Surrender to Sin Page 26

  “I think you owe Abigail an apology,” he said sternly.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Smith,” Juliet said coolly, adding a sullen curtsy.

  “Naturally, I accept your apology,” said Abigail stiffly.

  “Excellent,” said Cary. “She’s not so bad, once you get to know her.”

  “Indeed,” said Juliet.

  “I’m sure she isn’t,” said Abigail.

  The ladies spoke simultaneously. Still acting in concert, they both turned to Cary with outraged expressions.

  “Right,” Cary said stoutly. “So that’s all sorted. You’re going to be great friends. I just know it. Juliet’s going to be staying here a few days, Cousin Abigail. I hope that’s all right. She won’t be in the way, and, of course, you’re going to London on Monday.”

  “Oh, you’re leaving?” Juliet said sweetly. “What a pity. I was so looking forward to knowing you better, Miss Smith. It’s not right for cousins to be strangers, don’t you agree? But, of course, we are strangers no more. Now that I am aware of your existence, rest assured I shall take a lively interest in all your affairs.”

  Cary laughed nervously. “Juliet, you’re too good. Isn’t she too good, Abigail?”

  “Why, she’s positively angelic,” said Abigail, assuming a bland tone.

  Juliet’s eyes flashed. “I should like to go to my room now.” She swept out of the gallery like an indignant queen.

  Abigail glared at Cary. “‘She’s not so bad, once you get to know her?’”

  “I meant her, of course.”

  “Too right you meant her!” she snapped. “Must she stay here? We seem to have taken an instant dislike to one another.”

  “As long as the dislike is cordial…”

  “Cary, really!”

  “She’s going through a difficult time,” he told her. “She’s just broken her engagement to the Duke of Auckland, and she’s utterly miserable. Surely you can put up with her for two days. I promise to have her out of here before you return from London. When do you mean to return?”

  Abigail was easily distracted. After all, Juliet was nothing when compared to the coming ordeal with her father. Red Ritchie wasn’t likely to be pleased to learn that his only child had married, without his knowledge or consent, a highly unsuitable man. “I suppose…Tuesday or Wednesday. Perhaps sooner, if my father disowns me completely.”

  “Would you like me to go with you?”

  Abigail grimaced. “No, Cary. He isn’t likely to be swayed, as I have been, by your good looks and your charm.”

  He shrugged. “Tuesday or Wednesday, then. Scarcely enough time to put in any French windows,” he observed.

  Abigail laughed.

  “And if Juliet won’t go back to London, I can always send her to our brother in Surrey. She’s really his responsibility. He’s the eldest. In any case, I fully expect her lord to make his way here and reclaim her.”

  “Do you think so?” Abigail asked doubtfully. “When she has jilted him, and hers is not the sweetest of tempers? Perhaps he is relieved.”

  “I collect you’ve never met the Duke of Auckland,” Cary said laughing. “It’s all a big misunderstanding. I’m sure it will turn up right in the end. But, if for some reason she’s still here when you return to take your rightful place as mistress of Tanglewood, you can always have the bailiff toss her out.”

  “Oh, no,” said Abigail quickly. “I wouldn’t do that. I mean, she is your sister, after all. I suppose,” she added reluctantly, “I can tolerate her impertinence for a short time.”

  Miss Wayborn made herself especially tolerable throughout teatime by having hers on a tray in her room. But Abigail’s temper flared when she went upstairs and discovered Polly removing her belongings from her room. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Polly the maid’s face was pale, and she didn’t dare speak aloud. “Miss Wayborn says she must have your room, Miss, to put her maid in,” she whispered. “I tried—” She broke off and shook her head rapidly as though to clear an unpleasant memory. Abigail guessed that Miss Wayborn had ruthlessly suppressed Polly at the first sign of disobedience.

  Juliet herself stepped into the hall, sending Polly scurrying away with an armful of Abigail’s clothes. “Ah,” she said sweetly, “Cousin Smith! As you can see, I’ve just about got my maid settled in the room next to mine, but there were a lot of frumpy old garments hanging in the wardrobe. Perhaps you might care to go through them—you might find something better than that gray sack you’re wearing. I did see a bright green plaid that would so become you…”

  Abigail remembered that Cary particularly disliked that dress. “Those are my things, Miss Wayborn,” she said quietly, “as I am sure you know.”

