E
velyn paced Marianne’s salon, waiting for Sam—no, not Sam—Sinjon Rutherford, traitor, rapist, and liar.
His message, relayed by Starling, was cryptic. If she wanted the money from the sale of the book, she would have to come and get it.
The money was the
only
reason why she wanted to see him. He’d give her the sum, and she would leave, never to set eyes on him again.
She turned as the door opened, the sharp rebuke ready on her tongue, but it melted like sugar at the sight of him. He was dressed as a gentleman, without wig or livery. Polished Hessians and buff breeches made his legs long and sinfully lean.
She remembered them naked, wrapped around her body.
His shoulders were broad under his tailored blue coat, shoulders she’d clung to as he—
She gritted her teeth, turning lust into anger. She strode toward him with quick steps and struck him with all the force in her hand. He looked stunned, then hurt, then something more dangerous sparked in the depths of his eyes.
“I want my money,” she said.
He touched his lip, and looked at the blood on his fingertip. “I see Starling gave you my message.”
“Indeed he did.”
He smiled disarmingly, and she had the ridiculous urge to kiss the droplet of blood from his injured mouth.
“How are you?” he asked, as if this were a social call.
How was she?
She was lonely, unable to sleep, and she was busy—very busy—planning a future without him.
“I have been waiting for the proceeds from the book,” she clipped. “Fetch the money at once.” Surely those tight breeches, that formfitting coat, had no room to hold Sinjon Rutherford
and
five hundred pounds.
His mouth twisted ruefully, and her stomach dropped.
“You do have it, don’t you? Starling said you did!” She wanted to take the money and sever the last tie between them. It was unbearable to see him and feel pain and temptation. Another minute in his company and she’d—
“Actually, I haven’t got it at the moment. The buyer promised to pay me today. I had not thought you would arrive so promptly.”
“Where is this gentleman? I shall go and collect the money myself!”
“That would hardly be proper,” he said, and she hated the fact that he was right. “I’ll go and get the money and bring it to you at Renshaw House, shall I?” he asked in a patronizing tone that set her teeth on edge. “This evening, perhaps, if you have no plans. Or at midnight?”
Midnight.
Her body quivered.
She raised her chin. “That won’t do at all. I don’t trust you, especially not with five hundred pounds. You might use my money to flee the country, and I would lose the chance to watch you hang for your crimes.”
He had the nerve to grin at her, as if she’d offered him a compliment. “Perhaps they’ll allow you to pull the lever to open the trapdoor under my feet.” He gave the bell a sharp tug, and she winced.
“Would you please inform his lordship that I will be going out on a short errand with Lady Evelyn?” he said when Northcott appeared.
She led the way down the steps to her coach. Sinjon gave John Coachman a jaunty nod like an old friend, and the fool smiled back. He turned away at Evelyn’s scowl.
Sinjon gave her a rogue’s grin as he climbed into the coach. “If it pleases you, my lady, I shall ride inside, instead of on the back.”
It didn’t please her at all. He had mischief dancing in his eyes, and she clenched her hands in her lap. How often had she imagined him inside?
She swallowed desire and regret, said nothing as he took the seat opposite hers. She couldn’t look at him. She stared out the window, as if the street was the most fascinating thing in the world, though it was the nearness of his body that held her attention. The familiar scent of his skin filled the small space. She could hear him breathing, and their knees almost touched. His eyes were on her, moving over her like a caress, she knew. She fought the desire to stare back.
Once she had discharged her debt to Major Creighton and left London for good, she would forget all about Sinjon Rutherford. She sent up a prayer to make that possible.
“Are you cold?” Sinjon asked, and she snapped her attention to him with a frown. “You shivered.”
She pulled the velvet collar of her spencer more tightly around her throat. “I’m warm enough, thank you.”
“Then surely you aren’t afraid of me, Evelyn, after all we’ve—”
She sent him a warning glare. “I do not wish to discuss it!”
He shifted, and his knee did press hers now, warm through the thin muslin of her dress. “What don’t you wish to discuss? The fact that we were lovers, or that you think I betrayed you?”
His bluntness surprised her. She scanned his face, looking for smug masculine pride, triumph, but it wasn’t there. She read a twinge of guilt behind his rueful smile. Her mouth dried. Would he apologize now, explain? And then what? She looked down at her gloves as a surge of longing passed through her and she fought to deny it.
