Sam sighed and turned with Lady Emeline to lead the way back to the picnic. “Your people revere divisions between men.”
She peered up at him, a little frown creasing her brows. “I beg your pardon?”
He gestured to the footmen panting behind them. “Every little detail of rank, every little opportunity to separate one fellow from another. You English worship the tiniest difference between men.”
“Are you saying there are no differing classes in the Colonies? Because if you are, I won’t believe you.”
“There are differences, but take my word that station is not nearly so idolized there as here. In America, a man can raise himself above the rank he was born with.”
“As has your friend, Mr. Thornton.” She tapped his arm for emphasis. “An Englishman.”
“Thornton wasn’t invited to this pretty house party, was he?” He watched her face flush a becoming dark pink and suppressed a smile. She hated to lose an argument. “He may’ve raised his standing and wealth, but obviously he is still not considered good enough for the gentlefolk in your society.”
“Come, Mr. Hartley,” she snapped. “You served in the army. Don’t try to tell me that you weren’t aware of rank there.”
“Aye, we had ranks,” he replied bitterly. “And some of the worse fools were placed above me, made generals even, solely on the basis of their birth. You needs must find a better argument than that, if you’re to convince me of the good in ranks.”
“Was my brother a bad soldier?” she asked stiffly.
He damned himself for a cad. God! How could he be so thoughtless? Naturally she would think of her brother first. “No. Captain St. Aubyn was one of the best officers I ever knew.”
Her head was down bent, her lips thinned. For such an argumentative woman, she could be very vulnerable sometimes. It hurt him, somewhere in his chest, to see her so. It was odd, her vitriolic tongue made him feel alive, made him want to seize her and kiss her until she moaned beneath his mouth. But when she revealed a rare weakness, she crushed him. Pray she only let show her vulnerability with him. He couldn’t stand the thought of another man seeing that part of her. He wanted to be the only one to protect that softness.
“And Jasper?” she asked now. “Was he a good officer as well? Somehow I cannot see him leading men. Playing cards and jesting with them, yes. Ordering them about, no.”
“Then perhaps you do not know your fiancé very well.”
Her head came up and she scowled at him. “I’ve known Jasper since I was in leading strings.”
He shrugged. “I don’t think you ever know a man until you see how he faces death.”
They’d come within sight of the picnic spot now. Lady Emeline looked over to where Jasper remained in the midst of a group of laughing gentlemen. He’d doffed his coat for some reason—most improperly—and stood gesturing in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, long arms flapping in the air like a great gander. As they watched, another wave of laughter went through the group.
“Lord Vale was the most courageous man in battle I ever knew,” Sam said thoughtfully.
Lady Emeline turned to stare at him, her eyebrows raised.
He nodded. “I’ve seen him fall from a horse shot out from underneath him. Seen him get up bloodied and keep fighting, even when all around him were dying. He faced battle—faced death—as if he had no fear. Sometimes he smiled as he fought.”
She pursed her lips, watching Jasper caper about. “Maybe he didn’t have any fear.”
Sam slowly shook his head. “Only fools have no fear at all in battle, and Lord Vale is no fool.”
“Then he is an accomplished actor.”
“Perhaps.”
“Our rescuers!” Lady Hasselthorpe flew at them, her pale hands fluttering helplessly. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Hartley and Lady Emeline. You’ve saved my little alfresco party from disaster.”
Sam smiled and bowed.
“And you?” Lady Emeline asked quietly as their hostess flitted about, getting in the footmen’s way.
Sam glanced at her in question.
“How do you face death?” she clarified, her voice so low only he could hear.
He felt his face freeze. “As well as I might.”
She shook her head gently. “I think you must’ve been just as much a hero as Jasper in battle.”
He looked away. He could not meet her eyes. “There are no heroes on the battlefield, my lady; there are only survivors.”
“You’re modest—”
“No.” His voice was too intense, he knew. He was in danger of drawing attention. But he could not banter about this subject, of all things. “I am not a hero.”
