C
aptain Sinjon Rutherford watched until the last hoofbeats faded in the fog. He glanced down at the bloody sleeve of his tunic, now sporting a hole in the scarlet cloth big enough to put his finger through. The Frenchman’s bullet had grazed the flesh, but the lady’s warning had saved him from far worse.
Still, it was his sword arm, and he had a duel to fight, one he was late for, thanks to the unexpected encounter. He smiled grimly as he wiped his sword on the grass, cleaning away what he could of the Frenchman’s blood.
He
would have a far more substantial souvenir than a scratched arm, likely an ugly scar that would keep him from accosting unescorted females in the future. The blood stuck to the deep engravings that covered the sword, but it hardly mattered. In a few minutes the blade would be stained with more.
English blood this time.
And very appropriate that would be, since the sword had been a gift of thanks for the rescue of another lady, one facing a similar fate to the woman in purple, and at the very hands of the man he was going to kill this morning.
“Gonfalon of Charlemagne,” he muttered, wondering what a Frenchman was doing in Hyde Park at dawn, bellowing about a French battle flag. He’d heard of it, of course. Legend had it that every time the French carried the gonfalon into battle, they won. But the gonfalon had disappeared and the French armies had begun to lose at last.
Sinjon frowned. Even if the stories about the flag were true, they were not tales a London lady was likely to know. He remembered the stark terror in her green eyes. If she’d known what her captor was talking about, she’d hidden it well.
Out of habit, Sinjon reached for his watch, then realized he’d pawned it days ago, on his arrival in London, to pay for food and lodging. His second would know the time. The man was probably looking at his own watch at that very moment, wondering if he was going to put in an appearance. He pictured the men waiting for him on the field of honor—Creighton, the two seconds, and of course there would be a surgeon on hand to tend the loser. Maybe he’d have the man look at the graze on his arm while the seconds were sending for an undertaker for Creighton.
He sheathed his sword and started walking.
“Captain Sinjon Rutherford?”
He spun, drawing his sword again, cursing the fog and the complacency that came from being in England. They wouldn’t have crept up on him so easily in Spain. Five men appeared out of the mist. Four were big, hard fellows with pistols pointed at him, but the fifth man wore an elegant blue coat and was armed only with an icy stare that swept disdainfully over his ragged appearance.
Sinjon tensed. Footpads, perhaps? Odd that they’d know his name, but the park was full of unsavory characters this morning. Unfortunately, the mist was already lifting, and there was nowhere to run. Wits were his only option.
The toff’s mouth tightened in speculation, as if he were reading Sinjon’s thoughts and had wits of his own to bring to bear in the contest.
Sinjon held his sword loosely in his hand, letting the light flash on the blade as he regarded the gentleman with a look of cool amusement.
“Is this about the lady? She rode off that way, frightened but unharmed.” He pointed in the wrong direction, but no one bothered to look. Every eye was fixed on him, sober and wary.
The toff drew off his gloves and pointed the way she’d actually gone, his expression bland. “Her servant is waiting at the gate. She’s quite safe now.”
Sinjon hadn’t expected thanks for his good deed, and he saw that obviously he wasn’t going to get any.
“Then if this is about my appointment with Lord Creighton, I assure you I’m merely late. I still intend to make good on my challenge.”
The gent’s mouth quirked. It could have been disgust or humor. Sinjon couldn’t tell. If he’d had another few minutes, he could figure out exactly what the gentleman was thinking and know how to play him, but the stranger renewed his unreadable expression.
“You aren’t merely going to be late for your duel, Captain—which is, by the way, illegal in England. You aren’t going at all.” Then he smiled a cold, superior little grin without any humor or warmth to it at all, and Sinjon felt his gut tighten.
“You’re under arrest.”
W
as he caught already? He’d barely been back in England a week, hadn’t found any trace of O’Neill. Sinjon knew that without O’Neill, he faced the hangman’s noose and Creighton won. He felt the skin of his neck prickle as the toughs stepped forward to pin his arms. They were big men and there was little point in resisting. One took his pistol and another reached for the sword.
“Careful with that,” Sinjon warned.
“French, in’t it?” the man asked, turning the blade in his thick hands, cautious as a plowman holding a lady.
“Yes. So’s the blood on it.” It wouldn’t do to have them think it was English blood, considering what the charges against him suggested.
“That will do, Mr. Gibbs,” the gentleman said calmly, and the man unbuckled the belt at Sinjon’s hip, the sword sighing as it slid back into its scabbard.
