“That would be a very rare book, sir,” Mr. Eldridge politely observed. “Very rare indeed.”
“Good Lord, Cary, what if she stole the book, too?” cried Juliet.
Cary scowled at the clerk. “Look here, Eldridge! Are you implying that my—my cousin stole your book?”
Mr. Eldridge appeared genuinely shocked. “Certainly not, sir.”
“All you must do, then, is check your records and tell me who bought the book.”
“I’m afraid that is confidential information, sir.”
“Indeed! When Lord Dulwich came in, demanding you put him on the list for Kubla Khan, she jumped behind the counter. Surely you remember that?”
“I recall no such incident, sir. It sounds highly unlikely.”
“Perhaps if I paid my bill?” Cary suggested acidly. “Would that stir your memory?” Fishing in his pocket, he came up with an embarrassing assortment of copper and silver coins.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t recall anyone of that description, and our patrons do not venture behind the counter. It simply isn’t done. As for the Blake…I’m afraid we can not divulge the identity of any of our patrons. I’m sure you understand.”
“Mr. Wayborn?”
Cary whirled around to see Abigail herself standing behind him in her fox-trimmed cloak. “I thought it was you!” she exclaimed in triumph. “Your purple coat gave you away. And the…er…dog hair,” she added, brushing at his shoulder with one gloved hand. “I did not expect to see you here.” Observing Juliet, who was staring at her, open-mouthed, she dropped a polite curtsy.
“Smith!” said Cary, staring at the girl. She looked so decidedly unlike a Soapy Sue that he felt a little ridiculous for ever harboring the slightest suspicion against her, let alone actually hiring a Runner to bring her to justice. Surely no actress could ever blush so charmingly at will, and with such an air of innocent pleasure. He found himself smiling back at her, recalling the heavenly moments he had spent with her arms wrapped around him. Desperately he wanted to kiss her. “You’re…you’re looking well.”
Abigail was positively glowing. Not even Juliet’s presence could dampen her simple enthusiasm at seeing the man she loved. “It’s all right, Mr. Eldridge,” she said quickly. “I am a little acquainted with this gentleman.”
Mr. Eldridge hastily scooped up Cary’s coins from the counter. “Oh, was this the young lady you were looking for, sir? I must have misunderstood you. She was here the whole time.”
“Fancy that,” Cary said dryly.
A cloud crossed Abigail’s face. “You were looking for me, Mr. Wayborn?” she inquired anxiously. “Is something wrong? Is it Paggles?”
“Paggles? Oh, no. Paggles is perfectly content,” he assured her. “My new scarf is nearly as tall as I am, and still growing. No, I came to London for quite another reason. I…I heard Kubla Khan was finally out.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Juliet muttered.
“You really do like Coleridge,” Abigail said, beaming. “I always suspected you did, no matter what you said about him. It is out. I’ve just gotten mine.” She closed her eyes and recited. “‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/ A stately pleasure-dome decree:/ Through caverns measureless to man/ Down to a sunless sea.’” She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
“Not bad for an inebriate,” he admitted.
“It’s very short,” she said, opening her book and leafing through it. “I have to admit, I’m a bit disappointed. Only fifty-four lines! I can’t help thinking he might have come up with fifty-five if he’d only tried a little.”
“It’s my fault,” said Cary. “I have poisoned you against him. Try to think of him as he was when you read the ‘Mariner’ for the first time.”
“Or ‘Frost at Midnight,’” said Abigail.
“Excuse me,” said Juliet, unable to contain herself a moment longer. “This is all very cozy, and very interesting, I’m sure. But I can tell you, Miss Smith, I didn’t come here to discuss poetry with you. I only want to know one thing.” She put a strong hand on Abigail’s arm. “Where is my snuffbox?”
Abigail was startled. “Your snuffbox, Miss Wayborn? But I had thought—Is it not Sir Horatio’s snuffbox?” Perplexed, she looked to Cary for some assistance.
“Never mind that,” Juliet snapped. “Where is it?”
“Well, it’s quite ruined, I’m afraid,” said Abigail.
“What?” cried Juliet.
“Angel—the dog—simply crunched it up. I’m so sorry! I didn’t know it was yours, you see. I thought the Captain must have left it…When I got to London, I brought it directly to Mr. Grey in Bond Street, but he said it was quite beyond repair.”
