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Sabrina
Sabrina
Sabrina
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Sabrina

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She was trapped by a lie - and her love for a dashing duke.

All Sabrina wanted when she traveled to Bainbridge Abbey was to find her lost family. She didn’t expect the kindly old duke of her imaginings to be Oliver Carrick, young, handsome—and extremely mistrustful of her. Though Sabrina is not a fortune hunter, she knows that he is right to be suspicious. For she has a secret in her past, and she prays that Oliver will never find out.

Oliver has no intention of being tricked into marriage by an apparent fortune hunter, no matter how beautiful she might be. He is content with his life, his mistress and his work for the government. But he is soon drawn in by Sabrina’s sweetness and beauty.

As their love deepens, as Sabrina becomes more and more enmeshed in a web of deception, she faces a terrible dilemma: what will happen if her secret becomes known?

LanguageEnglish
PublisherMary Kruger
Release dateOct 27, 2011
ISBN9781466093386
Sabrina
Author

Mary Kruger

Mary Kruger has been writing for many moons and has the gray hair to prove it. She is the author of the acclaimed Gilded Age mystery series, featuring sleuthing pair Matt Devlin and Brooke Cassidy; she has also written two contemporary set knitting mysteries, published by Pocked Books. Under her secret identity of Mary Kingsley she is also the best-selling author of Regency and historical romances, and has been nominated for RWA's prestigious RITA award. Mary began telling herself stories at a very young age and just never stopped. She believes the only good book is one that comes from the heart. In addition to writing, Mary is a librarian. she has taught at Southcoast Learning Community in Massachusetts, and at Brown University's Learning Community. When she is not playing Freecell, she enjoys reading, needlework, and, of course, chocolate. She lives in a seaside city rich with history with her adored daughter and total boss, Samantha. She is currently working on reissuing the Gilded Age series in ebook format.

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    Sabrina - Mary Kruger

    Chapter 1

    His Grace, Oliver Carrick, fifth Duke of Bainbridge, folded the letter and frowned. Good God.

    Exactly, Your Grace, said the man who sat at the untidy, paper-littered desk across from him, his periwig a trifle askew. Mr. Warrenton, solicitor, had handled the Carrick family’s affairs for years, but never had he come across such a problem.

    She is here now? In your chambers?

    In the next room, Your Grace.

    And you are satisfied she is not a fraud?

    She has the missing Carrick rings, he said, apologetically.

    Damn! Before today I’d hardly ever heard of Gerald Carrick.

    I believe, Your Grace, that he probably meant the letter for your father, the late duke.

    And the girl, too. Oliver looked again at the missive that was the cause of this extraordinary upheaval. When the messenger had come to Bainbridge House, urgently requesting my lord Bainbridge’s presence at Mr. Warrenton’s offices, Oliver had never expected—this.

    My dear Bainbridge, the letter began. You probably remember me, Gerald Carrick, the proverbial prodigal son.

    Oliver did remember something about Gerald Carrick, his now-late cousin, but it had happened a long time ago, when he was only ten, and his memories were sketchy.

    If you are reading this, then I am already dead, the letter continued, and you have met my daughter.

    Not yet, the duke thought, grimly.

    She is a good girl and deserves better than me for a father.

    Doubtless, thought the duke.

    Therefore I am naming you her guardian...

    Good God.

    ...and hope that you will forget my past sins, for her sake. Everything is in order, as you will see from the papers I have had drawn up.

    Oliver lifted his head. Everything is in order?

    Yes, Your Grace.

    Damn.

    Take care of my little girl, Bainbridge, the letter said. She is but a child and will not know how to get on in London. I depend on you to do what is right for her.

    Ha! Oliver doubted that the girl needed any guidance. Instead, he had a shrewd suspicion that his new ward was an aging, designing hussy, out to secure whatever she could from him. A man in his position made a convenient target for the tricksters of the world.

    There is, unfortunately, no money....

    Of course not.

    "...but perhaps you can pry some out of the old girl.

    "I remain, affectionately,

    "Yrs.,

    Gerald Carrick.

    Oliver folded the letter and then held it delicately between his fingertips. Who is the ‘old girl’ he speaks of? he asked.

    I believe he refers to the dowager duchess, Your Grace, Warrenton said reluctantly. He was, as you know, the son of the late duke’s brother.

    Yes, my uncle Everett. Was he at all like my uncle?

    Oh, dear me, no, not at all. Lord Everett is a fine, upstanding man.

    Oliver’s eyebrow rose again, this time skeptically. From which I should infer that Gerald was not? I guessed as much. Pray enlighten me. What are the sins he speaks of?