“Emmie!” Lord Vale hailed them. “Come have some pigeon pie before it is all devoured. I have risked my very life to save you a slice or two. I fear the roast chicken is already disappeared.”
Sam nodded to Vale, but he leaned down and whispered in Lady Emeline’s ear before he led her there, because it was important she not have any illusions about him.
“Don’t ever think me a hero.”
Chapter Ten
So all of the things that the old wizard had promised came to pass. Iron Heart lived in a wonderful castle with Princess Solace as his bride. He had purple and crimson clothes to wear, and there were servants everywhere to wait upon him. Of course, he still could not speak, for that would break the promise he’d made the wizard, but Iron Heart found that silence was not such a very bad hardship. After all, a soldier is rarely asked his opinion....
—from Iron Heart
“That scowl on your face does not become you,” Melisande murmured the next morning.
Emeline tried to smooth her forehead, but she had a feeling her irritation still showed through. She was watching Samuel, after all. “I wish you had come down yesterday instead of today.”
Melisande raised an eyebrow fractionally. “Had I known that you would pine for my company, I would’ve, dear. Is that why your mood is so gray?”
Emeline sighed and interlocked her arm with her friend’s. “No. My mood has nothing at all to do with you except as you make me feel calmer.”
They stood on the long mown lawn at the back of Hasselthorpe House. Half of the house party had assembled here for target shooting, the other half having chosen to go into the nearby town to see what sights there were. Painted canvas targets were being erected at the far end of the lawn by footmen. Behind the targets were straw bundles to catch the balls that were fired. The gentlemen who intended to participate were standing about showing off their weapons to admiring ladies who were, of course, to be the audience.
“Mr. Hartley’s gun is awfully long,” Melisande commented. “No doubt that is why you are glaring at him so ferociously.”
“Why does he have to stand apart?” Emeline muttered. She picked fretfully at her rose and green striped skirts. “It’s as if the man goes out of his way to be different from the other gentlemen. I declare he does it just to aggravate me.”
“Yes, that’s probably the first thing he thinks about when he wakes in the morning. ‘How shall I go about aggravating Lady Emeline today?’”
Emeline looked at her friend, who was staring back with innocent wide brown eyes. “I’m being a ninny, aren’t I?”
“Now, dear, I didn’t say ninny—”
“No, but you didn’t have to.” Emeline sighed. “I brought something that I want to show you.”
Melisande looked at her, brows raised. “Oh?”
“It’s a book of fairy tales that my old nanny used to read to us. I found it recently, but I think it’s written in German. Can you translate it for me?”
“I can try,” her friend said. “But I won’t promise anything. My German is only fair, and there are many words I don’t know. A product of learning it from my mother and not a book.”
Emeline nodded. Melisande’s mother had been a Prussian who had never entirely learned English, despite marrying at the age of seventeen, and Melisande had grown up speaking bo
th German and English. “Thank you.”
The targets in place, the last footman began to walk toward the shooting party. The gentlemen bent their heads together in a grave manner, evidently deciding in what order they should shoot.
“I don’t know why he causes all intelligent thought to flee my mind.” Emeline realized she was glowering at Samuel again.
Unlike the other gentlemen, he didn’t make a show of aiming his weapon and such. He held his rifle with the butt resting on the ground as he stood casually, one hip cocked. He caught her eye and nodded, unsmiling. Emeline looked quickly away, but she could still see in her mind’s eye his plain brown coat, the now-familiar dull leather leggings, and the wind ruffling the hair on his bare head. Nothing about his dress recommended him. Even with the other gentlemen attired for shooting in the country, Samuel could’ve been a servant, so much more plain were his clothes. And yet, she had to exert her will to refrain from looking at him again.
She tugged at a bit of lace at her throat. “He kissed me yesterday.”
Melisande stilled. “Mr. Hartley?”
“Yes.” She could feel his eyes on her, even though she had not looked at him again.
“And did you kiss him back?” her friend asked as if she inquired the price of ribbons from a vendor.
