Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  “I cannot take all the credit,” said Abigail. She gasped as his long finger slid into her swollen center, then went on, “My most trusted advisor, after a long and thorough investigation, exposed the scandalous practice of wearing drawers for what it was—a cruel and unnatural impediment to men in carriages everywhere.”

  “Good man, this advisor of yours,” Cary approved. “You are fortunate to have him.”

  “I am well aware of my good fortune, sir,” she answered, sweeping her hand down his smooth belly until she found his hot, stiff member. “I receive excellent advice and my prime minister is forever at my beck and call.”

  “He certainly is,” Cary agreed gruffly.

  “And such a handsome fellow, too,” she murmured, teasing the head of his prime minister shamelessly. “So dependable, always ready for action, though perhaps just a bit hot-headed, but I don’t mind that.”

  Cary could endure no more teasing. “For God’s sake, Abigail!” he muttered, drawing her down upon him by the hips. “Is this any way to treat a public servant?”

  Abigail collapsed into giggles as he slid deep inside her.

  Cary heaved a deep sigh of relief. “You were made for me,” he murmured. “Surely you were made for me.”

  The sudden knocking at the door was most unwelcome. The queen and her top advisor were seriously displeased and the prime minister suffered the worst of all possible setbacks in his career. “Bloody hell,” Cary growled, rummaging on the floor for his breeches.

  The knocking continued, accompanied now by a peevish female voice. “Cary Braedon Rutherford Wayborn! I know you’re in there! Open the door this instant.”

  “Juliet interruptus,” Cary snarled.

  “Perhaps she’ll go away,” Abigail suggested hopefully.

  “Not her. Have you seen my shirt?”

  “I suppose it’s one of your tarts,” Abigail said, handing it to him.

  “Hardly,” he retorted. “My tarts have better manners. That annoying female happens to be my sister, Juliet.” As Abigail’s eyes widened in terror, he smirked. “How clever of you not to get undressed, my dear. Why don’t you go down and open the door to your new sister-in-law? She will be most eager to make your acquaintance.”

  “Cary!” Abigail whispered harshly. “Why didn’t you tell me your sister was coming to Hertfordshire?”

  “I had no idea she was coming,” he answered calmly. “Try not to panic, monkey. There is a back door, remember? She’s fairly insinuating, but even she can’t be in two places at once.”

  In her haste to descend the ladder, Abigail nearly fell. Cary pushed her unceremoniously down the hall. “Remember the path through the woods?” he asked, forcibly putting her into her cloak. “Follow it until you come to the orchard wall. The gate’s open. Walk through the orchard—there should be no one there this time of year. When you come out of the orchard, you will see a door straight ahead and to your left. Here’s the key.”

  Abigail took it from him, repeating these instructions to herself.

  “Immediately inside, you will find a staircase to your right. There’s a door at the top of the stairs. The key is in the box on the table next to the door. It has a purple ribbon tied to it. You should be able to find your way to your room from there. Hurry, monkey—the harpy is growing impatient.” Closing her fingers around the key, he gave her a quick kiss and propelled her out the door.

  Abigail scampered into the woods, disappearing just as Juliet came around the side of the house and saw her brother. She was dressed in white furs and her patrician face was set in a scowl. “There you are!” she scolded him. “Didn’t you hear me knocking?”

  “I daresay Cromwell heard you knocking,” he said.

  “Who?” she demanded, pushing past him. Her gray eyes scanned the interior of the gatehouse as she moved further into it, apparently missing no detail.

  “Cromwell. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? First, he murdered King Charles because he was a nasty tyrant. Then he gave us the Rump Parliament, followed by the Bare Bones Parliament, and finally he dissolved Parliament altogether and just became a nasty tyrant, too.”

  “He’s dead,” said Juliet, unimpressed. “He couldn’t possibly have heard me knocking. What were you doing sneaking out the back door?”

  “You frightened me,” he explained. “I thought you were a bill collector. I was about to make a run for it.”

  Juliet lifted a brow. “In your bare feet?”

