“It’s late, Starling. We’ll talk in the morning. Lock up and go to bed,” she said instead. He bowed and watched her climb the stairs. She heard the bolt on the front door slide home. The sound of safety.
Starling didn’t comment on the cuts and bruises on her face. In fact, he’d been careful not to notice them at all. Evelyn entered her room and looked in the mirror. Was that how it would be from now on? She would simply continue on, a notorious widow in an empty house, her staff polite and protective, never mentioning Philip or treason again. She shut her eyes and turned away from the glass.
Evelyn undressed slowly, crawled into bed and blew out the candle. She could see Sinjon’s face in the curling smoke. She reached out a hand across the cold linen of the sheets, and considered going to sleep in the other room. Their room.
But that was over.
Chapter 54
Evelyn paced Marianne’s sitting room as she waited for Sinjon to appear. She wore a demure gown of plain blue and a veil to hide the marks on her face. She had considered wearing black, but she could not mourn Philip. She supposed once it was known that he was dead, she might be expected to wear black then. How hypocritical that would be, considering how he died. She fidgeted with the satin strings of her reticule and hoped she would be gone from London by then and no one would see or care what she wore.
Sinjon entered at last. He was elegantly dressed, every inch a gentleman, but he moved stiffly, and she winced, picturing his body bandaged and scarred under his fine clothes.
Because of her.
He’d rescued her again, and had nearly been killed doing it. It was the last time. Today they would say civil good-byes and go back to separate, ordinary lives.
He sat down across from her and smiled, and she wondered if there was anything ordinary about him at all.
“I have had another letter from Creighton,” she said. “It was waiting for me when I got home. Marielle told me the truth, Sinjon.”
He didn’t reply, just looked at her as if he were drinking her in. Butterflies flitted across her ragged nerves. “Are you well?” he asked, ignoring her comment. “You’ve had quite an ordeal.”
“I’d be better if I knew what to do about Lord Creighton. Can I have him arrested?” she demanded.
Adam Westlake entered the room. “On what charge?” he asked.
“For attempted rape. For false accusation. For—” She shut her mouth with a snap. Creighton hadn’t done any of those things to her.
“You owe him money, Evelyn. If you make accusations against him, it will look as if you’re trying to get out of paying the debt,” Adam said.
“Without proof, he’d smile that charming smile, laugh disarmingly, and everyone would believe him,” Sinjon added, his mouth twisting in disgust.
“I can’t just pay him!” Evelyn said.
“You can’t do anything else,” Adam said calmly. His eyes roved over her face, taking stock of her injuries. “Shall I order tea?” he asked.
She didn’t want tea, or pity. She leapt to her feet, began to pace. “But you could have him arrested, couldn’t you?” she asked Sinjon.
“I have a price on my head, Evelyn. If I walked in to Horse Guards now, they’d hang me on sight. Creighton has spread his poison well.”
“But you have O’Neill’s letter!”
“It still may not be enough.”
“We need O’Neill in person,” Adam explained, “and he refuses to return to England until he can be sure we can keep him safe.”
“Perhaps I can accuse Creighton of fraud,” Evelyn suggested. “I only meant to enclose a hundred pounds with the letter I gave him, and he had the gall to spend five hundred in my name.”
Sinjon smiled grimly. “You didn’t forget to include the money, and Creighton didn’t pay anyone a single farthing. I doubt he’s ever even been to Lincolnshire.”
She blinked at him. “How could you know that?”
“I saw your letter, knew he was meant to carry it for you. I opened it. I had my suspicions that he would keep the money for himself rather than delivering it as you wished, so I took it out and waited to see what would happen.”
“Servants are fired for stealing!” she blurted.
Sinjon laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“I didn’t actually steal it. I left it in a book in your library. I did take it later, but only to buy back the gonfalon from the Foundling Hospital.”
“Creighton will receive his money today, Evelyn. Five hundred pounds, paid in your name,” Adam said.
She stared at him. “Did you buy the book, Lord Westlake?” she asked. He turned pale, then purple.
