Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  “If you dare to throw cabbages at Mr. Rourke, I will throw him roses,” Juliet hissed. “Red roses. Heaps of them. I swear I will.”

  “You’d do that to me?” The Duke’s lip curled. “Yes, of course you would, you serpent. Well, you won’t have a seat in my box, I can tell you. You’ll have to catch as you can in the pit with the rest of your kind. No one will remark on your being alone. Harpies are solitary creatures, after all.”

  Juliet was white with fury. She caught Cary’s arm for support. “My brother will be escorting me, of course. We have our own box. Isn’t that right, Cary?”

  Abigail looked at him with interest. “Are you going to the play, Mr. Wayborn?”

  He looked back at her. “Are you?”

  Abigail bit her lip. “I suppose I could if…if you are,” she said. “Only, I wish no one would throw anything at poor Mr. Rourke.”

  “Oh, you like him too,” the Duke muttered.

  “Not at all,” Abigail protested. “I don’t think anyone should throw anything at anyone.”

  “What an excellent suggestion,” Cary remarked. “Why don’t we call a truce? We’ll all go to the theater tonight, and no one will throw anything at anyone.”

  “What about the ball after?” said the Duke. “Am I allowed to throw things at the ball?”

  “If you do,” said Juliet, “I shall kiss him.”

  “I am engaged to go to the Carlton House Ball afterwards, too,” Abigail said quickly, “and…and my father will be there. I should very much like to introduce you to him, Mr. Wayborn,” she added a little doubtfully. “That is, if you would care to—to meet him.”

  “All right, monkey,” he said softly. “I should very much like to meet your father. You shall have your truce. Juliet? Geoffrey? Pax?”

  “I will if he will,” said his sister.

  “I will if she will,” the Duke snapped back.

  “Excellent,” said Cary. “If only the Congress in Vienna had been so agreeable! May I escort you home, Cousin Abigail?”

  “Oh,” she said regretfully. “Thank you, sir, but this is my carriage.”

  “What? That giant blue thing with the silver spokes?” Cary’s eyes twinkled. “I thought it was the nation’s mail.”

  Juliet’s head swivelled around. She seemed quite taken with Abigail’s carriage.

  Conspicuously new, it was painted a deep royal blue with sterling silver handles on the doors. The two footmen were in black livery trimmed in silver, with blue and silver cockades on their black tricorns. While understanding that it was far too grand for a mere tradesman’s daughter, Abigail was cautiously proud of it.

  “This is your carriage?” Juliet asked, with a peculiar inflection.

  “Yes, Miss Wayborn. Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” said Juliet tightly. “It’s a very elegant vehicle, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know horses very well, so perhaps these are no good,” Abigail said doubtfully. “I do hope my father didn’t pay too much for them.”

  “The horses are perfect, Abigail,” Cary assured her. “A very handsome equipage altogether. Just big, that’s all. I shouldn’t think it very convenient for driving about Town. Why, you must bounce around in there like a pip in a rattle.”

  “Not at all; it rides very smoothly.”

  “They’re Cumberlands, ain’t they?” said the Duke, squinting at the four horses.

  “Yes, of course they’re Cumberlands,” Juliet said crossly. “You know perfectly well they are Cumberlands, you priceless ass.”

  “Pax!” he roared at her.

  “You broke it first!” Juliet shrieked.

  “All I said was they were Cumberlands,” he grumbled. “How’s that breaking the truce?”

  Her gray eyes narrowed to slits. “You know how, you scaly fiend!”

  The Duke groaned. “Come, Abigail. There’s no talking to your gruesome cousin when she’s like this.” He nearly wrenched the beautifully polished door of the carriage off its hinges.

  “Do be careful!” cried Abigail.

  “Thank you, Ginger,” Juliet said, jumping up the steps into the carriage before Abigail.

  The Duke stuck his shaggy red head into the carriage and snarled at her. “What do you think you’re doing, Miss? This ain’t your carriage.”

  Juliet looked past him and smiled coldly at Abigail. “You can set me down in Park Lane, can’t you, Cousin Abigail? I’ll give you tea if you do.”

