Surrender to Sin (27 page)

“Good man, this advisor of yours,” Cary approved. “You are fortunate to have him.”

“I am well aware of my good fortune, sir,” she answered, sweeping her hand down his smooth belly until she found his hot, stiff member. “I receive excellent advice and my prime minister is forever at my beck and call.”

“He certainly is,” Cary agreed gruffly.

“And such a handsome fellow, too,” she murmured, teasing the head of his prime minister shamelessly. “So dependable, always ready for action, though perhaps just a bit hot-headed, but I don’t mind that.”

Cary could endure no more teasing. “For God’s sake, Abigail!” he muttered, drawing her down upon him by the hips. “Is this any way to treat a public servant?”

Abigail collapsed into giggles as he slid deep inside her.

Cary heaved a deep sigh of relief. “You were made for me,” he murmured. “Surely you were made for me.”

The sudden knocking at the door was most unwelcome. The queen and her top advisor were seriously displeased and the prime minister suffered the worst of all possible setbacks in his career. “Bloody hell,” Cary growled, rummaging on the floor for his breeches.

The knocking continued, accompanied now by a peevish female voice. “Cary Braedon Rutherford Wayborn! I know you’re in there! Open the door this instant.”

“Juliet interruptus,” Cary snarled.

“Perhaps she’ll go away,” Abigail suggested hopefully.

“Not her. Have you seen my shirt?”

“I suppose it’s one of your tarts,” Abigail said, handing it to him.

“Hardly,” he retorted. “My tarts have better manners. That annoying female happens to be my sister, Juliet.” As Abigail’s eyes widened in terror, he smirked. “How clever of you not to get undressed, my dear. Why don’t you go down and open the door to your new sister-in-law? She will be most eager to make your acquaintance.”

“Cary!” Abigail whispered harshly. “Why didn’t you tell me your sister was coming to Hertfordshire?”

“I had no idea she was coming,” he answered calmly. “Try not to panic, monkey. There is a back door, remember? She’s fairly insinuating, but even she can’t be in two places at once.”

In her haste to descend the ladder, Abigail nearly fell. Cary pushed her unceremoniously down the hall. “Remember the path through the woods?” he asked, forcibly putting her into her cloak. “Follow it until you come to the orchard wall. The gate’s open. Walk through the orchard—there should be no one there this time of year. When you come out of the orchard, you will see a door straight ahead and to your left. Here’s the key.”

Abigail took it from him, repeating these instructions to herself.

“Immediately inside, you will find a staircase to your right. There’s a door at the top of the stairs. The key is in the box on the table next to the door. It has a purple ribbon tied to it. You should be able to find your way to your room from there. Hurry, monkey—the harpy is growing impatient.” Closing her fingers around the key, he gave her a quick kiss and propelled her out the door.

Abigail scampered into the woods, disappearing just as Juliet came around the side of the house and saw her brother. She was dressed in white furs and her patrician face was set in a scowl. “There you are!” she scolded him. “Didn’t you hear me knocking?”

“I daresay Cromwell heard you knocking,” he said.

“Who?” she demanded, pushing past him. Her gray eyes scanned the interior of the gatehouse as she moved further into it, apparently missing no detail.

“Cromwell. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? First, he murdered King Charles because he was a nasty tyrant. Then he gave us the Rump Parliament, followed by the Bare Bones Parliament, and finally he dissolved Parliament altogether and just became a nasty tyrant, too.”

“He’s dead,” said Juliet, unimpressed. “He couldn’t possibly have heard me knocking. What were you doing sneaking out the back door?”

“You frightened me,” he explained. “I thought you were a bill collector. I was about to make a run for it.”

Juliet lifted a brow. “In your bare feet?”

“Indeed. But enough about me. I want to hear all about you,” he said amiably, herding her to the table. “You might begin by telling me what you’re doing here.”

