Total Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  What had they both been trying to accomplish? Michael, especially. Why had he corrupted her?

  On her end, she'd desired him with an uncontrollable, stubborn passion and, because of it, she'd been determined to instigate a liaison and damn the consequences.

  But what was his excuse? How did he justify his misdeeds? Was her seduction simply a cruel attempt to further take something from Hugh? Was she just one more chattel of Hugh's that Michael wanted to confiscate in order to prove whatever point he'd been so adamant about'making?

  If she was naught but a pawn in his machinations, then he'd not been fond of her in the slightest. The idea hurt unbearably, for though she was loath to admit it, she'd tossed and turned many a long night, reliving those glorious assignations where they'd learned to love fully, thoroughly, and without reservation.

  The loss of that closeness, of the joy and passion they'd shared, was too painful to acknowledge, so she didn't. She declined to ponder why he'd married her, why he'd sent her away immediately after, why she hadn't heard from him since. She wouldn't torture herself with what-ifs and what-might-have-beens, or chastise herself over how she might have handled that final, dreadful day any differently.

  Despite the awful factors that had brought them together, she'd been deliriously ecstatic at their wedding, elated over her destiny, only to discover that he considered marriage to her an embarrassment or worse.

  Shuddering, she recoiled from the opportunity to wander farther down the road of personal recrimination. She ab-

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  solutely would not mourn Michael Stevens another second!

  The driver hopped down and lowered the step for her visitor, and Sarah was stunned to see Rebecca descending. She was snug in a plush, black cloak, with a matching fur muff and hat. Her china-blue eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy. She looked pretty and flourishing and, by comparison, Sarah felt dowdy in her brown wool gown and heavy boots, her knitted mittens with the fingertips cut out so that she could work on her correspondence, her thick shawl wrapped tight against the chilly temperature.

  She hadn't seen Rebecca since that hideous encounter when Hugh had traveled to Yorkshire for the sole purpose of convincing Sarah to seek reparation from Michael. Rebecca had joined with Hugh in spewing outrage over Michael's behavior, but their concern for her welfare had rung false, and she'd ignored their interrogation as to Michael and what had transpired in Bedford. Something—arrogance? stupidity?—had prevented her from confessing that she'd married the blighter, though she couldn't have explained why.

  Perhaps it was Hugh's firm resolve to compel Michael to pay for sins that Sarah believed were her own. Or perhaps it was the way Rebecca had gleamed as she'd cajoled over what they could get from Michael Stevens.

  Sarah wasn't about to help them wheedle their way into Michael Stevens's pocketbook, because she wouldn't humiliate herself by confronting him again when he so obviously despised her. His disregard would have killed her, so she'd denied all and, as far as she knew, no one had a clue that she was wed to the notorious London gambler, the man who'd broken her heart by spurning her on her wedding day. And if she had anything to say about it, no one would, either. She'd cut out her tongue before she'd ever confirm their union.

  Rebecca entered on a rush of frigid air, definitely fine, in spite of her ordeals in the large metropolis. She was plump and healthy, plainly not worried about where her next meal was coming from. Her black mourning outfit was

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  beautifully tailored and sewn in a quality fabric.

  Sarah had no black attire to wear in order to grieve for her unlamented brother. She'd outgrown the garments she'd donned at her father's passing, and she couldn't employ a seamstress for any excessive alterations. As her cousin walked into the foyer, cocky as a rooster on a summer morning, the very image of perfectly coifed English gentility, Sarah caught herself jealously staring, speculating as to how Rebecca had managed so well.

  This isn't fair! she thought irritably, and she didn't even try to quash the petty opinion. Too much had happened in the past six months for her to be feeling charitable.

  Since Hugh's death, she and Rebecca had exchanged intermittent letters. Rebecca had purchased a modest residence, had a roommate, and sufficient funds to engage a cook. While she didn't move among the highest echelons of society, she wasn't lacking for entertainment. She attended the theater, various musicales and poetry readings, balls and soirees. Where she'd gotten the money for her new lifestyle was a mystery Sarah didn't prefer to explore.