  Her arrogance took Abigail’s breath away, but, at the same time, she hardly knew how to refuse. She did not wish to appear rude, even though Juliet clearly had no similar scruples, and Park Lane was only a little out of her way. All the same, she would have preferred sharing her carriage with Mrs. Spurgeon’s nasty macaw, dead or alive.

  “I’ve got my curricle, Juliet,” said Cary, leaning into the vehicle. “There’s no reason to trouble Cousin Abigail.”

  “Hadn’t you better get back to Bow Street, Cary?” Juliet said impatiently. “We wouldn’t want a certain person being dragged away in chains during Cleopatra’s lament, now, would we?”

  “Damn!” said Cary under his breath. “Yes, I’d better go and call them off.”

  Abigail frowned. “Did you really hire Bow Street Runners to hunt me down?”

  “They’re very discreet,” he said cheekily. “Really, you’re nobody until you’ve had the Runners after you. Unfortunately, they do have a nasty habit of getting results. I’d better go before they snatch you off the street. Geoffrey?” he called to the Duke. “Do you have your grays out today? If not, I’d be happy to set you down in St. James’s.”

  The Duke was watching Juliet arrange her skirts so that they fell in neat rows on either side of her. “What? No, I’m on foot.” Abruptly, he clambered up and threw himself onto the seat opposite Juliet. “Could you set me down in Berkeley Square?” he asked Abigail. “It won’t be out of your way.”

  Abigail realized with a sinking heart that she would be obliged to bid farewell to the one she could not do without, while being forced to keep company with the two she could most easily dispense with. She could scarcely contain her frustration.

  “Your carriage is too big,” Cary informed her, laughing. “That’s your trouble. You could carry about the entire Oxford University Cricket Club in that monstrous thing.” He kissed her hand with disappointing celerity. His smile was equally quick. “Until tonight, then, monkey? It should be an interesting evening.”

  “Cousin Abigail?” Juliet inquired shrilly from within the carriage. “Are you coming with us or not?”

  To Abigail’s relief, Miss Wayborn chose to punish her jilted suitor by maintaining a haughty silence. The Duke seemed content to glower at Juliet. For her part, Abigail looked out of the window.

  The Duke broke the silence. “I’ll call for you at six then, Miss Abigail. No, better make that half past five. It’s a long way to Kensington and back.”

  Juliet wrinkled her nose. “Do you live in Kensington, Cousin Abigail?”

  “Yes, Cousin Juliet, I do. It’s quiet. I like it there.” She smiled at the Duke. “But you needn’t call for me at home, sir. I am happy to meet you at the theater. I’m sure it would be much more convenient if it were so. I have my own carriage, after all.”

  “Yes, we know,” Juliet said dryly.

  “That’s awfully decent of you,” said the Duke, taking Abigail’s hand. “My, how considerate some young ladies are.”

  “Well, young ladies with their own carriages can afford to be considerate,” said Juliet sweetly. “And such a nice carriage it is, too. I particularly like this cobalt blue leather on the seats. How do you like the leather, Ginger?”

  He frowned down at the leather cushions. “I know it, don’t I? I’ve seen it before.”

  “It’s Italian,” said Abigail. “Specially ordered.”

  “Indeed?” said Juliet. “How very nice for you.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail said uncertainly. “I daresay it is rather too big fo
r me.”

  “Where did you get it?” Miss Wayborn inquired politely. “Colfax, of course.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Abigail. “My father bought it for me while I was away. He got a good deal on it. Originally, it was ordered by a nobleman for a certain lady, but there was a rift between them of some sort, and when it was delivered, he refused it.”

  The Duke suddenly sank down in the seat, emitting a long animal moan. “Oh, God, Julie, I’m sorry!”

  “So you should be,” she said icily. “I shall never forgive you. Never!”

  “Damn and blast, I knew I recognized those Cumberlands! Look here, Annabel—Abigail—I’ll just have to buy the bloody thing back from your father.”

  Juliet laughed bitterly. “Do you expect me to believe that her father bought this carriage? You gave it to her! Admit it! You gave it to her just to hurt me. Well done, Ginger!”

  “Oh, Miss Wayborn!” said Abigail. “Is this—was this meant to be your carriage? I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “I suppose you’re his mistress!” she said. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste!”

