To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(14)

“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—”