Surrender to Sin Read online

  Abigail’s shoulders slumped in despair. Undoubtedly, her continually meek acquiescence to his wishes over the years had given her father the impression that he could always bully her into submission or else buy her cooperation with expensive gifts. She could not blame him for thinking to do so now. Nor could she see any way to break out of the lifelong trap. To continue to argue now would only lay her open to more bullying and more presents, and the end result would be the same. Once his mind was made up, Red was implacable. She had never known him to change his mind; he had certainly never done so due to her influence.

  She would have to run away.

  Relieved as he was that Abigail had capitulated after such a disconcerting show of spirit, Red was nonetheless sorry for her disappointment, and willing to lay out any amount of money to secure her return to happiness. “Now you are back in London, there is no end to what we can do,” he wheedled. “I have not taken you to Vaux-hall in some months. And at the end of the season, it will be in my power to take you abroad if you like.”

  Abigail was frankly astonished. “Abroad!”

  “Yes. Now the war is over, why not?”

  “You would not take me to Wiltshire to see Stonehenge, even though you promised.”

  “I had thought Florence or the Black Forest, but if you prefer Wiltshire, I have no objection. And, this time, should my business keep me in London, I shall engage a chaperone for you. Then you may go anywhere you like.”

  The sudden image of Mrs. Spurgeon among the chateaux of the Loire Valley, demanding an English Beaujolais of the maitre d’hotel, caused Abigail to smile.

  Red was moved by that tiny smile to even higher flights of generosity. “I will give you an allowance of ten thousand pounds,” he declared. “And we shall never speak of this unhappy matter again.”

  “No,” she agreed. “It does seem rather pointless to try.”

  “Why, I begin to think you meant to give him up all the time,” he remarked suddenly, to her immense consternation. “You sly thing! You only pretended more affection than you felt when you saw you could get carriages and trips abroad out of your poor father, Scotsman though I am. But that is all my fault. I gave away too much of what I felt.”

  “As you say, we shall never speak of it again,” she said, getting up to quit the room.

  “Yes, yes,” he murmured contentedly. “Run along up to your room and put on your costume. I shall have to leave within the hour, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t accompany me to Carlton House. No one will object if you amuse yourself on the grounds as we prepare for the event. You will see them light the torches in the gardens. I am told it is a magnificent sight.”

  Abigail paused on the threshold. “No,” she said clearly.

  His good humor vanished instantly. “No?” he echoed in an awful tone. “Abigail, there has been enough foolishness, I think. You will do as I say, and you will do it at once.”

  “I forgot to tell you,” said his daughter. “The Duke of Auckland has invited me to see the play tonight. He asked for the honor of escorting me to Carlton House afterwards. Was that not very kind of his grace?”

  “The Duke of Auckland?” he cried. “Why did you not say so before? Small wonder you gave up Mr. Wayborn so easily, when you may have a duke dangling on the line.”

  “Then do I have your permission to go?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course! But I have not engaged any tickets for you!” he cried.

  “The Duke has his own box, Papa,” she told him. “I am his guest.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I do forget sometimes that I am not the only rich man in the world. Of course you must go, Abby, love. I may see you a duchess yet!”

  “That is not very likely, sir.”

  “Give it time,” he urged. “He’s taking you to the theater, isn’t he? That’s something. At the very least, you’ll meet his friends. People will see you in his company and think the better of you for it. He must know all the lords of the land. I’d be just as happy to see you a marchioness or a countess. Pray, do not feel you must marry the Duke if you find you do not like him.”

  Abigail did what she had been longing to do for some time; she ran away.

