The Price of Temptation (23 page)
E
velyn knew who it was before the door opened.
There was the telltale creak of the floorboard in the hall, the sound she’d listened for, anticipated, for so many nights. Tonight she dreaded it.
He entered and shut the door behind him. He wasn’t wearing his wig or the coat to his uniform, and she felt her heart turn to stone. They were no longer lovers or equals. He was an officer, not a soldier, a gentleman instead of a servant. An earl’s son.
And a traitor.
He stood waiting for her to speak first, his expression bland. Did he expect her to scream or cry? She would never give him that satisfaction. She wondered how she had the misfortune to end up with a traitor a second time. “Did Philip send you?” she asked.
He winced. “No. God, Evelyn, no.” He took a step toward her, and she got off the bed, sent him a look that dared him to touch her now. He stopped short, a scant few feet in front of her. The familiar wave of longing rose, and she squelched it.
“I would have told you the truth before dinner, if you’d allowed me the chance.”
He sounded as angry as she was, and he hadn’t the right. She narrowed her eyes. “What truth? The only truth is that you lied. You are, I take it,
the
Sinjon Rutherford?” The name swirled over her tongue, thick and bitter.
“Yes. Countess Elizabeth is my mother and Mears is my brother.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And you are a traitor, don’t forget that part, and a rapist, and a liar. Lord Creighton already warned me about you,” she said.
“He lied,” he said flatly. “Evelyn, I—”
But she didn’t let him finish. “You dare to accuse someone else of
lying
? Sin is a good name for you. Your soul is every bit as black and ugly as—” She couldn’t say her husband’s name, not in this room, even now. “I should have left this room locked.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite, Evelyn! You didn’t care who I was,” he accused.
But she did care. She’d chosen him, hadn’t wanted anyone else, ever. Just him. Her limbs shook with anger, or remorse, or loss, she didn’t know what to call the dreadful sensation that threatened to overwhelm her.
“You chose me because I was your servant, close at hand and oh-so-convenient, so one would know that the high and mighty Lady Evelyn Renshaw has needs and passions and a heart.”
Would he ever stop talking? Every word was a knife wound.
“My heart was not involved,” she lied boldly. “
You
meant nothing. My sisters take lovers. Why shouldn’t I? You were a pleasant distraction. I thank you for that at least. Shall I offer you a shilling before I dismiss you?”
His eyes narrowed, and she read something in his expression that stopped her breath. Hurt, perhaps. She’d touched a nerve, gotten a taste of revenge. It had a bitter aftertaste, though.
“I didn’t come up here to argue. I came to warn you, Evelyn. Philip is dangerous, and he’s got enemies who will do what’s necessary to get what they want.”
“Ah, yes, the Frenchman in the park. How long ago was that?” she asked sarcastically. “Do you dare to imagine I can’t live without your protection?” She drew breath to dismiss him, but he stepped closer. She breathed him in, the fragrance of wool, sugar, and his own body. She’d fallen in love with that scent. Her mouth dried to ashes and she forgot what she was going to say.
He put his hand on her shoulder, and his touch shot through her like lightning. She shook him off, backed up a step and glared him into submission.
He let his hands fall to his sides, trying, she supposed, to look harmless, innocent.
But he wasn’t.
“Evelyn, I swear I will tell you everything, but not tonight. I’ll leave, and come and see you tomorrow.”
“No. I do not wish to see you again, Mr. Rutherford. Or is it captain? I do not even know what to call you.”
“Call me Sinjon.”
She raised her chin. “I think not.”
“I’ll come in few days, then. Evelyn, after all that’s passed between us, I deserve the chance to explain.”
How did he dare to speak of their affair as if it meant something to him? She glared at him, furious, but there was no pride in his eyes, no sense of conquest. He looked as honest and reliable as he always did.
She felt the edge of the iceberg in her chest melt a little. He must have sensed it.
“Look, you can send me a note when the time is right. I will be at—” He paused as if he didn’t know.
“I don’t want to know. I don’t care. I will not be duped or betrayed again.” She turned away, giving him the scorn of her back. “Go. I don’t care where you go from here. Prison, or hell, I hope.”
