Surrender to Sin (28 page)

Cary cast Abigail a look of strong reproach, but his bride remained unrepentant. As his sister continued to berate him, Abigail rose and put down her napkin. “Shall we have some music in the sitting room?”

The following day was Sunday. Mrs. Spurgeon claimed to be too ill to attend services, and Juliet refused to climb out of bed. Only Vera appeared when Cary called to take the ladies to church. Vera went back to her room for her gloves, which gave Cary and Abigail just a few moments together. “Where were you last night?” he demanded in a whisper. “There was a strange woman in your bed, possibly French.”

Abigail’s mouth fell open. It had never occurred to her that he would steal into the house with his sister under the roof. She had seriously underestimated his audacity, if not his lust. “Cary!
Juliet’s maid
is in my room.”

He was laughing. “Yes, I know. I met her. Delightful girl. I daresay it was not a new experience for the mademoiselle. She seemed quite
blase
, if that’s the word I want.”

Abigail’s blood ran cold, then hot. “Cary, you didn’t!”

“I had to,” he said innocently. “She expected a real presentation of the gifts.”

Abigail did something she had never done before. She hit a man as hard as she could. The blow landed harmlessly on his shoulder.

“What was I supposed to do?” he said, laughing. “Say, ‘Sorry, thought you were Smith,’ and steal away? I had to think of your reputation. I did it for you, monkey.”

Abigail glared at him. “You had better be joking, monkey,” she snapped.

“Well, I am, of course,” he admitted. “I think I managed to convince her I was looking for Mrs. Spurgeon. It was deuced embarrassing. And the poor prime minister! I told him he would be paying his respects to Her Majesty. He was quite looking forward to it. Guess his surprise when he suddenly found himself addressing his remarks to an alien government.”

In spite of herself, Abigail smiled.

“Will you meet me later?” he asked, lowering his voice further still.

“Cary, I can’t,” she whispered.

“But you’re leaving me tomorrow,” he pointed out. “The prime minister has something needful of the Queen’s review. It’s in the national interest.”

With very little coaxing, Abigail gave in, as he knew she would. “After luncheon,” she promised as Vera returned with breathless apologies and French gray gloves.

Monday morning came far too soon. Even though she was leaving much of her clothes at Tanglewood, and even though Cary had agreed that Paggles should not make the journey to London, there was still last minute packing to do, and to Abigail’s vexation, she could not find her little writing desk, which, in addition to her writing supplies, contained a number of personal effects she wished to keep with her. After thoroughly searching the nursery, it occurred to her that it might have been left in her old room, now occupied by Juliet’s maid. Muttering under her breath, she went down to retrieve it.

The hall was dark. Both bedroom doors were closed. Angel was under the table, gnawing assiduously at something propped between his paws. Abigail set down her candle and knelt down, half crawling under the table. “What have you got there?” she asked pleasantly. “More picture hanging wire? A rusty old nail, perhaps?”

She had previously discovered him chewing on both these things. Angel gave up his prize with a faint woof of complaint.

Abigail climbed to her feet and dried it off with her handkerchief. The lid of the little snuffbox was intact. It showed a pretty racehorse painted in enamel on a green background. The bottom half of the box, which appeared to have been made of fine gold, had been crunched in by the corgi’s powerful jaws. Abigail recognized it instantly; Captain Sir Horatio Cary had made such a point of showing it to her and everyone else.

“You bad dog!” she exclaimed. “Angel, how could you?”

Angel appeared hurt and perplexed by the stern tone of her voice.

“Never mind,” Abigail sighed, wrapping it up in her handkerchief and slipping it into her pocket. “I’ll take it to London, and see if it can’t be repaired.”

“Who are you talking to?” inquired a supercilious and unmistakable voice. “What are you doing under the table?”

Abigail climbed to her feet, bumping her head in the process and turned to face Miss Wayborn. The patrician girl was clad in a quilted velvet robe of royal purple. “I was just saying goodbye to the dog,” Abigail murmured as Juliet critically eyed her plain russet-colored traveling costume. “I wondered if your maid is awake yet?” Abigail went on. “I believe my writing slope was left behind when I quit the room so unexpectedly.”

“I’ll get it,” the other woman said coolly. “We can’t have you forgetting anything.”

“I assure you I won’t,” Abigail replied.

“Is this it?” Juliet asked a moment later.

“Thank you,” said Abigail, glad she had remembered to lock her traveling desk. She didn’t put it past the insufferable Juliet to read her private letters.

“Forgive me for not seeing you off,” said Juliet. “But as you can see I’m not dressed. I’ll wave to you from the window, shall I? Goodbye.”

