S
injon dropped the books on Westlake’s desk. “I need five hundred pounds.”
The earl looked at the titles.
“ ‘Mrs. Elgin’s Book of Mutton Pies . . . A Treatise on Ethics and Moral Behavior for Well Bred English Ladies,’ ”
he muttered.
The third book had no title, and Sinjon watched the earl open the blue cover. His brows rose. He shut the book at once and laid it beside the others. “I trust there’s an explanation?”
Sinjon could have sworn the man was blushing. “I wish to sell that book,” he pointed at it, “for five hundred pounds.”
“Where on earth did you get it?” Westlake asked.
“From Evelyn Renshaw’s library.”
“The quietest ladies keep the deepest secrets. It’s hard to judge a book by the cover, as they say. Why do you think I can help you with such a thing?”
Sinjon tilted his head. “You seem to have your finger in more than one mutton pie, my lord.”
Westlake smiled, looking pleased at the description. “Yes, but why do you need such a huge sum of money? Do you need to bribe someone? Philip Renshaw, perhaps?”
“Creighton,” Sinjon admitted through clenched teeth. Westlake didn’t even twitch.
“Have you decided to pay him to tell you where O’Neill is?”
“If he knew, then O’Neill would be dead,” Sinjon said. “It’s another matter.”
“Something to do with Countess Frayne, perhaps? I understand she paid her sister a visit the other day.”
“Your wife told you,” Sinjon said. “Some ladies keep no secrets at all, it seems.” Did no one respect Evelyn’s privacy? His own guilt made him shift in his chair.
“Marianne has a keen ear for intriguing morsels of gossip. Apparently Lucy has dealings with Philip, and is holding something she wishes to return to him,” Westlake said.
“I believe I mentioned she had an affair with him.”
Westlake smirked. “Who hasn’t slept with Lucy? Aside from the two of us, of course, and I am merely guessing you haven’t had that dubious pleasure. Still, it is most intriguing that she has something that belongs to her sister’s husband. Do you suppose it’s a keepsake, a
billet doux
? A French battle flag, perhaps?”
Sinjon pictured Lucy wrapped in the sacred Gonfalon of Charlemagne, wearing nothing but a sultry smile, and he remembered her in Evelyn’s salon, frightened. His conscience prodded him again.
“She didn’t say what she had,” Sinjon said. “Now about the money—”
“What would a man like Philip leave with his sister-in-law?” Westlake mused. “I’ve discovered that if a woman has a secret, it is almost impossible to get her to reveal it unless she wishes to, and in that case the whole world knows.”
Was that a hint—or a threat—that Westlake’s wife was a spy? Perhaps he’d sent her to keep an eye on
him
while he watched Evelyn.
“Have you had success coaxing information out of ladies in the past?” Sinjon asked.
“In part,” Westlake said cryptically. “As I said, some ladies do not give up their secrets easily. I’m sure you’ve discovered that yourself. What man hasn’t, and what man would want a lady without a touch of mystery to her? I do understand how the process works. Every woman wants something. Have you discovered yet what Evelyn wants?”
Him.
Sinjon kept his expression carefully blank, tried to think of anything but Evelyn in bed, the soft sounds she made as he made love to her, the way she’d looked this morning in the library as he—
“Evelyn plays her cards close to her chest, doesn’t she?” Westlake said. “It might be simpler to find out what Countess Lucy has. Finding Philip and the gonfalon has become quite urgent. Napoleon’s invasion of Russia is going badly. Our sources say he blames Philip. He has sent more spies to look for the flag, and Renshaw.” He leaned across the desk. “If Lucy or Evelyn have the gonfalon, they are in a great deal of danger. If Philip has the flag, he could buy half of France by selling it back to Napoleon. We need to know.”
Sinjon recalled the panic on Evelyn’s face the first morning he’d met her in the park, the ferocity in the Frenchman’s eyes as he twisted her arm, taking pleasure in her pain. He swallowed. “And you suspect that’s why he contacted Lucy?” Guilt twisted in his gut. His little joke was like quicksand, ready to swallow the unwary who walked into this game.
“I find it odd he would contact her if his wife had the gonfalon, yes. Not to be unkind, but Lucy Frayne is hardly the kind of lady a man returns to. But Evelyn . . .” He let the rest of the question stand in his eyes.
