S
injon sat up as Evelyn sauntered toward his bed, wearing a lace nightgown that was more suggestion than substance.
She was beautiful, her limbs white against the darkness, her hair loose around her shoulders. He held out a hand to her, hard and ready. This time he wouldn’t do the gentlemanly thing and stop before her lips met his. He wanted Evelyn as he’d never wanted any woman before.
“Evelyn,” he muttered, wishing she’d hurry, and she smiled, a teasing, seductive twist of lush lips that made him harder still.
Suddenly, Creighton was there, catching her hand, pulling her against his chest, pressing his cruel mouth to hers. Sinjon watched her eyes drift shut as she sank into the kiss.
“No!” he yelled, raising his sword, and she turned in Creighton’s arms and laughed. Suddenly it wasn’t Evelyn, but Caroline, then he heard a scream and she was d’Agramant’s wife, fighting Creighton as he tore at the lace gown. Sinjon leapt toward them, only to find himself tangled in his bedsheets.
He woke in the darkness of his little room off the kitchen, his heart pounding, his naked body sheened with sweat. He threw off the suffocating linens and lay back, listening to the steady beat of the rain outside.
Damn Evelyn. He needed sleep, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind, remembering the way she’d looked in the salon, standing in front of him with her eyes closed, her lips parted for his kiss. For a crazy moment he’d wondered if the settee was going to be strong enough to hold them both in the throes of passion. It had been all he could do to step away from her.
Evelyn Renshaw was far too dangerous for a casual afternoon tumble.
He’d embarrassed her, made her angry, but it had been the right thing to do. He rubbed a hand over his face. Sometimes being noble was damned inconvenient. He rolled over, crushing the insistent jut of his erection into the mattress.
Her face filled his mind when he shut his eyes again, her soft lips parted, waiting—
He shifted again, turning onto his side. Still, he could see her eyes in the dark corner of the room, shiny with desire, seductive green pools a man could drown in. Even now he heard the call of the siren that lived in those emerald depths. He pulled the pillow over his head.
She was Philip Renshaw’s wife, and Creighton’s . . . what? Friend? Admirer?
Lover?
The idea turned his stomach.
He needed to tell Westlake that Evelyn was giving Creighton money. Or was the wily major simply fleecing the traitor’s wife, the way he’d cheated so many others? Sinjon had been over and over it in his mind. He couldn’t see Evelyn as the villain, and he was beginning to fear his attraction to her was clouding his judgment.
Unfortunately, a servant’s time was not his own, and it was tricky to get away, run errands, visit spymasters. And this week he wouldn’t even get his half day. Evelyn needed him as an escort to the Somerson ball.
He knew from past years, when he had attended the event as a guest, that everyone of importance would be there, along with a great many who managed to wheedle or buy invitations. He’d won his first invitation to the annual party in a game of faro.
A thought crept into his lust-fogged brain, giving him hope that he was still capable of sane, rational thought. Westlake would be at the ball, wouldn’t he?
The earl was probably one of the first names on the list of invitees, since his countess was the granddaughter of a duke, and sister to a marquess. Not to mention that the Westlakes had long been companions to the king and advisors to the Prince Regent.
Sinjon got up and dressed, and went to the library. He scrawled a quick note and tucked it into his pocket. It was sure to bring Westlake running.
E
velyn’s maid swept her hair up into an elegant nest of curls and began to thread a yellow ribbon into the coiffure.
“No, not yellow,” Evelyn said firmly.
Mary’s jaw dropped. “But it’s the latest fashion, my lady! Lady Charlotte’s maid gave me half a dozen ribbons for your hair tonight, each in a different shade of yellow.” She held them up. “This one is custard, and this one is butter, and this one is—” She paused, frowning. “Well, I can’t recall the exact name, but it reminds me of roast chicken.”
Evelyn resisted a smile. “I’ll wear my pearl earrings as usual, Mary, and forgo the ribbons.” She took the earrings out of the jewel box and passed them to her maid, tilting her head so Mary could fasten them. She didn’t miss the disappointed twist of her mouth.
She gave the maid a brilliant smile. “I don’t think my hair has ever looked nicer. The curls are lovely.” Mary blushed with delight, instantly over her pout.
“Thank you, my lady.” Mary looked at the ribbons again, wistfully. “Perhaps a ribbon of butter under your bodice?”
