But though he inquired high and low, there was no decent work to be found for a soldier returning from war. And this is often the case, I think. For though all are happy enough to see a soldier when there is a war to be fought, after the danger is past, they look upon the same man with suspicion and contempt.
Thus it came about that Iron Heart was forced to take the job of a street sweeper. And this he did most gratefully....
—from Iron Heart
“I thought I heard you come in late last night,” Rebecca said as she placed some coddled eggs on her plate the next morning. “After midnight?”
“Was it?” Samuel replied vaguely. He was sitting at the breakfast table behind her. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Oh! Oh, no. You didn’t disturb me at all. That wasn’t what I meant.” Rebecca sighed inwardly and took the seat opposite her brother. She wanted rather badly to ask him where he’d been last night—and the night before that—but shyness and a certain hesitation held her tongue. She poured herself some tea and strove to open a topic of conversation, always a bit hard in the morning. “What are your plans for today? Are you conducting business with Mr. Kitcher? I...I thought if not, that we might go for a drive about London. I hear St. Paul’s Cathedral—”
“Damn!” Samuel set his knife down with a clatter. “I forgot to tell you.”
Rebecca felt a sinking in the pit of her belly. It’d been a long shot—her brother was so often busy—but she’d hoped nevertheless that he’d have time to spend with her that afternoon. “Tell me what?”
“We’ve been invited to tea by our next-door neighbor, Lady Emeline Gordon.”
“What?” Rebecca glanced involuntarily in the direction of the grand town house that adjoined their house to the right. She’d glimpsed her ladyship once or twice and had been awed by their neighbor’s sophistication. “But...but when did this happen? I didn’t see an invitation in today’s post.”
“I met her at the salon I attended yesterday.”
“Goodness,” Rebecca marveled. “She must be a very pleasant lady to invite us on such little acquaintance.” Whatever would she wear to meet a titled lady?
Samuel fingered his knife, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve said her older brother was uncomfortable. “Actually, I asked her to chaperone you to some gatherings.”
“Really? I thought you didn’t like balls and social gatherings.” She was pleased, of course, that he’d thought of her, but his sudden interest in her schedule seemed rather odd.
“Yes, but now that we’re in London...” Samuel let his sentence trail as he drank some coffee. “I thought you might like to go out. See the city, meet some people. You’re only nineteen. You must be bored to death, rattling around this place with just me to keep you company.”
Well, that wasn’t quite true, Rebecca reflected as she tried to think of a reply. Actually, she was surrounded by many other people—servants. There seemed to be scores of servants in this London town house Samuel had rented. Just when she thought she’d met them all, an odd maid or bootblack boy who she’d never seen before would suddenly pop up. Indeed, right now there were two footmen standing by the wall ready to wait on them. One she thought was named Travers, and the other...fiddlesticks! She’d quite forgotten the other’s name, although she knew for certain that she’d seen him before. He had jetty hair and amazing green eyes. Not, of course, that she should be noticing the color of a footman’s eyes.
Rebecca poked at her cold eggs. She was only used to Cook and Elsie at home in Boston where she lived with Samuel. Growing up, she’d eaten most of her suppers with Cook and the elderly maid, until she was deemed a lady and made to sit in the dining room with Uncle Thomas. Her uncle had been a dear, and Rebecca loved him, but dining with him had been rather a trial. His dinner conversation had been so flat when compared to the lively nightly gossip she’d had with Cook and Elsie. The conversation at meals had improved a little when Samuel had come to live with her on the death of Uncle Thomas, but not by much. Samuel could be terribly witty when he wanted to, but so often he seemed distracted by business affairs.
“Do you mind?” Samuel’s question broke into her rambling thoughts.
“I’m sorry?”
Her brother was frowning at her now, and Rebecca had the sinking sensation that somehow she’d disappointed him. “Do you mind that I’ve asked Lady Emeline to help?”
“No, not at all.” She smiled brightly. Of course, she’d rather that he’d spent the time with her, but he was in London on business, after all. “I’m flattered that you thought of me.”
But this answer made him set down his coffee cup. “You say that as if I consider you a burden.”
Rebecca dropped her gaze. Actually, that was exactly how she reckoned he thought of her. A burden. How could he not? She was much younger than he and brought up in the city. Samuel, in contrast, had been raised in the wilds of the frontier until the age of fourteen. Sometimes she thought the gulf that separated them was wider than the ocean. “I know you didn’t wish me to come on this trip.”
“We’ve been over this before. I was happy to include you once I knew that you wanted to travel with me.”
“Yes, and I’m very grateful.” Rebecca carefully straightened the silverware at her place, aware that her answer wasn’t quite right. She peeked at him under her brows.
He was frowning again. “Rebecca, I—”
The entrance of the butler interrupted him. “Mr. Kitcher has arrived, sir.”
Mr. Kitcher was her brother’s man of business.
“Thank you,” Samuel muttered. He stood and bent to kiss her on the forehead. “Kitcher and I are to see a man about arranging to visit Wedgwood’s showroom. I’ll be back after luncheon. We are expected at her ladyship’s house at two o’clock.”
“Very well,” Rebecca replied, but Samuel was already at the door. He exited without another word, and Rebecca was left to contemplate her eggs all alone. Except, of course, for the footmen.