“You lied to me!”
“Never in bed.” His voice was silky, soothing on her raw nerves. She wanted to believe him, but she didn’t dare.
“
Did
Philip send you to spy on me? Is that why you were there, in my house, pretending to be a footman? What other reason could there be?”
“You’ve heard the charges against me, Evelyn. I needed a place to hide, and a job.”
“You could have gone home. You have family.”
“My father disowned me before I left for Spain. He wanted me to become a clergyman.”
Her mouth twisted. “You? A man of the cloth?”
He wasn’t insulted. “I agree. I am not suited to that kind of life. I was a good soldier, though. I needed to remain in London to prove my innocence. It means a great deal to me. I don’t mind dying for a cause, but not for something I didn’t do.”
Evelyn swallowed. She understood. How could she not? Philip had taken everything material from her, and society had stripped her of the rest—dignity, regard, and privacy. Pride was all she had left.
“You might have at least told me your name,” she said.
“Ah, but I did, Evelyn. Sin.”
His quip stung, made her remember what they’d shared, what she’d live without. “Sin. An excellent description. Did that sobriquet come before the rape or after?”
His mouth tightened as he looked away. He wasn’t going to apologize for deceiving her, for invading her home, her bed, and her heart.
“Damn you to hell,” she said.
The rank smell of the Thames invaded the coach, an evil miasma of the city’s worst sins. “We’re at the docks!” she said in surprise.
“The gentleman who purchased the book is taking ship for Spain. He asked me to meet him before he sailed this evening.”
“A soldier friend?” she asked scornfully. “One with tastes like yours?”
“You’re my taste, Evelyn,” he said mildly, letting her make what she wished of the comment as he got out. “Will you wait here?”
She looked around at the rough faces, the dirty streets, heard angry cries and bawdy singing. “No, I’ll come,” she said quickly, and caught his smirk. She raised her chin. “I told you I don’t trust you.”
He held out a hand to her, and she took it without thinking. She was almost grateful when he tucked her hand under his arm to lead her up the narrow gangplank, though she was careful not to let it show. Her heart was pounding by the time she reached the deck, and she wondered if it was his touch that did it or the small adventure of boarding a ship.
He summoned a cabin boy. “I’ll turn you over to this likely lad while I find my friend,” he said.
The lad sketched a bow, regarding her with cheeky curiosity from under a curling lock of blond hair. “Would you like to see the ship, my lady?” he asked.
He reminded her of the boys at the Foundling Hospital, but he was well fed, his skin bronzed by the sun. His eyes held pride and hope. It made her smile.
“I would, if you please,” she said, and followed him through a narrow door that led down a set of steep stairs into a shadowed corridor that smelled of lamp oil and polish.
He opened a set of doors at the end of the narrow corridor, revealing a well-appointed cabin with wide windows.
“You can see the whole harbor from here,” the lad chirped.
She crossed to look. A hundred ships lay at anchor, men of war, merchantmen, and fishing boats. Some were making ready to sail, others arriving. Cutters filled with passengers, boxes, and bundles butted across the open water, sails billowing, wet oars shining in the afternoon sun.
Evelyn turned to ask the lad a question, but he was gone, and she was alone in the room. She crossed to the door.
It was locked.
H
is wife had matured into a beauty in his absence, Philip thought as he watched her emerge from De Courcey House with a gentleman he didn’t know.
“Follow them,” he commanded his driver as her coach set off. He remembered Evelyn as pale and dull, with plain brown hair and eyes devoid of emotion. Had he missed something?
The mouse he’d known would not have dared to remove his belongings or rearrange his furniture. This Evelyn had fire in her eyes, sensual elegance in every lithe line of her figure.
The hard edge of lust made Philip smirk. Their reunion would take place with the lights on.
He held a lace handkerchief to his nose as they reached the docks. Evelyn and her escort boarded a ship called the
Edmond
. The man was handsome, well-built, and confident, and Philip’s lip curled, noting the familiar way he handled his wife, his hand easily spanning her waist as she navigated the narrow gangplank, the trusting way she leaned against him.
Long minutes ticked by and they failed to emerge. “What the devil are you doing?” he muttered, growing suspicious as the shadows stretched and the ship made ready to sail.