  “Indeed. But enough about me. I want to hear all about you,” he said amiably, herding her to the table. “You might begin by telling me what you’re doing here.”

  Juliet sat down at the deal table. Pulling off her gloves, she gave the teapot an experimental touch. Cary took the hint and put the kettle on. “Horatio told me a tree fell on the Dower House. Indeed, he couldn’t wait to tell me. Anyone would think you had carelessly dropped a tree on your own house, the way he talks of it. He said you were living here in the lodge. I didn’t believe him. Cary, it’s no better than a hovel, a pot shed!” She looked around wrinkling her slender nose.

  “It has its good points,” he said mildly, “namely a roof and four walls. I had to give the tenants the Manor House. There was nothing else to be done. You will like them. They are sound, respectable people.”

  “I hope so,” said Juliet. “It will be exceedingly awkward for me to share the house with them if they are not respectable.”

  Cary took the seat opposite her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said. You can’t seriously be contemplating a stay at Tanglewood. What does Auckland say? Is he here with you?”

  Two bright spots of color appeared in his sister’s cheeks. “Never mind what he says. It’s all finished between Ginger and me. Cary, I’ve—I’ve broken my engagement!” She promptly burst into tears.

  Like all blue-blooded Englishmen, Cary hated tears. “Look here!” he said sharply. “Pull yourself together.” He provided his sister with a tea towel and commanded her to dry her eyes.

  Juliet made a choking attempt at speech.

  “I’m sorry,” Cary said impatiently. “You were saying…? Blub? Blub? Blubber-blub?”

  Juliet took a deep breath. “I might have known you’d take his side,” she said resentfully, then reversed herself in the next moment. “I was so sure you would take my part. I knew, of course, that Benedict would blame everything on me, but, Cary, I did think that you would come to my defense.”

  Cary frowned. The mention of his elder brother made the situation seem serious. “Benedict knows about this?”

  “Not yet,” she admitted. “I thought it best to leave town.”

  Cary went to collect the whistling kettle. “So…who else knows of your spat besides me?” he asked his sister.

  “It’s not a spat,” she said severely. “I’ve broken it off. I’m now officially a jilt.”

  Cary found two crockery mugs while Juliet prepared the tea. Thankfully, his sister seemed past all blubbering. She drank her tea so calmly that Cary made the mistake of believing her to be rational. “If I were you, I’d high-tail it back to London and patch things up with Auckland,” he suggested.

  Juliet slammed down her mug. “Patch things up?” she fairly howled. “Haven’t you been listening to me? I’m finished with him. I can’t, and I won’t, marry a man who doesn’t trust me.”

  “Auckland doesn’t trust you?”

  “He’s been listening to petty gossip,” she said contemptuously. “He’s beastly jealous of Mr. Rourke. Last week, he threatened to cut him off financially if I don’t stop seeing him.”

  Cary raised both brows. “The actor?” he exclaimed incredulously.

  “Exactly,” said his sister triumphantly. “What sort of man is jealous of a mere actor? I find the whole thing insulting. So what if I visit him backstage in his dressing room?”

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  She squared her shoulders. “You men visit actresses all the
time,” she said defensively.

  “For God’s sake,” Cary said irritably. “The man has every right to be annoyed. An actor’s dressing room is no place for a respectable young female. Have you lost your mind?”

  “I enjoyed his performance at dress rehearsal so much that I was compelled to present him with a basket of oranges,” she coldly replied. “It was infinitely respectable, I assure you. Lots of people were there. Besides, I have to see Mr. Rourke. We’re working on a new play. Ginger knows that. He even approved all the expenses. Now he runs about Town accusing me.”

  “Accusing you of what exactly?”

  She shrugged. “Yesterday was the absolute last straw. He saw me coming out of the Albany with Mr. Rourke. The things he said to me—”

  “What the devil were you doing at the Albany?” Cary demanded.

  She started up indignantly. “A better question might be what was Ginger doing at the Albany!” she snapped. “He was supposed to be at home sleeping. Instead, he was out in the middle of the night spying on me, following me. It’s too despicable. I will not be spied upon.”