  In her missives, she always urged Sarah to forsake Scarborough and come to town. Sarah regularly declined, and she had the sneaking suspicion that Rebecca tendered the recurrent invitation simply because she was so positive that Sarah would never accept.

  Rebecca huddled in her fancy cloak as she scrutinized the vacant space, the bare walls and floors. Sarah had been explicit in her written descriptions, but still, she supposed the changes were difficult to visualize. Rebecca evinced such pity for Sarah's diminished circumstances that Sarah was overcome by a strong desire to slap her.

  She didn't want or need this woman's sympathy. She needed cash and time and alternatives, but—heaven forbid—not empathy and certainly not compassion.

  "Hello, Rebecca."

  They embraced halfheartedly, and her cousin brushed at a few flakes of snow, and Sarah could only peevishly note

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  that the hat, by itself, had probably cost more than she had spent on food in a year.

  "My, my, Sarah"—Rebecca disdainfully assessed her surroundings—"you endeavored to elucidate, but I didn't appreciate your desperate predicament until now."

  "It could have been worse."

  "I don't see how."

  "Well, Stevens's men could have set a torch to the house on their way out."

  Sarah led her to the parlor, the only room that had a fire going and two chairs to drag next to it. Luckily, the adjoining salon was closed off so Rebecca wouldn't detect that Sarah had made a bedchamber out of it. There wasn't fuel for the elevated floors, so she slept downstairs, heating just the two rooms. Not that the discontinued use of the upper chambers mattered; they contained no furnishings.

  "What are you doing such a distance from London?" Her pitiful situation precluded chitchat, and she was glad. She couldn't comprehend why Rebecca had come to call, and she wanted her gone.

  "I'm off to a Christmas house party near Middlesbrough, but I couldn't pass so close without stopping."

  She then regaled Sarah with boring anecdotes about her fashionable friends, and about her roommate who was awaiting her at the coaching inn in the village, and Sarah was relieved that Rebecca hadn't brought her associate along to witness how far Sarah had fallen.

  Sarah was polite and commented where it seemed appropriate, but she couldn't quite enjoy their odd conversation. Rebecca appeared so happy and contented, while Sarah viewed herself as doomed and devastated. The contrasts in their personalities had never been more glaring, and Sarah resentfully discerned that she envied her cousin for her freedom and adaptability.

  "I've been thinking about Hugh's body," Rebecca said.

  Her bizarre pronouncement terminated Sarah's shallow reverie. "What about it?"

  "He needs a proper burial."

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  "Wouldn't that be nice," Sarah responded sarcastically. "How could I afford it?"

  "Well, I understand that you don't like to talk about Mr. Stevens"—her mention of Michael had Sarah fuming—"but he was overly fond of you once, and I was simply curious as to whether you might prevail upon him to have Hugh shipped home. Hugh would have liked to be entombed with some fuss and pomp in the crypt here at Scarborough, and it's a tragedy about his grave in London. Why ... there isn't even a stone."

  "I couldn't pay for one," Sarah testily replied.

  "That's just my point, dear." Rebecca leaned over and condescendingly patted Sarah's a
rm. "My roommate slipped on some ice and injured herself, so we've had unanticipated expenses. I went to Mr. Stevens, myself, just two weeks ago, and appealed for a few pounds to tide us over."

  Sarah was murderously calm; her ears must be deceiving her. Battling to maintain an unaffected smile, she blandly declared, "You asked Michael Stevens for money?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he say?"

  "He was exceptionally generous, and he donated much more than I'd solicited."

  "How did you dare?"

  "I felt he owed us some recompense. After all"—she shifted, her plush skirt swishing at her legs—"you and I weren't involved in his quarrel with Hugh, but look where it left us."

  Where it left us, indeed, Sarah thought acridly, gazing around the barren chamber and adjusting her bulky clothes against the cold.

