Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  “Bats!” breathed Abigail, searching the cold gray sky in dismay.

  “Damned expensive, sweeps. The truth is, my dear cousin,” he added, taking her hand in his, “if you can’t convince Mrs. Spurgeon to take the Manor instead, I shall be ruined.”

  “But you can’t ask your wife to remove to the gatehouse,” Abigail pointed out.

  To her surprise, he laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”

  “I daresay the gatehouse would be adequate for our needs, sir,” said Abigail, rather doubtfully. “We are only three—Mrs. Spurgeon, Mrs. Spurgeon’s nurse, and myself.”

  “Nurse? That settles it. Mrs. Spurgeon’s health will not permit her to be consigned to the inconveniences of the gatehouse. I shall take it, and leave you ladies to the comforts of Tanglewood Manor. No, I insist. I give you my word that my wife won’t object to the scheme. I expect Mrs. Wayborn to remain quite mute on the subject, as indeed, she is on every subject.”

  Abigail stared at him. “Do you mean that your wife is a mute, sir?” she asked, shocked that he would joke about such a serious matter.

  “She might be,” he carelessly answered. “I really don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?” Abigail cried. “I don’t understand you, sir.”

  “No,” he sadly agreed. “You’re not very good at riddles, are you? I’m not married, you see. But I daresay my wife is wandering about the earth in search of me as we speak, poor girl. She could be mute. She could be Irish, for all I know. I’m fairly certain she hasn’t got a hunchback or a mustache, but, then again, I’m such a spiritual fellow that her beautiful soul might be quite enough for me. She mightn’t even be born yet, though I must say, I find the thought of marrying a girl nearly thirty years my junior a bit daunting.”

  “But of course you’re married,” Abigail argued. “I distinctly recall that you mentioned your wife to me. You said Mrs. Wayborn did all your reading for you.”

  He raised his dark brows. “Did I? I seem to recall something along those lines. What I meant was that, when I do marry, she will have the job. Unless she should happen to be blind. I couldn’t ask it of a blind woman.”

  “Then there is no Mrs. Wayborn to object to your living arrangements.”

  “Not at present,” he qualified. “But if I know anything about my future wife—and I think I do—she wouldn’t object to staying with me in the gatehouse. As long as we two are together, her happiness will be complete. In any case, you must take the Manor.”

  “Yes, of course,” Abigail agreed faintly as he let down the steps for her and helped her climb back into the coach. She felt utterly and completely stupid.

  Chapter 4

  One of the Manor’s wrought iron gates had come loose from its post and was propped against the wall of what Abigail supposed to be the gatehouse—a dingy stone box that looked more like an abandoned rookery than a human domicile. The manor house did not disappoint, however. With its large, mullioned windows and its chimneys rising like decorative spires from the roof, Tanglewood was as fine an example of a Tudor country house as she had ever seen. The red brick facade was clad with ivy, and outside the entrance was a small timber portico, with room enough inside for two rustic benches and a boot scraper.

  As the coach rolled up the drive, Abigail saw Cary Wayborn step out from the portico, a barking dog at his heels. The animal had the fox-like head, short legs, and deep, bow-front chest typical of a Welsh corgi. By concentrating on the dog instead of the master as he helped her from the coach, she found she could breathe quite normally.

  “The house is much too big for us, Mr. Wayborn,” she said worriedly, turning to help Paggles, only to find that the efficient Evans had the situation in hand. “The rent we paid for the Dower House can’t possibly be enough.”

  The corgi launched itself at Abigail, demanding its fair share in the conversation. Its stump of a tail was wagging so hard its entire rear end was in motion. “Quiet, Angel,” Cary snapped, to no avail. The dog jumped energetically at Abigail’s skirts. Abigail solved the problem by scooping the small animal up in her arms.

  “Worst dog ever,” Cary remarked lightly.

  “No, indeed,” said Abigail, which Angel mistook for an invitation to lick her face.

  “There’s no question of asking Mr. Leighton for more rent,” Cary added. “It’s not his fault my tree forgot its manners, after all.”