  At least her father had not sought to impose an Egyptian costume upon his pale, freckled, strawberry-blond daughter. Abigail’s Roman costume began with a long, simple, high-waisted tunic of fine white linen. The sleeves of the tunic were not sewn but rather pinned together at the shoulders and again at the elbow with golden brooches that looked like miniature bunches of grapes. Over this she was to wear a deep purple velvet palla, richly trimmed in gold fringe. The palla was meant to be artfully draped over one shoulder, but, as the heavy material kept slipping, Abigail decided to leave it in the carriage during the play. She wished she could do the same with the gold kid sandals; they laced halfway up her calves and were exceedingly uncomfortable. She pinned her short curls up in a style she told herself was at least Greek, if not Roman, and added a wreath of laurel leaves made of beaten gold. As a final touch she found a beautiful old set of agate cameos and put them on—a bracelet, earrings, and a necklace she could not recall ever having worn before. Her appearance, when she checked it in the mirror, was ever so slightly ridiculous, which is what one wants when one attends a masquerade.

  The enormous coach with blue doors and silver wheels arrived in Park Lane at six o’clock on the nose, to be immediately filled by Miss Wayborn’s servants with huge quantities of hothouse roses. The heavy scent was overpowering, and there was scarcely enough room for Miss Wayborn to sit when she arrived in person some twenty-five minutes later dressed as a young and seductive Cleopatra. Her long dark hair was decorated with gold coins. Her eyelids had been painted peacock blue, and her eyes and brows were lined heavily with kohl. Her dress was composed of ephemeral layers of finely pleated gold linen, and at her neck was an enormous gold collar encrusted with lapis lazuli scarabs. On her feet were curved gold slippers.

  Abigail could only stare. If not precisely beautiful, Juliet was easily the most terrifying, dazzling creature she had ever seen. She had meant to cordially inquire whether Miss Wayborn was feeling better, but the banal words died in her throat.

  “You’re late,” Juliet informed Abigail, giving her costume only a cursory glance. “But at least you had the sense to come as a Roman matron.”

  “I was here at six,” Abigail protested indignantly.

  “Well, you ought to have known my servants would need time to put my roses in,” Juliet replied as the carriage got underway. “Now there will be a terrible crush at the front entrance.”

  Abigail winced. “You don’t really mean to throw all these flowers to that actor, do you?”

  Juliet looked at her with long, inscrutable Egyptian eyes. “Well, that all depends, doesn’t it, on what he does with his cabbages?”

  “I’m quite sure his grace does not really mean to throw cabbages at Mr. Rourke.”

  Juliet looked at her contemptuously. “Of course he won’t, you stupid girl. Because I have brought roses.”

  Somehow Abigail suppressed the urge to throttle her sister-in-law.

  As Juliet had predicted, the throng of pedestrians and carriages at the front of the theater was beyond belief. Juliet rapped sharply for the driver, and, when he opened the panel, she instructed him to go around the back way. “It’s always like this when the Royal Family crawl out of their palaces,” she told Abigail. “What do we buy them palaces for, if not to keep them in? I’m convinced they only come out to spoil it for everyone else.”

  Abigail felt an undignified excitement. “Will the Queen be here, do you think?”

  “Certainly not. No, tonight is the Prince Regent’s night out. He’s not much to look at, if you ask me, but my aunt swears he was dead handsome in his youth. Ah, here we are.”

  Juliet jumped out, the coins in her hair clinking like bells. Immediately, she began snapping her fingers for servants to transport her roses into the theater. Abigail exited the coach with greater
caution. They appeared to be in a dark, deserted alley.

  A door opened ahead of them, pouring light and noise onto the street. Juliet’s roses began filing into the building, the heads and bodies of the servants carrying them scarcely visible behind the wall of scarlet and white blooms and green leaves.

  “Come along, Cousin Abigail,” Juliet commanded. “Come and meet Mr. Rourke.”

  Chapter 18

  At first Abigail could discern nothing in the confusion. The place looked as though someone had begun building a scaffold in the middle of it, then abandoned the project abruptly. People wearing a multiplicity of costumes, mostly Egyptian or Roman, milled about to no purpose that Abigail could see. A group of young women, scantily clad, with flowers in their hair, was singing in one corner, and, though there were plenty of men about, none seemed to be paying the girls the slightest attention. “What is this place?” Abigail asked.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” said Juliet. “You’re behind the stage. Ever been before?”