  Cary caught her roughly by the wrist. “You were at the Albany with Mr. Rourke in the middle of the night? Small wonder Auckland don’t trust you!”

  She returned his steely gaze belligerently. “If he loves me, he ought to trust me no matter what I do,” she declared. “I will not be questioned. I will not be accused.”

  “The guilty often object to such things,” he said, releasing her arm.

  “I am not guilty, you ass,” she said. “I had a very good reason for being at the Albany that night, and it had nothing to do with poor Mr. Rourke. I didn’t even see him until it was time for me to leave, and then he was good enough to help me. I had a veil on, so I daresay he didn’t even know who I was.”

  “Juliet, I’m your brother and I don’t believe you,” said Cary.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” she said tartly. “I see you have forgotten, and so has Ginger, that there are other gentlemen besides Mr. Rourke who have rooms at the Albany.”

  “I see. You were visiting another gentleman. Why, that’s perfectly all right.”

  She tossed her head impatiently at his sarcasm. “Our cousin Horatio has rooms at the Albany,” she reminded him. She fumbled angrily in her pockets, then placed a small object on the table. “There! Now don’t you feel ashamed of yourself?”

  Cary immediately recognized the little snuffbox with the racehorse enameled on the lid. “You stole Horatio’s snuffbox?” he cried in outraged amazement.

  “Well, he wouldn’t give it to me,” she snapped. “Naturally, I stole it. And a thankless job it was, too! He never lets it out of his sight, you know. I had to hide under the bed and wait for him to come home. He sleeps with it under his pillow, for heaven’s sake. It’s too ridiculous.”

  “It certainly is,” Cary agreed. “What did Auckland say when you told him all this?”

  She sniffed. “I shouldn’t have to explain. It’s quite his own fault if he got the wrong idea. He ought not have been spying on me. He ought to have trusted me. After all, I’m perfectly innocent.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot agree,” he said, picking up the snuffbox.

  She had the grace to blush. “The stealing was all Ginger’s idea. You were there; you heard him. He said someone ought to take Horatio’s snuffbox and throw it in the Thames. If he’d only behaved better, we might have had a good laugh.”

  “I daresay Horatio isn’t laughing. Ridiculous or not, that snuffbox was a royal gift, and he’s dashed fond of it. He’s probably in Bow Street right now, hiring Runners.”

  Juliet did not seem to hear him. “Instead, he accused me of betraying him. So naturally I said if he kept up his nonsense I should have to break our engagement. Then he said…” Her lower lip began to tremble. “He said…‘Madam, I wish you would!’” she whined.

  “Blow your nose,” Cary told her with a marked absence of brotherly sympathy.

  Abigail turned an abrupt corner on the gloomy narrow stairs and banged her forehead painfully on the low ceiling. Reaching up to steady herself, she scraped her palm on a nail jutting from the wall. She went up the last few steps on her hands and knees. A tiny round window admitted just enough light for her to make out the door and the little table beside it. She was forced to take the box over to the window to examine its contents. While poking through the jumble of keys looking for the one with a purple ribbon fastened to it, she made an unexpected discovery. She sucked in her breath as she fished out the miniature in its tiny gold frame.

  “Catherine of Aragon,” she breathed excitedly, cradling the treasure in her bleeding hand. Quickly, she located the necessary key. The door opened onto a brightly lit hall. Once her eyes adjusted to the bright light, she was able to find her way back to her room without difficulty.

  As she rushed to her dressing table, her anxiety at being presented in short order to Cary’s sister was compounded by her appearance. Her dress was smudged with dust from the stairs and plastered with leaves from her flight through the woods. There were cobwebs in her curly hair. A marble-sized swelling had appeared on her forehead where she had bumped it. She looked like a frightened scullery maid.

  Hurriedly, she washed, changed into a fresh dress with a modest neckline, and brushed her short hair. Satisfied that she at least looked like a clean frightened scullery maid, she crept downstairs. Mrs. Spurgeon seemed to be stirring in her room; Abigail heard Vera and Evans murmuring behind the door. She quietly made her way to the picture gallery and was engaged in adding Catherine of Aragon to the collection of miniatures in the curio table when a piercing voice suddenly assailed her.

