Evelyn retreated to the quiet of the library, and let Charlotte’s demands occupy the few servants she had left.
She needed a new footman. She looked at the unopened copy of
The Times
sitting on the desk. She couldn’t bear to read it, to see the caricatures and comments about Philip’s—her—scandal. Advertising for a new servant would only add to the gossip. She sighed.
She didn’t just need a footman. She needed a miracle.
S
injon was escorted to an elegant library and pushed into a leather chair.
“Not much of a prison,” he quipped as the sailors laid his sword on the wide mahogany desk.
The room reminded him of his father’s study. Only the family portraits differed. He looked up at the sober strangers glaring down at him as they silently judged his guilt.
He’d spent much of his childhood standing before the sour faces of his own ancestors as his father lectured him on duty and responsibility. Perhaps if he’d paid the slightest attention, or done as his father wished and joined the Church, he wouldn’t be sitting here now, facing charges of treason and a hangman’s noose, but they’d both known that despite his saintly name, he was hardly cut out to be a man of the cloth.
“It’s not a prison, Captain. This is my home,” the toff said. “I thought this would be more comfortable than a cell at Horse Guards, and more private.”
“Private?” Sinjon asked, his brows climbing into his hairline. What the hell did that mean? Suddenly, the elegant room felt more dangerous than the dankest dungeon. He looked at the burly sailors, but at a curt nod, they silently retreated and shut the door behind them.
“Let’s start with introductions before we go on to explanations. I’m Adam De Courcey, Earl of Westlake.”
An earl? Since when did earls invite renegade army officers into their homes for private chats? Since Westlake already knew who he was, Sinjon didn’t bother to reply. He crossed his legs and waited for the promised explanation.
Westlake’s mouth rippled at Sinjon’s failure to observe the niceties of social introduction, and he turned to pull the bell.
Sinjon waited to see who would come through the door. Creighton, perhaps, or the earl’s thugs, or maybe a detachment of redcoats would drag him away to a real prison for failing to be polite, but it turned out to be nothing more terrifying than a dour butler in impeccable morning dress.
“Good morning, Northcott. Captain Rutherford will be my guest for breakfast. We’ll have it here in the library.” He took his place behind the desk and looked at Sinjon. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”
“I prefer whisky,” Sinjon replied.
Westlake folded his fingers into a steeple and regarded him over the top of them, like God presiding over the universe. Sinjon held his stare, still waiting to find out why he was here, and unwilling to let his guard down until he did.
“Coffee, then, Northcott,” Westlake said, dismissing the butler.
The earl looked at the weapon on the desk, lying amid crystal inkwells, embossed stationery, and leather-bound books. “A very fine sword for a disgraced army captain with little fortune,” he said speculatively. “It’s French, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Sinjon said pleasantly. “Either you have a knowledge of weapons, or the French inscription on the blade gave it away.”
The earl’s brows rose at the rebuke, and he unsheathed the sword and ran a manicured finger along the blade. “Ah, yes. ‘Fortitude, Strength, Courage,’ ” he translated. “Beautiful work, and the finest steel. Probably a family heirloom.” He met Sinjon’s gaze. “A sword fit for a French colonel, I’d say.”
Sinjon’s gut clenched. It was indeed. And it was nearly impossible to believe an enemy officer had made him such a gift, but Westlake didn’t understand just how grateful the French colonel had been for the kindness he had done him.
He wondered how much more Westlake knew, but the earl’s face was cool and unreadable. He got to his feet and crossed to the window, his back to Sinjon.
He left the sword on his desk, unsheathed, close enough for Sinjon to grab it if he were so inclined. A test perhaps. Sinjon pitied him. Westlake had no way to know that he never did the expected. He was curious, and he assumed the thugs were still within shouting distance and fast on their feet, so he sat back and waited.
“How did you know Creighton planned to murder me?” he asked.
Westlake turned. “Is that your way of saying thank you? I know because I have men watching him. And you. It was rash of you to challenge him, alone as you are in London. You didn’t even know the man who volunteered to be your second.”
Sinjon frowned. “He introduced himself as Bassett.”
“He’s in Creighton’s employ.”
An uneasy feeling prickled Sinjon’s neck for the second time that morning, like a noose slowly drawing in against his skin. “What does this have to do with you?” he asked. “If you wished to warn me, then consider me warned and I’ll be on my way.” He reached for the sword, but Westlake shook his head.