  It had not occurred to Abigail before that Cary would think Mr. Leighton responsible for the rent. Of course, he had no way of knowing the truth. She was no longer Miss Ritchie, the Scotch heiress who had jilted Lord Dulwich; she was now the anonymous Miss Smith, ward of Mrs. Spurgeon.

  They hurried inside out of the blowing snow. The entrance hall was lit by a huge fire blazing in the massive stone hearth. Abigail set Angel on the floor and looked around, idly brushing at the short red hairs the dog had left on her cloak.

  Angel ran straight to the fire where two well-worn tapestry chairs had been arranged with a large footstool littered with newspapers set between them. A few crewel-work cushions had been placed on the deep wooden sills beneath the tall windows, but the room offered no other seating. Only one or two carpets had been put down on the floor, which was stone in some places and in others composed of odds and ends of timbers laid out in a hound’s tooth pattern. The walls were of beautiful linenfold paneling, darkened by smoke and age, and the coffered ceiling, which was rather low, featured the double rose of the Tudors.

  Abigail, who had always lived in the most modern, convenient London houses, instantly fell in love with it, musty smell, smoking chimney, and all. She could imagine the place filled with sixteenth-century ladies and gentlemen, the ladies in rich brocade skirts and ruffs of starched white lace, the men in velvet doublets and hose. She imagined how Cary Wayborn might look in doublet and hose, and decided he would do very well. He already had the pointed goatee and golden earring favored by the young men of Queen Elizabeth’s court.

  “Mrs. Grimstock is making us tea,” said Cary, clearing away the newspapers. Abigail hurried to help Paggles into one of the chairs, while Evans went to find the housekeeper.

  Cary watched curiously as she removed her cloak and placed it over the old woman like a blanket. Though rather too sensible in its design to be fashionable, Abigail’s dark blue dress was of good quality. It fit her slim body very well, and the deep, rich color made her short, curly hair look more than ever like butterscotch. Even from behind, there could be no mistaking her for a child. Cary felt his blood grow warm. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed a woman, and judging by this one’s reaction to him, it was not going to be a very long conquest. Though she was obviously a virgin, he was experienced enough to know the many ways they could enjoy themselves without spoiling the girl completely. All he needed was to get her alone.

  Cary disposed of his newspapers and returned as Abigail was pulling off her gloves. “He eats gloves,” he warned her, removing what proved to be a walnut from the dog’s mouth. “Shoes too—sometimes with the people still in them.”

  To Abigail’s enormous relief, she found that, when her handsome, unmarried cousin was at one end of the room, and she was at the other, her bashfulness remained under control. It was only when he got within arm’s reach that she turned into a stammering fool.

  “He’s still a puppy. I daresay he’ll grow out of it,” she said intelligibly, just as the housekeeper arrived with the tea tray. The folding table was in its collapsed state at one side of the fireplace, and, as Abigail was closer to it than anyone else, she set it up without thinking.

  “Mrs. Grimstock,” Cary said sharply. “This is my cousin, Miss Vaughn, from Dublin. She hasn’t come all this way to set up tables for us.”

  Mrs. Grimstock did not look like a Grimstock at all, but was rather a plump, middle-aged woman with a pleasing scent of candied ginger. “I beg your pardon, Miss Vaughn,” she cried.

  “Smith,” said Abigail, confused to suddenly have two names that were not he
r own. “I’m perfectly capable of setting up a tea table, Mr. Wayborn. But my name is Smith.”

  Cary frowned slightly, but accepted the correction gracefully. “Yes, of course,” he said smoothly. “My cousin, Miss Vaughn-Smith. Or is it Smith-Vaughn? I quite forgot you were hyphenated.”

  “I am not in the least hyphenated,” said Abigail, staring at him. “I am simply Miss Smith. And I’m not from Dublin. Whatever made you think so? I’m from London.”

  “Yes, of course,” he agreed, beginning to laugh. “I must be drunk! Mrs. Grimstock, this, of course, is my cousin, Miss Smith, from London. She is not my cousin Miss Vaughn from Dublin, after all. I hope that’s clear. Will you do me the honor, cousin?” he added, as Mrs. Grimstock withdrew.

  “Do you the honor, sir?” For a moment Abigail stared, confused. “Oh, the tea! Yes, of course,” she said quickly. “How do you take yours, Mr. Wayborn?”

