The Price of Temptation
Lecia Cornwall
Dedication
To Donna, Pamela, and Sherile
This book wouldn’t be possible without your wit, wisdom, and friendship!
And to Frank, truest heart and dearest companion—you are very much missed.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
More Avon Books
About the Author
Romances by Lecia Cornwall
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
As a rule, only duelists frequented Hyde Park at dawn.
Lady Evelyn Renshaw knew she might be flying in the face of convention, but if she wanted fresh air, and an outing untainted by scandal and shame, then this was the hour to come. It was barely light, and the morning mist was as thick as new milk, the air sweet as honey, and Evelyn was blissfully alone.
The sharp-eyed ladies of the ton had yet to rise for the day, to call out their carriages and unsheath their claws. If they’d gotten out of bed early and driven through the park, they would have found Evelyn riding alone, and had the pleasure of tearing her to shreds over tea that afternoon.
It was even too early for the gentlemen who usually exercised their stallions on Rotten Row while the crowds were thin and there was space to let their animals run. They’d not have the chance to ride alongside Evelyn, attempting to coax sufficient proof out of her to win the lucrative bet at White’s as to whether Lady Renshaw was wife or widow.
It had been nearly seven months since anyone had last seen Lord Philip Renshaw, but the charges of treason against him ensured the gossip hadn’t even begun to slow, especially since his abandoned wife remained in London to bear the brunt of his shame.
Evelyn had no idea where her husband was. He could be walking the earth somewhere, hale and healthy, or he could be rotting under it. She smoothed her hand over the violet velvet of her fashionable riding habit. Perhaps she should wear black, but she doubted the appearance of widowhood would win her any sympathy or stop wagging tongues.
Evelyn was tired of gossip, tired of being watched by the Crown and the curious, and scorned by those who thought themselves better than the wife of a traitor. But she’d been ordered to stay in Town. She was not even allowed the dignity and privacy of retiring to the country. Wherever she went, someone was watching her, waiting for her to slip up, to reveal her husband’s hiding place, or hoping she’d show herself to be as much of a traitor as he was.
There was nothing for it but to take her exercise alone at dawn, smile bravely at the few social events she was still invited to, and to behave with as much grace as possible until this was over.
She heard hoofbeats behind her and glanced back. There was a horseman riding toward her on a huge stallion. Her mouth dried. Did she know him? Strangers made her nervous.
She turned away, hiding behind the feathers of her bonnet for fear he knew her and would want to stop and talk about Philip. She guided the mare to the side of the track, leaving room for the big horse to pass by unimpeded, but her heart climbed into her throat and lodged there.
She slowed her horse to a walk, straightened her spine and tried to appear calm and dignified as she waited for the other rider to go by.
Instead, the hoofbeats slowed.
Evelyn looked back. The rider was right behind her now. Both his horse and his clothing were black, casting a sinister silhouette against the silver fog.
Though his face was hidden and only his eyes were visible between his upturned collar and the low brim of his hat, she was certain now that she didn’t know him. She caught a panicked gasp between her teeth, swallowed it. She tightened her grip on the reins, ready to bolt, yet still hoping he might pass by, ride on.
But he drew closer and she read cold speculation in his eyes.
She kicked her mare to a gallop, and the horseman did likewise, following her. Fear knotted Evelyn’s stomach. Her mount was no match for the powerful stallion. She could feel the rider’s eyes boring into her, and she leaned over the mare’s neck, trying to coax a little more speed from her, racing for safety.
She’d foolishly left her groom at the gate, wanting just a few minutes of privacy. Terror slowed everything to a crawl, except her pursuer. He closed the distance between them effortlessly, rode beside her. She looked across at him.
He didn’t look like the men they usually sent to follow her. They remained at a discreet distance and did not approach her.
Nor did they point pistols at her.
Her spine melted at the sight of the gun. Was he a highwayman or a thief? Surely there was too little traffic to draw a thief to Hyde Park at dawn.
But she was here, wasn’t she? And all alone.
The mist that had seemed a benevolent veil against prying eyes became a shroud, suffocating and dangerous. It closed in around her, catching at her skirts, slowing the mare’s legs, hiding landmarks and guideposts. Her moment of freedom had become a deadly trap.
“Stop, madame,” the man ordered, his weapon leveled at her.
Panic made her do the opposite. She drummed her heels against the mare’s sides, but it was futile. She felt the big horse’s breath on her cheek as the rider grabbed her reins and dragged her to a halt.
Evelyn screamed, but the fog caught and held the sound. She raised her riding crop and lashed out, hearing a satisfying thwack as it landed across his shoulder. He cursed but didn’t let go. He jerked harder on the mare’s reins and looped them around his wrist to cut off any hope of escape. The mare sidestepped, whinnying her own terror, and Evelyn clung to the pommel with one hand as she raised the crop for a second blow, but he tore it from her grip and tossed it away.
