“We might.”
Vale raised his eyebrows.
The carriage lurched around the corner, and Sam grabbed the leather strap hanging by his head. “She wants to know what happened. How Reynaud died.”
“Christ.” Vale closed his eyes as if in pain.
Sam looked away. He realized now that a craven part of him had been hoping the other man didn’t care about Lady Emeline. That their engagement was a purely practical matter. Obviously that wasn’t so.
“You mustn’t tell her,” Vale was saying. “There’s no need for her to live with that image in her mind.”
“I know that,” Sam growled.
“Then we’re in accord.”
Sam nodded once.
Vale looked at him and started to say something, but the carriage lurched to a stop. He glanced out the window instead. “What a lovely part of London you’ve brought me to.”
They were in the East End stews. The crumbling buildings were packed so closely together that sometimes only a walkway wide enough for a man separated them. They’d have to make the rest of the journey on foot.
Sam raised his eyebrows politely. “You can stay behind in the carriage if you’re afraid.”
The other man snorted.
The door opened and a footman set the step. The servant watched them with a knitted brow as they descended. “Shall I come with you, my lord? ’Tisn’t safe hereabouts.”
“We’ll be fine.” Vale clapped the man on the shoulder. “Stay and guard the carriage until our return.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sam led the way down a dark alley.
“He’s right,” Vale said behind him. “Do we really need to visit Ned Allen?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t have many others to question. There weren’t a lot of survivors, as you know. And Allen was an officer.”
“Hardly any survivors at all,” Vale muttered. There was a splash and he swore.
Sam hid a grin.
“What happened to your lieutenant? Horn, wasn’t it?”
“Matthew Horn. He’s traveling the continent, last I heard.”
“And the naturalist?”
“Munroe?” Vale’s voice was casual, yet Sam knew he’d somehow won the other man’s complete attention.
They entered a tiny courtyard, and Sam cast a swift glance around. The buildings here looked like they’d been erected hastily after the great fire and were already in the process of decaying. They leaned ominously into the small courtyard, which, judging from the smell, was also the local privy.
“The man who survived with you,” Sam said. There had been a civilian naturalist attached to the 28th, a quiet Scotsman who had been one of the men taken captive by the Wyandot.
“Alistair Munroe’s up in Scotland, last I heard. He has a great drafty castle and doesn’t go out much.”
“Because of his wounds?” Sam asked softly. They ducked into the alley that led to the house Allen had a room in. Vale hadn’t answered. Sam looked back.
Vale’s eyes held demons, and Sam had the uneasy feeling that they might mirror his own. “You saw what those savages did to him. Would you want to go out with scars like that?”