  Abigail mutely shook her head. It was much too loud and busy to suit her. A large man naked from the waist up except for a large papier-mache mask in the shape of a jackal’s head suddenly loomed over her, pushing her out of the way. Laughing, Juliet pulled Abigail around a corner and down a narrow set of stairs crowded with actors and dancers who all seemed to be coming up at once in their dazzling costumes. Then they were in a long, bare hall lit by sconces.

  Mr. David Rourke was in his dressing room applying greasepaint to his famous face. On stage he was considered handsome, but in the lamplight he looked grotesque to Abigail. He was dressed for his role as Marc Antony in a purple toga, and not much else. His hair had been cut short in the Roman crop he had made fashionable. A golden breastplate and a short scarlet tunic, which he would wear in later scenes in the play, waited on a dressmaker’s dummy in one corner. When the actor stood up to greet Juliet, Abigail saw that he was not tall. She did not find him very attractive, but then, she reflected, few men could measure up to the physical perfections of Cary Wayborn.

  The Irishman had no lack of confidence, however. He boldly kissed Juliet on both cheeks in the continental manner. “My dear Miss Wayborn!” he said while Abigail cringed in the corner next to a large box covered in a scarlet cloth. “I wish I could put you on stage, just as you are, but, alas, my Cleopatra is old and fat.”

  He spoke without any trace of brogue, and yet Abigail thought he could never be mistaken for an Englishman.

  “Mrs. Archer is scarcely that,” Juliet answered him demurely. “I wish I could go on stage, too, Mr. Rourke, but that would never do. It’s so unfair. We just came to tell you to break a leg.”

  To Abigail’s horror, the famed actor suddenly looked at her. She felt like a rabbit that has suddenly been spotted by a hungry lion. She wasn’t even sure how she had gotten into this stuffy little room in the first place. Now she wasn’t quite sure she would ever be permitted to leave. Mr. Rourke’s kohl-lined eyes were pale, but whether green, blue, or gray she could not tell. His smile was crocodilian. She thought him the least trustworthy person she had ever met.

  Mr. Rourke bowed, but, to her relief, he made no attempt to kiss her continentally, or even to shake hands. “And who is this charming creature? Another devotee of the theater?”

  “This is my cousin, Abigail. Tell Mr. Rourke to break a leg, Abigail.”

  Abigail blinked at Juliet, bewildered.

  Mr. Rourke smiled, creasing his painted cheeks. “You must tell me to break a leg so that I shall have good luck in my performance tonight,” he explained.

  “I see,” Abigail said slowly. “It’s all backwards, then.”

  “Yes. If you were to wish me luck, the theater gods would surely turn against me.”

  “In that case,” she said. “I hope you fall and break both your legs. And your arms, too.”

  Mr. Rourke laughed. “I think she’s got it, Miss Wayborn. Now get her out of here before she breaks my neck. Enjoy the performance,” he added as Juliet dragged Abigail away.

  “I’m sure I will,” said Abigail. “No, I beg your pardon! I’m sure I won’t.”

  Juliet lost her grip on Abigail’s hand as they went back up the stairs. Abigail could just make out the back of Juliet’s head as she struggled against the flow of bodies. By keeping those glittering gold coins in sight, she was able to navigate through the worst of the traffic. But at the top of the steps a huge wall painted to resemble a battlefield in Syria was suddenly pulled across her path. When it was gone, so was Juliet. Frantically, Abigail scanned the crowd. There were dozens of young women in Egyptian-style dress, but none of them was Juliet.

  A shout began at one end of the room, and, gradually, a hush fell over the crowd.

  “Places, everyone!” someone shouted with authority.

  The famed Mrs. Archer, surrounded by her women, a crown of peacock feathers on her sleek head, suddenly floated past. As Abigail stood on tiptoe to see the “real” Cleopatra, a man suddenly blocked her path.

  “Are you Octavia’s understudy?” he asked suspiciously.

  “No, I’m Abigail,” she answered without thinking.

  “There is no Abigail,” he said, frowning, as he consulted his playbook.

  “I’m not in the play,” Abigail explained. “I’m meant to be watching the play from a box. I’m lost, you see. Could you show me the way? I can pay you,” she quickly added as the man turned away. A gold sovereign secured his interest, but she pulled it away quickly as he made to snatch it. “You’ll have it when you take me to the Duke of Auckland’s box,” she said firmly.

