To Taste Temptation

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  But oddly Emeline knew exactly what Rebecca meant. Mr. Hartley moved with a graceful confidence that made her think he knew his own body and how it worked better than other men did theirs. She turned to watch Mr. Hartley now. He waited for his turn to buy the tea. In front of him, an older gentleman frowned and impatiently tapped his toe. There were other customers as well, some tapping their feet, some shifting their weight restlessly. Only Mr. Hartley was perfectly still. He looked neither impatient nor bored, as if he could stand thus, one leg bent, his arms crossed at his chest, for hours. He caught her eye, and his eyebrows slowly rose, either in question or in challenge, she couldn’t tell. Her face heated and she looked away.

  “You and your brother seem very close,” she said to Rebecca. “Despite your childhood apart.”

  The girl smiled, but her eyes seemed uncertain. “I hope we’re close. I think that we are close. I admire my brother greatly.”

  Emeline watched the girl thoughtfully. The sentiment was correct, to be sure, but Rebecca phrased the words almost as a question.

  “My lady,” Mr. Hartley said, suddenly at her side.

  Emeline started and glanced at the man in exasperation. Had he crept up beside her on purpose?

  He smiled that maddeningly cryptic smile of his and held out a plate of pink sugared sweets. Behind him, a girl brought the tray of tea things. Mr. Hartley’s coffee-brown eyes seemed to chide Emeline for her pettiness.

  She took a breath. “Thank you, Mr. Hartley.”

  He inclined his head. “My pleasure, Lady Emeline.”

  Humph. She tasted a candy and found that it was tart and sweet at once. Just right, in fact. She glanced at her aunt. The older lady had her head close to Rebecca’s, talking intently.

  “I hope my aunt is not lecturing your sister,” she commented as she poured the tea.

  Mr. Hartley glanced at Rebecca. “She is made of sterner stuff than she looks. I think she will survive whatever travails your aunt may throw at her.”

  He was leaning casually against the wall not two feet away from her, all the chairs having been already taken. Emeline sipped at her tea as her gaze fell to his strange footwear.

  Without thinking, she voiced her thoughts. “Wherever did you come by those slippers?”

  Mr. Hartley extended one leg, his arms still crossed at his chest. “They’re moccasins, made from American deerskin by the women of the Mohican Indian tribe.”

  The ladies at the next table got up to leave, but he made no move to sit down. The bell rang over the shop door as more people came in.

  She frowned at Mr. Hartley’s moccasins and the leggings above them. He’d gartered the soft leather just below his knees with an embroidered sash and let the ends hang down. “Do all white men wear this attire in the Colonies?”

  “No, not all.” He crossed his legs again. “Most wear the same shoes or boots as gentlemen wear here.”

  “Then why do you choose to sport such strange footwear?” She was aware that her voice was sharp, but somehow his insistence on unconventional clothing was unbearably irritating to her. Why did he do it? If he wore buckle shoes and stockings like every other gentleman in London, no one would notice him. With his wealth, he could perhaps become an English gentleman and be accepted into the ton. He’d be respectable.

  Mr. Hartley shrugged, patently unaware of her inner turmoil. “Hunters wear them in the woods of America. They’re very comfortable and much more useful than English shoes. The leggings protect against thorns and branches. I’m accustomed to them.”

  He looked at her, and in his eyes she somehow saw that he was aware that she wished he was conventional and more like the usual English gentleman. He understood and it made him sad. She stared into his warm, brown eyes, not knowing what to do. There was something there, something they communicated between them, and she didn’t quite understand the subtleties.

  Then a male voice spoke from behind her. “Corporal Hartley! What are you doing in London?”

  SAM TENSED. THE man hailing him was slender and of average height, perhaps a little below. He wore a dark green coat and brown waistcoat, perfectly respectable and ordinary. In fact, he would’ve looked like a thousand other London gentlemen if it weren’t for his hair. It was a bright, orangey-red and clubbed back. Sam tried to place the stranger and couldn’t. There’d been several redheaded men in the regiment.

  The man grinned and stuck out his hand. “Thornton. Dick Thornton. I haven’t seen you in, what? Six years at least. What’re you doing in London?”

  Sam took the proffered hand and shook it. Of course. He could place the other man now. Thornton had been one of the 28th. “I’m here on business, Mr. Thornton.”

  “Indeed? London is a long way for a backwoods tracker from the Colonies.” Thornton smiled as if to take the insult from his words.

  Sam shrugged easily. “My uncle died in sixty. I mustered out of the army and took over his import business in Boston.”

  “Ah.” Thornton rocked back on his heels and glanced inquiringly at Lady Emeline.

