Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  Sabrina gasped again. “But if I give it to you, it will mean death for those men!”

  “If you do not, it will mean death for many good Americans,” he countered. “Which side are you on?”

  “I can’t get it for you, anyway. Not if Bainbridge continues to lock things in his safe.”

  “Try.” Tenbroeck’s eyes bored into hers. “This is the last thing we will ask of you, Sabrina. You had best succeed.”

  Sabrina looked away, and then nodded, just as Melanie and Bevin approached them. The smile on Melanie’s face was so radiant that Sabrina knew instantly what had happened.

  “Oh, Rina, it is so marvelous!” she cried. “We are to be married!”

  “Oh, Melanie, I am so happy for you!” Sabrina exclaimed, and barely looked around as Tenbroeck muttered a work of parting and left. She had no intention of giving into his request; she did intend, however, to tell the whole, sordid story to Oliver.

  “Yes, and we’re so happy.” Melanie smiled up at Bevin, and he returned the look with the fatuousness only a man in love is capable of.

  “It is wonderful news.” She looked up at Bevin. “Will you come back with us now to Bainbridge House?”

  “No, I must go speak with Mr. Hailey to make arrangements,” Bevin said, stepping away from Melanie and raising her hand to his lips. “Until tonight, dearest?”

  “Oh, yes, Albert,” Melanie said, sighing. Bevin handed the two girls into their carriage, and they drove away.

  “Oh, Sabrina, thank you!” Melanie reached over to hug Sabrina about the neck.

  Sabrina smiled. “You see, Melanie, I told you it would work out, did I not?” she said, but only part of her mind was on Melanie’s joy. The rest was occupied with what she would say to Oliver that evening, and the consequences of their talk. It was not going to be pleasant.

  Sabrina spent most of the afternoon in her room, after all the congratulations on Melanie’s happiness had been exhausted, planning her encounter with Oliver. In her mind, she rehearsed how she would tell him, choosing her words carefully, so that he would realize that, while she was not blameless, she had done what she could to ameliorate the situation. She even practiced phrases of contrition and repentance, though she wasn’t sure if she’d have a chance to use them. Finally she decided, to the last detail, what she was to wear. She was satisfied when she went downstairs, having been informed that Oliver was home, that she looked her best. She had chosen the rose silk gown, knowing that it could not fail to impress him. She only hoped that it would impress, and distract, him enough.

  Oliver was in the drawing room, pouring himself a brandy from a cut crystal decanter, and he turned at her entrance. The frown between his eyes disappeared as he surveyed her, to be replaced by a slow, warm smile that turned his eyes to molten silver. “I do like that gown,” he said, crossing the room to her, and she smiled up at him as he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Is there something special this evening that I’ve forgotten about?”

  “No, nothing,” she said, leaving her hand in his. “You’re a bit earlier tonight, sir. Has everything been settled?”

  “Settled?” He looked startled. “What do you mean?”

  “Merely that you have looked so preoccupied of late, I thought that something was wrong.”

  He hesitated. “There is,” he said, finally, leading her over to a sofa and sitting beside her, “but I can’t tell you about it.”

  “Sometimes it helps to share problems, Oliver.”

  “It’s not that. It’s not my secret to reveal.”

  “You know I would never disclose anything you tell me.”

  “I know that.” He smiled at her. “But this is a matter of national security, Sabrina. I cannot talk about it.”

  “I understand.” She returned the smile. “If I can help in any way, I will.”

  “You do. Just by being here.”

  The look in his eyes, so warm, filled her with equal measures of joy and guilt. If Tenbroeck were right and they did suspect a spy at the Foreign Office, then she was the cause of Oliver’s worry. She did not deserve his regard. “Actually, Oliver, there may be some way I can help. There’s something I should have told you long ago—”

  “What is that?” Oliver said at the same moment, and both became aware of a commotion in the hall. Footsteps pounded on the stairs, and, in a moment, Lord Woodley burst into the room. “Woodley? What the devil?”

