Lady Sabrina’s Secret (6 page)

They decided to use the Masterson town carriage that
afternoon
and set off after a light luncheon. As the carriage drew up outside the Sydney Hotel, Deborah saw that a poster was being nailed to a nearby tree. It announced Kate Hatherley's appearance at the Theatre Royal that night and exhorted all to attend if they wished to see the very finest player in the world.

Except for riders, access to the Sydney Gardens was gained by way of the hotel itself, and Deborah and Mrs McNeil walked through the building and out into the gardens at the rear. As luck would have it, only one of the rides was in use that day, and it was toward this that the two women made their way, taking up a vantage point by a wide-spreading evergreen to watch the elegant ladies and gentlemen on their glossy mounts. There weren't many ladies, however, for displaying one's equestrian skills in Sydney Gardens was a mainly masculine pursuit.

‘What if Sir James decides not to come here today?' Deborah asked, surveying the cavalcade.

‘Then there is the theater tonight or the assembly room ball tomorrow, but I feel certain he will be here today. Yes,
there he is now! Do you see that gentleman on the bright chestnut Arabian? – the one with the two greyhounds following?'

‘Yes.'

‘That is Sir James Uppingham.'

Deborah stared across at him. He was tall and lean, and had sandy hair which he chose to wear in rather
exaggerated
Apollo curls, but as he turned his horse, she saw that he did indeed merit being called a weasel, for he was
thin-faced
, and his eyes were set close together above his rather pointed nose. He wore a beige riding coat and white breeches, and he rode at a pace which best showed off his mount's equine beauty. The Arabian was indeed worth displaying, for it was one of the most magnificent horses Deborah had ever seen, with a shining coat, a beautiful arched neck and dished head, and, as was the fashion for the breed, its tail was long and loose, flowing like silk behind it as it cantered along the broad grass ride. The greyhounds padded at its heels, all in all giving Sir James every appearance of being very much a man of fashion and position.

‘I will call him,' Mrs McNeil declared, and before Deborah could say anything, that was precisely what she did. ‘Sir James? A moment of your time, I beg of you.'

He reined in and turned to see who was hailing him, and there was no smile on his face as he recognized Mrs McNeil. It was plain that he had no particular desire to speak to someone who had been making her hostility so very clear in recent days.

Mrs McNeil called again. ‘Oh, please, Sir James, for I do so wish to apologize to you,' she cried.

Reluctantly he urged his horse toward them, and as he
approached, Deborah saw that his was an inscrutable, veiled visage. If Lady Ann had confounded her by
appearing
to be the very opposite of what had been expected, everything about Sir James suggested a devious nature. His eyes were pale and of a color somewhere between hazel and blue, and his lashes were so pale that they were barely visible against his skin. His lips were full and rather
sensuous
, but they were unsmiling as he reined in before them. He removed his tall hat and inclined his head, but although his manner was civil enough, his eyes remained cold and guarded.

‘Madam?' he murmured to Mrs McNeil, and then his glance slid to Deborah.

Mrs McNeil quickly introduced her. ‘Sir James, this is Mrs Marchant; she is a friend of my niece's and is staying with me for the time being.'

‘Mrs Marchant.' Her surname did not arouse even a flicker of interest in him.

Deborah inclined her head in reply. ‘Sir James,' she murmured.

Mrs McNeil cleared her throat uncomfortably. ‘You must forgive me for accosting you like this, Sir James, but I fear that I have a confession to make.'

‘A confession?'

‘Yes. You see, I have been gravely at fault over Mr Wexford, and I have already made my peace with Lady Ann, and now I must endeavor to do so with you. I regret being gulled by him, sir, and I now fully accept that he behaved monstrously over the matter of poor Lady Ann's necklace. I would be very grateful if you would accept my sincere apology.'

Sir James studied her for a long moment, and then his
eyes cleared a little. ‘Of course I accept your apology, madam,' he said graciously.

‘Oh, thank you, thank you so much. You don't
know
how relieved I am.' Mrs McNeil was all smiles, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘Shall we see you at the theater tonight, Sir James?'

‘Er, no, Lady Sabrina and I have been invited to dine at Prior Park,' he replied.

