Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  Sabrina’s advent in London had changed all that. With not a word being spoken, tradesmen had suddenly seemed to know that another claimant to the dowager’s fortune had appeared, and were suddenly more reluctant to extend him the credit he had always depended on. He still managed to live up to the standards to which he was accustomed, of course; his clothing was finely cut and as expensive as any other dandy’s, and he had entree almost everywhere. There was no denying, however, that matters were growing serious. Something would have to be done, soon. If only his little cousin weren’t already attached, he might go after her.

  His hand went still. Well, why not? Sabrina was only engaged, not married. She could change her mind. Perhaps she could be made to change her mind, in his favor. Bainbridge was a catch, true, but he could be a dry stick, especially for someone Sabrina’s age. Perhaps she would prefer someone closer to her age, like himself. He was said to be charming, was he not? And he was well enough in appearance. Why shouldn’t she turn to him, if he handled her just right? And then he wouldn’t have to worry about money anymore. If it meant stealing a march on Oliver, so much the better.

  Reginald rose, tossing the unopened bills into the empty, unswept fireplace. He had a plan at last. There was no time to waste, in getting it under way. “Finch!” he roared, and went into his bedchamber, to attire himself as a man of fashion should for an afternoon visit to his mother.

  Late afternoon, and the house was quiet. Sabrina had heard the door knocker earlier, but the visitor, if there had been one, had either gone away again or was closeted with Gwendolyn. Oliver was at the Foreign Office, and so the time was right for her to do something she knew deep in her soul was wrong. It was time for her to accede to Tenbroeck’s demands.

  Carefully, she tiptoed down the stairs to the ground floor, pausing halfway down to lean over the balustrade. As she had expected, there was a footman on duty in the front hall, and that was going to be a problem. If he looked at just the wrong moment, he would see her go into Oliver’s study, and that would never do. She wanted there to be absolutely no suspicion as to her activities.

  There was nothing for it. Taking a deep breath, Sabrina went down the rest of the stairs and turned, smiling up at the footman as she did so. “I think I’ll get a book to read,” she said, and the footman, though trained to be impassive, unbent enough to return her smile.

  “Very good, miss,” he said, and as she walked away, Sabrina could feel his eyes on her. Thank heavens she had thought to provide herself with an excuse, and thank heavens the book-room was quite close to Oliver’s study, just across the corridor, in fact. She cast a glance back down at the footman and smiled again, and then went into the book-room, leaning back against the oak paneled door as it closed behind her. There, that was done! She was certain her guilty mission showed on her face, but apparently it did not. Now she would just have to hope that the footman did not see her leave the book-room, or remark which room she left when she had completed her task.

  Grabbing a book at random off the shelves, she opened the door a crack and peeked out. The footman was at his post again, and from this angle she could only see part of him. Leaning out a bit, she saw that his head was turned toward the front door, and decided to take her chance. The book-room door closed silently behind her, the knob on the door of Oliver’s study turned noiselessly under her fingers, and then she was inside, blessing the efficient Bainbridge servants who kept locks and hinges well-oiled and quiet. Now she had only to worry about finding the proper document, and making her escape.

  Standing again with her back to the door, Sabrina surveyed the room, Oliver’s preserve. She had only been in here when he wished to scold her, and so she had never really noticed the furnishings. It was a decidedly masculine room, dominated by a huge kneehole desk in mahogany, with two green leather armchairs, their backs tufted and set with brass studs, set facing it. Two other chairs were in front of the fireplace, which had been freshly-laid, but was unlit. Burgundy velvet curtains hung at the tall windows and the carpet underfoot was thickly woven in tones of deep red and blue. It was a very attractive room, but this was not the time for such a survey, she told herself severely. She had other things to do.

