Surrender to Sin (19 page)

Shocked, Abigail stumbled back into the shelf, knocking some neatly folded sheets to the floor. Her thin disguise had been stripped away and she felt horribly exposed. “You know…everything?” she whispered, getting down on her knees to retrieve the fallen linen. “You know about Dulwich…and me?”

“It’s the strangest thing in the world,” said Cary. Gently pushing Angel away with his foot, he took the linens from Abigail and restored them to the shelf. “I hate Dulwich more than any other mortal man, but I cannot hate you. I suppose he brags about what he did to me?”

Abigail shook her head, unable to look him in the eye. “What did he do to you?”

“It was when I was in Spain. He was there with some Home Office friend of his, taking a review of His Majesty’s troops in the field like a pair of bloody tourists. Well, he recognized me the moment he saw me. Thought it would be fun to order a flogging for the enlisted man.”

Abigail recoiled in horror. “Did
he
do that?”

“He provoked me, until I hit him,” Cary explained. “Then, of course, I
had
to be flogged. I don’t blame my sergeant. We can’t have enlisted men attacking civilians, after all. Then, as a
coup de grace
, after I’d been flogged, his lordship reported me to my colonel, and I was shipped back to England in disgrace. Apparently, it’s a tiny bit illegal to enlist under a false name.”

“And that is why you hate him,” murmured Abigail, climbing to her feet.

“I didn’t mind the flogging. But he ought not have betrayed me to my colonel. That wasn’t cricket, if you see what I mean.”

Abigail could not comprehend this apparently important male distinction. She was more upset by the flogging. Silently, she berated herself for ever agreeing to marry the man. How could she have been so thoroughly deceived? He was a monster. And what, she wondered, must Cary really be thinking of her? True, she had come to her senses in time; to her credit she had jilted Dulwich, but could Cary ever forgive her for the engagement? He claimed not to despise her, but surely, she must at least bear some taint in his eyes.

A horrifying possibility occurred to her suddenly. Could this be why Cary felt entitled to maul her at every turn? She felt tears welling up in her eyes. Had he taken such liberties, not out of passion, but merely because he regarded her as used goods? Worse yet, did he think she had allowed
Dulwich
such liberties? The very thought made her ill. In truth, the man had never even kissed her, not even when she had accepted his offer of marriage.

She couldn’t look at Cary. He would be loathe to marry her, even if, by some miracle, he had fallen in love with her; surely he would be too proud to offer for a woman once engaged to the man who’d had him flogged. She also knew that if he were to kiss her again, she would be unwilling and unable to resist him. She was in danger of becoming not his wife, but his mistress, and this important female distinction added to her distress and confusion. If he loved her and wished to offer the protection of his name: bliss. If he were merely amusing himself: misery.

“Excuse me,” she said, brushing away her tears. “I mustn’t stay in the cupboard all day.”

He stilled her with his hands, resting one on her shoulder. The other he placed flat over her breastbone, effectively pinning her against the shelf. She could feel her heart pounding, and knowing that he felt it too compounded her acute embarrassment.

“This won’t take long,” he said, grinning at her. “I paid you a rather irregular tribute in the gatehouse just a few minutes ago.”

“Tribute!” she exclaimed.

“Shall I refresh your memory?” His hand slipped down from her shoulder, and Abigail panicked at the implied threat.

“No! Don’t you dare!”

He chuckled. “Ah, then you
did
notice. You are becoming more observant. You haven’t always remarked my attempts to make love to you. But perhaps you mistook me for a bat again? No? Well, that’s progress, I suppose. It seemed to me—but perhaps I flatter myself—it seemed to me that at a certain point in the exercise you became rather
happy
.”

“Mr. Wayborn, you have insulted me for the last time—!” she began, seeking refuge in righteous indignation.

“You mean you were
not
happy? How very odd. I had quite the opposite impression. As I recall—correct me if I am wrong—first you began to tremble—”

“Yes—all right!” she said, stopping the embarrassing flow of words. “I was happy! That is to say, I
was
happy, briefly. But I am
not
happy now. I can only regret what…what happened and declare to you, sir, that it must
never
happen again.”