  “You take that back!” said Abigail. “My father bought me this carriage.”

  “It’s true, Julie. Colfax sent it to me, but I sent it back.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean he can turn around and sell it to someone else,” said Juliet.

  “That is exactly what it means!” Abigail argued. “A great deal of work went into this carriage, Miss Wayborn, though you do not realize it. Every part of it was custom-made, down to the tassels on the curtains. Is Mr. Colfax to get nothing for his hard work, just because the two of you are bickering like…like Oberon and Titania?”

  “Look here, Julie,” said the Duke, “I’ll buy it back from the man. If you stop a moment at Auckland House, Abigail, I can write you a note on my bank for fourteen hundred pounds.”

  “Is that what you were going to pay for it?” exclaimed Abigail. “Oh, well done, Papa!” she murmured. “He got it for seven hundred.”

  “Seven hundred?” The Duke scowled. “Why, that bloody thief, Colfax! He was charging me twice that!”

  “Well, it was a custom order,” said Abigail. “Not everyone wants an enormous coach and four with blue doors and silver wheels…and seats that fold down into beds.”

  “Julie! Do the seats fold down into beds?”

  “I thought it would be convenient for our long trips to Auckland in the winter,” Juliet said primly. “You snore when you sleep sitting up.”

  “And, of course,” Abigail went on hastily, “the crest on the doors had to be painted over. I think Mr. Colfax was grateful that anyone bought it.”

  “I shall buy it back,” said the Duke. “It was meant for you, Julie, and you shall have it. I apologize for the misunderstanding. I’ll give you a bank note, Abigail.”

  “You will have to speak to my father, your grace,” Abigail demurred. “I can’t engage to sell it to you. It was a gift. I’m sure you understand. Besides, I’m going to need it tonight, if I’m to go to the theater. I should be more than happy to…to collect Miss Wayborn and bring her to the theater with me.”

  “How very good of you, Cousin Abigail,” Juliet drawled. “How kind of you to offer to take me to the theater in my very own carriage.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Wayborn, but it is my carriage. Bought and paid for.”

  “On second thought, do come and collect me,” said she. “It will be nice to have such a big roomy carriage. We can bring some of the actors with us to the Carlton House Ball.”

  Abigail cringed in horror. “Actors? In my nice clean carriage?”

  The Duke was incensed. “Rourke? Rourke in my carriage? I don’t think so, my girl!”

  Juliet shrugged. “Why not?”

  “So you can show him how the seats fold down?” he roared.

  Juliet’s eyes flashed angrily. “Perhaps I will!” she snapped.

  “Do it!” he said. “And I shall drop this carriage on your head!”

  “I hate you!”

  “Berkeley Square!” cried Abigail, looking out the window just as the carriage drew up to the shining marble facade of the Duke’s town house.

  The Duke jumped out and viciously kicked his hat across the road. His face was very white. “I’ll see you tonight, Abigail. If you happen to have any nice juicy garbage hanging about you in Kensington, bring it along!”

  “Park Lane,” Abigail told the footman. “Quickly!”

  “I cannot make you out at all, little Abigail,” said Juliet, leaning back in her seat as the carriage jogged westward to Park Lane. “Either you are a spineless little fool or you’re an artful little she-devil. Did your father really buy this carriage? Who is your father, anyway? Not Sir William Smith of Brazil, I’m sure. I see from this receipt that you are called Miss Ritchie. I never saw that name in DeBrett’s, but I think I saw it on the bottle in your room.”

  Abigail’s head ached and her nerves were badly frayed. “Miss Wayborn,” she said coldly, “did you happen to have ordered a dining table and chairs from Mr. Duckett in Jermyn Street? Ebony, with gold and ivory inlay?”

  “Why does one ask?”

  “No reason,” Abigail said sweetly.

  “You nasty little thief!” Juliet snarled. “What else have you taken from me?”

  Abigail drew herself up. “You did tell me, did you not, that I should go to London, and take what I could get?”

  Suddenly, and rather unconvincingly, Juliet seemed overcome by the swaying of the carriage. As they arrived in Park Lane, she stood up in the carriage, then sank back into her seat with her handkerchief pressed to her mouth as the servants scrambled to open the door. Abigail privately thought her a terrible actress, but she said solicitously, “You are unwell, Miss Wayborn. Do let my servants summon your servants.”

