The Price of Temptation (20 page)
E
velyn tried not to look at Sam as he held the door of the coach for her, but she was aware of his eyes on her, and it made her melt with desire. She could smell the fine wool of his livery, and she longed to bury her nose in his shoulder, to smell his skin, feel his arms around her. If she looked at him now, she’d be lost.
The touch of their gloved hands was proper and impersonal, an ordinary exchange between a footman and lady, but even that slight contact made her breathless. She couldn’t help but glance up at him, wanting to see the desire in his eyes, but except for the slightly suggestive lift of one eyebrow, it was as if there was no such thing as Evelyn and Sam.
She felt the cold steel of disappointment, let it give her the strength to let go of his hand and climb into the coach.
Evelyn felt the vehicle tilt as he climbed onto the back, just the way the bed shifted as he joined her there, or rose to leave her in the pale light of dawn.
A gasp of longing caught in her throat. Could she ever have enough of him? She hesitated a moment before knocking on the roof, half considering inviting Sam to ride inside where she could touch him. But their intimacy belonged in the dark, behind locked doors, secret and forbidden.
She signaled the coachman, and the vehicle jerked forward.
She looked at the bundle of linens, shirts, and cast-off gowns that Sal and Mary had helped her sort. She had picked the monograms out of the cuffs of Philip’s shirts herself, taking wicked pleasure in every stitch she unraveled, knowing that a poor man or even a beggar might wear her husband’s expensive shirts. How Philip would hate that. She wished she could snip away the threads that tied her to Philip as easily, undo her marriage as if it had never been.
A quiet fantasy had filled her mind of late, a dream of a cottage by the sea with a little plot of land, or a thatched house by a rushing stream in a country village. She’d live the rest of her life there with Sam, a peaceful, simple existence. As long as she had him in her bed at night and at her side during the day, she would be happy.
She looked at the heavy gold wedding band on her left hand, Philip’s brand upon her, the shackle that bound them together. Taking it off, she let the sun glint through it, was surprised at how light and free she felt without it.
She pushed it into her pocket instead of replacing it on her finger.
S
injon handed Evelyn out of the coach at the Foundling Hospital, trying not to notice how she caught her lip between her teeth when he touched her, how his body responded.
A short, ruffled gentleman raced down the steps to meet the coach, pulling on his russet coat and babbling his delight at Evelyn’s visit. Children stared at them from the windows of the brick building, wide-eyed and white-faced.
Sinjon wished he had a pocket full of coins or sweets to share with them. He grinned at them, and they scattered like leaves in the wind.
He took the heavy bundle out of the coach.
“How generous, Lady Evelyn!” the russet gnome gushed. He glanced at Sinjon and pointed. “Take it ’round the side, if you please.” He offered his arm and led Evelyn up the steps to the front door.
Sinjon carried Evelyn’s donation around to a door that stood open to catch the breeze.
Inside, a girl was sweeping the floor. She looked at him and his burden without much interest and set the broom aside.
“This way,” she said dully, as if she fully expected the parcel to contain what it did, shirts and old linens, when she wanted sweets and lace gowns.
He followed her down the ill-lit passageway, listening to the sounds of children’s voices and shuffling footsteps. There was no laughter or singing. This place was childhood’s antithesis, despite the fact that the children were fed, dressed, and housed. He supposed there was some comfort in that, but he remembered his own boyhood, spent outdoors, fishing or swimming or running through the woods on late spring days like this one, and he regretted that these children would never know that freedom.
“In here,” the girl said, and swept back a curtain for him, exposing the shelves and baskets of a small storage room. The tattered threads of the concealing drapery dragged over his cheek as he passed through and caught on the wool of his coat, begging for notice. Was everything in this place so needy?
He glanced up impatiently and saw the shimmer of old silk, faded and fraying at the edges. It was a fancy curtain for such a place. He wondered what service it had seen before it was forced to give way to modern times and new styles, and ended up here.