  Crossing the room, she went over to the desk. Its brown leather-covered surface was nearly bare, except for a silver inkstand and matching letter opener, and a leather letter box. Sabrina tested the lid of the box, and, when it opened easily, reached inside with trembling fingers for the papers she saw there. To her disappointment, the papers dealt with such items as estate matters and the cost of a new coat from Weston. Sabrina looked at this last with fascination. And he has the nerve to scold me for running up bills for my clothing! she thought, before recalling herself to her task and shutting the box. Though she wanted to learn as much about Oliver as this room could tell her, this was not the time. She had to find that document, or her pleasant, happy life would be in serious danger.

  Sitting in Oliver’s chair, she began to open the desk drawers. The top one contained a crystal pen tray, several blotters, and nibs of various sizes, but little else. Drawers on the left contained Oliver’s stationery, with the Bainbridge crest emblazoned on top, and records of his correspondence. She was growing impatient as she flicked through the copies of letters to people in the government or to tradesmen, and, frustrated, she closed the drawer. It had to be here someplace, she thought, reaching for the top drawer on the right, and pulling. It didn’t budge.

  Excitement filled her as she leaned back in the chair. A quick survey of the remaining drawers had shown her that, while they were not locked, neither did they contain the paper she sought. It had to be in that one locked drawer, she thought, pounding her fist lightly on the top of the desk. How was she to get at it? Of course Oliver had not conveniently left his keys for her. No, she would not be able to get the document out that way, but how?

  Her eyes roamed the room, seeking a solution, and came to rest on the letter opener. Of course! Seizing it, she jumped up from the chair and then knelt before the desk, carefully studying the lock. No, the letter opener would never do, she thought regretfully, putting it back on the desk. It was too large, but she had hairpins aplenty. They might serve.

  In his misspent youth, Gerald Carrick had expended a great deal of energy finding ways out of rooms into which he had been locked as punishment. Along the way he had learned to pick locks. He had passed the skill along to his daughter. Sabrina, struggling with a bent hairpin, thought ironically that at that moment she had never prized anything from him so much. She only wished she had the set of picklocks he had once won gambling and then promptly lost again.

  Carefully Sabrina manipulated the hairpins, one in each hand, using them as keys. Again and again the hairpins slipped, and again she withdrew them and tried again, patiently searching for the tumblers. But at last the hairpins caught, and held. Slowly, ever so carefully, Sabrina put pressure on them, turning—and the hairpins slipped.

  She fell back, her eyes squeezed shut, fighting the desire to cry in frustration. Her shoulders ached with tension, and she badly wanted to abandon her task. Only the memory of Tenbroeck’s face, sneering and menacing, made her go on.

  Pushing strands of hair back, she knelt in front of the desk and inserted the hairpins in the lock again. This time they caught on the very first try, this time they turned easily when she moved them, and this time, the lock opened. She was left staring into the drawer with an empty sense of triumph.

  For the document was there, just as Tenbroeck had described it, listing probable and projected troop strength to be used against the Americans. She had hoped it would be gone, allowing her to go to Tenbroeck and tell him that she had tried, and failed, but there it was. The final decision was upon her. She could still turn back and face the consequences, or—

  No. She had decided on what she would do, and so she reached into the drawer and pulled out the document. It was a moment’s work to fold it along its original creases and place it in the book she had take
n, and it took very little longer to relock the desk, now that she’d gotten the feel of it. Pushing the hairpins back into place, she got stiffly to her feet and picked up the book. Part of her mission was accomplished, and it was time to go.

  She cracked open the door and peered out into the corridor again. From here she could not see the footman at all, and so she could only pray that he was not looking in her direction as she stepped into the corridor.

  Luck was with her; the footman turned only when she walked into the hall. She smiled at him as she passed him and started up the stairs. A man was coming down from above, and in the late afternoon shadows she could see only that he was well-dressed. Her heart stopped. She had not realized Oliver was home.