THE COLONIAL GENTLEMAN was even more imposing standing in her little sitting room. That was Emeline’s first thought that afternoon when she turned to greet her guests. The contrast was stark between her pretty sitting room—elegant, sophisticated, and very civilized—and the man who stood so motionless at its center. He should’ve been overwhelmed by the gilt and satin, should’ve seemed naïve and a little crude in his plain woolen clothes.
Instead he dominated the room.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hartley.” Emeline held out her hand, belatedly remembering their handshake of the day before. She held her breath to see if he’d repeat that unorthodox gesture. But Mr. Hartley merely took her hand and quite properly brushed his lips in the air an inch above her knuckles. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate there, his nostrils flaring, and then he straightened. She caught the amused gleam in his eyes. Her own eyes narrowed. The scoundrel! He’d known all along yesterday that he was supposed to kiss her hand.
“May I present my sister, Rebecca Hartley,” he said now, and Emeline was forced to marshal her attention.
The young girl who stepped forward was pleasingly attractive. She had her brother’s dark hair, but where his eyes were a warm brown, hers held sparks of green and even yellow. A most unusual color but very pretty nonetheless. She wore a simple dimity frock with a square neckline and a bit of lace at the sleeves and bodice. Emeline noted that the wardrobe could certainly be improved.
“How do you do?” she said as the girl made a passable curtsy.
“Oh, ma’am—I mean, my lady—I’m so pleased to meet you,” Miss Hartley gasped. She had a pretty, if unpolished manner.
Emeline nodded. “My aunt, Mademoiselle Molyneux.”
Tante Cristelle was sitting at her left, perched at the very edge of her chair so that several inches of air was between her ramrod-straight back and the chair’s back. The older woman inclined her head. Her lips were pinched, but her eyes were staring at the hem of Miss Hartley’s dress.
Mr. Hartley smiled, his mouth twisting rather raffishly at the corners as he bowed over her aunt’s hand. “How do you do, ma’am?”
“Very well, I thank you, monsieur,” Tante said crisply.
Mr. Hartley and his sister sat, the girl on the yellow and white damask settee, her brother on the orange wing chair. Emeline settled in an armchair and nodded at Crabs, the butler, who immediately disappeared to order the tea.
“You said yesterday that you were in London on business, Mr. Hartley. What kind?” she asked her guest.
Mr. Hartley flicked the skirt of his brown coat aside to set one ankle across the knee of the opposite leg. “I deal in the import and export of goods to Boston.”
“Indeed?” Emeline murmured faintly. Mr. Hartley seemed not at all self-conscious to admit engaging in trade. But then what else could one expect from a colonial who wore leather leggings? Her gaze dropped to his crossed leg. The soft leather fit closely to his calf, outlining a lovely masculine form. She averted her eyes.
“I hope to meet Mr. Josiah Wedgwood,” Mr. Hartley said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He has a marvelous new crockery factory.”
“Crockery.” Tante Cristelle employed her lorgnette—an affectation that she used mainly when she wished to cow others. She peered first at Mr. Hartley and then returned to her fascination with Miss Hartley’s lower skirts.
Mr. Hartley remained uncowed. He smiled at Emeline’s aunt and then at Emeline. “Crockery. Amazing how much crockery we use in the Colonies. My business already imports earthenware and such, but I believe that there is a market for finer stuff. Things that a fashionable lady might have at her table. Mr. Wedgwood has perfected a process to make creamware more delicate than anyone has ever seen. I hope to persuade him that Hartley Importers is the company to best bring his goods to the Colonies.”
Emeline raised her eyebrows, intrigued despite herself. “You will market the china for him there?”
“No. It will be the usual exchange. I will buy his goods and then resell them across the Atlantic. What’s different is that I hope to have the exclusive right to trade his goods in the Colonies.”
“You are ambitious, Mr. Hartley,” Tante Cristelle said. She did not sound approving.
Mr. Hartley inclined his head to her aunt. He didn’t seem perturbed by the old woman’s disapproval. Emeline found herself reluctantly admiring his self-possession. He was foreign in a way that had nothing to do with being American. The gentlemen of her acquaintance didn’t deal in commerce, let alone discuss it so bluntly with a lady. It was rather interesting to have a man regard her as an intellectual equal. At the same time, she was aware that he would never belong in her world.
Miss Hartley cleared her throat. “My brother has informed me that you have kindly agreed to chaperone me, ma’am.”
The entrance of three maids bearing laden tea trays prevented Emeline from making a suitable retort—one that would wing the brother and not the girl. He’d taken her assent for granted, had he? She noticed, as the maids bustled about, that Mr. Hartley was watching her quite openly. She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge, but he only quirked his own back at her. Was he flirting with her? Didn’t he know that she was far, far out of his reach?
When the tea things had been settled, Emeline began to pour, her back so straight that she put even Tante to shame. “I am considering championing you, Miss Hartley.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words. “Perhaps you’ll tell me why you have—?”
She was interrupted by a whirlwind. The sitting room door slammed against the wall, bouncing off the woodwork and putting yet another chip in the paint. A tangle of arms and long legs lunged at her.