He looked at her gravely. “I accept your apology, Smith, and, as you assure me it will never happen again, I forgive you.”

“How dare you!” she stammered indignantly. “I do not apologize. I am not sorry. Why should
I
be sorry?”

“Why indeed?” he countered. “When I have given you the greatest pleasure of your life, and you have given me absolutely nothing in return.”

Abigail sputtered ineffectually. “What do you expect in return, sir?” she demanded.

“I expect to be given my fair share of pleasure,” he replied.

“What?” said Abigail, torn between the desire to flee and the imperative need to remain concealed forever in the cupboard. “You know perfectly well I cannot give you any pleasure! I mean—that is to say—I
should
not. It would be quite improper. It would be a
sin
.”

“So it would be,” he agreed. “Speaking as one who has actually studied sin at university, I can confirm your assessment. It would indeed be a sin if we were to give in to our carnal desires and despoil our bodies outside the bounds of holy matrimony. Just tell me it’s a bit of a struggle for you, that’s all I ask. Tell me you are at least tempted to give way to my sinful inclinations. Tell me you have sinful inclinations of your own.”

“Cary, for heaven’s sake—! Where I come from, we do not discuss such things.”

“But I thought you came from London.”

“I do. Well…Kensington.”

“That explains it. You want me, don’t you?” he persisted, his voice low and urgent. “You are not indifferent to me?”

She could not help but grimace at such a strong absurdity. “You know I am not.”

“You have restored me to hope, Smith,” he said. “You will not give me any pleasure, but you are not completely indifferent to me. Therefore, the courtship will continue at a brisk pace.”

Before she could catch her breath, he had pulled her out of the linen closet and they were hurrying down the hall, past the staircase, and into the empty entrance hall. Though nothing definite had been decided between them, Abigail was in high spirits. “The courtship will continue at a brisk pace,” he had said. Surely that was a declaration of sorts? Surely that meant his goal was marriage? If this proved to be the case, much of her anxiety would vanish.

Cary held out the package Abigail had dropped in the study. “This belongs to you, I think,” he said.

“It’s for you, actually,” she explained. “The stockings you lent me.”

“Ah,” he said, tucking it inside his coat. “Did you wash them?”

“Of course.”

“Pity.”

“You’d better go now,” she said, blushing. “Hurry!”

He leaned close to her. “You will hurry me again very soon, Smith,” he predicted, “but, when you do, it will mean something remarkably different.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek, then he was gone.

Dinner that evening was a quiet affair, with both Cary and his cousin Horatio sending their regrets, the captain by handwritten special delivery, Cary by word of a rumpled boy. To Abigail’s astonishment, they both claimed to have been called to London on urgent business. Neither man had said a word.

“I daresay it is because of Miss Smith’s Presbyterianism,” Mrs. Spurgeon postulated, looking down the table with a jaundiced eye as she picked at her “veal” chop. For the evening she had chosen her yellow wig, dressed in the Grecian style, and a voluminous gown of chartreuse silk trimmed heavily in fringe, like a drawing room curtain. “What have you to say for yourself, Miss? Are you not ashamed?”

Abigail declined to apologize for her religion. Inwardly, she was smarting at Cary’s unexpected departure. All her hopes plummeted. It was frightening to realize how much her happiness now depended on him, especially when he was free to abandon her at a moment’s notice, without explanation. What possible business could he have in London? Between the disaster of the Dower House, his new tenants at the Manor, as well as the decline in the estate, one would think Mr. Cary Wayborn would have business enough to keep him in Hertfordshire. To say nothing of his promise that “the courtship” would continue at “a brisk pace.”

What sort of husband would he make anyway? The man was a faithless spendthrift.

She picked at her “veal” in a mood of spiteful disappointment. She was so annoyed that when Mrs. Spurgeon turned the subject to the virtues of her beautiful lost bird, she nearly lost her temper and told the woman the truth. She caught herself in time. If
Cary
had devoured Cato, she would not have hesitated to expose him, but she was rather fond of Angel. Moreover, it would have been cruel to tell Mrs. Spurgeon how her treasured pet had died. It was better for everyone to let her think the clever macaw had opened the window and flown away.

