Emeline looked away again. “Who is he?”
Mrs. Conrad stared. “Don’t you know?”
“No.”
Her hostess was delighted. “Why, my dear, that’s Mr. Samuel Hartley! Everyone has been talking about him, though he has only been in London a sennight or so. He’s not quite acceptable, because of the...” Mrs. Conrad met Emeline’s eyes and hastily cut short what she’d been about to say. “Anyway. Even with all his wealth, not everyone is happy to meet him.”
Emeline stilled as the back of her neck prickled.
Mrs. Conrad continued, oblivious. “I really shouldn’t have invited him, but I couldn’t help myself. That form, my dear. Simply delicious! Why, if I hadn’t asked him, I would never have—” Her flurry of words ended on a startled squeak, for a man had cleared his throat directly behind them.
Emeline hadn’t been watching, so she hadn’t seen him move, but she knew instinctively who stood so close to them. Slowly she turned her head.
Mocking coffee-brown eyes met her own. “Mrs. Conrad, I’d be grateful if you’d introduce us.” His voice had a flat American accent.
Their hostess sucked in her breath at this blunt order, but curiosity won out over indignation. “Lady Emeline, may I introduce Mr. Samuel Hartley. Mr. Hartley, Lady Emeline Gordon.”
Emeline sank into a curtsy, only to be presented with a large, tanned hand on rising. She stared for a moment, nonplussed. Surely the man wasn’t that unsophisticated? Mrs. Conrad’s breathy giggle decided the matter. Gingerly, Emeline touched just her fingertips to his.
To no avail. He embraced her hand with both of his, enveloping her fingers in hard warmth. His nostrils flared just the tiniest bit as she was forced to step forward into the handshake. Was he scenting her?
“How do you do?” he asked.
“Well,” Emeline retorted. She tried to free her hand but could not, even though Mr. Hartley didn’t seem to be gripping her tightly. “Might I have my appendage returned to me now?”
That mouth twitched again. Did he laugh at everyone or just her? “Of course, my lady.”
Emeline opened her mouth to make an excuse—any excuse—to leave the dreadful man, but he was too quick for her.
“May I escort you into the garden?”
It really wasn’t a question, since he’d already held out his arm, obviously expecting her consent. And what was worse, she gave it. Silently, Emeline laid her fingertips on his coat sleeve. He nodded to Mrs. Conrad and drew Emeline outside in only a matter of minutes, working very neatly for such a gauche man. Emeline squinted up at his profile suspiciously.
He turned his head and caught her look. His own eyes wrinkled at the corners, laughing down at her, although his mouth remained perfectly straight. “We’re neighbors, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve rented the house next to yours.”
Emeline found herself blinking up at him, caught off guard once again—a disagreeable sensation as rare as it was unwanted. She knew the occupants of the town house to the right of hers, but the left had been let out recently. For an entire day the week before, men had been tramping in and out of the open doors, sweating, shouting, and cursing. And they’d carried...
Her eyebrows snapped together. “The pea-green settee.”
His mouth curved at one corner. “What?”
“You’re the owner of that atrocious pea-green settee, aren’t you?”
He bowed. “I confess it.”
“With no trace of shame, either, I see.” Emeline pursed her lips in disapproval. “Are there really gilt owls carved on the legs?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“I had.”
“Then I’ll not argue the point.”
“Humph.” She faced forward again.
“I have a favor to ask of you, ma’am.” His voice rumbled somewhere above her head.
He’d led her down one of the packed gravel paths of the Conrads’ town house garden. It was unimaginatively planted with roses and small, clipped hedges. Sadly, most of the roses had already bloomed, so the whole looked rather plain and forlorn.
“I’d like to hire you.”
“Hire me?” Emeline inhaled sharply and stopped, forcing him to halt as well and face her. Did this odd man think she was a courtesan of some sort? The insult was outrageous, and in her confusion she found her gaze wandering over his frame, crossing wide shoulders, a pleasingly flat waist, and then dropping to an inappropriate portion of Mr. Hartley’s anatomy, which, now that she noticed it, was rather nicely outlined by the black wool breeches he wore under his leggings. She inhaled again, nearly choking, and hastily raised her eyes. But the man either hadn’t observed her indiscretion or was much more polite than his attire and manner would lead one to believe.
He continued. “I need a mentor for my sister, Rebecca. Someone to show her the parties and balls.”
Emeline cocked her head as she realized that he wanted a chaperone. Well, why hadn’t the silly man said so in the first place and saved her all this embarrassment? “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?” The words were soft, but there was an edge of command behind them.
Emeline stiffened. “I take only young ladies from the highest ranks of society. I don’t believe your sister can meet my standards. I’m sorry.”
He watched her for a moment and then looked away. Although his gaze was on a bench at the end of the path, Emeline doubted very much that he saw it. “Perhaps, then, I can plead another reason for you to take us on.”
She stilled. “What is that?”
His eyes looked back at her, and now there was no trace of amusement in them. “I knew Reynaud.”
The beating of Emeline’s heart was very loud in her ears. Because, of course, Reynaud was her brother. Her brother who had been killed in the massacre of the 28th.
SHE SMELLED OF lemon balm. Sam inhaled the familiar scent as he waited for Lady Emeline’s answer, aware that her perfume was distracting him. Distraction was dangerous when in negotiations with a clever opponent. But it was odd to discover this sophisticated lady wearing such a homey perfume. His mother had grown lemon balm in her garden in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, and the scent pitched him back in time. He remembered sitting at a rough-hewn table as a small boy, watching Mother pour boiling water over the green leaves. The fresh scent had risen with the steam from the thick earthenware cup. Lemon balm. Balm to the soul, Mother had called it.