Abigail was the last to enter the coach. “If she is not gone when I am back,” she quietly told Cary, who was pretending to check the trunks fastened behind the coach, “I believe I shall have the bailiff, after all, if only to preserve my sanity.”

He chuckled softly. “I’m going to miss you, Smith. Until you return to open Parliament, Mr. Prime Minister will be just a shadow of his former self.”

Abigail blushed.

“Goodbye, Cousin Smith!” Juliet cried sweetly, leaning out of an upper window and waving a large silk handkerchief in emphatic farewell.

“I mean it, Cary,” Abigail whispered as Cary escorted her to the carriage door and helped her inside. “I want her out.” She angrily settled into the seat next to Vera and pulled the rug over her knees.

Angel suddenly darted between Cary’s legs, in an ill-advised attempt to jump into the carriage. Cary hoisted him up and plopped him in Abigail’s lap. “Better take him, Smith,” he said crisply. “He’ll only howl inconsolably the whole time you’re gone.”

By the time the coach turned up the drive, the corgi was contentedly nibbling on Abigail’s gloves.

The morning journey passed pleasantly, with Mrs. Spurgeon sleeping almost the entire way. Abigail set her chaperone and the nurse in Baker Street in time for luncheon, then went on to Kensington alone. At the mansion, the butler informed her that her father was awaiting her in the Chinese drawing room. Abigail went straight there, pulling her bonnet strings as she walked.

She burst through the black and gold lacquered doors, then came to a sudden halt. Red Ritchie was not alone in the vast salon crammed with every possible example of chinoiserie.

“I beg your pardon!” she stammered, as the two men turned to look at her. Abigail’s father was considered tall, but the red-haired man with him was a giant. He wore rumpled clothes and a scowl on his face. He wasn’t handsome. As Angel darted into the room, however, Abigail saw what must have been his saving grace: a boyish grin that could not fail to charm. “A corgi!” he cried. “Haven’t seen one in years.”

In the next minute, he was down on the carpet, playing with the dog.

“Abigail!” cried Red Ritchie, waving her in. “May I present to you his noble grace, the Duke of Auckland?”

Abigail regarded the ugly giant in astonishment.
This is a duke?
she thought, watching him impersonate a Pembroke Welsh corgi. Then:
This is Miss Wayborn’s duke?

The Duke climbed to his feet and made a rather awkward bow. “Please, call me Geoffrey,” he said in a pleasant northern burr.

“Fifi?” Juliet inquired rather casually as her maid was artfully giving her hair the naturally windswept look, “have you seen that little green snuffbox? I can’t seem to find it anywhere. It’s rather important,” she added, suppressing a catlike yawn.

Thirty minutes later, Juliet was in a panic. Together, she and her maid tore the room apart in a wild search for the missing box that turned up empty. By the time they had finished doing the same to Fifi’s room, Juliet had reached a conclusion.

In the absence of his tenants, Cary was again master of the Manor. His sister found him in front of the fire in the main hall, cracking nuts over his newspaper.

“Someone has stolen Horatio’s snuffbox,” she announced.

Cary peacefully removed the meat from the nutshell and popped it in his mouth. “Not someone,” he retorted. “
You.
”

“No, you ass! I mean someone else has stolen it—from
me!
I think we both know who.”

Cary’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“That Smith person, obviously. If I were you, I’d check on your miniatures.”

Cary leaned back in his chair and looked at her. His sister was pacing up and down the room. “That’s absurd,” he told her sharply.

Juliet paid no attention. “Well, she won’t get away with it! I shall track her down and make her give it back!” She ground to a halt in front of him. “What is her address in London?”

Cary flushed.

“Don’t you know?” she demanded impatiently. “Good Lord! How did you find these people? You didn’t—you didn’t
advertise?
”

“No, of course not,” he said irritably. “They came highly recommended by a Mr. Leighton, a friend of Cousin Wilfred’s, an attorney, I believe. Look here, you may as well know that Abigail—Miss Smith—well, hang it all! For starts, her name is not Smith.”

“Really? I am all astonishment.”

“Her father is Lord Inchmery, which makes her…Dulwich’s sister.” He squirmed as he revealed this highly unpleasant information. “But that’s not her fault, obviously, and her mother
was
a Wayborn. She died when Abigail was very young.”

Juliet sighed. “Oh, you poor man,” she said softly. “She
has
got you all twisted, hasn’t she? For starts, Lord Dulwich has no sister. I know this for a fact because I have never met her.”

“That is scarcely proof of anything. You never met Napoleon, but I am fairly sure he exists.”

