His lips thinned in contrition, but failed to dim the light in his eyes.
“I assume you weren’t serious about Mrs. Cooper’s elbow,” he said, not bothering with an apology. “There isn’t a cloud in the sky. I checked when I let Elo—er, Viscountess Wilton—out.” He pointed to the sunlight pouring through the window to pool at Evelyn’s feet. “You can’t stay inside forever. Your sister is right about that, at least. Don’t hide yourself away, my lady. Step outside. Fight the battle.”
Evelyn’s heart melted. Her soldier. Her hero. He had kept her safe before, and she so desperately wanted exercise, fresh air, and freedom. He’d promised to keep her safe.
She believed him.
“Thank you, Sam. If it will not interfere with your other duties, you will accompany me tomorrow. I’ll have John Coachman pick a suitable horse for you. I assume you ride?”
“Er, yes, my lady. I was in a cavalry regiment.”
She imagined him on a horse, sword drawn, charging across a foreign battlefield toward the enemy. Her breath caught in her throat again. He didn’t seem to notice. He was regarding her politely, as if the idea had been hers all along.
“I will be ready to ride out at six. You may inform Mr. Starling, and see that John Coachman has the horses ready.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She caught a glimpse of that rogue’s smile of his, and knew if he stayed any longer, she’d be tempted to smile back.
“That will be all,” she said stiffly.
The view from behind, she noted as he walked away, was almost as inspiring as the one from the front. She dropped her gaze at once.
What had gotten into her? She was every bit as bad as Lucy. But she felt a little of the fear lift from her shoulders. Perhaps a ride in the park would not be so bad after all.
And with Sam by her side, she’d feel safe again.
S
leepy shadows stretched across the kitchen the next morning when Sinjon glanced at the clock on his way to the stable. He was fifteen minutes early for his appointment with Evelyn Renshaw.
He corrected himself. Footmen did not make appointments with ladies. They obeyed commands. He grinned. This morning’s ride had been his idea, and his command.
Not that Evelyn Renshaw was a woman who took orders. If he’d been in a position to wager on it, he’d bet every lady in London would be wearing yellow within a week.
Except Evelyn.
He frowned, and wondered if she would find it so easy to resist Eloisa’s plan to find her a lover.
Sinjon swallowed, and ran a finger under his cravat. Evelyn Renshaw was young, beautiful, and ripe for seduction, and if
he
could coax a smile from her, a blush, then she wasn’t immune to masculine charm. Her husband had been gone a long time.
If she took a lover, it wouldn’t be him. Another gentleman would have the pleasure of sharing Evelyn’s bed. He had no idea why that bothered him so much.
He barely knew the lady, but he recognized beauty, and knew that tightly controlled emotions often hid deep passions. She was an intriguing woman, one he might have taken the chance to seduce himself if the situation had been different and he wasn’t playing her servant.
Perhaps it wasn’t lust, but his protective inclinations toward damsels in distress. The Earl of Frayne frequented the lowest brothels, attended the most scandalous parties, and there wasn’t an actress in London he hadn’t bedded. He could imagine the type of lover Frayne would suggest for Evelyn. And Frayne’s countess was nearly as bad as her husband. Mothers warned their sons to stay away from Lewd Lucy. His own father had done so with him when he first came to London. Not by name, of course, but she’d been included in the general category of “women of high breeding and low reputation.”
The Fraynes would probably sell Evelyn’s favors to the highest bidder. His skin crawled, and he shook the sensation off. It wasn’t any of his business. But Evelyn Renshaw needed
someone
to keep her safe, a man who could protect her from treason, scandal, penury, and dangerous Frenchmen roaming Hyde Park. He’d have to be a gentleman, honorable and upstanding, good with a sword, and with enough fortune to keep her.
He’d have to be as unlike Philip Renshaw or Frayne as possible.
Sinjon’s brother William came unbidden to mind. William was handsome, rich, the heir to his father’s earldom, and he had never done a single dishonorable thing in all his life. Or an interesting one. He’d be the perfect man for Evelyn.
