“Are there traitors everywhere?” a lady warbled in terror.
Evelyn took her arm. “Calm yourself, dear madam. The honorable gentlemen among us far outnumber the traitors.”
The colonel scanned the letter and looked up at Creighton in grim surprise.
“It’s not true! It’s a lie, and a forgery!” Creighton tried, struggling against his captors, but they held him tightly, not wanting to let the newest scandal slip away.
“It’s enough to start an inquiry,” the colonel said. “These charges are serious. If they prove to be true, then you’ll hang, Creighton.”
“I demand Sergeant O’Neill be produced in person!” Creighton screamed.
“He was delayed in his return to England due to grievous wounds, but has recovered enough to come home at last,” Westlake said calmly. “And there are a number of others willing to testify on the captain’s behalf as well, I believe.”
The colonel drew the dress sword at his hip. He advanced on Creighton, who cowered back against his captors. The colonel sliced off the emblems of regiment and rank and glared at Creighton.
“You are a dishonor to that uniform, sir! Take him away.”
Evelyn scooped the rest of the jewels and vowels off the table and returned them to their rightful owners with Marianne’s help.
When the last necklace had been returned, Evelyn caught Westlake’s sleeve. “Where’s Sinjon?”
He glanced toward the alcove without replying, and she picked up her skirts and crossed the room, skirting the crowd unnoticed as they gossiped about Creighton’s crime, her own scandal forgotten at last.
She ducked through the drapery, ready to fall into Sinjon’s arms.
But the closet was empty.
“A
re you sure it’s Renshaw?” Lord Blakely asked Adam, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself as the traitor’s body was uncovered.
The two gentlemen stood in the light of a single lantern in Westlake’s dockside warehouse. The damp, fetid odor of the river competed with the stench of the remains on the table between them.
The Prince Regent’s majordomo blanched as Renshaw’s dead gray face was revealed, and he raised his handkerchief to his lips. Even in death Philip’s face was harsh. He looked as if he were already suffering the torments of hell for his sins.
“My men brought him back from France,” Adam said. “They had to buy him. The French wanted to parade the body through the streets of Paris.”
Blakely chuckled coldly. “Even dead, he’s worth money, eh? What of his wife? Has your investigation turned up anything to implicate her?”
“I believe Lady Evelyn has more than proven her loyalty to England, my lord. She was . . . instrumental . . . in Renshaw’s demise.”
“Hmmph,” Blakely muttered, missing the hint. “Has she asked for anything?”
“She wishes to leave London. She has a dower estate in Wiltshire—Linwood Park.”
“I suppose we can be magnanimous, then. We’ll seize the rest of Renshaw’s fortune. Allowing her to stay at her estate as a ward of the Crown should be a fitting enough gesture of thanks for her assistance,” Blakely said.
Adam pursed his lips. “I think, my lord, that a fitting gesture would be to allow the lady to
keep
her estate, and to grant her a generous reward for her service,” he said firmly. “She has been helpful in a number of sensitive matters. The Creighton case for one, and she did put an end to Renshaw for another.”
Blakely’s rheumy eyes widened. “You don’t mean
she
killed Renshaw
herself
?”
“She did indeed,” Adam said proudly.
“And are you suggesting we reward ladies who kill their husbands?” Blakely asked in horror.
“I’m sure you’ll agree that Renshaw needed killing. She saved the life of one of my best agents in doing so. The cause was just.”
Blakely shuddered. “Still, we don’t want to be seen encouraging the weaker sex to take the law into their own hands. What husband would sleep soundly in his bed?”
Adam kept his expression flat, and Blakely sighed. “I shall speak to the Prince Regent and see what can be done to quietly recognize her assistance to the Crown. Are you certain the tale is true, that she dispatched the traitor herself?”
Adam smiled grimly. “The French are comparing her to Joan of Arc. Colonel d’Agramant has petitioned the Emperor to give her a medal, a title, and a fortune. She did what no man in the colonel’s company was willing to do. We have, of course, refused on her behalf, since we are still at war.”