  “Lucky for you, I don’t go on until Act Three,” he muttered. “This way.”

  As it happened, it was not necessary for him to conduct her all the way to the Duke’s box. The Duke was waiting for her at the top of the carpeted stairs. The red-haired giant still was not handsome, but he had evidently taken great pains with his appearance. He wore a black evening coat with white satin breeches and buckled shoes. His waistcoat was a beautiful silk and silver pattern. “There you are, girl,” he said gruffly as Abigail paid the man from Act Three. The Duke’s rough North Country accent was an odd contrast to Mr. Rourke’s polished English.

  “I hope you break your legs,” Abigail called after her native guide, as the Duke dragged her towards his box. The box was like a miniature theater in itself, screened from the corridor by heavy red velvet curtains. The Duke impatiently went before her. Abigail took a deep breath as she entered. The time had come for her to tell the horrible Miss Wayborn just what she thought of her. This time she would really do it. She would not be timid.

  She began with a very firm apology.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Wayborn, but, really, you must own that it was very wrong of you to leave me behind stage…”

  She trailed off as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit box. She was addressing a small collection of red velvet chairs. “Where is everyone?” she asked the Duke.

  “Over there,” he darkly replied.

  Abigail followed his outstretched finger with her eyes. Cary and Juliet Wayborn were in a box almost directly across from theirs, on the opposite side of the theater. Their gilded box was filled with huge bouquets of roses. Juliet was seated in the forefront, and her brother was standing behind her. Like the Duke, Cary was not in costume, but wore correct evening dress. Abigail caught her breath as she realized he was looking directly at her. The longing to be with him and to feel his arms around her was very strong.

  “But I thought we were all to share a box, sir,” she cried in dismay. “What are they doing over there? And what,” she added with a grimace, “is that disgusting smell?”

  Grinning at her, the Duke stepped over one chair to sit in another. “Good news,” he declared proudly. “My man was able to find some potatoes. I think they’ve got the famine, too.”

  “You mean the blight,” Abigail said severely.

  “Blight. Famine.” The Duke shrugged carelessly. “The important thin
g is that they will remind Rourke of dear old Ireland and hasten him on his way back there. Sit down, my dear. Mind your step.”

  Abigail delicately skirted a few baskets of malodorous kitchen offal to take the seat next to him. “You don’t really mean to throw things at Mr. Rourke, do you? It’s too cruel!”

  “She brought her roses, I see,” he darkly replied.

  Abigail looked across. Cary was motioning to her. Hesitantly, she waved back.

  “Look at her, the worthless jade. I swear she only makes herself so bloody gorgeous to give me fits. That’s actually your uncle’s box, you know. I could have her tossed out at any moment. She hasn’t even got a bloody ticket!”

  “My uncle’s, sir? Lord Wayborn’s, you mean?”

  He nodded, his eyes fastened on Juliet, who seemed to have eyes only for the stage, even though the curtain had not yet lifted. “Earl Wayborn is not yet come to London from Derbyshire, I’ll warrant, and she’s helping herself to his property in the poor man’s absence. I daresay if he were to show up unexpectedly, she’d just casually murder him and throw his carcass over the side. Why does her brother keep waving at me? It’s bloody annoying.”

  “I think he’s waving to me, sir.”

  “Just ignore him,” the Duke advised. “He’s harmless. Keep your eye on her. She’s the troublemaker. And if she wants to start a war, I shall be happy to oblige her! I’ve got bushels and bushels of vegetables, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

  At that moment the Prince Regent arrived, eliciting a standing ovation from his subjects. Abigail nearly fell out of the box trying to get a look at the future king. His Royal Highness was perhaps a bit past his prime, a bit bloated, but to Abigail he was like something out of a fairy tale. As he settled into a prominent seat behind the orchestra pit, the house lights were brought down, the stage lights were brought up, and the curtains rose to reveal Cleopatra’s palace at Alexandria, where Antony, once a great general, had become the pet of Egypt’s queen.