Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  “No, sir—um—Geoffrey. This is the clerk from Hatchard’s. He was good enough to escort me here. Thank you,” Abigail added, pressing another coin into the young man’s hand. “You’d better be getting back now.”

  “Yes, I’ll look after her,” said the Duke, taking Abigail’s arm and leading her inside the hot bakery. “Now then, my dear, what would you like? I’m afraid those were the last of the gooseberry muffins. What’s fresh, boys?”

  One of the flour-dusted apprentices grinned at him. “Back for more already, sir?” he said with a cheekiness that took Abigail’s breath away. But the Duke evidently was not one for jealously preserving the distinctions of rank.

  “There’s been a tragedy,” he replied. “I dropped ’em. And, before they hit the ground, the dogs and the rats had eaten ’em.” Leaving Abigail for a moment, he peered into the ovens. “These currant buns are rising quite nicely,” he remarked. “I’ll have these, if you don’t mind.”

  “And something for the lady?” inquired the cheeky one. Abigail was relieved that he at least recognized her as a gentlewoman.

  “Annabel?”

  Abigail did not bother to correct him. “Nothing for me, I thank you.”

  “You must have one of these,” the Duke insisted. He was loading hot cross buns into his pockets. He handed Abigail one, the warmth of which she could feel through her kid gloves. “Shall we go out the front or the back?” he asked her, around bites of his own bun.

  Abigail wished she could tell the whereabouts of Lord Dulwich. Nor was she entirely sure that she could bear another encounter with the odious Juliet Wayborn. The alley seemed the only safe place for her. “The back, please.”

  To her relief, the Duke accepted this unorthodox egress without comment. Abigail stepped into the alley, and, blowing on her bun to cool it a little, took a nibble from one side.

  “Well, Annabel? Where shall I escort you?” he asked. “Back to Hatchard’s?”

  “Oh, no!” she said immediately.

  “Yes, terrible place, Hatchard’s,” he agreed. “You’d think they would have given up on selling all those benighted books by now, but every time I go there, there’s just as many as the time before. I wonder they would even go on trying.”

  “I like the shop,” she said quickly, “but there’s someone there I’d rather not see, if you see what I mean.”

  This did not seem strange to him at all. He merely nodded. “I prefer the peace and quiet of the alleys as well. Now, I don’t think I can take you all the way back to Kensington by back ways, but I can get you to Hyde Park Corner, if that’s where you’ve left your carriage.”

  Abigail sighed. “No, actually. I sent for my carriage. They’re bringing it ’round to the front of Hatchard’s. He’s bound to hear them call out my name. Oh, dear! What shall I do?”

  Fortunately, the Duke was the decisive, action-oriented type. He dragged her around the corner, saying, “You’d better get to your carriage before the footman goes into the shop.”

  Abigail balked at the alley’s edge, however. Peering into the street, she saw that her carriage had not yet arrived, but that Lord Dulwich, with an exceedingly elegant female in tow, was just exiting the bookshop. “It’s him,” she breathed, ducking back into the alley.

  The Duke gave Piccadilly a brief survey. “Ah, Dulwich,” he nodded. “I could tell you stories about that narsty bugger. For starts, he’s called Pudding-face.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Abigail.

  He leaned comfortably against the wall and munched his currant bun. “And I have it on good authority that last year, right on this very street, in broad daylight, he knocked a girl down, and he didn’t even stop to help her regain her feet.”

  “I was that girl, sir,” Abigail admitted ruefully.

  “You? But weren’t you engaged to him?”

  “I broke it off. Is he—is his lordship still there?”

  He gave the street a quick scan. “Seems to be waiting for his carriage. Serena ought to have her head examined. For starts, that hideous green bonnet is so big her neck could snap at any moment. Aren’t you going to look?” he asked Abigail in some surprise.

  Abigail shook her head.

  “Julie always looks at hats,” he said a little wistfully. “She mocks them mercilessly. Almost never wears a hat herself. But then she has such nice hair. Like a setter’s ears.” The Duke suddenly scowled. “Do you mean to say that Dulwich deliberately knocked you down in the street because you broke your engagement? Why, that’s infamous, even for him!”

