E
velyn set down her pen and blotted the letter carefully. She was writing to a school for orphaned girls in Lincolnshire, sending a generous donation of Philip’s money while she still had access to it. She’d sent a dozen such letters over the past months.
Her husband’s gold would do more good if it were used to feed and educate poor children than it would if the Crown confiscated it.
The Prince Regent and rich lords like Somerson or Wilton or Frayne had grand enough fortunes.
Trusted friends had helped her distribute her gifts. Isobel, the Marchioness of Blackwood, had taken the jewelry Philip had given Evelyn and sold it for her. Those funds had gone to the Foundling Hospital as a very large and anonymous donation.
Marianne, the Countess of Westlake, had helped her sell several valuable paintings from Philip’s collection. It had been a particular joy to sell off the portrait of his favorite mistress, portrayed in nude glory as the Greek goddess of love. The proceeds of that sale had gone to war widows, the donor’s name undisclosed.
There were other works of art, books, and furnishings to be sold as well, but slowly, carefully, so the Crown didn’t notice.
She folded the letter with a smirk of satisfaction. Lord Creighton had offered to help her in her charitable pursuits after seeing the painting she had sold and recognizing it as Philip’s. He mentioned he would be traveling to Lincolnshire in the next few days, and offered to deliver her unsigned letter and the generous donation of funds to the orphan school there. He was a true officer and gentleman, and she knew no other soldier with such kindness, such honor.
Well, perhaps one.
If Sam Carr had sufficient class and fortune to purchase a commission, she was sure he would make as fine an officer as Major Lord Creighton.
She trusted Lord Creighton as she trusted Sam. Creighton treated her with the kind of courtesy she used to enjoy as an esteemed lady, a peer’s daughter. He did not ask about Philip.
He traveled often, and had offered to carry any letters she wished to send. She had no need to worry about the money falling into the wrong hands.
She had met Lord Creighton through one of the ladies who belonged to the charitable sewing circle. Miss Anne O’Neill had a brother who had served as a sergeant in Creighton’s regiment. Major Creighton paid Anne a visit to tell her that her dear brother had been wounded and was missing.
While the ladies could do no more than to stitch prayers for Sergeant Patrick O’Neill’s safe return into every garment, Major Lord Creighton could do so much more.
He had offered to make inquiries at Horse Guards, and the queries of an esteemed major would garner a better response than the pleas of a mere sergeant’s sister. Anne was exceedingly grateful for his lordship’s kindness, and the other ladies in the sewing circle were equally smitten with the gallant officer.
Unfortunately for Evelyn, after Philip’s treason was made public, the ladies of the sewing circle decided that it would be quite impossible to allow the wife of a traitor to work in their midst. They had cut off all contact with her, snubbing even her donations of knitting wool, as if her offerings were tainted by Philip’s sins and might somehow harm their men.
She’d been dismayed until Major Lord Creighton had come to call, mentioned seeing Philip’s painting at a recent sale, and kindly offered to take her donations and turn them over to the ladies as his own.
Evelyn tickled her lips with the end of the quill pen. It had been a wonderful morning. If it hadn’t been for Sam, she would not have gone riding at all, and would not have chanced upon Lord Creighton.
She wondered now if Sam had known the major, or at least known
of
him, in Spain. Or perhaps he’d known Sergeant O’Neill. She would ask when she saw him next.
She frowned, and realized she hadn’t seen him all afternoon. He’d been stiff and formal as he helped her dismount after the ride, for once the perfect servant, even bowing as he took his leave of her, unsmiling. He hadn’t been the same Sam she rode out with.
The door opened and Starling entered the room. “There’s a note for you, my lady,” he said, and held out a letter on a silver tray.
For a moment she considered the tray. It might fetch enough for a donation to another deserving charity, but Starling was waiting, and she could hardly snatch it out of his hand and send it off to the pawnshop.
“Thank you, Starling.” She took the letter and turned it over to look at the wax seal. “Would you send Sam to me, please?”
“He’s not here at present, my lady. Today is his half day off.”
Irrational disappointment twisted her heart. The thought of Sam not being in the house, even for just the afternoon, made it dark and frightening again. She looked up to see Starling watching her sympathetically, and smoothed her expression.
“Of course. I’d forgotten. That will be all.”
Starling hesitated. “Is there anything
I
can do, my lady?”
She forced a smile. “It’s nothing. I merely had a question for Sam. It can wait.”