  “You put that back this instant or I shall alert the whole house!”

  Abigail was so startled that she dropped the glass lid of the case on her hand, crushing her fingers. She cried out in pain.

  “Serves you right,” said Juliet Wayborn. “Grimstock! Grimstock, come at once!”

  Chapter 14

  Abigail turned to see a tall young woman in a very elegant black and white striped dress trimmed in fine lace. Unmistakably she was Cary Wayborn’s sister. She had the same gypsy tint to her skin, though she evidently never bronzed it by bathing in the sun. Her wide charcoal gray eyes were very like her brother’s, as were her patrician nose and firm chin. Her mouth was wide and feminine, and her hair was simply dressed. Her manner was imperious.

  Abigail cradled her injured hand. “I wasn’t taking anything out,” she said timidly. “I was putting something in.”

  “Nonsense!” said Miss Wayborn. “I saw you stealing that miniature.”

  Abigail turned pale, but her eyes snapped angrily. “I was not stealing!” she said stoutly.

  The housekeeper arrived, wringing her hands.

  “Grimstock,” said Juliet Wayborn. “I just caught this person stealing from my brother. I think we’d better have the J.P. Send Jeremy.”

  “I was not stealing,” Abigail said evenly. “Miss Wayborn is mistaken. Fetch Mr. Wayborn here at once.”

  Poor Mrs. Grimstock hesitated.

  Juliet found this intolerable. “Do as I say, woman! Or it will not be well for you.”

  Mrs. Grimstock scurried away, and Abigail rounded on Juliet angrily. “You have no right to threaten my servants, Miss Wayborn.”

  Juliet laughed unpleasantly. “Your servants?”

  “Yes,” Abigail said icily. “I have rented this house and all its contents from Mr. Wayborn. For the duration of the lease, they are my servants, and I will not permit you to abuse them.”

  “I see,” said the other lady. “I collect you are the famous Miss Smith?”

  “I very much doubt that I am famous.”

  “I do exaggerate,” Juliet admitted graciously. “My cousin Horatio mentioned you in passing. I have been given to understand that your mother was one of the Derbyshire Wayborns. Is that correct?”

  Abigail bristled at the other woman’s skepticism. “Yes.”

  �
�And…which of the Derbyshire Wayborns was she?”

  “Anne,” said Abigail, growing more annoyed by the minute.

  “Indeed. And your father is a diplomat,” Juliet murmured. “How very curious that I could find no trace of you in London, Miss Smith.”

  “As I said, Miss Wayborn, I am not famous.”

  At that moment Mrs. Grimstock returned, not with the Justice of the Peace, but with the master of Tanglewood Manor. Cary looked delightfully rumpled in one of his purple coats. “Hullo,” he said cheerfully, ignoring the poisonous animosity hanging heavily between his sister and his secret bride. “I see you’ve met our cousin, Miss Smith. Cousin Abigail, my sister Juliet.”

  “Miss Smith was just helping herself to a few of your miniatures,” Juliet said sweetly. “You may want to count them, Cary. It’s the only way to be sure she’s put them all back.”

  Cary had never seen Abigail in such a temper. She looked positively dangerous.

  “Are you accusing Abigail of being a thief?” he said sharply. “That’s a bit cheeky, coming from you.”

  Juliet glowered at him. “I know what I saw.”

  “I found Catherine of Aragon,” Abigail said angrily. “I was just putting her in the case when Miss Wayborn walked in and began accusing me.”

  Cary smiled. “You found poor old discarded Catherine!” he exclaimed, walking over to the case. “Well done, monkey.”

  Abigail spared Miss Wayborn a single cold glance. “I found her in a box under a pile of old keys,” she told Cary. “The glass is cracked, but I don’t think it will affect the value if you have it replaced.”

  “There, Juliet!” he said. “You couldn’t have been more wrong. Cousin Abigail has just completed my collection. Thanks to her, I now have Henry the Eighth, all his wives, and all his children.”

  “How nice for you,” Juliet said indifferently.