“For middles,” she went on relentlessly, “Lady Inchmery was a Bolger before she married, and
not
a Wayborn. You can look it up in any peerage. Oh, and she’s very much alive, is Lady Inchmery. I know because I
have
met
her
.”

Cary frowned. “Abigail is not a thief.”

At this moment, Mrs. Grimstock came into the room wringing her hands. “Oh, sir!” she cried. “The silver!”

“What about it?”

“It’s gone, sir!” she wailed. “I thought Polly might have taken it upon herself to polish it, but I might have known she hadn’t. When did she ever take it upon herself to do a lick of work when she could lay about? Every knife, fork, and spoon—gone!”

“Oh, dear,” Juliet murmured archly. “Not the spoons.”

Cary looked as though he had sustained a sharp blow to the solar plexis. “And the miniatures?” he asked faintly.

Mr. Tom Waller of the Bow Street Runners leaned across his desk and tapped the side of his nose knowledgeably as he heard the Wayborns’ complaint. “Sounds like a Soapy Sue,” he declared. “A confidence trickster of the female variety. Very cunning. She made off with the family plate, you say?”

“Yes,” said Cary, fidgeting with his stick. “All the household silver, and some rather valuable miniatures. The silver can be melted down; I don’t expect ever to see it again.”

“I was rather fond of Grandmama’s punch bowl,” Juliet chided her brother. “If I’d known you were filling the house with confidence tricksters, I should have stolen it myself.”

“But the miniatures, Mr. Waller,” Cary went on. “I should imagine there aren’t very many dealers in London who specialize in that sort of thing. That would be a good place to start.”

Waller grimaced. “She’ll have a buyer all worked out in advance. Or else she’ll sit on the merchandise until the search goes cold. Then she’ll sell them off one or two at a time.”

“I was given to understand they were more valuable when considered as a group.”

“And who gave you that understanding?” Juliet demanded. “Soapy Abigail, that’s who! Cary, how could you be so foolish? I thank God that the Cary emerald is safe in the family vault here in London. I don’t doubt she would have taken it as well.”

This was too much for Cary. He groaned aloud.

Juliet turned pale. “Oh, Cary, you didn’t! I suppose you
showed
it to her, and kept it in an unlocked drawer where anyone could get it.” She shook her head in disgust.

He looked at her guiltily. “No. It’s much worse. I gave it to her.”

Juliet’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean
you gave it to her?
You can’t have done. Oh, you mean you lost it to her at the card table? I make sure she cheated!”

“No,” Cary repeated significantly. “I gave it to her.”

“Do you mean…do you mean that you are
engaged
to this person?” Juliet shrieked.

Cary felt a wave of nausea so severe that he was forced to close his eyes for a brief moment. “I am,” he said quietly, “deeply committed to her.”

Juliet lapsed into a shocked silence.

Tom Waller’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, is
this
gentleman the victim?” he asked. “Forgive me, Mr. Wayborn, I had formed the impression that you were acting on behalf of an elderly relative. That’s the usual way of things. The Soapy Sue targets an elderly single gentleman starved for female attention. A little bit of beauty, a few smiles, and she’s got him eating out of her hand. That’s when the fleecing begins. I never heard of a handsome young gentleman like yourself being a victim.”

Cary’s devoted sister laughed derisively. “She wasn’t even pretty, Mr. Waller,” she revealed. “
I
saw through her, of course, but my poor brother was completely taken in.”

“She was the loveliest creature I ever beheld,” said Cary, staring moodily into space. “Her eyes were like amber. Her hair was the color of a Venetian sunset. And her skin is sprinkled with gold.”

Juliet shook her head sadly. “
Freckles
, Mr. Waller, and a frightful shock of orange hair.”

“Sometimes it’s the plain ones that is the deadliest,” Mr. Waller said compassionately. “Them that has no beauty has got to rely on brains. Now, they usually pretend to have some claim on the old gentleman.”

“She’s supposedly our cousin,” Juliet said eagerly. “Total lie, of course, but just plausible enough to fool my halfwit brother.”

Mr. Waller went on, “Maybe there’s a sick old mother, or auntie?”

“There’s a Paggles,” Cary revealed reluctantly.

“A what?” Juliet demanded, wrinkling her nose.

“Her old nurse, a septuagenarian of fuddled wits, whom Miss Smith has left on my hands. On the positive side, she
is
knitting me a lovely green muffler.”