  Juliet opened her eyes. “No, indeed. I’m quite well now. This frigate of a carriage makes one a bit seasick, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps you should stay at home and rest this evening,” Abigail kindly suggested.

  “No, I must go to the theater,” Juliet said crossly. “People will think me a cowardy custard if I don’t go. You will come and collect me, won’t you, Cousin Abigail?” she went on, half-pleading, half-commanding. “It’s so dreadfully important that I arrive in a proper carriage.”

  “But if it makes you seasick—” Abigail began.

  “As you can see I am quite recovered,” Juliet snapped. “And we have got a truce, haven’t we? You would not break your word, when my poor brother has such faith in your honesty?”

  “No, indeed,” Abigail mumbled reluctantly.

  Fully recovered, Juliet fairly bounced down the steps. “I wouldn’t really let actors sit in the carriage, you know,” she said gaily. “Why, it’s brand new!”

  The servant closed the door, and Abigail slipped down in her seat, blowing out her cheeks in a massive sigh of relief. “What a horrid creature!” she said aloud. As the carriage turned onto Kensington Road, she opened the miniature bar Juliet had so thoughtfully instructed Mr. Colfax to set into the door, and poured herself a long nourishing quaich of Ritchie’s single malt.

  She felt, somehow, that she had earned it.

  Chapter 17

  Cary was checking his watch with such frequency and such irritation that he almost missed Mr. Waller leaving his office accompanied by a prosperous looking man in plain, dark clothes. A passing Runner, chancing to remark, “Aughternoon, Mr. Waller,” caused him to look up. “Look here, Waller,” Cary called out irritably, jumping to his feet in the crowded anteroom. “I’ve been waiting for you nearly two hours.”

  Mr. Waller’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, here is Mr. Wayborn now. What a fortuitous concourse of atoms, as the poet says.”

  “I’ll say it’s fortuitous,” Cary snapped. “Half of London’s atoms have gone ahead of me! There’s not even anything to read while one waits, not even the Gazette.”

  “Well, it’s not a circ
ulating library, Mr. Wayborn, sir,” Mr. Waller pointed out.

  “Quite.” Cary was at the point of urging Mr. Waller back into his office when the Runner’s companion suddenly addressed him.

  “Mr. Wayborn,” he said, his tone both deferential and businesslike. “This is a matter of some delicacy and no little embarrassment for me. I’m sure you understand.”

  Cary studied the other man. Being of middle height, weight, and coloring, he had virtually no outstanding characteristics. All the same, Cary was certain he had never met the man in his life. “Who the devil are you?”

  The man blushed rosily. “I beg your pardon, sir! Forgive me; we have never met. I’m Mr. Leighton.” He seemed a little puzzled that his name meant nothing to Cary. “I’m an attorney,” he elaborated. “My mother-in-law stayed in your house when she was lately in Hertfordshire. Mrs. Urania Spurgeon?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Cary. “Mr. Leighton. How do you do, sir? Forgive me. My thoughts were a thousand miles away. I did not immediately recognize the name. Mrs. Spurgeon is well, I trust?”

  Mr. Leighton winced. “She’s never exactly in the best of health, sir. I’d say she is as well as can be expected. But the household is in an uproar, you see.”

  “I see,” said Cary, though he really didn’t. He was afraid that Mr. Leighton might turn out to be one of those people who take great pleasure in laying all their troubles at the feet of the nearest gentleman. “Well, if there is anything I can do…” he murmured vaguely.

  “But sir! It is I who may be of some assistance to you.”

  Mr. Waller was more specific. “Mr. Leighton has recovered some of your stolen property, Mr. Wayborn, sir. Shall we step into my office?”

  Abigail found her father in the banquet hall of their Kensington house. The elaborate grandeur of the ebony table and chairs was perhaps out of step with the neoclassical mural on the walls that depicted rosy cupids playing various musical instruments while Venus and Mars picnicked at the foot of Mount Olympus, but, since there had never been a banquet held here, and there probably never would be, Abigail was content to indulge her father in his colliding tastes.