“Do you expect me to believe that the dog ate my snuffbox?” sneered Juliet.
“You don’t know him,” Cary said quickly. “That dog is quite capable of eating any number of snuffboxes. I’ve known him to eat doorknobs, kitchen ladles, and an entire macaw, including the beak. If Abigail says he ate it, I’m sure he did.”
“He didn’t actually swallow it,” Abigail clarified. “He was chewing on it under the table just outside your room, Miss Wayborn, when I came down to collect my writing slope.”
“You never said a word about it at the time,” Juliet complained.
“I didn’t know it was yours.”
“No, indeed!” said Juliet. “You simply disregarded the distinction between meum and tuum and put it in your pocket.”
“I tried to have it repaired,” said Abigail. “Was I wrong?”
“I’m sure you did exactly right,” said Cary. “Juliet’s just upset.”
“What about the miniatures?” Juliet demanded. “My brother’s silver? I daresay the dog ate all that as well! And my grandmother’s punch bowl, too!”
“What can you mean?” said Abigail, becoming angry. “Are you accusing me of stealing a punch bowl? Cary, what is she talking about?”
“Don’t seek to enlist my brother in your campaign of deceit!” said Juliet. “I know you tricked him into giving you that emerald, you—you thimble-rigger!”
Cary restrained his sister. Her volume was arousing unwelcome attention from the bookseller’s other patrons, who, fortunately, were small in number. “I gave Abigail that emerald,” he said sternly. “We are not concerned with the emerald. Look here, Smith. No one is accusing you of anything. But did you, for any reason, take the miniatures with you when you left Tanglewood? To have them repaired or valued or cleaned, perhaps?”
“No,” said Abigail slowly. “Gold acquires a very rich patina over time. Cleaning them would diminish their value considerably. Am I to understand, sir, that you think I stole your miniatures, your sister’s snuffbox, and your grandmother’s punch bowl?”
“No, of course not.”
“Ha!” said Juliet. “That’s not what you said in Bow Street!”
Abigail turned pale. “Bow Street?”
Cary sighed. “Abigail, they’re gone. All the miniatures. As well as the household silver. Everything but two candlesticks—and they, I think, are only plated.”
“Good heavens,” Abigail murmured.
“And you took them!” said Juliet. A finger encased in yellow kid pointed at Abigail. “The Runners have a name for women like you; you’re a Soapy Sue. You may as well know, Miss Smith, that we’ve hired Runners to catch you. Enjoy your freedom while you can, Cousin. You’ll soon be in the dock before a magistrate with a black kerchief on his head!”
Abigail looked at Cary in astonishment. “Is that true?” she asked, horrified. “Do you believe me to be a thief, sir? Have you come to London to bring charges against me?”
“Abigail, I didn’t know what to think,” he admitted wretchedly. “You were gone…and the silver was gone…”
Abigail was mortified. “I see,” she said coldly, blinking back tears. “Well, I don’t know where your miniatures are, Mr. Wayborn, or your punch bowl, but I can give you your emerald back. Except I left it with Mr. Grey,” she added, stamping her foot in e
xasperation. “When I was there earlier, he happened to notice that the stone was a bit wobbly. Here is the receipt. You are welcome to claim it any time you please.”
He refused to take the scrap of paper she pulled from her velvet reticule. “Don’t be absurd, Abigail. I gave you that ring. My feelings are unchanged.”
Since she had no idea what his feelings were, this scarcely comforted her.
“Thank you, Cousin Abigail,” said Juliet, snatching the receipt. “I’ll be sure to collect it. Heaven help you, if it’s not there.”
Abigail smiled at her coldly. “And you may have this as well, Miss Wayborn,” she said, proffering a small gold box with a green enameled lid. “Mr. Grey was unable to repair yours, I’m sorry to say, but he furnished me with a replacement.”
Cary and Juliet stared at the box in her palm. “By God,” said Cary. “It looks just like it.”
“It is just like it, unless yours was engraved. Mr. Grey has many more in stock.”
“In stock?” cried Juliet, taking the box for a closer inspection. “I’ll have you know this snuffbox was a royal gift from the Prince Regent himself. It can’t be replaced. This must be the original.”