She turned to the letter and opened it, and her smile became genuine.
It was an invitation from Major Lord Creighton to ride with him again tomorrow morning.
S
injon slipped inside Lord Philip’s chamber and stood leaning against the door for a long moment, his heart pounding. He wasn’t used to creeping into other people’s private spaces like a thief.
He had crept
out
of numerous bedchambers, of course, silently picking up his clothes and leaving his lover of the moment naked, satisfied, and fast asleep in her bed. Surely this was the same, but in reverse, and without the pleasure.
The room was hot, and he took off his wig and tossed the hated thing into a chair, and wondered where to begin.
It was his half day off, and he had things to do outside Renshaw House, but first he planned to find whatever it was that Westlake thought was hidden here, get it over with. The sooner he could leave this house, the better.
The vague fragrance of French cologne, popular among the dandies at Napoleon’s court, haunted the chamber. Highborn French army officers wore similar scents, and it reminded Sinjon of war and enemies and treachery. He was instantly alert, his senses keen, the way they had been in Spain. He forced himself to relax. There were no perfumed French patrols lurking behind the bed curtains.
Of course, a fortnight ago he would have sworn that there were no French spies in Hyde Park either.
He hesitated a moment more, listening for sounds in the hall, his ears pricked, a bead of nervous sweat slipping between his shoulder blades, but the house was silent around him, a place of secrets and mystery, the quiet home of a somber lady.
Sinjon opened the drapes, and sunlight crept nervously into the room. He unbuttoned the top collar of his uniform so he could breathe.
The furniture was dark, masculine, and imposing. There wasn’t a hint of Evelyn’s presence. He wondered if she had ever come here to lie in the huge bed with Philip, or if her husband had gone to her when the need arose.
Sinjon ran his palms along the sides of his breeches and forced himself to concentrate on his task. Westlake had told him they had searched the entire house. The Crown’s best men had rifled Philip’s desk, looked under beds and inside cupboards, carried away his letters and personal papers, and found nothing.
They had also searched Evelyn’s rooms. There wasn’t a single love letter, or even a terse note from Philip among her papers. The only jewels they found were her own family heirlooms. Other than her wedding band, there were no gifts, no tokens of love or esteem from her husband.
That in itself seemed most suspicious to Westlake. A lady might destroy or hide the sentimental mementoes of courtship and marriage, but not jewelry. A man as wealthy as Renshaw could easily afford to cover his wife with expensive gems. His mistresses had flaunted the eye-popping jewels he gave
them
. What had Evelyn done with hers?
Of course, a woman like Evelyn had no need of jewels to be beautiful, Sinjon thought. Nor was she the type to compete with her husband’s whores.
He pursed his lips, dismissing the honorable reasons. Even a woman like Evelyn—especially a clever woman like Evelyn—would hide her valuables if she were guilty, or was afraid they might be taken from her.
Perhaps that’s what he was meant to find. The lady’s treasure horde, put by for the future, once the Crown stripped her of her land and Philip’s money. That would hardly prove her guilty of treason. Of course, with a husband like Renshaw and friends like Creighton, what additional proof did anyone need that the lady was also a traitor?
From Westlake’s brief lessons, Sinjon knew checking for hidden compartments was the first order of business.
He opened the bureau and found nothing unusual. Renshaw’s cravats and handkerchiefs lay in orderly rows in the drawers, pristine and untouched, ready for his immediate use should he ever return. He bought the best, Sinjon noted, running his hands over the finest linen, the richest silk, the softest, most expensive woolens. There was nothing under the folded garments.
He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. Several coats still hung inside, but there were no secret panels behind them. Likewise, a dozen pairs of Lord Philip’s boots and shoes were neatly lined up in the wardrobe, but the floor beneath them was solid, the boots themselves empty.
Sinjon frowned. Where else could he possibly search that the Crown’s agents hadn’t already looked?
Quick footsteps came down the hall, and he froze.
Evelyn?
He imagined confronting her here, in the intimacy of her husband’s bedroom. He swallowed and tried to think up an excuse for his presence here. He could plead that he was merely curious, but that would still get him dismissed.
His heart stopped as the footsteps paused outside the door and the latch began to lift. What would Westlake do if his newest agent were caught?
He’d hang him.
Sinjon swore under his breath as he dove into the wardrobe. The coats flew from the hangers to attack him as the door opened and someone entered the room. He peered out through the crack.