Most
ton
matrons redecorated annually if the budget allowed, or every other year if it did not. It was an unwritten but strictly held female law that a lady’s drawing room curtains must be every bit
au
courant
as her gowns, and she would certainly not be seen in the same dress more than twice.
The girl opened the bundle with work-reddened hands and began sorting the contents. The white linen was stark in the gray shadows of the little storeroom. Sinjon stood where he was in the doorway.
He glanced again at the curtain, noting the careful embroidery upon it and the once colorful fringe. Wrinkles and small handprints marked the places where it had recently seen service as a handkerchief or a napkin. There were letters stitched on it in gold thread, and he ran his finger over them.
His gut clenched.
He’d seen this curtain before. He unfastened it, let it fall, and stepped back to look at it.
“Hey!” the girl croaked, left in the dark.
Sinjon barely heard her.
An army of avenging angels and ivory doves flew above a fierce knight in shining silver armor. His sword was raised high over his head, radiating the embroidered Latin words Purity, Courage, and Victory.
Sinjon swallowed, his knees weakening. He’d seen this flag before, met this knight, faced him across the field of battle. In his mind he heard the sound of drumbeats, felt the bone deep thunder of enemy troops approaching. The deafening crash of musket and artillery fire mingled with the screams of the dying.
He licked his teeth, expecting to taste the acrid dust of a Spanish battlefield, but this was London, not Spain. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, but it was true.
He was staring at the Gonfalon of Charlemagne.
“L
ady Evelyn!” a familiar voice called as Evelyn finished her visit. She turned and saw Anne O’Neill hurrying toward her.
“Miss O’Neill, how lovely to see you.”
“I was delivering some sewing for the littlest ones,” Anne said, pointing to the empty basket on her arm. She looked careworn and tired.
“Have you had news of your brother?” Evelyn asked, concerned.
Anne’s face crumpled. “No, not a word, but I’ve had other news that has distressed me greatly.”
Evelyn took her arm. “Come, let me take you home in my carriage. You can tell me what’s happened.” She led the way to the coach, and Sam opened the door and handed both ladies in, then closed it behind them.
Evelyn watched him walk toward the back of the vehicle. “My footman was a soldier like your brother. He said that some men take longer to come home because they are afraid we will be shocked by the changes in them.”
Anne blinked back tears. “It’s not that. I know Patrick was wounded. Major Lord Creighton told me he was, and I am prepared for scars. But the major came to see me again yesterday.”
Evelyn took her friend’s hand. “Is there bad news?”
“There’s someone else looking for Patrick, someone the major fears means him harm,” Anne said in a fear-pinched whisper. “The man is a traitor, and Patrick can give testimony against him. He wants Patrick dead to save his own life. The major warned me I must take every precaution if the man comes to see me. He believes he will try to force me to tell him where Patrick is. Lord Creighton offered to fetch Patrick, to keep him safe until this wicked traitor can be apprehended.” She dissolved into fresh tears. “But I truly don’t know where he is!”
Evelyn pressed a handkerchief into Anne’s hand.
“The major told me to try and think of where Patrick might go, a friend he might visit, but I cannot think of anything at all. I am overcome with worry, both for my brother and now for myself.”
“Surely the authorities are looking for this man,” Evelyn said. The hunt for traitors was becoming a national pastime. Just how many men like Philip were lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out at ladies like Anne, or Lucy, or herself? She shivered. “
Has
he tried to contact you?”
Anne shook her head. “No, but I live in terror for my life. Major Creighton told me this soldier was caught selling secrets to the French, the kind of secrets that might have gotten thousands of men killed if Patrick—and Major Creighton—had not put a stop to his treachery. He ravished a woman, and killed a patrol of a dozen men to try to cover his crime!” She shuddered, and twisted the handkerchief in her gloved hands. “He was the one who wounded Patrick, tried to kill him.”