“I most assuredly did not, my lady. I paid the sum as part of an investment. I wish to see justice done, and fully expect to be reimbursed.”
“Thank you, but I can’t afford to repay you,” she said. “Once the Crown knows Philip is dead, they’ll take everything. I will not ask my sisters for money to live on or to pay a man like Creighton.” An idea struck her. She turned to Sinjon. “Challenge him to a duel!”
He raised a lazy eyebrow, and glanced at Westlake, who looked irritatingly amused at the suggestion. “I am in no condition to fight anyone right now, Evelyn.”
“Nor is dueling legal,” Adam put in.
“I have a better idea, something that will hurt Creighton even more than a sword thrust,” Sinjon said. Evelyn swallowed, and he winced, realizing what he’d said.
“So what will you do?” She subsided back onto the settee. He sat beside her, taking her hand in his. She savored that little touch, memorized it, storing it away like a squirrel for the cold, loveless months ahead.
“I can’t do anything, Evelyn, but you can. If Creighton sees me, he’ll shoot me on sight, or have me arrested and hanged before I can say a word in my own defense. He isn’t safe while I’m alive. He needs me dead.”
Fear prickled along her spine. She’d danced with Creighton, trusted him, liked him. She remembered Marielle’s face as she told the story of her encounter with him in Spain. The Frenchwoman still bore a small silver scar on her cheek that would remind her of Creighton every time she looked in the mirror.
“What can I do?” Evelyn asked. “I’ll do anything.”
Sinjon looked at her with that slow seductive smile that turned her heart inside out and made her feel like the most beautiful, desirable woman on earth.
“Do you remember how I taught you to play cards?” he asked.
She blushed, and nodded. “Every detail.” She looked at him, breathless, and saw the answering heat in his eyes.
“We’ll host a card party, here, Thursday evening. Creighton will be on the guest list,” Adam was saying, but she was barely listening. She was fighting the desire to throw herself into Sinjon’s arms. She stared at his mouth, wanting a kiss.
“Evelyn?” he asked, his lips moving, his voice husky, plucking her nerves, rubbing over her desire.
“Yes?”
“Do you still remember how to cheat?”
Chapter 55
The Westlake invitation to an evening of cards came as a very pleasant surprise.
Creighton hadn’t even had time to make arrangements to cash Evelyn’s recently arrived draft, or to decide how to spend it, when his aunt’s sour-faced butler brought him the earl’s gilt-edged card. He briefly regretted that there wasn’t even a salver under the envelope, since he’d already pawned it, and such a precious, golden invitation deserved a silver tray.
He might have gone to Crockford’s, or possibly White’s, to wager the five hundred pounds, but there were many men in those establishments who refused to gamble with him, since he had not paid off his losses in some weeks. He could probably paper the walls of this town house with the number of vowels he’d written lately.
A lower class of gaming hell was a possibility, but a house party, especially one held by the esteemed and fabulously wealthy Earl and Countess of Westlake, was a magnificent opportunity. There w
ould be ladies in attendance, ready to be fleeced of their quarterly allowance, ladies who could be flirted with until they were too bemused to notice he was cheating.
And the kind of gentlemen who gambled at house parties were not the deep, knowledgeable players one found in the gaming hells. They were rich snobs who thought themselves morally superior to men like him. None of them knew the intricacies of gambling or cheating the way he did, and none of these lords would go hungry for the loss of a few thousand pounds.
Creighton looked at the draft again, and his mouth watered. It was only five hundred pounds. It would scarcely cover a tenth of his debts. But if he wagered it and won, he could see to his expenses for the whole of the next year.
“Here,” he said, scrawling a note and handing it to the waiting butler. “Send my acceptance to Countess Westlake at once.”
Sinjon stood in a curtained alcove of Westlake’s salon and watched the guests arrive. The room was set up with a dozen tables for whist, faro, vingt-et-un, piquet, and loo. It was a veritable banquet for a hardened gambler like Creighton. Everything he could want was laid out for him—rich widows, young lords flush with cash, ladies sagging under the weight of their jewels.