  “Bainbridge! Have you heard?” Woodley gasped.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Perceval’s been shot!”

  “What?” Oliver jumped up. “When? How? Is he alive?”

  “No.” Woodley gasped for breath. “No, he was leaving the Commons, about an hour ago, and some madman jumped forward and shot him.”

  “Someone shot the Prime Minister?” Sabrina said in disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “No one seems to know.”

  “My God,” Oliver said, slamming his glass down on a table. “I’ll have to go.” He turned to Sabrina and, to her surprise, kissed her, quick and hard, on the lips. “There’ll be a new government formed, and—”

  “And God knows what will happen,” Woodley said. “My God, Bainbridge, this could be just the spark the anarchists need—”

  “Don’t say it. You’ll be all right?” he said to Sabrina.

  “Yes, of course.” Perhaps this would lead to revolution, but there were, as yet, no angry mobs storming the house. “If you must go, then go.”

  “Yes.” He turned at the door, his eyes serious and steady. “Sabrina, there is nothing you could tell me that would change my opinion of you.”

  “Why, of course not. I’m quite aware you consider me a nuisance and a bother,” she said, managing to speak lightly in spite of her surprise. How did he know that she had been about to confess something unpleasant?

  “Oh, quite.” He gave her one last, long look, and then was gone.

  Sabrina sat back on the sofa, feeling desolate, relieved, and frightened, all mixed. What she had been about to tell him did not signify just now, but it would again, perhaps soon. By then, though, it might be too late, if the revolution everyone feared indeed came to pass. It wasn’t meant to be, she thought, getting up and going upstairs to share the news with the rest of the family. Several times she had tried to confess, and each time she had been frustrated. Now it was probably too late and, try though she might, she could see no happy ending to this story.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, ma’am,” Reginald said, balancing his teacup precariously on his knee. When he had begged the favor of an audience with Gwendolyn, he had anticipated having, for once, the upper hand in this relationship. She had managed, however, to put him instantly at a disadvantage by seating him on a delicate, armless Louis Quince chair, all white and gilt and blue velvet. He wasn’t a large man, but it creaked ominously under him each time he moved. No matter, he thought, relishing her reaction to the tale he would tell her. Since that night at Vauxhall, he had thought long and hard about what to do with the information Sabrina had given him, and now, two days after the ball, he had finally decided upon the best way to use it. He was about to get his own back for all those years of crawling.

  “I am doing you a very great favor, you realize,” Gwendolyn answered. Her voice was cool. “Bainbridge don’t even want you in the house. And I can’t blame him, after what you did.” Reginald’s lips tightened as she went on. “But I suppose you are here to talk about your sister’s nuptials.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “No?”

  “No. You have always been generous to my mother and I trust you will be so to my sister. No, I have come to talk about Sabrina, though it pains me to do so.”

  Gwendolyn looked at him over the rim of her teacup, one eyebrow raised. “I should think it would. You have much to atone for, boy.”

  He sighed, almost convincingly. “You might say I was carried away by love.”

  “I
might, but I won’t.” She paused. “By lust, perhaps, but not love.” And not necessarily lust for Sabrina, but for any money that might someday be hers. Gwendolyn had no illusions about her nephew. “Cut line, Reginald. I don’t believe you love Sabrina, so what is it you are trying to do?”

  “I have something to tell you about her that I am afraid you will not like.” He set the teacup down on the pie crust table. “Ma’am, it pains me to tell you this, but Sabrina is not what she seems.”

  Gwendolyn sat unmoving. “Go on, boy,” she said, and if he were surprised by her impassiveness, he didn’t show it.

  “When I took her to Vauxhall I had the express intention of making love to her. Yes, I know, despicable of me, but whether you believe me or not, I do care about her. And I could see no other way of making her mine.”

  “Mm-hm,” Gwendolyn said noncommittally. “Go on.”