Evelyn’s skin crawled. “Have you male servants to watch over you?” she asked.
“Major Lord Creighton left a man with me.” Anne’s voice quavered. “I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but Mr. Bassett scares me almost as badly as the traitorous officer.”
Evelyn understood too well how Anne felt. She dreaded Philip’s return, but Sam gave her the courage to face whatever might come.
“I’m sure Mr. Bassett means you no harm, Anne. Major Creighton would never allow that.”
They reached Anne’s modest home and pulled up to the curb.
“Anne, what is the name of the man Lord Creighton warned you about?”
“Captain Sinjon Rutherford,” Anne said, shuddering. “I shall pray that he never comes your way, Lady Evelyn.”
The door opened and Sam handed her guest out of the coach. Evelyn watched her hurry up the steps to her door, glancing anxiously over her shoulder.
She sent up a prayer for her friend’s safety, and thanked heaven again for Sam.
H
e’d found the legendary Gonfalon of Charlemagne.
He’d touched it, held it in his hand. Sinjon stared at the back of the coach as they drove through the streets of London, but he saw nothing but the gonfalon in his fevered brain. Evelyn must have unwittingly donated it to the Foundling Hospital, probably months ago.
He’d return tomorrow, on his half day, and buy it back.
And then what?
He had Westlake’s price in his hands. He was free.
He helped Evelyn’s friend out of the coach and bowed distractedly. Evelyn smiled at him, and his heart turned over.
He could walk away from her now, this very moment.
Instead, he climbed back onto his perch and the coach lurched forward.
Salvation could not have come at a less welcome moment.
H
e kept her waiting for half an hour, and then he arrived in the bedroom with a deck of playing cards in his hands.
Evelyn held out her arms, but he gave her a devil’s grin and stayed where he was, standing beside the bed.
“Let’s play cards.”
She leveled her best lady-of-the-manor look at him. “I don’t wish to play cards, Sam. I want—” He laid a finger over her lips and sent her a smoldering look that trumped hers.
“You’ll have to win what you want,” he whispered, holding up the Queen and Knave of Hearts.
“I don’t play cards.”
He tilted his head and smiled, and her heart tripped on the rush of desire that raced through her. “Not even whist? Every lady plays whist.”
He was just out of easy reach, and she was certainly not going to wrestle him into bed. She raised her chin. “Fine. I’ll admit I’ve played whist. Is that what you wish to do?” She made a great show of searching the shadows. “Of course, we’ll need two more players. Shall we wake Starling and Mrs. Cooper and ask them to join us?” She ran a fingertip over her naked shoulder. “Of course, they may be somewhat abashed by the dress required for the game.”
He ignored her jest, probably because
he
was still fully clothed, though his shirt was open at the collar, revealing a vee of skin that made her mouth water. She was stark naked under the sheet. Was he even aware of that? She let the cover drop, exposing one breast.
She watched his eyes fall on her, feast, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. A thrill coursed through her veins. A few short weeks ago she wouldn’t have dared such a bawdy trick. How expert she was becoming at seduction. She arched her shoulders, offering herself to him. His breathing grew ragged and his hands tightened on the cards. They began to bend under the strain. In a moment, she thought, they’d flutter to the floor, forgotten.
But he shut his eyes and his grip relaxed. She felt a fizzle of disappointment, both in him and her fledgling wiles.
“Are you any good?” he asked. “At whist, I mean.”
His voice was husky, thick with desire, and he avoided looking at her. She smiled. Refusing to be tempted, was he? She took it as a challenge, and let the sheet fall away from her other breast and pool at her hips. She raised her arms above her head, lifted the thick silk of her hair and let it fall. He stifled a groan.
“I’ve only ever played for pennies,” she said, picking up a lock of hair, trailing the end of it over her collarbone and down the slope of her breast, teasing them both. “But I won almost three pounds in an afternoon once.”
