Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  “Thought we’d worked the fidgets out of her,” Oliver said. “What say you, Sabrina? Another gallop?”

  “Yes!” she said, and they thundered across the turf together. Anything to keep her mind from reaching the inescapable conclusion. She could not go on deceiving and betraying Oliver. No matter how angry he would be, no matter the consequences to herself, she could no longer bear to live with her lie.

  “Well, that’s better,” Oliver said, when they had pulled up close to one of the gates and both horses were blowing hard. “Time for breakfast now, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Sabrina said, pushing her hair back with her hand. “Sir, when we get home I would speak with you. There is something I must tell you.”

  “Oh, the devil!”

  “What?”

  Oliver was staring ahead, and if he’d heard her first tentative words of confession, he gave no sign. Sabrina followed his gaze, and froze. Just outside the gate, accompanied by a groom, was Lady Marshfield. Sabrina’s heart sank.

  “I beg your pardon, Sabrina,” Oliver said in a low voice. “I did not know she would be here.”

  “Good morning, Oliver!” Moira called gaily as she rode through the gate. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “I bet,” Sabrina muttered, and Oliver threw her a startled, amused glance.

  “Good morning, Moira. I must say, I’ve never known you to rise so early.”

  “Yes, I know, quite unfashionable of me, is it not?” Her voice trilled out in a laugh that sounded distinctly false to Sabrina’s ears. “But then, I did not wish to waste such a marvelous day. I see you have your little ward with you,” she went on, as she came closer. “Miss Carrick.”

  “Lady Marshfield,” Sabrina said in a colorless voice.

  “But, come, you aren’t leaving, are you?” She drew her mount closer to Oliver’s, which took exception and danced away.

  “Yes, we’re on our way to our breakfasts,” Oliver said.

  “But surely you could accompany me for a bit? Just down to the next gate, perhaps?”

  “I’m afraid not, Moira.” He smiled, to soften the refusal. “We have been out for some time, and our horses are tired.”

  “I see.” Her smile did not slip, but her eyes were no longer warm. “Oh, my dear, what have you done to your hair?” she exclaimed, and Sabrina, though forewarned about this woman, involuntarily put her hand to her head.

  “I’m afraid it came loose, ma’am,” she said. Moira, garbed in a brilliant scarlet riding habit that clung quite closely and displayed a remarkable amount of her remarkable figure, had managed to do it again. Next to her Sabrina felt young, gauche, and too awkward to appeal to a man like Oliver.

  “Oh, dear. You weren’t—galloping, were you?”

  “You make it sound like something scandalous, Moira,” Oliver said, sounding amused.

  “But it is! My dear, if anyone saw you—”

  “But no one did.”

  Moira’s eyes flicked briefly to Oliver’s face, very still and unexpectedly hard, and then back to Sabrina. “My dear, I do hope you won’t take this amiss, but I feel I must warn you that such behavior would never be countenanced by the ton. Of course, I realize, coming from such a savage country as you do—”

  “I think we must be on our way,” Oliver said, his voice pleasant. “And you must trust me, Lady Marshfield, to watch out for Sabrina.”

  Moira’s eyes narrowed just a trifle at that, but she made a quick recover. “Of course. After all, she is your ward.”

  “Yes, Moira. Now, if you will excuse us?”

  “Yes, of course. Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Oliver replied, and at last he and Sabrina moved on.

  “How did she know we were in the park?” Sabrina said, abruptly.

  “It’s fairly well known I ride here in the morning.”

  “But you never encountered her here before.”

  “Exactly what are you accusing me of, Sabrina?” he said, and Sabrina’s eyes dropped.

  “Nothing, sir. But, her! It’s a wonder I didn’t claw her eyes out, sitting there so smug. ‘I hope you won’t take this amiss,’” she mimicked. “She hoped I would!”

  “Easy, infant.”

  “The nerve of her, Oliver, preaching propriety at me like that, when the whole world knows—”

  She stopped. Oliver deemed it prudent not to enquire precisely what it was the whole world knew. “Unfortunately, a married woman, or a widow, is allowed much more freedom than a young girl. Perhaps that isn’t fair, but it’s the way it is.”