“It certainly isn’t,” said Abigail, removing a screw of brown paper from her bag. Unraveling it, she disclosed a few bits of twisted gold and cracked green enamel. “Here is the original. I really did think it was your cousin’s box. His was also a gift from the Regent.”
“How many more has Mr. Grey in stock?” Juliet asked slowly.
“A thousand, I think, or very nearly.”
“A thousand?” Juliet repeated incredulously. “Did she say a thousand?”
Abigail fastened the snap on her reticule. “Yes, I did,” she said crisply. “Apparently, the little brown horse on the lid was meant to win all sorts of races five years ago, but, instead, he fell down and broke his leg. The Regent had ordered a thousand snuffboxes made, but in the end, His Royal Highness neglected to buy them. Poor Mr. Grey’s been stuck with them ever since. I’ve advised him to start giving them away free with a purchase of at least fifty pounds.” She drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Eldridge, would you send for my carriage, please? I should like to leave now.”
“How is it free if it costs fifty pounds?” Cary argued. “Sounds like a swindle to me.”
Abigail frowned. “Indeed it is not a swindle, sir. The gift with purchase is simply a way to—Oh!” Her explanation was cut short by an apparent sudden need to examine the floor behind Hatchard’s sales counter.
“What on earth is she doing?” Juliet demanded as Abigail scurried behind the sales counter. “Has she gone mad? Cary, the girl’s an imbecile!”
“My Lord Dulwich!” Mr. Eldridge warmly declaimed. “How very pleasant it is to see your lordship again. And your ladyship,” he added, looking up from the pile of sales receipts he had been studying with great interest while eavesdropping on Abigail’s conversation.
“Impertinent wretch,” said his lordship. “How dare you address me?”
Taking Mr. Eldridge’s pen from him, Cary began to write something on the back of a sales receipt. Mr. Eldridge looked at it and nodded, snapping his fingers for a junior clerk.
As he wrote, Cary glanced over his shoulder at Dulwich and the lady decorating his arm. “Ah, Pudding-face! You did tell me you were engaged to marry a highly undesirable female of no breeding, little beauty, and vast fortune. May I wish you joy, Lady Dulwich?”
Lady Serena Calverstock’s elegant ivory face broke out in ugly red hives at the sound of his voice, and Dulwich’s hands shook with fury. “How dare you insult Lady Serena?” he rasped. “As it happens, I was talking about quite another female. Lady Serena has not yet consented to become my wife, though I live in hope, naturally.”
“Then I have indeed insulted her ladyship!” said Cary, beginning to laugh. “I imagine it is unpleasant to be called Lady Dulwich under any circumstances, but to be called so before one’s time…That is an indignity I would not inflict upon any creature. Do forgive me.” Cary bowed with perfect correctness.
Lady Serena frostily ignored him, and turned to greet her friend Juliet with a little moue of disappointment. “Oh, you’ve got yours already, dear Juliet,” she pouted, showing off a little snuffbox remarkably like the one Juliet held in her hand. “I don’t even take snuff, but when I saw it, I couldn’t resist. What a good joke! Horatio has made himself so detestable these last few weeks, pushing his little royal gift under everyone’s nose. What did you buy, Juliet?” Serena scarcely paused for an answer. “I couldn’t find anything I liked at the fifty pound mark, so I was obliged to buy this horrid little bird’s nest brooch for seventy pounds. Dully found a rather lovely gold toothpick holder, but it was only forty-seven pounds, so he was obliged to buy the gold toothpicks as well, for ten pounds more. But at least his was a practical purchase. We’re all going to bring them to the Carlton House Ball tonight, after the play, of course. You cannot go to the play, of course, dear Juliet, but will I see you at the Regent’s ball?”
“Why can I not go to the play?” Juliet demanded, her gray eyes narrowing dangerously.
“Gift with purchase, my foot. I told you it was a common swindle,” Cary muttered across the counter, apparently to Mr. Eldridge’s feet, just as a phalanx of junior clerks appeared to screen Abigail’s departure from the shop by means of the back door. To further distract attention from Abigail’s escape, Cary strolled over to a nearby shelf and pretended to select a book. Lord Dulwich glowered at him in helpless rage.