Blakely’s eyes lit. “Ah yes, Renshaw had the Gonfalon of Charlemagne, didn’t he? I read that in your report. You didn’t say what became of the flag, though. I hope it wasn’t recaptured by the French. His Highness would be most displeased if it were to reappear at the head of a French army.”
“I understand that things are continuing to go badly for Napoleon in Russia,” Adam said. “The losses are terrible, and many still blame the army’s continuing ill-fortune on the absence of the gonfalon. The grumblings against the Emperor are turning to demands for his abdication.”
“Then the flag is in the right hands,
British
hands,” Blakely enthused.
Adam merely smiled, and let Blakely think what he would. According to Sinjon Rutherford, the Gonfalon de Charlemagne was now in the care of a holy order of nuns, being lovingly cleaned and repaired. The process would take many months, and the flag would not reappear before a French army again.
Blakely flicked the shroud back over Renshaw’s face. “I think we have proof enough that this matter is closed. You may announce Renshaw’s death. Best say
we
captured him and leave the French and his wife out of it. Make up some heroic tale to tell. Start the process of securing Renshaw’s lands and fortune, and give Lady Evelyn permission to travel. I shall see that she receives a generous reward for her rather gruesome service to her country.”
He tucked his handkerchief away and began pulling on his gloves, turning away from the body, dismissing Renshaw. “Have we covered everything?” he asked when Adam hesitated.
“All but the body, my lord. What shall we do with it?”
Blakely shrugged. “Do as you will, I suppose. You can throw it in the Thames for all I care, or give it back to the French. In my opinion, he’s not worthy even of a pauper’s burial. Offer him to a medical school, if you wish to be noble.”
“Is that the word of the Crown, my lord?” Adam asked.
“Indeed. Thank you, Westlake. Excellent work as usual.”
With that, he left the warehouse and hurried out to his carriage.
Adam blew out the lantern and followed.
E
velyn settled into a peaceful routine at Linwood. In the morning, she wrote letters, read, or sewed. In the afternoon, she walked out over the hills and fields, or visited tenants. In the evenings, she played the piano.
It was dull in the extreme.
She had hoped that once she left London, she would forget Sinjon Rutherford, and learn to enjoy the quiet life of a respectable widow, but she saw him everywhere. She woke in the night craving his touch. She looked up, expecting him, every time the door to the sitting room opened.
She did not allow the London newspapers in the house. She didn’t want to know what gossip was firing the overactive imaginations of the
ton
now that she was gone. She did not want to hear that Sinjon had been exonerated and returned to war, or was planning to wed, or was being feted by London hostesses who could not resist a hero, be he false like Creighton or a true knight like Sinjon.
He had not written to her in the three months she’d been closeted in the country. She had received several letters from Charlotte, begging her to return to London, having heard the announcement that Philip had been captured and killed while trying to flee to France. It was a suitable tale, she supposed. It did not mention her name or Sinjon’s.
The government had generously allowed her to keep Linwood Park and all the plate, art, and jewels from Philip’s principal estate. The treasure palace in Dorset, so painstakingly crafted for the comfort of the French king, was seized by the English one. Tales of the magnificence of the architecture and the furnishings had reached even Evelyn’s unwilling ears. Philip had spent his entire fortune on it, gambling everything he had on a vague family connection, and losing.
She took long rides through the woods, enjoying the crisp autumn weather. In London she’d been afraid to ride alone, but Sinjon had taught her that courage was the key to living life to the fullest. She was no longer the frightened wife of a traitor. If the French agent from Hyde Park were to accost her now, he’d get a very different welcome. Her hands tightened the reins and she kicked the mare to a gallop. It was the same kind of misty morning, silver and shining, and she shivered as she remembered the details of the attack. If not for Sinjon’s timely appearance, the encounter might have ended very differently. He’d saved her life, and made her feel alive for the first time. She shut her eyes against the familiar wave of longing.
Something clutched at her, snatched her hat from her head, and she cried out in surprise and turned to face her attacker. The hat dangled from a low tree branch that hung over the path.
