Total Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  They entered the parlor, and Abigail noticed that Sarah was chilled to the bone and, as Abigail ordered snacks and tea, she wondered how far the woman had traveled—and how dreadful had been her journey!

  She was brave to show up unannounced, but Abigail was tickled that she had. Whatever hideous misery was gnawing at Michael, perhaps the basis was about to be revealed, which was an immense relief. There was a mystery here, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  Michael had undergone numerous modifications in his personality that had reshaped his relationship with James, and James was bewildered by the loss of their friendship. He couldn't mend the rift that had developed, and it was tormenting him.

  Introspective, pensive, covert, Michael had always been somewhat reserved, but now, he was taciturn to the point of absurdity. James swore that something was terribly wrong, that an egregious incident had occurred while he'd been away. Michael wouldn't—or couldn't—talk about it, and James couldn't break through Michael's melancholy.

  His younger brother lived by himself, in a house James owned a few blocks down the street. Michael worked, he ate, he slept, but he was like a person who was dead inside. There was no enjoyment or satisfaction as he went about his responsibilities. The contentment James assured her had once been there was gone.

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  Had this woman been the root of his affliction? If so, would she be the cure?

  Optimistic, she sat forward. "We're sisters-in-law."

  "You believe me, then?"

  Sarah was so clearly relieved that Abigail could only smile. "Of course I believe you." Who would lie about being married to Michael? While the man was as good-looking and intriguing as her husband, he was so enigmatic that he frightened her. "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Well, my impromptu visit is rather odd."

  No more odd than when Abigail had confronted Angela Ford, but she didn't mention it. "What shall I call you? Since we're both Mrs. Stevens, the formality is a bit ridiculous."

  "Sarah."

  "And I'm Abigail."

  From Sarah's comportment and demeanor, Abigail discerned her to be of the Quality. "Who is your family, Sarah? Did you say Compton?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you, by chance, related to the recently deceased Hugh Compton, Earl of Scarborough?"

  "He was my brother."

  An earl's daughter! An earl's sister! Abigail was stunned. Michael had privately and clandestinely married into the aristocracy, and he'd kept it a grand secret. Why?

  The shocking gossip about Hugh Compton rushed back. While he'd been alive and provoking mischief, it had been impossible to avoid the sordid stories. James, who was a constant fount of discourse on the rich and infamous, had imparted his portion of them, but no one had ever hinted at this information.

  Michael had surreptitiously married Scarborough's sister, and neither Hugh nor Michael had ever whispered a word about it. Had Hugh Compton even known? What did it all mean?

  Abigail relaxed on the sofa, the preposterous revelation sinking in. She almost couldn't credit the woman's state-

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  ment, yet she did. A deep wound had been haunting Michael, plaguing him heart and soul, but in their ruminating over the probable cause of his injury, they'd never conjured up an explanation like this!

  "Sarah, I imagine you have a very fascinating tale to relate. Would you mind waiting for my husband? He'll be interested in your comments." At the reference to James, Sarah appeared ready to bolt, and Abigail laid a consoling hand on her arm. "Whatever it is, he'll be an incredible help to you."

  "Are you sure?"

  "He has an extraordinary knack for sorting out problems and devising solutions."

  Abigail walked to the hall and conferred with their majordomo Arthur, who efficiently hovered nearby. His brows flew up in amazement as he learned of their guest's identity and, with no further urging, he hurried off to roust James out of bed.

  A maid brought refreshments, and Abigail was offered a reprieve from conversation while Sarah wrapped her fingers around a hot cup of tea and absorbed its warmth. From how she gobbled down the slices of meat, cheese, and bread, it was obvious that she was famished.

  When did you last have a decent meal?

  Abigail was saved from posing the indelicate question aloud because, just then, James hustled in.

  Considering how rapidly he'd been awakened, he was flawlessly dressed, and intent on beholding Sarah Compton Stevens with his own two eyes.

