In the deafening volley, every man on the road was running, screaming, dying in the hot yellow dust. Rutherford dropped and rolled. He landed next to Creighton and the woman. He actually stood in front of her, Creighton recalled, protecting her even then.
Did the fool think he was impervious to death? When the firing stopped and the air was filled with the acrid stink of burnt powder, d’Agramant dismounted and stalked toward them, his eyes locked with Rutherford’s. Creighton flinched as the colonel’s sword dimpled the skin of Rutherford’s throat.
“Your wife is unharmed, monsieur. Take her and go,” Rutherford said, his voice steady.
“Unharmed?” the colonel hissed. “You think I can allow you to get away with this?”
“Do it,” Creighton encouraged as the Frenchman’s sword pressed deeper into Rutherford’s flesh.
He used the letter opener to destroy another drawer, imagining it was Rutherford.
The Frenchwoman woke and began to scream at her husband in rapid French, explaining everything. Creighton would have hit her again, or stabbed her, but Rutherford turned on him like a wolf, moving even before the colonel could put up his sword. D’Agramant’s blade carved a long deep gash in the captain’s neck, and hot blood splashed across Creighton’s face as Rutherford wrenched the knife out of his hand. His only thought then had been of escape.
Creighton could tell by the look in d’Agramant’s eyes that he knew the truth. He shoved the woman at Rutherford and ran, leaving the honorable fools to see to her.
He hadn’t gone more than a mile in the hot Spanish sun, with Rutherford’s blood drying on his face, before he began to have doubts. If the Frenchman let Rutherford go, or he escaped, what then? Wellington hanged men for rape. It was his word against the captain’s. Creighton had ridden hard for headquarters.
He’d told them how he found Rutherford selling secrets to the French. His men were all dead, killed by Captain Sinjon Rutherford.
When Rutherford returned, he was conveniently in possession of an expensive French sword.
Creighton had insisted they hang him at once, but the officer in charge, yet another honorable fool, had insisted on a proper court-martial.
Then O’Neill stumbled into camp, wounded but alive. At least the sergeant had a saber slash to the jaw that rendered him mute.
Creighton sent Private Bassett to finish both Rutherford and O’Neill, but he was too late. Both men escaped.
Who knew Rutherford had so many friends? Officers who liked the captain demanded immediate payment of the gambling vowels Creighton held, and refused to play cards or even share meals with him. Lord Wellington decided it was best if he returned to England.
Creighton stared at the wreck of the priceless chinoiserie cabinet littering the floor of his aunt’s bedroom. There had to be a key to the safe where she kept the real jewels, but it wasn’t here.
He ran a shaking hand through his hair. He needed money. He couldn’t hide like a rat in this house forever. The plain gold chains and silver lockets mocked him, an old lady’s sentimental treasures, all worthless. He kicked at them with a curse that sullied the spinster’s chamber. He sank to the floor and rubbed a hand across his mouth, wanting a drink.
Perhaps he was safe. He hadn’t actually seen Rutherford since the day the captain, ragged and hollow-eyed, accosted him on the street and foolishly challenged him to a duel. Rutherford hadn’t turned up for the dawn meeting, but he was here somewhere, an outlaw with a price on his head, waiting for his chance.
He’d hoped Rutherford would do the honorable thing and walk into Horse Guards. They’d hang him on sight, of course.
Invisible, hidden, Rutherford was even more dangerous. He still had the French sword, and Creighton feared it would end up buried in his back on some dark night, unless he found Rutherford—and O’Neill—first.
He heard familiar heavy footsteps on the stairs and got to his feet. Bassett was back at last. Creighton employed the burly ex-soldier to keep an eye out for trouble, guarding his life, running his errands. He went into the sitting room and closed the door on the bedroom, so Bassett wouldn’t see the mess and suspect there was a greater gain than he was offering. Straightening his coat, Creighton waited for the man to deliver Evelyn Renshaw’s very welcome letter into his hand.
