Surrender to Sin (33 page)

“Well, some men are very passionate,” she stammered defensively.

“I was talking about your fortune!” cried Red, appalled.

Abigail realized she had made a critical error. “If his view is marriage, I see nothing wrong with that,” she added quickly.

“So his view is marriage, is it?” Red tucked his hands behind his back and took a stroll about the room. “I’ll just bet it is. Oh, Abigail! How could you be so foolish? The man is an obvious fortune hunter.”

“He doesn’t know I have a fortune,” she protested. “He thinks I’m somebody called Smith. He hasn’t the least thought of marrying into a fortune.”

“That is what all fortune hunters say!” her parent responded derisively. “Depend on it; he has found you out. He’s plotting to get his hands on your money. My money!”

“That is not rational,” she pointed out. “If he knew I was your daughter, and he was a fortune hunter, he would have paid his bill. By no means would he have returned your scotch.”

Red was hard-pressed to explain Cary’s behavior. “He must be trying to throw us off the scent,” he said, after a moment. “Oh, my poor lass! Has he imposed on you very badly?”

“Mr. Wayborn is not a fortune hunter,” she said firmly. “If anything, he does not care
enough
about money. His family have all pressed him to marry a rich wife, for the good of the estate, but he refuses.”

“Good,” said Red. “In that case, I need not worry. You are quite safe from him.”

Abigail was stung by her father’s sarcasm. “He is too proud to marry for money.”

“He has convinced you, I see. Tell me, when he discovers your dark secret, do you imagine his pride will
prevent
him from marrying you? Perhaps he has other, less amiable qualities which will make the arrangement palatable to him. Such as greed, perhaps?”

For once, Abigail refused to be cowed by him. “You think him a mercenary, but you do not know him. He has many fine qualities. Indeed, in some ways I think he is quite heroic. Did you know that, when he was only eighteen, he left University and enlisted in the ranks? He fought in Spain for nearly two years. He might have been killed.”

“I wish he had been! That he should not have lived to trifle with my child!”

“Do you not think it heroic?” Abigail insisted. “He might easily have stayed at Oxford and never known a moment’s danger.”

“What does it signify, child?” he said impatiently. “
You
don’t need a hero. You are not standing in the path of an advancing army. The only danger you are in is the danger of making a foolish match. What you need is a steady, sensible, dependable fellow with a good head on his shoulders, plenty of money of his own, and, of course, a title. You owe it to yourself, you owe it to your mother, and you owe it to me. After all, I have invested a great deal in your upbringing, your gowns, your jewels, and your education. I have spared no expense. I will not see you throw yourself away on something as paltry as a
hero
.”

“You think I ought to have married Dulwich instead, don’t you?” Abby cried. “Well, he
was
a fortune hunter. You were going to pay him fifty thousand pounds!”

“A bargain price! Don’t forget, he stands to inherit an earldom when Lord Inchmery dies. I don’t mind fortune hunters, Abigail, provided the man has something to offer in exchange. A man with a title needn’t be ashamed of holding out for a rich wife. Nobody likes to see an impoverished earl, after all. It hurts the whole country. Dulwich turned out to be all wrong for you, but that doesn’t mean we give up. It was your mother’s wish that I return you to the sphere she was forced to quit when she married me. I promised her.”

“Mama would want me to be happy,” she protested. “And I am convinced she would not hold Mr. Wayborn in contempt. For that matter, he is her relation. He is a gentleman. His brother is a baronet. And if his estate is not perfectly solvent now, it will be in my power to make it so. When you married Mama, you performed a similar service to her father, I believe.”

This proved to be her most incendiary statement thus far. “How dare you compare your sainted mother to this worthless scoundrel? I swear to almighty God, Abigail, if you marry this man over my objections, I shall have no choice but to cut you off. When I said I’d not extend him a farthing in credit, I meant it. He’ll never see a penny from me, living or dead. I’ll make certain he knows it too. I daresay his interest in you will take a little turn when he hears
that
.”

Abigail closed her eyes. Here was the rift she had dreaded more than anything, but now that the blow had fallen she felt curiously calm. There was nothing more to fear. “I have money of my own, Papa,” she said quietly. “I am twenty-one. I am free to choose my own husband, surely. That is the law. Naturally, you are free to do as you please with your own money.”

This was not the reply Red had expected. In all her life, Abigail had never seriously opposed him. Any difference of opinion between father and daughter had always been settled in his favor with very little fuss. He found her sudden show of determination quite disturbing.

“Abby!” he said plaintively. “I cannot believe you are quarreling with me over this worthless young man! We who never quarrel, but are as close as father and daughter can be. You have always been the most dutiful of daughters. I can only take this as a sign of the man’s unhealthy influence over you.”

“We never quarrel, Papa, because I always give in,” she answered with the same eery calm that threatened his peace in a way tears and hysterics would not have done. “And I have always given in because I want you to be happy.”

“And now you no longer care if I am happy, is that it, lass? I’m only your father.”

“I’m sorry if you are unhappy, sir,” she said, amazed by her own indifference.

“Abigail, you will not defy me!” he railed. “You may be twenty-one, but I am still your father. I know what is best for you. When you have had time to reflect on this regrettable business, you will see that I am right. You will thank me for keeping you from making such a bad bargain.”

“Marriage is not a bargain, Papa.”

“No, it is speculation! Would you put your entire future at risk simply because a good-looking man paid you a little attention? I know the sort of man he is, too: so conceited he can never rest until every girl in the room is in love with him. I suppose you think he loves you.”

Abigail sighed. No, she could not claim that Cary loved her. He had never said so.

Her father sensed capitulation in her sigh. “Don’t be too unhappy, Abigail,” he said with a relish she could not help but despise. “You are not the first girl to be taken in by that chancy young man, I’ll warrant. But he will soon be got over. I will buy you the prettiest phaeton I can find. You shall have driving lessons, and a pair of snow-white high-steppers or high-flyers or whatever it is you young people call horses these days.”

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.”