  “Oh, no,” Abigail quickly corrected him. “I’d not yet broken the engagement.”

  He gave a snort of laughter. “So the bloody fool knocked his own fiancée to the ground.”

  Abigail shuddered. “Sir! Please don’t call me that.”

  The Duke was laughing. “What a good joke! One almost feels sorry for the stupid ass! There he is engaged to your lovely one hundred thousand pounds, and what does he do? He knocks you down in the street! He probably still wonders why you broke it off!” He threw back his head and roared so loudly that Abigail was afraid Dulwich would hear him.

  “I beg your pardon!” she said softly. “But you are mistaken. I haven’t got a hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Well, that’s what your father offered me,” he said, “but then, Dulwich is only a viscount, though he does stand to inherit the earldom. I’m a full-fledged duke.”

  “What?” cried Abigail. “Has my father offered you money to–to—?”

  “I was not offended,” said the Duke. “It was like this. I’d ordered a lot of drink, you know, for the wedding party. Did you know I was once engaged?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, the vile girl broke it off, so I had to cancel a lot of things, including your father’s scotch. He was good enough to return my deposit, although he somehow persuaded me to take it in scotch, instead of cash. We got to talking. I had no idea there was so much money in drink! Though, I daresay, it stands to reason. People do drink, after all.”

  “Sir,” Abigail interrupted. “Did you come to an agreement with my father?”

  “I said I’d think about it. Although I must tell you, Annabel, I’m none too keen on marrying a girl who was once engaged to Pudding-face. I have my pride, you know, and I don’t really need the money. But his scotch is deuced good. Now, I don’t want to hurt your feelings!” he quickly added, clearly misunderstanding her sigh of relief. “I’m sure you’re a very nice girl and all that, but—and I hinted at this to your father—if you want a title, there are plenty of penniless earls who’d be glad to take you. We’ll find you a nice one, don’t worry.”

  Abigail’s mouth worked helplessly.

  “You mustn’t really expect to get a duke, you know,” he said, laying an avuncular hand on her shoulder. “Not that I don’t admire your ambition, Annabel…”

  Abigail found her voice. “I am not in the least ambitious, sir, I assure you! It’s true that my father has always wanted me to marry a title, but, for myself, it is of no consequence. I haven’t the least interest in marrying a title, thank you very much.”

  “What?” He chuckled. “Do you mean to say you’ve ruled it out?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” she said, hiding a smile.

  “What? Not even a baron? You are determined to marry a mister? But don’t you think you would enjoy being, say, Duchess of Auckland? Eh?”

  “No, sir, I would not. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, sir,” she added quickly. “But I shouldn’t like being a duchess at all. For starts, I should hate going to Court. I should infinitely prefer to live quietly in the country, and raise pigs or chickens or something like that.”

  A grin softened his craggy face. “You’d be as bad a duchess as I am a duke. Julie was all wrong, too. She’d have spent all her time putting together amateur theatricals and haunting the theater. I suppose it’s all for the best. But won’t you miss the theater out there in the country with Mr. Pigs-and-Chickens?”


  “I don’t really like going to the theater,” she admitted. “There’s such a crush to get in.”

  “There is, isn’t there?” he agreed. “Then, when one finally does get in, it’s so loud one can scarcely hear the performance!”

  “And when the people in the pit don’t like the play, they behave so abominably. They shout at the actors. Sometimes, they even throw things. I think it’s very bad, don’t you, sir?”

  “That’s chiefly what I like about it,” said the Duke. “In fact, I’m going tonight just to throw cabbages at Mr. David Rourke. My man’s been poking through the neighborhood ash bins all morning.”

  Abigail stared at him. He sounded quite serious, but he couldn’t be. Could he? “Don’t you like Mr. Rourke?” she asked him nervously. “He gets good reviews.”

  “Not from me, he don’t.”

  “You don’t really mean to throw things at him, do you?”

  “I certainly do,” he said stoutly. “It’s opening night. Antony and Cleopatra. I daresay, he thinks he’s going to have a long run! And so he will. I shall run him out of England!”

  Abigail frowned. “If it’s opening night, sir, how do you know you won’t like the play? It might be very good.”

