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“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.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Were you?”
“Yes. In fact, I did.”
Sam stared. “What?”
“I quietly paid the debt to Clemmons’s estate.” Vale glanced away as if embarrassed. His voice was gruff. “Least I could do, don’t you know, under the circumstances. Doubt any of the men you talked to knew that, but you can contact my solicitors if you wish. I’ve got the papers to prove it.”
Sam closed his eyes. His head was pounding, and he felt like an idiot.
“Who else had reason to betray the company of soldiers besides Jasper?” Lady Emeline asked quietly. “Because I’ve known Jasper all my life, and I cannot believe he would do something that would end in Reynaud’s death.”
Viscount Vale grinned. “Thank you, Emeline, although I notice you don’t acquit me of treason.”
She merely shrugged.
“But she’s right.” Vale sobered. “I didn’t betray the regiment, Hartley.”