Sal. He let out a silent breath.
The maid set her bucket on the floor and took out a cloth, flicking it open with a crack like a pistol shot. Humming, she began to dust, a mere wafting of the rag over the furniture. Dust motes gathered, filled the air, and swirled like an angry mob in the beam of sunlight that streamed through the half-open curtains before settling again.
Sinjon’s eyes widened as he caught sight of his wig, still sitting on the chair near the window.
It looked like a stray cat, napping where it shouldn’t, and he waited for Sal to notice it.
She walked right past it.
She dusted the table beside it, firmly shut the curtains behind it, and gave the rest of the room a shrug before she left.
He almost sagged in relief as the door clicked shut behind her and her footsteps echoed back down the corridor.
He kicked open the wardrobe and fought off the embrace of Renshaw’s coats. His heart was pounding and his shirt stuck to his skin. He sat down on the carpet to catch his breath. How did real spies manage? Wellington’s observing officers braved danger and gunfire to gather information without a moment’s trepidation, while a maid with a dust cloth made
him
shake in his shoes.
He’d found nothing at all, and that wouldn’t do. Westlake expected more, and he had to admit that he’d grown curious himself about the Renshaws’ scandals.
Especially Evelyn’s role.
He got to his feet and picked up the coats. Something glittered as it fell from an inside pocket. He caught it. It was a cameo locket, a portrait of a laughing lady, exquisitely carved, with diamonds and rubies set in her hair. She was naked to the waist, looking out at him with a saucy glint in her finely crafted eyes.
It opened with the twist of a thumbnail and he found a note, folded small around a frizzy red curl that almost certainly did not come from the lady’s head.
Come to me soon,
it read.
It was signed,
Lucy.
Sinjon’s eyebrows shot up. Lewd Lucy and Philip Renshaw?
Now that was a scandal Eloisa Wilton could dine out on for at least a month. He wondered if Evelyn knew. He slipped the token into his own pocket and hung up the coats, doing a poor job of brushing out the creases.
He shut the wardrobe and smiled. He’d found something the Crown’s agents had missed after all.
He looked around the room again as he reached the door, and his eyes fell on his wig. He’d almost forgotten it.
How on earth did Sal walk right past it without seeing it?
But how did people he’d known for years walk right past him as a footman without recognizing him?
Secrets, it seemed, hid best in the most obvious places.
S
injon spent the rest of his half day searching the dockside taverns for Patrick O’Neill. Many of the wounded soldiers sent home from the war simply stumbled off the ship and into the nearest tavern, and there they remained until their money ran out, or they found the courage to go home. He’d hoped it would be that simple with O’Neill.
Men in tattered uniforms watched him suspiciously as he passed. No one knew Sergeant O’Neill, but they were willing to tell their own tale for a pot of ale, or offer an account of the latest battles, which Sinjon craved nearly as much as news of O’Neill. Wellington was winning at last.
Sinjon wished he’d been at Cuidad Rodrigo and Badajoz. He would have been if not for Creighton.
He asked the sharp-eyed dockside whores, who turned a pretty penny on a soldier’s misery, but they did not know their customers by name, nor did anyone recall a sergeant with a saber wound on his jaw.
Discouraged, he watched the newest ships come in, disgorging their cargo of wounded and maimed, the debtors of Wellington’s victories. O’Neill was not here either.
Sinjon was beginning to think that the sergeant had died of his wounds on the way home from Spain, or that Creighton had killed him the moment he arrived in London.
He roamed the streets, letting his anger at Creighton simmer. He wondered what he would do once he was exonerated of the charges against him and Creighton was proven guilty, and if that would ever happen at all.
He supposed he could go back to war, since it didn’t look like the fighting would end anytime soon. Or he could settle down, marry, perhaps.
He sighed. He’d had the chance to marry Caroline, who came with a fine dowry and a piece of land, but he’d bolted, run away to war. That life was as wrong for him as a career in the Church.
At the very least, when this was over he’d go north, make peace with his father, try to explain things to Caroline. After that, the rest of his life loomed before him, a blank page.
It was dark by the time he found himself on St James’s Street, walking past the gentlemen’s clubs he’d once frequented as a member. As a servant, he could not even stand in the doorways.
