The Price of Temptation

by Lecia Cornwall

  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.

  Chapter 9

  Evelyn 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.

  Chapter 10

  Sinjon 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.

  Chapter 11

  Sinjon 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 acco
unt 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.