  Juliet widened her eyes. “Your things?” she cried. “Oh, Cousin Smith! What you must think of me. But, you know, I have nearly got Fifi settled in. It would be so inconvenient to shift things around now, and since you’re leaving us on Monday, perhaps forever…”

  Abigail swallowed her pride. After all, she had no desire to occupy the room next to this spoiled creature. “I shouldn’t dream of inconveniencing your maid,” she said. “Indeed, she is quite welcome to take my room. I’m sure she will be very comfortable, and, of course, very close to her mistress, which is the material thing.”

  This calm, rational response did not sit well with Juliet, who was clearly spoiling for an argument. “You needn’t toad-eat me, my girl,” she said softly, “for it won’t get you anywhere. My brother may be starved for company out here in the country, but he’s not so desperate as you seem to think.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Abigail.

  “Come, come. I too can put on a face of outraged innocence. We both know you’re after him. I had a full report from my cousin Horatio.” Juliet tapped her hairbrush thoughtfully against her hip. “I’m only telling you this for your own good, my dear. My brother has a talent for making silly young girls fall in love with him, but if you think he will ever return your feelings, you very much mistake the matter. Why, he’s practically engaged to my dear friend, Lady Serena Calverstock, who is a woman of impeccable breeding and good fortune. She’s also very beautiful and elegant. So you see, you are wasting your time here. You had much better stay in London, where you may very likely attract an offer from a professional man—a doctor or a lawyer. Possibly an architect. But my brother is a gentleman. He would never disgrace himself by marrying a nobody.”

  “My mother—”

  “Don’t embarrass yourself,” Miss Wayborn advised her. “You may have my brother convinced, but you will never convince me. There was an Anne Wayborn, but there’s no mention of her marriage in Burke’s.”

  “That’s only because her family didn’t approve of my father.”

  Juliet held up her hairbrush. “Don’t misunderstand me. I think it’s very clever of you to have reinvented yourself in this charming way. As a Wayborn, I’m flattered. I have no intention of exposing you. I even wish you happy hunting. But you will not get your hooks into my brother. On that I am firm. My advice to you is go to London and take what you can get.”

  Now secure of the upper hand, Juliet went into her room, smiling, and closed the door.

  Fuming, Abigail moved into the nursery with Paggles.

  At dinner, Miss Wayborn dominated the conversation, deflecting Cary’s every attempt to draw the other ladies into the talk. Abigail unclenched her lips only to admit morsels of food and refused to look at either her husband or her sister-in-law.

  “Do you remember So-and-so?” Juliet would ask her brother.

  “Of course,” Cary would say, then turn to his other guests. “So-and-so is such-and-such.”

  “Well, he got himself into the most devilish awful scrape!”

  The scrape of So-and-so would then be described in some detail. When So-and-so was either extricated from his scrape or simply exhausted, Cary would attempt to change the subject. Juliet would interrupt with important news about another so-and-so.r />
  At last, as the savory was brought in, Juliet took notice of the other ladies—or at least two of them. Abigail she ignored, but she listened sympathetically to the story of Mrs. Spurgeon’s lost macaw, and gravely agreed that he was a very brave and intelligent bird. Then, still ignoring Abigail, she turned to Mrs. Nashe with a few polite questions.

  “Haven’t we met before?”

  Vera demurred. “I don’t think so, Miss Wayborn. We don’t exactly move in the same circles.”

  “I’m sure I’ve met you before,” said Juliet, staring at Vera, who was clearly made uncomfortable by the attention.

  “My sister thinks she knows everyone,” Cary said apologetically. “Mrs. Nashe is the widow of a young Army lieutenant,” he quietly explained.

  “No, I know what it is,” Juliet said, smiling triumphantly. “You’re Kate Hardcastle!”

  “I believe Mrs. Nashe’s Christian name to be Vera,” said Cary.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Nashe said quickly, casting him a look of gratitude. “And my maiden name was Fletcher, not Hardcastle.”

