Lady Sabrina’s Secret (8 page)

Deborah was almost ready to make her call upon Sabrina. Amy was putting the finishing touches to her coiffure, and her gloves, parasol, and reticule lay in readiness upon the dressing table before her. Outside the sun was shining warmly over Bath, and the breeze was so light as to be almost nonexistent. It was a beautiful spring day.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She had chosen a short-sleeved white lawn gown with a ruffled collar and an ankle-length hemline that was prettily embroidered with orange and brown flowers. There was a wide brown satin ribbon around the high waist-line, and another brown ribbon around the crown of the white chip hat that Amy would soon place carefully over her newly pinned curls. It was so fine outside this morning that she had decided upon a light orange woolen spencer that was left
unbuttoned
to show off the gown's dainty bodice, and to form a becoming setting for the locket, which was the only jewelry she had decided to wear.

She was nervous as she sat there, for now that she was actually assured of the chance to speak face-to-face with Sabrina, she didn't know how best to bring the
conversation
around to the true purpose of the visit. What if Sabrina denied it all? What if she became so distressed that she was taken ill again? What if…? Oh, the possibilities for
disaster
were legion, and Deborah drew herself up sharply. She must be positive, and not virtually convince herself of
failure
before she left the house!

The door opened behind her, and Mrs McNeil came in. She was going shopping in Milsom Street that morning and was ready to leave. Her skirts rustled as she came to the dressing table, meeting Deborah's gaze in the mirror.

‘I am about to leave, my dear. I just thought I'd come to wish you well.'

‘Thank you.'

‘It will not be easy.'

‘I know, but I must do it.'

Mrs McNeil nodded. ‘It should be so simple, a mere fact of convincing her that Richard did not let her down after all, but if she is terrified of scandal and determined to marry Sir James no matter what….' Her voice trailed away, and for a moment she was silent. Then she turned to Amy. ‘Leave us, if you please.'

‘Madam.' Bobbing a swift curtsy, the maid hastened from the room.

Deborah turned inquiringly toward the older woman. ‘What is it, Mrs McNeil?'

‘My dear, I know that what I am about to say is none of my business and may even be wildly inaccurate, but I feel obliged to say it all the same.'

‘Say what?'

‘Deborah, it concerns the duke. I cannot help but be concerned about your dealings with him.'

‘My dealings? I don't understand.' But an uncomfortable
warmth had begun to warm Deborah's cheeks, and she no longer met the other's eyes.

‘My dear, in the beginning you could not have disliked him more, indeed, to quote the bard, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks”. The line between hatred and love is sometimes so faint as to be almost invisible, and since yesterday I fear there is a danger you may cross over that line.'

‘You could not be more wrong,' Deborah declared, getting up and going to the window, but in her heart of hearts she knew the charge was right. Even now she could bring to mind the brush of his lips on her hand and the firmness of his fingers around hers.

Mrs McNeil studied her. ‘I hope I am wrong, my dear, for although he is now disposed to be courteous toward you, you must not lose sight of the fact that his liaison with Kate Hatherley is no passing fancy.'

‘There is no need to be concerned on my behalf, Mrs McNeil, for although I admit to finding the duke more amiable now, I certainly do not harbor any amorous thoughts about him.' You liar, Deborah Marchant, for you wish to know what it would be like to be taken in his arms and kissed with all the rich desire of the kiss you witnessed by the stage door. Telltale color stained Deborah's cheeks so much now that she deliberately kept her face averted, as if she found the spring scene on Crescent Fields completely absorbing.

Mrs McNeil looked at her for a moment, and then nodded. ‘I'm relieved to hear it, my dear. Well, I will leave you now. I'll send Amy in again.' Turning, she left the room, but outside she paused for a moment, glancing back at the closed door. She wished she could believe Deborah's
denials, but she couldn't. Rowan Sinclair was beyond reach, and only pain lay ahead for any chit foolish enough to fall in love with him.

