He didn’t look afraid in the least. In fact, he looked amused. “Who could blame him? You’re beautiful,” he quipped, insouciant in the face of danger.
“Not to Philip. I am a possession, property, nothing more.” She let him pull her back against his chest. “There was no love, no pleasure between us. If he comes back for me, it will be because he has no one and nothing else. He’ll want someone to punish for that. Lucy’s message was proof of that.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” he asked, his voice husky, his mouth trailing over her shoulder.
Was he daft? She shoved away from him. “What does it ‘mean’?” she demanded angrily. “He contacted Lucy as a warning to me. He knew she’d come to me. She’s afraid, and I cannot let him hurt her.”
His expression was almost stricken, and her fury soared higher. She didn’t want his pity. She held his eyes ferociously, refusing to give in to tears, or fear.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “So what did Philip leave with Lucy?” he asked.
She paced the small room. “I don’t know. The Frenchman thought I had some kind of French treasure. Perhaps he left it with Lucy instead.” Philip had not even left her a note of farewell.
“A treasure?” Sam prompted.
“There isn’t any treasure,” she said bitterly.
“But Philip Renshaw was—is—one of the richest men in England.”
“He took it with him, then,” she snapped. “He left nothing worth coming back for.”
He got off the bed and came toward her. “There’s you,” he said gallantly, and pulled her into his arms.
Her heart swelled and began to beat again. In the brief years of their marriage, Philip had never offered her a compliment of any kind. Nor had her father been a man of effusive praise. There were, of course, men who offered insincere platitudes to ladies like her at balls and parties. They didn’t mean a word of it. Sam did. She could see that in his eyes, feel it in the way he touched her.
Like a treasure.
“Do you want to end this?” he asked. “Would it be easier?”
She shut her eyes against the wave of desire that forced the air from her lungs. “No,” she whispered. “I want everything else to be over, but not this.”
“Then come back to bed.”
He stepped behind her, lifted her hair and kissed her neck, stripping away her robe entirely, letting it fall. He ran his tongue along her spine, leaving a wet tingle on her skin. Rage and fear melted like liquid honey.
“In the morning . . .” He dropped to his knee and kissed the smooth skin of her buttocks. “ . . . we will think of what to do.”
She turned in his arms. Still kneeling, he laid his head on her belly, and she stroked his hair. “You want to help me? A knight in shining armor?”
He looked up at her, his brow furrowing. “My armor is a little tarnished, I’m afraid, but I will do anything I can to help you.”
He had marvelous eyes. She felt like she could read him, detect truth or lies just by looking into their gray depths. Something in her chest softened, opened, and she sobbed. He got to his feet and picked her up, carrying her back to the bed. Their bed, their sanctuary.
He made love to her with slow, exquisite care. Fear ebbed, hope surged.
For the first time in her life she was not alone.
She had Sam.
Chapter 26
“Not that one,” Evelyn directed the next morning. “The one to the left. The blue book with the silver lettering.”
Sam was up on the library ladder, searching the top shelves, and she watched the flex and play of his muscles as he reached for the book she indicated. He was made to perfection, she decided, enjoying the view. She let her gaze roam over his firm buttocks—was it just last night that she’d caressed the naked flesh?
Her mouth watered as he pulled the book off the shelf, tucked it under his arm, and climbed down the ladder with lithe grace.
She didn’t take the book from him, but pointed to the table, and he set it down there. She stood across the polished surface from him, biting her lip. Could she really dare to do this? It meant trusting Sam, and hoping that her husband would not return and want this particular book. Judging by the richness of the painted illustrations, and the lavish embossing on the cover, it was probably the most costly book in Philip’s naughty little collection.
“What is it?” Sam asked, and she held her breath as he opened the cover, and waited for his reaction. Shock? Titillation? She watched as he turned a few pages, saw his fingers still when he reached the first illustration. He glanced up at her.
