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Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale, half sat, half lay on a great red velvet wing chair. One long leg draped over the chair’s arm and swung absently as he turned a page in the great book on his lap. A large buckle shoe lay overturned beside the chair; the foot on the swinging leg was clad only in a stocking.
Sam snorted softly and crouched by the window, enjoying the fact that the man never knew he was being watched from without. Vale had commanded the Light Company of the 28th. Where the other former soldiers he’d talked to had aged and changed in the six years since he’d seen them, Renshaw—now Viscount Vale—was the same. His face was long and thin, with deep lines bracketing a wide mouth and a too-large nose. He wasn’t a handsome man, and yet his face was impossible to dislike. The eyes drooped at the corners, rather like a hunting dog’s, appearing always slightly sad, even when he was in good cheer. The rest of Vale looked like he’d never outgrown the lankiness of adolescence. His arms and legs were long and bony, his hands and feet overlarge as if he still waited for his limbs to fill out. Yet Vale was the same age as Sam. As Sam considered him, Vale licked his thumb and turned another page in his book; then he picked up a crystal glass with ruby liquid and sipped from it.
Sam remembered Vale as a good officer, though not as commanding as Reynaud. He’d been too relaxed to bother instilling respect in the men. Instead, he’d been the one who others had gone to with their problems and their petty arguments. Vale was as likely to dice with the common soldiers as dine with the officers. He’d always been in a good mood, always ready to tell a joke or play a prank on his fellow officers. It’d made him a favorite of the troops. He wasn’t the type of man anyone would think could betray an entire regiment.
And yet if Sam’s information was true, someone had. He patted his pocket, feeling the paper within. Someone had alerted the French and their Wyandot Indian allies, told them exactly where the 28th would be. Someone had conspired to massacre an entire regiment of his fellow soldiers at Spinner’s Falls. That possibility had driven Sam to England. He had to find the truth. Find if there was a reason for so many to have died that fall day six years ago. And when he found the man responsible, maybe then he could reclaim his soul, reclaim the life he’d lost at Spinner’s Falls.
Was Vale the right man? The viscount had been in debt to Clemmons, and Clemmons had died in the massacre. But Vale had fought bravely, gallantly, at Spinner’s Falls. Could such a brave officer murder an entire regiment just to get rid of one man? Wouldn’t he be marked? Wouldn’t he bear the scars of his depravity on his face? Or would he, six years later, be sitting contentedly in his library reading a book?
Sam shook his head. The officer he thought he’d known six years ago would never have done such a thing. But he’d only been with the 28th for a little over a month. Maybe he’d never really known Vale. His instinct was to confront Vale, here and now, but he would get no answers that way. Better to approach him obliquely at a social gathering. That was why he’d sought the services of Lady Emeline. On the thought of that lady, Sam withdrew, making his way back through the dark garden. What would Lady Emeline think if she found out his true reason for asking for her help? She still grieved for her brother, but would she want to upset her social standing to accuse a peer? He grimaced as he went over the mews wall again.
Somehow he thought that Lady Emeline would not be happy with the course he’d set.
“No! No! No!” Emeline exclaimed the next morning.
Rebecca froze, her foot half lifted, her expression terrified. They were in Emeline’s town house ballroom where she was attempting to teach the American girl a few of the newer dance steps. Tante Cristelle assisted at the harpsichord, which had been especially carried into the room by two burly footmen. The ballroom floor was parquet, polished to a high gleam, and mirrors lined one entire wall. Rebecca, with her raised foot and terrified expression, was reflected countlessly in the mirrors. Emeline took a deep breath and tried to modify her own expression, pasting on a smile.
Rebecca didn’t look reassured.
Emeline sighed. “You must move easily. Gracefully. Not like a...a...” She searched for a phrase that would not involve the word elephant.
“Drunken sailor.” Samuel Hartley’s voice echoed in her ballroom. He sounded amused.
Rebecca lowered her foot with a thump and glared at her brother. “Thank you very much!”
Mr. Hartley shrugged and strolled into the room. He was neatly turned out in brown and black, but the bruise on his chin was turning yellowy-green, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes.
Emeline narrowed her own eyes. What activities were keeping the colonial from sleeping at night? “Was there something you needed, Mr. Hartley?”
“Indeed,” he replied. “I find I have an urgent need to come supervise my sister’s dancing lesson.”
Rebecca harrumphed at his words, but a shy smile crept over her lips. She was obviously pleased at her brother’s attention.
Emeline was not. Merely the presence of the man in her ballroom disrupted her concentration. “We are very busy here, Mr. Hartley. There are only two days remaining before Rebecca’s first ball.”
“Ah.” He bowed with ironic precision. “I understand the gravity of the situation.”
“Do you?”
“Ahem!” Tante cleared her throat with a horrible grinding noise. Both Emeline and Mr. Hartley turned to stare at her. “The child and I need a short rest from our exertions. A walk about the garden, perhaps? Come, ma petite, I will instruct you on elegant conversations when strolling in so boring a garden.” She held out her hand to Rebecca.
“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” Rebecca replied weakly as she followed the older lady.
Emeline waited, her foot tapping, as her aunt and Rebecca walked to the door and exited the room; then she whirled on Mr. Hartley. “You’ve interrupted this morning’s lesson. What are you doing here?”
He raised his eyebrows and stepped so close, his breath brushed her cheek. “Why do you care?”
“Care?” She opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “It isn’t that I care; it’s simply—”
“You’re in a bad mood.” He pursed his lips and tilted his head as if he were examining a suspect piece of fruit. “You’re often in a bad mood.”
“That’s not true.”
“You were in a bad mood yesterday.”
“But—”
“You were in a bad mood when first I met you at Mrs. Conrad’s salon.”
