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Devious. Emeline nodded briskly and stepped forward so that she and Rebecca now flanked Mr. Hartley in a line. She held out her hand to him. He took her fingertips, quite properly, but his hand felt hot on hers.
Emeline cleared her throat. She raised their joined hands to shoulder height and faced forward. “Very well.” She pointed her right toe. “We begin on three. One and two and three.”
For the next quarter hour, they practiced various dance steps together. Mr. Hartley sometimes partnered his sister, sometimes her. And Emeline, though she would never have admitted it even if put on the rack, rather enjoyed herself. She was amazed that such a big man could be so light and graceful on his feet.
Then somehow, Rebecca made a false step, and she and her brother ended up tangled. He caught his sister about the waist as Emeline hastily stepped away from the mess. “Careful there, Becca, or you’ll have your partner on the floor.”
“Oh, I’m terrible at this!” the younger girl cried. “It isn’t fair! You never danced this way as a boy and yet you can follow the steps.”
Emeline looked between brother and sister. “In what way did Mr. Hartley dance as a boy?”
“Badly,” he said.
While at the same time his sister said, “He jigged.”
“Jigged?” Emeline tried to imagine Mr. Hartley’s tall form bouncing up and down in a country jig.
“The peasants about the château where I grew up used to dance so,” Tante remarked.
“I would like to see you jig,” Emeline mused.
Mr. Hartley shot her an ironic look. Emeline smiled back. For a moment, their gazes were locked and she couldn’t quite discern the look in his brown eyes.
“He was wonderfully fast,” Rebecca said, warming to her theme. “But then he got old and stiff, and he doesn’t jig anymore.”
Mr. Hartley broke eye contact with Emeline to mock frown at his sister. “A challenge if I ever heard one.”
He took off his coat and, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, struck a pose, hands on hips, head held high.
“You’ll really do it?” Rebecca was laughing openly now.
He sighed theatrically. “If you’ll keep time.”
Rebecca began clapping and Mr. Hartley leapt. Emeline had seen men jig before—peasants celebrating or sailors on shore leave from their ships. Usually such dancing was characterized by the clumsiness of the movements, legs and heels kicking everywhere, hair and clothing flying in the air like a puppet on a string. But when Mr. Hartley jigged, it was different. He was contained, for one thing, his movements precise and intentioned. And he was graceful. It was extraordinary. He was jumping about, his moccasined feet stomping on the parquet floor, and yet somehow he contrived to be graceful and quick. He grinned at her, a wholly joyful look, his strong, white teeth flashing against his brown skin. Emeline clapped to the beat along with everyone else, including Tante.
He darted forward and drew Rebecca into his wild dance, spinning her in a circle until she staggered away, laughing and out of breath. Then he caught Emeline. She found herself whirled in strong, sure hands. The mirrored walls and the faces of Rebecca and Tante flew past, and she felt her heart speed until she thought it might burst from her chest. Mr. Hartley grasped her about the waist and lifted her high over his laughing face, and she found that she was laughing, too.
Laughing with joy.
THAT NIGHT, SAM wore black, the better to slide into the shadows between the buildings. It was well past midnight, and the moon hung high overhead, casting a colorless glow on the earth below. He was on his way home, having already been to see Ned Allen—or what was left of the man. The ex-sergeant had been incoherent with drink. Sam hadn’t been able to get any information from him; he’d have to try again later, perhaps catch the man earlier in the day. Trying to question Allen had been a waste of time, but stalking the shadows was invigorating nevertheless.
He carefully watched the street. A carriage was rumbling closer, but there was no other sign of life. Visiting Ned’s crib had made Sam remember Scarlet Coat. Had his follower given up the chase? He’d not seen the big man again. Strange. What had the man been—
“Mr. Hartley!”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment. He knew that voice.
“I say, Mr. Hartley! What are you doing?”
He’d been the best tracker in the Colonies during the war. It wasn’t vanity that said so; his commanders had told him. Once, he’d snuck right through a camp full of sleeping Wyandot warriors and not a one had been the wiser. And yet one small woman found him out. Could she see in the dark?
“Mr. Hartley—”
“Yes, yes,” he hissed, emerging from the dark doorway he’d been lurking in. He approached the grand carriage. It was stopped in the middle of the road, the horses blowing impatiently. Lady Emeline’s head appeared disembodied, sticking out from the dark curtains that covered the carriage’s window.
He bowed. “Good evening, Lady Emeline. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Come inside,” she said impatiently. “I can’t think what you’re doing out alone so late. Don’t you know how dangerous London can be for a man by himself? But perhaps you are used to the more benign streets of Boston.”