He was looking at her now, and he was sweating, his eyes dark with need.
“Come here,” she said. “And I’ll give you the whole sum.”
He didn’t need a second invitation. With a groan, he knelt on the bed, pulled her close and kissed her, his tongue finding hers. She gasped as he filled his hands with her lovely breasts, caressed them until the nipples peaked. That was much better. She sighed and began to undo the buttons of his shirt, wanting him naked.
“Evelyn,” he said against her neck, a mild warning, but she ignored it and tilted her head to give him better access. She slid her hand into his open shirt, caressing the hard planes of his chest. His heart was pounding under her palm, and she felt a thrill that she could excite this man, drive him as wild as he drove her. She reached for the top button of his flies, but he caught her hand before she could open it, stopping her busy fingers,
“Evelyn,” he murmured again, and pulled back.
“Yes?” she said a trifle sharply.
“What about faro?”
S
o Sam taught her how to play faro, and she won the first three hands easily. Of course, they played for kisses and caresses, so she had a vested interest in winning.
Then it got more difficult. He challenged her, tricked her, battled wit for wit for every point. It quickly became a thrilling contest, with only the barest acknowledgment of the rules.
She blatantly cheated, slipping a card under the sheet when he wasn’t looking. It was not that she approved of cheating, of course. It’s just that she wanted Sam, and Sam seemed to be obsessed with playing games. She wondered if he truly did not notice her clumsy sleight of hand, or if he was letting her cheat, knowing that no matter who won, it meant pleasure for both of them. She quickly became an excellent player, which seemed to give him tremendous delight.
Two nights later he taught her to play piquet for even higher stakes. Not so much as a chaste peck on the cheek unless she won three hands in a row. He was as skilled as a cardsharp. If they’d been playing for money, he’d no doubt own the house, the lady, and her coach and four, lock, stock, and boudoir.
Three days after that she found herself arriving in the bedroom looking forward to playing cards with Sam. It challenged her mind, added spice to their coupling.
“I wish to add a new rule to the game,” she said as he dealt by candlelight.
He raised a lazy eyebrow. “Oh? And what might that be?”
She smiled. “Secrets. If you win, then you may ask me to reveal a secret. If I win, you must answer my queries.”
His mouth tightened. “I think that would be a very dangerous game indeed.”
“Ah, so there are dark secrets you cannot reveal, is that it?” she teased. “What could it be? Another lover, perhaps, or a wife and five children? Or are they blacker sins than that?” She leaned forward and tiptoed her fingers up his chest playfully.
She didn’t believe he had any sins at all. She knew the kind of men who were wicked at heart, and Sam wasn’t one of them. She simply wanted to hear tales of his childhood, stories about his time in Spain. She carried him inside her skin, part of her, and she wanted to be part of him as well.
He grabbed her hand, plucked it off his chest, squeezed it. “Stop it,” he said. Something flashed through the gray depths of his eyes, and she frowned. Torment, perhaps? Guilt? He turned away before she could name it.
Doubt bit deep, with sharp teeth. “Is there truly something you cannot tell me?”
“Everyone has a private side, Evelyn.”
She picked up the cards and held them out to him. Her hand trembled slightly, but she had to know. “And you fear revealing yours?” she asked. “Deal, Sam.”
He recoiled, his refusal clear in his eyes. She forced herself to hold his gaze, determined. They had broken down all the physical barriers between them, knew each other’s bodies as well as their own, but she wanted more. Surely there was more, wasn’t there?
She waited, sure he would give in, pull her into his arms, take away the uncertainty.
For a moment he stared at her, seemed about to speak. She held her breath, for whatever admission was coming, but he shook his head and cursed under his breath. He got up from the bed and began to dress.
“What are you doing? Are you leaving?” she asked, breathless. Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach, afraid that everything between them came down to sex, a mere physical release. She did not touch his heart as he touched hers.
This fear was blacker, more painful than any she’d faced in the past months.