  Sam felt an odd reluctance to make the introduction, but he shook it off. “My lady, may I present Mr. Richard Thornton, an old comrade of mine. Thornton, this is Lady Emeline Gordon, Captain St. Aubyn’s sister. Also, this is my sister, Rebecca Hartley, and Lady Emeline’s aunt, Mademoiselle Molyneux.”

  Thornton bowed showily. “Ladies.”

  Lady Emeline held out her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Thornton?”

  The other man’s expression sobered as he bent over Lady Emeline’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lady. May I say that we were all grieved when we heard of your brother’s death.”

  No distress showed on Lady Emeline’s face, but Sam felt her stiffen, even though several feet separated them. He could not explain how this was possible, but it was as if there was a change in the very air between them.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You knew Reynaud?”

  “Of course. We all knew and liked Captain St. Aubyn.” He turned to Sam as if for confirmation. “A gallant gentleman and a great leader of men, wasn’t he, Hartley? Always ready with a kind word, always encouraging us as we marched through those hellish woods. And at the last, when the savages attacked, ma’am, it would’ve done your heart proud to see the way he stood his ground. Some were fearful. Some thought to break ranks and run—” Thornton suddenly stopped and coughed, looking guiltily at Sam.

  Sam stared back stonily. Many had thought he had run at Spinner’s Falls. Sam hadn’t bothered explaining himself then, and he wasn’t about to start doing so now. He knew that Lady Emeline was looking at him, but he refused to meet her eyes. Let her damn him like the rest, if that was what she wanted.

  “Your memories of my nephew are very welcome, Mr. Thornton,” Mademoiselle Molyneux said, breaking into the awkward silence.

  “Well.” Thornton straightened his waistcoat. “It was a long time ago, now. Captain St. Aubyn died a hero’s death. That’s what you should remember.”

  “Do you know of any other veterans of the 28th here in London?” Sam asked the other man softly.

  Thornton blew out a breath as he thought. “Not many, not many. Of course, there were few survivors to begin with. There’s Lieutenant Horn and Captain Renshaw—Lord Vale, he is now—but I hardly move in the same exalted circles as they.” He smiled at Lady Emeline as if to acknowledge her rank. “There’s Wimbley and Ford, and Sergeant Allen, poor blighter. Terrible what he’s become. Never recovered from losing that leg.”

  Sam’d already questioned Wimbley and Ford. Sergeant Allen was harder to track. He mentally moved his name to the top of the list of people he needed to speak to.

  “What about your comrades from the regiment?” he asked. “I remember that there were five or six of you who used to share the same fire at night. You seemed to have a leader, another redheaded man, Private...”

  “MacDonald. Andy MacDonald. Yes, people used to have trouble telling us apart. The hair, you know. Funny, it’s the only t
hing some people remember about me.” Thornton shook his head. “Poor MacDonald took a ball to the head at Spinner’s Falls. Fell right beside me, he did.”

  Sam kept his gaze steady but could feel a drop of sweat slide down his backbone. He didn’t like thinking of that day, and the crowded London street had already made him uneasy. “And the others?”

  “Dead, all dead, I think. Most fell at Spinner’s Falls, although Ridley survived for a few months after—before the gangrene finally took him.” He grinned ruefully and winked.

  Sam frowned. “Do you—”

  “Mr. Hartley, I believe we still have the shoemaker’s to visit,” Mademoiselle Molyneux cut in.

  Sam broke eye contact with Thornton to look at the ladies. Rebecca was watching him with confusion in her eyes, Lady Emeline’s face was blank, and the old lady merely appeared impatient. “My apologies, ladies. I didn’t mean to bore you with the reminisces of long-ago events.”

  “I apologize as well.” Thornton made another beautiful bow. “It was most pleasant meeting you—”

  “Might I have your address?” Sam asked hastily. “I’d like to talk to you again. Few remember the events of that day.”

  Thornton beamed. “Yes, of course. I, too, enjoy reminiscing. You may find me at my place of business. It’s not too far from here. Only continue down Piccadilly to Dover Street and you will find me. George Thornton and Son, Bootmakers. Founded by my father, don’t you know.”

  “Thank you.” Sam shook hands once again and watched as Thornton made his farewells to the ladies and walked off. His red hair could be discerned in the crowd for some time before he disappeared.

  He turned to Lady Emeline and offered his arm. “Shall we?” And then he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. There was no way she wouldn’t have figured it out. She was an intelligent woman, and she’d heard the entire conversation. But he still felt a sinking in his chest.

  She knew.

  MR. HARTLEY WAS in London because of the massacre at Spinner’s Falls. His questions to Mr. Thornton had been too pointed, his attention to the replies too intense. Something about the massacre of the 28th Regiment bothered him.