“Give me your coat,” he demanded of his driver. He made a face as he put the plain work-worn garment over his own.
Hoisting a bundle from the dock to his shoulder, he followed other similarly burdened men onto the ship. In the hold, he crouched in the shadows.
Wherever Evelyn was going, he’d find her.
And when he did, she’d pay for all the sins she’d committed in his absence.
E
velyn heard footsteps on the deck above her and heavy thumps coming from the hold beneath, but no one answered when she called out, and the door remained locked, no matter how persistently she tugged on the latch.
She looked around for another means of escape, but the windows were weather tight, except for narrow panels that opened an inch or two to admit a gasp of stale London air. The door was solid oak and the furniture was bolted securely to the floor.
There was nothing to do but wait, and waiting was the last thing she wanted to do.
Hours passed, and as the afternoon turned to evening, the ship slipped away from the dock. She waved frantically at the passing ships, but aside from a few friendly nods, no one made any move to help her.
Was Sinjon working for Philip after all? There were rumors that Philip was living in France, in a luxurious chateau once owned by his royal ancestors. She imagined such a place would have deep dungeons in which to hide an inconvenient wife. She would simply disappear.
Or, she thought, as the ship skipped over the waves and glistening foam sprayed the windows, he might intend to throw her over the side. Her heart lodged in her throat.
Would Sinjon, her lover, her protector, be capable of such a thing?
She shut her eyes. He stood accused of other heinous crimes. So did Philip. What would one more sin matter?
Evelyn clenched her teeth. She would not go quietly. She searched for a weapon, settled on a lantern that hung from a hook above the desk. Taking it down, she held onto it, her eyes on the door, ready for the moment they’d come for her.
She wasn’t ready at all when the door swung open. She leapt to her feet, dropping the lantern with a clatter. It wasn’t Philip who entered, or Sinjon, but a smiling sailor bearing a tray, followed by the cabin boy who’d locked her in earlier.
“Evening, milady. I’ve brought you food, and some water for a wash,” the sailor said, and set the heavy tray on the table. The boy opened a cupboard and poured steaming water into a basin securely mounted there, then laid thick towels on the bed.
“Where is Sinjon Rutherford?” she demanded, not moving.
“With the captain, I believe, my lady, but he’ll be down to dine with you shortly,” he said calmly. There was nothing sinister in his eyes, she noted.
“I’d like a word with the captain myself,” she said. “You may take me to him at once.”
The man’s smile faltered. “I’m afraid I haven’t got orders for that, ma’am.”
“Then I’ll go myself,” she said, and strode toward the door.
She walked straight into a black wall in the doorway. Sinjon caught her against his chest.
She pulled away from him, stepped back. He was dressed in black from head to toe. He looked dangerous, and handsome. She drew a shaky breath.
“Is there any point in asking where you’re taking me?” she asked. “Or in demanding that you turn this ship back to England at once?”
He nodded to the sailors, dismissing them.
“I’ll serve the lady’s dinner,” he said. She’d almost forgotten he’d been her footman. He looked like what he was, a gentleman’s son, an army officer, a man used to command.
“You were a terrible footman,” she muttered.
He raised his eyebrows.
“What do you intend to do with me?” she asked, suddenly breathless, aware that they were alone in a cabin with a massive bed.
“You’ve nothing to fear, Evelyn, I promise. The captain will make you as comfortable as possible for a day or two, and then you can return home.”
Anger flared. “Is this supposed to be a pleasure trip, then, like a ride in the park?” she demanded.
He lifted the cover on the first dish, and the tantalizing aroma of beef stew filled the room. He smiled at her, as if he were serving dinner at Renshaw House.
“Would you like to sit down while I pour the wine?” It sparkled in the glass, ruby in the light of the lantern the sailor had picked up, lit, and put back on the hook.
“I would not. I want an explanation.”
“I have business to attend to in France, and you’ll be safer here than in London at present.”
“Safer here than in my own home?”
His eyes were in shadow. “Starling told me Philip paid you a visit in the middle of the night.”
Evelyn felt her skin blanch. Starling hadn’t told
her
. Was everyone she knew spying on her, reporting on her private life?
“I believe I fired you, Captain. Mr. Starling had no right to tell you anything. I don’t allow my staff to gossip with outsiders. It’s one of the strictest rules in my household, if you’ll recall.”
