The Price of Temptation

by Lecia Cornwall

  She smiled sweetly. “I suppose you aren’t going to let me come with you.”

  “Not a chance. Why don’t you go and find Evelyn? I’m sure she could use a loyal friend by her side, and no one would dare to sneer at you.”

  “Thank you, my love. I will indeed. Oh, she’s being henpecked half to death by her dreadful sisters!” she said, and hurried away to rescue her beleaguered friend.

  The night was moonless, and the garden path was pitch-black. Adam wished he’d brought a pistol with him, but he wasn’t expecting this meeting, and Marianne would have easily found the gun under his tight-fitting evening coat. Likewise, his silk stockings and elegant patent-leather dancing shoes did not allow for any concealed weapons.

  If trouble arose, he’d have only his wits and his heavy gold pocket watch to protect him. He took out the watch and swung it on the end of the chain experimentally, satisfied it would deter an assailant for a moment or two if it hit him in the right spot.

  Someone was waiting by the gate. He saw the white wig in the darkness, and guessed who it was. He put his watch away.

  “Good evening, Captain Rutherford. My wife takes exception to my receiving unsigned notes at parties,” he scolded. “In future, perhaps you could send word to my butler if you wish to see me. Northcott always knows where to find me. Or you could come to my shipping office at the docks next time you’re in that part of Town.”

  “So you know I was at the docks on my last half day, do you?” Rutherford asked, his voice dark.

  “Yes, of course. Did you find anything?”

  “Not at the docks.”

  Adam couldn’t read Sinjon’s expression in the dark. “Is this about Creighton?”

  Rutherford hesitated before replying. “Evelyn mentioned he’s looking for O’Neill. He went to see O’Neill’s sister, but she hasn’t heard from Patrick in months.”

  Adam already knew that. “Anything else to report? Word of the gonfalon, for example, or evidence that Philip Renshaw is hiding under his wife’s bed?”

  “No, but apparently he was hiding under Lucy Frayne’s bed at some point.”

  Adam’s eyebrows rose in the dark. Evelyn’s own sister? He swallowed his surprise. Perhaps Rutherford might prove useful after all. No one else had discovered that little family secret. “Well, who hasn’t?” he quipped.

  Rutherford didn’t laugh. Adam heard him shift his feet in the dark, as if considering what to say next, working up to something. He frowned. There was something the captain wasn’t telling him, something important. He waited, knowing silence drew confessions out to fill the empty air, encouraged men to blurt out their sins.

  But Sinjon Rutherford didn’t say a word.

  “Are you still there, Captain?” Adam asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And is there anything else?” he prompted. “How are things between you and Lady Evelyn? Does she find you a credible footman?”

  Another telling hesitation. Now what might that mean? Adam felt annoyance ignite, burn along his nerves. “I trust you’re not here to tell me you’re quitting. There is no possibility of that. Think of this as a military mission, do or die. We need Renshaw and the flag.”

  “And I need O’Neill,” Sinjon snapped.

  “So you do,” Adam said. “With so many people looking for him, hopefully someone will turn him up.” He paused. “If he fails to appear, you’ll need something else, something important—in place of his testimony—to save you.” Renshaw would do. Hell, not only would finding Renshaw save him, Rutherford would probably earn a knighthood for capturing the traitor. All other sins would be forgiven.

  But the silence was icy now, stubborn. Rutherford had decided to keep what he knew to himself. The frill of irritation filled Adam again.

  “I’ll bid you good night, Captain. My wife is waiting for me, and I have to come up with a story about who I met out here, and why.”

  “Tell her it was someone who owes you a debt,” Rutherford said bitterly.

  “Which remains unpaid,” Adam replied. He turned and walked back through the dark garden.

  What was it about Renshaw House that bred treason and unspeakable secrets? Rutherford might not trust him, but he had faith in the captain. Rutherford was an honorable man.

  But did Sinjon Rutherford’s loyalty lie with the Crown or with the lovely Evelyn Renshaw?

  Chapter 17

  Evelyn should have worn yellow after all.

  Every eye in the room was fixed on her, and there wasn’t a single friendly face in sight, not one welcoming smile. In green, she stuck out like a moorhen among canaries.

