To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(8)

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 window 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.