  He grinned at her audaciously. “With a spot of whisky, generally,” he said, waiting for her gasp of ladylike dismay.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any,” she said, dismayed, to be sure, but not gasping. “Shall I ring for the servant?”

  “Here,” he said, pulling out his flask, wondering how far she would take the joke.

  To his astonishment, she quietly took the whisky and poured it with a liberal hand into both cups. “Sugar?”

  “Two, please,” said Cary. As he came forward to take his laced cup, he could scarcely keep a straight face. He fully expected her to choke on her own tea-and-whisky, but to his astonishment, it seemed to slip quietly down her throat, as if by long-established custom.

  “One doesn’t often get such quality here,” Abigail remarked, unaware she had done anything controversial. “The Irish like to keep the best for themselves.”

  “My groom’s an Irishman,” Cary explained. “He can get me anything.”

  “I do like a little Irish in my tea. Though it’s not good for you at all. Not like scotch.”

  Cary choked.

  “Have I put too much in your cup?” she asked, concerned. “It does take getting used to.”

  “I’m all right,” Cary said with dignity. “Is…Is scotch good for you, do you think?”

  “Oh, yes,” Abigail said seriously. “A quaich a day is absolutely essential for the blood.”

  “What in God’s name is a quake?” Cary wanted to know.

  “About this much.” With her thumb and index finger, Abigail measured two inches.

  “I wouldn’t know what a quake does for the blood,” said Cary, laughing. “But I can tell you from experience that a bottle is very bad for the head. I brought a case of scotch up here when I first moved in, drank it out of sheer boredom, and it nearly killed me.”

  Abigail smiled to herself. Her Glaswegian father had always told her that Englishmen could not hold their liquor, so she did not think any less of her cousin for his admission. “This is a beautiful house,” she said presently.

  “Is it?” he replied, shrugging. “If you like drafty old piles. It started out as a cow byre.”

  She seemed deeply interested, so he went on, “As the Cary family prospered, they started adding on rooms. Things really got going for them when Henry VIII granted them a few thousand acres belonging to some stubborn Catholic neighbors, and by the time Elizabeth came to the throne, they were pretty well-established. In honor of the Virgin Queen, they built the house in the shape of an E.” He set his cup on the mantel. “Shall I give you the tour?”

  Abigail glanced at her old nurse, but Cary said quickly, “Let her rest. The servants will look after her.”

  “But Mrs. Spurgeon and Mrs. Nashe must be at the inn by now.”

  “It’s very likely they will have to stay the night,” he told her. “It’s been snowing all afternoon. I don’t know that a carriage could get through. You don’t mind being trapped here with me, do you?” He held out his hand to her, and smiled.

  “But you will be at the gatehouse, surely,” she objected nervously.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Though I really think you ought to ask me to stay for dinner. I hate dining alone. Then, after dinner, you should play cards with me.”

  He delighted in the way her eyes grew big with alarm at the prospect of spending an evening alone with him. “Come now, Miss…er…Smith, we’re cousins. Surely there can be nothing improper in dining with one’s own cousin. You would not send me to the gatehouse with no supper and no company—apart from my misshapen dog, that is.”

  “What’s the matter with your dog?” she asked, puzzled.

  “What’s the matter with him?” he said, drawing her along with him towards the next room. “My dear girl, you must have noticed the manufactory forgot to give him legs and a tail.”

  “He’s a corgi, Mr. Wayborn,” Abigail chided him. “He’s absolutely perfect just as he is.”

  In complete agreement with her, Angel got up on his hind legs and licked her hand.

  “You mean you’ve seen his kind before?” Cary asked curiously.

  She nodded. “Yes, in Wales. The farmers use them to drive their cows down the road.”

  Cary chuckled. He now realized that she was teasing him, probably getting him back for leading her to believe he had a mute wife tucked away somewhere. There was no possible way a little dog like Angel could be used to herd anybody’s cows. “I generally use mine to chew on the furniture,” he said cheerfully. “If you like old family portraits, come have a look at these.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Abigail, almost tripping over the excited corgi. Angel had not expected her to move so quickly and immediately tried to herd her back to her chair. Failing that, he decided to nip at her heels to make her go faster. Cary pushed him aside with his foot and closed the door in his face, after letting Abigail through. The dog could be heard barking hysterically.

