by Kruger, Mary
Oliver barely looked at her once they were seated in the carriage, but instead sat with his arms folded across his chest, staring out the window. Next to him Sabrina studied him, puzzled and uneasy and frightened. This was not the Oliver she had come to know over the past months, but instead the stern, implacable duke, the man she had never been able to reach. She didn’t know what had transformed him from her tender lover to this.
“Oliver, what is this all about?” she asked, and his eyes, cold, disdainful, and bored, flicked over her.
“We will speak of it at home,” he said, and resumed his position, staring out the window.
“if it’s about Reginald, I can explain—”
“I said, we will speak of it at home!” His voice cracked out with a whip.
Sabrina recoiled. “But, Oliver—”
“Do not test me, Sabrina, I will not answer for my temper tonight.”
“No, sir,” she murmured, and subsided, huddling it in the corner of the carriage and feeling absolutely wretched. If he would not listen to her, what could she do? How could she possibly explain to him how Reginald had tricked her into that meeting, and why? She straightened. He would listen, if she had to shout at him.
He would have taken her arm they alighted from the carriage, but she sailed in front of him, head held high and posture so arrogantly erect that he felt a reluctant stab of admiration. What a duchess she would have made.
“Sit down,” he said, after Hastings had lighted the lamp in the study and left them alone.
“Thank you, but I’d rather stand.” She turned to him. “What is this all about?”
“I said, sit down!” His hand on her shoulder thrust her into a chair, and he stood glaring down at her.
She felt at a distinct disadvantage as he towered over her, but she was not going to give up. “Really, Oliver, there’s no need to browbeat me.”
“How long have you been a spy?” He said abruptly, and, just as abruptly, her world crumbled.
“I—what?” Her mouth fell open and she stared up at him.
“Answer me. Is that why you came to England, to insinuate you way into this family and find out what you could?”
“No!” She cried, recovering from her shock. “No, I would never do that! Oh, Oliver, please listen, I can explain—”
“Can you?” he said, in a quiet voice that boded more ill than his earlier roars had.
She swallowed hard. “Oh, you must realize, it isn’t what you think—”
“Isn’t it? What I think, miss, is that you took your advantage of your position with me to find out any information that you could have passage to the Americans. Am I right?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Damn you!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her up. “Damn you, how could you betray me like this?”
“Oliver, I didn’t, if you’d only listen—”
“Stop lying to me!” He released her and she fell back into her chair. She stared up at him, her eyes wide and dark. “Damn you, I know damn well what you did. Don’t lie to me about it.”
“But it wasn’t the way you think!” she cried. “I had no choice—”
“Who was your contact?” he interrupted. “Was it Tenbroeck?”
“Yes. Oh, Oliver, I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you this from the beginning, he knew about my parents—”
“And Guthrie?”
“You know about him?” she said, diverted for the moment from the rest of her confession. “Oh, I wanted to tell you about him, but I was afraid—”
“So it’s true.” His anger suddenly seemed to desert him, and he fell into the chair behind his desk, staring at her as if she were a stranger. “I didn’t want to believe it, but it’s true. Stupid of me, I should have seen the signs. They were certainly there.”
“I didn’t want to do it, Oliver.”
“Oh, don’t tell me Tenbroeck forced you into it,” Oliver said wearily. “Have enough bottom to admit to your own guilt. Do you have any idea what this means, Sabrina?”
“Yes,” she whispered, staring down at her hands. It meant that her precious life here had been destroyed. It meant that she had lost Oliver. She had bungled things completely.
“I won’t be able to keep your name out of this. You will be tried for treason. Do you know what the sentence for treason is?” She raised her eyes to him, suddenly very frightened. “Yes, I see that you do.”
The penalty for treason was, she will know, death by hanging. In all her wildest imaginings, she had never thought it would come to that. She raised her head. “But I did not commit treason.”
“You spied against your country.”