He grabbed her collar in a leather fist and dragged her toward him, tearing the delicate lace. She screamed again and clutched his wrist with both hands, fighting his choking grip, digging her nails into the skin above his glove.
The chill of metal under her chin stilled her instantly. She looked into his malevolent eyes, now only inches from her own as he cocked the pistol, the click like thunder against her ear.
“I am not carrying any money or wearing jewels!” she gasped. She had
only her wedding ring, and he could have that if he wished.
His laugh was harsh, his breath a sour miasma of stale wine and garlic. The pistol jabbed deeper into her flesh, and his hand tightened on her throat, the leather of his glove squeaking.
“You think I’m a thief?” he asked in French. “You are the thief, madame. You and your accursed husband.”
The hair on the back of her neck rose. “Did Philip send you?” she asked, swallowing the bile that came with the words.
A smile pleated his sallow face but left his eyes cold. He had the eyes of a snake, she thought, half expecting him to flick out a forked tongue. “Non, madame. I come from a much higher authority than that.”
For a moment she thought Philip must be dead after all, and he’d sent a devil to drag her down to his side in hell.
The man laughed again, heartless in the face of her fear. “No, not God, my lady,” he mocked. “Higher than that even. Napoleon. Your husband stole something that belongs to France, and the Emperor wants it back.”
“What?” It was hard to talk—or breathe—with his fist clenched around her neck, impossible to think with the gun pressing into her flesh.
He gritted his teeth impatiently. “I was told you speak fluent French. Did you not understand me? I can repeat it in English. Your husband is a thief, madame. He stole a sacred battle flag from France, and his treachery has cost thousands of braver, better men their lives.”
“Is he—” She swallowed. “Is Philip alive?”
His eyes bored into hers. “He has betrayed everyone, both English and French. Do you think he deserves to live?”
She lowered her eyes, refusing to answer that, even in her own mind.
“If the Gonfalon de Charlemagne is returned, then l’Empereur may forgive him and send him back to England. The English will hang him, or course, so whether he still breathes or not, Lord Philip is a dead man, n’est ce pas? I assure you, madame, you should be more worried about your own life at the moment. I have shot ladies before.”
He smiled as if it was a happy memory for him, and Evelyn’s skin crawled.
“So tell me, where is the banner? We have searched Lord Philip’s estates in Gloucestershire. The only place left is his London home, but it is impossible to get inside if not invited, isn’t it? Every eye in London is trained on your door, day and night.”
He raised the gun in front of her face when she did not immediately answer, and she stared into the soulless black eye of the barrel, fear choking off words. She could only shake her head.
“You refuse to cooperate?” Quick as a snake, he coiled his arm around her neck, trying to drag her onto his horse. She felt the mare sliding out from under her, but her boot was caught in the stirrup and her leg twisted painfully. She screamed again, and he hit her across the temple with the gun. The mist dissolved to stars. “Return the gonfalon, and I’ll let you live,” he growled in her ear as she fought to stay conscious.
“I can’t—” she panted, dizzy.
“Or you won’t?” he demanded. He twisted her arm behind her back and she opened her mouth to scream again, sure now that he would kill her.
“Let her go.”
The voice was deep and calm, cutting through the fog like a knife. The Frenchman’s grip loosened for a moment as he spun to face the interruption, but he did not release her. She tried to take advantage of the distraction and push away, but her captor renewed his hold and twisted her arm harder. She gritted her teeth at the pain.
“Go on your way. This is not your affair,” the Frenchman snarled.
The newcomer’s face swam before Evelyn’s eyes as hot needles of pain bit deep. She blinked and looked into the man’s face, wordlessly pleading for help.
She realized that he looked more impatient than concerned or afraid, as if she were inconveniencing him by needing to be rescued. Her heart skipped a beat.
He was here to rescue her, wasn’t he?
She cast a glance over the lean length of his body. He hardly looked the part of a knight in shining armor. He wore a faded army tunic, needed barbering and a haircut, and there were shadows of exhaustion under his eyes.
Still, his hand rested on the sword belted to his hip, as if he were prepared to draw the weapon and use it if he had to. She met his eyes again, hope surging.
He had the audacity to smile at her, a charming, heart-stopping grin, as if they were meeting in a drawing room and he found her amusing. Did he mean to reassure her? The flirtatious wink did nothing of the kind.
“Please—” she managed to croak, but the Frenchman wrung her arm again, cutting off further speech. She bit back a cry, unwilling to give her captor the satisfaction of making her scream in front of her rescuer. She watched the soldier’s eyes darken, saw his jaw tighten, and every trace of merriment disappeared from his face.