Evelyn shook her head. “Green tonight.” The color complimented her eyes, made her skin glow, and gave her confidence, though she knew her sisters would hardly approve. Eloisa had sent a yellow silk gown. Charlotte had sent dancing slippers to match. Lucy had sent lace gloves, dyed marigold yellow, and a fan with a lively lady in lemon being chased through a garden of yellow roses by a golden-skinned satyr.
She drew on her gloves and gave her gown a final pat. Surely what she wore should be her own prerogative. She looked in the mirror yet again, knowing she was putting off leaving, caught sight of Mary’s sympathetic expression and straightened her shoulders at once.
“Don’t wait up, Mary. I plan to dance the night away,” she said with forced gaiety as she swept out of the room.
Starling and Sam were waiting at the bottom of the steps. Starling looked proud, almost fatherly, but the look in Sam’s eyes took her breath away.
His gaze moved over her like a touch, intimate and warm, heating her skin. She read bold masculine appreciation in his expression, and her stomach flipped. She paused on the steps without even realizing, caught in the silver glitter of his eyes, trapped by an emotion she’d never felt before. She was not Philip Renshaw’s wife, or Tilby’s youngest daughter, or the sister of two countesses and a viscountess. She was Evelyn, and she was beautiful in this man’s eyes.
“My lady?” Mary asked. “Is anything amiss?”
Sam held out his hand, ready to escort her down the rest of the stairs. She took a breath, then a step, and laid her fingers in his palm, felt his close around them.
Even gloved she felt the spark that flowed between them. It gave her strength to float down the rest of the steps. At the bottom he turned and offered his arm, and she laid a hand on his sleeve and let him escort her out to the coach, as if he were a gentleman and she a debutante.
He settled her in the coach and stepped back, closing the door, and she felt as though a candle had been snuffed, leaving her in darkness. She put her hand to her nose, as if her glove might still hold some hint of him. There was nothing but the faint tang of vinegar polish.
Why was it she couldn’t see Sam as just a servant, no matter how hard she tried? She’d known him as her rescuer first. He hadn’t been a servant then, and wasn’t it right that a lady should be appreciative of such a service and such a man?
He was still rescuing her, even if it was from nothing more than Eloisa’s barbs, or her own foolish desire to kiss a footman.
She clasped her hands together, and the satin of her gloves warmed instantly. It was most unlike her to behave so indelicately. She was known—
had
been known—for her grace, her dignity, her adherence to good manners in all situations. Perhaps the strain of the past few months was finally telling. She shut her eyes.
Tonight of all nights she wanted that calm poise back.
As a start, she would control her emotions, turn her thoughts away from Sam and the way he made her knees shake.
But he was riding on the back of the coach. She could feel him there. If she turned, she would see his shadow through the oval window. She forced herself not to look to see if the admiration for her was still shining in his eyes.
As she neared Charlotte’s palatial town house, her nerves gathered themselves in her stomach, tightening into a knot. The whole of good society would be here tonight. She hoped they would be so busy looking at each other that they would fail to notice her. Surely by now there was newer gossip, fresher scandals to feed on.
The coach pulled up under the lighted portico, the torches glancing off the white stone facade, and she waited for Sam to open the door.
She pasted a smile on her face in preparation.
She would climb the imposing front steps of Somerson House, present her invitation, and hear her name called.
She would find one of her sisters in the crowd, fix her eyes upon her, and walk in with her head held high.
There would be a shocked hush at the mention of Renshaw’s name. She’d ignore the whispers and the people who turned their backs on her.
She’d take her place among the matrons and dowagers, if they allowed her to do so. Otherwise, she would stand alone and watch the crowds.
She would not hide in a corner or allow anyone to chase her into the lonely sanctuary of an unoccupied room.
She was an invited guest, and she had done nothing wrong.
Evelyn felt a rush of fury. Philip was a coward as well as a traitor, leaving her to face his shame, but she would be brave, like Sam. He’d faced Napoleon’s guns, and the hardships of war.
She had her own war to fight, and she meant to face down her enemies tonight and emerge triumphant.
Sam opened the door and let down the steps. She took his hand and climbed out.
“You look beautiful tonight, my lady,” he murmured. “When the other ladies see you, green will become the new color of the Season, even if it is just envy.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze before he released her and bowed.