  Rebecca preened as though her contacting Michael Stevens was eminently suitable, and Sarah resisted the impulse to scream with frustration.

  How could Rebecca communicate with Michael! How could she degrade herself like a common beggar! Didn't

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  she have any pride? Didn't she recognize Michael Stevens for the scoundrel he was?

  "I'm surprised he had any blunt to bestow," Sarah stated with more bitterness than she'd intended to show.

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Well, with his being a gambler, I can't believe he has two pennies to rub together."

  "Michael Stevens?" Rebecca laughed gaily. "Oh, Sarah, the man is richer than Croesus."

  "From gambling?"

  "No, silly, from the club he owns with his brother. It's the most popular spot in the city for a gentleman to pass his leisure time."

  "But I thought he survived from game to game."

  "That he gambled to earn his income? No," Rebecca clarified. "And when he plays for any kind of stakes, it's only with fools."

  Like Hugh, was the unuttered reproach.

  "But if he's so wealthy . . ." Sarah couldn't say the rest: Why did he do this to me? Why did he leave me like this?

  "Why did he take everything?" Rebecca finished for her. "Sarah, his and Hugh's dispute was protracted and bitter. You don't know what Hugh was like in town."

  "No, I don't." But she had a fairly good notion. She'd observed Hugh at his worst many, many times. He'd been insufferable.

  "While I'm not definite on the particulars of his game with Mr. Stevens, there have been stories. I hate to tell you this, but Hugh probably deserved what he got; he was a total ass, and you must remember that Mr. Stevens's animosity was provoked over a lengthy period of numerous insults."

  "Possibly," Sarah mused.

  Her mind was reeling, but she could only focus on one, novel fragment of what Rebecca had imparted: Her husband was wealthy. He was economically settled, so much so that he would graciously lavish several pounds on a woman

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  with whom he wasn't acquainted simply because she had the gall to inquire.

  Slowly, her temper ignited. For months, she'd been struggling to recover from being captured in the whirlwind that had enveloped Michael. She'd been languishing from terrible bouts of melancholia, incapable of dealing with how Michael had burst into her life, then vanished like a magician in a puff of smoke.

  She was enraged. About how he'd failed to trust her. About how he'd manipulated and abused her. About how he'd abandoned her to flounder and wallow in the poverty he'd inflicted.

  While Rebecca was smartly dressed and on her way to Christmas festivities, Sarah was scrounging for the barest necessities, grappling with debt collectors, searching for pen and foolscap so that she could draft her daily rationales as to why they must continue to wait for compensation.

  Fury burst upon her in a wave of unrelenting ire. How could he treat her so shabbily? And why had she allowed it?

  He'd sent her to Yorkshire like a naughty child, and she'd scurried home, with nary a complaint or thought as to whether his decision was correct.

  His conflict had been with Hugh, not her, and she was tired of being painted the villain. Hugh was dead, interred in a pauper's grave, and Sarah was Michael's wife. The man had responsibilities to her. No one had forced him into marriage; he'd done so freely, albeit reluctantly, and it was past time he honored his vows.

  Suddenly sensing that she'd overstayed her welcome, Rebecca rose and prepared to depart, prattling on as to how her companion would be getting anxious.

  "Don't let me keep you," Sarah advised, sounding horridly uncivil.

  "I wish you'd come to London." Rebecca repeated her overture. "I hate to see your dire straits, so please say yes. We've an extra room that could be yours. Would you like

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  me to stop by on the return trip? You could ride with us. We'd have space for a bag or two."

  "No, Rebecca, but thank you."

  Then and there, she decided she'd make her way to town, but not for any of the reasons Rebecca might conjure up. She had words—a few nasty, indelicate, rude words— that she planned to speak to her husband. And by God, he was going to listen to every one of them, if she had to tie him down while she said her piece!

  "At least, let me give you this.” Rebecca held out a bag of coins, and Sarah didn't hesitate to grab it. "It's some of what Mr. Stevens dispensed."