On the page, the lovers were entwined, and the man was about to enter his partner, rudely erect, ready to impale her. The lady’s eyes were closed, her expression languid with anticipation. Her hips were tilted to meet her lover’s first thrust, her sex on display. For the first time, Evelyn understood the passion the illustrations showed, knew the sense of expectation. Her body throbbed as she met Sinjon eyes.
He was regarding her curiously, waiting for an explanation. “It’s Philip’s,” she said, her voice husky. “Part of a private collection. Treason was just one of his wicked predilections.”
“Why are you showing me this?” he asked, his voice low, his tone suggesting he already had an idea why she’d asked him to fetch it from its hiding place.
Unfortunately, it was the wrong idea entirely. She swallowed. This was business, not play. “I need to sell it. I need a large sum of money, and I can hardly take such a thing to a dealer myself.”
His eyes widened. “You want me to do it?”
“Y-Yes. There are more as well. I thought someone with similar tastes to Philip’s might pay dearly for it.”
Sam looked around the library, scanning the shelves as if she’d told him there were bats hiding among the books, waiting to attack. He regarded her shrewdly. “How dearly?”
She raised her chin. “I need five hundred pounds.”
His eyebrows shot up at the enormity of the sum. “Why?”
It was an impertinent question from a servant, and she considered not replying, but this was no ordinary request, and Sam was no ordinary servant. She looked away, feeling her cheeks heat. “I owe a gentleman a sum of money. I asked him to deliver a letter for me. It appears the funds I enclosed with my note disappeared. Not knowing the amount, he overpaid on my behalf. I must now reimburse him for his troubles.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look surprised or amused. He looked angry. He leaned forward, his fists on either side of the book, as if he were fighting to control his rage. She gasped and stepped toward him. Did he imagine she meant to give him the book, or the money? Perhaps he thought it was payment for—now her whole body heated in mortification.
“I need to sell it, Sam,” she said sharply. “I hoped I could trust you with this. You said last night you would do anything to help. Will you help me with this? You could go today, to Ackerman’s perhaps, or one of the gentlemen’s clubs.”
He looked up at her, his expression dubious, and she felt her stomach tense in desperation.
“I cannot do this myself. Nor is there anyone else I can ask, for obvious reasons.”
He studied her face, and the anger in his face and body eased, like a tight rope suddenly released, though he was still frowning. “It will have to be wrapped.”
Relief flooded over her. “Best do it yourself. If Starling saw it—”
He looked down at the drawing again, and touched the painted face on the page. “She looks like you, just before you—”
She laid her hand over his, covering the lovers. “Stop. The time passes slowly enough without the torment of wanting you all day long.”
His gaze turned playful. He caressed her hand, lifted it, kissed her fingertips until she sighed. Then his grip tightened and he grinned. “Come behind the bookshelf,” he said, tugging her toward the back corner of the room where tall shelves made a secluded nook.
Evelyn didn’t need a second invitation.
She knew exactly what he meant to do, what he wanted. She wanted it as well, was breathless in anticipation. She crossed the library at an undignified run.
He pulled her against him as soon as they were behind the shelf, his mouth on hers, his hands everywhere at once, driving her mad. He tugged up her skirts and entered her in one smooth stroke as she leaned back against the shelf.
She tried to be silent as he thrust into her, but his name and unstoppable cries of delight burst from her.
Sin, and more sin, never enough. She wrapped her legs around his hips and urged him on, harder, faster, wanting instant pleasure, yet never wanting it to end.
Books shook themselves loose and fell around them like rain in the few delicious minutes it took to find their release. Her final cry echoed off the high ceiling as he drove into her one last time.
For a long moment neither of them moved, too overcome, too tangled in the disarray of their clothing.
Had she ever felt this good, this happy? “Oh,” she breathed, her body tingling, feeling as if the meaning of the universe had been revealed to her. He chuckled, withdrawing from her as he gently set her feet on the floor.
“Perhaps we should meet here tonight,” he muttered, kissing her neck.
“Anywhere,” she breathed.
She stepped away to straighten her skirts and run a shaking hand over her hair. He buttoned his flies and grinned at her. “Midnight?” he asked, and she kissed him by way of reply.
