Surrender to Sin (39 page)

“He’s Mr. what?”

“You know, man! Her husband.” The Duke groaned. “Bloody hell! She did say it was a secret. She wanted to tell you, but she didn’t have the courage. Now, don’t worry,” he went on, drawing Red off to one side. “I know you wanted a title, and all that, but they’re not all that hard to come by, if you don’t mind spending a little.”

Red frowned. “How much? Mind, I want a peerage.”

“Don’t expect to get a dukedom or a marquisate,” the Duke warned him. “But with me behind you, and your money up front, I don’t think a barony is out of the question.”

“My Abby, a baroness!” Red said eagerly. “You can have the diamonds, for starts, your grace, and any amount besides.”

“Oh, no,” the Duke said. “But if I could just get Julie’s carriage back…”

“Done!”

At long last, Cary lifted his head. “Have they all gone?” Abigail asked hopefully.

“Your father’s still here,” he answered, looking over her shoulder. “Auckland is with him. I daresay I should probably stop kissing you for a while and go talk to him.”

“Does he look very angry?”

“He looks bald,” Cary replied.

“Julie really should be here by now,” the Duke was saying fretfully as he consulted Red’s watch. “I can’t understand it, Ritchie. I’ve had servants searching the grounds for over an hour. She doesn’t seem to be anywhere.”

“Cary!” Abigail suddenly clutched Cary’s arm and spoke in a hollow whisper. “What if Mr. Rourke
did
take my carriage, only
with your sister in it?”

The Duke whirled around, scowling. “What did you say?”

“Sir,” said Abigail. “I am
here
instead of
there
. What if Miss Wayborn is
there
instead of
here?
”

“What the devil is that banging?” Cary demanded for the fifth time as the Duke’s carriage rolled to a stop on the quiet Kensington Road.

The Duke flung open the carriage door. It struck his servant in the back, then came back and hit the Duke as he jumped out. The giant hardly noticed. The banging noise stopped abruptly, but a nearby dog began barking hysterically.

Outside, Bowditch was struggling to keep a grip on a slippery young woman with butterscotch-colored hair. “Abigail!” Cary said angrily, as he climbed out. “I told you to stay at Carlton House with your father! You told me you would.”

Abigail bit the hand covering her mouth. Cursing, Bowditch released her. She flew straight at the Duke, but once she got to him she hardly knew what to do. “That is the
second
time you have kidnaped me, sir!” she cried, stamping her foot ineffectually. “If you
ever
stuff me under the seat again, I–I—” Her imagination failed her and she was forced to be honest. “I don’t know what I’ll do!”

“Good God, Smith!” said Cary. “Why didn’t you make a noise or something?”

She turned to Cary in exasperation. “Didn’t you hear me beating with my fists on the seat? I’m all over bruises! I could hear you talking.”

“Was that you?” he asked ruefully. “Look here, you’d better wait in the carriage.”

“We’ll need her,” the Duke protested, “if we’re going to work a trade with Rourke.”

“No one’s working a trade,” Cary snapped.

“Think, man! He don’t want Julie. He wants
her.
”

“No, he doesn’t, you ass! He wants the bloody diamonds.”

The Duke’s face fell. “Oh. Ritchie offered them to me, and like a fool, I declined. Took the carriage, instead. Do you think he’d take Julie’s carriage for a ransom?”

“He’s already taken her carriage,” Cary pointed out.

“Dammit! How much have you got in your purse, man? I’ve got half-a-crown.”

“I’ve got nothing. I paid my bill at Hatchard’s today.”

“What in hell’s name did you do that for?” the Duke complained. “He’s not likely to take half-a-crown.”

“I had two florins and a guinea in my reticule,” said Abigail. “But I left it at the theater.”

“Bloody stupid of you,” the Duke observed.

“I didn’t know I was going to be kidnaped!”

“Never mind!” Cary snapped. “I’ve no intention of paying any ransom.”

“Good God, man!” said the Duke, turning pale. “This is your sister we’re talking about.”

“Rourke’s not getting anything but the boot of a Praetorian Guard up his Irish arse.” Cary cursed violently under his breath. “I wish someone would silence that bloody dog! I can’t think in all this racket.”