  “Well, ma’am, in the course of our conversation I learned something about her that distressed me deeply. I did not know whether to tell you at first, but I am afraid it’s my duty.”

  “Hm.” Gwendolyn took a sip of tea. “And what is this distressing news?”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry to tell you this, but she is not who she says she is. She is an impostor.”

  “Is she.” She took another sip of tea.

  Reginald stared at her. “Yes.”

  “You can prove that, I suppose?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then why should I believe you?”

  “Ma’am, I have it from her own lips,” he said through gritted teeth. “She is a bastard. She admitted it herself.”

  “Oh, did she?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so now what am I supposed to do?”

  “You are not upset about this? Why, she is not a worthy successor to the Carrick name—”

  “Or fortune?” Gwendolyn set her teacup down with a loud clatter. “Oh, yes, I see right through you, boy, and I see what you’re trying to do. Well, I tell you now, it won’t fadge! If you expect me to disinherit her, then you’re wrong.” She stared at him, her eyes cold and sharp. “In fact, I’ve a mind to leave her my entire fortune.”

  “Do so.” Reginald stood up abruptly. “And answer for the consequences.”

  “Oh, no, Reginald, there’ll be no consequences,” she said, stopping him at the door.

  “Won’t there? I promise you, I won’t keep a still tongue about this.”

  “Yes, you will. Because I can ruin you, boy. I am still Duchess of Bainbridge, and, by God, I wield more power in this town than you can ever dream of. Think on that, before you do anything!” She stopped, and for a long moment they stared at each other, measuringly. “I tried with you, boy, but if this is the way you choose to repay me, then there is no hope for you. Not if you do this thing.”

  “Your precious granddaughter will be ruined, as well.”

  “Sabrina will always have a home with us, but you, Reginald, where will you go?” She rose. “You’ve lost.”

  Reginald raised his chin. “Have I?” he said, and turned on his heel. Oh, no, he wasn’t done yet, he thought, walking away from Bainbridge House with angry strides. There was, as yet, a way remaining, and he intended to take it.

  John Bellingham was tried four days later for the assassination of Spencer Perceval, and found guilty. There was no real reason for him to have done what he had, except that the Prime Minister had seemed to serve as a target for all Bellingham’s frustrations. As Oliver had feared, civil unrest followed the assassination; it was said that in Nottingham, scene of the first, and most severe, Luddite riots, people had actually rejoiced in the streets at the news. England seemed to be heading for a state of anarchy. With Bellingham’s execution, though, matters settled down again. For the time being, they were out of danger.

  Though the worst of the crisis had passed, a new government had yet to be formed. Oliver, as a member of both the House of Lords and the present government, was kept quite busy. Thus, when Sabrina saw him walk into the house one gray afternoon, she perked up. She was sitting on the window seat, trying to read, and the sight of him made her get up and fly over to her mirror, to check her appearance. Since Perceval’s assassination, she had seen little of him; their quiet morning rides were in the past, and he was rarely home, even for dinner. She was not going to miss this chance to consult with him. There were a thousand and one details to be discussed concerning their wedding, but that wasn’t the real reason she flew down the stairs. She simply wished to see him. She had missed him these past days, more than she had thought it possible to miss anyone.

  Oliver was not, however, in the drawing room or the morning room, or any of the other public rooms, and so she concluded that he must be in his study. It was rare that she disturbed him there, knowing that he was often busy, but this was an exception. However, there was no answer when she knocked on the study door. Frowning, she turned the knob and went in. The room was empty.

  Now where could he be? She glanced about the room, frustrated. The curtains were open and there were papers spread across the desk. That he had been here was obvious, and, most likely, he would return. The only thing to do was to wait.

  Curiosity made her cross to the desk to look at the papers, and the top one irresistibly drew her eyes. Across the top, in Oliver’s neat copperplate, was written, “Agents currently residing in the United States.” Sabrina gasped. No wonder Tenbroeck had wanted this document.