He grinned, a dazzling flash in the dark. “I’m not a footman anymore, and it was a plea for help, not gossip. Do you honestly expect your sixty-year-old butler and four maidservants to protect you? They’d try, though.”
Her heart turned in her chest. Philip was a big man, violent. “Turn the boat around immediately—
please
,” she begged, her throat closing on fear for her servants.
“It’s a ship, Evelyn, and I can’t do that. The captain has his orders. You have nothing to fear. I have been ordered to return you to England unharmed, or the owner of this ship will hang me twice.”
He looked around the cabin, at the wide bed made up with fine linens, at the embroidered draperies that framed the windows. “I should’ve known it would be a floating palace,” he muttered.
Her skin prickled. Philip created a palace for his last victim. She drew back, afraid. “What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means that you’ll be extremely comfortable while you’re on board. There’s a trap being laid for Philip. When he returns to Renshaw House, they’ll arrest him. By the time you return home in a few days, it will be over.”
Evelyn swallowed. “And then what?”
He concentrated on ladling stew onto a plate for her. “You’ll be free. You can leave London and do whatever you want.”
She sat down heavily and stared at a chunk of carrot in glossy gravy.
“And you? What will happen to you?” she asked.
He placed a bit of warm bread on a plate, using tongs as if he was still her footman. “This trip should sort things out for me.”
“And after?” she persisted.
He took his seat across from her, his smile roguish but not quite meeting his eyes. “I never plan that far ahead.”
In other circumstances the meal would have been intimate and romantic, but they ate in tense silence, and she wondered if the future felt as bleak and friendless to him as it did to her. She couldn’t guess his thoughts by reading his face. They might have been sharing supper at a ball, or a last meal before his hanging.
“How will this trip exonerate you?” she asked.
He smiled, and she wondered if he’d fob off her question with a glib half-truth or another blatant lie. She held his eyes. “I deserve the truth, Sinjon. You said that much yourself.”
He put his spoon down. “I’m going to France to find a British soldier who can tell the truth of what happened on the road in Spain that day. A court-martial is hardly likely to take the word of the French colonel who was there, or his wife.”
“Patrick O’Neill,” she muttered.
“Now how did you know that?” he asked in surprise.
“Lord Creighton warned his sister you’d come looking for Patrick. She said you wanted to kill him so he couldn’t give evidence against you.” She read the indignation in his eyes, the anger at the false accusation. “How is Creighton involved? Why would he make such terrible accusations if they aren’t true?”
He didn’t answer. He got to his feet, tossed his napkin on the chair and crossed to the window, his back to her. His black silhouette was outlined by starlight.
“Isn’t it dangerous, going to France?” Evelyn asked. “We’re at war. If Major Creighton is mistaken, then surely you could speak to him—”
He turned to look at her, his eyes icy, freezing the words on her lips. “It shouldn’t take me more than a day or two to find O’Neill. You’ll be safe here. The captain has orders to get you home if anything goes wrong. But whatever happens to me, Evelyn, stay away from Creighton.”
“If anything goes wrong?” she repeated, ignoring the rest, trying not to picture him dead, his sightless eyes open, blood spilling from a final, fatal wound. She’d seen the scars on his body, knew he’d faced danger before. This time there was someone to care if he lived or died. Her throat closed. The corners of the cabin were in shadow, and they shared the ring of yellow lantern light, a safe haven against the darkness that was closing in on him.
He’d tricked her and lied to her. He’d kept her safe, made her feel loved.
He’d kidnapped her. To protect her from Philip.
Her heart opened like a rusty music box.
“Do you even speak French?” she asked.
He frowned.
“Un peu,”
he said. “A little. Why?”
He came back and sat down, and she watched him swallow another spoonful of stew.
“I speak fluent French,” she said.
“Do you?”
“Indeed. Shouldn’t you have someone with you who speaks proper French?” she asked, her eyes on his. “Just in case?”
She watched understanding kindle in his eyes. He dropped the spoon with a clatter.
“Oh, no. You’re staying here, on this boat, where it’s safe, Evelyn. This isn’t a game.”