  "James"—Abigail rose placidly and went to him, silently begging for calm—"I'm so glad you're here. The most marvelous guest has stopped by."

  "Yes, Arthur informed me." He stomped across the floor until he was directly in front of Sarah. "Excuse my abruptness. I'm James, Michael's brother."

  "No apology is necessary," Sarah graciously indicated. "My arrival was unforeseen, but I was so eager to meet with Michael. I came here straightaway."

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  Abigail conceded, "And we're delighted that you did." James made no signal of agreement, so Abigail poked him in the ribs. "Aren't we?"

  "Yes," he then replied emphatically, "we certainly are."

  Sarah stood, and they scrutinized one another like predators circling before combat. Seeming astonished that two such attractive, potent men could exist simultaneously, she eventually noted, "You look just like him."

  "No"—James's smile heated the room—"you're mistaken. I'm much more handsome."

  "Oh, James," Abigail chastised, but his stab at humor was successful. Sarah's tension eased as she finally comprehended that she was safe and wouldn't be sent packing. "Let's sit, shall we? I gather we're in for a lengthy and engaging narration."

  "And I for one," James retorted, "can't wait to hear the details."

  They adjusted themselves on the furniture, facing one another, and Abigail discreetly pressed food on Sarah while the woman regaled them about her adversity with Michael. Although she omitted the juiciest parts, they concluded that Michael had compromised her and married her because of it.

  But as her recital continued, as she depicted how he'd sent her home to fend for herself, as she described the autumn and the seizure Michael had accomplished of all Hugh's belongings, as she itemized the poverty and hardship she'd been constrained to endure, they stiffened with outrage. James, especially, was disturbed by how badly Michael had behaved.

  As she reached her summation, explicating how she'd decided to head for London, Sarah's ire equaled their own, her temper rekindled by her accounting.

  James was irate, unable to be still, pacing behind the couch, and Abigail received the distinct impression that Michael was lucky he was absent. Her husband and sister-in-law had allied against him, and they were dangerously bent on getting answers from the unsuspecting man. Abigail

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  would have felt sorry for him had he not acted the categorical bounder toward Sarah.

  "What now?" she asked into the deafening silence that ensued once Sarah finished her chronicle.

  James summoned Arthur to fetch his coat. "It's high time my brother and I had a chat."

  "Do you know where he is?" Sarah queried.

  "I might." His response was intentionally ambiguous.

  "I'll go with you." Sarah crossed the room, prepared to join in the search.

  "Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here with Abigail." He stared at Abigail, seeking her intervention. "I'll be back shortly."

  "I've planned this moment for six months," Sarah asserted, "and I won't delay another second. I'm going!"

  She proclaimed it with such finality that Abigail couldn't see how James would dissuade her. Nevertheless, he visually spurred Abigail to intercede as he implored, "I really don't think that's wise."

  James was outright pleading now, and suddenly, Abigail got his message. "Oh, dear. . ." she grumbled, not meaning to grouse audibly.

  "What is it?" Sarah asked.
/>   Abigail sighed. Poor Sarah had been through so much; she didn't need any grave tidings. "James is right," Abigail gently cautioned, "perhaps you should remain behind."

  "I'm not a child." Sarah glared testily at both of them. "I demand the truth."

  James flashed Abigail a tortured look, in typically male fashion, incompetent to elucidate, forcing her to do the dirty deed. "Michael probably isn't alone."

  "With whom would he be?"

  Abigail yearned to soften the blow but couldn't decipher how to make it sound less damaging than it was. "Presumably, he's with Pamela."

  "Pamela ... Pamela Blair?"

  "Yes." Abigail drew near to her. "He's been cavorting quite shamelessly with her since last summer."

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  "There've been rampant rumors they might marry," James felt obliged to append.

  "James!" Abigail scolded, and he reddened at how his disclosure affected Sarah.