“My lady, are you in here?” They froze as Miss Trask’s reedy voice echoed over the shelves.
Evelyn shut her eyes. She had sent Charlotte’s watchdog to consult with Mrs. Cooper on the meals for the day so she could speak to Sam about the book. Miss Trask was obviously quick and efficient. Or suspicious.
Evelyn walked out from behind the shelf just as the woman was reaching for the book on the table, her eyes sharp. Evelyn quickly picked it up.
“Ah, Miss Trask. There you are at last,” she said, surprised her voice sounded almost normal, as if she hadn’t just been—
Miss Trask’s forehead wrinkled in confusion as Evelyn gave her a brilliant smile.
“Sam was helping me collect up some books,” she said. Surely Sam must be right behind her, since the woman was staring at something over Evelyn’s shoulder, her frown deepening.
Evelyn turned, holding her breath, but his wig was straight, his flies correctly fastened, and he was holding two other books in his hands, as if he had indeed been assisting her with nothing more exciting than selecting a few dusty books.
She felt another blush race up from her toes as she added the blue book to the top of the pile, her eyes meeting his.
Her co-conspirator. Her lover.
She suppressed the sigh that threatened to bubble out of her.
“Be sure to wrap them properly and deliver them right away,” she ordered. “That will be all.”
He bowed, his expression flat, bored, and perfectly correct. She watched him walk away, and felt a warm trickle caress the inside of her thigh. She glanced at the clock.
How many hours until midnight?
Chapter 27
Sinjon dropped the books on Westlake’s desk. “I need five hundred pounds.”
The earl looked at the titles. “ ‘Mrs. Elgin’s Book of Mutton Pies . . . A Treatise on Ethics and Moral Behavior for Well Bred English Ladies,’ ” he muttered.
The third book had no title, and Sinjon watched the earl open the blue cover. His brows rose. He shut the book at once and laid it beside the others. “I trust there’s an explanation?”
Sinjon could have sworn the man was blushing. “I wish to sell that book,” he pointed at it, “for five hundred pounds.”
“Where on earth did you get it?” Westlake asked.
“From Evelyn Renshaw’s library.”
“The quietest ladies keep the deepest secrets. It’s hard to judge a book by the cover, as they say. Why do you think I can help you with such a thing?”
Sinjon tilted his head. “You seem to have your finger in more than one mutton pie, my lord.”
Westlake smiled, looking pleased at the description. “Yes, but why do you need such a huge sum of money? Do you need to bribe someone? Philip Renshaw, perhaps?”
“Creighton,” Sinjon admitted through clenched teeth. Westlake didn’t even twitch.
“Have you decided to pay him to tell you where O’Neill is?”
“If he knew, then O’Neill would be dead,” Sinjon said. “It’s another matter.”
“Something to do with Countess Frayne, perhaps? I understand she paid her sister a visit the other day.”
“Your wife told you,” Sinjon said. “Some ladies keep no secrets at all, it seems.” Did no one respect Evelyn’s privacy? His own guilt made him shift in his chair.
“Marianne has a keen ear for intriguing morsels of gossip. Apparently Lucy has dealings with Philip, and is holding something she wishes to return to him,” Westlake said.
“I believe I mentioned she had an affair with him.”
Westlake smirked. “Who hasn’t slept with Lucy? Aside from the two of us, of course, and I am merely guessing you haven’t had that dubious pleasure. Still, it is most intriguing that she has something that belongs to her sister’s husband. Do you suppose it’s a keepsake, a billet doux? A French battle flag, perhaps?”
Sinjon pictured Lucy wrapped in the sacred Gonfalon of Charlemagne, wearing nothing but a sultry smile, and he remembered her in Evelyn’s salon, frightened. His conscience prodded him again.
“She didn’t say what she had,” Sinjon said. “Now about the money—”
“What would a man like Philip leave with his sister-in-law?” Westlake mused. “I’ve discovered that if a woman has a secret, it is almost impossible to get her to reveal it unless she wishes to, and in that case the whole world knows.”