Juliet sat down at the deal table. Pulling off her gloves, she gave the teapot an experimental touch. Cary took the hint and put the kettle on. “Horatio told me a tree fell on the Dower House. Indeed, he couldn’t wait to tell me. Anyone would think you had carelessly dropped a tree on your own house, the way he talks of it. He said you were living here in the lodge. I didn’t believe him. Cary, it’s no better than a hovel, a pot shed!” She looked around wrinkling her slender nose.

“It has its good points,” he said mildly, “namely a roof and four walls. I had to give the tenants the Manor House. There was nothing else to be done. You will like them. They are sound, respectable people.”

“I hope so,” said Juliet. “It will be exceedingly awkward for me to share the house with them if they are not respectable.”

Cary took the seat opposite her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said. You can’t seriously be contemplating a stay at Tanglewood. What does Auckland say? Is he here with you?”

Two bright spots of color appeared in his sister’s cheeks. “Never mind what he says. It’s all finished between Ginger and me. Cary, I’ve—I’ve broken my engagement!” She promptly burst into tears.

Like all blue-blooded Englishmen, Cary hated tears. “Look here!” he said sharply. “Pull yourself together.” He provided his sister with a tea towel and commanded her to dry her eyes.

Juliet made a choking attempt at speech.

“I’m sorry,” Cary said impatiently. “You were saying…? Blub? Blub? Blubber-blub?”

Juliet took a deep breath. “I might have known you’d take his side,” she said resentfully, then reversed herself in the next moment. “I was so sure you would take my part. I knew, of course, that
Benedict
would blame everything on me, but, Cary, I did think that
you
would come to my defense.”

Cary frowned. The mention of his elder brother made the situation seem serious. “Benedict knows about this?”

“Not yet,” she admitted. “I thought it best to leave town.”

Cary went to collect the whistling kettle. “So…who else knows of your spat besides me?” he asked his sister.

“It’s not a spat,” she said severely. “I’ve broken it off. I’m now officially a jilt.”

Cary found two crockery mugs while Juliet prepared the tea. Thankfully, his sister seemed past all blubbering. She drank her tea so calmly that Cary made the mistake of believing her to be rational. “If I were you, I’d high-tail it back to London and patch things up with Auckland,” he suggested.

Juliet slammed down her mug. “Patch things up?” she fairly howled. “Haven’t you been listening to me? I’m finished with him. I can’t, and I won’t, marry a man who doesn’t trust me.”

“Auckland doesn’t trust you?”

“He’s been listening to petty gossip,” she said contemptuously. “He’s beastly jealous of Mr. Rourke. Last week, he threatened to cut him off financially if I don’t stop seeing him.”

Cary raised both brows. “The
actor
?” he exclaimed incredulously.

“Exactly,” said his sister triumphantly. “What sort of man is jealous of a mere actor? I find the whole thing insulting. So what if I visit him backstage in his dressing room?”

“Excuse me, miss?”

She squared her shoulders. “You men visit actresses all the time,” she said defensively.

“For God’s sake,” Cary said irritably. “The man has every right to be annoyed. An actor’s dressing room is no place for a respectable young female. Have you lost your mind?”

“I enjoyed his performance at dress rehearsal so much that I was compelled to present him with a basket of oranges,” she coldly replied. “It was infinitely respectable, I assure you. Lots of people were there. Besides, I
have
to see Mr. Rourke. We’re working on a new play. Ginger knows that. He even approved all the expenses. Now he runs about Town accusing me.”

“Accusing you of what exactly?”

She shrugged. “Yesterday was the absolute last straw. He saw me coming out of the Albany with Mr. Rourke. The things he said to me—”

“What the devil were you doing at the Albany?” Cary demanded.

She started up indignantly. “A better question might be what was
Ginger
doing at the Albany!” she snapped. “He was supposed to be at home sleeping. Instead, he was out in the middle of the night spying on me, following me. It’s too despicable. I will not be spied upon.”

Cary caught her roughly by the wrist. “You were at the Albany with Mr. Rourke in the middle of the night? Small wonder Auckland don’t trust you!”