“God.” Emeline choked on the word.
“I’ll assume that means yes,” Melisande murmured. “He is a handsome man, in a rather primitive way, but I wouldn’t’ve thought that he’d attract you.”
“He doesn’t!”
But her heart knew she lied. This was like a horrible fever. She actually grew flushed whenever he was near. She was quite unable to control her body—or herself—when around the awful man. Emeline had never felt this wild in her life, not even with Danny, and that thought made her bite her lip. Danny had been so young, so gay, and she had been young and gay with him. It didn’t seem right to have stronger feelings now for another man—a man not even her husband.
Melisande glanced at her skeptically. “Then you will avoid him in the future, no doubt.”
Emeline turned her head so that Samuel wasn’t in her line of sight at all. Instead, she stared at an ornamental pond behind the targets. It looked like it was filled with reeds. Lady Hasselthorpe should’ve had the pond cleared before the house party. Mrs. Fitzwilliam stood by herself near the bank, poor woman. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“A wise lady would seek out her fiancé’s company, of course,” Melisande murmured.
Jasper was part of the shooting party, naturally. He loved anything to do with physical exertion. Unlike Samuel, though, he was in constant movement—one moment crouching on the ground for some reason, the next bounding up to the footmen to help with straightening the targets. For a moment, Emeline remembered what Samuel had said about Jasper: that he fought as if he’d had no fear. That was certainly not the man she knew. But then again, maybe a woman never really knew the men in her life.
Emeline shook her head. None of that mattered. “This has nothing to do with Jasper. You know that.”
“You do have an understanding with him,” her friend reminded her neutrally.
“An understanding, yes. That’s exactly what it is. Jasper’s heart is not involved.”
“Isn’t it?” Melisande glanced at her toes, pursing her lips. “I think he has a certain fondness for you.”
“He sees me as a sister.”
“That can be the basis for a loving union—”
“He has other women.”
Melisande didn’t say anything, and Emeline wondered if she’d shocked her friend. It was to be expected that an aristocratic gentleman would have affairs, both before and after a marriage, but it was considered gauche to speak of such things aloud.
“You had no quarrel with that before,” Melisande said. The gentlemen were beginning to order themselves as to who would shoot first. “Come, let us go watch the target shooting.”
They strolled toward the shooters.
“I still have no quarrel with Jasper’s feelings for me,” Emeline said low. “In fact, I believe a kind regard toward one’s spouse is for the best in marriage. Far better than desperate passion.”
She felt Melisande’s sharp glance, but her friend did not comment. They had neared the group of gentlemen shooters now. The Duke of Lister stepped forward and made a show of preparing to shoot. No doubt he’d been given the first shot as a badge of his rank.
“Nasty man,” Melisande muttered.
Emeline raised her eyebrows. “The duke?”
“Mmm. He drags his mistress about like a little dog on a chain.”
“She doesn’t seem to mind.” Emeline glanced at Mrs. Fitzwilliam again. She was shielding her eyes to watch the shot, her golden hair glinting in the sunshine. She appeared perfectly relaxed.
“She can’t show any vexation, can she, if she’s to keep her position?” Melisande frowned at her, and Emeline suddenly felt rather dim-witted. “But all the same, it must be wretched. None of the ladies will talk to her and yet he is perfectly respectable.”
The duke raised the gun to his shoulder.
Melisande covered her ears with her hands as he fired, and she winced when the sound of the shot echoed off Hasselthorpe House. “Why do guns have to be so loud?”
“So that we ladies can be duly impressed, I expect,” Emeline said absently.
A footman advanced ceremonially toward the target and painted a black circle around the bullet hole so that all could see where it had hit. Lister’s shot was near the edge of the target. He scowled, but the watching ladies clapped enthusiastically. Mrs. Fitzwilliams started forward as if to congratulate her protector, but the man didn’t notice her and turned away to talk loudly with Lord Hasselthorpe. Emeline watched as the woman halted uncertainly before smiling and strolling back to the edge of the lake. Melisande was right. Obviously it wasn’t an easy job being a mistress.