Sinjon played his last card. “You could let me fight the duel,” he said to the toff. “I intend to force Creighton to admit the truth, and that would make arresting me quite unnecessary.”
He read a touch of admiration in the man’s eyes, but it was gone in the same instant.
“Hardly. The duel is a trap. Creighton’s men are waiting, and they have orders to kill you.” The gent’s bland tone was at odds with the hard speculation in his eyes.
Shock leapt along Sinjon’s limbs, and he tensed, clenching his fists. “Are you here to see it done, then?” he growled, trying to jerk out of his captors’ grip, but they held him as if he were a kitten. “Go on. Try,” he said, keeping his eyes on the toff.
The man smiled, and tilted his head, genuinely amused. “I’m here to save your life, Captain, not end it.”
“What do you want?” Sinjon demanded.
“This is hardly the place for such a discussion. Have you breakfasted? No, I suppose you haven’t. Soldiers probably don’t eat before battle, and men don’t dine before a duel, do they?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring him along,” he ordered, as if the thugs were children and Sinjon was a stray puppy they’d found in the dust. Willing or not, there was nothing to do but follow or be dragged to whatever fate—and the toff—had in store for him.
“M
y lady!” Evelyn’s butler cried as she appeared at the kitchen door. He began issuing orders at once. “Get Lady Evelyn’s maid, and fetch the doctor!”
Evelyn held up her hand, though it still shook.
“I’m fine, Starling. The blood isn’t mine. I met with a mishap in the park.” She winced at the pain in her arm as she raised it to brush a gore-stiffened lock of hair out of her eyes.
Starling’s face was pinched with disbelief as he held out a towel to her, but she concentrated on wiping her face. Her stomach rolled at the brownish smear that came off her skin.
If not for the soldier who happened past, things might have ended differently.
She had not even thanked him for his kindness, and he’d risked his life to save hers.
It was more than Philip would have done for her.
“Is my sister awake yet?” she asked.
“No, my lady. Shall I send her maid up to get her?”
“No,” Evelyn said quickly, relieved. She’d come through the kitchen specifically to avoid Charlotte. If her sister caught sight of her torn and bloody riding habit, her bruised throat and mussed hair, Charlotte would swoon, and as there was blood involved, she would probably keep on swooning until the smelling salts ran out. Then she’d fly into a tizzy and send for Eloisa and Lucy at once, and Evelyn knew she would find herself henpecked half to death by all three of her sisters before the clock struck noon.
It seemed she could still avoid the worst, since even Charlotte’s sharp-eyed, gossipy maid didn’t appear to be downstairs yet.
“Send a bath up to my room,” she ordered as she folded the bloody towel into a neat square and tucked it into her pocket. She held tight to her composure, behaving as if this sort of thing happened every day in Hyde Park and had not upset her in the least. She ignored the pity in her loyal butler’s eyes, left the kitchen and walked slowly up the main stairs.
In the privacy of her bedroom, Evelyn could not get out of her bloodied garments fast enough. She tore them off, not bothering with buttons or fastenings, and flung them into a corner. A fat teardrop flew off her smeared cheek and pattered onto the white cover of her bed, leaving a rusty splash. She stared at it for a moment before she shuddered, snatched up the coverlet and tossed it away too. She looked around for any other spots of blood, not wanting a single reminder of the attack, or the man’s threats.
There was nothing. Her room was as clean and stark as always, not a thing—save the pile in the corner—out of place. She swallowed, trying to stem the fear that there might even be worse to come.
Philip wasn’t dead, and he
was a thief as well as a traitor.
She crossed to the basin and scrubbed at her cheeks until they stung, not daring to look in the mirror until her skin was clean again. She dropped the washcloth onto the bloody pile.
When her maid knocked on the door, Evelyn was sitting at her desk, serenely composing a letter.
She ignored the curious servants and listened to the sound of the water singing against the sides of the copper tub as they filled it.
“You may go,” she said without looking up, including her maid in the order, waiting for everyone to depart before she locked the door. She dropped her robe and stood before the mirror. There were dark bruises on the white skin of her throat, on her arms and legs, as if the darkness was slowly overwhelming her at last. Before today the bruises had been on the inside, hidden away from prying eyes, and now each mark was a visible testament to the horror.
Philip was alive.
Evelyn sank into the soothing sanctuary of the tub and shut her eyes. She half expected to see her attacker’s burning eyes and feral snarl as he made his demands, but it was the soldier’s face that came to mind, his gray eyes filled with uncompromising courage as he assessed her situation and then had the audacity to
grin
at her. She shifted in the tub, and water sloshed over her breasts, a warm caress.