  Juliet laughed. “Don’t be silly! I mean you were Kate Hardcastle in She Stoops to Conquer. I saw you on stage. Oh, it must have been two seasons ago now. Mr. Rourke was in the role of Tony Lumpkin. I never missed a performance.”

  Mrs. Nashe appeared mortified. “I’m no actress, Miss Wayborn,” she stammered. “I am a respectable widow.”

  “Are you quite sure you’re telling the truth?” Juliet demanded.

  “Juliet!” Cary said harshly.

  “What? Didn’t you ever see that play? What was the actress’s name? I wonder what became of her after She Stoops. She seems to have disappeared.”

  Abigail unclenched her lips. “I believe you owe Mrs. Nashe an apology,” she said coldly.

  Juliet cast her a look of scorn, but muttered unconvincingly, “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Nashe, but the resemblance is very striking.”

  Abigail did not find this satisfactory. “You must forgive poor Miss Wayborn,” she told Vera gently. “She has just broken her engagement to the Duke of Auckland. I’m sure no one blames her for being ill-tempered in such trying circumstances.”

  Juliet turned savagely on her brother. “You told her? Cary, how could you?”

  Cary cast Abigail a look of strong reproach, but his bride remained unrepentant. As his sister continued to berate him, Abigail rose and put down her napkin. “Shall we have some music in the sitting room?”

  The following day was Sunday. Mrs. Spurgeon claimed to be too ill to attend services, and Juliet refused to climb out of bed. Only Vera appeared when Cary called to take the ladies to church. Vera went back to her room for her gloves, which gave Cary and Abigail just a few moments together. “Where were you last night?” he demanded in a whisper. “There was a strange woman in your bed, possibly French.”

  Abigail’s mouth fell open. It had never occurred to her that he would steal into the house with his sister under the roof. She had seriously underestimated his audacity, if not his lust. “Cary! Juliet’s maid is in my room.”

  He was laughing. “Yes, I know. I met her. Delightful girl. I daresay it was not a new experience for the mademoiselle. She seemed quite blase, if that’s the word I want.”

  Abigail’s blood ran cold, then hot. “Cary, you didn’t!”

  “I had to,” he said innocently. “She expected a real presentation of the gifts.”

  Abigail did something she had never done before. She hit a man as hard as she could. The blow landed harmlessly on his shoulder.

  “What was I supposed to do?” he said, laughing. “Say, ‘Sorry, thought you were Smith,’ and steal away? I had to think of your reputation. I did it for you, monkey.”

  Abigail glared at him. “You had better be joking, monkey,” she snapped.

  “Well, I am, of course,” he admitted. “I think I managed to convince her I was looking for Mrs. Spurgeon. It was deuced embarrassing. And the poor prime minister! I told him he would be paying his respects to Her Majesty. He was quite looking forward to it. Guess his surprise when he suddenly found himself addressing his remarks to an alien government.”

  In spite of herself, Abigail smiled.

  “Will you meet me later?” he asked, lowering his voice further still.

  “Cary, I can’t,” she whispered.

  “But you’re leaving me tomorrow,” he pointed out. “The prime minister has something needful of the Queen’s review. It’s in the national interest.”

  With very little coaxing, Abigail gave in, as he knew she would. “After luncheon,” she promised as Vera returned with breathless apologies and French gray gloves.

  Monday morning came far too soon. Even though she was leaving much of her clothes at Tanglewood, and even though Cary had agreed that Paggles should not make the journey to London, there was still last minute packing to do, and to Abigail’s vexation, she could not find her little writing desk, which, in addition to her writing supplies, contained a number of personal effects she wished to keep with her. After thoroughly searching the nursery, it occurred to her that it might have been left in her old room, now occupied by Juliet’s maid. Muttering under her breath, she went down to retrieve it.

  The hall was dark. Both bedroom doors were closed. Angel was under the table, gnawing assiduously at something propped between his paws. Abigail set down her candle and knelt down, half crawling under the table. “What have you got there?” she asked pleasantly. “More picture hanging wire? A rusty old nail, perhaps?”

  She had previously discovered him chewing on both these things. Angel gave up his prize with a faint woof of complaint.