Sinjon felt an irrational surge of jealousy and forced it down. Will was more likely to look down his nose at Evelyn than to accept an invitation to become her protector. William would miss the sparkle of diamonds in a coal heap, since he never saw the potential in anything. Evelyn was a gem, despite the taint of her husband’s treason. It hardly mattered. William was probably tucked away in the country, married to a dull heiress by now, and had likely never heard of the Renshaw scandal. Sinjon let out a long breath, glad Evelyn’s lover wouldn’t be William, at least.
“Good morning.”
He turned at the sound of her voice. She was wearing a brown velvet riding habit with a pink silk cravat. She looked fresh, pretty, and vulnerable, someone who would never consider taking men like Frayne or even William to her bed. Sinjon stopped when he realized he’d taken a step toward her and was about to offer his arm like a gentleman. He lowered it, clasped his hands behind his back.
“You aren’t wearing yellow,” he said, retreating to the safety of teasing her, but she blushed as pink as her scarf. His heart skipped another beat. When was the last time he’d seen a woman blush when he teased her? “Not that you should. Or shouldn’t. It’s just that you look—” He shut his mouth, realizing he was babbling like an idiot.
She appeared to be waiting for the rest of the description, her eyes fixed on him expectantly, her lips parted. But it wasn’t his place to tell her she looked beautiful.
The groom appeared, leading the saddled horses, and she turned her attention to mounting. Sinjon cupped his hands for her booted foot and boosted her into the saddle. He caught a flash of trim ankles, a teasing whiff of a subtle perfume, and found himself tempted to sniff her skirt, to identify the tantalizing fragrance.
He made himself turn away and mount his own horse, his stomach knotted. He glanced at her again. She was arranging her skirts, settling herself on the sidesaddle. She looked up at him, and his heart lurched.
No, he decided, William definitely wouldn’t do, and he hoped she had the good sense to refuse Frayne too, if her brother-in-law came sniffing around her skirts. He’d find a way, somehow, to protect her from that danger as well. His hands tightened on the reins in frustration. A lady was hardly likely to seek her footman’s advice on love.
He scanned the street as they rode out of the mews, looking for more pressing threats than eager lovers. Only a chimney sweep, the milk cart, and a sleepy tradesman carrying a heavy box of tools marred the silence of the morning, but Evelyn was nervous. He read it in her shoulders and in the tight grip she had on the reins. Her mare’s ears twitched as she sensed her mistress’s distress. If anyone dared to bid Evelyn good morning or tip his cap to her, she’d probably bolt down the street in a wild panic.
“Are you armed?” she asked tightly.
He smiled at her, his grin carefree, confident and reassuring. “I borrowed Mrs. Cooper’s largest kitchen knife, though I’m certain we won’t have need of it. At least I hope not. Cook said she’d whip me if I didn’t return it in the same pristine state it was in when I took it,” he quipped, and watched her shoulders relax a little as she smiled.
He also had a pistol tucked into small of his back, but he didn’t tell her that. She might smile at the knife, but a gun would probably terrify her.
She surprised him by making a joke of her own. “Then we shall be careful indeed. I daresay Mrs. Cooper can best even the bravest soldier.”
He glanced at her sharply, wondering if she’d meant it as a compliment or an insult. She blushed and looked away. “I mean, even the Duke of Wellington himself would be hard-pressed in hand-to-hand combat with Mrs. Cooper.”
He sent her an appreciative grin.
“Did you ever see His Grace while you were in Spain?” she asked.
He’d dined with Wellington and his officers. The great man had spoken briefly to him of horses and the quality of the claret. But privates did not sup with generals, so Private Sam Carr bit his cheek and played his role.
“Oh, I saw him riding by at a distance a time or two. I cheered him with the rest of the lads,” he told her. Every soldier of any rank cheered when Wellington rode past.
“And you are content to give up the glory of war for a dull post in London?” she asked, reminding him that he was not a soldier now, but only a servant, and not her equal.
“War isn’t glorious. It’s bloody and dangerous and a waste of life,” he said, barely remembering to add, “my lady.”
She lowered her gaze to her hands. “I know a group of ladies, all mothers and wives of officers and common soldiers, who knit and sew for the men fighting abroad. They are desperate to believe that there is glory in it, especially if the worst comes to pass, and their son or husband falls in battle. Glory gives them hope, you see, makes it bearable.”
He understood. How could he not? Glory came from behaving with honor, even in the most inhuman circumstances. There was shame in the army too, in the accepted practices of flogging, pillaging, and rape, and in allowing brutal and incompetent officers to command good men. Officers like Creighton.
