He bowed. “Good night, my lady.”
And he walked away into the darkness.
Chapter Five
The wizard winked once, and Iron Heart found himself within the castle’s walls. He was dressed as the king’s own guard, and there, not two paces away, sat the king himself on his golden throne! Well, you can imagine how surprised he was. He opened his mouth to exclaim when he remembered the wizard’s words. He must not speak, else he would return to rags and the princess would die. So Iron Heart shut his mouth and vowed not to let a sound pass his lips. His vow was soon tested, for what should happen next but seven burly knaves rushed into the throne room, bent on killing the king. Iron Heart leapt forward into battle, swinging his sword left and right. The other guards shouted, but by the time they drew their swords, all seven assassins lay dead on the floor....
—from Iron Heart
“Samuel Hartley is the most irritating man,” Emeline said late the next morning.
She was in the little sitting room with Melisande Fleming. This room was one of her favorites; the walls were papered in yellow and white stripes with a thin scarlet line that occasionally repeated. The furnishings were not as new as the ones in her formal sitting room, but they were done in lush reds and oranges in lovely damasks and velvets. One felt just like a cat in the room, as if it would be easy to stretch out on the rich fabrics and purr. Not, of course, that she would do anything so uninhibited, but still, the feeling was there. In actual fact, she and Melisande sat quite properly by the windows. Or rather, Melisande sat and Emeline paced as her friend calmly drank tea.
“Irritating,” Emeline muttered, and straightened a tasseled pillow on the settee.
“So you’ve said before,” Melisande replied. “Four times since I arrived.”
“Have I?” Emeline asked vaguely. “Well, but it’s true. He doesn’t seem to have the first idea of social manners—he danced a jig in this very house just the other day—he always has a bit of a smile on his face, and his boots have no heels.”
“Horrors,” Melisande murmured.
Emeline shot Melisande, who had been her very good friend since nearly the beginning of time, an exasperated look. She sat as she always did, as if she strove to occupy as little space as humanly possible. Her back was straight and prim, her arms almost clapped to her sides, her hands folded in her lap—when she wasn’t drinking tea—and her feet placed neatly side by side on the carpet. She probably never felt an urge to lounge in the pillows piled up on the flame settee. Also—and this was something of a point of contention between the friends—Melisande always wore brown. Sometimes, it was true, she strayed from brown and was seen in gray, but that could hardly be called an improvement, could it? Today, for instance, she was in an impeccably cut sack dress that was an awful shade of dirt brown.
“Why ever did you have that gown made in that fabric?” Emeline asked.
Another lady might look down at herself. Melisande picked up the teapot and calmly poured herself more tea. “It doesn’t show dust.”
“That’s because it’s the same color as dust.”
“There you are.”
Emeline stared at her friend critically. “With your fine, blond hair—”
“It’s dust-colored, too,” Melisande murmured wryly.
“No, it’s not. It’s just that you have very subtle coloring.”
“Dust-colored hair, dust-colored eyes, dust-colored complexion—”
“Your complexion is not dust-colored,” Emeline said sternly, then winced when she realized her gaffe. She hadn’t meant to imply that the rest of her friend was dust-colored.
Melisande shot her an ironic look.
“If you would just wear more vibrant colors,” Emeline said hastily. “A lovely dark plum, for instance. Or crimson. I long to see you in crimson.”
“Then you shall have to pine away,” her friend said. “You were telling me about your new neighbor.”
“He’s quite irritating.”
“You may have mentioned that before.”
Emeline ignored that. “And I don’t know what he does at night.”
Melisande looked at her. One eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly.
“That’s not what I meant!” Emeline fluffed a pillow rather overhard.
“I am relieved,” Melisande replied. “But I’m wondering what Lord Vale thinks of this colonial.”
Emeline stared. “Jasper has nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Hartley.”
“Are you sure? Would he approve of your association with the man?”
Emeline wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to discuss Jasper.”
“I must say, I’m outraged on Lord Vale’s behalf,” Melisande said without heat as she plunked a spoonful of sugar into her tea.
“I’m sure Jasper would be flattered if he only knew.” Emeline sat on the edge of a beautiful gold velvet chair. Her mind immediately reverted to her original theme. “It’s just that I ran across Mr. Hartley last night quite late. I was coming home from Emily Turner’s soiree—you were right; I never should have gone—”
“Told you.”
“Yes, and I’ve just said so.” Emeline bounced a little in her chair. Melisande could be so didactic sometimes. “Anyway, there he was, skulking in a quite suspicious manner in a dark alley.”
“Perhaps he makes his living as a footpad,” Melisande said. She was examining the tray of sweets that the maid had left them.
Emeline frowned. It was very hard sometimes to tell when her friend was jesting and when she was not. “I don’t think so.”
“How reassuring,” Melisande said, and chose a tiny pale yellow cake.
“Although he does seem to move very quietly,” Emeline mused, “which I would think would be most helpful if one was a footpad.”
Melisande had popped the cake into her mouth, and she merely raised her eyebrows now.
“But no. No.” Emeline shook her head decisively. “Mr. Hartley isn’t a footpad. So that leaves the question, What was he doing walking about so late?”
Melisande swallowed. “The most obvious answer is an assignation.”