  Across the corridor, in the book-room, Oliver’s head lifted sharply when he heard his study door open. It had taken him some time for him to set up this trap, and then, with Perceval’s death, it had had to be delayed. At last, though, he had put it into operation, leaving the house quite publicly and slipping back in, equally quietly, so that only Witherspoon, the footman on duty, knew he was home. With the prepared document left on his desk, and a few offhand remarks about his latest work at the Foreign Office, he had set up vigil in the book-room, leaving the door slightly ajar, so that he might observe anyone going into the study. Now, at last, it seemed the trap had worked. The spy had taken the bait.

  He waited a few moments, to let his quarry get into the room and find the document, thus being caught with the evidence, and then he strode across the hall and flung open the study door. “Sabrina!” he exclaimed.

  Chapter 28

  Sabrina looked up from the leather armchair by the fireplace. She was sitting with one leg tucked under her and the other atop, swinging freely and displaying an enticing amount of ankle. A book lay open in her lap, and in her fingers she twined a strand of hair. “Why, Oliver, there you are,” she said. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

  “Were you?” Oliver scanned the room, but it was otherwise empty. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “No, just a few moments. I saw you come in, you see.”

  Standing by his desk, one hand thrust into a pocket and the other resting lightly on the edge, Oliver looked up. So his return hadn’t been as secret as he wished. Perhaps Sabrina wasn’t the only one who knew of it. “I see. Sabrina.” His voice was abrupt as he looked at the papers on his desk. They appeared undisturbed, except for the top one, the one that listed agents supposedly operating in the United States. It was definitely out of line. “Did anyone else come in while you’ve been here?”

  “No, but I haven’t been here above a few minutes.”

  “Not even one of the servants?”

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason. I shouldn’t have left this out,” he muttered, straightening and shuffling the papers together. No good resetting the trap; that would have to wait for another day.

  “Oh.” She watched him put the papers in his portfolio, and her eyes widened briefly as a nasty suspicion struck her. Tenbroeck said they suspected a spy at the Foreign Office. Could Oliver think that the spy was in his house? Oh, good Lord! It was a good thing she had decided to stop, then, and that she had put that document down when she had, else she would be in serious trouble. As it
was, chances were he might never learn it had been her, unless she told him. “Are you here for long, sir?” she asked.

  Oliver looked up. “No, just a few moments. Why do you ask?” he said. Perhaps it was just his imagination that the paper was out of line, but we didn’t think so. Perhaps it had been Sabrina—but that was ridiculous.

  “Because we rarely see you anymore.” And because she would need more time to make a confession that his brief stay would allow. She was vastly relieved that she didn’t have to tell him of her perfidy just yet.

  “These are hard times, Sabrina.”

  “Yes, I know. Do you think there will be a revolution?”

  He shrugged. “Who can say? I certainly hope not. Things seem to be calming down, but it’s not an easy time.” He looked up from his portfolio. “Did you wish to see me about something in particular?”

  “No. Must I have a reason for wishing to see you?”

  He grinned as she rose from the chair, uncoiling her legs in a fashion that displayed more of her ankles, a sight he quite appreciated. “It has been my experience that most women have. What, you mean there is not some ridotto you would like to attend, or some hat that you wish to buy?”

  “I am not like your other women, Oliver!”

  “What other women?” he asked innocently.

  “And if there is a hat I wish to buy, I will ask Grandmama!” She backed a few steps, eluding the arm he would have slipped about her waist.

  “Only until we are married.”

  “And then?” she asked, as he came close again.

  “Then I propose to be a very stern husband.” His arms at last encircled her. “I will not let you buy above a dozen hats a week, or attend more than three assemblies in an evening.”

  “How gothic of you,” she teased. “As it happens, Oliver, I would like to go to Vauxhall.” With her fingers, she began to fiddle with his neckcloth, and he reached up to capture her hand in his.