She leaned toward him. “Ship,” she corrected. “And we’ve been playing a very elaborate game from the first moment I saw you. You pretended to be a footman. You played hide and seek with the authorities under my roof. You pretended to be my lover, and now you are playing a deadly version of blind man’s buff with Philip. I’m one of the major players, and you still owe me five hundred pounds, if nothing else. I must insist on going with you when you leave this ship.”
“I never pretended when I was your lover,” he said, trying to distract her. “That was honest.”
She forced a smile, as if it meant nothing to her. “Only the names were wrong,” she quipped. “Well, yours was.” She swiftly changed the subject back to the matter at hand. “Since the French are our enemies, I will do the talking if we are stopped. I can answer in French. You will play the role of my servant, so no one will expect you to say a word.”
She read the bemused refusal on his face and refused to accept it. “I am still the comtesse d’Elenoire while Philip keeps breathing. A
French
comtesse. No one will question a noblewoman traveling with a servant boy.”
His brows rose at the rude description. “No one will question a single man riding fast either.”
“Do you have a horse?” she asked.
He looked away. “I planned to borrow one.”
“You mean
steal
one.”
He didn’t reply. Nor did he look ashamed.
“We’ll rent a coach and four. Where are we going? Is it far?” She leaned forward, excited now. For the first time in months, years, she was free, and she meant to make the most of it.
“Evelyn, you can’t—”
“Have you got French coins?”
There was a knock on the door.
“Entrez,”
she said in lilting, perfect French, and grinned at Sinjon.
“No,” he said.
“I insist,” she replied.
The captain entered and swept off his hat, bowing over Evelyn’s hand before turning to Sinjon. “We’ll be off the coast of Normandy within the hour. Are you ready?”
Sinjon nodded.
“We’ll row you in and leave you on the beach. If there’s any sign of trouble, we’re leaving immediately. I have orders to send a man in if necessary to bring you back alive, but I’m confident you won’t make me risk the life of one of my men on a fool’s errand. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly. Thank you, Captain,” Sinjon said. “I’ll meet you on deck shortly.”
“Captain? I’ll be going as well,” Evelyn informed him, looking past Sinjon’s shoulder.
The man’s eyes popped and he glanced at Sinjon. Evelyn pinched him.
“I suspect the lady will swim to shore if we do not give her room in the boat,” Sinjon said.
The captain sighed. “His lordship said to be ready for trouble. Now I can see why. Still, knowing Countess Marianne, I’ve learned not to dispute a determined woman. I only hope she’ll make you more careful and I’ll not have to rescue both of you. She’s in your care, then. Best of luck. I suspect you’ll need it.”
P
hilip took his place in the launch with the rowers, a cap pulled low over his forehead, the collar of his coat standing high around his chin.
He watched as Rutherford tossed a bundle into the bottom of the boat.
His mouth twisted as Rutherford positioned himself behind his wife on the ladder, protecting her. Evelyn’s bottom swayed against Rutherford’s hips, and Philip let his hand stray to the pistol hidden in his coat. As soon as he had her in his clutches, he’d make her watch as he put a ball between her lover’s eyes.
He wondered if Rutherford was one of Westlake’s agents, since this was Westlake’s ship. If this was a mission, how did it involve Evelyn—how could it? She wasn’t a spy. She was stiff and dignified, and the dullest woman alive.
But here she was, landing in the dead of night on the unfriendly shores of enemy France.
Philip studied Evelyn’s profile in the darkness. Even now, her dress was prim and tidy, and she didn’t have a hair out of place. She settled herself on the narrow seat, close to Rutherford. Philip bristled as she leaned even closer to whisper in his ear.
A hard elbow jarred him back to the moment. “Row, damn you!” the sailor next to him hissed, and Philip gripped the oar and put his back into the cover of the task.
His hands were blistered and his shoulders burned long before the bottom of the boat finally scraped gravel. He leapt over the side with the others, and the icy water soaked him to the waist. Rutherford lifted Evelyn as if she weighed nothing and carried her to shore on his shoulder.
Philip reached into the boat and slung the bundle at him, just so Rutherford would be forced to unhand his wife. He caught it easily.
Philip fingered the gun again. It would be easy to shoot her now, but he was curious, and he wanted answers to some very important questions before Evelyn died. He slipped into the shadows, his eyes burning into Rutherford’s back as he watched the launch retreat.