Surrender to Sin (34 page)

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.”

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 thing 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.

Cary did not wait long. Before the second scene was done, a servant brought a note to the Duke’s box on a silver salver. The Duke snatched it before Abigail could move. “‘Meet me at the top of the stairs. Yours, etc.,’” he read contemptuously, and tossed it into the nearest basket. “Not bloody likely! As though I should be taken in by such an obvious trick. Trying to get your brother to lure me away, so that you can throw your roses behind my back, eh?” His voice rose as he called to Juliet across the theater. “You’ll have to do better than that, my dear!”

Cary pointed at Abigail, then walked his gloved fingers across his open palm.

“Perhaps I should go and see what he wants,” Abigail said slowly.

“Good idea,” said the crafty Duke. “Keep him occupied. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll watch
her
. But be careful, Abigail. She’s up to something. I know it. I can feel it in the air. And that brother of hers could very well be in on it. He never liked me.”

“I’ll be very careful, sir,” Abigail assured him, picking her way out of the box.

It was all she could do not to cry out when she saw Cary coming towards her from the other end of the corridor. A servant passed them carrying a tray of wineglasses, but she did not care. She ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. Relief flooded through her body as he embraced her. She held him as tightly as she could. His coat, which she could now see was not black but a very dark aubergine, smelled strongly of roses. She could only hope she did not smell of decaying spuds.

“Oh, my poor darling,” Cary murmured in her hair. “What you must be suffering with that oaf.” Behind her back, she could feel him peeling off his gloves. In the next moment his warm hands slipped around the nape of her neck. Guiding her face up to his, he began to kiss her very softly, as if afraid of injuring her. Abigail shivered at the barest contact between his skin and hers.

“He’s filled the box with onion skins and rotting cabbages and black potatoes,” she complained. “It’s unspeakably foul. And your sister is an absolute menace.”

“Well, it’s all right, now,” he said, covering her mouth with his own and working her back into the curtains lining the wall, which he proceeded to pull around them as he continued kissing her. At first Abigail kissed him back passionately, but as the kiss deepened and she felt his hands stray to her breasts, she began to pull away. Blinded to everything else in his pursuit of pleasure, Cary trailed fiery kisses down her neck and his hands moved firmly down the front of her belly, drawing up her linen skirts in his fists. “I’ve missed you, Smith,” he murmured huskily. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.” He caught her hand and drew it to the front of his trousers. “Look what you’ve done to me.”

Abigail snatched her hands away.

This Cary could not fail to notice.

“I thought perhaps you might want to talk to me,” she said tartly, pushing her way out of the velvet curtains. Fortunately, at that moment, the corridor was empty. “Remember talking? It seems to me that all you ever want to do is…is
maul
me. I should like to think we might have
some
conversation sometime.”

“What shall we discuss?” he asked. His voice was light but he was frowning. “How do you like the play so far? Do you think it will rain?”

Abigail was suddenly very angry. It seemed to her that she had been enduring abuse all day, from his sister, from her father, and from the Duke. From him she had expected comfort. But theirs, she reminded herself, was purely a physical relationship, at least on his side. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to be just a desirable body to him.

“Am I supposed to forget that you called me a thief?” she snapped. “Just because you kissed me? Well, you are not
quite
so fascinating as you seem to think.”

“I was working up to an apology,” he said in an injured voice.

“Oh, yes?”

“You threw your arms around
me
, Smith,” he pointed out. “You started it. I was simply minding my own business. I had a lovely apology all worked out, in fact, and then you…you ruined it by attacking me with your amazingly soft little—”

“Augh!” said Abigail.

“Easy for you to say,” he observed without rancor. “Here,” he added, pulling a flat blue velvet jewel box out of his pocket. “I brought you something.”