In another time and place that roguish grin might have charmed her, made her heart flutter. He’d most definitely been handsome as well as brave. She shifted again, sinking into the water until her knees rose like white islands.
Of course, when a lady found herself in such peril, any rescuer would seem like the handsomest man in the world.
And if he’d known who she was, who her husband was, would he still have come to her aid?
She tightened her mouth at the bitter answer to that, and pushed the thought away. Perhaps there were still people who did not know her sordid tale, hadn’t judged her yet. She clung to that faint hope, but it was as slippery as the small bar of rose-scented soap in her hand.
W
hen Evelyn joined Charlotte for breakfast an hour later, she wore a high-necked morning gown with long sleeves, and a cashmere shawl. Josephine, the former Empress of France, had made the shawls fashionable throughout Europe. No one wore them now that Napoleon had divorced her and married an Austrian princess instead. Josephine had been discarded and abandoned by her husband, just like her, Evelyn thought. She wore the shawl as a reminder, and because it was soft on her skin, and beautiful.
Charlotte eyed the plain blue gown. “Good heavens, Evie, what are you wearing? You look like a widow!” She dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter, spilling the plump bite of kidney that adorned it. “Have you had news?
Is
Philip dead?” she asked hopefully.
Evelyn waited while Starling poured tea for her. “No, Charlotte, there’s been no news. I daresay you’d know before I would, since your husband is keeping a close watch for such information.”
Charlotte frowned as she held out her own cup. Starling refilled it with fragrant chocolate. “There’s no cause to take that tone, Evelyn. Somerson has your best interests at heart. As a peer of the realm, it is his duty to see that Philip is caught and hanged for treason. As your brother-in-law, he wants what’s best for you. He’d be mortified if even a penny of your dowry were confiscated along with Philip’s fortune.”
Evelyn hid a bitter twist of her lips behind her teacup. The esteemed Earl of Somerson was indeed doing his best to distance his wife’s sister from her traitorous husband. In fact, all three of her powerful brothers-in-law were ready to step in and take control once the fate of Philip’s vast wealth was decided. They said they would protect her, but she knew if they had their way, their disgraced sister-by-marriage would end her days hidden away in a small suite of rooms on someone’s remote country estate, forgotten by her family and polite society.
Evelyn kept her expression bland as Charlotte grumbled at her lack of gratitude and then turned to family news.
“Eloisa and Wilton arrived in Town yesterday, but Lucy and Frayne have been delayed because one of their sons has a cold. Eloisa will visit you today if she has time, but she’ll want to see her modiste at once, of course. Fashion must come first in light of our current disgrace.” She paused only long enough to drain her chocolate and signal for more. “Eloisa says she can face anything, so long as she is properly attired in the latest style, and I must agree with her.” Charlotte cast another baleful look at Evelyn’s clothing. “You’d do well to prepare for the coming battle by getting yourself up in something smart and elegant too.”
Evelyn stared at the untouched toast on her plate.
The coming battle indeed.
Another Season was starting, and the
ton
was about to pour into Town like hordes of well-dressed invaders. With new ears to hear it and new lips to spread it, the gossip about Philip Renshaw was about to begin all over again.
Unlike her sisters, Evelyn didn’t care what she wore as people stared at her and whispered behind their fans. She clasped her fingers in her lap, hoping inner strength would be armor enough against the slights and insults.
Starling served Charlotte a large sausage and another kidney from a silver dish, and she licked her lips.
“You must be anxious to see to the opening of Somerson House, Charlotte.” Evelyn said hopefully.
Propriety demanded that Evelyn needed a chaperone in her husband’s absence, and her sisters had vowed to take turns staying with her, ignoring Evelyn’s objections. Having one of her sisters constantly by her side was supposed to give society the favorable idea that Evelyn was a respectable widow, despite Philip’s treason. Who could believe her guilty of any complicity in her husband’s crimes with the esteemed Countesses of Somerson and Frayne and the Viscountess Wilton by her side?
Except for the fact that her sisters were the three silliest women in England.
“Will the children be coming to Town this year?” she asked, hoping the need to organize home and nursery would draw her sister away.
Charlotte shoved a forkful of food into her mouth. Evelyn’s stomach gave a queasy shrug. “I employ dozens of maids and footmen to open the house, and a veritable army of nursemaids to see to the children.” She stabbed the sausage and bit off the end. “Speaking of servants, my maid told me this morning that your last footman has quit, Evie. Joined the army, gone for a soldier.”