It was here in front of White’s that he’d challenged Creighton to the duel that hadn’t happened. Westlake was right. It was a rash, stupid thing to do. He realized that now, but he’d felt helpless, desperate. He still did, caught in Westlake’s web of intrigue. The earl held his life in his hands, and he doubted Lucy Frayne’s naughty locket was going to fulfill Westlake’s expectations.
Standing in the shadows, he watched the gentlemen arrive for the evening. Harry Tipton strode up the steps and Sinjon smiled bitterly. Tipton owed him money, and probably thought he needn’t repay it, since he was in disgrace.
He made a note to visit Tipton first once he won free of the charges against him.
Frayne and Wilton entered together, their heads close, discussing something. Probably Evelyn, and which of their disreputable friends might make a suitable lover for her. His glare burned into their evening coats, but they walked on, oblivious.
Then Creighton’s coach pulled up and the major went up the steps with one hand in his pocket, his pace insouciant, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Creighton hadn’t so much as glanced at him this morning, and he didn’t look into the shadows now. Was Creighton so certain that he was gone? Sinjon’s mouth twisted.
Creighton’s coachman jumped down to lean on the side of the vehicle to wait. Sinjon crossed the street.
“Cold night,” he said, and pulled a flask from his pocket.
The coachman regarded him suspiciously for a moment before taking it. “Rum,” he said. “I expected cheap gin. You a soldier?”
“Was,” Sinjon replied. “I’m out of the army and I’m looking for work. You know anyone looking for a groom or a stable hand? Your master, perhaps? This is a fine rig he’s got. Must be wealthy.”
“Was,” the coachman parroted. “He’s been selling paintings, and his mother’s jewels as well, or so the maids say. They’re always the first to notice when family heirlooms disappear.”
Sinjon pretended to take another swig. “Is his title an old one?”
The coachman shrugged. “He has rich relatives, an earl on his father’s side and a viscount on his mother’s, but he’s a soldier like you, a cavalry major.” He looked Sinjon over. “You seem a likely chap for stable work, but the major hasn’t hired anybody new for some months, though we could do with the help.”
“Hires soldiers, does he? I’ve been looking for an old friend named O’Neill. He was my sergeant. Know anyone by that name?”
The coachman reached for the flask again. “We have an O’Donnell, but he’s straight in from the countryside. Don’t think he’d make a good sergeant, if you know what I mean.” He twirled his finger next to his ear.
There was a scuffle on the steps of the club, and they turned to watch.
“Pay me what you owe me, damn you!” Tipton cried, grabbing Creighton’s sleeve, knocking his hat down the steps.
“I haven’t got it, Harry, I swear! I only came here tonight to see someone about a vowel he owes
me
.”
“You’ve been back in England for weeks, damn you. You promised to pay me when you got home. You said you had an inheritance coming!”
Creighton pulled his lapels loose from Tipton’s grip. “Then you misunderstood me. It is not so much an inheritance as a dividend on an investment. It hasn’t paid out yet.”
“You risked my money in some foolish scheme?” Tipton growled.
Creighton smiled, his teeth long and yellow. “Not foolish at all, old chap. In fact, it’s a sure thing.”
“Oh, and how’s that? Where is this fortune coming from?”
Creighton spoke so low that Sinjon had to prick his ears to hear his reply. It echoed off the stone facade of the building.
“Lincolnshire,” he whispered.
“What in hell does that mean? What’s in bloody Lincolnshire?” Tipton demanded, but Creighton slipped out of his hands and hurried down the steps, like the coward and cheat he was.
Sinjon bent and picked up his hat. “Yours,
sir
?” he asked, holding it out, his other hand on the pistol under his coat. He wasn’t wearing his livery now. If—when—Creighton recognized him, he could shoot him if Creighton drew first. It would be honorable enough even for Westlake.
But Creighton didn’t spare him a glance. He simply snatched the hat from Sinjon’s hand and got into his coach.
Sinjon watched him drive away, disappointment gnawing at him.
Lincolnshire? Creighton’s family came from Devon, not Lincolnshire, and O’Neill was from London.
He walked away, his footsteps echoing on the cobbles, and wondered if he’d ever be free.
S
tarling was still up when he returned, nursing a cup of tea at the kitchen table. He handed Sinjon the keys and a lantern. “Go and check the doors for me, lad, and save my old bones the trip up the stairs.”
Sinjon prowled through the silent house. He checked the windows and the front door, and peered out across the square at the park. Somewhere in the dark, someone was watching the house. Poor bastard. It was a cool night, and the starless sky promised rain before morning.
