There’d been the nonsense about a mythical flag, but it was the lady’s soft, desperate cry that caught his attention, the single word “please,” spoken on a sigh as she’d met his eyes. Had the bastard broken her arm? His own injured limb ached for hers.
“I heard her scream,” he said. “When I reached her, her captor was insisting she had something he wanted. I assumed it was the usual thing women possess that men desire.”
Westlake pursed his lips, looking as prudish as an old maid. “Not in this case. The man was a French spy, here to question Lady Evelyn about an important piece of treasure that’s gone missing. He thinks she’s keeping it safely hidden away on her husband’s behalf.”
Sinjon gave him a slow, roguish grin. “Ah, then it is the usual thing a man desires.”
Westlake shifted in his chair, frosty with matronly disapproval. “Have you ever heard of the Gonfalon of Charlemagne, Captain?”
“Of course. It’s a legend, a trick to get men to fight, to make them believe that bullets and swords have no power against flesh so long as they stand beneath a scrap of magical cloth tied to a pole.”
“Ah, but imagine if
we
were holding that pole instead of the French. It could end the war sooner, and in our favor,” Westlake mused, his eyes glowing.
“Do you truly think that’s all it would take? One look at Charlemagne’s flag in British hands and Napoleon’s crack troops would cut and run, too terrified to fight us?” Sinjon asked.
“Isn’t that how magic works?”
Sinjon wondered if the earl might be simple. Good birth didn’t always mean good sense. Usually, it guaranteed against it. “They might just fight all the harder to get it back.”
He got to his feet and hooked his thumb under the tattered and empty place where his insignia used to be and met Westlake’s eyes. “What’s any of this got to do with me? I’m out of the army, remember?”
Before Westlake could answer, the door opened and a butler and two footmen entered, bearing trays. The fragrance of crisp bacon, fresh bread, and hot coffee filled the room, making Sinjon’s mouth water.
“Thank you, Northcott,” Westlake said brightly as a pair of footmen laid a white linen cloth on a table near the window and set out plates and cutlery with crisp efficiency.
“Shall I pour the coffee, my lord?” the butler asked, and Westlake nodded. Steam curled invitingly over the rim of two china cups. The earl crossed to the table.
“Do come and eat, Captain Rutherford. Your friends call you Sin, don’t they? You’ll find this much better fare than you’ve been living on at the lodgings you’ve taken. I understand you’ve had nothing but cold pies and stale bread for the five days you’ve been back in London.”
There didn’t seem to be anything Westlake didn’t know. The thought kept Sinjon stubbornly on the opposite side of the room, though the meal looked delicious, and the earl was right about his diet.
“You still haven’t told me what you want,” he said, not willing to be bought for so cheap a price as a cup of coffee and a rasher of bacon, even if it was cooked to perfection.
Westlake sat down at the table and unfurled his napkin with a flourish, as if it was the gonfalon and did indeed have magical powers to make men do as he wished.
“Truly, I meant what I said about wanting to help you. It’s my job to look for men who will be useful to the Crown, men who can provide certain discreet services, uncover the kind of secrets that might fester and become dangerous to England. Do you understand?”
“Not at all,” Sinjon said.
Westlake picked up a pitcher of cream, thick and yellow, and poured it over a bowl of ruby strawberries. Sinjon’s mouth watered.
“Well, it appears you have a talent for gambling. You earn a decent living that way, don’t you? You’re willing to take risks, play for high stakes. The last man I knew who could do that had a talent for reading faces. He was good at getting people to reveal their darkest secrets. Ladies in particular. Do sit down.”
“What happened to him?” Sinjon asked.
“He got married,” Westlake replied, as if it were the worst fate a man could suffer.
He filled a plate with sausage, bacon, eggs, and fried bread and held it out, and Sinjon took the indicated chair at last, too curious and too hungry to resist the lure of food and information.
“I need a replacement for him,” Westlake said. “And you need a place to lie low until we can find a way to prove you innocent of the charges against you. Creighton is a dangerous enemy, and you are without funds or friends. I can help you find Sergeant O’Neill, for example, encourage him that it would be worth his while to help you if he knows the truth.”
Another ace. Westlake held them all, plus a few extras, it appeared.