Mr. Waller pursed his lips. “I would say, sir, that ‘Smith’ is not the lady’s real name.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Juliet snapped. “Look here, what about my snuffbox? Cary, I’m sorry that you were stupid, and that you let yourself be taken in by this preposterous female, but
I
have done nothing to deserve this. Mr. Waller, it is of the utmost importance that you find the thief and get me back my snuffbox. Naturally, I shall pay to have her prosecuted.”

“Juliet!” Cary objected. “She’d be transported or hanged.”

Juliet looked at him, puzzled. “Yes. And?”

Cary glared at her. “Moreover, if you did prosecute her—which you won’t—certain
inconvenient
facts about that bloody snuffbox are bound to come out.
Miss Smith
mayn’t be the only one hanged as a result.”

“Don’t be silly,” Juliet scoffed. “Horatio would never pay to have me prosecuted.”

Mr. Waller shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Yes, I thought that snuffbox sounded familiar,” he murmured. “Gold, enameled, with a brown horse painted on the lid.”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Juliet said eagerly.

“A gentleman reported just such a snuffbox missing only yesterday. He swears it was under his pillow when he went to sleep Saturday night, but in the morning, it was gone.”

Juliet had the grace to blush. “How very curious,” she murmured. “When you
do
find the snuffbox,” she went on hurriedly, “you must bring it to
me
immediately, and not to this other gentleman. I shall, of course, compensate you. Let us say…
twice
your normal fee?”

Mr. Waller’s eyes glinted appreciatively. “I understand, Miss Wayborn. I’ll find your Soapy Sue, don’t you worry. I’ll get you your snuffbox.”

He seemed a little too eager for Cary’s taste. “Now, she’s not to be harmed,” he said firmly. “If you do apprehend her, I just want to talk to her. You are not to be rough with her. If she is harmed, I shall be very angry, Mr. Waller. Do you understand?”

The Runner shrugged. “Just as you like, sir. Kid gloves, sir. I understand completely. I’ll treat her like the runaway daughter of a royal duke. Never fear. You’d be surprised, though. Some fellows pay a little extra to see ’em roughed up a bit, if you see what I mean. I’ve got a good description of the thief. Is there anything else you can tell me about her? Anything that might help me in my search?”

“She likes poetry and old houses,” said Cary.

“And Scotch whisky!” said Juliet. “My maid found a bottle in her room. Oh, and she’s got a gray cloak trimmed in the most exquisite silver fox you ever saw in your life. I suppose she stole that too, or else got some fuddled and lonely old man to buy it for her. She’ll have it on her back when you catch her, I don’t doubt.”

“Now that I think of it,” murmured the Runner, “I do recall a girl who answers that description.” He found another sheaf of papers and shuffled through them, occasionally pausing to squint at the writing. “Ah, here it is. Different name, of course.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “Lord D—’s diamond ring went missing. The thief was a wily little redhead.”

“Lord Derby!” cried Juliet. “She flies pretty high, I must say.”

“No, not Lord Derby,” Waller hastened to correct her. “Another Lord D.”

Juliet accepted the challenge. “Dorchester? Durham? Darlinghead? Doncaster? Devize?” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Who have I forgotten?”

“Dulwich,” Cary said grimly, squeezing his eyes shut. A hell-broth of conflicting emotions battled for control of him. The loss of his possessions infuriated him, but the loss of Abigail had ripped his heart out. He had trusted her, and she had repaid him by stealing from him. He was enraged and humiliated by her betrayal. These feelings were natural.

Unnatural was the overwhelming fear for her safety and the powerful desire he had to protect her. If Dulwich found her first, she would certainly be hanged for stealing his diamond. The thought of Abigail in danger was enough to throw him into a blind panic. “No wonder she hid behind the counter when she saw him,” Cary muttered. “She’d stolen his bloody diamond.”

He remembered the stark terror in her eyes when she had first spied Dulwich on the day they met. Yes, he had to protect her. The silver, the miniatures, even the bloody Cary emerald…these were of no importance to him. Suddenly, nothing mattered to him but saving Abigail.

“I remember that,” Juliet was telling Mr. Waller. “I was away from Town at the time, but there was some sort of scandal. This girl was supposed to have been an heiress or something. She deceived Lord Dulwich just as she deceived my poor brother.”

“Masters of deception, they are. Or should I say mistresses?” Mr. Waller laughed bibulously. “These shady underworld tricksters is better than any actress in Drury Lane. Some of them
is
actresses, as a matter of fact. Why, there was one little cockney passing herself off as a Portuguese countess, if you like, and for twelve years no one was the wiser.”

“Lord Carlowe’s mistress,” Juliet said knowledgeably.