“I daresay he is halfway back to India now,” said Mrs. Spurgeon, ringing the bell for the next course. “Poor darling. He will not understand one word of what the natives say.”

Summoning a reserve of kindness, Abigail suggested that the window in the study be left open in case Cato should return from “India” as quickly as he had disappeared. There would have been no point in explaining that macaws come from South America.

Cary returned to Hertfordshire two days later and paid his respects to the ladies at the Manor, inquiring solicitously after Mrs. Spurgeon’s bird.

“I thought I saw him go into your orchard,” Mrs. Spurgeon answered, tucking a thin strand of gray hair under the fringe of her curled auburn wig. “The gardener and two under-gardeners searched for nearly an hour, but he was nowhere to be found. I daresay he has returned to India and I will never see him again.”

“If so, he will be profoundly missed,” Cary said tactfully, if not truthfully.

Abigail answered all her cousin’s civilities with civility, but volunteered little in the way of conversation. Vera did most of the talking, compensating for Mrs. Spurgeon’s malaise and Abigail’s silence with a gentle inquiry. “I trust your business was concluded satisfactorily, sir?”

Cary smiled. “Indeed, Mrs. Nashe. I was able to sell the painting without any difficulty.”

“Sell the painting,” Abigail repeated sharply. “What painting?”

He glanced at her. “The Cromwell. I sold it.”

“
That
is why you went to London? To sell the painting?”

“Yes, Smith. Among other things.”

“What other things?” Abigail demanded, forgetting that she had no real right to question him. Vera Nashe raised her brows, Mrs. Spurgeon muttered to herself, but Cary only laughed.

“For one thing,” he said cheerfully, “I settled my bill with that scoundrel Red Ritchie!”

“I don’t see that he is a scoundrel,” she sniffed. “You owed him that money. But I’m glad you paid him.”

“I did no such spineless thing. Pay him? I
don’t
think.”

Abigail frowned. “But you said you settled the bill.”

“Oh, it’s settled all right,” he replied. “I went to see him at his warehouse.”

Abigail felt her blood run cold as she tried to imagine this encounter.

“He was less than glad to see me, especially when I gave him his Gold Label scotch back and flung his poxy bills in his rancid face, the dirty old crook.”

“
What
?” Abigail jumped to her feet, then sat down again.

“I thought the old boy was going to come apart at the seams. Now I know why he’s called ‘Red.’ It’s the color of his face, not his hair. He’s bald as an egg.”

“How could you do such a thing?”

“It was simplicity itself,” said Cary. “But then I have never been loathe to do what is right, no matter how distasteful.”

“No.
How
could you do such a thing?” Abigail repeated; it was no longer a rhetorical question. “How could you return scotch you’ve already drunk up?”

“Well, I couldn’t,” he answered. “Fortunately, as it turned out, I hadn’t drunk the stuff after all. My groom advised me there was a case of the foul brew in my cellar, untouched.”

Mrs. Spurgeon was roused out of her melancholy. “
Scotch
whisky? In my cellar? Mr. Wayborn, I won’t allow it. Mr. Spurgeon only drank
English
whisky. Take it away at once.”

“Madam, I have already done so,” Cary assured her. “I have returned it to its maker. So you see, Miss Smith, the bill is quite settled.”

Abigail folded her arms and glared at him. “That was
my
scotch in the cellar.”

Cary seemed unable to believe his ears. “Pardon?”

“I brought it with me from London,” Abigail explained. “You had no right to take it. You know perfectly well you drank yours. Cary, you
stole
my scotch!”

“Yes, of course,” he murmured ruefully. “I’d quite forgotten your special relationship with the bottle. I confess it never occurred to me it might be your case of Ritchie’s Gold Label. Surely, a
case
of the stuff is rather excessive, even for you?”

“I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying,” she replied tartly. “I promised my father I’d take a
quaich
every day. For your information, I have not yet finished the bottle in my room.”