Deborah's heart had almost stopped within her. Lady Sabrina?

Mrs McNeil beamed at him. ‘But of course! How remiss of me to forget to congratulate you upon your betrothal. I wish you and dear Lady Sabrina every happiness in the future.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Please say that you will be attending the assembly room ball, for I would so like to extend my congratulations to her in person.'

‘Yes, we are attending. But for the moment, you must excuse me….' His mount was impatient and had been capering about for several seconds.

‘Yes, of course. Good day to you, Sir James.'

‘Good day to you, Mrs McNeil. Mrs Marchant.' Touching his hat to Deborah, he turned the restive horse away and urged it into a canter.

Deborah stared after him, her mind racing. Lady Sabrina? A betrothal? Surely it had to be Richard's Sabrina!

Mrs McNeil looked at her in concern. ‘Is something wrong, my dear?'

‘When was Sir James betrothed to Lady Sabrina?' she asked.

‘When? Let me see, it was the day after Richard left Bath.
Yes, that was when it took place.'

‘Was it a long-planned contract?'

Mrs McNeil was puzzled at the questions. ‘Yes, as it happens it was. The arrangement was first made by their late fathers. Why do you ask?'

‘Mrs McNeil, who exactly is Lady Sabrina?'

‘Lady Sabrina Sinclair, the Duke of Gretton's only sister.'

Not the Duke of Gretton again. He seemed to be at every corner!

Mrs McNeil studied her. ‘My dear, I trust you are going to explain?'

Deborah nodded. ‘Yes, but first I must beg you to accept my apologies, for I haven't been as forthcoming with you as I might have been. There are things I haven't said because Richard instructed me not to, but now I think I must tell you everything I know. Please let's walk, for I feel so guilty that I can't just stand here.'

‘As you wish.'

They strolled slowly away from the ride, and Deborah related what had happened when she'd returned from her clifftop ride and found the package waiting for her. When she'd finished she faced Mrs McNeil. ‘I cannot believe that Richard's Sabrina and Sir James's Lady Sabrina are two different people. Too many facts tally.'

‘They do indeed, for Lady Sabrina is everything that Richard would find irresistible. She is small and dainty, with golden hair and the sweetest of natures. He could not help but love her, I'm sure. And what is more, although the match is an arranged one, Sir James has always adored her. For him it isn't a mere contract but a love match. I have often wondered what she thought, and now I know. She didn't want to be betrothed to Sir James because she was in
love with Richard, but her brother the duke was for the Uppingham match because he saw it as his filial duty to continue with a contract he knew his father had wished for, and which he quite probably believed met with Sabrina's own approval. She has certainly never given any hint to the contrary.' Mrs McNeil drew a long breath. ‘How sad that she and Richard felt their only course was to elope.'

‘Which they would have done but for the intervention of Sir James and Lady Ann,' Deborah observed.

‘True. Well, we have Sir James's motive, do we not? He must have found out, and I'm sure he would do anything to rid himself of a rival, but I still cannot think why Lady Ann would lend herself to such a despicable scheme.'

‘It is Lady Sabrina who is of more interest to me,' Deborah murmured. ‘I must speak to her somehow.'

‘My dear, Richard wanted her to be left alone; his letter appears to have made that very clear indeed.'

‘I know, but I cannot stand idly by and do nothing. He is my brother and I love him very much, too much to obey him in this. I will not let Sir James and Lady Ann get away with what they've done, nor will I permit Lady Sabrina Sinclair to be safe with her secret if it is at Richard's expense.'

‘I admire your spirit, my dear, but feel I should point out that if you approach Lady Sabrina, you will have the Duke of Gretton to contend with. He will not suffer any scandal to touch his sister's name, as touch it it will if it gets out that she and Richard were planning an elopement. The Bath gossip-mongers would have a grand time with such a snippet, make no mistake, and the duke would not take kindly to that.'

‘Oh, plague take the Duke of Gretton! Would he rather
his sister married a villainous rogue than an honorable man like Richard? If that is so, then His Grace of Gretton is more of a toad than I already believe.'

Mrs McNeil fell silent. With this new revelation of Lady Sabrina's involvement, she sensed that there were
considerable
storms ahead.