  And Reynaud had died at Spinner’s Falls.

  Emeline placed her fingertips on his forearm, but then couldn’t restrain herself. She gripped the muscle of his arm in clenched fingers. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  They had started walking, and his face was in profile to her. A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Ma’am?”

  “No!” she hissed at him. Tante and Rebecca were right behind, and she didn’t want them to hear. “Don’t pretend to misunderstand. I’m not a fool.”

  He glanced at her then. “I would never think you a fool.”

  “Then don’t treat me like one. You served in the same regiment as Reynaud. You knew my brother. What are you investigating?”

  “I...” He hesitated. What was he thinking? What was he hiding from her? “I don’t want to bring up unpleasant memories. I don’t want to remind you—”

  “Remind me! Mon Dieu, can you believe that I have forgotten the death of my only brother? That I would need a word from you to make me think of him? He is with me every day. Every day, I tell you.” She stopped because her breath was coming too roughly, and her voice was beginning to tremble. What idiots men were!

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I did not mean to make light of your loss—”

  She snorted at that.

  He continued over her interruption. “But credit me with some sensitivity. I didn’t know how to speak about your brother. About that day. My sin is one of stupidity, not deliberate maliciousness. Forgive me, please.”

  Such a pretty speech. She bit her lip and watched as two young aristocrats sauntered by, dressed in the height of fashion. Lace spilled from their wrists, their coats were made of velvet, and their wigs were extravagantly curled. They probably hadn’t yet attained their twentieth year, and they walked with all the arrogance of money and privilege, confident in their place in society, confident that the woes of the lesser classes would never touch them. Reynaud had walked like that once.

  She looked away, remembering black, laughing eyes. “He wrote about you.”

  He glanced at her, his brows raised.

  “Reynaud,” she clarified, although she could hardly be speaking of anyone else. “In his letters to me, he wrote about you.”

  Mr. Hartley stared straight ahead. She saw his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed. “What did he say?”

  She shrugged, pretending interest in the window of a lace shop as they passed. It had been years since last she’d pored over Reynaud’s letters, but she knew the contents of every single one by heart.

  “He said that an American corporal had been assigned to his regiment, that he admired your tracking ability. He said that he trusted you above all the other scouts, even the native Indians. He said that you showed him how to discern the difference between the native tribes. That the Mohicans wore their hair in a bristle at the top of their head and that the Wy-Wy—”

  “Wyandot,” he said softly.

  “Wyandot were fond of the colors red and black and favored a long piece of cloth worn in front and back—”

  “A breech clout.”

  “Just so.” She looked down. “He said he liked you.”

  She felt the movement of his chest against the back of her hand as he inhaled. “Thank you.”

  She nodded. There was no need to ask what he thanked her for. “How long did you know him?”

  “Not long,” he said. “After the Battle of Quebec, I was attached to the 28th informally. I was only supposed to march with them until they reached Fort Edward, help scout the way. I knew your brother for a couple of months, maybe a little more. Then, of course, we came to Spinner’s Falls.”

  He had no need to say more. Spinner’s Falls was where they had all died, caught in the cross fire from two groups of Wyandot Indians. She’d read the accounts that were written in the newspapers. Few survivors of the massacre actually wanted to talk of it. Fewer still were willing to discuss it with a woman.

  Emeline inhaled. “Did you see him die?”

  She felt him turn to stare at her. “My lady—”

  Emeline twisted a ruffle at her waist until she felt silk tear. “Did you see him die?”

  He blew out a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was tight. “No.”

  She let the bit of fabric go. Was it relief she felt?

  “Why do you ask? Surely it does no good to hear—”

  “Because I want—no, I need—to know what it was like for him at the last.” She glanced at Mr. Hartley’s face and knew from the slight indent between his brows that he was puzzled. She gazed sightlessly ahead as she tried to find the words for her thoughts. “If I can understand, perhaps feel, just a little of what he went through, I can be closer to him.”

  He was frowning harder now. “He’s dead. I doubt that your brother would want you to brood thus over his death.”

  She chuckled, but it came out a dry exhalation of air. “But as you say, he is dead. What he would or would not want no longer matters.”

  Ah, now she had shocked him. Men were sure that ladies were to be shielded from life’s harsh realities. Men, poor dears, were so naive. Did they think childbirth was a stroll before luncheon?

  But he rallied fast, this strange colonialist. “Please explain.”

  “I do this for myself, not Reynaud.” She puffed out a breath. Why did she even bother? He wouldn’t understand. “My brother was so young when he died, just eight and twenty, and there were many things left undone in his life. I have only a finite number of memories of him. There will never be any more.”

  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.”

  Chapter Four

  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.”