Samuel still watched her. “Yes. I’d like some tea.” But that wasn’t what his deep voice said.

She shuddered, actually felt the tremor run through her, and knew she was embarrassingly hot. The teapot rattled against the cup as she poured. Abominable man! Did he want to humiliate her?

Meanwhile, Jasper had his dish of tea balanced precariously on one knee. He seemed to have forgotten it after a couple of sips, and now the cup sat, just waiting for a sudden movement to crash to the floor.

“Sam said something earlier about a Dick Thornton, Emmie,” he said. “I don’t recall a Thornton. ’Course with over four hundred men in the regiment originally, one didn’t know them all by name. Most by sight, but not by name.”

Samuel had placed his own cup on a side table next to his chair. “After Quebec, there were less than that.”

Emeline cleared her throat. “Mr. Thornton was a common soldier? I never would have guessed from meeting him the other day. His speech was quite clear.”

“Thornton was a private when we knew him in the war,” Samuel said. “He was great friends with another soldier, MacDonald—”

“The redheaded twins!” Jasper exclaimed. “Always together, always up to a bit of mischief.”

Samuel nodded. “That’s right.”

Emeline looked from one man to the other. They’d seemed to have made some strange male accord without any help from her. “You know this MacDonald as well?”

Jasper sat forward, nearly upsetting the cup of tea. “Damn me, now I remember. Bad business, that. Weren’t MacDonald and his friend Brown brought up on charges of murder and—ahem!” He cut off the rest of his sentence with a cough and an embarrassed glance at Emeline.

She raised her eyebrows. From the look the gentlemen exchanged, whatever the bad business was about, it must be horrible enough that they deemed it unsuitable for her ears. She sighed in frustration. Men were so silly sometimes.

“Did MacDonald survive the massacre?” Jasper asked.

Samuel shook his head. “No. Thornton said he saw MacDonald fall, and Brown must’ve died in the assault as well. We would’ve heard of his court-martial if he had survived.”

“But we don’t know for certain about Brown.”

“No.”

“We ought to ask Thornton, see if he knows,” Jasper mused.

Samuel elevated his eyebrows. “We?”

Jasper looked like a little boy embarrassed—an expression Emeline was familiar with from childhood. It was one he often used to get his own way without too much argument. “I thought I might help you in your inquiries, since I’m not the traitor.”

“I’m relieved you have acquitted yourself,” Samuel began rather stiffly, “but I’m not so sanguine—”

“Oh, come, Samuel!” Emeline burst out. “You know Jasper isn’t the traitor. Admit it.” She glared at him, only belatedly realizing that she’d used his Christian name.

Samuel made a pretty, overshowy bow to her. “As my lady wishes.” He turned to Jasper. “I admit your innocence, if only to appease your fiancée.”

“Kind of you, I’m sure.” Jasper smiled with exposed teeth.

Samuel bared his teeth back.

Emeline straightened determinedly. “So it is decided, then. You will investigate the massacre and its aftermath. Together.”

Jasper raised his eyebrows at Samuel.

Who nodded grimly. “Together.”

Chapter Eight

Day after day and night after night, Iron Heart guarded Princess Solace. He stood behind her as she ate her meals. He followed her as she paced the royal gardens. He rode beside her as she hunted with her falcons. And he listened with a grave face as she told him her thoughts, her feelings, and the deepest secrets that lay hidden in her heart. It is a strange fact, but a true one nonetheless: a lady may come to love a man though he speak not a word....

—from Iron Heart

Rebecca cracked the door to her room and peered out. The hall outside seemed deserted. Moving quietly, she tiptoed into the hall and shut the door behind her. She was supposed to be lying down with an aching head. Evans had already supplied her with a scented cloth and the instructions to keep it on her forehead for the next half hour. But since the headache had only been an excuse in the first place, Rebecca didn’t feel any guilt about not following orders. What she did feel was a sneaking fear of her own maid. Hence her furtive movements.

She crept down the stairs and headed toward the back of the house, to the door that led out to the garden. She’d been so frightened when Samuel had had that fit in the ballroom the night before. Her elder brother always seemed so solid, so strong and in control. To see Samuel suddenly shivering and white had terrified her. Samuel was the rock she leaned on. Without him, who would be her support?

Voices came from above, and Rebecca paused. The voices coalesced into two maids arguing over the cleaning of the fireplace grates, and she relaxed. The back passage was dark, but the door was just ahead. It was ridiculous, after the fear she’d felt for her brother in the ballroom, to then feel betrayed when he revealed his real reason for coming to England. She had been the one to beg to come on this trip. She’d been so happy—so grateful—when he acquiesced to her pleas. Now, her disappointment was in proportion to her initial happiness.

Rebecca pushed open the door that led into the back garden and fled into the sunlight. Perhaps because the true owners rented the town house out, its garden had a dismal air of neglect. There were no flowers, at least none in bloom. Instead, there were a few gravel paths bordered with shoulder-height hedges. Here and there, an ornamental tree grew, and sometimes the hedges parted to reveal a square or circle with miniature hedges cut into intricate patterns. Benches lined the path at frequent intervals in case the walker became tired of this monotonous scenery.

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.”

“We might.”

Vale raised his eyebrows.

The carriage lurched around the corner, and Sam grabbed the leather strap hanging by his head. “She wants to know what happened. How Reynaud died.”

“Christ.” Vale closed his eyes as if in pain.

Sam looked away. He realized now that a craven part of him had been hoping the other man didn’t care about Lady Emeline. That their engagement was a purely practical matter. Obviously that wasn’t so.

“You mustn’t tell her,” Vale was saying. “There’s no need for her to live with that image in her mind.”

“I know that,” Sam growled.

“Then we’re in accord.”

Sam nodded once.

Vale looked at him and started to say something, but the carriage lurched to a stop. He glanced out the window instead. “What a lovely part of London you’ve brought me to.”

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