He stood behind her for a long moment, but she refused to turn. She counted the seconds, her limbs trembling. If he hesitated a moment more, she’d burst into tears. She could feel them threatening behind her lashes, and she fought them with all her strength.
He left at last, shutting the door quietly, and she waited until his footsteps faded down the staircase.
She dashed away a single teardrop with the back of her hand and lay down on the bed. The scandal would swell with tonight’s tales to tell. The traitor’s wife, guilty of new sins. With fresh fuel the gossip would burn forever. She couldn’t bear to hear the mocking laughter as the name of yet another traitor was linked with hers.
She had to leave London. The spies could chase her all the way to Linwood if they wished.
There was no reason to wait, no lover coming to claim her. She had nothing left here.
She was alone again, and the wolves were circling.
S
he was the most stubborn, difficult woman he’d ever met, Sinjon thought bitterly as he packed the few belongings in his small room.
And she was the most vulnerable. The thought that Evelyn might be facing danger made his gut tighten and ache.
He took the gonfalon out of its hiding place. It didn’t belong here any more than he did.
He shrugged off his livery coat and folded the flag, tucking it under the lining. He put it back on and gathered the rest of his belongings. He had little to pack—just his boots, a few clean shirts, some handkerchiefs. He left the hated footman’s wig on the bed.
The whispering stopped as he entered the kitchen, and the staff stared at him. Starling looked angry, Sal bemused. Annie seemed confused, and Mary’s brown eyes were narrowed in speculation. Mrs. Cooper was in tears, her marvelous dinner forgotten amid the shocking events of the evening. He wondered what Starling had told them.
“Should we bow?” Mary asked the butler.
Starling pursed his lips. “No, I don’t think so. Here in this kitchen, he’s still one of us. He’s not one of them until he leaves.”
Sinjon bowed to them instead. “It has been an honor to know each of you.”
“I’ll escort you out the front door, milord,” Starling said. “In keeping with who you really are.”
“Did you—” Annie began, stopping Sinjon at the kitchen door.
He turned to look at her.
“Did you really murder a woman in Spain?” she asked in a rush.
He shook his head. “No, Annie. I would never hurt any woman. I was just a soldier.”
She let out the breath she was holding and nodded.
He led the way up the kitchen stairs for the last time with Starling at his heels. “Mr. Starling, you once asked me to protect Lady Evelyn.”
“What of it?” the butler growled.
“She still needs to be protected. If she needs me, then send for me.”
Starling puffed like an indignant pigeon, but Sinjon held his gaze. Finally the butler looked away, but his jaw tightened mutinously in wordless refusal.
William and Caroline and his mother had gone, but Westlake was waiting in the front hall.
“I suppose you’d better come to De Courcey House since you have nowhere else to go at present,” he said stiffly. “I’ll warn you now that my wife is waiting in the coach, since she refused to allow me to send her home ahead of us.”
Sinjon smiled wryly. “Am I to be grilled or roasted as the evening’s final course?”
Westlake colored slightly. “Everyone who was here tonight has questions, Rutherford. Some of those questions have dangerous answers.”
Sinjon turned to meet the butler’s eyes. “There, Starling. You have my direction if you need me. I’ll be at De Courcey House, a guest of the earl.”
“We won’t need you,” the butler said stiffly, and bowed. “Good night, my lords.” He shut the door, and left Sinjon on the unfriendly darkness of Evelyn’s doorstep.
“I
must thank you, Captain Rutherford, for the most entertaining dinner party I’ve been to in a very long time,” Marianne Westlake said as the coach pulled away from Renshaw House. “The service was flawless, by the way, right up until you dropped the cake in Adam’s lap.”
“Thank you, Countess,” Sinjon said.
“I mean, I’m sure Adam would be hard pressed to serve a cake or even a plate of biscuits and not slip up.” She paused for only a moment before pouncing. “So tell me, is everything I’ve heard about you true?”
“Marianne, most of what’s printed in the scandal sheets are lies,” Adam admonished.