She returned his steely gaze belligerently. “If he loves me, he ought to trust me no matter what I do,” she declared. “I will not be questioned. I will not be accused.”

“The guilty often object to such things,” he said, releasing her arm.

“I am not guilty, you ass,” she said. “I had a very good reason for being at the Albany that night, and it had nothing to do with poor Mr. Rourke. I didn’t even see him until it was time for me to leave, and then he was good enough to help me. I had a veil on, so I daresay he didn’t even know who I was.”

“Juliet, I’m your brother and I don’t believe you,” said Cary.

“Thank you very much, sir,” she said tartly. “I see you have forgotten, and so has Ginger, that there are other gentlemen besides Mr. Rourke who have rooms at the Albany.”

“I see. You were visiting
another
gentleman. Why, that’s perfectly all right.”

She tossed her head impatiently at his sarcasm. “Our cousin Horatio has rooms at the Albany,” she reminded him. She fumbled angrily in her pockets, then placed a small object on the table. “There! Now don’t you feel ashamed of yourself?”

Cary immediately recognized the little snuffbox with the racehorse enameled on the lid. “You
stole
Horatio’s snuffbox?” he cried in outraged amazement.

“Well, he wouldn’t give it to me,” she snapped. “Naturally, I stole it. And a thankless job it was, too! He never lets it out of his sight, you know. I had to hide under the bed and wait for him to come home. He sleeps with it under his pillow, for heaven’s sake. It’s too ridiculous.”

“It certainly is,” Cary agreed. “What did Auckland say when you told him all this?”

She sniffed. “I shouldn’t have to explain. It’s quite his own fault if he got the wrong idea. He ought not have been spying on me. He ought to have trusted me. After all, I’m perfectly innocent.”

“I’m afraid I cannot agree,” he said, picking up the snuffbox.

She had the grace to blush. “The stealing was all Ginger’s idea. You were there; you heard him. He said someone ought to take Horatio’s snuffbox and throw it in the Thames. If he’d only behaved better, we might have had a good laugh.”

“I daresay Horatio isn’t laughing. Ridiculous or not, that snuffbox was a royal gift, and he’s dashed fond of it. He’s probably in Bow Street right now, hiring Runners.”

Juliet did not seem to hear him. “Instead, he accused me of betraying him. So naturally I said if he kept up his nonsense I should have to break our engagement. Then he said…” Her lower lip began to tremble. “He said…‘Madam, I wish you would!’” she whined.

“Blow your nose,” Cary told her with a marked absence of brotherly sympathy.

Abigail turned an abrupt corner on the gloomy narrow stairs and banged her forehead painfully on the low ceiling. Reaching up to steady herself, she scraped her palm on a nail jutting from the wall. She went up the last few steps on her hands and knees. A tiny round window admitted just enough light for her to make out the door and the little table beside it. She was forced to take the box over to the window to examine its contents. While poking through the jumble of keys looking for the one with a purple ribbon fastened to it, she made an unexpected discovery. She sucked in her breath as she fished out the miniature in its tiny gold frame.

“Catherine of Aragon,” she breathed excitedly, cradling the treasure in her bleeding hand. Quickly, she located the necessary key. The door opened onto a brightly lit hall. Once her eyes adjusted to the bright light, she was able to find her way back to her room without difficulty.

As she rushed to her dressing table, her anxiety at being presented in short order to Cary’s sister was compounded by her appearance. Her dress was smudged with dust from the stairs and plastered with leaves from her flight through the woods. There were cobwebs in her curly hair. A marble-sized swelling had appeared on her forehead where she had bumped it. She looked like a frightened scullery maid.

Hurriedly, she washed, changed into a fresh dress with a modest neckline, and brushed her short hair. Satisfied that she at least looked like a
clean
frightened scullery maid, she crept downstairs. Mrs. Spurgeon seemed to be stirring in her room; Abigail heard Vera and Evans murmuring behind the door. She quietly made her way to the picture gallery and was engaged in adding Catherine of Aragon to the collection of miniatures in the curio table when a piercing voice suddenly assailed her.

