She stopped, still gazing sightlessly at the street ahead. He didn’t speak. This was a personal matter. She shouldn’t talk about it to a comparative stranger. But he’d been there in that foreign place where Reynaud had died. If only in a small way, he was part of Reynaud.
She sighed. “There was a book of fairy tales we used to look at together as children. Reynaud loved those stories. I can’t remember what they were about exactly, but I keep thinking if only I could read it again...” She was suddenly conscious that her conversation was meandering. She glanced up at him.
Mr. Hartley stared back, his head tilted in interest toward her.
She waved a hand impatiently. “But the book is neither here nor there. If I can find out how his last hours were, then he lives just a little longer in my memory. It doesn’t matter that they are awful moments, do you see? They are Reynaud’s moments, and thus precious. They bring me closer to him.”
He bowed his head as his brows drew together. “I think I understand.”
“Do you? Do you truly?” If he did, he would be the first to understand her. Not even Tante Cristelle could fully comprehend her need to find out everything that had happened to Reynaud in his last days. She watched him in amazement and with a dawning awareness. Maybe he truly was unlike other men. How odd.
He looked up then and caught her eye. That sensuous lower lip curved. “You’re a frightening woman.”
And Emeline realized to her horror that she could come to like Samuel Hartley. Come to like him too much. She hastily looked straight ahead and took a deep breath. “Tell me.”
He no longer pretended that he didn’t know what she asked. “I’m trying to find out why Spinner’s Falls happened. The Wyandot didn’t find our regiment by accident.” He turned to look at her, and she saw that his eyes had hardened to iron—strong, determined, and resolute. “I think we were betrayed.”
Chapter Four
The old man was dressed in dirty rags. It hardly seemed likely, so Iron Heart thought, that such a one would hold the key to marrying a princess.
But as he started to turn aside, the old man caught his arm. “Listen! You will live in a marble castle with Princess Solace as your bride. You will have silk clothes to wear and servants to wait upon your every need. All you must do is follow my instructions.”
“And what are your instructions?” Iron Heart asked.
The old wizard grinned—for naturally he was a wizard to know so much. “You must not speak for seven years.”
Iron Heart stared. “And if I am unable to do this?”
“If you utter one word—even one sound—you will be returned to rags and Princess Solace will die.”
Now, this may not seem such a wonderful bargain to you or me, but remember that Iron Heart was presently employed as a street sweeper. He looked down at his feet, shod in tattered leather, then over at the gutter where he would make his bed that night, and in the end he did the only thing he could. He agreed to the wizard’s price....
—from Iron Heart
Tonight the moon was curtained by clouds. Sam glanced at the sky as he paused beside a dark doorway. The moon was waning, anyway, so even when it came out from behind the clouds, its light was thin. He welcomed the thick shadows. It made the night perfect for hunting.
Sam slid now into an alley, moving swiftly past a bundled shape hunched against a wall. The bundle didn’t stir, but a cat sitting by its side paused in her bath to watch Sam with glowing eyes. There was a row of fine stables farther on, nearly twice the size of the ones behind his own rented house. Sam snorted. What did one man need with so many beasts?
A light appeared at one of the stable doors, and a short, sturdy man holding a lantern emerged. Sam froze, drifting back into the shadows. The man set his lantern down on the cobblestones in the mews while he dug in a pocket; then he withdrew a long clay pipe and lit it from the lantern’s flame. Puffing contentedly, he picked up his lantern again and disappeared around the corner of the stables.
Sam grinned. He waited a moment more and then followed in the man’s wake. There was a wall here with a gate, separating the mews from the back garden of the house, that was his target. He passed by the gate. It was too exposed, too likely to have a guard or a lightly sleeping groom nearby. He continued into the shadows beneath a tree that overhung the wall. Eyeing the bricks, he backed a pace and then leapt. The wall was about eight feet tall, and he was just able to fling his arms over the top. Swiftly, he levered himself up, rolled over the top, and landed in a crouch on the other side. He didn’t pause but used his jump’s momentum to run along the wall and duck under a bush several paces away. Here he dropped to the ground and lay on his belly, carefully watching the dark garden.
It was a large, rectangular town garden, planted with small ornamental trees and bushes in a severely geometric pattern. A gravel path led from the mews wall to the back of the house, where no doubt there would be separate servant and master entrances. At the moment, nothing moved in the garden.
Sam got to his feet and made his way to the back of the house, eschewing the graveled walk for fear of the sound. As he approached the house, he saw that the servant’s entrance was partly belowground; there was a well with steps leading down to the door. Above was a kind of balcony or terrace with a low, ornamental wall and French doors. A light flickered behind the French doors. Sam crept up the curving granite stairs and close to the glass doors. The man within had not bothered to draw the curtains, and he was as well lit as if he stood on a stage.
Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale, half sat, half lay on a great red velvet wing chair. One long leg draped over the chair’s arm and swung absently as he turned a page in the great book on his lap. A large buckle shoe lay overturned beside the chair; the foot on the swinging leg was clad only in a stocking.
Sam snorted softly and crouched by the window, enjoying the fact that the man never knew he was being watched from without. Vale had commanded the Light Company of the 28th. Where the other former soldiers he’d talked to had aged and changed in the six years since he’d seen them, Renshaw—now Viscount Vale—was the same. His face was long and thin, with deep lines bracketing a wide mouth and a too-large nose. He wasn’t a handsome man, and yet his face was impossible to dislike. The eyes drooped at the corners, rather like a hunting dog’s, appearing always slightly sad, even when he was in good cheer. The rest of Vale looked like he’d never outgrown the lankiness of adolescence. His arms and legs were long and bony, his hands and feet overlarge as if he still waited for his limbs to fill out. Yet Vale was the same age as Sam. As Sam considered him, Vale licked his thumb and turned another page in his book; then he picked up a crystal glass with ruby liquid and sipped from it.