affairs.

  “Do you mind?” Samuel’s question broke into her rambling thoughts.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Her brother was frowning at her now, and Rebecca had the sinking sensation that somehow she’d disappointed him. “Do you mind that I’ve asked Lady Emeline to help?”

  “No, not at all.” She smiled brightly. Of course, she’d rather that he’d spent the time with her, but he was in London on business, after all. “I’m flattered that you thought of me.”

  But this answer made him set down his coffee cup. “You say that as if I consider you a burden.”

  Rebecca dropped her gaze. Actually, that was exactly how she reckoned he thought of her. A burden. How could he not? She was much younger than he and brought up in the city. Samuel, in contrast, had been raised in the wilds of the frontier until the age of fourteen. Sometimes she thought the gulf that separated them was wider than the ocean. “I know you didn’t wish me to come on this trip.”

  “We’ve been over this before. I was happy to include you once I knew that you wanted to travel with me.”

  “Yes, and I’m very grateful.” Rebecca carefully straightened the silverware at her place, aware that her answer wasn’t quite right. She peeked at him under her brows.

  He was frowning again. “Rebecca, I—”

  The entrance of the butler interrupted him. “Mr. Kitcher has arrived, sir.”

  Mr. Kitcher was her brother’s man of business.

  “Thank you,” Samuel muttered. He stood and bent to kiss her on the forehead. “Kitcher and I are to see a man about arranging to visit Wedgwood’s showroom. I’ll be back after luncheon. We are expected at her ladyship’s house at two o’clock.”

  “Very well,” Rebecca replied, but Samuel was already at the door. He exited without another word, and Rebecca was left to contemplate her eggs all alone. Except, of course, for the footmen.

  THE COLONIAL GENTLEMAN was even more imposing standing in her little sitting room. That was Emeline’s first thought that afternoon when she turned to greet her guests. The contrast was stark between her pretty sitting room—elegant, sophisticated, and very civilized—and the man who stood so motionless at its center. He should’ve been overwhelmed by the gilt and satin, should’ve seemed naïve and a little crude in his plain woolen clothes.

  Instead he dominated the room.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hartley.” Emeline held out her hand, belatedly remembering their handshake of the day before. She held her breath to see if he’d repeat that unorthodox gesture. But Mr. Hartley merely took her hand and quite properly brushed his lips in the air an inch above her knuckles. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate there, his nostrils flaring, and then he straightened. She caught the amused gleam in his eyes. Her own eyes narrowed. The scoundrel! He’d known all along yesterday that he was supposed to kiss her hand.

  “May I present my sister, Rebecca Hartley,” he said now, and Emeline was forced to marshal her attention.

  The young girl who stepped forward was pleasingly attractive. She had her brother’s dark hair, but where his eyes were a warm brown, hers held sparks of green and even yellow. A most unusual color but very pretty nonetheless. She wore a simple dimity frock with a square neckline and a bit of lace at the sleeves and bodice. Emeline noted that the wardrobe could certainly be improved.

  “How do you do?” she said as the girl made a passable curtsy.

  “Oh, ma’am—I mean, my lady—I’m so pleased to meet you,” Miss Hartley gasped. She had a pretty, if unpolished manner.

  Emeline nodded. “My aunt, Mademoiselle Molyneux.”

  Tante Cristelle was sitting at her left, perched at the very edge of her chair so that several inches of air was between her ramrod-straight back and the chair’s back. The older woman inclined her head. Her lips were pinched, but her eyes were staring at the hem of Miss Hartley’s dress.

  Mr. Hartley smiled, his mouth twisting rather raffishly at the corners as he bowed over her aunt’s hand. “How do you do, ma’am?”

  “Very well, I thank you, monsieur,” Tante said crisply.

  Mr. Hartley and his sister sat, the girl on the yellow and white damask settee, her brother on the orange wing chair. Emeline settled in an armchair and nodded at Crabs, the butler, who immediately disappeared to order the tea.

  “You said yesterday that you were in London on business, Mr. Hartley. What kind?” she asked her guest.

  Mr. Hartley flicked the skirt of his brown coat aside to set one ankle across the knee of the opposite leg. “I deal in the import and export of goods to Boston.”

  “Indeed?” Emeline murmured faintly. Mr. Hartley seemed not at all self-conscious to admit engaging in trade. But then what else could one expect from a colonial who wore leather leggings? Her gaze dropped to his crossed leg. The soft leather fit closely to his calf, outlining a lovely masculine form. She averted her eyes.

  “I hope to meet Mr. Josiah Wedgwood,” Mr. Hartley said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He has a marvelous new crockery factory.”

  “Crockery.” Tante Cristelle employed her lorgnette—an affectation that she used mainly when she wished to cow others. She peered first at Mr. Hartley and then returned to her fascination with Miss Hartley’s lower skirts.

  Mr. Hartley remained uncowed. He smiled at Emeline’s aunt and then at Emeline. “Crockery. Amazing how much crockery we use in the Colonies. My business already imports earthenware and such, but I believe that there is a market for finer stuff. Things that a fashionable lady might have at her table. Mr. Wedgwood has perfected a process to make creamware more delicate than anyone has ever seen. I hope to persuade him that Hartley Importers is the company to best bring his goods to the Colonies.”

