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Alistair seemed to accept that explanation. “Anyway, Vale was one of the men taken captive at Spinner’s Falls. When Vale came to visit, he had this odd story. Rumors that the 28th Regiment of Foot had in fact been betrayed at Spinner’s Falls by a British soldier.”
Helen straightened. “What?”
“Yes.” He shrugged and finally laid the shirt aside. “It makes sense. We were in the middle of the forest, and yet we were attacked by an overwhelming force of Frenchmen and Indians. Why else would they be there save that they knew we were to pass that way?”
She drew a sharp breath. Somehow the knowledge that such destruction of life had been planned—and by a fellow countryman—made it all the more horrible.
She looked at him with wonder. “I would think that you’d be wild with the desire for revenge.”
He smiled, fully and sadly. “Even if we catch this man, bring him to trial and hang him, it’ll not restore my eye or the lives of the men lost at Spinner’s Falls.”
“No, it won’t,” she agreed gently. “But you do want him caught, don’t you? Might it not bring you some peace?”
He looked away. “I have as much peace now as I’ll ever have, I think. But I suppose it would be appropriate for the traitor to be punished.”
“And the Frenchman, the friend you want to meet, is somehow connected to all this?”
He went to the fire and kindled a taper. With it he lit several candles in the room. “Etienne says there are rumors in the French government, but he does not want to commit them to paper—for his safety and for mine. He has accepted a position on an exploratory ship, though. It docks in London the day after tomorrow before leaving to sail around the Horn of Africa.”
He threw the remainder of the taper into the fire. “If I can talk to Etienne, then perhaps this mystery will be solved.”
“I see.” She watched him a moment more, then sighed. “Do you want to go down for supper?”
He blinked and looked at her. “I’d hoped to have something brought up.”
She began unlacing her stays, and his gaze immediately dropped to her bosom. “I had some food and wine delivered earlier.” She nodded to a covered basket on a chair. “It’s over there. If you think it’ll do, we can stay here and not bother with anyone else.”
He crossed to the basket and raised the cloth that covered it, peering inside. “A feast.”
Helen straightened the bodice of her chemise over her breasts, rose from the bed, and crossed to him. “Sit here, before the fire, and I’ll serve you.”
He frowned quickly. “There’s no need.”
“You didn’t object to my service when I was your housekeeper.” She rummaged in the basket and found a small plum. She offered it to him in the palm of her hand. “Why demure now?”
He took the plum, his fingers brushing against her palm and sending shivers down her arm. “Because you’re no longer my servant; you’re my…” He shook his head and bit into the plum.
“What?” She knelt at his feet. “What am I to you?”
He swallowed and said gruffly, “I don’t know.”
She nodded and turned her face to the basket so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. That was the problem, wasn’t it? They didn’t quite know anymore what they were to each other.
Chapter Sixteen
At Truth Teller’s words, the evil sorcerer flew into a terrible rage. He raised his arms and laid a terrible curse on the soldier, turning him into a stone statue. The sorcerer placed Truth Teller in his yew knot garden, among all the other stone warriors. There he stood, day by day, month by month, year by year as birds came to rest on his shoulders and dead leaves settled at his feet. His still face stared, unblinking, at the garden, and what he thought about I do not know. His very thoughts had turned to stone. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
Helen wasn’t precisely respectable. This thought only occurred to Alistair as they stood on Lord Vale’s front step. He really shouldn’t have brought her along on an early afternoon call to a viscount and viscountess. But then again, she’d said that she was friends with Lady Vale, so perhaps the point was moot.
Fortunately, the butler chose that moment to open the door. After collecting their names, he bowed and showed them into a large sitting room. Very soon thereafter, Vale himself burst into the room.
“Munroe!” the viscount cried, bounding up and seizing Alistair’s hand. “Good God, man, I thought it’d take explosives to pry you out of that dratted drafty castle of yours.”
“It very nearly did,” Alistair muttered, squeezing Vale’s hand hard to keep from having his own appendage crushed. “Have you met Mrs. Helen Fitzwilliam?”
Vale was a tall man with hands and feet that seemed too large for his body, like an overeager puppy. His face was long, incised with deep vertical lines that in repose made his countenance look perpetually mournful. In contrast, his habitual expression was almost foolish, jolly and open, which lulled many a man into a false sense of superiority.