  She raised her chin as her name was announced and the first shocked hush fell over the room. She read mockery, outrage, curiosity, and even amusement on the faces of Charlotte’s guests as they stared at her.

  Then came the indignant crack of fans snapping open, like the opening volley of a battle. She squeezed her own fan and walked forward.

  The buzz of whispered comments rose, as if a swarm of hornets had suddenly been unleashed around her.

  She looked for her sisters in the crowd, but they were of little comfort. Eloisa’s mouth hung open, and her eyes bulged in horror as she regarded Evelyn’s gown. Charlotte’s eyes were filled with the tears of that most pitiful of creatures, the hostess who realizes her ball will not be a success after all. Lucy, wearing a daringly low-cut yellow gown, was ignoring her, her gaze fixed on the gentleman by her side.

  Evelyn made her curtsy to her sister and brother-in-law. Somerson’s eyes roamed over her meager jewels, assessing the value. She held her smile. He’d find them lacking, given the tales of Philip’s vast fortune, but these were her own, and she was proud to wear them.

  “There was a wager as to whether you’d dare to come tonight,” her brother-in-law said.

  “Did you win, my lord?” Evelyn asked sweetly, bristling inside.

  His lips pinched. “Unfortunately not, but I’m sure your sisters are delighted you’re here.” He turned to Charlotte. “I think it’s time we started the dancing before the evening is a complete disaster.”

  Charlotte blinked at Evelyn, her eyes glistening. “Oh, if only you’d worn yellow!” she warbled as she followed her husband.

  The orchestra struck up the first notes, and most people turned away from Evelyn at last, focusing their attention on the dancers crowding the floor. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Good evening, Lady Evelyn.” She turned to find Lord Creighton by her side. He bowed gallantly. “May I look forward to the pleasure of dancing with you this evening?”

  Evelyn’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t planned to dance. It would make her even more the center of attention and speculation. If widows could not dance, surely a traitor’s wife should avoid the merry pursuit.

  But the whole object of coming was to show the world that she had nothing to be ashamed of. How better to accomplish that than to enjoy the ball to the fullest? At the very least, she could look like she was enjoying herself. What a canny actress she’d become.

  “I would be happy to dance, my lord,” she said to the major. It was kind of him to ask her, since no one else was likely to do so. “Perhaps the next set? My sisters are headed this way, and I assume they want a word with me.”

  “Of course,” he said with a toothy grin, and stepped out of the way as Eloisa and Lucy sailed toward her like attacking frigates. Eloisa’s dark expression was a declaration of impending hostilities, and Evelyn braced herself.

  “Oh, Evie, how could you? That dress is simply—” Her mouth worked, searching for the right word.

  “Too prim?” Lucy offered.

  “Too green!” Eloisa growled.

  “It does match my eyes better than yellow,” Evelyn said, noting the golden glaze of fury in her sister’s hazel eyes, but Eloisa was too incensed to notice the set-down, and it likewise soared over the yellow feathers that adorned Lucy’s empty head.

  “Was that Lord Creighton I saw you speaking with?” Lucy a
sked. “How I’d like to see what’s under that scarlet tunic of his! What lady could resist such a hero! They say he captured a dangerous spy in Spain, single-handed, and saved the lives of a thousand men!”

  Eloisa tsked. “Don’t change the subject, Lucy. We’re discussing the fact that Evie—our own sister—has come to the most important ball of the season practically dressed in rags.”

  Evelyn raised her chin. She remembered the look in Sam’s eyes as she’d descended the stairs. She wished he were here now, standing behind Eloisa, teasing her, taking the sting out of her sister’s comments, but Sam was outside where he belonged, waiting for her. That offered a little comfort.

  Eloisa took hold of one of her arms, Lucy the other. “Come to the ladies’ withdrawing room. I’ll find a yellow ribbon, or at least some gloves. It isn’t too late.”

  “I fear it is,” Evelyn said, disentangling herself with as much grace as possible. “Everyone has seen me by now. It would look most odd if I suddenly changed my clothes.”