  “It doesn’t give her license to be rude!”

  Oliver shook his head. “Don’t let her bother you, infant. She isn’t worth it.” He glanced over at her and then decided not to say anymore. There was more to Sabrina than met the eye, and he suspected she could probably defend herself quite well. All the same, something would have to be done about Moira, and soon, he thought, as they rode down Mount Street. He was surprised to discover that he no longer felt about her as he once had. Her beauty no longer dazzled him, her husky voice no longer sent shivers down his spine, and in her presence he felt completely unmoved. The sentiment he had thought he had felt for her for so many years was gone. It had been long since he had sought her bed, and when he had first seen her this morning, he had felt only dismay.

  “What is it you wish to speak to me about, Sabrina?” he asked as they dismounted and grooms came to take their horses.

  A wary expression flickered across her face. “Nothing of moment, sir.”

  He sent her a piercing glance. “Are you sure?”

  “Why, of course I am,” she said, lightly, as they came into the house. She handed her crop to Hastings, and then turned to face Oliver. “It was really just a little thing, but I think I will be able to figure it out myself.”

  He stood unmoving. “If you’re sure.”

  “Of course I’m sure! Come, Bainbridge, let us have breakfast.” She walked down the corridor toward the breakfast room and then stopped, turning toward him. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Yes, of course.” At last, he followed her, his face troubled. Damn Moira, for coming along when she had, else perhaps he would finally have learned what was bothering Sabrina. As it was, he would have to find out some other way.

  Sabrina’s eyes flicked toward him as she sat at the table. Perhaps it wasn’t wise, withholding the truth from him; perhaps it would not be wise to tell him. She didn’t know anymore. She only knew that she had waited too long for his regard to lose it now. She needed to find a way to handle Tenbroeck. Only then, when she had dealt with him, would she confess to Oliver, and only then, could she cope with his wrath.

  Oliver had just sat down at his desk at the Foreign Office later that morning when there was a knock on the door. Latham, his aide, opened it and looked in. “Excuse me, sir, but Lord Woodley would like to see you.”

  “Very well. What does he want, Latham?” Oliver called, stopping Latham as he turned.

  “He didn’t say, sir, but he looks concerned.”

  Oliver’s eyebrows rose a bit at this. “Very well. Let him come in.”

  “Morning, Bainbridge,” Lord Woodley said a few moments later. “Sorry to disturb you, but something’s come up.”

  “Problems, Woodley?” Oliver said, as they each sat in armchairs facing the desk.

  “Might say that. Just came from a meeting with Castlereagh.”

  Oliver’s eyebrow rose again. “And?”

  “He had a note from Mr. Russell. Seems Russell is concerned about something he heard, about the troop strength that may be used against the Americans.”

  “The devil!” Oliver exclaimed. “What the devil prompted him to write about that?”

  “Sound to me like he’s heard something,” Woodley said, and his normally mild blue eyes were hard.

  “Good God. If you’re suggesting what I think you are—”

  “I am.”

  “Then there’s a spy in the
Office.”

  Chapter 19

  “It begins to look that way,” Woodley said.

  “Damn!” Oliver jumped up from his chair and began to prowl about the room. “There’s only one way Russell could have got that information.”

  “Yes,” Woodley drawled. “From the report you made up.”

  “Or from your preliminary figures.”

  “There is that.” He looked thoughtful. “Odd, though. The figures Russell mentioned were wrong. Less than what we actually thought.”

  “Who had access to that report?” Oliver demanded. “I did, because I wrote it.”

  “And I, because I gathered the figures. And our aides, Bainbridge.”

  “I will vouch for the honesty of Latham, Woodley.”

  “And of course, I vouch for Guthrie.” He looked up at Oliver, his eyes shrewd. “Fact remains, Bainbridge. There’s a leak somewhere.”

  “And one of us is the most likely suspect.” Oliver threw himself down in his chair again. “What did Castlereagh have to say about it?”