  Abigail climbed to her feet and dried it off with her handkerchief. The lid of the little snuffbox was intact. It showed a pretty racehorse painted in enamel on a green background. The bottom half of the box, which appeared to have been made of fine gold, had been crunched in by the corgi’s powerful jaws. Abigail recognized it instantly; Captain Sir Horatio Cary had made such a point of showing it to her and everyone else.

  “You bad dog!” she exclaimed. “Angel, how could you?”

  Angel appeared hurt and perplexed by the stern tone of her voice.

  “Never mind,” Abigail sighed, wrapping it up in her handkerchief and slipping it into her pocket. “I’ll take it to London, and see if it can’t be repaired.”

  “Who are you talking to?” inquired a supercilious and unmistakable voice. “What are you doing under the table?”

  Abigail climbed to her feet, bumping her head in the process and turned to face Miss Wayborn. The patrician girl was clad in a quilted velvet robe of royal purple. “I was just saying goodbye to the dog,” Abigail murmured as Juliet critically eyed her plain russet-colored traveling costume. “I wondered if your maid is awake yet?” Abigail went on. “I believe my writing slope was left behind when I quit the room so unexpectedly.”

  “I’ll get it,” the other woman said coolly. “We can’t have you forgetting anything.”

  “I assure you I won’t,” Abigail replied.

  “Is this it?” Juliet asked a moment later.

  “Thank you,” said Abigail, glad she had remembered to lock her traveling desk. She didn’t put it past the insufferable Juliet to read her private letters.

  “Forgive me for not seeing you off,” said Juliet. “But as you can see I’m not dressed. I’ll wave to you from the window, shall I? Goodbye.”

  Abigail was the last to enter the coach. “If she is not gone when I am back,” she quietly told Cary, who was pretending to check the trunks fastened behind the coach, “I believe I shall have the bailiff, after all, if only to preserve my sanity.”

  He chuckled softly. “I’m going to miss you, Smith. Until you return to open Parliament, Mr. Prime Minister will be just a shadow of his former self.”

  Abigail blushed.

  “Goodbye, Cousin Smith!” Juliet cried sweetly, leaning out of an upper window and waving a large silk handkerchief in emphatic farewell.

&nb
sp; “I mean it, Cary,” Abigail whispered as Cary escorted her to the carriage door and helped her inside. “I want her out.” She angrily settled into the seat next to Vera and pulled the rug over her knees.

  Angel suddenly darted between Cary’s legs, in an ill-advised attempt to jump into the carriage. Cary hoisted him up and plopped him in Abigail’s lap. “Better take him, Smith,” he said crisply. “He’ll only howl inconsolably the whole time you’re gone.”

  By the time the coach turned up the drive, the corgi was contentedly nibbling on Abigail’s gloves.

  The morning journey passed pleasantly, with Mrs. Spurgeon sleeping almost the entire way. Abigail set her chaperone and the nurse in Baker Street in time for luncheon, then went on to Kensington alone. At the mansion, the butler informed her that her father was awaiting her in the Chinese drawing room. Abigail went straight there, pulling her bonnet strings as she walked.

  She burst through the black and gold lacquered doors, then came to a sudden halt. Red Ritchie was not alone in the vast salon crammed with every possible example of chinoiserie.

  “I beg your pardon!” she stammered, as the two men turned to look at her. Abigail’s father was considered tall, but the red-haired man with him was a giant. He wore rumpled clothes and a scowl on his face. He wasn’t handsome. As Angel darted into the room, however, Abigail saw what must have been his saving grace: a boyish grin that could not fail to charm. “A corgi!” he cried. “Haven’t seen one in years.”

  In the next minute, he was down on the carpet, playing with the dog.

  “Abigail!” cried Red Ritchie, waving her in. “May I present to you his noble grace, the Duke of Auckland?”

  Abigail regarded the ugly giant in astonishment. This is a duke? she thought, watching him impersonate a Pembroke Welsh corgi. Then: This is Miss Wayborn’s duke?

  The Duke climbed to his feet and made a rather awkward bow. “Please, call me Geoffrey,” he said in a pleasant northern burr.

  “Fifi?” Juliet inquired rather casually as her maid was artfully giving her hair the naturally windswept look, “have you seen that little green snuffbox? I can’t seem to find it anywhere. It’s rather important,” she added, suppressing a catlike yawn.