  Chapter 17

  Sabrina stopped, frozen to the stairs in shock. How was she going to get out of this, she wondered, frantically. Oliver always seemed to know when she had done something wrong, and this time the consequences would be far more serious. She clutched the book closer to her breast, certain that he would be able to guess at its contents, and took a deep breath, raising her chin defiantly. And then the man stepped out of the shadows, and she saw that it was not Oliver, after all.

  Reginald looked at Sabrina quizzically as he came down the stairs. “Good afternoon, Miss Carrick,” he said, coming level with her. “What has happened to overset you?”

  “What? Oh, nothing, sir,” Sabrina said. She was dizzy with relief, and it was only by a great effort that she held onto her composure. How she could ever have mistaken him for Oliver, who was so much taller, she didn’t know. “I did not see you there, and I’m afraid you rather startled me.”

  He bowed slightly. “My apologies. I would not upset you for the world.”

  “I—thank you,” she said. “I did not realize you were here.”

  “I visited with my mother.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I was just leaving. Good day, Miss Carrick.” He bowed again and started down the stairs.

  “Good day, Mr. Hailey.”

  “Oh, and Cousin,” he said, from several steps below, and she turned. He came back up the stairs. “I realize this isn’t the time to speak with you, but may I call on you tomorrow?”

  Sabrina barely kept her eyebrows from lifting, in Oliver’s mannerism. “Why, yes, of course. We usually entertain visitors in the morning.”

  “I shall be looking forward to it.” He raised her hand and lightly pressed his lips to the back of it. “Till tomorrow, then.”

  “Yes, till tomorrow,” she replied, watching him go down the stairs in dazed surprise. What was that all about? she wondered, continuing up to her room. Had she just acquired another admirer, and such a handsome one, at that? A shaft of purely feminine satisfaction stabbed through her preoccupation. Ah, yes, there was much to be said for this life, and much to be said for holding onto it. She only hoped it proved worth such desperate measures.

  In her room, Sabrina walked quickly over to her escritoire, pulled out a sheet of paper, and dipped a newly-trimmed pen into ink. In the act of writing, though, she paused. For a few moments she sat very still, staring into space, and then nodded. Picking up her pen again, she began to write, using the purloined document as her guide. When she was done, she sprinkled sand on the paper to dry it, and then compared the two, the original and the copy. Satisfied, she nodded, and then placed the paper she had written into the top drawer of the escritoire, locking it and carefully hanging the key on a ribbon about her neck. With luck, no one else in the house would know how to pick locks, she thought, lightheaded now from her near success, and left the room.

  It was easier, this time, to go downstairs and pass the footman. This time she gave him no excuse for her presence, and if he thought it odd that she’d visit the book-room twice in one day, he gave no sign. It was a simple matter to slip into Oliver’s study, and this time there was no problem unlocking the desk and then locking it again. There, she’d done it, and Oliver need never know! Quickly she slipped out of the room again. Only after she was going up the stairs, her back to the footman, did she allow a grin of elation at what she had accomplished to spread across her face. Almost skipping, she entered her room, and encountered her reflection in the pier glass.

  Her grin faded as she stared back at herself, her eyes thoughtful and a little accusing, and with it went the elation. With it came a heavy sense of doom and reality.

  Oh, my God, she thought, groping her way to a chair and sinking down into it. Oh, my God, what have I done?

  Most mornings, the main drawing room of Bainbridge House was thronged with visitors, and today was no exception. By late in the morning the room was filled with callers, mostly young men come to pay court to the two young ladies of the house. On one sofa, Melanie was surrounded by her admirers, chiefly Captain Crawford, her latest flirt, resplendent in the uniform of the Dragoons, and Viscount Bevin, who glowered jealously at his rival.