Evelyn glanced at Starling, who nodded apologetically. Her heart dropped to her slippers. It was difficult to find servants who would work for the wife of a traitor. Now, her last footman had decided he’d prefer the peril of French guns and the hardships of army life to a well-paid post at Renshaw House. He had not even said good-bye.
Evelyn thought of her own soldier again. Even if his coat was faded, he’d been every inch a hero. She hoped her footman would be as brave.
“Come and stay at Somerson House,” Charlotte coaxed through another mouthful of food. “There’s too much work in this house for so few servants.”
There was indeed more work with Charlotte in residence. The cook alone was busy day and night.
“I couldn’t impose,” Evelyn said firmly. “I shall simply hire a new footman.”
Charlotte snorted. “Who would want to work here?” She had the grace to blush. “Oh, sorry, Evie, but
really
.”
Evelyn raised her chin. “I’d only be underfoot, Charlotte. I’m sure you’ll be very busy planning your annual ball.”
Charlotte swallowed the rest of her sausage in one gulp so she could reply. “It’s only weeks away, and Somerson says we mustn’t allow family misfortune to change our plans. He has instructed me to carry on as if nothing was amiss, and so I shall, with Eloisa and Lucy’s help. And yours as well, of course, in the background. We are the daughters of the Earl of Tilby, and we’ll not be sneered at by anyone.”
Evelyn swallowed a smile. Unfortunately, the Earl of Tilby had
only
had daughters, and the title had died with him, though Somerson was petitioning to revive it, and have it added to his own string of titles.
While no one would dare to actually
sneer
at the late earl’s three eldest daughters, there was a good deal of mocking laughter behind gloved hands and fluttering fans while Evelyn’s sisters stormed through society in complete ignorance of popular opinion.
Evelyn had been born late in her parents’ lives, and was only a child when her sisters catapulted onto the bosom of society like a troupe of acrobats. Tilby’s title and their own good looks had made them popular debutantes, and each in turn claimed her Season’s most eligible lord as husband. It appeared that a vast dowry could blind a suitor to any fault.
Even in the schoolroom, Evelyn had heard the gossip about her sisters, and the tales of their vanity, gluttony, and indelicate behavior. It had taught her to act with dignity, to listen more than she spoke, and to use her head for more than a place to display the latest in fashionable hats.
“If you won’t come and stay at Somerson House, Evie, then at least come with me to the modiste’s today. A new wardrobe is just the thing to drive away melancholy and guilt. Somerson says you’re to be invited to our ball despite everything, so you will need a gown.”
Evelyn shifted in her seat, and felt every one of her bruises. “Not today.”
“But if that hideous thing you’re wearing is the best outfit you can come up with, I’d say it’s
urgent
!”
Evelyn drew the lovely shawl around her shoulders. “All the same, I have other plans for the day.”
Charlotte sighed, and a kidney-scented gust of wind filled the room. “Visiting that foundling home again, I suppose. If you had children of your own, you wouldn’t need to—”
She stopped when Evelyn’s head came up, and colored anew, every fold of her face turning scarlet. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled. “But you could accompany my girls to the park with their nurses if you wish to spend time with children, or go and see Eloisa’s boys. You look like a breath of fresh air would do you good.”
Evelyn’s stomach clenched at the mention of the park. She imagined blood and watching eyes. This time,
he
wouldn’t be there to rescue her. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she said, rising. “If you’ll excuse me, Charlotte, I have some letters to write.”
“To whom?” Charlotte demanded, as if it were her business. As if Somerson wouldn’t tell her exactly what mail Evelyn sent if she asked him.
“To Kitty Dacey.”
Charlotte made a face. “Good heavens, why are you writing to
her
? She was your governess, wasn’t she?”
Evelyn smiled. “Yes, she lives by the sea now, with her husband, father’s old valet. I had promised to visit, but that’s impossible now.”
“And a good thing too! You can’t be seen
visiting
servants
.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. “As if doting on worthless orphans wasn’t bad enough. You have eight lovely nieces and nephews—”
Evelyn refused to be drawn. “Enjoy the modiste, Charlotte.”
Charlotte set her fork down at last. “I most certainly will, but I warn you, Eloisa will
insist
you see her modiste at once when she catches sight of you. I can’t understand why you’re being so stubborn. I look forward to the new styles each year.” She sighed and patted her rounded belly, filled to capacity with kidneys, bacon, and sausage, and sloshing with chocolate. “I must be breeding again, since nothing from last Season fits. I need a whole new wardrobe, so I won’t be back until supper.” She turned to Starling. “Have the cook bake some quince pies. I have a craving for them.”