  Her legs had ceased to support her, and she sank onto the sofa. "But she's my friend."

  "I'd bet my last pound that she doesn't know about the two of you," James inappropriately interjected. "Michael hasn't confided in anyone."

  Abigail was exasperated with James. His remarks were cutting like a knife. Obtuse creature! In light of his employment and the uproars in which he typically became embroiled, he was usually adept at handling the most difficult situations. The fact that he was stumbling only underscored how rattled he was by Michael's deportment, so she couldn't be too aggravated.

  She sat with Sarah and held her hand. "What James is clumsily saying"—she optically threatened him with dismemberment—"is that we don't understand Michael anymore or what's troubling him. He's been so contrary that we hardly know him."

  "Exactly," James put in. "He's so strange, and he's been so uncommunicative, that he and I scarcely converse. I've always assumed that he endured a trauma while he was away, but I've never ascertained what it was."

  "He seems heartbroken to me. Very sad," Abigail volunteered. "He's grieving." Encouragingly, she suggested, "Perchance, he's hurting over what transpired, and he can't figure out how to mend your differences."

  "Carrying on wim Pamela. . ." Sarah muttered to herself. "I will absolutely wring his pitiful neck!" Blatantly furious, she marched over to James, fists clenched, eyes sparking with rage. "Take me to him immediately!"

  James appealed to Abigail for guidance, but she merely shrugged. "Maybe you should." She brightened. "We'll all

  go-"

  "We will not!" James declared, then cleared his throat. "I mean ... I want to keep you out of it."

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  "Why? Sarah may need me."

  "Abby . . ."

  She bristled over his reticence. He was, once again, treating her like some wilting noblewoman, and she hated it. "You're embarrassed to introduce me to Michael's"— she almost said mistress but couldn't utter the despicable term in front of Sarah, so she switched to—"companion. Honestly, James, I won't expire."

  'This might not be pretty, and I won't have you involved." Disconcerted, he reminded her, "The babe's been making you ill all morning."

  "But I'm fine now."

  Not wishing to induce dissension, Sarah interposed, "James is prudent to fret over you, Abigail. Michael and I both have tempers, so what I have to say to the cad won't be pleasant."

  "Please?" James sweetly requested. "For me?"

  "All right," she griped, powerless to refuse him anything. "But you must promise that you'll relay all the gory particulars; you can't leave anything out! And Sarah . . ."— she went to her newfound sister-in-law and enveloped her in a tight hug—"if your meeting with him is overly wretched, return here at once. You're family; we'll help you."

  "You're very kind, Abigail."

  They departed together; James guided Sarah into his carriage, then he scrambled in behind, and Abigail watched, feeling left out.

  "Come for supper," she called at the last, "and bring Michael with you—if you can!"

  Sarah waved her confirmation, as James pulled the door closed and motioned to the driver. Abigail lingered until they disappeared around the corner.

  Sarah loitered in Michael's bedchamber and critically surveyed her surroundings. There had been a few signs of Pamela's occupancy, but after James had acquainted her

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  with the staff, they had readily complied in assisting her to erase any evidence of the other woman. The handful of combs, the red silk petticoat, and the slinky peignoir she'd located were currently being delivered to Pamela's own domicile.

  Satisfied with her afternoon's endeavors, she descended the stairs to sit with James in the parlor where he was patiently sipping on a brandy while awaiting his brother.

  Michael's house was a charming place that James had purchased years earlier for his first wife and, from the moment they'd arrived, James had acutely enjoyed himself as Sarah had stormed about. Her fury had escalated as she'd proceeded from room to room, witnessing how comfortable Michael had been while she'd been scrimping and freezing in the country.

  The three-story row house was nearly identical to the one where James and Abigail lived. On a busy, affable lane, it was cozy and plushly decorated with a welcoming ambiance. There was a feminine flavor to the decor that she liked, and she couldn't move beyond the despicable, petty notion that this warm, snug abode could have been hers— had she not been a coward and let Michael contend that their marriage was a fraud.

