Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  Cary frowned at Ritchie. “What diamonds?”

  Ritchie showed him a hefty velvet bag.

  Cary was skeptical. “Do you always carry bags of diamonds around with you?”

  “Of course not,” Ritchie snapped. “I had to go all the way to my banker’s to fetch them out of my vault.”

  “And you just happened to have a bag of diamonds in your vault?”

  “Of course,” said Serena. “He’s Mad Red Ritchie! Aren’t you, sir? Everyone knows about your diamonds. He bought twenty thousand pounds’ worth,” she told Cary, “just to prove his daughter wasn’t a thief. Can you imagine?”

  “No, he can’t,” Red sneered. “He hasn’t got two pennies to rub together.”

  Serena took possession of the ransom note. “This is despicable,” she declared. “I’ve heard of such goings on in the back alleys of Naples, but this is England. Mr. Wayborn, I insist that you do something. Miss Ritchie must be in terrible danger.”

  “I have been waiting for hours,” said Ritchie. “This wee hussy’s the first person to set foot on this bridge, and, as you see, she’s dressed as Cleopatra.”

  “So are any number of people,” Serena pointed out calmly. “I’m very sorry for you, Mr. Ritchie, but I am not your Cleopatra.”

  Red clutched Cary’s arm. “Sir! If you help me get my child back, I will give you the diamonds. You could use the money, don’t deny it.”

  Cary bristled at the insult. “Sir, you are addressing an English gentleman, not a Hessian mercenary,” he said coldly. “I don’t actually charge a fee for rescuing kidnaped children. I’ll get your daughter back for you. You can keep your bloody diamonds.”

  “She’s all I have in the world,” said Red. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t get her back. We had a terrible argument this evening…about you, as a matter of fact.”

  “About me?” said Cary, lifting a brow.

  “She thinks I offended you with all those bills. She said it was not good business practice. But, sir, I thought you were one of the Derbyshire Wayborns. To them I extend no credit.” He shook his head sadly. “I wish I could take it all back. They wouldn’t…they wouldn’t hurt her, would they?” He looked forlornly at Lady Serena.

  “Mr. Wayborn will help you,” she declared. “He’s very capable, you know. He won’t let anything happen to your daughter. Indeed, he won’t. Will you, sir?”

  “Certainly. I think the best thing for you to do is wait on the bridge for the kidnaper’s accomplice,” Cary told Ritchie. “I will conceal myself a short distance away and catch this woman when you hand over the diamonds. She will be able to tell us where your daughter is.”

  “I don’t care about the diamonds, sir. I just want my little girl back.”

  “Then do as I say quickly! Someone’s coming,” Cary observed, pulling Serena away with him. “We’d better hide. The accomplice will not come if she sees us here.”

  He herded her off the bridge as fast as he could and pushed her into a hedge to one side of the path. “It’s only Ponsonby and that beastly Coryn woman,” she said, peering through the leaves as a pair of Romans passed Red Ritchie on the bridge. She glanced at him with her violet eyes. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along, Mr. Wayborn. The man wouldn’t listen to a word I said. I really think he might have killed me.”

  Cary shifted uncomfortably. It was fairly unpleasant squatting in the bushes dressed as a Praetorian Guard. The air was cold, and his tunic was very short. “I certainly hope this woman comes soon,” he muttered. “There’s someone I have to meet.”

  “You were not always so averse to sitting in the moonlight with me,” said Serena.

  His back stiffened. “If you are determined to reminisce, shall we recall together how I came to be so averse, madam? No? Then let us sit quietly and hope the wretch comes soon.”

  If only Abby were here, he thought morosely, hanging about in the hedges would not be such a trial. There were any number of things they might do to make the time go faster.

  Abigail was thrown down on something soft. Through the loose burlap covering her face, she detected light. There were footsteps. Voices murmured, then a door closed. Sensing she was alone, she began wriggling out of the sack. In the process, she rolled off of her perch and onto a soft carpeted floor. The carpet, she saw as she climbed to her feet and stepped out of the sack, was a very fine Aubusson.

