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Rebecca wandered down one of the paths, letting her hand idly brush the scraggly hedges as she passed. Her emotions for Samuel were overwrought, she knew. She felt as if she were always nagging him for his attention, like a little child, instead of a grown woman. Why she should feel this way, she wasn’t clear. Perhaps—
“Good afternoon.”
Rebecca started at the voice and swung around. The hedge parted to her right to reveal another one of the little square openings, and a man rose from the bench inside. He was red-haired, and for a moment she couldn’t place him. He stepped forward, and she realized that it was Samuel’s army friend, the one they’d met in the street. She couldn’t remember his name.
“Oh! I didn’t see you there.”
He smiled, revealing lovely white teeth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s all right.” There was a pause, and she glanced around the otherwise deserted garden. “Um...why...?”
“You must be wondering what I’m doing in your lovely garden.”
She nodded gratefully.
“Well, actually I came to call upon your brother,” he said with a wry, confiding smile. “But he isn’t in, so I came out here to wait for his return. I’d hoped we could catch up a bit, your brother and I. I don’t see many men from the old regiment anymore. Most died, you know, in the massacre, and the ones who didn’t were scattered to other regiments immediately afterward.”
“Spinner’s Falls,” she whispered.
The name of the battle was engraved on her brain now. Samuel had never mentioned it to her. She’d had no inkling how important the event was to him until the ball last night.
Impulsively, she leaned toward the man. “Can you tell me about Spinner’s Falls? What happened there? Samuel doesn’t talk of it.”
His eyebrows shot up, but he nodded. “Of course, of course. I understand exactly.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and began strolling, his chin against his chest as he thought.
“The regiment was marching back from Quebec,” he began. “After taking the fort from the Frenchies. Quebec was well fortified, and there’d been a long siege all that summer, but we’d prevailed in the end. Then it was autumn, and it was thought best by those in command to retire before the weather became inclement in winter. We began marching south, toward Fort Edward. None but the officers knew our route. The Indians lurked in the woods all around us. Our commander, Colonel Darby, wished to make the fort without alerting the savages to our presence.”
“But that didn’t happen,” Rebecca said softly.
“No.” He sighed. “No, it didn’t. The regiment was attacked in the second week. We were marching only two abreast, and the line was strung out over almost half a mile when we were ambushed.” He stopped talking.
Rebecca waited, but he didn’t resume. They’d come to the far end of the garden by the back gate that led into the mews. She stopped and looked at Samuel’s friend. What was his name? Why was she so terrible at remembering names?
“What happened then?”
He tipped his head up to squint at the sky, then darted a look at her from the corner of his eye. “They attacked from both sides, and most of the men were killed. You know that the savages liked to cut off the scalps of their victims with their hatchets, as a kind of war trophy. You can imagine my dismay”—he patted his hair ruefully—“I actually heard one fellow shout to another that he wanted my scalp, it was so pretty.”
Rebecca looked at the tips of her shoes. She wasn’t sure if she was happy now to have finally heard something of what her brother had endured. Perhaps it would’ve been better to remain in ignorance.
“’Course,” Samuel’s friend was still speaking, “MacDonald wasn’t so fortunate.”
Rebecca blinked and glanced up. “What?”
He smiled a friendly smile and patted his hair again. “MacDonald. Another soldier, a friend of mine. His hair was as gingery as mine. The Indians took his scalp clean off, poor sod.”
“YOU NEVER TOLD her how St. Aubyn died, did you?” Sam asked that afternoon. They rode in Vale’s carriage, heading into the east end of London. Thornton hadn’t been at his place of business, and so now they had decided to try Ned Allen, the surviving sergeant. Sam only hoped he was sober.
Vale turned from the window. “Emmie?”
Sam nodded.
“No. Of course I didn’t tell her that her beloved brother was crucified and then burned alive.” Vale flashed a grim smile. “Would you?”
“No.” Sam held the other man’s gaze, feeling a reluctant gratitude that Vale had stood firm against what had probably been a determined assault by Lady Emeline for information. He’d seen how the lady worked. Once she set her mind to it, only a very strong man would be able to hold out against her. Vale obviously was such a man. Damn him.
The viscount grunted and nodded. “Then we don’t have a problem.”