“Your country,” she retorted. “I’m American.”
“Your father was English.”
“And my mother was an American. I am an American.”
They gazed at each other for a moment. “God,” he said finally. “Why did you have to do this?”
She didn’t answer. She could keep protesting, or try to explain, and it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t listen to her. “Oliver, could you not just let me go?”
“No.” He spoke with a flat finality that effectively silenced her. “No, I can’t do that. You will go to your room and you will stay there, until I have a chance to speak to Castlereagh about this. And then we will decide your fate. What are you waiting for?” he demanded, when she simply stared at him. “Go!”
Sabrina closed her eyes for a moment, and then rose. “There is a reason for this, Oliver.”
“I don’t really care. One more thing.”
She turned from the door. “Yes?”
“My ring, please.”
Sabrina stared at his outstretched hand. Of all that it happened tonight, this was the worst. “You are breaking the engagement?”
“Do you really think I would marry a spy?” His gaze on her was so scornful and insolent that she flinched. “Oh, no, Sabrina. After what you’ve done, the only thing you are suited for is to be my mistress.”
Sabrina drew in her breath sharply, and began to fumble at the buttons of her glove, though her vision was blurred with tears. Damn him! He deserved whatever happened to him, for having so little faith in her.
Pulling the ring off her finger, she flung it to the floor. It hit the wood with a metallic ping, and then rolled under the desk. “Get it yourself,” she snapped, and stalked out the door, slamming it behind her.
Oliver jumped to his feet, and then, more slowly, sat down again. It was about all he could expect, he supposed. After all, she had never loved him. She mustn’t have, or she could not have done what she had. Oh, God, how could he bear it? She had betrayed him. He had given her his heart, his very soul, and she had betrayed him.
Very quietly, without any official announcement, the wedding between the Duke of Bainbridge and his ward was cancelled. Since no invitations had yet gone out, the Bainbridges hoped to brush through without people finding out. In the way of these things, though, the news was all over town within a few days. In boudoirs and ballrooms, the ton could speak of nothing else. They had all seen this coming, they told each other. Sabrina was, after all, a savage American. What could she know of polite ways?
Moira received the news with suppressed glee. Her plan to do Sabrina one last bit of harm had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. She had won, and Oliver would be hers again. Oh, she hadn’t seen him yet, but she had no doubt. It was only a matter of time. Oliver would again be hers.
Reginald’s satisfaction was sharper. So Sabrina and Bainbridge had at last been torn apart. Perhaps she would turn to him now. Oh, never mind her reactions of the other night, or his own disgust at her bastardy. All her lovely money would compensate for that.
The trouble was, he wasn’t quite sure how to reach her. Even if she’d been receiving visitors, he knew he wasn’t welcome at Bainbridge House. There was another scandal brewing, though, one that was being kept considerably quieter, and that was that there was something wrong at the Foreign Office. In
the gentleman’s clubs, discreet whispers told of spies for the Americans, who were now being readied for trial. Reginald didn’t put the two together until one day, when he passed Tenbroeck’s lodgings, he realized they were being watched. He didn’t connect Sabrina to the spying scandal, but he did wonder about her association with Tenbroeck. He sat at his unlit fireplace, mulling it over. Perhaps he could use the situation to his own advantage.
“Guthrie is quite dead, I’m afraid,” Woodley said with without preamble several mornings later, as he walked into Oliver’s office. “Put a pistol to his head before he could be arrested. Haven’t captured Tenbroeck yet, but a watch is being kept on his rooms. Just a matter of time, and this whole thing will be over with.”
Woodley dusted his hands together in satisfaction as he sat down, and from his desk Oliver regarded him. His eyes, bloodshot and lined with dark circles, and his sunken cheeks gave testimony to sleepless nights with only his agonized thoughts for company. “Will it?” he said.
“Not much damage done, old man,” Woodley said. “Only that one document passed in the beginning, and the rest were frauds.”