“You put that back this instant or I shall alert the whole house!”

Abigail was so startled that she dropped the glass lid of the case on her hand, crushing her fingers. She cried out in pain.

“Serves you right,” said Juliet Wayborn. “Grimstock! Grimstock, come at once!”

Abigail turned to see a tall young woman in a very elegant black and white striped dress trimmed in fine lace. Unmistakably she was Cary Wayborn’s sister. She had the same gypsy tint to her skin, though she evidently never bronzed it by bathing in the sun. Her wide charcoal gray eyes were very like her brother’s, as were her patrician nose and firm chin. Her mouth was wide and feminine, and her hair was simply dressed. Her manner was imperious.

Abigail cradled her injured hand. “I wasn’t taking anything out,” she said timidly. “I was putting something in.”

“Nonsense!” said Miss Wayborn. “I saw you stealing that miniature.”

Abigail turned pale, but her eyes snapped angrily. “I was not stealing!” she said stoutly.

The housekeeper arrived, wringing her hands.

“Grimstock,” said Juliet Wayborn. “I just caught this person stealing from my brother. I think we’d better have the J.P. Send Jeremy.”

“I was not stealing,” Abigail said evenly. “Miss Wayborn is mistaken. Fetch Mr. Wayborn here at once.”

Poor Mrs. Grimstock hesitated.

Juliet found this intolerable. “Do as I say, woman! Or it will not be well for you.”

Mrs. Grimstock scurried away, and Abigail rounded on Juliet angrily. “You have no right to threaten my servants, Miss Wayborn.”

Juliet laughed unpleasantly. “
Your
servants?”

“Yes,” Abigail said icily. “I have rented this house and all its contents from Mr. Wayborn. For the duration of the lease, they are my servants, and I will not permit you to abuse them.”

“I see,” said the other lady. “I collect you are the famous Miss Smith?”

“I very much doubt that I am famous.”

“I do exaggerate,” Juliet admitted graciously. “My cousin Horatio mentioned you in passing. I have been given to understand that your mother was one of the Derbyshire Wayborns. Is that correct?”

Abigail bristled at the other woman’s skepticism. “Yes.”

“And…
which
of the Derbyshire Wayborns was she?”

“Anne,” said Abigail, growing more annoyed by the minute.

“Indeed. And your father is a diplomat,” Juliet murmured. “How very curious that I could find no trace of you in London, Miss Smith.”

“As I said, Miss Wayborn, I am not famous.”

At that moment Mrs. Grimstock returned, not with the Justice of the Peace, but with the master of Tanglewood Manor. Cary looked delightfully rumpled in one of his purple coats. “Hullo,” he said cheerfully, ignoring the poisonous animosity hanging heavily between his sister and his secret bride. “I see you’ve met our cousin, Miss Smith. Cousin Abigail, my sister Juliet.”

“Miss Smith was just helping herself to a few of your miniatures,” Juliet said sweetly. “You may want to count them, Cary. It’s the only way to be sure she’s put them all back.”

Cary had never seen Abigail in such a temper. She looked positively dangerous.

“Are you accusing Abigail of being a thief?” he said sharply. “That’s a bit cheeky, coming from you.”

Juliet glowered at him. “I know what I saw.”

“I found Catherine of Aragon,” Abigail said angrily. “I was just putting her in the case when Miss Wayborn walked in and began accusing me.”

Cary smiled. “You found poor old discarded Catherine!” he exclaimed, walking over to the case. “Well done, monkey.”

Abigail spared Miss Wayborn a single cold glance. “I found her in a box under a pile of old keys,” she told Cary. “The glass is cracked, but I don’t think it will affect the value if you have it replaced.”

“There, Juliet!” he said. “You couldn’t have been more wrong. Cousin Abigail has just completed my collection. Thanks to her, I now have Henry the Eighth, all his wives, and all his children.”

“How nice for you,” Juliet said indifferently.

“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.

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?”