“It’s Angel,” Abigail said. “Don’t you know his voice? Someone’s shut him up in the back garden. You know how he hates to be shut outside when there are people in the house.”

The four of them crept towards the house. Candlelight gleamed from several of the downstairs windows. “That’s the music room,” Abigail explained as Angel continued to bark.

Cary stared at the mansion. It was huge, modern, and constructed of white marble in the Neoclassical style that was currently in vogue. “Where are the servants?”

“Paggles is at Tanglewood. Papa took the rest with him to Carlton House to help serve the drink. Anything for the Prince Regent, you know.”

“And this is your house?”

“Yes.”

“It’s got a lot of French windows, Smith,” he said severely. “I don’t see why I can’t put French windows in my Tudor monstrosity if you can put them in the Temple of bloody Apollo.”

“Your Tudor monstrosity is authentic,” she explained earnestly. “My temple is a fake.”

He chuckled, which did not much please the Duke, who was desperately worried that his Juliet was even now succumbing to the Irishman’s charms.

“Can we climb over the garden wall, do you think?” he demanded.

“There’s a key hidden in a little hollow rock,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

Cary instantly caught her arm. “No, you stay here.”

“It’s
my
house, Cary. I can always get in,” she told him. “There’s an oak tree in the garden that goes right up to my window. We can sneak downstairs and catch Mr. Rourke.”

“Let’s get on with it,” growled the Duke. “The fireworks are going to go at any moment.”

“Can you really see the fireworks from here?” Cary asked Abigail as they crawled forward through the rhododendrons dotting the lawn. “From Kensington, I mean?”

“Oh, yes, it’s particularly nice from the roof.”

As they neared the house, they could hear music coming from inside. Abigail recognized the “Moonlight Sonata.” “That’s Julie,” said the Duke. His breathing sounded labored. “I’d know her phrasing anywhere. Hurry up, can’t you?”

Abigail scampered past the windows, found the garden key in its hiding place, and admitted them into the garden. In the moonlight, the landscape appeared painted in stark black and white. The corgi rushed up to his master and mistress and greeted them with joyful whines. The music inside the house stopped abruptly. An ominous silence fell over Kensington.

“For God’s sake, make it bark again,” whispered the Duke.

“Flap your arms,” Abigail instructed. “He’ll bark at you.”

The ducal fingers snapped twice. “Bowditch. Flap.”

The ruse worked. The Duke’s servant flapped, the dog barked, and Miss Wayborn continued to play Beethoven with her distinctive phrasing.

“There’s the tree,” whispered Abigail, pointing. “And there is my window.”

“Well, up you go, Smith,” said Cary, kneeling down and making a stirrup of his hands.

“Me?” she said quickly, shying away from his hands. “Can’t you go?”

“It’s your tree. You do it.”

“She’s your sister! Anyway, I can’t. I don’t have my…” She moved closer to him. “I left my drawers in Mr. Rourke’s dressing room,” she whispered in his ear.

“Ah,” he said. “That
is
a problem. I never wear drawers—don’t believe in ’em. And I left my breeches at Carlton House, just like it says in the song. Dammit, Smith, I left your pearls, too! You’ll never see them again, I’m afraid.”

Completely indifferent to the whereabouts of her pearls, Abigail glanced down his body. “You mean, there’s nothing under your skirt?” she asked, fascinated. “All this time?”

“It’s a tunic, not a skirt,” he corrected her. “I wanted to be…authentic.”

“Your grace?”

“Don’t look at me,” said the Duke of Auckland, creeping closer to the house. “I’m a senator. We’ll just have to break one of these French windows.”

“They’re thirty pounds each!” Abigail protested.

It was a false economy, as it turned out. The Duke took a running start at the nearest French window, and might very well have broken it if Miss Wayborn had not been so good as to open it for her estranged fiancé. As a consequence of her kind act, the Duke plunged straight through and demolished a satin-covered French recamier worth fifty guineas.

“Julie!” he cried, jumping to his feet. “Julie, you’re all right! You’re safe now.”

Juliet slapped his face. “You went to Carlton House in a silly costume without me?” she cried. “Do you know what I have endured this evening?”

“He kidnaped you, didn’t he?” the Duke blazed. “Rourke kidnaped you. My poor darling. My angel! I’ll kill him for this, you realize.”