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“What isn’t?” Sinjon asked, leaving his hand on the sword. The hilt warmed under his palm, a familiar friend.
His only friend.
“You’re a wanted man. An outlaw,” Westlake said. His eyes roamed over Sinjon’s uniform, pausing pointedly at the loose threads and telltale patches where his epaulettes and badges of rank had been torn away.
He’d worn them proudly until the day he returned from patrol to find soldiers waiting to arrest him. The major’s sword had flashed in the harsh Spanish sunlight as he stripped him of his rank before commanding his own sergeant to bind his hands. The major had to bellow that order twice before it was obeyed. Creighton, damn him, had stood by and watched, waiting until his hands were bound before he dared to step forward and strike him. Sinjon fingered the small scar on his jaw as he faced Westlake.
“You were arrested for treason in Spain, ordered to appear before a court-martial, accused of spying for the French,” Westlake continued.
Actually, Creighton had demanded that Sinjon be hanged at once, without waiting for a trial. He’d even chosen the tree, and had the rope ready. Fortunately for Sinjon, the major liked protocol, and wouldn’t hear of it. Nor would he listen to Sinjon’s side of things.
“But,” Westlake went on, “you escaped custody before your court-martial—I assume you had help—and you got yourself aboard a ship bound for England. Since you did not go to France or America, I can only imagine that means you believe yourself innocent of the charges, and you’ve come home to prove it.”
The muscles in Sinjon’s jaw tightened. He made a mental note never to play cards with Lord Westlake. The man spoke without a hint of emotion in face or voice. There was no way for him to tell if he was about to hang or be offered a drink in celebration of his adventure.
The same sergeant who had been ordered to bind his wrists had unbound them again later, in the dark, with the help of Sinjon’s guards. His men had taken up a collection, coins they could hardly spare, to help him escape. They brought him his sword and the tunic of a dead private to wear over his own uniform. They wound a linen bandage around his brow, and that was all the disguise he needed to get aboard a casualty ship.
Westlake paced, his polished boots silent on the thick carpet, his eyes never leaving Sinjon’s. “Unfortunately, your accuser, Major Lord Creighton, has also returned to England, not to see you brought to justice, but to kill you.” He paused, and Sinjon waited. Not that he didn’t know the tale, but he was fascinated that Westlake had managed to get so near the truth.
“There’s a part of this I can’t quite understand,” the earl said, frowning. “If you were afraid of execution, you’d be in hiding, not confronting Creighton on St. James’s street in full view of dozens of Horse Guards officers and gentlemen of the
ton
. Your story is not unknown in London.”
Still Sinjon said nothing. Yes, it had been foolish, but he was frustrated and angry. Creighton’s lies had destroyed his reputation and his career, and there was only one other soldier who knew the truth—well, one
English
soldier, anyway—and he’d disappeared before anyone could question him. Sinjon assumed that Creighton had paid him. Or killed him.
Westlake ignored Sinjon’s stubborn silence. “Since your arrival in England, you’ve been looking for a wounded sergeant named Patrick O’Neill.”
“You’ve been following me,” Sinjon said blandly.
“Of course. I assume O’Neill can help you in some way?”
Sinjon grinned with gritted teeth. “I’m merely in London because the Season is starting and I want to dance at Almack’s,” he drawled, but there wasn’t a hint of appreciation in Westlake’s eyes for the jest. They both knew that a disgraced and fortuneless army captain would never be allowed within the hallowed confines of Almack’s. He simply wasn’t suitable marriage material for the virginal and well-dowered daughters of earls and dukes, despite the fact that his ancestry was every bit as pedigreed as theirs. Of course, Westlake didn’t know that.
“I believe you have family connections in the north of England. You might have gone there.”
Sinjon’s smile faded as the game took yet another turn in the earl’s favor. He shifted in his seat. This was one hand he couldn’t afford to lose. Losing meant a long rope and a short, uncomfortable drop. Would a bluff work, force Westlake to show his hand?
“Do you know where O’Neill is?” Sinjon asked, testing the idea.
“No,” Westlake replied. “How well do you know Evelyn Renshaw?” he countered, trumping a knave with a queen.
“Who?” Sinjon asked, still wondering who held the ace.
“The lady you rescued in the park this morning. Lord Philip Renshaw’s wife.”