  Emeline raised her eyebrows, intrigued despite herself. “You will market the china for him there?”

  “No. It will be the usual exchange. I will buy his goods and then resell them across the Atlantic. What’s different is that I hope to have the exclusive right to trade his goods in the Colonies.”

  “You are ambitious, Mr. Hartley,” Tante Cristelle said. She did not sound approving.

  Mr. Hartley inclined his head to her aunt. He didn’t seem perturbed by the old woman’s disapproval. Em
eline found herself reluctantly admiring his self-possession. He was foreign in a way that had nothing to do with being American. The gentlemen of her acquaintance didn’t deal in commerce, let alone discuss it so bluntly with a lady. It was rather interesting to have a man regard her as an intellectual equal. At the same time, she was aware that he would never belong in her world.

  Miss Hartley cleared her throat. “My brother has informed me that you have kindly agreed to chaperone me, ma’am.”

  The entrance of three maids bearing laden tea trays prevented Emeline from making a suitable retort—one that would wing the brother and not the girl. He’d taken her assent for granted, had he? She noticed, as the maids bustled about, that Mr. Hartley was watching her quite openly. She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge, but he only quirked his own back at her. Was he flirting with her? Didn’t he know that she was far, far out of his reach?

  When the tea things had been settled, Emeline began to pour, her back so straight that she put even Tante to shame. “I am considering championing you, Miss Hartley.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words. “Perhaps you’ll tell me why you have—?”

  She was interrupted by a whirlwind. The sitting room door slammed against the wall, bouncing off the woodwork and putting yet another chip in the paint. A tangle of arms and long legs lunged at her.

  Emeline jerked the hot teapot away with the ease of long practice.

  “M’man! M’man!” panted the demon child. His blond curls were quite deceptively angelic. “Cook says she has made currant buns. May I have one?”

  Emeline set down the teapot and drew in a breath to castigate him, only to find Tante talking instead. “Mais oui, mon chou! Here, take a plate and Tante Cristelle will pick out the buns most plump for you.”

  Emeline cleared her throat, and both boy and elderly aunt looked at her guiltily. She smiled meaningfully at her offspring. “Daniel, would you be so kind as to put down that bun clutched in your fist and make your bows to our guests?”

  Daniel relinquished his rather squashed prize, and then regrettably wiped his palm on his breeches. Emeline took a breath but refrained from commenting. One skirmish at a time. She turned to the Hartleys. “May I present my son, Daniel Gordon, Baron Eddings.”

  The imp made a very correct bow—beautiful enough to cause her bosom to swell with maternal pride. Not, of course, that Emeline let her satisfaction show; no need to make the boy vain. Mr. Hartley held out his hand in the exact same gesture that he’d given her yesterday. Her son beamed. Grown men didn’t usually offer their hands to eight-year-olds, no matter their rank. Gravely, Daniel took the much larger hand and shook it.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, my lord,” Mr. Hartley said.

  Daniel bowed to the girl, and then Emeline handed him a bun wrapped in a cloth. “Now run away, dear. I have—”

  “Surely your son can stay with us, ma’am,” Mr. Hartley interrupted her.

  Emeline drew herself up. How dare the man interfere between her and her child? She was on the point of giving him a set-down when he caught her eye. Mr. Hartley’s eyes were wrinkled about the edges, but instead of amusement, they appeared to reflect sorrow. He didn’t even know her son. Why, then, would he feel pity for the boy?

  “Please, M’man?” Daniel asked.

  Her consternation should’ve only grown stronger—the boy knew better than to beg once she’d made a decision—but instead something inside her melted.

  “Oh, very well.” She knew she sounded like a grumpy old woman, but Daniel grinned and took a seat near Mr. Hartley, wiggling back in the too-big chair. And Mr. Hartley smiled at her with his coffee-brown eyes. That sight seemed to make her breath come short, which was a ridiculous reaction from a mature woman of the world.

  “So, then, this is most pleasant,” Tante Cristelle said. She winked at Daniel, and he squirmed in his chair until he caught his mother’s eye. “But now, I think, we must discuss Mademoiselle Hartley’s clothing.”

  Miss Hartley, who had just taken a sip of tea, seemed to choke. “Ma’am?”

  Tante Cristelle nodded once. “It is atrocious.”

  Mr. Hartley set his teacup down carefully. “Mademoiselle Molyneux, I think—”

  The old woman rounded on him. “Do you wish your sister to be laughed at, eh? Do you want the other young ladies to whisper behind their fans? For the young men to refuse to dance with her? Is this what you aspire to?”

  “No, of course not,” Mr. Hartley said. “What’s wrong with Rebecca’s dress?”

  “Nothing.” Emeline set down her own dish of tea. “Nothing at all if Miss Hartley only wants to visit the parks and some of the sights of London. I’m quite sure what she’s wearing now is sufficient even for the fashionable of Boston in your colonies. But for the London haut ton—”

  “She must have the frocks very elegant!” Tante Cristelle exclaimed. “And also the gloves and the shawls and the hats and the shoes.” She leaned forward to thump her stick. “The shoes, they are most important.”