The gown Deborah chose to wear to the theater that night was made of delicate silver-gray silk which brought out the color of her eyes. It was high-waisted, with little puffed sleeves and a low square neckline, and the material was so sheer and clinging that it showed off every curving line of her figure. With it she wore the amethyst necklace and earrings that Jonathan had given her on their wedding day, long white gloves, white silk stockings, and little silver satin slippers that matched the lozenge-shaped reticule looped over her wrist. Her appearance was completed by a knotted silver shawl and a folded ivory fan she wore over the same wrist as the reticule. Amy combed her coal black hair up into a knot from which tumbled several heavy ringlets, and the only adornment to her coiffure was a tiny posy of violets.

It was the first time in three years that she had dressed for such an occasion as this, and as she studied herself in the long cheval glass in the corner of her candlelit bedroom, she found herself remembering times gone by when Jonathan would have come into her room before they left. He would always stand behind her, meeting her eyes in the
mirror as he whispered how beautiful she was. Then he would always bend his head to kiss her naked shoulder.

She closed her eyes, conscious of a frisson of pleasure, for the memory was so real that the touch of his lips was almost tangible. But when she opened her eyes again, she wasn't in their room at St Mary Magna or their London town house in Berkeley Square; instead she was here in Royal Crescent, with all the problems of the present around her.

She turned from the cheval glass and glanced around the room. It was prettily decorated with yellow-and-
white-striped
Chinese silk on the walls, and a blue carpet on the floor. There was a blue-canopied four-poster bed, a fireside chair upholstered in golden brocade, several wardrobes, and a dressing table that was draped with frilled white muslin. The single tall window faced out over the front of the house, and the fringed yellow velvet curtains were firmly drawn against the chill of the night air outside. It was warm inside, however, with candles and firelight to lend a gently moving glow, and the fragrance of roses was heady from the vial of scent Amy had knocked over a little earlier. The maid was now tidying the dressing table, putting away unused pins, carefully arranging her mistress's silver-handled brushes and combs, and then tidying the Chinese cosmetic box that had provided the rouge on Deborah's lips and cheeks, and the touch of white powder to stop her nose from shining.

A carriage drew up outside, and the maid hurried to look out. ‘It's time, madam,' she said, turning to fetch Deborah's purple velvet evening cloak from the fireside chair, where it had been keeping warm.

With the knotted shawl carefully rolled up and tucked
beneath the cloak, Deborah left the bedroom and went downstairs to the hall, where Mrs McNeil was waiting for her. The older woman wore a scarlet satin cloak that was warmly lined with swansdown, and beneath it she had on an emerald green tunic dress over a simple white silk slip with a black Roman key design around the hem. On her head was a white silk turban with aigrettes fixed to the side, and she wore an emerald necklace.

A few minutes later Sanders closed the carriage door and then nodded to the coachman, and the team strained forward to make the brief journey down through Bath to the Theatre Royal. The route took them through Queen Square, where Sir James Uppingham resided, and Mrs McNeil pointed out his house, which had green shutters and occupied a pleasant corner position. His carriage was waiting at the door, in readiness to convey him first to Royal Crescent for Lady Sabrina, and then to take them both on to their dinner engagement at Prior Park, a large mansion on the hillside overlooking Bath from the far side of the spa limits. Deborah wished that he and the lady were attending the theater instead, for she dearly wished to see Lady Sabrina Sinclair, who was the cause of so much
trouble
for Richard.

One of the theater footmen hastened to open the carriage door as Deborah and Mrs McNeil arrived, and as Deborah was assisted down she was a little daunted by the crush of elegant theatergoers filling the vestibule. The light from a number of chandeliers fell upon the uniforms, decorations, and formal black velvet of the gentlemen, and upon the costly gowns, jewels, plumes, and naked shoulders of the ladies. Fans wafted to and fro, quizzing glasses were raised, and the drawl of polite conversation drifted out as
Deborah and Mrs McNeil mounted the shallow flight of steps and then entered the building.