  “It would look like you’ve come to your senses!” Eloisa pleaded. “It won’t do for you to stand here all night—standing out!”

  “You really do, Evie,” Lucy drawled. “Perhaps we could loosen your bodice a little, or plump up your bosoms to better advantage. If people want to stare, give them something to stare at, I always say.”

  “Evelyn!” Marianne pushed through the crowd to reach her, her warm smile like a lifeline.

  Evelyn’s own smile was genuine for the first time all evening.

  “How lovely you look tonight! That particular shade of green is so cool and refreshing,” Marianne said pointedly. She was wearing pale blue silk, with a magnificent necklace of diamonds, amethysts, and sapphires around her neck. She looked like a countess to be reckoned with.

  Evelyn noted that Eloisa and Lucy gaped at Marianne, but they didn’t dare say anything against her gown.

  “Hello, Eloisa, Lucy. How nice you both look as well,” Marianne said. “I hear each shade of yellow has a particular name this Season. What is the color of your gown called?”

  Eloisa preened. “My gloves and shoes are ‘caramel,’ and my gown is ‘almond.’ The ribbon at my bodice is ‘orgeat.’ ”

  Evelyn tilted her head. “Orgeat? Like the drink they serve at Almack’s?”

  “Just so,” Eloisa said stiffly.

  Marianne turned to Lucy. “And you, Countess Frayne? What do they call the color of your gown?”

  But Lucy was ogling the gentlemen on the dance floor, and Eloisa had to jab her with an elbow and repeat the question.

  “Oh. I believe it’s called ‘toasted crumpet,’ ” Lucy replied.

  Marianne’s porcelain complexion flushed with the effort of not laughing, and Evelyn hid her own smile behind her gloved palm.

  “Ooh, look! Here comes Lord Creighton again,” Lucy gushed, and tugged her bodice a half inch lower in preparation. The major, however, only had eyes for Evelyn.

  “I believe this is our dance,” he said, bowing politely and extending a hand to her.

  Evelyn hesitated a moment, then put her hand in his and let him lead her onto the dance floor. Odd, when Sam touched her, she felt breathless, dizzy. But with Lord Creighton she felt nothing. Actually, his touch made her want to pull away.

  “How was your visit to Lincolnshire, sir?” she asked politely as the music began and they moved down the line of couples.

  He frowned, and Evelyn glanced at him in concern, trying to concentrate on the steps.

  “Did you by chance forget something when you wrote your note, Lady Evelyn?”

  Evelyn stumbled, but his hand under her elbow instantly righted her. “What do you mean, sir?” she asked. Had she signed her name to the letter by mistake, or smudged the ink?

  He looked regretful. “There were no funds enclosed with your kind letter. The headmistress was quite baffled.”

  She stopped dancing. “But I remember putting—”

  He led her off the floor to a quiet corner. “I’m sure it was just an oversight. You have much on your mind of late. It’s of no matter. I gave the school a generous donation from my own purse. You may simply reimburse me at your convenience.”

  Evelyn blinked at him, but his smile was warm and sincere. “Thank you, my lord. I shall send someone ’round with the money tomorrow,” she said, and wondered what she could sell to make up the missing money. “May I ask how much I owe you?”

  His eyes slid away from hers, as if he were embarrassed to be speaking to a lady about anything so crass as money.

  “I gave the headmistress five hundred pounds.”

  Evelyn felt herself blanch. Lord Creighton put his hand on her arm again to steady her, and her skin crawled at his touch. She stepped back, pulled away, and his brows rose.

  “Was that not enough?”

  Evelyn’s heart pounded in her throat. “Yes, of course,” she murmured. She curtsied quickly, her knees shaking. “Will you excuse me, my lord? It has been many months since I’ve danced, and I’m afraid I’m out of practice.”

  She crossed the room toward Marianne, uncertain where else to go. She kept her pace slow, sedate, as if nothing in the world was wrong. Anyone who looked at her would think she was calm and unconcerned. How wrong they were!

  Marianne caught her arm as she reached her, her smile fading. “Evelyn, you are white as paper!” she said in concern. “Is something amiss?”