The door opened as he passed the library, and Evelyn stood there.
She gave a strangled cry, surprise perhaps, and he caught her elbow.
“It’s me, my lady,” he said. “Sam.”
She wore a lace robe tied tight over her nightgown, and her hair hung down her back in a simple braid. She looked like a girl, freshly scrubbed and very young. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide, shimmering in the light of his lamp.
“You’re back!” She sounded surprised.
Standing so close, he could smell her perfume. Her face was inches from his, and he could feel her breath on his cheek. He was tempted to kiss her. His mouth watered and he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the lush softness of her mouth. He felt a tremor run through her body, but couldn’t tell if it was an answering desire or fear.
He let her go and stepped back. “Just making sure everything is locked up, my lady,” he said formally.
She blinked at him.
“Did you enjoy your time out?” She held up a hand before he could answer. “No, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my business where you went or what you did.”
He could see it mattered to her, suspected that she’d been waiting for him, just like Starling. “I went to look for an old friend from my regiment,” he said softly. “Nothing more.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Oh.” She licked her lips, and the moisture shone in the lantern light, tempting him anew.
“Is there anything you need, my lady?” he asked. He couldn’t stand in the hall, not with her wearing her nightclothes, looking at him like that. He clutched the lantern tighter, fighting the temptation to reach for her.
“I wasn’t waiting up for you, if that’s what you think,” she said, looking him over. “I was finishing a letter, and getting a book to read.”
She held neither in her hands. Her long fingers were clutching the high collar of her nightgown to her throat, a sign that she was nervous. It would be so simple to pull her into his arms, tell her he knew she was lying before his mouth descended on hers. He smiled at her instead, tilting his head, letting her know that despite her protest, he knew she’d been waiting for him.
“Shall I escort you upstairs? You haven’t got a candle. Or a book.” He was rewarded with a very becoming blush. Was her skin hot to the touch? His palm tingled.
She turned and went back into the room, picking up a book from the desk, a candle, and a letter. She held his gaze as she returned, her eyes glittering with the flame, angry and beautiful, passion replacing her usual control.
“There, you see? I can take myself upstairs, thank you. Go about your duties, if you please,” she snapped. She thrust the letter into his hand. “You may leave this by the front door. Someone will call for it tomorrow morning.”
He bowed as she turned and walked away, a ghostly white figure moving silently up the stairs.
Sinjon waited until her light had disappeared around the bend in the staircase, then went back toward the front hall to leave her letter on the table. He glanced at the address, and paused. His mouth went dry.
“Lincolnshire,” he muttered.
He swore under his breath and put the letter into his pocket. In the kitchen, the kettle was still hot. He opened Mary’s sewing basket and took out a needle and thread. Carefully, he softened the wax seal, slipped the thread behind it and loosened it without breaking it, opening the letter like a hardened spy. Where did a gentleman like Westlake learn these tricks? There was a sum of money wrapped in a letter, and he counted the notes. One hundred pounds.
The letter was brief, and unsigned. The money was an anonymous donation to a school for orphaned girls in Lincolnshire. He frowned.
What was Creighton’s connection to all this? He was hardly the charitable type. The only organization for females he was likely to support was a brothel.
But Evelyn gave to the needy. She supported the Foundling Hospital, and the ladies’ sewing circle. Perhaps she had other causes as well that he didn’t know about. His skin prickled.
Was Evelyn using Creighton to send money out of London? Perhaps she was planning to run away with Creighton, once they’d stolen Renshaw’s fortune. The letter did not seem outwardly suspicious, and the scheme would put Philip’s money out of reach of the authorities. “Clever girl,” he muttered.
Or was Creighton swindling the traitor’s wife? He needed money, or so the coachman had said. He was hardly the type to wait patiently to amass a fortune, or to help a woman in need. In Spain, he’d broken a young lieutenant’s jaw because the man owed him twenty pounds and couldn’t pay. A hundred pounds wouldn’t go far at the tables. One bet and Creighton could lose it all. But he might win.
Sinjon resealed the letter without the money.
In the library, he found another envelope and put the money inside, carefully considering his choices before tucking the packet into a book of poetry.
He put the letter on the hall table and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up into the darkness above, wondering if Evelyn was asleep.
Was she dreaming of Creighton?
He headed for his own bed with a grim smile. All he had to do now was wait and see what Creighton—and Evelyn—did next.