More footmen came to relieve them of their cloaks and assist with their shawls, and two small boys dressed as Turkish potentates came to give them program sheets. Then they were left to mingle as they chose, or to go directly to their box. They had previously decided upon the latter course, but the staircase was so crowded that progress was virtually impossible, and as they waited for the way to clear a little, Deborah glanced back toward the doorway. She was in time to see the Duke of Gretton enter.

His gray hair was quite startling as he removed the cocked hat that was
de rigueur
for the theater, and then he turned for a footman to divest him of his cloak. Formal evening black became him very well, and his white silk breeches outlined his long legs. His neckcloth was lavishly trimmed with lace, and there was more lace on the front of his shirt and spilling from the cuff of his tightly cut coat. He wore a partially buttoned white satin waistcoat, and there was a diamond pin on the knot of his neckcloth. The pin flashed as he turned back again to accept his cocked hat and tuck it under his arm. He was every inch a
distinguished
gentleman of elegance and fashion, but one could not judge a book by its cover, for when one opened the volume that was Rowan Sinclair, one found a very disagreeable text indeed.

Suddenly he looked directly toward her, almost as if he felt the close scrutiny to which he was being subjected. With a white-gloved hand he toyed with the lace spilling from his cuff, and then he looked away again. Not by so much as a flicker of his eyes did he acknowledge even recognizing her. She felt dull color flooding into her cheeks,
and she too looked away. To her relief the crush on the staircase began to clear, and she and Mrs McNeil were able to move away from the vestibule toward the auditorium and the private boxes.

The Mastersons' box was placed advantageously near the stage, and its two occupants enjoyed a comfort and space denied to nearly everyone else, for most of the other boxes were filled to capacity.

It was some time before Deborah again noticed the Duke of Gretton. He was in one of the few other almost empty boxes and was lounging back in his chair staring at a point somewhere near the top of the drop curtain. He was lost in thought, and on this occasion did not feel her gaze upon him. She wondered what he was thinking about. Most probably it was the delightful prospect of seeing his mistress.

Two men began to light the lamps along the foot of the stage, and the audience fell silent, settling back expectantly for the curtain to rise. Deborah glanced again at Rowan Sinclair. He wasn't lounging in his chair now but was sitting forward, his attention fully upon the brilliant stage as the curtain rose and
As You Like It
commenced.

Kate Hatherley was as beautiful and talented as Deborah remembered. She had a mane of rich chestnut curls, lustrous hazel eyes, and the sort of presence on stage that most players would have killed for. When she was there she dominated everything, and never had the role of Rosalind been better performed. It wasn't until just before the intermission that Deborah noticed how frequently the actress's warm glance went to her lover in his private box, and as for the duke, his gaze scarcely wavered from his magnificent mistress. Deborah still harbored uncharitable
thoughts where Rowan Sinclair was concerned, and she could not believe that someone as vibrant and full of
joie de vivre
as Kate Hatherley could be enthralled by such an
arrogant
and impossible man. Evidently he had hidden
qualities
, but they were so well hidden that in her opinion they were buried beyond all detection!

When it came the intermission was very welcome indeed, for the theater was very hot and many of the
audience
wished to take advantage of the refreshing drinks provided in the vestibule. Deborah and Mrs McNeil were no exceptions, for the thought of iced lime cup was very enticing indeed, and so they left their box to make their way down the staircase again. The babble of voices in the vestibule was so loud that it was hard to make oneself heard, and as Deborah left Mrs McNeil and pushed her way toward the table where the drinks were to be acquired, Rowan Sinclair was the last person on her mind. But she was about to remember him again, and in circumstances as unpleasing as the two other occasions upon which they'd met.

She had almost fought her way to the table when she trod upon the cocked hat dropped by a gentleman to her left. She immediately stooped to retrieve it and brush the dust of her footprint from its pristine black surface, and then she raised her eyes to the gentleman concerned. Her heart sank at the virtual inevitability of finding that it was the Duke of Gretton.

His blue eyes were coolly resigned. ‘Is there something about my taste in apparel which offends you, Mrs Marchant?' he inquired, his voice raised in order to be heard above the hubbub.

‘Your apparel is of no interest to me, sirrah, but rather is
it you yourself that offends me,' she replied, not bothering to brush the remaining dust from the hat, but simply thrusting it into his hand.