He wondered what she’d say if she knew his story, his shame. Suddenly it mattered all the more that he prove his innocence. He’d been a good officer, and the role of a subservient footman did not come easily to him. He was polishing boots while other men fought.
Of course, he couldn’t imagine the elegant Evelyn Renshaw in a sewing circle of soldiers’ wives and mothers either. She would be as out of place there as on a battlefield. Or would she? She had more inner strength and bravery than some of the men he’d commanded. He looked away. He didn’t want to admire her, but it seemed he could do nothing else. It was a foolish game. Inner strength protected deep secrets, and bravery hid fear.
“What a surprise to see you this morning!”
Sinjon froze at the sound of Creighton’s voice, every muscle tightening, ready for battle. He reached for the pistol at his back and pressed his horse forward before he realized Creighton wasn’t looking at him.
He was staring at Evelyn.
To Sinjon’s astonishment, she was
smiling
at the blackguard. He stopped where he was, baffled. She looked delighted by the chance meeting, as if she knew Creighton well, and liked him.
Creighton was smiling back at her, a frightening sight. His eyes roamed over the curves beneath Evelyn’s riding habit, and Sinjon’s gut tightened with indignation. He reached again for the pistol, ready to draw it if he had to, or to grab her reins and get her away from Creighton if he moved to touch her, but she rode forward eagerly, toward the major and away from his protection.
“Good morning, my lord! It is indeed a pleasant surprise to find you in the park so early.” She was actually flushed with pleasure, Sinjon realized in horror. He must have made some small noise, because she looked back at him briefly and gave an imperious, damning little wave, ordering him to fall back and ride behind as Creighton pulled his stallion alongside her mare.
Sinjon’s nostrils flared as he glared at Creighton’s broad back. The vile major wore an expensively tailored army tunic, so new it glowed in the morning sun. Sinjon doubted it had seen battle, or ever would. The man almost shone, the perfect image of a brave, noble officer. His splendor was reflected in Evelyn’s adoring eyes, and Sinjon’s mouth twisted. The clothing of honor couldn’t hide the maggot underneath. He stood where he was as Evelyn and Creighton rode on, too stunned and disgusted to kick his horse forward. Evelyn was gazing up at Creighton, smiling.
And he’d thought she only smiled for him.
He waited for her to notice that he hadn’t moved, willed her to look at him, to read the warning in his eyes, but she rode on, oblivious.
He was just a footman, and she thought Creighton was a gentleman.
The image of Creighton’s hands on the French colonel’s wife filled his mind. Above her torn bodice and bloodied lips, there had been terror in the lady’s eyes, but there was no fear on Evelyn’s face. She felt herself safe with an officer and a gentleman of her own class. Sinjon’s hands tightened on the reins. If she knew what Creighton was capable of, she would be very afraid indeed.
Evelyn laughed, and the sound carried on the breeze like birdsong. He kicked the gelding to a trot, catching up, but remaining a respectful, servile, three paces behind, out of earshot but still within easy reach if there were orders to be given.
The high collar of his livery throttled him. He wanted to tear it off, ride forward and punch Creighton out of the saddle and pound his grinning face into the dust.
He touched the pistol again, started to draw it out. One shot. That’s all it would take to avenge dozens, hundreds, of wrongs.
“Ahem.”
Sinjon met the Earl of Westlake’s icy gaze. He was riding the opposite way along the track. He didn’t stop, or speak, just warned Sinjon with a glare.
Sinjon stared back, letting every bit of fury and frustration show in his eyes. Westlake’s expression didn’t change. In fact, he looked bored. He rode on, his eyes sliding past, as if Sinjon truly was nothing more than a footman.
Sinjon swore under his breath. Westlake’s reminder had been clear. He had work to do, and it didn’t include shooting Creighton in the back. Nor did it include deciding whom Evelyn could ride with, or sleep with. Without Westlake’s help, he could still hang for treason, and Creighton would go free.
His anger simmered. It appeared that Philip Renshaw wasn’t the only traitor the lady was acquainted with. He wondered whom else—what else—she knew that could get her hanged alongside her husband. She laughed again, and he gritted his teeth.
A true traitor’s wife indeed.