Meanwhile, Lady Serena blinked at Juliet. “Why can you not go to the play? My dear, it’s opening night for Antony and Cleopatra! And there’s been so much talk about you and Mr. Rourke. I’m sure it is all untrue, and so I tell anyone who dares say a word against you in my presence, but, really, if you were to go to the play, you must know it would be a ghastly scandal. Worse than your last scandal, I’m afraid, when you dressed up in your brother’s clothes and raced his curricle all the way to Southend.” Serena pressed her hand dramatically to her bosom. “I’m afraid Auckland would never forgive you if you went to the play tonight, and it would be seen as a confirmation of all the rumors about you. But there’s no reason you can’t go to the ball. I haven’t quite decided on my costume. What are you going to be? Roman or Egyptian?”
“I was not aware that you were acquainted with Lord Dulwich, Serena,” Juliet said coldly. “Rather, I was under the impression that you shared our disdain for him.”
Lord Dulwich sniffed. “Lady Serena and I are very dear friends, Miss Wayborn, and, unlike you, her ladyship is quite above reproach. I don’t wonder your mesalliance with the Duke of Auckland has come to naught. The man’s well rid of you, and he knows it. I shouldn’t be surprised if he married someone else within a sennight.”
Juliet frowned. “Cary? Are you going to let this cretinous oaf talk to me?”
“I’m sorry if you’re not entertained, Juliet,” Cary replied, turning the pages of his book. “Throughout my dealings with Lord Dulwich, I have tried to make him more interesting, but, as you see, he has thwarted my every attempt.”
Dulwich’s temper snapped its fragile leash. “You dare insult me! You may cower there behind your sister all you like, but it won’t save you from my wrath!”
“Oddly enough, the most telling characteristic of the common bore is his determined and risible belief that he is, in fact, interesting,” said Cary. “Ask a bore if he is a bore and his answer will invariably bore you. Go on. Ask him.”
“Lord Dulwich, are you a bore?” Juliet politely inquired.
“You think you’re so witty, Wayborn!” Dulwich snapped. “Well, you’re not. So there!”
Lady Serena closed her eyes in embarrassment.
“You see?” said Cary, closing his book before it disclosed to him how to make a steak and kidney pie. “It’s like the plague of locusts, except with boring.” He offered Juliet his arm. “Come, sister. Let us run away before his lordship puts us to sleep.”
“I see he has already put Serena to sleep,” Juliet smugly observed.
Chapter 16
At the back door of the bakery a few doors down from Hatchard’s, Abigail thanked the clerk who had escorted her there and pressed him to take half-a-crown for his trouble. “Thank you, Miss!” he said brightly, opening the door for her.
Abigail was promptly knocked back by the large, imposing figure emerging from the shop along with a wave of heat from the ovens. The clerk prevented her from falling, but there was a terrible explosion of muffins, followed by an explosion of curses from the owner of the muffins.
The bookshop clerk started up angrily. “Mind your language; there’s a lady present!”
“You mind the bloody lady,” the dark figure retorted in a strong north country accent. “And you mind my bloody muffins, too!”
To Abigail’s dismay, she recognized the man who towered over her like a giant. What confounded bad luck! She dreaded having to explain herself to this relatively new acquaintance.
“I’m terribly sorry, your grace,” she said breathlessly, brushing bits of muffin from her cloak. “I did not see you there. Your muffins…Do please allow me to replace them for you.”
“They were right out of the oven,” complained the Duke of Auckland.
“Oh, I am sorry, your grace,” cried Abigail.
“Why, it’s Miss Ritchie,” said the Duke, bending his head to look her in the face. “As I live and breathe! It is Miss Ritchie, is it not? The one with the corgi?”
“Yes, your grace,” Abigail admitted. “It’s so kind of you to remember.”
“It was only yesterday I met you,” he replied. “I’m not senile. And I told you to call me Geoffrey, as I recall, when your father gave me permission to call you Annabel.”
“Abigail.”
“Abigail,” he agreed easily. “So let us not stand on ceremony. Besides which, I hate being graced. Is this your servant? You might tell him to close his mouth.”
Surrender to Sin Page 28