He wanted to know if Evelyn had heard from her husband. Sinjon hesitated. He had not actually seen the note she received at the ball, and Evelyn had said it was not in Philip’s hand. It simply complimented her gown and was signed with his name. He’d decided it was just a cruel joke, like the one he’d played on Lucy. But what if he was wrong? He was quickly learning that jokes had ways of twisting themselves into trouble.
“What if Renshaw does come home?” he asked.
“Then you’d better have a pistol handy. But don’t kill him. Just shoot him in the leg, so he can’t get away.” Westlake leaned across the desk. “
Has
she seen him, heard from him?”
“She told Lucy she hasn’t. I’ve searched the house, watched Evelyn closely, and I’ve found no evidence that she’s heard from Philip, or is doing anything treasonous.”
Her only secret
was
him, wasn’t it? He hadn’t actually seen the note she received at the ball, and her answers to his questions about her husband last night had been unenlightening.
“And her involvement with Creighton?” Westlake asked.
“He’s trying to cheat her out of her husband’s fortune.”
The earl’s eyebrows headed for his hairline. “Have you proof of this?”
Sinjon felt heat rise under his collar. “Do you imagine I would make up something like this to be rid of the man?” He should have kept Evelyn’s letter to the charity, and the envelope addressed to Creighton, brought it to Westlake at once. Instead, he’d taken the money out, hidden it in the library, waiting to see where it might lead. Had it been another mistake? He wanted proof that Creighton was stealing from Evelyn, cheating her as he’d cheated so many others. Or did he just want evidence that Evelyn was innocent? It was a dangerous path, paved with suppositions and false assumptions.
And just what would the spymaster do with the information? Would Evelyn be arrested, questioned,
tortured
?
“He does have the power to see you hanged, and if he were dead—”
“I want him to die for the sins he’s actually committed, Westlake, not a lie.”
“Of course. This is a matter of honor for you, isn’t it? Revenge isn’t enough. You must be exonerated as well.”
Sinjon held the earl’s gaze. Evelyn’s future had become as important as his own to him. He couldn’t allow Creighton to get away with either sin.
“You’re distracted, Captain. You have come to further your cause against Creighton, even demanding money to do so, but you were sent to Renshaw House to find the gonfalon, and evidence against Evelyn Renshaw.”
“How will that help exonerate me?” Sinjon demanded.
“Are you so sure that Lord Creighton is not involved more deeply with Lady Evelyn? Are they lovers, perhaps? Is he blackmailing her? Perhaps
he
has the gonfalon.”
That was impossible. Evelyn was
his
lover. Still, instinct warned him to move carefully. He felt like a mouse in the sights of a hungry snake. One false move, one careless admission, and Westlake would have him for luncheon. He wondered if the earl had notches in the hilt of his sword to mark his unwary victims.
“Creighton needs money,” Sinjon said. “He gambles and usually loses. In Spain, the men who held his vowels had an unfortunate tendency to die in battle, even when they weren’t in the front lines. Evelyn entrusted him with the delivery of a letter containing a hundred pounds. The money was missing when he delivered the letter, and he claims he replaced it with five hundred pounds from his own pocket. He now expects Evelyn—”
“Do you have the note?”
Sinjon shook his head.
“Then how do you know the money was missing?”
“Because I took it out of the envelope to see what would happen,” he admitted. “This morning Evelyn asked me to sell that book to pay a debt. I assume she needs money to pay the gentleman who delivered the letter, and it was addressed to Creighton,” he said, skating carefully around his own involvement with Evelyn. “If you want hard proof, check with the school the donation was meant for. See if they ever received Evelyn’s letter, or have heard of Creighton. I’m sure they have not.”
Westlake looked inordinately pleased with Sinjon’s logic. “Given the fact that the major has vowels all over town, and is selling off family heirlooms to cover them, it certainly makes sense. But why should
I
pay the five hundred pounds?”
“Consider it an investment.”
“And what exactly am I investing in?” Westlake asked.
“Capturing Creighton. Righting a wrong.”
Saving a lady’s honor
. Wasn’t that what had gotten him into trouble in the first place?
Sinjon could have sworn he saw a forked tongue flick over Westlake’s lips. “For your sake, or for Evelyn’s?”
“Both.”
Westlake didn’t react. “Calling it an investment suggests I’ll see the money back. How do you intend to make that happen? I doubt a footman’s pay will cover the debt.”