When Deborah called she was shown through to the conservatory at the rear of the house where Sabrina was taking a cup of chocolate. The conservatory was filled with exotic flowers and climbing plants, and the sunlight shone through a screen of foliage. The air was both earthy and fragrant, and the sound of birdsong echoed around the glass from two canaries in the gilded cage by the door into the gardens. A flower-edged brick path led from the conservatory across the lawns toward the wall of the mews lane, where an open gate afforded a glimpse of the duke as he and a groom examined the lame horse from the curricle team.

As the butler showed Deborah into the conservatory her gaze was immediately drawn toward the scene in the lane. The duke's gray hair was very bright, and he had discarded his coat, revealing the full sleeves and frills of his shirt. His waistcoat was of peacock brocade, and the cut of his white cord breeches was so precise that they might have been molded to his form. Mrs McNeil's warning echoed in her ears.
You must not lose sight of the fact that his liaison with Kate Hatherley is no passing fancy.

Sabrina was seated in a small paved area in the middle of the conservatory, where a table and chairs of
white-painted
wrought iron had been arranged. She wore a
high-necked
blue sarcenet gown with long sleeves that were puffed at the shoulder and then tightly fitted to the wrists, and a fringed cream cashmere shawl with a bright red-
and-black
border lay on the table before her, next to the silver
tray upon which the chocolate had been served. Muffy was sprawled sleepily at her feet but got up immediately as the butler announced Deborah.

‘Mrs Marchant, my lady.'

‘Thank you, Salter.'

He bowed and withdrew.

Sabrina smiled at Deborah. ‘Please sit down, Mrs Marchant,' she said, leaning down to restrain the poodle, which was trying to jump up to win her guest's attention. ‘Stop it, Muffy, you know you mustn't do that,' she reproved. When Deborah was seated, and Muffy suitably restrained, Sabrina indicated the tray of chocolate. ‘Would you care to join me, Mrs Marchant? There is already a spare cup waiting because my brother was supposed to join me, but I fear the stables are more interesting to him than my company.'

‘Chocolate would be most agreeable, Lady Sabrina.'

Sabrina sat forward to pour another cup, and as she handed it to Deborah, she smiled again. ‘It is most kind of you to show much concern about me, Mrs Marchant.'

‘I am only pleased to see you looking a little better this morning.'

Sabrina lowered her eyes for a moment. ‘I am
determined
to overcome my present doldrums, Mrs Marchant. I have just become betrothed, and I mean to enjoy my betrothal to the full, commencing tonight with the Upper Rooms ball.'

‘The doctor will permit you to go?'

‘Oh, he doesn't think it a good idea, and says it will be too hot and noisy for me, and that if I stay until all hours, it will do me no good at all, but I have insisted upon going. Besides, I promised James that I would be there, and I will
keep my promise.'

‘May I extend my congratulations upon your
engagement
, Lady Sabrina?'

‘Thank you.' Sabrina's lovely blue eyes flickered away.

‘I wish you and Sir James every happiness.'

‘Thank you.'

Deborah could not help but be conscious of the brevity of the last two responses, or of the lack of enthusiasm. It was all the confirmation she needed that Lady Sabrina Sinclair's heart had not been engaged by the man she had contracted to marry. No matter how fiercely Sir James loved her, his bride-to-be only regarded the betrothal and forthcoming marriage as an arranged match. But how to proceed now?

Deborah was in a quandary, but then Sabrina herself offered the opening by suddenly noticing the locket.

‘Why, Mrs Marchant, what a very charming locket. May I see it?'

‘Of course.' Deborah put down her cup of chocolate and then removed the locket.

Sabrina examined it. ‘It's very beautiful. May I be so bold as to ask if I may see inside?'

‘Please do.'

Sabrina opened the locket, and her lips parted on a smile as she saw the little portrait and the lock of hair. ‘What a very dashing captain! Is he your husband?'

‘Yes.' Deborah hesitated, for if Sabrina had been close to Richard, then she was bound to know the significance of Jonathan's name and command. ‘He is my late husband, Lady Sabrina. Captain Jonathan Marchant of the
Thetis
.'

Sabrina's breath caught, and her face drained of all color as her wide eyes swung alarmedly toward Deborah.
‘No …' she whispered, the locket slipping from her fingers on to the table.

