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“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.”
“Yes, that’s probably it,” he said wryly as he climbed inside her elegant carriage. “And may I ask what you’re doing out so late, my lady?” He rapped at the roof before taking the seat across from her.
“I’m returning from a soiree, of course,” Lady Emeline said. She smoothed the shawl that covered her knees. The carriage lurched forward as they started again.
It was dim inside the carriage, the only light a single lantern by her face, but he could see that she was dressed very grandly. She wore a flame-red frock with some type of pattern in yellow. The skirt had been drawn aside to reveal a petticoat in yellow and green. Above, her bodice was square and very low, her breasts pushed up until they formed two soft, white mounds that nearly glowed in the lamplight. Heat seemed to radiate off her, warming his bones.
“It was rather dull, so I came away early,” the lady continued. “You won’t believe, but the punch was gone by ten, and there was hardly much for a midnight supper—only a few meat pies and fruit. Quite scandalous. I can’t think what Mrs. Turner was about, serving such poor refreshments to everyone who matters. But the woman always has been a wigeon. The only reason I attend her parties is in the hope of seeing her brother, Lord Downing. He is a terrible gossip.”
She paused, probably because she’d run out of breath. Sam stared at her, trying to figure out why she was speaking so fast. Had she been drinking spirits at her party? Or was she...? He felt a smile forming and worked to suppress it. No, it couldn’t be. Was Lady Emeline nervous? He’d never thought to see the sophisticated widow out of sorts.
“But why were you about so late?” Lady Emeline asked. Her hands, which had been busy playing with the lace that trimmed her bodice, stilled. “Or, perhaps that is none of my business.” Even in the dim light, he could see the blush that stained her cheeks.
“No, it isn’t your business,” he replied. “But not for the reason you think.”
If she’d been a little black hen, her feathers would’ve ruffled. “I don’t know what you mean to imply by that, Mr. Hartley. I am sure—”
“You think I’ve been to see a whore.” He smiled and slid lower in the carriage seat, canting his legs to the side so that he might cross them. He slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pockets, enjoying himself. “Admit it.”
“I will do no such thing!”
“But that blush on your cheeks says otherwise.”
“I...I—”
He tutted. “Your thoughts are very lewd. I am shocked, my lady, quite shocked.”
For a moment, all she could do was sputter; then her eyes narrowed as she recovered. Sam braced himself. God, he liked sparring with this woman.
“I couldn’t care less how you conduct yourself after dark,” she said primly. “Your affairs are of absolutely no importance to me.”