It had been an incredible stroke of luck to discover that Evelyn Renshaw was selling off her husband’s treasures. By chance, an infamous portrait of Renshaw’s mistress was being offered at the same auction where he’d sold his aunt’s Gainsborough. The portrait was the tamest part of Lord Philip’s collection of erotic art and books. It was being sold under a false name, and after the sale Creighton followed the man who collected the proceeds, hoping he would lead straight to Renshaw, so he could claim a reward or possibly blackmail the traitor.
Remarkably, since Renshaw was the least charitable man in England, the seller had delivered the bulging purse to the Foundling Hospital. There were rumors that someone was making large anonymous donations to charitable institutions. The betting books held that it was the Earl of Darlington, a potty old fellow who’d vowed to give away every penny of his fortune before he’d leave it to his hated relatives.
It hadn’t been hard for Creighton to see that the gifts were coming from Evelyn Renshaw as she sold off her husband’s collection. It had pained him to see Renshaw’s fortune wasted on orphans and widows.
He’d been wondering if he could blackmail the traitor’s wife when, quite by chance, he met her when he went to visit Anne O’Neill, in hopes that she had news of her dear brother.
He’d held Anne’s hand as she cried over Patrick’s unknown fate, and it had been easy to convince Evelyn that he was a great believer in charity. He let it slip that he was on his way to Devon, to endow an orphanage near his family home. As he’d hoped she would, Lady Evelyn graciously provided a gift of her own to accompany his.
Two hundred pounds.
The use to which he put her money was charitable enough. He’d needed a new uniform and boots. He could hardly go around London looking like he had something to hide. He dressed like a hero, and people believed he was. Evelyn’s money had bought the best, and he hadn’t felt a moment’s guilt, knowing she was keenly interested in keeping warm clothing on the backs of British soldiers.
He smirked. He already had plans for whatever generous gift she thought she was sending to the orphans in Lincolnshire.
He needed new evening clothes for the Somerson ball. If the amount was generous enough, he’d treat himself to a visit to Mrs. Beaumont’s. The expensive bawd and her talented girls must be feeling the pinch since Renshaw stopped visiting. Creighton was certain they’d appreciate seeing some of the traitor’s money again. After a few days underground, he’d pay a visit to Evelyn, describe the gratitude in the eyes of the orphans, and gallantly offer his services again.
“I’m back,” Bassett growled from the doorway.
Creighton snatched the letter from the soldier’s hand and tore it open. The enclosed note was brief, and suggested the headmistress use the enclosed funds for books and warm clothes for her pupils. As usual, it was unsigned.
He grinned as he reached back into the envelope. It was empty.
He looked suspiciously at Bassett. “Is there another letter?”
“No, my lord.”
Creighton’s rage exploded like an artillery barrage. Cursing, he tore the letter to shreds with his teeth, then threw a vase against the wall. He realized Bassett was watching his tantrum with amusement.
“Go!” he screamed. “Get out of my sight!”
Now he had something else to fear.
Had Evelyn Renshaw forgotten to enclose the money, or was she on to him?
Chapter 13
Evelyn sat in the library, looking out over the rain-washed garden. She usually liked the rain. It kept her sisters indoors, and away from Renshaw House. The complement of watchers diminished as well in the wet. She could sit in the window and not be gawked at.
But the rain had kept her from her morning rides for two days, and she was bored. She had written all the letters that needed writing, and she was trying to read a book, but the lines blurred.
Rain seemed much nicer in the country. It made the earth smell sweet and the wildflowers bloom. It dripped from the eaves like music.
In London, rain turned everything a glowering gray, and made all that was miserable about the city worse. The cobbles turned slick and greasy, and the black sky scowled at the houses that squatted under the deluge.
If she were at her estate at Linwood, away from London and prying eyes, she’d walk out into the wet woods, listen to the sound of raindrops on the leaves, and revel in the feeling of cool moisture against her skin, a delightful counterpoint to the summer heat.