  The fire had not been lit in the next room and it was noticeably colder, though the rows of mullioned windows admitted enough light for Abigail to see the paintings hung on the wall. At a glance she recognized the work of Bettes, Gower, Van Dyck, and Lely. Clearly Mr. Wayborn’s ancestors had spared no expense in immortalizing themselves. She was surprised by how many of the people were fair-haired; the Wayborns were usually dark.

  “These are my mother’s people,” Cary explained. “The Carys must have had some Viking blood, I think. But here’s a fine young Wayborn you know.” He stopped before a portrait of a fair woman with three children, painted by George Romney. The children were as dark as the woman was fair. “My mother,” said Cary. “This handsome fellow is me, of course.”

  Abigail smiled at the little boy in short coats teasing a tabby cat with a ball of yarn.

  “And that loathsome creature polluting my angelic mother’s lap is my sister Juliet.”

  “She was a lovely baby,” said Abigail severely.

  “A blot,” he insisted. “Take my word for it. Sucked her thumb until she was nine.”

  “Who is that?” Abigail asked, pointing out the older child standing behind Cary’s mother.

  “My elder brother, Benedict. My half-brother, I should say. His mother was my father’s first wife, but Father insisted on all his children being in the portrait. Poor old Ben! He doesn’t seem to want to be there, does he?” He moved away quickly and stopped at another painting. “Here’s a lady that looks a bit like you, cousin. The infamous Lettice Cary.”

  The painting, most definitely by Anthony Van Dyck, showed a green-eyed young woman with hair the color of a fox’s pelt peeping from beneath a jeweled cap. Her delicate face was nearly white, but the artist had modeled it carefully in his palest colors, giving it life. Lettice’s golden brows and lashes had been painted hair by hair with the artist’s finest brush, and the cheeks and small mouth were stained the faintest imaginable pink. She was dressed in Jacobean finery, her white dress studded with pearls and emeralds, her upstanding white lace collar like an intricate spider’s web against the dark wood paneling behind her. Seated o
n what looked like a throne hung with heavy scarlet and white curtains, she seemed to be leaning backwards slightly. Abigail saw no resemblance to herself whatsoever.

  “Do you really think I look like her?” she asked curiously.

  “Only a little,” he replied. He looked at her, then at the painting. “You both have saucy eyes. Aren’t you going to ask me why she’s infamous?”

  “Why?” asked Abigail, turning beet-red. No one had ever described her light-brown eyes as “saucy” before. She decided he was merely teasing her again.

  “When she was quite forty, she ran away with her lover, an Italian musician twenty years her junior. How is that for a spot of scandal? This portrait was painted when she was a young bride, of course, but she already looks pretty restless, wouldn’t you agree?” He placed his hand on Abigail’s shoulder as he spoke.

  Abigail could neither agree nor disagree; her tongue was tied, and all she could feel was his hand burning through her clothes like a hot iron.

  “The ring on her finger is still in the family,” he added, as Abigail moved away without replying. “The Cary emerald. I’d show it to you, but it’s kept in our vault in London.”

  “I daresay these portraits are worth more than your emerald, sir,” Abigail murmured.

  “Perhaps. But no one wants to buy the men, and I can’t bear to part with the ladies.”

  Abigail caught sight of a set of miniatures arranged inside a curio table beneath a window. “These are very fine, sir. You have Henry the Eighth, four of his wives, and his daughter Elizabeth, all set in gold. You even have Anne Boleyn,” she added, tapping the glass. “Most people would have thrown out her portrait when she was beheaded.”

  Cary pretended to be interested for the pleasure of moving closer to her. She was so engrossed in the miniature portraits that she forgot to shy away from him. “I daresay she was restored to the case when her daughter Elizabeth became Queen,” he theorized.

  “You’re missing two Catherines,” Abigail pointed out. “Catherine of Aragon, and Catherine Howard. One divorced, the other beheaded. If your collection were complete, it would be worth a small fortune.”