Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  “Oh, that sounds good.” She let him escort her back through the crowded ballroom to the tall French windows. No one saw them slip out, and once outside, Sabrina took a grateful breath of the cool evening air. There were other couples taking advantage of the proximity of the balcony and the gardens below, whose paths were lighted by lanterns, but none were nearby. For all intents and purposes, she and Reginald were alone. “Thank you, Cousin,” she said. “I was beginning to feel as if the room were getting smaller.”

  “Believe me, Sabrina, this is no hardship.” His eyes studying her in the light filtering out from the ballroom were intent. “Do you know, you are an extremely beautiful girl.”

  Sabrina’s eyes grew wide, and then, to his chagrin, she let out a peal of laughter. “Oh, dear, Cousin, don’t tell me you are setting yourself up as one of my flirts!”

  Reginald shook his head. “Not a flirt, Sabrina. I meant every word. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I’ve wanted to tell you that since I met you.”

  “Oh, Reginald.” There was no denying the sincerity deep in his throbbing voice, but it left her unmoved. She laid her hand on his arm. “We are friends, are we not? Can you not content yourself with that?”

  “Perhaps.” He lifted her hand from his arm and briefly raised it to his lips. Then, flipping it over, he pressed a lingering kiss on her palm and one on her wrist, before, almost abruptly, dropping it. “For now.”

  Oh, dear. Now what did she do? She knew quite well that most of the young men who courted her so assiduously did not really give two pins for her, but this man was different. He was her friend, and she did not want to hurt him. “I am prodigious thirsty,” she said, forcing herself to speak lightly. “Do you think perhaps I could have something to drink?”

  Reginald stepped back and bowed, his face in the dim light inscrutable. “Certainly. Will you be all right here? I won’t take above a moment.”

  “I’ll be fine, Cousin.” She smiled at him and then turned away as he went back inside. Leaning on the wide stone balustrade, she looked over the garden, breathing in the heady scent of fresh earth and apple blossom. It was very strange, she thought. Since she had come to England she had been pursued by more gentlemen than she had ever dreamed of, all of them saying sweet things to her. Except Oliver. He wouldn’t even talk to her these days, and she didn’t know why.

  “Good God, what are you doing out here alone?” a voice behind her demanded, and, startled, Sabrina turned.

  “Bainbridge!” she exclaimed, as he strode across the flagstones toward her. “I did not expect to see you here tonight.”

  “No, I can see that,” Oliver said, grimly. “Where is he?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Where is the man who brought you out here?”

  “Gone to get me lemonade,” she said, unable to resist teasing him a bit. “‘Tis only Mr. Hailey, sir, so you have nothing to fear.”

  “I thought I forbade you to see him alone.”

  She sighed. “Yes, sir, you did.” And how to explain the circumstances that had led to this? She couldn’t. “It just—happened.”

  “That I can well believe.”

  The dryness of his tone made her look up at him and study his face. He didn’t look so angry as he had, and that encouraged her to go on. “I didn’t mean any harm, sir.”

  “No, I realize that, Sabrina.” He took her arm and led her away from the balcony. He knew from bitter experience that Reginald was quite good at leading people astray and then disappearing, before he could be blamed. “But it won’t do your reputation any good to stay out here. Come, let us go back in.”

  “Why are you here, sir?” she asked, as they reentered the ballroom. “You usually avoid ton parties.”

  “So I do.” But tonight had been an exception; tonight, he had grown tired of the coolness between him and his ward, a coolness he had engineered after receiving the information about her from America. He missed her, damn it! He missed her company on his morning rides, missed her delighted laugh when she was amused, missed just looking at her. He couldn’t really blame her for not telling him about herself; he had made it plain enough how he, and the ton, felt about bastardy. Somehow, though, he could not apply his usual standards to Sabrina. He had been shocked by the news, of course, but, more, he had been hurt by her failure to confide in him. He had thought they had a better relationship than that.