But before Deborah could say anything more, Sir James's cold voice broke into the silence of the conservatory. ‘Wexford's sister! I should have guessed yesterday!' He strode toward them from the direction of the door into the house, and his pale eyes were bright with anger.

Sabrina was fixed with shock, unable to do or say anything but stare at Deborah as if at a ghost.

Sir James was not similarly stricken however, and his voice shook with fury as he faced Deborah. ‘So the McNeil woman has seen the error of her ways, has she? She now believes Wexford to be guilty after all and wishes me to forgive her misjudgment? And all the while she neglects to inform me that the woman who is with her is none other than Wexford's sister! What manner of a fool did you take me for?'

Deborah had been taken completely by surprise by his sudden appearance, and his attack momentarily robbed her of the wit to give a suitable response.

His sensuous lips curled unpleasantly. ‘I don't know what mischief you and that Scottish harridan imagine you can get up to, madam, but I advise you to desist forthwith!'

At last Deborah found her tongue. ‘Why would you suspect us of anything, sir? Could it be that you have
something
to hide?'

‘How dare you suggest any deceit on my part!' he cried. ‘Your brother is guilty and has further proved the fact by running away!'

‘Many an innocent man has had to flee in order to escape injustice, sir,' Deborah replied coldly, her glance moving briefly toward Sabrina, who seemed quite overcome with
fear and emotion. Oh, plague take Sir James for arriving when he had. Another few moments, and maybe she would have been able to say the things that really mattered. Now it had all gone wrong, and Sabrina was obviously terrified of exposure.

Sir James's eyes were like flint as he replied to Deborah. ‘If your brother is the victim of injustice, madam, what reason could there possibly be to accuse him so? Can you answer me that?'

Sabrina gave a choked cry and suddenly rose to her feet. ‘I wish you would leave immediately, Mrs Marchant, for I think it despicable of you to insinuate yourself into my society in this fashion. Mr Wexford is a criminal and a liar, and I bitterly resent your obvious purpose in trying to blacken Sir James and thus probably poor Lady Ann as well.

‘Lady Sabrina—'

‘Go!' Sabrina's knuckles were white as she clung to the edge of the table, and her whole body quivered like that of a trapped animal. Her eyes were huge with alarm, and it was clear that she thought at any moment her secret would be dragged out into the open.

Sir James was sneeringly triumphant. ‘Yes, Mrs Marchant, I think you should go, don't you? Your little stratagem, whatever it is, has failed, and your presence in this house is most definitely not welcome.' His glance moved past her then, to the garden, where the duke was returning to the house and would join them in a moment or so.

Deborah saw the glance and turned in dismay.

He entered and paused as he immediately realized something was wrong. ‘What's going on here?' he asked,
his quick gaze moving from one face to the next and coming to rest at last upon his sister, whose distress was only too plain. ‘Sabrina?'

Her tear-filled eyes met his for only the most fleeting of seconds, and then with a stifled sob she gathered her blue sarcenet skirts and ran from the conservatory, followed by Muffy, whose pattering feet slithered on the paving.

The duke came toward Deborah and Sir James, and his face was very still. ‘I ask again, what's going on here?' he asked, his tone deceptively even, for it was obvious that he was both troubled and angry that some sort of unpleasant incident had reduced his sister to fresh tears and distress.

Sir James replied first. ‘This woman is Richard Wexford's sister, and it seems she has come here to try to prove her brother's innocence by accusing me instead. And by
accusing
Lady Ann as well, of course, that unfortunate lady by definition having to be guilty if I am. Can you imagine it? We are very unlikely accomplices, are we not? We don't even know each other!'

Deborah was stung into anger by this. ‘If you don't know Lady Ann, why did you call upon her?'

‘Call on her?' His tone was all innocent incredulity, but his eyes were guarded and alert.

‘You dropped a button, sirrah, a silver button with your cartwheel badge engraved upon it!'

‘I made no such call, madam.'

The duke drew a long breath, and then looked at Deborah. ‘Mrs Marchant,
are
you Wexford's sister?'

‘Yes.'

‘And may I presume that Sir James's charge is correct, and your purpose is to prove your brother's innocence?'