  She was in a richly appointed bedroom lit by huge gilded candelabra hung with glittering crystals. She had been thrown upon the huge satin-covered bed. From this she had slipped to the floor. The walls were paneled in purple silk with gilded moldings. Clearly she had been kidnaped by someone of wealth, if not taste. There was only one person she could think of who would do such a thing. In all the world she had only one enemy. Lord Dulwich.

  A quick investigation of the room told her that the doors were all locked, and the drop from the windows would be neck-breaking if she attempted to escape in that way. Her kidnapers, however, had neglected to remove the poker from the huge marble fireplace. Abigail hastily stuck it into the fire to make the pointed tip good and hot.

  She did not have long to wait. Soon she heard the key turning in the lock. The tip of the poker was bright red as she swung it as hard as she could at the shadowy figure that entered the room. The scream of pain and the smell of burning flesh was highly satisfying to her. The man fell to his knees, his hands pressed to his face.

  “Serves you right,” said Abigail. “Would you like another?”

  “Please don’t hurt me!” screamed the Duke of Auckland.

  “Good God, sir! I’m so sorry!” cried Abigail, falling to her knees beside him. “I thought you were Lord Dulwich. Has he kidnaped you as well?”

  He stared at her, his face the color of ashes. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Without thinking, Abigail ran to pull the servants’ bell. “I don’t know, sir,” she said, fumbling for a handkerchief, which she pressed to the burn slashed across the Duke’s cheek. “I was brought here against my will. They put me in a sack. I think at one point I was put in the box under the driver’s seat of somebody’s carriage! It was excessively uncomfortable.”

  The door opened quietly and a tall servant entered the room. “You rang, your grace?”

  The Duke climbed to his feet. “Bowditch, you confounded idiot! How could you bungle such a simple thing? Look what she did to me!” he added, peeling back Abigail’s handkerchief to show his wound. “Just what I don’t need. A scar on my pretty face.”

  Abigail’s mouth fell open. Bowditch took advantage of her shock and relieved her of the poker. “But I saw her with my own eyes, your grace!” the servant protested. “The young woman was coming out of Mr. Rourke’s dressing room.”

  The Duke’s green eyes bulged. “What? You saw this girl coming out of Rourke’s room?” He stared at Abigail, appalled. “You were in Mr. Rourke’s room? You? You and Mr. Rourke? I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say. You’d better explain.”

  “I had better explain!” cried Abigail. “You put me in a sack!”

  “I didn’t do anything. He did!” responded the Duke, pointing at his servant. “And it wouldn’t have happened at all, if you hadn’t been where you shouldn’t, doing God knows what with that actor. I’m ashamed of you, girl. You seem like such a quiet, well-behaved young lady. Why, you’re nothing but a strumpet! What happened to Mr. Pigs-and-Chickens? David Rourke is about as far from a quiet life in the country as you can get. I’m going to tell your father!”

  “How dare you!” cried Abigail furiously. “How dare you call me names? You kidnaped me, you beastly man. You and your nasty servant. This is—this is your bedchamber! Are you in the habit of kidnaping women and imprisoning them in your bedchamber?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, my girl,” he growled. “I meant to kidnap Juliet. Only she didn’t go to Rourke’s room, did she? No, it was you. It was you all along. You’re Rourke’s mistress, not Juliet. Juli
e’s innocent. Do you hear me, Bowditch? She is innocent!”

  “I am not Rourke’s mistress, you impertinent wretch,” Abigail cried indignantly. “For God’s sake, the man’s an actor. I do have some pride, you know.”

  The Duke scarcely heard her. “All this time, I thought Julie was in love with him,” he murmured. “And all this time my darling girl was only protecting you. You were with him that night at the Albany. You’re Julie’s cousin. Naturally, she was concerned that Rourke had seduced you. It’s just like her to come to the aid of a foolish relative. She must have gone there that night to free you from his clutches.” His green eyes narrowed contemptuously. “But you like his clutches, don’t you?”

  “Sir,” she said coldly. “I have never been to the Albany in my life. I scarcely know Mr. Rourke. What you are suggesting is revolting to me.”

  “Then what were you doing in the man’s room at the theater?”

  Abigail’s face was red as fire. “I was there with someone else. My husband!”