Renshaw. King of Spades, and all things sinister. The stakes rose.
Sinjon’s eyes narrowed at the infamous name. He’d heard of him, of course, but he hadn’t known the man had a wife. Everything he had read suggested that Renshaw was an old man, craven and greedy, but the lady had been young and beautiful, even with fear in her eyes. His chest tightened.
Being associated with a traitor’s wife was a complication he didn’t need.
“I’ve never seen the lady before today. She needed help, so I helped her.” He recalled the look of terror in her green eyes, the dark smear of grease on her cheek where the gun had sullied her perfect skin. She reminded him of another lady, in similar circumstances, in Spain. Rescuing the French colonel’s pretty wife had been the start of his troubles. How ironic yet another damsel in distress would end them, since assisting the lovely Lady Evelyn had gotten him arrested, and that might still prove to be the death of him.
“And Lord Philip?” Westlake prompted. “Do you know him?”
“The only Philip I know is a footman in my father’s service. He taught me how to skip rocks on the pond at—” He paused, closed his mouth.
“Yes, you’re the Earl of Halliwell’s son, aren’t you?” Westlake said as he crossed to the desk and opened a file and glanced at the contents. “Third born.” He looked up, awaiting confirmation, but Sinjon let the information stand uncontested, since it was true enough, though Westlake had missed the fact that his father had disowned him.
“Shall I read on?” Sinjon could almost see the ace sticking out of the earl’s monogrammed cuff. “Your father wished you to enter the Church, but you bought a military commission instead, with money you won at the tables. I hear it added up to a small fortune. Was it skill or just luck?”
“A captain’s commission is damned expensive. Especially if you want a decent horse and a properly tailored uniform,” Sinjon drawled, smoothing his hand over his ragged coat, but Westlake ignored that joke too.
“You were only in Spain for eight months before you were accused of spying for the enemy. A number of the men under your command spoke on your behalf even before the trial, and many of your peers describe you as an excellent officer. You acquitted yourself honorably in battle, so the accusations are difficult to credit.” Westlake looked him over without a hint of admiration or censure.
“Did you know the tales of your escape are legendary, Captain? One account says you fought your way out of camp with this very sword. You’re a hero to many, just for getting away.”
Sinjon remembered the two guards who had assisted the sergeant in freeing him, even cheerfully agreeing to being knocked
lightly
on the head for effect. “They’re good lads.” He hoped they weren’t flogged for letting him escape.
“They say the same about you. A good officer. That’s about the highest possible praise a ranker can give a commander, isn’t it? You have the kind of reputation that’s hard to live up to, and almost impossible to best.”
He shut the file and sat down again, looking at the sword. Sinjon followed his gaze. The naked blade gleamed seductively in the morning sunlight pouring through the window, a lovely, thoroughly dangerous creature. Evelyn Renshaw sprang to mind in comparison.
“You, the accused spy, are a hero, yet Major Lord Creighton, the officer who did his duty and exposed your treachery, has been cast as the villain of the piece, at least in Spain. He’s a hero in London, since the
ton
has only heard his side of the story,” Westlake said conversationally. “It seems logical that he should be the hero, don’t you think? But he isn’t. You are. Why is Creighton so unpopular?”
Sinjon’s jaw tightened. Because Creighton was the traitor, a would-be rapist, and a cheat. He was the kind of officer who got men killed on a whim, and had the gall to enjoy a hearty dinner before doing it again the next morning. He let his disdain show in his eyes but remained stubbornly silent.
Westlake fished a folded sheet of parchment out of the file and held it up. “You really should take this seriously, Rutherford. This is a royal warrant. Innocent or not, you’ve been declared a fugitive from the law, and I have orders to find you.”
The hangman’s knot tightened against his Adam’s apple and made it impossible to swallow. Sinjon met Westlake’s eyes coldly. “Will I get a trial before you hang me? Is there time to have my coat pressed, or is there a private and comfortable gibbet awaiting me in your back garden?”
Westlake tilted his head, amused at last. “I have no intention of hanging you. In fact, I wish to help you.”
The ace had been played at last.
Sinjon narrowed his eyes. “Now why would you do that?”
Westlake’s features shifted into an icy smile that offered very little in the way of reassurance. “We’ll get to that. Tell me, did you happen to overhear the conversation between Lady Evelyn and her attacker?”