Cary scarcely heard the chatter. He was thinking hard, trying to remember any information Abigail might have inadvertently revealed that might now give him a clue as to her whereabouts in London. At Hatchard’s Bookshop, she had claimed to have been waiting for her father, but could that have been a lie, too?

Juliet started in surprise as her brother suddenly shot out of his chair. “Come, Juliet, we’re going,” he said curtly, putting on his hat.

“What on earth—!” Juliet squawked as he pulled her out of her chair. “I was talking to Mr. Waller! He has such interesting stories.”

Cary grabbed his sister by the arm and propelled her out the door. Juliet protested loudly until her brother lowered his voice and spoke in her ear. “I know how to find her.”

“You do? How?”

“Quiet!” he snapped, pushing his way through the crowded waiting room. He did not speak again until he took up the reins of his team of chestnuts outside. Wistfully, he thought of the girl who couldn’t tell a chestnut from a bay.

“Well?” Juliet demanded. “Where is your doxy with Venetian sunset eyes?”

“They know her at Hatchard’s,” he said. “The clerk was remarkably solicitous. And if her name isn’t on the list for Mr. Coleridge’s new book, I’ll eat my boots.”

Juliet scowled. “Why couldn’t you tell the Runners that? It’s their job to go chasing after people like her. I’m tired. I’ve got a headache, and I want my tea. Take me to Park Lane.”

Cary lost his temper. “Juliet, could you please for two minutes stop behaving like a spoiled brat? Honestly, I’m ashamed of you!”

Juliet gaped at him.

“I have no intention of letting Bow Street Runners anywhere near Abigail. We have to find her before Dulwich does. If he finds her first, she’s as good as hanged!”

“She deserves to hang,” Juliet sullenly pointed out. “She’s a bloody thief.”

“I don’t believe she stole his diamond,” Cary said angrily. “I believe he gave it to her.”

“You think she tricked him the same way she tricked you? Disgusting.”

“Nobody tricked me.”

“How can you say that? What about your miniatures? Your silver? My snuffbox?”

“I don’t give a toss about those bloody miniatures,” Cary declared grimly. “Ditto the silver. As for the snuffbox…your possessive pronoun is sadly incorrect. It is
not
your snuffbox. She may be a thief, but she’s not the only one!”

Juliet was indignant. “I may be a thief, but I am
not
a Soapy Sue! I don’t break the glass in people’s curio cabinets. I don’t go about the place cozening lonely old bachelors—like you—who are starved for female companionship.”

“No,” he retorted. “You merely hide in the furniture, then sneak out in the middle of the night and steal things while your victim sleeps.”

“Precisely! How
can
you compare my harmless little prank to her shameless larceny?” she demanded. “This girl has bewitched you with her freckles. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I don’t care,” he replied as he negotiated his way out of the Strand and into St. James’s. “I don’t care what she’s done. I will not see her life cut short by Pudding-face Dulwich. Besides which, I gave her my ring to some purpose. I made a pledge to her and she to me. By God, she will honor that pledge.”

Juliet gasped. “You
don’t
mean you still intend to marry her after all she’s done?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. “I certainly don’t.”

“You’re in love with her,” Juliet accused him angrily. “You priceless ass! The girl’s a common thief. God only knows where she comes from. God only knows how many men she’s swindled. Quaking old men, too. Disgusting!”

“I don’t care where she comes from. I don’t care how many men she’s swindled. I love her. I don’t say it’s convenient,” Cary added apologetically. “But there it is.”

“Well, it’s not convenient at all,” Juliet said sulkily. “What will our brother say? A thief for a sister-in-law? He wants to be Home Secretary, you know.”

Cary could not help but chuckle as he pictured the reaction of his strait-laced brother, Sir Benedict Wayborn. “He believes in reform,” he told his sister. “I’ll reform her.”

As it was still quite early in the Season, traffic in Piccadilly was relatively light. Cary was able to drive up the street and stop at Hatchard’s. After helping his sister alight from the curricle, he instructed his groom to walk the horses up and down. He did not expect his business to take up much time.

To his relief, the senior clerk was on duty in the quiet shop. “May I help you, sir?” Mr. Eldridge asked politely, looking up from the morning receipts. “Madam,” he added, giving Juliet a courteous bow.

Juliet seemed to forget the purpose of their errand. “Have you got anything new from Mr. Walter Scott?” she asked eagerly. “I heard—”

Cary pushed his sister aside. “I’m looking for a girl, Eldridge. Well, not just any girl.
The
girl, if you see what I mean. I came in with her the last time I was here, perhaps two weeks before Christmas? The shop was very busy.”