  He glowered at her. “But you’re not married.”

  Abigail blushed. “Well, it’s a secret. I haven’t yet found the courage to tell my father, you see. When I came home yesterday, there you were. He so clearly wants me to make a brilliant marriage, I didn’t have the heart to tell him.”

  The Duke stared at her. “So there really is a Mr. Pigs-and-Chickens?”

  “Yes, of course there is,” she said proudly. “We’re very much in love.”

  “She could be lying, your grace,” said Bowditch.

  “No, she isn’t.” The Duke walked across the room and sat on the bed. “I was grasping at straws. No, I’m back where I started.” He looked up at Abigail with tears in his eyes. “Do you think she loves him? Do you think your cousin Juliet is in love with Mr. Rourke?”

  “He’s not even handsome, if you ask me,” said Abigail.

  “Do you think that I’m handsome?” he retorted. “Before you walloped me in the face with the poker, I mean? She loved me once, in spite of my looks.”

  “Sir, I’ve only seen them together once, but, really, I don’t see how—”

  “When?” he said sharply. “When did you see them together?”

  “I didn’t mean to imply anything!” Abigail stammered. “It was perfectly innocent. She introduced me to him backstage, before the play. She told him to break his leg, you know.”

  His eyes lit up. “Then they are on the outs. This could be my chance.”

  Abigail winced. “I’m told it means good luck to theater people.”

  The Duke sighed. “This is hopeless,” he moaned. “I thought if I could just put her in a sack and bring her here, she would realize how much I love her!”

  “Oh, yes?” Abigail said politely.

  “If she made a mistake, if she still loves me…I swear I could forgive her anything. But she doesn’t even want my forgiveness. I’ve lost her, haven’t I? She loves him now. He has beguiled her with Shakespeare, and my beastly jealousy has ruined all.”

  In spite of everything, Abigail was overwhelmed with pity for the suffering giant. It must indeed be torture to love an arrogant, spiteful woman like Juliet Wayborn. “Sir,” she said gently, “I realize I only met Miss Wayborn two days ago in Hertfordshire, but it seems to me—”

  The Duke lifted his head. “Hertfordshire? Julie wasn’t in Hertfordshire two days ago. Two days ago, she was with Rourke at the Albany.”

  “She arrived in the early afternoon at her brother’s estate,” Abigail explained.

  “Julie was at Tanglewood on Saturday?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d been staying there since all this unpleasant business with Lord Dulwich.”

  “I did hear she’d left Town,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose she only came back today to see Rourke,” he added bitterly. “In his triumphant return to the stage!”

  “Not at all, I assure you,” said Abigail, happy that she could at least relieve him of this painful assumption. “She came back to Town to find me, as a matter of fact. Not Mr. Rourke. It seems I’d taken her snuffbox—accidentally, of course. The dog had chewed it up a bit, you see. I thought I could bring it with me to London and have it repaired. I didn’t know at the time that the box belonged to Miss Wayborn.”

  “It doesn’t. Julie don’t take snuff.”

  “No, I don’t think she does,” Abigail agreed. “But the snuffbox is very special to her. It was a gift from the Prince Regent himself. Surely you must have seen it before.”

  “No, you’re thinking of her cousin Horatio,” the Duke said impatiently. “He’s the one with the ruddy snuffbox. The Regent gave it him, and he’s forever making people look at the bloody thing. Little gold box with a green lid, and a picture of a horse on it?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “Horatio’s. Now he claims someone stole it. I hope someone has. I hope the thief throws it in the Thames. I would consider it a public service.”

  “The Captain has one just like Miss Wayborn’s, I know. He showed it to me several times when he was visiting his father. That’s why I never suspected the one I found was Miss Wayborn’s. I just assumed it was the Captain’s. I didn’t know there were two of them.”

  “There aren’t two of them,” he said irritably. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  Abigail was becoming rather irritated herself. “Actually, there are hundreds of them, as it turns out. But I am talking specifically of the one given to Miss Wayborn by the Prince of Wales. That’s the one the dog crunched up, only I thought it was Horatio’s, so I took it to London to be repaired. Only it couldn’t be repaired. So I had it replaced instead. I gave Miss Wayborn the replacement this afternoon in Hatchard’s, just before I met you, sir. I should have known that Sir Horatio would never have left his precious snuffbox behind in Hertfordshire.”