  “He was quite upset, old boy. As you’d expect.”

  “Mm. But are we to be asked for our resignations?”

  “Not quite yet.” Woodley made a steeple of his hands and gazed at his fingertips. “After all, we are gentlemen, are we not? And gentlemen don’t do such things.”

  “As passing on information to the enemy. Usually.”

  “It wasn’t me, Bainbridge,” Woodley said, very quietly.

  Oliver, thinking back over the years he had known this man, knew he spoke the truth. One couldn’t grow up with a man, suffer through the agonies of Eton and the equally strenuous pleasures of university, without learning something about him. “I realize that. Nor was it I.”

  “Which leaves only our aides.”

  “Perhaps. Or someone we haven’t even thought of yet.”

  Woodley looked startled. “But we have agreed, have we not, that no one else had access to the information.”

  “That we know of. Where did you keep your information, when you were not working on it?”

  “Locked in my desk here, or at home. Good God. You’re not suggesting the spy could be someone in one of our households, are you?”

  “I’m suggesting it could be anyone.” Oliver looked grave. “Anyone who knew what we were working on and knew where to look. You see, I kept my information in my desk, too.”

  “And it was well known here what we were working on.” Woodley looked grave, also. “Damn, it could be anyone.”

  “How do we explain this to Castlereagh?”

  “No idea. But he wants this cleared up, Bainbridge, as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  “Else?”

  “We will take the blame.”

  “And resignation will be the least of it.” Oliver got up again and paced the room. “Then we’ll just have to find out who did it.”

  “Thought of that, Bainbridge. Question is, how?”

  Oliver stood for a moment, his fist pressed against his mouth and his brow furrowed. “Simple,” he said. “We set a trap.”

  The Bird and Bottle was not overly crowded on this rainy, windswept night, Reginald saw as he came in, shaking the excess moisture from his hair. Foul weather was so damaging to one’s appearance, but sacrifices were necessary in the very good cause of mending his fortunes. Unfortunately, he saw, as he surveyed the taproom, his quarry was not there.

  Taking a seat on the settle against the wall near the fire, he called for a pint of ale, and the publican, a heavy, surly individual, brought it over to him. Reginald took a deep draught, barely managing to repress a shudder. Foul stuff, ale. He much preferred champagne, thought he could not afford it. Someday, he thought.

  As his eyes traveled about the low-ceilinged room, its ancient rafters darkened from the smoke of many fires, he thought again of why he was here. Certainly this tavern, while not as low a place as some, the disgusting gin mills where one could buy blue ruin and forgetfulness for a few pennies, was not up to his usual standards. Not like, say, White’s or Boodle’s or even the Cocoa Tree. No, and though one wasn’t in fear of losing life and limb here, the company was not of the best, either, consisting of rough working men who had looked at his boots, in need of a polish but undeniably expensive, and his carefully tousled hair, with deep distrust. The only advantage the Bird and Bottle had was that it was often frequented by Pieter Tenbroeck.

  Reginald took another draught of ale. In the past weeks he had found out as much as he could about Mr. Tenbroeck, to the extent of discreetly following him to learn his habits. Here in this very taproom Reginald had engineered a meeting with the man, by the simple expedient of upsetting his tankard all over him. That had led to Reginald standing Tenbroeck to a drink, and that had led to a tentative friendship.

  It hadn’t taken Reginald long to take the measure of his man. Tenbroeck was fanatically pro-American and just as fanatically anti-aristocrat. Dressed in an old, rough coat that would have given his tailor horrors, Reginald looked exactly what he was: a poor relation of an aristocratic family who deeply resented his relatives. It was an appearance that had stood Reginald in good stead. Unfortunately, though, it had brought him no closer to discovering the link between Sabrina and Tenbroeck, and that was the purpose of the entire enterprise.

  The door opened, the draft sending the sawdust on the floor swirling, and Tenbroeck at last came in, shaking the rain from his hair, just as Reginald had done. Reginald raised his hand to hail him, and Tenbroeck came over, collapsing on the settle next to him. “Nasty night,” Tenbroeck grumbled. “Sometimes I wonder why I ever wanted to come to England.”