  One thing was certain. Things would not get better between them if he continued to hold onto his grievance. “Tonight I had the desire to be bored,” he said, so dryly that she looked up at him and smiled. “There’s the bell for supper. Shall I take you in?”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she said, consigning the young man who had procured that signal honor for himself to his fate. All that she cared about was that Oliver was there with her, and though she understood this sudden cordiality no more than his earlier coolness, she was not going to question it.

  Oliver found a table for them and then went in search of food, coming back with two plates filled with dainty morsels, sliced ham and tongue, timbales of beef, fresh strawberries. The lobster patties were delicious, Sabrina thought, but everyone seemed to serve them. “When I have my ball I hope to serve something different in the way of refreshments,” she said.

  Oliver eyed her over the rim of his champagne-filled goblet. “Not too different, I trust.”

  “Oh, perhaps some American delicacies. ‘Tis time people here learned more about America. Let’s see.” She looked thoughtful. “Coon meat, perhaps.”

  It was as well that he hadn’t taken a sip of the champagne. “Coon meat? My good God, what in the world is that?”

  “Raccoon.” She took a dainty bite of ham. “And perhaps we could attire the servants in coonskin hats. Very fetching, you know, fur hats with the raccoon’s tail hanging down in back.”

  “My God. And what would we have to drink? No, don’t tell me. Applejack, I believe it’s called.”

  “The very thing!” she said, clapping her hands. “And I think, for the decor, miniature log cabins would be nice, with perhaps a wigwam here and there. Oh! We could do something different for the entertainment, too! We could hire someone to dress as an Indian—”

  “Spare me, Sabrina,” he said, laughing. “I don’t think I could survive such a night.”

  “No, perhaps not, but you must admit it would be unusual.”

  “Certainly, until everyone else decided to imitate you. You might even set a style.”

  “Oliver, why are you so cynical?”

  His fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet. “I’ve often found good reason to be. People are rarely what they seem, Sabrina. Usually they want something from you.”

  “Oh, surely not!”

  “It’s what I’ve observed.”

  “No wonder you didn’t trust me in the beginning,” she murmured, and he looked away.

  “That was then, Sabrina,” he said, finally, and this time, Sabrina looked away, acutely aware that she did not deserve his trust. “It’s been a long time since you’ve ridden with me,” he went on, his voice more normal.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to.”

  He shook his head. “I had things on my mind. Friends, Sabrina?” He held his hand out to her, and she stared at it for a few moments, before placing her own into it. A feeling of warmth spread through her, and, oddly enough, of safety, as if she had at last found safe harbor.

  “Friends, Oliver,” she said, softly, and forced down the hope that someday, they would be so much more.

  “Good.” He rose. “Come. The orchestra is playing again. Let us dance.”

  “I imagine I’ve promised this dance to someone.”

  “Do you care?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then, come.” He stood and held out his hand, and she put hers into it, letting him lead her back to the ballroom.

  The dance was a waltz, and because many people had not yet returned from the supper room the fl
oor was relatively uncrowded. Under a silken tent of rosy hue Oliver spun her across the floor, and she felt as if she were flying. All that mattered was now, Oliver’s arms about her, guiding her through the dance, the feeling of the muscles in his back rippling under her hand, his eyes boring into hers, as if he could see her soul. She felt naked, and defenseless, and utterly vulnerable, and it was all right. He would not hurt her. She could trust him with every part of her being.

  Across the room, Moira watched the couple in frustration and anger. She knew she’d lost none of her attractiveness, none of her allure. Why, then, was Bainbridge avoiding her? Though he’d said that nothing would change between them, he hadn’t been to visit her since the day she had first laid eyes on the chit. When they met in public he was cool, though polite. The on-dit was that he and the girl would make a match of it, and she was becoming increasingly aware that time was running out. With another man, she would have cut her losses, but not with Oliver. She had angled for him too long and too hard, to lose out now. However, the best plan she could devise, besides her sweetly poisoned disparagement of the girl, was to snub him in return. Though this piqued Oliver’s curiosity, it hadn’t yet brought him back to her bed. She was beginning to despair of ever winning him back.

