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Vale leaned against the rail. “How do you know about this letter?”
“I have it.”
Rebecca had stopped crying and now said wonderingly, “That’s why you wanted me to attend this ball, isn’t it? It had nothing to do with me at all. You wanted to meet Lord Vale.”
Damn. Sam stared at his younger sister. “I—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“Or me,” Lady Emeline said. Her words were quiet, but Sam knew not to take that as a sign she wasn’t angry. “Reynaud was killed because of that battle. Didn’t you think I had a right to know?”
Sam frowned. His head hurt, his mouth tasted like acid, and he didn’t want to deal with the women in his life. This was man’s business, although he wasn’t such a fool as to say that aloud.
Apparently, Vale had no such qualms. “Emmie, this will only open old wounds for you. Why don’t you and Miss...” He looked uncertainly at Rebecca.
“This is Miss Hartley,” Lady Emeline said coolly. “Mr. Hartley’s sister.”
“Miss Hartley.” Vale nodded, urbane even when accused of treason. “Why don’t you two go back into the house and enjoy the ball?”
Sam nearly groaned. Didn’t Vale know anything about women?
Lady Emeline smiled tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I believe I will stay here.”
Vale opened his mouth again, the fool.
“I’ll stay, too,” Rebecca said before Vale could speak.
Everyone swung in her direction. Rebecca’s cheeks pinkened, but she tilted her chin defiantly.
Lady Emeline cleared her throat. “We’ll just sit here.”
She marched to a marble bench set against the railing. Rebecca followed her. Both ladies sat down, crossed their arms, and assumed nearly identical expressions of expectation. In any other circumstances, it would’ve been funny. Damn. Sam raised an eyebrow at Vale.
Who shrugged helplessly. God only knew where the man got his reputation as a rake.
The footman returned with a glass of wine on a tray. Samuel took it and sipped. He spat the first mouthful over the rail into the bushes before downing the rest of the glass, feeling marginally better.
Vale cleared his throat when the footman had left. “Yes, well. Where did this letter you have come from? How are we to know it wasn’t forged?”
“It’s not forged,” Sam said. He felt more than saw Lady Emeline purse her lips. How dare she sit in judgment of him? “I received it from a Delaware Indian—he’s part English on his mother’s side. The man is a friend I’ve known for many years.”
“That strange little Indian who came to visit you at your place of business last spring!” Rebecca exclaimed. “I remember now. He was in your office when I went to bring you your luncheon.”
Sam nodded. His offices were near the docks in Boston, a place his sister didn’t usually visit. But that day he’d forgotten the basket that Cook had packed for his luncheon, and Rebecca had fetched it for him.
“You were so distracted afterward,” Rebecca murmured. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. As if he were a stranger. “And angry. You were in a black mood for days. Now I know why.”
Sam frowned, but he couldn’t address his sister’s worry right now. He looked at Vale. “Coshocton—the Indian—obtained the letter from a French trader who had been living among the Wyandot. It was the Wyandot who attacked us.”
“I know that,” Vale retorted. “But how do you know it was someone from our side who wrote the blamed thing? It could’ve been a Frenchie or—”
“No.” Sam shook his head. “It was written in English. And besides, whoever wrote it knew too much. You remember that our march to Fort Edward was secret. Only the officers and a few of the trackers knew we marched instead of taking canoes down Lake Champlain.”
Vale stared. “The lake passage was the more usual way, I remember.”
Sam nodded. “Anyone hearing where we were headed would assume we went by water, not land.”
Vale pursed his lips, then seemed to come to a decision. “See here, Hartley. My debt was high, I don’t deny it, but I was quite able to pay it.”