He glanced down at the unfortunate hat, and then met her gaze again. ‘Will you grant me one small favor, madam? Please promise me that you will not be attending the next assembly room ball, for if you do I fear we are bound to meet once again, and I shudder to imagine what catastrophe might further befall my innocent clothing.'

Her gray eyes flashed. ‘Sirrah, you alone have been responsible for every mishap that has occurred when you and I have met, and if you are becoming fearful for your sartorial perfection, I suggest that you should be the one to stay away from the ball, not me.'

With that she turned her back on him, and proceeded to the table to request two glasses of the lime cup. Then, being very careful to steer well clear of him, she pushed her way back out of the crush to where Mrs McNeil was waiting.

The older woman had witnessed the latest heated exchange. ‘Oh, dear, things appear to be going from bad to worse where you and the duke are concerned,' she murmured, sipping the deliciously cold drink.

‘It was hardly my fault that he dropped his wretched hat.'

‘No, but if you wish to approach his sister, might it not have been more sensible to adopt a less antagonistic manner?'

Deborah lowered her glance and sighed. ‘You are right, of course, but it is very difficult to maintain one's temper when one is spoken to as I was a moment ago. “Is there something about my apparel which offends you, Mrs Marchant?” She mimicked his voice, and then pulled a face.

Mrs McNeil smiled. ‘I grant you that such an inquiry was calculated to goad.'

‘It was indeed,' Deborah replied, turning to glance toward him again, but he was nowhere to be seen. ‘No doubt he's eager to feast his eyes upon his inamorata again,' she observed acidly.

‘As well he might, for she is very lovely, and, I have to confess, she is also extremely talented. I cannot fault her performance, can you?'

‘No.'

The bell was ringing to summon everyone back to their seats, and they quickly finished their glasses before
rejoining
the flow of people on the staircase. Within a few minutes the performance continued, but the latest encounter with the duke had unsettled Deborah so that she took little pleasure in what was left of the evening. She was conscious of his presence across the auditorium, and when she glanced toward him, once or twice she found his gaze upon her. This was even more unsettling, and she was mightily relieved when the curtain was lowered for the last time, and Kate stepped before it to receive the audience's justifiable adulation. She took curtsy after curtsy, and
flowers
were thrown at her feet as the applause echoed endlessly around the auditorium. When Deborah glanced once more toward Rowan Sinclair's box, she saw that it was empty.

The jam of carriages and sedan chairs outside the theater was quite unbelievable, and it was made far worse because the narrow streets nearby were really unsuitable for large vehicles. It was chilly standing by the steps waiting for their carriage to reach them, and in the end Deborah and Mrs McNeil could bear it no more but hastened along the 
lamplit pavement to where they could see their vehicle in the long line that was moving at snails' pace around the square.

They climbed thankfully inside, and as Deborah settled back in her seat, she looked out and saw that they were actually close to the alley that led to the stage door at the rear of the theater. She could see the door, and in the light of the lamp above it she saw a gentleman waiting. The door opened then, and Kate emerged. She wore a white satin cloak with apricot fur trimming, and she smiled at the gentleman, who immediately drew her into his arms and kissed her on the lips. The lamplight fell upon his face, and Deborah stared as she unwillingly observed the skill and passion with which the Duke of Gretton embraced his beautiful mistress. To her unutterable relief the carriage began to move forward, carrying her past the alley so that she couldn't see anything more, and a moment after that the coachman managed to see an opening in the crush ahead and maneuvered the vehicle clear of the crush. Soon he was bringing the team up to a smart trot for the drive back up through the town to Royal Crescent.

As Deborah and Mrs McNeil alighted at their door, their attention was immediately drawn along the crescent to the last house, where another carriage was just drawing up. Deborah paused, for she recognized the vehicle as being the same one which had earlier been outside Sir James Uppingham's residence in Queen Square. As she watched, Sir James himself climbed quickly down and hastened to the house, where he knocked urgently at the door before hurrying back to the carriage. Light flooded out as the butler opened the door and looked out. Sir James shouted something to him, and the butler hurried out to assist him.
They both gently helped a lady down. She was half-
swooning
, and Sir James had to lift her from her feet to carry her into the house.