  Miss Hartley glanced at her slippers in alarm, but Mr. Hartley only looked faintly amused. “I see.”

  Tante Cristelle peered at him shrewdly. “And all of these things, they will cost a pretty penny, non?”

  She didn’t add that he would be providing a wardrobe for Emeline as well. It was understood in London society that this was the way in which Emeline would be recompensed for her time spent chaperoning his sister.

  Emeline waited for some type of protest from Mr. Hartley. Evidently he hadn’t realized the expense involved in a young chit’s season. Most families saved for many years for the event; some even went into debt purchasing a girl’s costumes. He might be a very rich man in Boston, but how did that translate to London wealth? Would he be able to afford such an unexpected outlay? She was oddly disappointed at the thought that he might have to abandon the entire endeavor.

  But Mr. Hartley merely took a bite from a bun. It was Miss Hartley who made the protest. “Oh, Samuel, it’s too much! I don’t need a new wardrobe, truly I don’t.”

  A very pretty speech. The sister had given the brother an honorable out. Emeline turned to Mr. Hartley with raised eyebrows. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Daniel used the opportunity of the adults’ distraction to filch another bun.

  Mr. Hartley took a long swallow of tea before speaking. “It seems you do need a new wardrobe, Rebecca. Lady Emeline says so and I think we must rely on her advice.”

  “But the expense!” The girl looked truly distressed.

  The brother did not. “Don’t worry over it. I can bear it.” He turned to Emeline. “When shall we go shopping, then, my lady?”

  “There’s no need for you to accompany us,” Emeline said. “You may simply give us a letter of credit—”

  “But I’d enjoy escorting you ladies,” the colonial interrupted her smoothly. “Surely you’ll not deny me so simple a pleasure?”

  Emeline pressed her lips together. She knew he’d be a distraction, but there was no polite way to discourage him. Her smile was tight. “Of course, we would be glad to have your company.”

  He gave the impression of grinning without actually changing his expression, the lines deepening on either side of his mouth. Extraordinary man! “Then I repeat, when shall we make this expedition?”

  “Tomorrow,” Emeline replied crisply.

  His sensuous lips curved slightly. “Fine.”

  And she narrowed her eyes. Either Mr. Hartley was a fool or he was richer than King Midas himself.

  HE WOKE IN the night, covered in sweat from the nightmare. Sam held himself still, his eyes straining in the darkness as he waited for the thundering in his chest to quiet. The fire had gone out, dammit, and the room was cold. He’d told the maids to bank it well, but they never seemed to do so adequately. By morning, his fire was usually mere embers. Tonight it was entirely dead.

  He swung his legs out of the bed, and his bare feet hit the carpet. He stumbled through the blackness to the win
dow and pulled the heavy drapes aside. The moon hung high over the roofs of the city, its light cold and pale. He used the dim glow to dress, shedding his drenched nightshirt and donning breeches, shirt, waistcoat, leggings, and his moccasins.

  Sam stole out of his room, the soft moccasins making his steps nearly silent. He padded down the great marble staircase and into the lower hall. Here he heard footsteps advancing toward him, and he merged into the shadows. Candlelight flickered closer, and he saw his butler dressed in a nightshirt and holding a bottle in one hand, the candlestick in the other. The man walked past, only inches from where he hid, and Sam caught a whiff of whiskey. He smiled in the dark. How the servant would start if he knew his master was lurking in the gloom. The butler would think him mad.

  Sam waited until the glow of the butler’s candle had disappeared and his footsteps faded. Another minute ticked by as he listened, but all was quiet. He drifted from his hiding place and stole through the empty back kitchen to the servant’s entrance. The key was kept on the mantelpiece of the great fireplace, but he had a duplicate. He let himself out, the latch clicking closed behind him. It was pleasantly chill outside, and he repressed a shiver. For a moment, he lingered in the shadows by the back door, listening, watching, and scenting. All he caught was the scurrying of a rodent in the bushes and the sudden mewl of a cat. No human nearby. He slid through the narrow walled garden, brushing by mint and parsley and other herbs whose scents he couldn’t name. Then he was in the mews, checking for a minute here as well.

  He began to run. His footfalls were as quiet as the cat’s, but he kept to the edge of the dark shadows near the stables. He hated to be found out when he stole into the night. Perhaps that was why he didn’t bother with a valet.

  He passed a doorway, and the stink of urine wafted into his nose, making him veer away. He’d never seen a city—a small town, really—until he’d been ten years old. Three and twenty years later, he could still recall the shock of the smell. The terrible stink of hundreds of people living too close together with no place to dispose of their piss and shit. As a boy, he’d nearly heaved when he’d realized that the trickle of brown water in the middle of the fine cobblestone street was an open sewer. One of the first lessons Pa had taught him as a lad was to hide his waste. Animals were canny. If they smelled the odor of people, they’d not venture near. No animals, no food. It had been as simple as that in the great forests of Pennsylvania.