  Evelyn forced a bright smile as she shook her head. “I’m not used to dancing,” she said, repeating the excuse.

  Marianne held something up. “Someone handed me a note for you while you were out on the floor. Perhaps it’s another invitation to dance!”

  Evelyn stared at the unfamiliar scrawl. She recalled Eloisa’s plans to find her a lover. What if this note contained an invitation to a tryst? Her sisters were not subtle creatures, and when they did what they thought best for her, disaster was always the result.

  She blinked at her name, written brazenly across the face of the letter in violet ink.

  “You must tell me what it says, especially if it’s from a new admirer,” Marianne said. “It’s been quite an evening for notes and billet doux. Adam received one earlier.”

  Fear raised the hairs on the back of her neck and turned her knees to water.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Marianne asked.

  Evelyn swallowed. She was being silly. She took the letter from Marianne’s hand and opened it, scanning the single line that slanted across the page.

  How charming you look in green. With the compliments of P.R., Chevalier, comte d’Elenoire.

  Philip’s initials, his French title, earned through treachery. She looked around the room in a panic, searching every dark corner, every alcove. Philip wouldn’t dare to come here, of all places. But she held his note in her hand. The writing blurred before her eyes, became his familiar scrawl.

  Her skin crawled, as if his eyes were on her, his hands. As if he were standing beside her. It was merely a cruel trick, surely, but she felt dizzy, sick with fear.

  “Marianne, who gave this to you?”

  Marianne frowned. “One of Somerson’s servants. Why? What does it say?”

  But Evelyn crumpled the note in her hand. “Which man? Can you point him out?”

  Marianne looked around. “I don’t see him now. Perhaps he’s returned to the kitchen.”

  Images of the Frenchman in the park flashed through Evelyn’s mind.

  “There he is!” Marianne pointed to a liveried servant carrying a tray of champagne. “No, perhaps not. All Charlotte’s footmen look alike.”

  Evelyn felt her gorge rise. What if he was watching her now, the Frenchman, or Philip, waiting for her to panic?

  She would not give anyone that satisfaction.

  She looked around the room with a bright, mocking smile, letting her tormentors know they had failed. She turned to Marianne, who was still waiting for an explanation.

  “There’s a problem at home. My maid is
ill,” she said. “I shall have to leave at once.”

  She was afraid to go home, feared Philip was waiting for her.

  Sam was outside, also waiting. He’d keep her safe. Somehow she knew it as an unshakable truth. It gave her the courage to walk across the room with an insouciant smile on her face when she wanted to run.

  Outside, the cool night air touched her hot cheeks. Shadows loomed everywhere. She hesitated on the step, paralyzed.

  Someone stepped out of the dark and paused at the bottom of the steps, waiting for her, and her heart caught in her throat.

  Sam. The lean strength of his silhouette stood against the darkness and whatever lurked there.

  With a sob, Evelyn ran down the steps and tumbled into his arms.

  Chapter 18

  Sinjon opened his arms and caught her.

  She didn’t have her cloak, and her face was as pale as milk against the purple shadows.

  She cried out as he folded his arms around her, and he remembered d’Agramant’s wife making the same small noise as she crumpled in her husband’s embrace, her bravery gone as Creighton fled. Her blood and tears had soaked the front of his tunic, and her husband held her tight for a long moment before he lifted her face to his, examining her cuts and bruises, running gentle hands over each hurt she’d endured at Creighton’s hands.

  Shaken by the memory, Sinjon put a finger under Evelyn’s chin and gazed into her face, but her face was perfect, her only injuries the pain and fear in her eyes. He pulled her close again, cradling her against his chest, holding her safe, letting her cling to him.

  “I’m all right,” she murmured, just as d’Agramant’s wife had, but she didn’t move from the haven of his arms. He felt a shudder pass through her.

  “No, you’re not.”

  He looked around, searching for the danger she feared, but other than a few coachmen watching them with fascinated interest, there wasn’t anything to fear. His stomach clenched. Curious servants were danger enough. He imagined tomorrow’s gossip.

  He stepped back at once, ignoring her bereft little gasp as he took her arm and led her to the coach.