Footmen circled among the players offering champagne to refresh them. At midnight a light supper would be served, and the games would continue, if necessary, until dawn. Sinjon hoped it would be over long before then.
Evelyn knew her role, but Sinjon’s hands sweated. He shifted in his seat impatiently. Westlake didn’t expect trouble or need him here but knew he would want to watch. He had strict instructions not to react, no matter what happened, even if Evelyn lost.
He watched Creighton arrive, making a grand entrance in a scarlet uniform adorned with expensive gold braid. The ladies cast admiring glances at him, and he charmed them with a toothy smile and tossed out compliments that made each lady blush with delight.
The major turned as Evelyn entered. She was dressed in her green silk gown, but tonight was adorned with enough pearls and emeralds to tempt any gambler. Her eyes sparkled, darted around the room, but Sinjon noted the way the pulse at her throat hammered against the jewels like a caged bird as she turned her smile on Creighton, a dove dazzling a wolf.
Sinjon clenched his fists as Creighton took her hand, turned it and kissed the flesh above her glove intimately, as if he had the right to do so.
Evelyn plucked her hand out of his and said something witty, her eyes flashing, and Creighton laughed. Sinjon bristled as he watched the man’s gaze ooze over her body, coming to rest on the emerald that nestled between her breasts.
He recalled the terror in Marielle d’Agramant’s eyes as Creighton pawed her body and tore her gown, and he wiped away a bead of sweat. There was no fear in Evelyn’s eyes as she flirted outrageously, sending Creighton a smoldering glance, the exact look that always turned him hard as stone. She simpered, and laid her hand on the major’s sleeve, let him escort her to a table.
It was exactly what she was supposed to do, but his stomach was tight with nerves. He’d never been jealous, but the desire to punch Creighton for the sin of merely touching Evelyn’s hand was almost overwhelming. He paced in the tight confines of his hiding place.
He looked again, unable to keep his eyes off Evelyn. Creighton was staring at her, his eyes glazed with lust, and pride warred with fury in Sinjon’s breast. Good girl—she had him. She’d charmed Creighton, made him dizzy, distracted him. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the cards, not with her seated across from him.
At least he hoped so.
Or was it simply her jewels that fascinated Creighton? Was he calculating their worth, planning how best to cheat her out them? The man was a master at this game, and Evelyn had learned to play for mere kisses.
“Good evening, Rutherford,” Westlake said, invading his hiding space for a moment. “We’re ready to begin. Can we count on Evelyn to win?”
She laughed at something Creighton said. “The game has already begun,” Sinjon murmured.
“He’s a wily opponent, used to besting hardened gamblers. Did you not say he has a habit of killing the men he owes money to? A man as ruthless as that isn’t going to politely let a woman win, no matter how charming she is.” He stepped in front of Sinjon, blocking his view of Evelyn. “Whatever happens tonight, Rutherford, the lady is not yet free of the taint of scandal, nor are you. I’ll remind you again that you must allow the events of this evening to unfold without interference.”
“You expect me to allow Creighton to walk out of here free and rich if Evelyn loses?”
Westlake’s expression was as hard and unfeeling as marble. “A good rat catcher knows many ways to catch a rat. We may have to wait for O’Neill’s return.”
Sinjon felt frustration bite at him, pent up and caged too long.
Westlake stepped away to peer out at the room. “Ah, they’ve taken their places, I see. I trust Evelyn plays vingt-et-un?”
Sinjon’s heart skipped in his chest. Vignt-et-un was the one game he hadn’t taught her. Faro was Creighton’s preferred game. He had taught Evelyn everything about faro—how to win, how to cheat, how to bid to draw Creighton into the kind of deep play that made a gambler overeager and careless.
He watched a nervous blush rise over Evelyn’s cheeks as she took her seat, and his stomach sank to his boots. What disturbed him most was the look on Creighton’s face. He smiled at her, the all-too-familiar wolf’s grin he had seen him give other players in other places when Creighton knew he couldn’t lose.
