The Price of Temptation by Lecia Cornwall

Lincolnshire. He frowned.
    What was Creighton’s connection to all this? He was hardly the charitable type. The only organization for females he was likely to support was a brothel.
    But Evelyn gave to the needy. She supported the Foundling Hospital, and the ladies’ sewing circle. Perhaps she had other causes as well that he didn’t know about. His skin prickled.
    Was Evelyn using Creighton to send money out of London? Perhaps she was planning to run away with Creighton, once they’d stolen Renshaw’s fortune. The letter did not seem outwardly suspicious, and the scheme would put Philip’s money out of reach of the authorities. “Clever girl,” he muttered.
    Or was Creighton swindling the traitor’s wife? He needed money, or so the coachman had said. He was hardly the type to wait patiently to amass a fortune, or to help a woman in need. In Spain, he’d broken a young lieutenant’s jaw because the man owed him twenty pounds and couldn’t pay. A hundred pounds wouldn’t go far at the tables. One bet and Creighton could lose it all. But he might win.
    Sinjon resealed the letter without the money.
    In the library, he found another envelope and put the money inside, carefully considering his choices before tucking the packet into a book of poetry.
    He put the letter on the hall table and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up into the darkness above, wondering if Evelyn was asleep.
    Was she dreaming of Creighton?
    He headed for his own bed with a grim smile. All he had to do now was wait and see what Creighton—and Evelyn—did next.

Chapter 12
    C reighton prowled through the corridors of his aunt’s town house, searching for something else to sell, something as valuable as the Gainsborough painting he’d already taken. If his family found out, he’d be disowned, but how else was he to survive?
    He passed the ormolu clock in her private sitting room and glared at it. Above it, his aunt’s portrait glared back, an ugly thing that wouldn’t fetch tuppence. It was nearly ten o’clock. Where the hell was Bassett? It shouldn’t take this long to fetch a letter from three streets away.
    He poked at a small landscape in a gilt frame, a view of the family estates in Devon. He hadn’t been there in years. The place meant nothing to him, but the painting might fetch enough to pay for a night’s wagering at White’s. His current losing streak couldn’t last forever.
    He snatched the picture off the wall and tossed it on the settee. How he hated living this way, but he had little choice. His gut clenched as he considered the gravity of his situation.
    He had to find Rutherford, and kill him.
    He was here in London, somewhere, possibly watching him at this very moment. Creighton opened the door to his aunt’s bedchamber, knowing he was the first man to enter her private sanctum in forty years. He crossed to the window and checked the street. There was no sign of Rutherford, or Bassett either, for that matter. He turned to the massive jewelry chest that squatted in the corner and forced the lock, cursing Rutherford as he did so. He was reduced to this, stealing from his own family.
    Sinjon Rutherford was the worst of fools, an honorable man, despite the fact that he had neither fortune nor title. Rutherford stood ready to right the world’s wrongs, save damsels in distress, and win the admiration of men of all classes. He would never stoop to pilfering an old lady’s heirlooms. Creighton hated him.
    He remembered the day he met the good captain in Spain. Rutherford won a fortune at cards from him, money he didn’t have. He’d been forced to sign a vowel in front of a dozen witnesses.
    He’d planned to cancel the debt, as he usually did, with a bullet between the captain’s shoulder blades. In war, men died every day, which was one of the things Creighton liked best about Spain. There were always new officers to game with, wet lads fresh out of England that he could cheat until they got themselves killed.