  “Good evening, Lady Marshfield,” Reginald said beside her. “May I say you’re in looks tonight.”

  Moira looked up in surprise. “Thank you, Mr. Hailey. Though I must own I find this sudden admiration surprising,” she said, coolly. “You have never been overly fond of me.”

  “I never said you weren’t beautiful, Moira. Just heartless and cold.”

  “I did not give you permission to use my name. Now, is there something you want?”

  “Yes, but this is not the place to speak of it. May I call on you tomorrow?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “Even if it is something to your advantage?”

  “What could you possibly have to say to me that I would wish to hear?”

  “It concerns the ward of a certain prominent gentleman.”

  Moira’s head shot up and she studied him. “Tomorrow morning then, Mr. Hailey. I will allow you fifteen minutes.”

  “Thank you, my lady. That is all I ask.” He moved away, looking smug, and Moira, vaguely troubled, turned her attention to other matters.

  By late the following morning Moira was regretting that she had ever agreed to a meeting with Reginald. She had had too much champagne last evening, and as a consequence her head was aching abominably. Besides, she had never liked Reginald. He was a ne’er-do-well, with pockets continually to let, and therefore beneath her notice. Curiosity, however, impelled her to allow him to be admitted to her boudoir, that and her burning hatred for the chit who was her rival.

  Reginald raised his quizzing glass and gazed leisurely about the room. Like her bedroom, the boudoir was crimson—crimson draperies, crimson furniture, crimson in the Axminster carpet on the floor. “Interesting decor, Moira. Rather gaudy, ain’t it?” he said.

  “You didn’t come here to discuss my rooms, Mr. Hailey,” Moira said, crossly.

  “No, I didn’t. May I sit?” Flipping the tails of his morning coat back, he sat on an ottoman. Moira, reclining on a brocaded sofa, regarded him with hostility. “I’ll come to the point, shall I.”

  Moira held up her hand to stop him and looked over her shoulder at her maid, who was tidying the dressing table. “Leave us, Giselle,” she said.

  “But, madam, if you wish to be ready to receive Lord Rowland at eleven—”

  “I said, leave us!” Moira snapped, and after a moment Giselle went out, reluctance and resentment etched on her sharp features.

  “Well, Moira, playing Bainbridge false?” Reginald said, an unpleasant little smile playing about his lips.”

  “Oh, get on with it!” Moira exclaimed. “Why are you here?”

  “Very well, ma’am. You wish to marry Bainbridge. I wish to marry his ward. I think we can help each other.”

  “Good God. Why do you want to marry her? The chit has nothing!”

  “Jealous, Moira?”

  “Of her? Of course not! And I don’t need your help to deal with her.”

  “Then I can see we have nothing to say to each other. My mistake. If you will excuse me—”

  “I have not told you to leave. Sit down.”

  “Temper, my lady.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “Sabrina stands to inherit a good bit from the dowager.”

  “Ah. I begin to understand.”

  “That is my money, damn it! I was the only heir until that upstart came along. And it will be mine again.” He stared at her, coolly. “Will you help me, or not?”

  “And just how do I benefit, if I do?”

  “I should think that would be obvious. If we succeed, Bainbridge will be free.”

  It was tempting. To have Oliver back was a lovely notion; to foil the chit, even lovelier. “Very well, then. What is your plan?” Reginald told her, and she listened in silence to the end. “You are a heartless bastard, aren’t you?” she said finally.

  “Why, Lady Marshfield, is that womanly sympathy I hear? Dare I believe you care about the girl’s fate?”

  “No,” she said, smiling at the thought of the chit getting her comeuppance at Reginald’s hands. “What do I have to do?”

  “Why, charm Bainbridge, of course. Must I really tell you how to do that? He is already half-inclined to believe the worst of her.”