It was quite an offer.
Warning bells chimed in Sinjon’s brain, and he set his fork down carefully, sat back and folded his arms. “What would I have to do in return?” he asked. “There’s always a price.”
Lord Westlake spooned a strawberry into his mouth and leaned across the table, smiling like a cat with prey in its claws.
Sinjon swallowed the uneasy feeling that crept into his throat and hoped this meal wouldn’t prove to be his last.
E
velyn Renshaw stared out the window of her sitting room. There were two men watching the house today from the small park across the street.
“I can see you,” she muttered through the glass, glaring at them. They would probably report that she’d gone mad and had begun talking to herself. What then? Would the wolves close in, come to question her again, imagining her more biddable after weeks of scrutiny?
She rubbed her arm, still bruised and sore from the French madman’s assault three days earlier, and wondered if there were other, more subtle spies she couldn’t see, waiting for her to emerge from this house so they could pounce. She hadn’t been out since the attack in the park, and her only visitors were her sisters.
She glowered at the ordinary people strolling along the street and shivered. Everyone was starting to look suspicious.
There was a polite tap on the door, and Evelyn turned to stare at the closed panels. It couldn’t be Charlotte, since she wouldn’t have bothered to knock. It might be Lucy or Eloisa, though, since they liked to wait for Starling to announce them. They came whenever there was more gossip to report, or if Eloisa had a swatch of fabric or a pattern book she wanted Evelyn to see.
“Come,” she called, bracing herself as Starling entered. No, it couldn’t be one of her sisters after all. Starling was smiling.
“There’s a lad outside who wishes to apply for the post of footman, my lady. I took the liberty of interviewing him myself first, and he seems quite suitable. He says he can start at once, and I thought you might like to see him, if it’s convenient.”
Evelyn’s chest tightened.
Just like that? One footman leaves and another appears to take his place? The wolves were growing bold indeed if they were coming right to the door.
She opened her mouth to tell Starling she wouldn’t see the man, didn’t wish to hire anyone new, but shut it again. Her desperate lack of servants gave her sisters more fuel for their argument that she should quit this house and stay with one of them. Charlotte had informed her this morning that they had decided to draw straws. The sister who chose the shortest straw would take Evelyn as a houseguest for the Season.
The clock ticked off the seconds, and Starling shifted.
“He seems reliable, my lady. Willing to work hard, and he’s clean and mannerly.”
Evelyn pursed her lips. How silly. She’d hired servants before. Every member of her staff was hardworking, reliable, clean, and mannerly. She had interviewed each of them in this very room, asked the necessary questions, read them the rules of the house, and hired them. Surely she would know at once if this “footman” was one of the sharp-eyed agents of the Crown, or a cheeky gawker come to stare at the traitor’s wife just to say he’d done it. If that proved to be the case, she would make him regret he’d dared to set foot in her salon.
“Show him in, Starling.”
She sat down on the settee, arranged her skirts and smoothed her face into authoritative lines.
Then
he
walked into the room, and Evelyn leapt to her feet with a gasp.
It was the soldier from the park. For a long moment she gaped at him, hoping she was mistaken. She’d dreamt of him every night since the attack, a bold hero with a rascal’s grin riding to her rescue. She blinked. Perhaps she was seeing things, truly losing her wits.
He was dressed in a plain brown coat and tan breeches, the tattered scarlet tunic gone, but his gray eyes were as keen on her now as they’d been in the park, and his smile was unmistakable. It still made her heart turn over, even now, when she doubted his motives.
Dismay warred with fear. He’d come for a reward, or worse, he’d come to blackmail her, realizing how lucrative such a story could be to a poor soldier. She forced herself to stand her ground as he advanced into the room. He didn’t stop until he reached the very center of the Turkey carpet.
He bowed properly enough, but his gaze was direct, bold, not deferential and downcast, as befit a servant or a man looking for a job.
He filled the whole room, and took all the air.
Warning bells sounded in her head, and she looked around for a weapon. There was a Chinese vase on the table near the door, but it was too far away, as was the fireplace poker. Unfortunately there was nothing more deadly close to hand than the feather cushions on the settee.
She settled for a glare of haughty disapproval. “What do you want?” she demanded.