  “I don’t care if it is!” he declared angrily. “Rourke’s finished. You ought to come with me, Annabel,” he went on. “How’s your bowling arm? There will be tomatoes, as well. Great fat, juicy, rotten ones. How I should like to mash them all into that pretty Irish face of his.”

  Abigail was appalled. “Sir! Mr. Rourke is perhaps no Edmund Kean, but—”

  “Who the devil is Edmund Kean?” he demanded. “Another Irishman of Juliet’s?”

  “In any case,” Abigail said hastily. “I cannot attend the theater with you tonight, sir. My father is taking me to Carlton House. It’s some dreadful masquerade ball, I’m afraid, but the Prince Regent was kind enough to invite us—”

  The Duke snorted. “In exchange for a lot of free scotch, I don’t doubt!”

  “Well, yes,” Abigail conceded. “That’s generally how it seems to work.”

  “I’m going to the Regent’s ball as well,” he informed her. “But it’s not until after Antony and Cleopatra. The Prince will be attending the performance, you know. Rumor has it Mrs. Archer is his new mistress. She’s Cleopatra, you know. Oh, I’m sorry! Am I allowed to say ‘mistress’ in front of you?”

  “You just did,” Abigail pointed out. “Twice.”

  “So I did. And you didn’t faint, so I must be in the clear. In any case, the ball is being held afterwards. All the actors and actresses will be there—except for Mr. Rourke, who will be too covered in filth to go anywhere ever again—except Ireland. Tell your father I have engaged to escort you from the theater to the ball. He can have no objection to such a scheme.”

  “I’m sure he would be delighted, your grace, but, really, I—”

  “Dulwich is gone,” he interrupted her to report. “I think this must be your carriage now.”

  “Yes, that’s it, thank you,” she said, taking his arm. She supposed a more spirited girl would try to dissuade the Duke from putting his childish plan into effect, but she only wanted to get away from him.

  There was no sign of Cary in Piccadilly. Had he gone into the bakery to find her? She would have to rid herself of one very large Duke before she would be free to search for him. When she remembered how badly Cary had treated her, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him again anyway. At least not for a while.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, turning to her escort. “I can manage very well from here.”

  “Nonsense,” he replied. “I’ll see you home. I’m not doing anything.”

  Her heart nearly stopped as the door of the bakery swung open and two people came out.

  Cary was so near to her that she could have reached out and touched his purple coat, but he was looking up the street as he put on his hat.

  “She must have gone back into Hatchard’s.”

  “She’s gone, Cary,” Juliet replied crossly. “Along with your emerald and your miniatures. With any luck we’ll never see her again. Now I want my tea.”

  Furious with herself for not speaking up, Abigail mutely wondered how many years it would take before the sight of this particular man lost its power to strike her dumb. Her companion, however, suffered from no such diffidence.

  “You!” he roared like a mad bull. “What fiend conjured you up from the depths of hell?”

  Brother and sister turned to look at them in amazement. Cary did not seem to have heard the Duke. The way he looked at her made Abigail’s knees melt. She quite forgot that he had practically called her a thief. “There you are, monkey,” he said softly. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “You certainly don’t let the grass grow under your feet,” Juliet observed. “But I expect you are quite in the habit of making friends in the street. It’s how you met my brother, I believe.”

  “I met your brother at White’s,” the Duke retorted.

  “No one was talking to you, Ginger,” said Juliet. “No one even knows you are there.”

  “I just met his grace coming out of the bakery,” Abigail blurted. “Quite by accident. He was good enough to escort me to my carriage.”

  Cary quirked a brow. “Only just met, and already walking arm in arm,” he remarked. “Pretty fast work, Geoffrey.”

  “Oh, no,” Abigail said, flustered. “We met yesterday. I meant to say that we—that I bumped into him, literally, in the alley. I ruined his muffins, I’m afraid.”

  “I see,” said Cary rather coolly, she thought.

  “They told me you’d left town,” said the Duke of Auckland, glowering at Juliet. “I ought to have known it couldn’t be true. I couldn’t be so lucky.”