Was that a hint—or a threat—that Westlake’s wife was a spy? Perhaps he’d sent her to keep an eye on him while he watched Evelyn.
“Have you had success coaxing information out of ladies in the past?” Sinjon asked.
“In part,” Westlake said cryptically. “As I said, some ladies do not give up their secrets easily. I’m sure you’ve discovered that yourself. What man hasn’t, and what man would want a lady without a touch of mystery to her? I do understand how the process works. Every woman wants something. Have you discovered yet what Evelyn wants?”
Him.
Sinjon kept his expression carefully blank, tried to think of anything but Evelyn in bed, the soft sounds she made as he made love to her, the way she’d looked this morning in the library as he—
“Evelyn plays her cards close to her chest, doesn’t she?” Westlake said. “It might be simpler to find out what Countess Lucy has. Finding Philip and the gonfalon has become quite urgent. Napoleon’s invasion of Russia is going badly. Our sources say he blames Philip. He has sent more spies to look for the flag, and Renshaw.” He leaned across the desk. “If Lucy or Evelyn have the gonfalon, they are in a great deal of danger. If Philip has the flag, he could buy half of France by selling it back to Napoleon. We need to know.”
Sinjon recalled the panic on Evelyn’s face the first morning he’d met her in the park, the ferocity in the Frenchman’s eyes as he twisted her arm, taking pleasure in her pain. He swallowed. “And you suspect that’s why he contacted Lucy?” Guilt twisted in his gut. His little joke was like quicksand, ready to swallow the unwary who walked into this game.
“I find it odd he would contact her if his wife had the gonfalon, yes. Not to be unkind, but Lucy Frayne is hardly the kind of lady a man returns to. But Evelyn . . .” He let the rest of the question stand in his eyes.
He wanted to know if Evelyn had heard from her husband. Sinjon hesitated. He had not actually seen the note she received at the ball, and Evelyn had said it was not in Philip’s hand. It simply complimented her gown and was signed with his name. He’d decided it was just a cruel joke, like the one he’d played on Lucy. But what
if he was wrong? He was quickly learning that jokes had ways of twisting themselves into trouble.
“What if Renshaw does come home?” he asked.
“Then you’d better have a pistol handy. But don’t kill him. Just shoot him in the leg, so he can’t get away.” Westlake leaned across the desk. “Has she seen him, heard from him?”
“She told Lucy she hasn’t. I’ve searched the house, watched Evelyn closely, and I’ve found no evidence that she’s heard from Philip, or is doing anything treasonous.”
Her only secret was him, wasn’t it? He hadn’t actually seen the note she received at the ball, and her answers to his questions about her husband last night had been unenlightening.
“And her involvement with Creighton?” Westlake asked.
“He’s trying to cheat her out of her husband’s fortune.”
The earl’s eyebrows headed for his hairline. “Have you proof of this?”
Sinjon felt heat rise under his collar. “Do you imagine I would make up something like this to be rid of the man?” He should have kept Evelyn’s letter to the charity, and the envelope addressed to Creighton, brought it to Westlake at once. Instead, he’d taken the money out, hidden it in the library, waiting to see where it might lead. Had it been another mistake? He wanted proof that Creighton was stealing from Evelyn, cheating her as he’d cheated so many others. Or did he just want evidence that Evelyn was innocent? It was a dangerous path, paved with suppositions and false assumptions.
And just what would the spymaster do with the information? Would Evelyn be arrested, questioned, tortured?
“He does have the power to see you hanged, and if he were dead—”
“I want him to die for the sins he’s actually committed, Westlake, not a lie.”
“Of course. This is a matter of honor for you, isn’t it? Revenge isn’t enough. You must be exonerated as well.”
Sinjon held the earl’s gaze. Evelyn’s future had become as important as his own to him. He couldn’t allow Creighton to get away with either sin.
“You’re distracted, Captain. You have come to further your cause against Creighton, even demanding money to do so, but you were sent to Renshaw House to find the gonfalon, and evidence against Evelyn Renshaw.”
The Price of Temptation Page 17