The cocky familiarity faded. “Why, I’ve come for a job, my lady. Did Mr. Starling not tell you?”
Anger kindled at his boldness. The hero who had rescued her was nothing but an adventurer, a fortune hunter. “Truly? That’s all? You haven’t come to ask for a reward, or to—” She stopped short of saying the word “blackmail,” and raised her chin instead, met his eyes. “How much do you expect?”
He had the nerve to grin. “A fair wage for my work would do.”
She didn’t have the patience to play games. “Mr. Starling will show you out.” She moved toward the bell, but he held up a hand.
“Wait, my lady. I appear to have given entirely the wrong impression. I truly am here because I want honest work, nothing more. What occurred in the park is done. You needed help, and I was fortunate enough to be nearby. I have no thought of reward. Or blackmail.”
Blackmail
. He’d said the ugly word aloud, and she swallowed.
He took a step forward and Evelyn forced herself to stay where she was, meaning to be master of this situation. She met his eyes, and felt her stomach drop. There was no greed, no curiosity. He looked earnest, almost gentle. It was the same look that assured her he would rescue her, see her safe.
It took her breath away.
“I have knocked at every kitchen door in Mayfair looking for a job. Is there a position open here or not?” he asked, without anger or disappointment.
She examined him again. He was tall and lean, but broad shouldered. His dark hair was tied in a neat queue, and he was freshly shaven. He should have looked ordinary, nothing more than a typical and harmless servant, but he was the kind of man a woman couldn’t ignore. Even without his uniform, she could feel the strength emanating from him.
His face was open, his gaze honest, as if he’d rescue her again if she needed him to. It felt like a warm blanket. She pushed the false sense of security away.
“I thought you were a soldier.” She made it an accusation.
“I was wounded and sent home.”
She trailed a glance over him. He looked whole, perfect, a fine specimen of—
“Where?” she asked, breathless.
“In Spain, my lady,” he said flatly, and the spark in his eyes and the tight set of his jaw told her he had purposely misinterpreted her query. The location and circumstances of his injury were his own affair. She could understand that well enough. She put a hand to the lace collar that hid her bruises.
“And before the army? Whose service were you in?”
He fixed his eyes on the wall behind her. “The Earl of Halliwell’s, my lady, at Chelton Hall, in Northumberland.”
“Have you references?”
He met her eyes, his sharp expression without apology. “Unfortunately no. I left to join the army, and did not take proper leave of his lordship.”
“I see,” she murmured, on her guard again. “No references.”
“I’ve got a strong sword arm, true aim with a pistol or a rifle, and I can polish boots, fetch firewood, serve at table, or do whatever else the job requires.”
She held his gaze. He was bold and strong. He had come to her rescue in the park, defeated the Frenchman. Was that not enough? He stood as his own reference.
For the first time in weeks she felt safe.
“Then I trust you were not—injured—at the park?” she asked.
“I assure you I am fit and ready to start work at once.”
She shook her head. “Oh no, you’ve mistaken me. I can see, that is, I assume, you are fit to do the job.” She clasped her hands together, trying to still the nervous butterflies circling her stomach. “I—I only wished to ensure you did not suffer any harm on my account,” she explained quickly.
Unexpected tears stung her eyes at the memory of the attack, and she crossed to the window and looked out at the men in the park. They blatantly stared back, not even bothering to be subtle anymore.
She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. “There are a few matters to address before you start your duties,” she said stiffly, not looking at him. Perhaps if there was a new footman in the house, a tall, muscular fellow, the wolves wouldn’t be quite so bold. If he stayed, she might feel safe all the time.
She turned to look at her new footman. “I’ve neglected to ask you your name.”
S
injon wondered if Evelyn Renshaw could spot a lie. His tongue knotted itself around his tonsils. “Sam Carr,” he managed, the unfamiliar name tripping over his teeth on the way out.
She nodded, her green eyes softening. He liked the way the soft gray light of the afternoon touched her face, but he hadn’t missed the glitter of tears before she quickly blinked them away, or the shadowy bruises under the lacy edge of her collar. If her spine were any straighter, the delicate lines of her jaw any tighter, she’d crack like porcelain.