She blinked at the top of his head for a moment in surprise. Good heavens, did she appear so nervous that he felt he had to reassure her? Her stomach fluttered with butterflies, but she lifted her chin and climbed the steps, forcing herself to smile graciously, as if nothing at all was amiss.
A
dam Westlake scanned the Somerson ballroom, identifying the people he knew. It was a game he played to keep himself amused at dull parties. He knew almost everyone, either by name, face, or reputation. He had thick dossiers on some, noting everything from misdeeds to outright crimes. He kept his expression bland, as he nodded to acquaintances and mentally listed their sins.
Countess Charlotte swept past, and he squinted at her gown. She shone like the noonday sun in acres of shimmering yellow silk.
Marianne slipped her arm through her husband’s and leaned in close. “What a crush. There must be two hundred people here!”
“More, I’d say,” Adam murmured.
“Look, Evelyn is arriving. How brave of her to come!” Marianne gushed. “Oh, dear, she’s not wearing yellow.”
“Neither are you,” Adam said to his wife as he watched Evelyn. His file on her was nearly empty, but there was a possibility that her secrets could surpass everyone else’s, depending on what Sinjon Rutherford discovered. Evelyn’s placid face was free from any hint of treachery or deceit. She kept her head high, her pace graceful, and met the baleful glares of the worst
ton
gossips without the slightest glimmer of guilt. He felt a surge of grudging admiration.
Marianne smoothed a hand over her pale blue skirt. “I bought this gown because I thought you liked blue!”
“And so I do,” Adam said, tearing his eyes away from Evelyn. “But why comment that Evelyn is not following fashion when you are also at fault?”
Her eyes instantly lit at the gentle rebuke, and Adam felt the familiar pull of lust for his wife. Goading her had become a game, a trick to set her unruly passions alight. She would make him pay for his remark later, and keep him merrily dancing to her tune all night long. He smiled, already looking forward to getting her alone. She read the message in his gaze perfectly, and slid her eyes away, blushing.
Her expression changed to angry indignation.
“Look at Lady Dalrymple’s face! How rude of her to frown at Evelyn like that! Evelyn hasn’t done anything wrong! And Mrs. Cox, too. I happen to know that she—”
Adam squeezed her arm to silence her, but Marianne sighed as someone else caught her interest.
“Major Lord Creighton is smiling at Evelyn. How gallant he is!” Adam frowned at the major’s scarlet tunic. The gold braid complemented the yellow the ladies wore, but Creighton hardly deserved to be standing in an earl’s ballroom, wearing a uniform he’d disgraced.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to topple a popular man, especially one who presented himself as a military hero who’d ferreted out a traitor in the field. Adam resisted the urge to frown. If Rutherford could prove his claims against Creighton, then he himself would find it a pleasure to see the major hanged in his elaborate dress uniform.
Evelyn gifted Creighton with a warm and lovely smile that matched the one she’d worn in the park the morning he’d chanced upon them riding together. Adam swallowed a grim smile. The fury on poor Rutherford’s face had been almost comical by comparison.
Although they’d seemed quite companionable in the park, Evelyn spoke only a few words to Creighton now before she moved on. She plunged into the turbulent sea of yellow-clad females, their sour faces matching their gowns as they glared at her. Evelyn looked like she was drowning in a bowl of pease porridge, but she was doing it with admirable grace.
“Your pardon, my lord. I have a note for you.”
Adam turned to find Somerson’s butler holding a folded scrap of paper on a silver tray. He scanned the room for the sender, someone watching him, waiting for him to read the message, but he saw no one. He took it, and dismissed the servant with a crisp nod.
“Who would be sending you a note here?” Marianne demanded.
“I shall have to read it to find out,” he said. He waited for her to step back, to give him a few scant inches of privacy in the crush, but Marianne was the most curious woman on earth. She leaned over his shoulder and waited to read it along with him. He had no choice but to open it, knowing if he did not, it would only make her more suspicious.
Meet me at the postern gate before supper is served.
Adam felt his stomach drop into his shoes as Marianne stiffened. The message could be from anyone, and might mean anything. “Meet you at the postern gate? In the dark? Who sent it, Adam?”
He met the simmering speculation in her eyes.
“It isn’t signed,” he said, keeping his tone bland. “Perhaps our coachman sent it. Maybe one of the horses went lame.”