“Does it matter?” Oliver passed a hand through his hair. “We’ll not get through this so easily.”
“What has Castlereagh decided to do?”
Oliver grimaced as he remembered the very difficult hour he had spent with Castlereagh. “Nothing, as yet. He says the investigation is not yet complete. In the meantime”—he rose and shoved some papers into his portfolio—“I am to be suspended. Very quietly, of course, and when the time comes I shall be asked to resign. Oh, you needn’t worry, these are private papers,” Oliver said, indicating his portfolio and suddenly frowning as he caught a glimpse of one of the papers.
“I wasn’t concerned, Bainbridge,” Woodley said. “But, I—”
“Do you remember telling me that the Americans’ estimate of our troop strength was less than our estimate?” Oliver said, cutting across his words,
Woodley looked at him, mildly surprised. “Well, yes, I do, but I assumed they had changed the numbers for reasons of their own.”
“Do you still have the figures?”
Woodley glanced toward the door. “Yes.”
“I have a very great favor to ask of you, my friend.” Oliver glanced at the door, too, and his voice lowered. “I need to see those figures.”
Woodley’s eyes widened. “I’d like to help you, Bainbridge, but—”
“I will require them for a very brief time.” Oliver’s voice dropped persuasively. “We have been friends for a very long time, have we not?”
Woodley moved uneasily in his chair. “Yes, but this ain’t like you, Oliver.”
“To presume on that friendship? I know, and believe me, Joseph, I wouldn’t do so if the need weren’t great.” Woodley opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. “And, don’t forget, I know what the real figures are.”
“It is that important to you?”
“It may be my whole life.”
Woodley studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed, and then abruptly rose. “Oh, hell. In for a penny.”
“Thank you, Joseph.” Oliver held out his hand. “This means a great deal to me.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me, old chap,” Woodley said, briefly taking his hand and then turning away.
In a few moments he was back, drawing a piece of paper from his coat and handing it, wordlessly, to Oliver. Equally silently, Oliver took the paper and sat behind his desk, pulling another document toward him and comparing the two. A few moments later, he sat back, and, letting out his breath, pushed both pieces of paper across his desk. Woodley gave them the same thorough, quiet scrutiny, and then looked up, eyebrows raised questioningly.
“As I remember,” he said. “Americans’ figures are lower than ours.”
“Yes.” Oliver watched as Woodley took the document back, and folded his own paper, the preliminary figures for the report he had written.
“So?”
“So how did they arrive at that estimate?”
Comprehension began to dawn in Woodley’s eyes. “Someone told him. Good God! Tenbroeck.”
“Yes, and?”
“Good God!” Woodley sat bolt upright. “She passed them the wrong information!”
Chapter 31
“Yes.” Oliver leaned back, weak and dizzy with relief. “Exactly the same conclusion I reached. I am glad to see my reasoning wasn’t at fault.”
Woodley looked dazed. “But, why do you think—”
“She did it?” Oliver shrugged. “I suspect she found herself in an impossible position and dealt with it as best she could.” And she had not betrayed him. A warm glow spread through him at the thought. He should have realized she would not.
“Yes.” Woodley frowned. In the investigation of this whole remarkable episode, one question remained unanswered. Why had Miss Carrick acted as she had? “Yes. Well, what do you do now?”
“Talk to Castlereagh, I suppose.” Oliver frowned. “Though there are still some things to consider. We know she didn’t pass the invasion plans on—”
“No, nor the list of spies.”
Oliver’s eyes grew bleak. “Oh, but she did, my friend. I know beyond doubt that she saw the list.”
“And I know beyond doubt that the information came from Guthrie,” Woodley said, matter-of-factly. “He confessed to it. Well, after being seen going into the American Embassy in Harley Street, he could hardly deny it.”
“Good God. Did he say why?”
“For money.” Distaste crossed Woodley’s face, for a man who would sell his country for a few coins.