  “That is not what I’ve heard.”

  “Nevertheless, it is true. Do you attend Lady Helmsley’s ball Thursday night?”

  “I hadn’t planned to. Why?”

  “Bainbridge will be there with Sabrina.”

  Moira was quiet a moment. “Very well. I will help you.”

  “No qualms about my heartlessness, Moira?”

  “Oh, well, if it comes to that, it is no more than the chit deserves,” she said, and Reginald grinned as he rose to take his leave.

  “I always knew we were two of a kind,” he said, and, bowing, went out of the room, leaving Moira to stare thoughtfully after him. So. Matters were not so black as she had supposed. She would have her revenge upon the chit who had taken Oliver away, and if he suffered a bit in the process, so much the better. Let him know he couldn’t treat Moira as he had, and expect to get away with it!

  A small cat’s smile on her face, Moira turned back to her mirror, to prepare herself to receive Lord Rowland. Oliver would be sorry he’d spurned her, she vowed. Oh, yes, she would make him sorry, and when he came back to her, she would see him crawl first, before she accepted him. As she would, she thought, smiling complacently at her reflection as she artfully rubbed rouge into her cheeks. Oliver would be hers yet.

  Chapter 21

  Oliver was still feeling much in charity with his ward several days later. As they came in from their morning ride together he abruptly reached a decision about something he had been considering for some time. “Castlereagh mentioned again that he wishes to meet you,” he said to Sabrina, as they sat down to breakfast.

  Sabrina looked up from the morning mail’s usual assortment of invitations. “I don’t know why,” she said.

  “He feels that, as you are recently come from America, you may be able to shed some light on the situation there.”

  She smiled. “What, you want me to give information against my country, sir?”

  He returned the smile. “Of course not. However, anything that we could learn that might avert a conflict would be helpful.”

  Sabrina took a sip of tea, stalling for time. In her own way, that was what she was trying to do now, but she was feeling increasingly pulled in several directions at once, from loyalty both to her family and her country, and fear of Tenbroeck. It would be bad enough meeting with Castlereagh if her conscience were clear, but, with her recent activities, it would be even more difficult. And Tenbroeck, who would surely learn of the meeting, would demand to know what had been said.
It was a mess. “I don’t know, sir,” she said, putting down her cup. “I really don’t know what I could tell him.”

  “You could tell him things that our diplomats couldn’t.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as how the people in your region feel about the conflict. Come, Sabrina, I know you know that much,” he said, seeing her frown. “Haven’t you told me you listened to discussions in your shop?”

  “Yes.” She looked off into space. “Yes, I could tell him of that, though I fail to see what good it would do.”

  “It’s good to know the temper of one’s enemy, and how willing they are to fight.”

  “Oh, we’ll fight, sir,” she said, quietly. “Never doubt that.”

  “Then we need to know that, too. Well, Sabrina?”

  “Oh, very well.” In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. “When, sir?”

  “This morning. After all,” he said, smiling, “you did say you wished to see Whitehall.”

  “So I did, sir. Goodness knows why.”

  He laughed. “Well, you’re trapped now. Ten o’clock.”

  “Very well,” she said, sighing slightly, and turned her attention back to the invitations.

  Some hours later she sat beside Oliver in the anteroom of Lord Castlereagh’s office, waiting. She had seen Oliver’s office and met his aide, and had a brief tour of the building, startled that this most important office of government had such a small, and therefore very busy, staff. Now she was feeling apprehensive. She had the sick feeling that Castlereagh would take one look at her and know what she had been up to.

  She was rather surprised, then, when Oliver finally ushered her into the office and she at last met the great man who was helping to direct England’s efforts against Napoleon. He was tall, and, to her surprise, handsome, though he looked tired and preoccupied. He stooped a bit, and, though his face was stern, above his prominent nose his eyes were kind. Sabrina insensibly felt herself relaxing as he took her hand and then showed her to a chair. Behind his back, Oliver winked at her, and she smiled.