Sinjon smiled. “The first place Creighton will go with five hundred pounds is to the nearest gaming hell. We will win the money back.”
Westlake blinked. “We? If he sees you, he’ll kill you, and there are any number of deep players at Crockford’s or White’s who might take the money off him.”
“It’s just as easy to lose a fortune at a private party. Here at De Courcey House, for example,” Sinjon said. “I assume you gamble, my lord?”
Westlake’s lips twisted. “Never. That’s not to say I haven’t made a study of how to win at cards.”
“And your lady wife?” Sinjon asked. Westlake’s lips pursed.
“She cheats,” he said. “But not for money.”
“Then we will find someone who will cheat for money. Someone he won’t expect to win.”
“Who?” Westlake asked.
Sinjon grinned. “Evelyn Renshaw. I’ve made my own study of how to win at cards. We can teach her if she doesn’t play, show her how Creighton will cheat.”
Westlake sat back. “Dishonest, but effective. It won’t prove anything, of course, but he won’t profit from taking my—her—money. Marianne could show Evelyn how to play for high stakes.”
And he would add a few lessons of his own, Sinjon thought, knowing Creighton’s particular tricks. He was a master of distraction and charm, for one thing. “I will tell Evelyn it will take a few days to get the money. You can send the invitation to coincide with his receipt of the funds.”
A shrewd look crept over Westlake’s face. “It’s an excellent plan, but if I agree to it, then I need something in return.” Westlake met Sinjon’s eyes across the desk. “I need you to seduce Lucy Frayne.”
Horror raced up Sinjon’s spine.
“Me? But I’m Evelyn’s—” He stumbled over the word. “—footman.”
“Pay Lucy a visit on your half day. Charm her. Find a way to get into her bedroom, coax the information out of her between kisses.”
“No.”
He couldn’t betray Evelyn that way. He had no interest in bedding her sister. He was not Philip Renshaw.
“May I remind you there’s a hangman waiting for you?”
“I said no. Find someone else to do it. Surely you have other men beholden to you. Lucy likes men with money, the kind who can buy her expensive gifts. Would you rather I used the five hundred pounds for that?”
He let the earl read the determination in his eyes. Westlake looked away first. He picked up his pen and made out a draft. “I’ll have this cashed, and hold it for a fortnight.”
“What about the book?” Sinjon asked, and Westlake gave the pile of books a disdainful glance.
“I hate mutton pie, despair of the morality of well-bred English ladies, and would not sully my reputation with any kind of association with the last book.”
Sinjon’s mouth twitched. “And yet your lady wife was in Evelyn’s drawing room, playing procurer the other day.”
Westlake frowned. “She calls it matchmaking.”
“She suggested my brother would make a perfect lover for Lady Evelyn.”
“And he wouldn’t?”
Sinjon clenched his fists in his lap. “I had no idea William was even in London.”
“I believe Viscount Mears is in Town for the Season, looking for a wife, and probably sowing a few wild oats before he weds.”
That bit of family news surprised Sinjon. His father had been pressing William for years to wed the rich and titled daughter of a friend. Apparently the match hadn’t been made.
Westlake crossed to a side table that held a decanter of whisky and poured two glasses of the amber liquid. He held one out to Sinjon, who shook his head.
“Footmen aren’t allowed to drink on duty. This is an official visit, my lord.”
Westlake set both glasses down untouched. “Of course. How are you finding life belowstairs?”
Sinjon imagined making love to Evelyn behind the bookshelves, felt his body stir. He glanced at the clock, habit now whenever he thought of her. How long until he could touch her again?
“The work is light enough, since there is only her ladyship to see to,” he said. Heaven help him if she was any more demanding.
“And her companion.”
“Yes, Miss Trask,” Sinjon agreed.
“Did you realize that her first name is Penance? Westlake asked.
He hadn’t known. “It suits her.”
“Yes, and it strikes me as very amusing. The traitor’s wife, surrounded by Sin and Penance! She is bedeviled indeed.”
Sinjon rolled his eyes at the unfortunate jest. Evelyn was indeed beset from all sides by spies, traitors, and French assassins. The only place she had peace was in bed, in his arms. Yet he was one of the spies watching her. He’d thought perhaps Miss Trask was spying for Somerson, but perhaps he was wrong. “Is Penance Trask your—”