Such an outing was out of the question in London. Ladies who walked in the rain were considered odd, and Evelyn didn’t need any further speculation on her sanity.
She was safer indoors. She had not heard from the Frenchman again, and she credited Sam with that small victory. Philip was still out there somewhere, alive, still tied to her by marriage. Surely it was only a matter of time until she heard from him.
She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, scanning the wet garden, wondering if there might be someone out there after all.
A knock at the door made her jump. She let go of the indrawn gasp of breath slowly, knowing she was being ridiculous.
“Come.” Her voice shook a little, and she cleared her throat and sat up, straightening herself to a more dignified posture.
Her heart leapt when Sam entered, carrying a tea tray. She could see the steam rising from the pot, smell the buttery, fruity aroma of freshly baked tarts. His expression was slightly wary as he approached her, and that put her on edge all over again.
He set the tray down. “I have orders from Mrs. Cooper not to leave this room until you’ve eaten at least three strawberry tarts. She said you hardly touched your breakfast.”
He forgot to bow, she noted, or to say “my lady.” He was studying her as if searching for some clue to ill health he could report to the cook, or was trying to see inside her head and read her thoughts. She looked away, staring at the tea tray.
What had changed? He was obviously not here to make her smile today. There was no teasing in his eyes, no clever quip on his tight lips. She missed it, especially now, with rain drowning the city.
It had been three days since their ride, and their meeting in the hall in the middle of the night. Not that she was counting, of course. She raised her chin and met his eyes, forcing down the ridiculous idea that she’d missed him. Ladies did not miss their footmen, no matter how attractive and amusing they were, or brave, or impertinent.
She had been waiting for him to return that night, but only because she’d been afraid he wouldn’t come back, another servant gone. She’d paced the floor as the hour grew late, struggling to convince herself she was being foolish, that Sam would not quit without notice.
He’d had time to hear the stories by now, to know Philip was guilty of treason. Surely to a soldier who’d faced the French in the field, been wounded, seen the horrors of war, Sam was likely to find Philip’s treachery all the more despicable.
She had felt such a sense of relief when she heard footsteps in the hall that she’d run to the door of the library and flung it open. She’d barely restrained herself from bursting into tears and throwing her arms around him when she found him standing there in the dark.
She’d never felt such an impulse with any other servant. When Sal had received news that her uncle died, Evelyn had patted her shoulder and bought her a ticket home for the burial. Mary took a fortnight’s leave to tend a sick relative in the country, but Evelyn hadn’t feared she wouldn’t return, or dreaded a future without her.
How silly she was being with Sam, acting like a green girl with a crush on the gardener’s son. Why did the most inappropriate men hold the greatest appeal?
He stood waiting, his expression solemn and correct, not in the least affected by her haughty lady-of-the-manor stare. She forced her eyes away from him and looked at the plate of tarts.
“There are at least a dozen tarts here! I thought you said three.”
He smiled as if she’d caught him out, and her heart turned over. Ladies swooned over much lesser smiles, she’d heard.
She was not the type to do so.
“I think Mrs. Cooper is hopeful that you will exceed three. She sent to a cousin in Kent for the strawberries. She swears they grow the finest berries in England.”
She caught something in his eyes. “You don’t agree?”
“I happen to know the best strawberries grow in Northumberland.”
He picked up the silver tongs, placed a single tart on a plate and held it out to her. “You may judge the quality of the berries from Kent for yourself, of course.”
Her mouth watered as she bit into the tart, aware that he was watching her. The sweet tang exploded on her tongue. Sam’s throat bobbed and his mouth tightened as he watched.
“Delicious,” she said truthfully. “But I believe the sweetest strawberries come from my estate in Dorset.” She glanced out the window. “In fact, they are best picked in the rain.” That’s what she would be doing if she were at Linwood today.
“My brother and I liked to fish in the rain,” he said. “There’s a slow pool in the river where the fish gather in wet weather.”