Oliver got to his feet and began cramming papers into his portfolio. He had badly wronged his Sabrina. “She is innocent.”
“Castlereagh may very well decide to be lenient.”
“He had better. Damn.” He stopped what he was doing, his eyes distant. “And I accused her.”
Woodley rose. “Better deal with it, then, Bainbridge,” he said, and held out his hand. Oliver looked at it for a moment, and then took it in his grasp, wringing it enthusiastically.
“Thank you, old friend. I won’t forget this.”
“Oh, cut line,” Woodley muttered, his face flaming, and went out the door.
“Oh! Miss. They you are,” Letty said, stopping just inside the door.
Sabrina turned her head. “Where else would I be?” she asked. She was curled up on the window seat, looking out. It was the closest she had gotten to the outdoors in the past few days. And lonely days they had been. Gwendolyn, staunchly believing in Sabrina’s innocence, had visited every day; but Melanie, for once obeying her mother, had stayed away, and that hurt. Like Oliver, Sabrina was showing the strain of what had happened; the circles under her eyes were dark, her hair was dull, and her dresses were beginning to fit loosely.
“It’s just that I didn’t see you miss, with the curtains drawn.”
“I wanted to shut out everything,” she murmured.
“Beg pardon, miss?”
“Nothing, Letty. Is there something you wanted?”
“Yes, miss. This just came for you.”
Sabrina glanced incuriously at the square of note paper Letty held out her. “Through the mail?” she asked, taking it.
“No, miss.” Letty glanced toward the door, as if to check for eavesdroppers, then leaned forward. “Mr. Witherspoon gave it to me.”
Mr.—? Oh, the footman.” The gleam of a smile appeared all too briefly in Sabrina’s eyes. It was no secret among the household staff that Letty and John Witherspoon were taken with each other.
“Yes, miss.”
“Oh. Well, then, I might as well read it.” She tore the envelope open, and then jumped to her feet. “My God!” She exclaimed, and the note fluttered to the floor.
“What is it, miss?” Letty said
“Who brought this? Do you know?”
“Why, no, miss. Witherspoon said it was some urchin.”
“Oh. I h
ave to go—no, of course I can’t, but I must. Oh, what am I going to do? If I don’t, Oliver will suffer—”
“What is it, miss?” Letty said, alarmed. Sabrina had sunk down onto the window seat again, her head in her hands. “Can I help?”
Sabrina looked up, and there was a spark of hope in her eyes. “Maybe you can. I have to get out without anyone knowing.”
Letty stared at her. “But the duke—”
“Oh, bother the duke!” Sabrina exclaimed, getting up and striding to her wardrobe. “I’ll need something to wear. Oh, no.” She studied her wardrobe with dismay. “None of these will do. Letty. Could I borrow one of your dresses?”
“Oh, miss, what are you planning to do?”
“I want to go out for a little while, and I can’t do so dressed like this. Is there a way I can get out?”
Letty hesitated. “Well, yes, but, miss, where are you going?
“Never fear, Letty, I will come back.” She grasped Letty’s hands. “Will you help me?”
“Oh, miss.” Letty stared up at her, dismayed. “What are you going to do?”
Sabrina shook her head. “Nothing bad. I promise. And I will not be gone long. Will you help me?”
Letty sighed. “Yes, miss. I’ll find something for you to wear, and I’ll be back.”
“Thank you, Letty.” Sabrina watched Letty go and then turned, stooping to pick up the note. Receiving it had plunged her again into the nightmare, but its lure was irresistible. Smoothing out the creases, she read it over.
My dear Sabrina,
As I write this I am in great haste to get away. I need your help. I haven’t enough money to reach the coast and buy passage on a ship for home. We Americans do not belong in this country. I appeal to you, as an American and a relative, to help me. I will never ask anything of you again, nor will I need to embarrass Bainbridge.
Come to me at the above address. Do not fail me.
