“Oh?” She watched his face. His expressions were so subtle, so fleeting, that she felt like a diviner when she caught them.

He nodded, his eyes hooded. “I worry that I don’t give her all that she needs.”

She stared ahead as she tried to think of a reply. Did any of the men she knew worry about the women in their lives this way? Had her own brother cared about her needs? She thought not.

But Mr. Hartley took a breath and spoke again. “Your son is a spirited boy.”

Emeline wrinkled her nose. “Too spirited, some would say.”

“How old is he?”

“Eight this summer.”

“You employ a tutor for him?”

“Mr. Smythe-Jones. He comes in daily.” She hesitated, then said impulsively, “But Tante Cristelle thinks I should enroll him in a school like the one you attended.”

He glanced at her. “He seems too young to leave home.”

“Oh, but many fashionable families send their sons away, some much younger than Daniel.” She realized that she was twisting a bit of ribbon at her throat in her free hand, and she stopped and carefully smoothed the piece of silk. “My aunt worries that I will tie him to my apron strings. Or that he will not learn how to be a man in a house of women.” Why was she telling a near stranger these intimate details? He must think her a ninny.

But he only nodded thoughtfully. “Your husband is dead.”

“Yes. Daniel—my son is named for his father—passed away five years ago.”

“Yet, you have not married again.”

He leaned closer, and she recognized the scent she smelled on his breath. Parsley. Strange that such a domestic scent would seem so exotic on him.

He spoke softly. “I don’t understand why a lady of your attraction would be left to languish for so many years alone.”

Her brow creased. “Actually—”

“Here is a tea shop,” Tante Cristelle called from behind them. “My bones ache most terrible from this exercise. Shall we rest here?”

Mr. Hartley turned. “I am sorry, ma’am. Yes, indeed we’ll stop here.”

“Bon,” Tante said. “Let us compose ourselves for a time, then.”

Mr. Hartley held open the pretty wood and glass door, and they entered the little shop. Small, circular tables were placed here and there, and the ladies settled themselves while Mr. Hartley went to purchase the tea.

Tante Cristelle leaned forward to tap Rebecca’s knee. “Your brother is very solicitous of you. Be grateful; not all men are so. And those who are do not often stay in this world overlong.”

The girl knit her brows at Tante’s last remark, but she chose to reply to the first. “Oh, but I am very grateful. Samuel has always been kind to me when I saw him.”

Emeline smoothed a lace ruffle on her skirt. “Mr. Hartley said that you were raised by your uncle.”

Rebecca’s eyes dropped. “Yes. I only saw Samuel once or twice a year, when he came to visit. He always seemed so big, even though he must’ve been younger than I am now. Later, of course, he enlisted and wore a magnificent soldier’s uniform. I was quite in awe of him. He walks like no other man I know. He strides so easily, as if he could keep up his pace for days on end.” The girl looked up and smiled self-consciously. “I describe it badly.”

But oddly Emeline knew exactly what Rebecca meant. Mr. Hartley moved with a graceful confidence that made her think he knew his own body and how it worked better than other men did theirs. She turned to watch Mr. Hartley now. He waited for his turn to buy the tea. In front of him, an older gentleman frowned and impatiently tapped his toe. There were other customers as well, some tapping their feet, some shifting their weight restlessly. Only Mr. Hartley was perfectly still. He looked neither impatient nor bored, as if he could stand thus, one leg bent, his arms crossed at his chest, for hours. He caught her eye, and his eyebrows slowly rose, either in question or in challenge, she couldn’t tell. Her face heated and she looked away.

“You and your brother seem very close,” she said to Rebecca. “Despite your childhood apart.”

The girl smiled, but her eyes seemed uncertain. “I hope we’re close. I think that we are close. I admire my brother greatly.”

Emeline watched the girl thoughtfully. The sentiment was correct, to be sure, but Rebecca phrased the words almost as a question.

“My lady,” Mr. Hartley said, suddenly at her side.

Emeline started and glanced at the man in exasperation. Had he crept up beside her on purpose?

He smiled that maddeningly cryptic smile of his and held out a plate of pink sugared sweets. Behind him, a girl brought the tray of tea things. Mr. Hartley’s coffee-brown eyes seemed to chide Emeline for her pettiness.

She took a breath. “Thank you, Mr. Hartley.”

He inclined his head. “My pleasure, Lady Emeline.”

Humph. She tasted a candy and found that it was tart and sweet at once. Just right, in fact. She glanced at her aunt. The older lady had her head close to Rebecca’s, talking intently.

“I hope my aunt is not lecturing your sister,” she commented as she poured the tea.

Mr. Hartley glanced at Rebecca. “She is made of sterner stuff than she looks. I think she will survive whatever travails your aunt may throw at her.”

He was leaning casually against the wall not two feet away from her, all the chairs having been already taken. Emeline sipped at her tea as her gaze fell to his strange footwear.

Without thinking, she voiced her thoughts. “Wherever did you come by those slippers?”

Mr. Hartley extended one leg, his arms still crossed at his chest. “They’re moccasins, made from American deerskin by the women of the Mohican Indian tribe.”

The ladies at the next table got up to leave, but he made no move to sit down. The bell rang over the shop door as more people came in.