She watched in frozen horror as he buttoned his shirt and walked to the door. “You can’t win this game, Evelyn. The stakes are too high. Worry about your own conscience, sweetheart, not mine. No doubt there’s someone in the park who’ll gladly hear your confession. Maybe they even know where your husband is.”
She stared at him, her heart shriveling. His face was cold, his mouth cruel. He turned away. “Your dinner party is tomorrow night, and it will be a busy day. I think it might be best if we both got some sleep.”
Evelyn’s tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. She wanted to stop him, call him back, make light of her foolish game, but something stopped her. Terror? No, worse. Confusion.
She had never been in love. She hadn’t even realized she was until that instant. Raw pain rendered her dumb, paralyzed her limbs.
He shut the door behind him without another word, leaving her alone. She listened to his soft footfalls fading away until there was only silence.
She huddled in the scant ring of the candlelight that illuminated the bed. The sheets where he’d lain were cooling already. A sob caught in her throat, tore free. She buried her face in the pillow, inhaling the scent of him.
She’d fallen in love with a man she could not have, a lover who saw their affair as a moment’s pleasure. She was no better than Lucy, or Philip, for that matter. Cold shame washed over her.
Would this be the pattern of her life from now on, a string of lovers, each taken in a desperate hope that she’d find love,
feel
something as breathtaking and wonderful as this?
Evelyn wiped her tears away and rose, finding her dressing gown on the floor. She put it on, carefully fastening the dozens of tiny pearl buttons and tying the ribbons in a precise, ladylike bow under her chin, putting the cold, correct, untouchable Evelyn Renshaw back into her place as the lady of the manor.
She stared at the door, dreading leaving this room. Tomorrow Somerson’s half sister was coming to dinner, and there were a hundred things to see to before she arrived, but she couldn’t think of that now. There were too many terrible things that might happen before then. Sam might hand her his resignation in the morning. Or he might stay, but end their affair.
He might leave without a word, and she’d never see him again.
She squeezed her eyes shut, tears threatening. She loved him.
What a fool she was. She shut the door firmly behind her.
For a moment she stood at the top of the back stairs, wondering if he hovered there, might still come back, but there was only empty darkness, and nothing to do but return to her own lonely room.
S
injon returned to the coldness of his own bed in the servants’ quarters. How many nights had it been since he’d slept here? He’d grown used to the feel of Evelyn’s sweet body next to him at night.
But she wanted secrets. His were blacker than she could even imagine. He could not lie to her. He’d done enough of that. Nor could he tell her the truth.
He sat on the bed, his head in his hands. If he had any sense, he’d leave now, tonight, before she found out the truth.
But he couldn’t.
He peeled back the top blanket on his bed, exposing the Gonfalon of Charlemagne, hidden between cover and sheet where no one would ever think to look.
He could have taken it to Westlake, but had hesitated. What if he could buy Evelyn’s freedom with it, bribe Philip to leave her alone for good?
He’d come close to telling her the truth tonight. “I’m the Earl of Halliwell’s son,” he might have said, but he wasn’t. His father had disowned him. “I’m Captain the Honorable Sinjon Rutherford.” But that wasn’t true either. He was neither honorable nor captain. He was an outlaw with a price on his head, and only Westlake stood between him and the hangman.
He stared at the gonfalon, and the angels glared back, resentful of their lowly quarters.
“I’m a fool,” he whispered to them, but could not bring himself to admit how far he’d fallen, how much he wanted a life and a future with a woman he could not have. He was living a lie, loving her, spying on her.
Perhaps the best thing he could do was use the gonfalon to buy his own freedom. He could trade it to Westlake for his sword and return to war. He could join the Spanish army, or serve with the Prussians.
And if he died?
At least it would be an honorable death, and not a fool’s end, hanging at the end of a rope for something he didn’t do.
He wondered if Evelyn would mourn him.