  Reginald took a draught from his tankard before answering. He had almost grown accustomed to the American’s shaggily-cut hair and his rustically-tailored clothes, but he felt a deep contempt for the man, nonetheless. It galled him that this peasant would dare to criticize his betters. “Then why did you?” he asked, when he was certain his face would give nothing away.

  “I had some idea it would help my career back home. God knows it doesn’t pay anything.” Tenbroeck’s face was sour as he raised his tankard. “I tell you, Hailey, it was a good thing we threw you British out when we did, and if you’re smart, you’ll get rid of all the damned aristos, too. Nothing but a bunch of bloodsucking leeches.”

  “Easy, my friend, you’ll win yourself enemies saying such things,” Reginald said softly.

  Tenbroeck waved his hand, dismissing the objection. “They know me here. They know how I feel, and I’ll wager most of ‘em feel the same way.” He glanced over at Reginald. “As do you, I believe? God knows you’ve suffered from the aristos enough.”

  Reginald nodded. So, he had played his part well. Tenbroeck, with no idea of how much Reginald wished to live as his aristocratic cousins did, was convinced instead that that was a life he abhorred. “I still am suffering.”

  “How so?”

  He grimaced. “‘Tis the problem with my cousins, Miss Carrick and the duke. She is a most attractive girl, but Bainbridge won’t let me get within ten feet of her, unless there are other people present.”

  “Maybe he is doing you a favor,” Tenbroeck said, raising his tankard.

  “What makes you say that?” Reginald inquired, sharply. “Know you something of Miss Carrick?”

  Tenbroeck took another sip, and Reginald recognized the same delaying tactics he himself had used earlier. “Only that she is, as you say, a most attractive girl,” he said, finally, but there was a cynical gleam in his eyes that sparked Reginald’s interest.

  “I see,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Since I’ve seen you two together I thought perhaps you had known her in America.”

  Alarm flared briefly in Tenbroeck’s eyes, but his voice, when he spoke, was calm. “No, but I know of her. We are distantly related, you see.”

  “Oh?” That was interesting. “Tell me. Is there something about her background I should know, before I make a cawker of myself, courting her? For you know,
I have my own way to make and it won’t do to ally myself with someone of base birth.”

  “The Van Schuylers are of as good birth as any of your damned aristos!” Tenbroeck snapped, drawing himself up and slamming his tankard down on a nearby table.

  “My apologies, Tenbroeck. Didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “You’re as much a snob as any of them.” His voice was bitter as he rose and drew his greatcoat around him, and Reginald reached up to catch his arm.

  “Come, this isn’t necessary. Sit down and I will buy you another tankard.”

  “No, thank you.” Tenbroeck pulled his collar up. “I have work I should be doing.”

  So saying, he stamped out of the tavern in high dudgeon, leaving Reginald staring thoughtfully into the dregs of his ale. So, there was something in Sabrina’s past, something about her birth. Was it possible, he wondered, that she was not a Carrick, that she was, after all, the impostor everyone had believed her to be in the beginning? His blood quickened at the thought. Whatever it was, he had every intention of finding it out, and soon. Damned if he were going to be ousted from his rightful place by some slut of an American!

  “I’m glad to see you feeling better again, Grandmama,” Sabrina said, several mornings later. Gwendolyn was still in bed, her breakfast tray across her knee, and Sabrina sat across from her, in a comfortable low-backed armchair near the window, drinking her own chocolate.

  “It’s good to be feeling better, child,” Gwendolyn said. “Saltmarsh? Come take this confounded tray away. Really, Sabrina, you’re doing quite well.” She indicated the square envelopes, invitations all, strewn across the blue satin coverlet. “Even I didn’t expect you’d receive so many invitations.”

  Sabrina made a small face. “I fear everyone is expecting the savage American to make some mistake.”

  “Feeling sorry for yourself, girl?”