“The lady hardly looks pleased to be in your company, so I can only conclude that her predicament is indeed my concern. I must insist you release her at once.” He said this lightly, but she heard the hard edge of warning in his tone.
The Frenchman swore, the sound guttural and ugly. “Who the devil do you think you are, Robin Hood?” he demanded.
The soldier’s lips quirked but his eyes remained as cold as the fog surrounding them. “If you wish, but since I have other injustices to right this morning and I’m pressed for time, I’ll thank you to speed things along and let the lady go.”
The Frenchman laughed as if it was a joke between the two men, but Evelyn felt him tense, the movement of his muscles sudden as he lifted the pistol and aimed it in a single fluid motion.
“No!” The warning tore itself from her raw throat.
But the Frenchman’s finger was already curling on the trigger.
The gunshot was loud in Evelyn’s ear. She watched in horror as her rescuer dove for the rusty dirt of the track with a grunt of pain.
“You shot him!” she gasped.
The Frenchman shrugged as he shoved the empty gun into his belt, meeting her eyes with a smug look of satisfaction that told her he liked to kill, and was good at it.
“And you’re next, chérie,” he whispered.
The soldier’s sword flashed before Evelyn’s eyes, a sudden whir of silver, sound, and air that narrowly missed her cheek. Her cry of surprise was drowned by the Frenchman’s scream.
Blood spurted, colored the fog for an instant, and sprayed over her face.
Her captor shoved her away and clasped a hand to his cheek. Blood spilled between his fingers, crimson on black leather.
His stallion reared at the scent of blood, its eye rolling in panic for an instant before it bolted, careering wildly down the track with the wounded Frenchman bouncing in the saddle.
Evelyn’s boot was still caught in her own stirrup, and she fell as the stallion’s escape knocked her off balance, dangling awkwardly against the heaving side of her frightened horse.
Strong hands lifted her back into the saddle, and she righted her bonnet and looked down at him in surprise, her thanks ready on her lips. The ice in his eyes rendered her dumb.
“Run,” the soldier advised her. “He might come back if he can still reload.”
He slapped the mare’s rump, and Evelyn felt her spring ahead, as eager as her rider to get away.
She cast a desperate glance over her shoulder. Was the Frenchman following her?
There was no one there but her rescuer, tall and brave with his sword still in his hand, staring down the track after her. Then the mist swallowed him, and her hero disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.
Tears blurred her vision as she rode on and the gate loomed out of the fog. Philip was alive. She was still married to the greatest traitor in England, and apparently France as well. She scrubbed at her eyes, soaking her glove. She had stayed out of his affairs, hoping ignorance would keep her safe.
But ignorance was not going to satisfy them now. Philip’s enemies were more ruthless than she’d imagined. His sins required payment in blood.
Chapter 2
Captain Sinjon Rutherford watched until the last hoofbeats faded in the fog. He glanced down at the bloody sleeve of his tunic, now sporting a hole in the scarlet cloth big enough to put his finger through. The Frenchman’s bullet had grazed the flesh, but the lady’s warning had saved him from far worse.
Still, it was his sword arm, and he had a duel to fight, one he was late for, thanks to the unexpected encounter. He smiled grimly as he wiped his sword on the grass, cleaning away what he could of the Frenchman’s blood. He would have a far more substantial souvenir than a scratched arm, likely an ugly scar that would keep him from accosting unescorted females in the future. The blood stuck to the deep engravings that covered the sword, but it hardly mattered. In a few minutes the blade would be stained with more.
English blood this time.
And very appropriate that would be, since the sword had been a gift of thanks for the rescue of another lady, one facing a similar fate to the woman in purple, and at the very hands of the man he was going to kill this morning.
“Gonfalon of Charlemagne,” he muttered, wondering what a Frenchman was doing in Hyde Park at dawn, bellowing about a French battle flag. He’d heard of it, of course. Legend had it that every time the French carried the gonfalon into battle, they won. But the gonfalon had disappeared and the French armies had begun to lose at last.
Sinjon frowned. Even if the stories about the flag were true, they were not tales a London lady was likely to know. He remembered the stark terror in her green eyes. If she’d known what her captor was talking about, she’d hidden it well.
Out of habit, Sinjon reached for his watch, then realized he’d pawned it days ago, on his arrival in London, to pay for food and lodging. His second would know the time. The man was probably looking at his own watch at that very moment, wondering if he was going to put in an appearance. He pictured the men waiting for him on the field of honor—Creighton, the two seconds, and of course there would be a surgeon on hand to tend the loser. Maybe he’d have the man look at the graze on his arm while the seconds were sending for an undertaker for Creighton.
The Price of Temptation Page 1