“Well, you
might
have killed him,” she fumed, stepping out into the garden. “If you’d gotten here a bit sooner.”

The Duke followed her out. “You let him get away?”

“Why’s your man flapping his arms in that ridiculous manner?” Juliet demanded to know.

“It’s to make the dog bark,” the Duke explained.

“Well, he can stop it at any time!” she shouted at him.

Bowditch ceased to flap. The corgi saw his advantage and attacked.

While Cary and Abigail were occupied in trying to coax Angel away from Bowditch, the Duke ventured to touch Miss Wayborn on her proud back. “Never mind if you let Rourke go, my darling. I shall hunt him down like the Irish dog he is.”

“No, you won’t,” she snapped. “In just a moment, he’s going to walk out of here.”

“You mean he’s still in the house?”

“Yes. He’s going back to the Albany. And
you
are going to pay his bill.”

“Am I indeed?” the Duke roared at her.

“Yes, that was the wager,” she calmly replied.

“What wager?” he snarled.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I would have done, if you’d been here rescuing me instead of frolicking at Carlton House. Did any of you even
care
that I’d been kidnaped? Cary? You’re supposed to be my brother!”

Cary dragged Angel from the now prone Bowditch and handed the little corgi, still snarling, to Abigail, who, upon reflection, threw him into the house and closed the French window. He lunged against the lower panes, growling fiercely.

“Are you all right, Bowditch?” Abigail cried, dusting off the fellow who had twice stuffed her in a box under the driver’s seat.

“I’m sorry, Julie,” the Duke was crying under the oak tree. “I’m sorry for everything. I know now you were only trying to make me laugh by stealing Horatio’s snuffbox. I’m sorry I was so beastly jealous. But
why
won’t you let me kill him? Can it be that I have driven you into his arms? Tell me now if that is the case.”

“Into his arms,” Juliet hissed. “I should kick you for saying that. I told you we were just friends. This is completely your fault! He only did it for the money, because
you
cut off his funds. You can imagine his embarrassment when he realized he’d kidnaped the wrong woman.”

“No, I can’t,” said the Duke. “It’s unforgivable. Putting you in a filthy potato sack and stuffing you in the box under the driver’s seat!”

“Potato sack, indeed,” Juliet scoffed. “What an imagination you have! All he did was shove the driver off and take up the reins himself. Got clean away before the footmen knew what was what. He drives pretty well, too. I noticed nothing amiss until we stopped. Then he opened the carriage door, and things got pretty quiet. I could tell he was embarrassed, poor man, so I offered him a little wager. If you didn’t come for me by midnight, I should let him go. And, of course, it’s half past. So you see, it’s your own fault you can’t kill him.”

“It’s
her
fault,” said the Duke, pointing at Abigail. “I tried to kidnap
you
, Julie, but Bowditch got
her
by mistake. The little beast hit me in the face with a red-hot poker!”

“Let me see,” she said, peering at his face in the moonlight. “I thought
I
did that,” she cried, taking out her handkerchief and dabbing at his face. “Oh, my poor Ginger! Did you really try to kidnap me? You’re not just saying that?”

The Duke seemed to feel all at once that talk was superfluous. Instead, he grabbed Miss Wayborn and proceeded to kiss her. Juliet offered no resistance and rather a lot of help.

In the meantime, the corgi had worked his way up through the house to Abigail’s open window high above them and was barking continuously. “Excuse me,” said a friendly voice from amongst the branches of the spreading oak. “Is it safe to come down now?”

“What are you doing up there, Mr. Rourke?” Juliet asked him.

“The dog seemed to want me to go,” he replied. “Naturally, I jumped out of the window. I take it, you’ve squared things with his grace, Miss Wayborn?”

“Oh, yes. You may go,” she assured him.

Mr. Rourke dropped down from the branches dressed as a Marc Antony, and he was not…

“Oh, Cary, he’s not wearing any drawers,” Abigail whispered, averting her eyes.

The actor was already kissing Miss Wayborn’s hand.

“You may take his grace’s carriage back to the Albany,” she told him. “It’s sitting in the middle of the road. Have as much champagne as you like. And I
do
look forward to having you at Auckland Palace in the summer for another go at
Twelfth Night
. One more thing,” she added, pulling a ring off of her finger and giving it to him. “I want you to have this.”