“Don’t the gentlemen look manly!” Lady Hasselthorpe fluttered toward them. Today their hostess was dressed in pink-dotted dimity over wide panniers. Many pink and green ribbons decorated her elaborately draped skirts, and she held a white shepherd’s crook in one hand. Apparently she fancied herself a rustic shepherdess, although Emeline doubted many shepherdesses wore panniers whilst tending sheep. “I do so love to watch the gentlemen show off their prowess.”
She was interrupted by another loud bang!
Melisande started at the sound. “Lovely,” she said with a strained smile.
“Oh, and Mr. Hartley is next with his odd gun.” Lady Hasselthorpe squinted toward the gentlemen—she was notoriously nearsighted but refused to wear spectacles. “Do you think it will fire properly with such a long barrel? Perhaps it will explode. That would be most exciting!”
“Quite,” Emeline said.
Samuel stepped up to the mark and stood for a moment simply looking at the target. Emeline frowned, wondering what he was doing. Then, almost faster than her eye could follow, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired.
There was a stunned silence from his audience. The footman with the paintbrush started toward the target. Samuel had already turned aside even as everyone else waited to see where the ball had hit. Solemnly, the footman painted a black circle at the very center of the target.
“My God, he’s hit a bull’s-eye,” one of the gentlemen finally murmured.
The ladies clapped, the gentlemen crowding around Samuel to examine his gun.
“Lord, I hate the sound of a gun firing,” Melisande muttered as she lowered her hands.
“You should have brought lint for your ears,” Emeline said absently.
Samuel hadn’t blinked as he shot. Not as he’d raised the gun to his shoulder, not at the sound of the shot, and not as the smoke from the flintlock had wafted over him. The other gentlemen handled a gun easily; they probably went hunting and target shooting fairly often at country parties like this one. But none of them had shown the absolute familiarity that Samuel d
isplayed. She could imagine that he’d know how to shoot that gun in the dark, while running, or while being attacked. In fact, he probably had.
“Yes,” Melisande muttered, “that would certainly improve my appearance if I had lint growing out of my ears like a rabbit.”
Emeline laughed at the image of her friend with rabbit ears, and Samuel turned as if he could hear her amusement. She caught her breath as his eyes met hers. He stared for a moment, his dark eyes intense even across the distance that separated them, and then turned away as Lord Hasselthorpe said something to him. Emeline could feel the blood pulsing in her head.
“Whatever am I to do?” she whispered.
“DAMN GOOD SHOT, that,” Vale murmured from behind Sam.
“Thanks.” Sam watched as their host prepared to shoot. Hasselthorpe stood with his feet too close together and was in danger of falling or at least staggering when he fired.
“But then you always were a good shot,” Vale continued. “Remember that time you got five squirrels for our dinner?”
Sam shrugged. “Not that it did much good. They still hardly filled the stew pot. Too scrawny.”
He was aware that Lady Emeline stood not twenty feet away, her head close to her friend’s, and he wondered what the ladies were talking about. She was avoiding his gaze.
“Scrawny or not, they were welcome fresh meat. I say, Hasselthorpe’s going to blow over, isn’t he?”
“Might.”
They were silent as their host squinted down the barrel, squeezed the trigger, and then inevitably couldn’t keep the gun from jerking as it fired. The shot went wide, missing the target altogether. Lady Emeline’s friend covered her ears and winced.
“At least he didn’t fall down,” Vale murmured. He sounded a little disappointed.
Sam turned to look at him. “Have you asked about Corporal Craddock yet?”
Vale idly rocked back on his heels. “I’ve got the address Thornton gave us, and I found out where Honey Lane is—Craddock’s house is there.”
Sam eyed him a moment. “Good. Then we shouldn’t have problems finding it tomorrow.”
“None at all,” Vale said cheerfully. “I remember Craddock as a sensible sort. If anyone can help, I’m sure he can.”