“Then let him tell me the truth himself,” Marianne objected. “You cannot expect me to take a reputed rapist and traitor into my home and not ask questions.”
Sinjon winced at the description, and Adam sighed in exasperation.
“Since he is to be
our
guest, perhaps you might offer him some modicum of privacy and decorum, and the benefit of the doubt.”
“I shall be pleased to tell you truth of the matter, Countess, since I am innocent of the charges,” Sinjon said.
“I do hope you’ll tell a version suitable for a lady’s ears, Captain,” Westlake warned him.
“Then you already know the tale, do you, Adam? Including the ‘unsuitable’ version?” she asked.
Sinjon felt his temperature rise, but Westlake didn’t answer.
“I do hope whichever version you tell me, it will include an explanation of how an officer and a nobleman’s son came to be working as Evelyn Renshaw’s footman.”
“Is he not to be allowed any privacy at all?” Westlake objected.
“Not under the circumstances! Never mind my husband, Captain. I am an excellent listener, and may be able to offer some helpful advice.”
“And since you are an excellent hostess as well as a good listener, you won’t forget that Captain Rutherford worked all day, and would probably prefer a good night’s rest to a long interrogation.”
The coach pulled up at the front door of De Courcey House, and a footman immediately sprang forward to open the door. Sinjon looked carefully at him, wondering what secrets Westlake’s servants kept under
their
livery. This one might number skills as a trained assassin or a code breaker among his daily duties.
“I shall wait until morning to hear your side of things, Captain,” the countess said. “Adam can tell me what he knows tonight. We breakfast at nine. Do you prefer coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, thank you, Countess,” Sinjon murmured. Marianne Westlake would probably come and drag him out of bed personally if he did not appear at her table.
“Good. I shall inform Northcott at once, and remind him that you are no longer a footman, but an honored guest under the benefit of the doubt until breakfast. Good night.”
Sinjon bowed, and he and Adam watched her climb the steps. “My wife will be discreet regarding your presence here. I assume you’ll take care what you tell her?”
“I won’t lie,” Sinjon said tiredly. He’d done too much of that already.
“Need I remind you that my wife has no idea what I do for the Crown?”
“Then I shall leave you out of it entirely.”
They entered the vast foyer, and Northcott bowed to both gentlemen, showing no sign of surprise at Sinjon’s new status. Adam handed the butler his coat and turned to Sinjon. “A drink before going up?” he asked.
“If you don’t mind, my lord, it has been a very busy day. I’ll say good-night.” As he climbed the stairs with Northcott leading the way, Sinjon felt Adam Westlake’s eyes on his back, knew he was weighing the small valise, wondering if the gonfalon was inside. He straightened his coat and kept walking.
He was here because he had something Westlake wanted. The butler opened the door on a comfortable, handsome room, and Sinjon nodded his thanks.
Still, a prison was a prison, even if it included a feather bed hung with velvet curtains.
P
hilip hated being without his luxurious traveling coach. It offered incredible comfort on long journeys, unlike the squalid chaise he found himself in. He’d bought it for the housekeeper’s use at the estate he furbished for his royal French cousin, but when Napoleon’s agents arrived unannounced, he’d been forced to escape in the plain vehicle, or not escape at all.
After five almost unendurable days of travel, he’d managed to lose his pursuers. He had no doubt they’d find him again, and when they did, he’d need the gonfalon.
He reached for the silver flask on the seat beside him and grimaced at the sour odor of the ordinary wine it contained. It had been the best the last coaching inn had to offer, and it was still worse than swill. He didn’t bother pouring it into the crystal glass he usually used. It wasn’t worthy of such consideration. He swallowed, and swore at the thin bitterness. Water would have been better, and no one drank water.
He’d been hiding in Dorset for months, every since his plot to kidnap and execute the French king in exile had failed and he became a wanted man. No one had thought to look for him in such an obvious place, and he enjoyed the life of luxury he’d prepared for his French cousin.