  “No, he didn’t,” the Duke said slowly. “I just told you it was stolen from him. He’s been crying about it all over Town since…since Saturday. Even got the Runners on the case.”

  Abigail did not know what to say.

  “Were Julie and Horatio in Hertfordshire together?” he asked her.

  “No, sir,” she said. “When Miss Wayborn came, he’d already gone back to London.”

  “The Regent gave him that snuffbox when he was knighted. Julie never had one. He’s got rooms at the Albany, too. Do you see what this means?” He jumped to his feet. “By God! She wasn’t with Rourke at all. She was in Horatio’s room.”

  Abigail was embarrassed. “Oh, dear. Do you think she is in love with her cousin and that he gave her his snuffbox?”

  The Duke laughed aloud. “Julie in love with Horatio? Not in a hundred years! Horatio give away his snuffbox? Not in a thousand. He sleeps with it under his pillow, the booby. She must have had to wait in his room all night for a chance to steal it. Oh, my poor darling.”

  “She accused me of stealing it from her!”

  “She was perfectly innocent the whole time!” The Duke sat down on the bed again. His moment of happiness seemed to have passed him by. “Oh, God, what have I done? She’ll never forgive me. I’ve spied on her. I’ve accused her of betraying me—with an actor, of all things! I think I even called her a strumpet.”

  “And all this time she was only a thief,” Abigail dryly observed.

  He was on his feet again. “I’ve been a jealous fool. I must find her. I must find her at once. There is not an instant to lose.” He stopped in his tracks as Abigail pointedly cleared her throat. “Look here, Annabel, I’m dreadfully sorry about all this. My man can take you back to the theater now, if you like.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Abigail. “But I don’t much like the look of your man! In any case, the play must be over by now, and I am expected at the Carlton House Ball. Or do you think I always dress like this?”

  He raked his hands through his wild red hair. “Julie will be there as well. With Rourke hanging about her, I don’t doubt. Oh, God! What if I’ve driven her into his arms with my co
nfounded jealousy?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Abigail kindly. “I don’t know her very well, but it seems to me, she’d be much too proud to carry on with some actor.”

  He did not seem reassured. “I must change into my costume,” he said miserably. “May I offer you a glass of wine while you wait?”

  “Certainly not,” said Abigail. “You may offer me a quaich of scotch, however.”

  Cary and Serena had been waiting for a seemingly interminable time (Praetorian Guards have no pockets for pocket watches), when a tall man with red hair wearing the purple-edged toga praetexta of a Roman senator suddenly peered over the hedge.

  “Hullo, Cary! May I join your party?”

  As Serena spun around to see who had stumbled upon their hiding place, the Duke of Auckland’s face fell. “Oh, it’s you, Serena. I thought you were Julie. She’s Cleopatra, too. Cary, have you seen Julie? She must be here somewhere. No one can find her!”

  Cary pulled him down next to them in the shrubbery. “Is Abby not with you?”

  “She was. But we saw Dulwich, and she took off like a frightened rabbit. She’s odd, have you noticed? Always scampering off. I don’t think she sat for two minutes together during the whole play. Now she tells me she’s secretly married to some sort of pig farmer. I doubt her husband would approve of the way she kept sneaking off to meet you.”

  “You left her?” Cary snapped. “She’s out there alone?”

  “Well, I couldn’t very well run after her,” said the Duke. “People might think I was chasing her. If it got back to Julie, I’d be well and truly in the basket. Anyway, I’m off! I’ve got to find Julie. Glad to see you and Serena have made up and all that. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Cary held his arm with an iron grip. “Look here, there’s been a spot of bother. Red Ritchie’s daughter has been kidnaped.”

  The Duke shuddered. “Don’t say ‘kidnaped.’ It’s such an ugly word.”

  “Indeed? What do you call it when ruffians make off with a man’s child, then send him a ransom note demanding a fortune in diamonds?”