He was going to cheat. That was a truth that could not be avoided. But could Evelyn beat the bastard at his own game? Cards riffled and the deal was made. It was up to luck now.
And Evelyn.
Evelyn felt butterflies cascading through her stomach in anxious loops as the next hand was dealt. She was losing.
Creighton’s smile had grown progressively wider as his winnings grew. Lady Wilburn desperately tossed her earrings, heirloom diamonds, into the center of the table. Viscount Stanford added a ruby ring. Mr. Ellerby scrawled a hasty vowel on a scrap of paper and set it atop the glittering pile.
Now it was her turn to wager. Creighton smiled at her expectantly, a cat hoping his prey would try to squirm out from under his paw.
“I notice you are not wearing your wedding ring, Lady Evelyn,” he said lightly. The others at the table gasped and sat forward, intrigued.
Evelyn forced herself to smile, but she did not reply. Instead she slid the gold bracelet from her arm and watched it sparkle on the top of the heap.
Creighton was cheating. She was sure of it but she could not quite see how. He’d been a perfect gentleman all evening, making elderly Mrs. Ellersby blush under his compliments and sending the young viscount into fits of laughter at his jokes. He was exceptionally talented, incredibly wily, and Evelyn could see why others had been gulled by him. Men like Patrick O’Neill, who had trusted Creighton with their lives. Women like Marielle d’Agramant, who thought the dazzling uniform meant the man inside was honorable.
She focused on her cards, felt anger make her sweat. The hand went around, and he won again. He won the next hand as well, taking Lady Wilburn’s tiara and another vowel from Mr. Ellersby.
“Champagne!” Creighton called, snapping his fingers, and a footman came over with a tray. Everyone took a glass, and Evelyn watched Creighton. He slipped a pair of cards off the table, dropping them into his pocket, unobserved by anyone but her. He met her eyes, and she forced herself to smile sweetly.
Lady Wilburn dropped out after the next hand, stripped of her jewelry, and Viscount Stanford lost his allowance for the year and left the table to commiserate with other gentlemen who found themselves with lighter purses.
“Well, my lady?” Creighton asked. “Would you like to continue to play? You still have your necklace.”
“A family heirloom,” Evelyn simpered. “Would you let me win just once?”
His smile was broad, his eyes hard. “You may wager other
things, my lady. I will take your vowel, for example.”
“Indeed? How kind of you.”
He leaned closer. “Or you wager yourself, and agree to become my mistress if I win.”
His smile wasn’t charming now. It was a ruthless leer. She tilted her head, hiding her anger behind a teasing smile, but that gambit only made him bolder.
He reached out and traced the pearls, following them down to the emerald between her breasts, grazing her skin. “When I win, I will allow you to keep your necklace. Will you make the wager?”
Evelyn gritted her teeth and forced herself not to flinch at his touch. “For such high stakes, my lord, I must insist on a new deck of cards.”
She watched the smugness in his eyes falter slightly, and he hesitated a moment before he waved a footman over and made the request.
Lord Westlake brought the new deck himself. He sat down to watch the game, his expression bland.
Evelyn won the hand. She took back Lady Wilburn’s jewelry. Creighton’s face reddened, but he smiled graciously enough and dealt again.
His hands shook. “I believe you dropped a card, my lord,” Evelyn said sweetly.
Around Creighton, the crowd murmured. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he mopped them away with his handkerchief and hid an ace in the linen folds.
“What will you wager now, my lord?” she asked.
He tried another cheat. “We are still playing for your favors, my lady. If I win this hand, the game ends, and you become my mistress.”
Her stomach quaked. Never. “And if I win?”
“I will marry you, if you wish.”
She smiled at him, genuinely amused by his gall, barely resisting the urge to laugh.
“My husband may object to that arrangement,” she bluffed. “But I have something else to wager, my lord.” She took O’Neill’s letter out of her reticule. Westlake stiffened almost imperceptibly, then frowned. Creighton smiled indulgently as he took the letter, scanned it.
He turned ashen and the grin slid off his face. “Where the devil did you get this?”
The Price of Temptation Page 29