She frowned at Mr. Hartley’s moccasins and the leggings above them. He’d gartered the soft leather just below his knees with an embroidered sash and let the ends hang down. “Do all white men wear this attire in the Colonies?”

“No, not all.” He crossed his legs again. “Most wear the same shoes or boots as gentlemen wear here.”

“Then why do you choose to sport such strange footwear?” She was aware that her voice was sharp, but somehow his insistence on unconventional clothing was unbearably irritating to her. Why did he do it? If he wore buckle shoes and stockings like every other gentleman in London, no one would notice him. With his wealth, he could perhaps become an English gentleman and be accepted into the ton. He’d be respectable.

Mr. Hartley shrugged, patently unaware of her inner turmoil. “Hunters wear them in the woods of America. They’re very comfortable and much more useful than English shoes. The leggings protect against thorns and branches. I’m accustomed to them.”

He looked at her, and in his eyes she somehow saw that he was aware that she wished he was conventional and more like the usual English gentleman. He understood and it made him sad. She stared into his warm, brown eyes, not knowing what to do. There was something there, something they communicated between them, and she didn’t quite understand the subtleties.

Then a male voice spoke from behind her. “Corporal Hartley! What are you doing in London?”

SAM TENSED. THE man hailing him was slender and of average height, perhaps a little below. He wore a dark green coat and brown waistcoat, perfectly respectable and ordinary. In fact, he would’ve looked like a thousand other London gentlemen if it weren’t for his hair. It was a bright, orangey-red and clubbed back. Sam tried to place the stranger and couldn’t. There’d been several redheaded men in the regiment.

The man grinned and stuck out his hand. “Thornton. Dick Thornton. I haven’t seen you in, what? Six years at least. What’re you doing in London?”

Sam took the proffered hand and shook it. Of course. He could place the other man now. Thornton had been one of the 28th. “I’m here on business, Mr. Thornton.”

“Indeed? London is a long way for a backwoods tracker from the Colonies.” Thornton smiled as if to take the insult from his words.

Sam shrugged easily. “My uncle died in sixty. I mustered out of the army and took over his import business in Boston.”

“Ah.” Thornton rocked back on his heels and glanced inquiringly at Lady Emeline.

Sam felt an odd reluctance to make the introduction, but he shook it off. “My lady, may I present Mr. Richard Thornton, an old comrade of mine. Thornton, this is Lady Emeline Gordon, Captain St. Aubyn’s sister. Also, this is my sister, Rebecca Hartley, and Lady Emeline’s aunt, Mademoiselle Molyneux.”

Thornton bowed showily. “Ladies.”

Lady Emeline held out her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Thornton?”

The other man’s expression sobered as he bent over Lady Emeline’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lady. May I say that we were all grieved when we heard of your brother’s death.”

No distress showed on Lady Emeline’s face, but Sam felt her stiffen, even though several feet separated them. He could not explain how this was possible, but it was as if there was a change in the very air between them.

“Thank you,” she said. “You knew Reynaud?”

“Of course. We all knew and liked Captain St. Aubyn.” He turned to Sam as if for confirmation. “A gallant gentleman and a great leader of men, wasn’t he, Hartley? Always ready with a kind word, always encouraging us as we marched through those hellish woods. And at the last, when the savages attacked, ma’am, it would’ve done your heart proud to see the way he stood his ground. Some were fearful. Some thought to break ranks and run—” Thornton suddenly stopped and coughed, looking guiltily at Sam.

Sam stared back stonily. Many had thought he had run at Spinner’s Falls. Sam hadn’t bothered explaining himself then, and he wasn’t about to start doing so now. He knew that Lady Emeline was looking at him, but he refused to meet her eyes. Let her damn him like the rest, if that was what she wanted.

“Your memories of my nephew are very welcome, Mr. Thornton,” Mademoiselle Molyneux said, breaking into the awkward silence.

“Well.” Thornton straightened his waistcoat. “It was a long time ago, now. Captain St. Aubyn died a hero’s death. That’s what you should remember.”

“Do you know of any other veterans of the 28th here in London?” Sam asked the other man softly.

Thornton blew out a breath as he thought. “Not many, not many. Of course, there were few survivors to begin with. There’s Lieutenant Horn and Captain Renshaw—Lord Vale, he is now—but I hardly move in the same exalted circles as they.” He smiled at Lady Emeline as if to acknowledge her rank. “There’s Wimbley and Ford, and Sergeant Allen, poor blighter. Terrible what he’s become. Never recovered from losing that leg.”

Sam’d already questioned Wimbley and Ford. Sergeant Allen was harder to track. He mentally moved his name to the top of the list of people he needed to speak to.

“What about your comrades from the regiment?” he asked. “I remember that there were five or six of you who used to share the same fire at night. You seemed to have a leader, another redheaded man, Private...”

“MacDonald. Andy MacDonald. Yes, people used to have trouble telling us apart. The hair, you know. Funny, it’s the only thing some people remember about me.” Thornton shook his head. “Poor MacDonald took a ball to the head at Spinner’s Falls. Fell right beside me, he did.”

Sam kept his gaze steady but could feel a drop of sweat slide down his backbone. He didn’t like thinking of that day, and the crowded London street had already made him uneasy. “And the others?”

“Dead, all dead, I think. Most fell at Spinner’s Falls, although Ridley survived for a few months after—before the gangrene finally took him.” He grinned ruefully and winked.