“Foolish,” she murmured, staring at the bonnet.
The sudden drum of hoofbeats echoed through the fog. Her heart stilled in her chest. Was someone following her? But this was Wiltshire, not Hyde Park, and Philip was dead. Surely it was only her imagination.
She pulled the horse to the side of the track. She had a small pistol tucked in her saddle, a gift from Marianne, and she reached for it now. All she had to do was cock it, aim, and wait. She raised her arm, rested the pistol upon her sleeve and waited for the intruder to ride out of the fog.
The hoofbeats slowed, then stopped. She still couldn’t see him through the swirling mist, but could hear the harsh breathing of the winded horse. Good sense urged her to set her heels to the mare and flee, but she didn’t move. Evelyn closed one eye and cocked the pistol. She wasn’t going to run this time, or give in to fear. She didn’t move.
The horse came forward slowly.
She saw the blaze of a scarlet tunic, sharp as blood against the milk white fog. The rider stared up at the blue velvet hat that hung from the tree like an injured bird.
Her limbs turned to water. She shut her eyes, ran a hand across them. He was still there when she looked again.
“Sinjon,” she whispered, the word sibilant and breathless.
He reached up and plucked her hat free. “Starling told me you ride this way often.” He looked at the pistol. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She put the weapon away. “You didn’t. I have learned to be—prepared.”
He grinned and held out her hat to her. She took it, her hand brushing his, the touch still electric, even after so many months apart.
She stared at her bonnet. “You’re still coming to my rescue,” she murmured.
He shook his head. “I came in hopes that you’d rescue me, Evelyn. Or release me.” She met his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze took her breath away.
He dismounted and drew his sword, planting it in the earth in front of him. Then he knelt before her, like a knight before a lady.
“What are you doing?” she asked, unable to move.
“I’ve been exonerated of the charges against me, and promoted to the rank of major. I have a command waiting for me in Spain if I want it.”
She drew a sharp breath, pressed a hand to her heart.
“I must tell you how I feel, Evelyn. I can’t leave—or stay—until I have. I came to propose to you.”
Her heart began beating again for the first time in months. She stared at him, her tongue glued to her teeth.
“I have no fortune, but I have my army commission to sell, if you accept me.”
“I—” she began, but he held up his hand.
“Hear me out before you give me your answer.”
He looked into her eyes, everything that mattered written there. He didn’t have to say another word, but she waited.
“I love you, Evelyn. If you agree to be my wife, I swear I will love you and keep you safe for the rest of your life. There will be no secrets, no need to hide, and only honesty between us.”
“I will,” she said.
“I will understand if you refuse me, and I will return to my regiment at once and not trouble you again.”
“Yes,” she said. His jaw dropped and he stopped talking at last, and met her eyes. She smiled. “Yes,” she said again. “I will marry you, Sinjon.”
He got to his feet and lifted her out of the saddle. She wrapped her arms around him and slid down the length of his body, breathing him in. She held his face in her hands and he looked into her eyes.
“I love you,” she said. She kissed his chin, and his neck, and his eyelids. Then she let her mouth find his.
He broke the kiss “Thank you. I haven’t had a clear thought or a decent night’s sleep for weeks. All I’ve thought of is you, and this moment. We’d best go back to Linwood. My father came with me today.”
“Your father?” she asked.
He helped her mount. “He wanted to meet the woman I love. My mother insisted upon it. She likes you, Evelyn. She sent my father to assure you that he had forgiven me, taken me back as his son. She wanted my proposal to be honorable. She knows what it means to have a traitor in the family, and was afraid you might not be willing to marry me without my family’s approval.”
He was right, she realized. But she would have refused for his sake, not her own. She would forever remain tainted by Philip’s scandal, but Sinjon was a hero.
T
he Earl of Halliwell was seated in the salon when they arrived back at the house, sipping tea. He rose as she entered on Sinjon’s arm, and looked at his son, the question clear in his eyes.
“Evelyn, may I present my father, the Earl of Halliwell? Father, this is Lady Evelyn Renshaw, my fiancée.”