  Juliet tossed her head. “You know, Ginger,” she said coldly, “if you keep eating muffins at all hours, you will soon be too fat to sit a horse properly. Your curricle already lists dangerously to one side when you get into it. I should hate to see you overturn.”

  “Muffins,” he said scornfully. “It’s a bun, you tart. Trust a tart not to know the difference between a muffin and a bun.”

  Abigail gasped. “You…You mustn’t…” she stammered. “I wish you wouldn’t speak to Miss Wayborn like that, sir. It’s very wrong.”

  “Who asked you?” Juliet said resentfully.

  “You’re quite right, Annabel.” The Duke seized Abigail’s hand in his giant paws and patted it protectively. “I shouldn’t talk to her at all.”

  “Annabel!” Juliet and Cary both spoke at once.

  “Sir, it’s Abigail,” Abigail said, growing red in the face.

  The Duke snapped his fingers. “Oh, that’s right. Annabel was your mother.”

  “Anne. Anne was my mother.”

  “Anne. Yes, of course. I beg your pardon. I hadn’t thought of it before, but I suppose you must be cousins to these people.”

  “Only very distant,” Abigail said faintly.

  “Very,” Juliet agreed. “Ginger, do you mean to say you know Anne Wayborn?”

  “Are you talking to me, madam? Yes, I know Anne Wayborn. That is, I know of her. She and my mother were very dear friends.”

  “Were they?” Abigail exclaimed in astonishment.

  “Of course, when your mother married your father, my mother was forced to end the association, but things were different in our parents’ time,” said the Duke. “Mama always regretted giving up your mother. My father, however, was inflexible on the subject. I did think that, when the old earl died, that the new earl would treat you better. This would be your uncle, Annabel.”

  “Abigail!” Juliet snapped.

  “Sorry. I keep doing that. Abigail.”

  “It’s all right, sir. I would just like to go home now, if I may.”

  “Just a moment,” said the Duke. “Let me finish. It’s a very funny story. I asked your uncle why he was so hard about your father. Do you know what he said?”

 
“I’m sure I can guess,” Abigail said, wincing.

  “No, you can’t. He said, ‘I don’t care three straws who Anne married, but she never should have taken my old nursey with her when she left. That I will never forgive.’”

  “What, Paggles?” said Cary, chuckling.

  “What’s a paggle?” the Duke asked, puzzled.

  “She’s a who, not a what,” Cary explained. “Paggles is Dickie-bird’s old nurse.”

  “Then the little thief really is our cousin,” said Juliet, clearly appalled.

  “Only very distant,” Abigail said firmly. “Now I must beg you all to excuse me. My father will be wondering where I am.”

  “Don’t forget our engagement!” said the Duke, rather loudly. “I’m taking your cousin to the theater this evening,” he told Miss Wayborn. “Who knows where it will all end?”

  Abigail’s head was beginning to ache. “Sir,” she began unhappily. “It was very good of you to ask me, but I—”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll have the nerve to show your face there,” said the Duke. After a moment of confusion, Abigail saw, to her relief, that he was now addressing Juliet.

  “Of course I shall be there,” Juliet replied. “It’s Mr. Rourke’s opening night. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Why, Ginger? Is there some reason I shouldn’t be there?”

  “No, you should be there,” he snarled. “I’m glad you’re going to be there.”

  “Depend upon it. I shall be!”

  “I’m glad!”

  “Good!”

  “I’m glad because tonight I’m going to give Mr. Rourke the Boo,” he shouted.

  Juliet’s eyes flashed and her composure suffered a sharp decline. “You wouldn’t dare!” she spat, trembling from head to foot with rage.

  He laughed bitterly. “Wouldn’t I? I’ve got baskets of rotting vegetables waiting at the ready. I’ll give your precious Mr. Rourke a salad he won’t soon forget.”

  Juliet stamped her foot. “I’m warning you, Ginger, if anything happens to Mr. Rourke, on stage or off, I swear I’ll—I’ll—!”

  “You’ll do what?” the Duke taunted Juliet with evident glee. “Jilt me? You’ve already done that, madam! Think of it, Julie. Your favorite Irishman, covered in slimy cabbage leaves and rotten tomatoes. I wish you much joy of him!”