She tilted her head in disbelief. “He’s perfectly capable of dealing with such a trifling matter on his own, and
he
would have signed it.”
She snatched the note out of his hand and held it close to her nose, like a hardened spy, or a jealous wife.
“No perfume . . .” she said, “and the handwriting doesn’t look feminine.” She returned it. “Do you intend to go?”
He raised his eyebrows at her deft investigation. “I suppose I must. You’re not going to let me rest until you know who it’s from, are you?”
She smiled sweetly. “I suppose you aren’t going to let me come with you.”
“Not a chance. Why don’t you go and find Evelyn? I’m sure she could use a loyal friend by her side, and no one would dare to sneer at
you
.”
“Thank you, my love. I will indeed. Oh, she’s being henpecked half to death by her dreadful sisters!” she said, and hurried away to rescue her beleaguered friend.
T
he night was moonless, and the garden path was pitch-black. Adam wished he’d brought a pistol with him, but he wasn’t expecting this meeting, and Marianne would have easily found the gun under his tight-fitting evening coat. Likewise, his silk stockings and elegant patent-leather dancing shoes did not allow for any concealed weapons.
If trouble arose, he’d have only his wits and his heavy gold pocket watch to protect him. He took out the watch and swung it on the end of the chain experimentally, satisfied it would deter an assailant for a moment or two if it hit him in the right spot.
Someone was waiting by the gate. He saw the white wig in the darkness, and guessed who it was. He put his watch away.
“Good evening, Captain Rutherford. My wife takes exception to my receiving unsigned notes at parties,” he scolded. “In future, perhaps you could send word to my butler if you wish to see me. Northcott always knows where to find me. Or you could come to my shipping office at the docks next time you’re in that part of Town.”
“So you know I was at the docks on my last half day, do you?” Rutherford asked, his voice dark.
“Yes, of course. Did you find anything?”
“Not at the docks.”
Adam couldn’t read Sinjon’s expression in the dark. “Is this about Creighton?”
Rutherford hesitated before replying. “Evelyn mentioned he’s looking for O’Neill. He went to see O’Neill’s sister, but she hasn’t heard from Patrick in months.”
Adam already knew that. “Anything else to report? Word of the gonfalon, for example, or evidence that Philip Renshaw is hiding under his wife’s bed?”
“No, but apparently he was hiding under Lucy Frayne’s bed at some point.”
Adam’s eyebrows rose in the dark.
Evelyn’s own sister?
He swallowed his surprise. Perhaps Rutherford might prove useful after all. No one else had discovered that little family secret. “Well, who hasn’t?” he quipped.
Rutherford didn’t laugh. Adam heard him shift his feet in the dark, as if considering what to say next, working up to something. He frowned. There was something the captain wasn’t telling him, something important. He waited, knowing silence drew confessions out to fill the empty air, encouraged men to blurt out their sins.
But Sinjon Rutherford didn’t say a word.
“Are you still there, Captain?” Adam asked.
“Yes.”
“And is there anything else?” he prompted. “How are things between you and Lady Evelyn? Does she find you a credible footman?”
Another telling hesitation. Now what might that mean? Adam felt annoyance ignite, burn along his nerves. “I trust you’re not here to tell me you’re quitting. There is no possibility of that. Think of this as a military mission, do or die. We need Renshaw and the flag.”
“And I need O’Neill,” Sinjon snapped.
“So you do,” Adam said. “With so many people looking for him, hopefully someone will turn him up.” He paused. “If he fails to appear, you’ll need something else, something important—in place of his testimony—to save you.”
Renshaw would do. Hell, not only would finding Renshaw save him, Rutherford would probably earn a knighthood for capturing the traitor. All other sins would be forgiven.
But the silence was icy now, stubborn. Rutherford had decided to keep what he knew to himself. The frill of irritation filled Adam again.
“I’ll bid you good night, Captain. My wife is waiting for me, and I have to come up with a story about who I met out here, and why.”
“Tell her it was someone who owes you a debt,” Rutherford said bitterly.
“Which remains unpaid,” Adam replied. He turned and walked back through the dark garden.
What was it about Renshaw House that bred treason and unspeakable secrets? Rutherford might not trust
him
, but he had faith in the captain. Rutherford was an honorable man.
But did Sinjon Rutherford’s loyalty lie with the Crown or with the lovely Evelyn Renshaw?