The earl smiled at her, his grin identical to his son’s, his gray eyes the same.
He bowed over her hand. “Good morning, my lady. I am pleased that my son has won your acceptance. Welcome to our family. I have warned him that I will thrash him first and disown him a second time if he fails to make you a good husband.” He looked at his son. “Your mother wished me to give you this when the moment came.” He withdrew a velvet box from his coat and handed it to Sinjon.
“It was my grandmother’s betrothal ring,” Sinjon said, sliding the emerald onto her finger. He squeezed her hand as he gazed at it.
“You and Sinjon have both suffered under false accusations,” Halliwell said as he stepped forward to buss Evelyn’s cheek. He clasped her hand and kissed it. “I hope you’ll both be very happy.”
There was a quiet sound, and Evelyn turned. Starling stood behind her with the rest of the staff. The butler had tears in his eyes. The rest of the staff hovered behind him, waiting to hear the news. “May we offer you our congratulations, my lady? He’s a fine man, and I’ve never known a better footman.”
“Thank you, Starling,” she said.
“You’ll need a new gown, my lady,” Mary said. “Something suitable for a wedding.”
“And there’s the cake to be considered! And the wedding breakfast!” Mrs. Cooper added.
“And flowers,” Annie said. “A bride must have flowers.”
Sinjon blinked at them. “How long will all these arrangements take?”
“A gown could take a month or more,” Mary mused. “We’ll have to send to London for patterns and sufficient lace, ribbons, and silk.”
“There’s invitations to be sent out,” Starling said.
“And the best of the flowers are done for the year. We’ll have to wait for spring,” Annie said.
“There’s lists to be made, and menus to plan, and we need a proper Scottish salmon,” Mrs. Cooper said. “I can’t see a wedding being possible for at least a month. A good fruit cake needs some time longer than that to be right for the celebrations.”
Sinjon shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t do.” He turned to Evelyn. “We’ve waited long enough. I don’t want to wait another month, or another week, or even another day.”
“My coach is outside,” Halliwell offered. “And you brought a special license with you, Sinjon. There is a church in the village. It seems to me that today would be a fine day for a wedding.”
And so it was.
Evelyn wore the green silk. Starling picked the last of the late roses and tied them with the last of Charlotte’s yellow ribbons for the bouquet.
Mary, Mrs. Cooper, Sal, and Annie rode with Evelyn in Lord Halliwell’s coach, all crying a flood of joyful tears, which didn’t seem to worry the earl in the least.
“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” Sinjon said as he led her to the altar. The vicar opened his book and began to speak, but Evelyn hardly heard him. She held Sinjon’s eyes with her own, read the sincerity of his pledge of love in the way he gazed at her. She let her own love shine in her eyes, and promised to love him forever.
The villagers showered them with rose petals as they left the church, and the local fiddler played a merry tune. After a turn about the village green, Sinjon led her to his horse.
“We’d better hurry,” Evelyn said as he mounted the horse and lifted her into his lap.
“We won’t be going back to Linwood today,” he said firmly.
“We won’t?” she asked. She felt her body heat at the look in his eye.
“It’s our wedding night.”
“But it’s broad daylight!” she teased.
He kicked the horse to an exhilarating gallop and rode over the stubbled fields with her. The wind kissed her cheeks, and she hung onto him for dear life. He paused on the top of a hill and pointed down the valley. She could see Linwood Park in the distance. “There.” He pointed to a whitewashed cottage by a river.
“Who lives there?” she asked.
“We do,” he said. “For tonight, it’s our honeymoon cottage. I bought the farm that borders Linwood. I thought we might turn it into a school, or a foundling home, or anything you’d like, but for now it contains a bottle of cider to toast our happiness, some cheese, jam, and bread, and a large, comfortable bed.”
Sinjon slid out of the saddle with her—was she really his wife?—in his arms. His mouth descended on hers as he carried her up the path. He didn’t even pause. He kicked the door open and carried her up the stairs.
The cider was entirely forgotten.