  When they'd shown up at his door, Michael had been out, but the servants had insisted he'd be back soon, so they'd bided their time rather than track him all over London. Yet, once they'd settled in, Sarah couldn't abide the dawdling. She'd begun exploring, and though Michael's personal mark was scarcely apparent, his clothes were in an upstairs bedchamber—along with some of Pamela's. If Sarah hadn't been so angry, she might have been shattered.

  While they'd been separated, she'd convinced herself that she had no feelings for her husband. During those long, lonely months at Scarborough, she'd persuaded herself that their brief affair had been an aberration, that she hadn't loved him madly and passionately but, as she'd fingered his apparel and shaving equipment, as she'd rifled through his dresser—just as she'd loved to do when they were together

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  in Bedford—the sorry truth had crashed down on her. His presence had been so strong that she'd been impelled to admit how much she still cared.

  How could he have set her aside so easily?

  From what James had imparted, she was aware that Michael had come back to the city, then started up with Pamela shortly after. He'd hardly blinked between taking a wife and taking a mistress.

  What was she to make of such disrespect?

  She appreciated that he was overly virile and had an unrelenting sexual drive, that he regularly assuaged it with any woman who acted the least bit interested, so she harbored no illusions about his carnal attributes. Yet, she was stunned that he'd so hastily turned to another lover.

  Oh, how it distressed her to acknowledge that she hadn't mattered to him! That she very likely hadn't crossed his mind after he'd walked away from the small church where they'd wed.

  Well, Michael Stevens was in for a surprise. Sarah had had plenty of opportunity to reflect during the laborious, frigid trek to London. She craved a valid marriage, and she wanted a house full of boisterous children, with Michael as their father.

  With the exception of the unfathomable Rebecca, her own family was nonexistent. Her father and mother were dead, and Hugh—pitiful Hugh, whom she didn't mourn or miss—the last of their line. The Scarborough estate she'd fought so valiantly to protect wasn't hers. She belonged nowhere and felt as if she had no past or future, and the single component that connected her to the rest of the world was that she had a spouse; a husband who didn't fancy her. but that was about to change.

  If the trying killed her, they would come to terms with
what had transpired. Michael Stevens hadn't discovered what her father and Hugh had always known: She was stubborn and determined. She didn't quit, she didn't surrender, and she never capitulated until she'd achieved her goal.

  From her perspective, conditions looked desperate; she

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  was out of options, and she wouldn't desist until she had, once again, broken through Michael's wall of reserve. She hadn't forgotten what it was like to have his undivided attention, to bask in his admiration, to win his regard. There was nothing quite so fine as holding him close while knowing that she was the sole person who had ever loved him. He was no match for her in resolve or persistence.

  She stepped into the parlor just as a key clicked in the lock. Her heart skipped several beats, her step faltered, but she regrouped, ready for battle.

  "Are you up to this?" James asked.

  "Yes.".2

  "Abigail and I are here for you."

  She smiled at the man who was already a good friend. "I'm grateful."

  "If he tosses us out on our ear..."

  "I won't permit it," she scoffed. "Your brother's days of bossing me around have ended."

  "I can see that." James chuckled at her pluck and tucked her arm in his. "But in case you've miscalculated, you can stay with us for as long as you like."

  What amenable news! To be granted shelter! Somewhere clean and safe, where people cared about her! Until that precise moment, she hadn't truly believed tat she could escape her seriously dire straits.

  "Your hospitality won't be necessary. Michael will be thrilled to see me." They walked out to the foyer. "It just might take him a while to realize it."

  They halted in front of the door, and Michael strolled in—with Pamela by his side. She was lovely as ever, fashionable in a dark fur cloak and hat, with red feathers dangling over her shoulder. Her nose and cheeks rosy-red, she was laughing over something Michael had just said.