  "How wonderful!" She derived perverse pleasure from knowing that she would pay for her excursion with the cad's very own money.

  Rebecca strolled out, and the carriage whisked her away. Sarah watched until it was just a dot on the horizon, then she marched to her lonely, desolate parlor, delighted that Rebecca had visited, relieved that the woman's disclosures had spurred her to action.

  "Well, Mr. Stevens," she announced to the dying fire, "I'm off to London. What do you think of that?"

  Pitching the bag from hand to hand, she relished the coins clinking together as she pictured how astonished he'd be when he opened his door to discover her on his stoop.

  Was he in for it! Very likely, his ears were already ringing.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Abigail Weston Stevens was walking down the stairs when she heard a knock on the front door. Previously, she might have ignored it, anticipating that the butler would take on the mundane chore that she would have deemed beneath her station but, in the past year, her life had been transformed. For the better.

  She wasn't in her brother's grand mansion, filled with dozens of servants, but in James's small house that was truly a home. Fondly, she tended to, and oversaw, the cheery abode in her recurrent efforts to instill the sense of serenity and closeness that James had missed out on while growing up.

  Marriage had definitely generated changes! By allying herself with the nefarious rake, she'd been altered in more ways than she could count. Lovingly, she traced a hand along the swelling in her abdomen, the babe he'd so lustily planted just beginning to show.

  As always happened when she thought of her robust, vital husband, butterflies swarmed through her stomach. She was so appallingly happy! Each day was superior to the last, just as she'd surmised they would be when she'd begged him to make her his bride.

  Since they'd been together, James had calmed and matured, delighting in the simple pleasures. They were a family, and with the approach of summer, their number would increase by one more when she gifted him with a beautiful son or daughter. A wave of tender sentiment brought tears that moistened her eyes. With her pregnancy in full bloom, she cried about everything and nothing, and she tried to quell the surge of emotion but, as she sauntered over to

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  greet her visitor, she could barely contain her joy.

  She turned the knob, and she wasn't really thinking about who she might encounter—perhaps one of James's business associates or one of his employees—but the pretty woman lingering on the stoop had her snapping to attention. Her comely face and unique auburn hair were mostly shielded from view by her dark cloak, and Abigail suffered a moment of u
ncanny compassion as she recalled her own furtive trip the prior spring to see James's mother, Angela Ford, and her beseeching Angela to aid in convincing James to wed.

  "May I help you?" Her curiosity was thoroughly piqued.

  "I hope so. I realize this is terribly forward of me." The woman blushed becomingly, and nervously glanced about, checking that she had the correct address, then she braced herself. "I was advised that this is the residence of Michael Stevens, and I must speak with him."

  "And you are ... ?"

  "Sarah. . ." Nodding authoritatively, she added, "Sarah Compton ... Stevens." She pronounced Stevens as though it didn't fit on her tongue.

  "I'm Abigail Stevens. I'm married to James. Are we related?"

  "Yes." The woman studied her carefully. "Michael is my husband."

  "Your what?"

  "My husband," she repeated, daring Abigail to dispute her allegation.

  "Oh, my ..." Abigail was totally flustered. Could it be true? With Michael and his bizarre mode of carrying on, she supposed anything was conceivable. Even an unknown wife! "When ... ?" she managed.

  "In June."

  "But that was six months ago!"

  Just about the time his excursion to the country had ended, and he'd stumbled into London, so lost and forlorn. Little had varied since then. He was reclusive, morose, incomprehensible in his conduct and methods. Abigail had

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  struggled to befriend him, but he was an elusive thorn in her side, rebuffing her and James's attempts at reconciliation—when she wasn't positive what they needed to reconcile.

  "Forgive me," she said, as she recalled her manners and gestured. "Come in, come in."

  "Thank you."

  Abigail ushered Sarah into the foyer and, as the butler retrieved her cloak, Abigail quietly counseled a footman to dismiss Sarah's rented hack. Their pending discussion would last more than a few minutes, so the driver needn't tarry.