Napoleon’s agents had found him first, bursting in to skewer his butler and shoot his valet in the knee, demanding in French to know where Philip Renshaw was and where the gonfalon was hidden. Philip smiled coldly now. His servants didn’t speak a word of French, nor did they have any idea who Renshaw was or what a gonfalon might be. To them, he was Lord Elenoire.
Philip was not a man to be captured easily. He’d escaped better men than these, last time with a pistol ball buried in his shoulder. This time he slipped out through the tunnels he’d had constructed under the house, and was gone before the servants’ screams subsided.
Philip had imagined he was being clever, stealing the gonfalon. It had offered security. If he was double-crossed by Napoleon, then the French would never see their holy battle flag again. He’d promised the Emperor two things, and had failed to give him either. Louis XVIII remained in comfortable exile here in England, with his head still firmly fixed to his shoulders, and his existence remained a threat to Napoleon’s grip on the French throne. Philip had promised the Emperor his undying loyalty in exchange for his grandfather’s defunct title, and then betrayed him by stealing the Gonfalon of Charlemagne.
He poured the rest of the wine out of the window. He didn’t trust Napoleon any more than the Emperor trusted him. They were both ruthless men interested only in their own glory. Patriotism was for lesser men.
He arrived in London just after dark, directing his carriage down the broad avenues of the West End first, past the grand homes of marquesses and earls, where he had once been a welcome guest. It was the height of the Season, and the cream of London society was dancing the night away. He wondered if they were still talking about him, or if his star had fallen to a fresher scandal.
“Stop here,” he commanded, knocking on the roof. He sat well back in the shadows and stared at the dark facade of his own house. No parties here, then. The only light was in Evelyn’s bedroom, the wan flicker of a single candle. Did she sleep with the light on out of fear or hope of his return?
He waited another half hour for her light to go out. It didn’t. He got out of the coach impatiently. “Wait for me here, and don’t speak to anyone,” he ordered his driver.
He entered through the front door. It was his house, after all. He smiled. Maybe he’d sell it without telling Evelyn. That would shake the insipid calm off her face.
His nostrils flared as he opened the door. The house smelled of Evelyn’s perfume. It had become her house since he left. He entered the salon and moved through the dark toward the brandy decanter near the window.
He tripped over something and fell.
When his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he swore under his breath. She’d rearranged the furniture. He’d fallen over a small chair that should not have been there. He picked it up and put it back where it used to be, against the wall.
Philip poured a brimming glass of brandy and took it at a swallow.
He choked. “Sherry,” he growled, and hurled the glass against the wall. In the faint light from outside, the glistening liquor crawled down the striped wallpaper like blood.
He took the precaution of lighting a candle when he went into the library. She would not dare change this room, he thought smugly, and looked around. First, he wanted the painting above the fireplace. The portrait of the famous actress was legendary among the connoisseurs of the
ton
. He’d once been offered a small fortune for it. Now, with his own notoriety, it would fetch much more.
He held the candle up, his mouth watering at the prospect of seeing his mistress’s incomparable breasts once again.
The sober face of the late Earl of Tilby, Evelyn’s father, glared down at him instead. Philip recoiled. The late earl’s high and mighty frown matched Evelyn’s perfectly. He was tempted to tear the portrait off the wall, but the noise would wake the servants. He wondered if Starling was still here, still as loyal. He might enlist the butler to carry his belongings out to the carriage when he was done here.
He checked the shelves, looking for the most valuable books in his collection. He found the first, a book of Venetian prints. He ran his hand over the painted breasts of the lush prostitutes and glanced at the execrable poetry that accompanied each salacious drawing. It was one of his favorite possessions. Placing it on the desk, he went in search of the others under Tilby’s disapproving eye.
The rest of the books weren’t in the usual place.
He scanned the shelves, looking for the familiar spines of his treasures, but there was no sign of them.
“The bitch,” he muttered. She would not dare dispose of them. More likely she’d hidden them away so no decent person would find them. He climbed the stairs. The art on the walls had changed, or disappeared. Evelyn had redecorated him out of his own house, tried to eradicate every sign of him.