His heart lurched. Westlake said she was stiff and cool and formal. She never showed emotion and rarely smiled. He suddenly had a desire to see her relax, watch a smile light her eyes. She was prettier than he remembered. He let his gaze trace her delicate profile, noted the pallor of her skin, the fragility of her slender body. The Frenchman could have broken her in half, but she’d fought him as best she could. If he hadn’t appeared, then. . .
“Sam Carr,” she repeated, as if trying to fix the name in her mind.
He hated lying to her, but he had no choice. It was Westlake’s price.
She raised her chin, and the afternoon light streamed over the stubborn little point. “I’m sure Mr. Starling described your duties, but there are rules I need to make clear before you start.”
Sinjon came to attention automatically, a soldier, and the son of a stern father.
She hesitated, raising her eyebrows, and he realized he was looking at her directly. He resisted the urge to wince. Westlake and his butler had spent the past three days teaching him to keep his eyes downcast, since a servant did not look at his betters.
It was difficult with Evelyn. He
wanted
to look at her, even if Sam Carr was forbidden to. She was beautiful. If he’d kept his eyes on the path three mornings earlier, she might be injured or dead by now, instead of dressing him down with a haughty glare. He stared at the toes of his boots.
“I insist on the utmost discretion,” she said. “Whatever you hear or see in this house must remain private, do you understand?”
“Perfectly, my lady.”
“You will not drink spirits on duty. A pot of ale is served with meals, and a glass of wine on Saturdays.”
He nodded crisply, but hid a smile.
“
Do
you drink spirits?”
“Not to excess, my lady. You remind me of my father, though. He issued the same orders to his—” He stopped, wanted to bite his tongue. Playing this role was more difficult than he’d thought it would be.
“To his what?”
“To his staff. He was head footman at Chelton Hall,” he managed.
“I see.” Fortunately, she accepted his word for it and went on. “There is to be no—interference—with the female servants in this house, or in the neighborhood, for that matter.” A scarlet blush accompanied her warning, blooming over her cheeks like a rose garden, making her prettier still by lending color to her pallid complexion. He hid another grin, imagining in a most unservantly way of interfering with
her
.
“Do you have a sweetheart?” she asked casually. Too casually.
“No, my lady.” It was likely true enough. Caroline had probably given up waiting by now, and married someone else.
She blinked at him as if she could not quite believe it. It was flattering, coming from her, given what he’d heard about her strict morals. She didn’t look strict. She looked fragile. He noted how the light from the window lit the soft highlights of gold and copper in her brown hair.
“Is that all, my lady?” he asked. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. He was too used to flirting with beautiful ladies, charming them, but he could not give in to the temptation to toy with her. There was a vast difference between the lady of the house and her lowest footman.
“You will have Sunday mornings off to attend services if you are so inclined, and Wednesday afternoons are your own. Your quarters are off the kitchen, and—”
“May I ask if you have recovered from your misadventure in the park the other day, my lady?” he interrupted. She looked so brittle, so utterly vulnerable, that he couldn’t help but wonder.
She swallowed. “I am perfectly well, thank you,” she said stiffly. Then her gaze softened. “I owe you my thanks for coming to my aid.”
He crossed to her side at the window, and she held his eyes as he traversed the room. He pointed to her neck, resisting the urge to brush her collar aside. “You’re still bruised.”
She gathered the lace around her throat with long delicate fingers. “But no worse than that,” she murmured, and turned to look out the window.
He followed her gaze to the two men in the little square across the street, carrion crows among the peacocks and popinjays of Mayfair. Westlake was subtle, so they could hardly be his men.
He
was Westlake’s man. He wondered how well he blended in, an earl’s son, a soldier, trying to pass himself off as a footman. He looked at the frustration on Evelyn Renshaw’s face, felt it himself.
“Are they always here?” he asked.
Her jaw tightened, and for a moment her expression was haughty, a lady about to dress down an impertinent servant, but he kept his eyes on hers and waited for an answer. She looked back at the watchers, her scorn all for them now.
“Every moment of every day,” she muttered.
He could feel her fear like another body in the room. She was as afraid as she’d been in the park, and she was angry too, a spring coiled too tight, ready to break.