  Sabrina, too, had her court, a group of ardent young men who had proclaimed her an original. Seated next to her on another of the crimson-striped sofas was Mr. Radcliffe, a pleasantly vacuous young man whose fair hair was thinning on top and whose eyes tended to bulge. He was very earnest, and so far Sabrina had not had the heart to discourage him. There was also Viscount Danbury, who had stolen a march on his competition by being the first to take her driving in the park, and young Lord Monkford, who would someday come into an earldom and a great fortune. Across from her, down the length of the room, was cousin Fanny, nominally the chaperone. She, too, was receiving the attentions of a gallant, a somewhat older man who had paid little attention to Sabrina but instead had gravitated toward Fanny, as if to a magnet. The sight of them together made Sabrina smile.

  A noise at the drawing room door distracted her, and she looked up to see Gwendolyn entering. She did not look the least ill, but nonetheless Sabrina jumped up in alarm. “Grandmama, should you be up?” she asked.

  “And why not, child? I assure you I am feeling fine. You may be seated, gentlemen. My, Sabrina, you have done well for yourself. Two viscounts, and one of them heir to an earldom! Pity they’re all so young.” Sabrina listened, helplessly, as Gwendolyn made her way across the room. “I knew you would be a success. Yes, I’ll just sit here, near Fanny.”

  “Grandmama, are you feeling quite the thing?”

  “Child, I assure you I’m fine,” she said again, clasping Sabrina’s hand. “I promise I will not overdo. There. Are you satisfied?”

  “Not really, but—”

  “You won’t gainsay me, you know, so you might as well go back to your court.” She inspected them critically. “Young Mr. Radcliffe looks something like a fish, don’t he?”

  Sabrina stifled a giggle. “Grandmama, you’re impossible.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told. Go enjoy yourself, now. I shall be fine.”

  Oliver stepped into the room just as Sabrina returned to her sofa, to be greeted by her admirers. His eyebrow rose a bit at the attention she was receiving. Good God, where had all these young puppies come from? His house wasn’t his own anymore, with the constant stream of visitors for his ward and his cousin, and he was always glad to escape to the refuge of his study. He himself had surely never been so foolish and callow as those young men, he assured himself.

  The frown on his face deepened when he saw Gwendolyn, engaged in spirited converse with Fanny’s beau. He walked across the room to remonstrate with her, as Sabrina had, with no better luck. “You said you would keep an eye on Sabrina,” Gwendolyn said. “Since you ain’t, I see that I must.”

  “I see,” he said, and turned to look at Sabrina. He had never seen the dress she was wearing, a morning gown of jaconet muslin in an unusual shade of peach that made her skin glow golden. Her head was flung back in a laugh, as no proper young miss’s should be, and the posture emphasized her bosom, already well-displayed by the low-cut gown. Oliver’s lips tightened.

  “Sabrina,” he said in a deceptively gentle voice. Abruptly Sabrina stopped laughing,
and Gwendolyn, who knew that tone of voice, sat up straighter. “What is so very funny?”

  Sabrina’s chin went up just a trifle. “Mr. Radcliffe was reading his latest poem to me, sir,” she said.

  Oliver turned his attention to Mr. Radcliffe, demolishing him with a look. “A poem? Pray, tell me what about.”

  “About my eyebrows,” Sabrina said.

  “Your eyebrows.”

  “Yes.”

  Damned, impudent, arrogant puppy! “I would like to see you in my study, Sabrina.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace. I shan’t be long,” she assured her admirers, rising gracefully, and preceded Oliver out the door, her stride so blatantly provocative that he wished to wring her neck.

  They passed down the stairs and through the corridors in silence, and though they heard the door knocker, it was only after the study door closed behind them that Hastings admitted the newest visitor. Thus, neither were aware that Mr. Reginald Hailey had come to pay his regards.

  Reginald handed his hat and walking stick to Hastings, and then climbed the stairs to the drawing room. There he paused, studying the assembly inside. He was struck by the preponderance of young men there, and rather displeased at the attention his sister was paying to a man not her intended, but what really surprised him was Sabrina’s absence. He puzzled over it as he walked across the room to pay his respects to Gwendolyn and his mother. “And where is Miss Carrick this morning?” he asked, as he drew a chair up near them and sat, crossing one leg over the other.