It was the first time he’d spoken about his home since she interviewed him for his post. There was a soft, wistful look in his eyes, and she could almost see the boy he’d been. “You miss it.”
He met her eyes, and his expression hardened. He put another tart on her plate and handed it to her, and she took it with a frown, realizing the subject was closed. Obviously a change of topic was in order. Or she could let the conversation lapse, and sit in stony silence while he watched her eat.
“Did you know of Major Lord Creighton in Spain?”
His eyes narrowed, and she read cold suspicion in the glittering gray depths for an instant before he looked away. He fixed his stare on the wall behind her, every line of his body stiff.
“Yes,” he said, his jaw tight. “I knew him. Will that be all, my lady?” he said, waiting to be dismissed.
Evelyn bristled. Yet another topic he wasn’t willing to discuss. The man was a deeper mystery than Philip had been. She’d learned to hate secrets. She wanted to open Sam up, lay him bare and find out what he did not want her to know.
Perhaps it was simply that he disliked officers in general. Many soldiers distrusted their superiors, even a good one like Major Creighton. Sam was bold and outspoken, and she knew he did not take orders well. It was a dreadful flaw for a servant, or a soldier. She ignored his request to leave.
“I have a friend who is looking for news of her brother, a sergeant. His name was—is—Patrick O’Neill. Did you know him as well?” she asked.
His jaw dropped as he met her eyes. She drew back, stunned by his surprise, and began to babble.
“Anne, my friend, is most concerned for her brother. She hasn’t had a letter from him in months, and when Major Creighton brought her news that he’d been seriously wounded, she was quite beside herself.”
“Creighton went to see her?” Sam asked, his tone dark and tense.
It put her on her guard.
“He wished to see for himself that Sergeant O’Neill was safe at home. Is that an unusual thing for an officer to do?”
“It is if it’s Creighton,” he said, his voice knife-edged.
She raised her chin. “Lord Creighton is a kind man, and a noble officer. Surely his concern for the men under his command is proof of that.”
There was anger in his eyes now, a dangerous silver spark like lightning in a stormy sky. “Is that all my lady? I have work to do.”
“Do men think it shameful to be wounded?” she asked, goading him, angry at his stubbornness. “I mean, perhaps Sergeant O’Neill doesn’t wi
sh to come home if he’s . . .” She paused, imagining the worst, a man disfigured, horrific to look at.
“If he’s what? Scarred, missing a limb?” he growled. “War changes men on the inside as well as the outside. Men bear scars you can’t even see. They worry that their loved ones won’t understand, will fear them or hate them because of those scars. It takes courage to go home,” he said, glaring at her as if she were at fault.
His audacity made her angry as well. She got to her feet.
“Is that the kind of wounds you have, Sam? On the inside? Is that why you chose to stay in London rather than go home?”
His eyes held a warning that she was trespassing in dangerous territory, but she walked toward him, caught in the maelstrom of his gaze, wanting to know. She was lady of this house, and he was a servant. She had the right to question him. She desperately needed a reason at this moment to see him as just a servant. She didn’t want to wonder what it might be like if he were someone other than her footman, if he was a gentleman of her own class.
In the anger in his expression, she read a touch of uncertainty, and that sparked her own anger at everything, made her bold. She didn’t need this man, or any man. She reached out to touch a tiny scar on his jaw, a white line that stood out against the tan of his skin.
“Poor Sam,” she said, holding his eyes, filling hers with mocking pity, the same look people regarded her with.
He caught her hand and held it away, glaring at her. His grip was firm, but surprisingly gentle. Her own anger melted, and she felt excitement race through her veins at the physical contact between them.
“Don’t pity me, my lady. I’m not a charity case.”
“Then tell me. Was there a woman, someone you lost because of your wounds?” she asked.
He looked away. “I lost her before I left for war. She was one of the reasons why I went.”
She felt a flicker of jealousy. Her fingers curled into her palm, her hand still caught in his.
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