He paused at the top of the steps, tempted to go to her room first, grab her by the hair and force her out of bed, make her show him where she’d put his prized possessions, and prove to her he was still the master of this house.
Instead, he went into his own bedchamber and breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing had been moved here, at least. It looked as if he’d left only yesterday. His coats still hung in the wardrobe, his shirts and handkerchiefs lay ready in his bureau drawers.
He went into his dressing room. His dressing gown no longer hung behind the door, and there were no linens laid out for his bath. Even the scented soap he favored was missing.
He opened the cupboard, and his heart leapt into his mouth.
Every sheet, every towel, was gone. The bare shelves mocked him. He reached a hand in, felt only the painted wood, cold and empty under his palm.
It wasn’t here.
He moaned, and looked around the room again, searching. He went back into his bedroom and tore the drawers apart, scattering everything.
It was one thing to move a few paintings, or to change his brandy for sherry, but this was a matter of life and death. Fury rose. He grabbed a discarded shirt and tore it in half, and the fine linen shrieked.
Damn her! She had no right to move anything. She was his wife,
his property
. He would have to remind her who was in charge here.
Philip Renshaw left his room and stalked down the hall toward Evelyn’s bedchamber.
Her door was unlocked, and he pushed it open. He’d never worn a path in the carpet coming here at night, but he’d done the minimum to try and get himself an heir, and to keep Evelyn in line. She hated his visits to her bed, and that was the only pleasure he got in this room. He grabbed the bed curtains with pulled them back violently.
She didn’t leap up in terror as he’d hoped. The bed was empty, and he stared down at the smooth white counterpane in surprise.
“She’s not here, my lord,” said a familiar voice, and he turned. Starling, his faithful butler, was standing behind him.
Well, perhaps not so faithful after all, since he was pointing one of Philip’s own dueling pistols at his master’s chest.
“I can see that, Starling. Give me the gun at once and tell me where she is.”
Starling shifted, obviously uneasy about disobeying a direct order. “There are men outside, my lord, watching the house.”
Philip felt his stomach clench. He’d taken too great a risk in coming here, and hadn’t expected to find disobedience and mayhem threatening him in his own household. He forced himself to sneer at the threat.
“Should I ask them where my wife is?”
“She’s out. Gone to a party,” Starling replied stiffly. “If you don’t leave, I will summon the watch.”
Philip chuckled and took a step toward the spindly butler. He snatched the gun from Starling’s hand before the servant could even react, and gripped his throat. “How will you summon them? With your last breath?”
He felt the butler swallow. To his surprise, Starling pulled a massive kitchen knife out from somewhere. He put it against his chest. Philip could feel the point through his waistcoat. By the light of the single candle, he read hatred in Starling’s eyes. “All I have to do is cry out, my lord. The window’s open. They’ll come running, but they won’t reach this room before you’re dead.”
Philip let the butler go, giving him a shove that knocked him off balance, and strode past him toward the door.
“My wife has something I want, Starling. A banner. Do you know where it is?”
He shook his head, still holding the knife.
“Then you may tell her I’ll be back.”
S
tarling sagged against the banister as the front door slammed. He crossed to the bedroom window and watched Philip Renshaw leave in a plain coach. He scanned the darkness, wondering if there truly were men out there. He’d been bluffing, and now that it was over, he realized he was shaking. He tucked Mrs. Cooper’s knife back into his waistband.
Picking up the candle he walked along the upper hall. He put his ear to the door of the back bedroom. There wasn’t a sound inside. Lady Evelyn was asleep. He let go a sigh of relief.
Starling wasn’t surprised she was in this room. She had slept here for weeks, and he was well aware she hadn’t been alone. At first he’d been shocked, but Sam was a good man, discreet and dependable, and he made everyone feel safe while he was here. Starling touched the handle of the knife, realized his hand was still shaking. He was too old for this kind of thing.
Philip Renshaw would be back.
Starling had never known a more ruthless man. He shivered, and sat down in the hall outside the door, placing the knife beside him on the floor, settling himself for the night.
Much as he hated to admit it, Lady Evelyn needed Sam Carr more than ever.
They all did.