    I’m not quite sure, Your Grace. It happened so very long ago.

    Yes, twenty years ago, in 1792, if I recall. But I don’t quite remember the circumstances. Must I ask you again to enlighten me?

    The man behind the desk blanched. When the Duke of Bainbridge looked at one in that way, his gray eyes turned to cold steel, the only thing to do was to obey him. I believe he had gambling debts, Your Grace, that he did not pay. Oliver raised his eyebrow again. I suspect there was a woman involved, and, at the time, I heard rumors of a duel.

    Did he kill his man?

    I am not sure, Your Grace. In any event he quarreled with his father and then emigrated to America. To my knowledge, no one has heard from him since.

    Until now. He fixed the solicitor with a stern eye. Are you sure it isn’t a hoax?

    Mr. Warrenton swallowed. Quite sure, Your Grace. All the papers appear to be in order. Of course, the girl does not look like a Carrick.

    No?

    When I opened the door to her, I was inclined to turn her away. If she didn’t have the rings...

    Yes, Oliver said. May I see them?

    The solicitor handed the rings across the desk, and though he had never seen them before, Oliver recognized them instantly, from the descriptions he’d heard over the years. One was a signet. Bearing the Bainbridge crest, it was meant to be worn by the present duke only. The other, a large, square-cut emerald set in gold, had once adorned the hand of Oliver’s uncle, the late Gerald’s father. Somehow Gerald had managed to spirit away both rings, something which had caused more uproar than his subsequent disappearance. Oliver could still remember the awe-inspiring rage his father had gone into when he’d learned of the theft. Well, Warrenton, these appear to be genuine.

    Yes, Your Grace.

    Where is the girl?

    In my library, Your Grace. Through that door.

    Oliver rose. I suppose I should see her.

    Your Grace? Oliver turned. What do you plan to do with her?

    I haven’t the faintest idea, he said, and went into the other room.

    Chapter 2

    Like their owner, Mr. Warrenton’s offices were desiccated and dusty. The windows, thick with grime from many a London winter, let in little light. The library was a dull room, paneled in oak that had never felt a dust rag and filled, everywhere, with books bound in dark, sober colors. At first Oliver didn’t see the girl who was causing him such trouble, and he wondered if she had lost her nerve and left.

    Mr. Warrenton cleared his throat. When there was no reaction he cleared it again. Miss Carrick.

    Um. The sound came from what Oliver, in the dim light, had assumed to be a pile of rags on the armchair that was pulled close to the empty, sooty fireplace. If his alleged cousin had hoped for a bit of warmth, she had been sadly disappointed.

    Miss Carrick, please get up.

    The rags moved. A contraption that proved to be a particularly hideous bonnet lifted, and a pair of bleary eyes stared at them, blankly.

    Oliver watched in fascinated revulsion. Mr. Warrenton, are you sure?

    Quite sure, Your Grace. Miss Carrick, you will get up!

    This time it was a command, and it finally seemed to penetrate. Oh. Oh! The girl sat up very fast and stumbled to her feet. Oliver quickly stretched out his hand to keep her from falling, only a trace of distaste showing on his aristocratic features. T-thank you, she stammered.

    Thank you, Your Grace, Mr. Warrenton said.

    She darted him a frightened look. Thank you, Your Grace.

    They don’t have titles in America, he said to the duke. Barbaric country.

    Oliver, studying the girl, didn’t answer. She certainly did not look like a Carrick. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen, and her hair had both the color and the texture of straw. Underneath a dun-colored cloak of indeterminate age and style, she wore a black dress, obviously mourning garb and just as obviously many years out of date. Her figure was poor, pudgy and shapeless, and she was much younger than he had expected. Whatever was he to do with her? Does she have a name?

    Girl, tell His Grace your name, Mr. Warrenton said.

    The girl looked at Oliver and then studied the floor. Sabrina.

    Sabrina, your—

    Sabrina, Your Grace.

    See that you remember it in future.

    Don’t browbeat the girl, Warrenton, Oliver said, mildly enough for Warrenton to stare at him in surprise. Doubtless our customs are new to her. He reached out to lift her chin. For one mutinous moment something sparked in the girl’s eyes. For just that one moment, he thought she was going to jerk her head away. Then it passed, so quickly that Oliver wasn’t sure it had happened. You do not look like a Carrick.

    I’m told I take after my mother. Sir, she added as an afterthought. He winced at the nasal quality of her voice.

    Who was your mother?

    Her chin lifted. Annemarie Van Schuyler.

    He raised an eyebrow. Dutch?

    No, sir. American.

    He ignored that, though Mr. Warrenton clearly longed to give the girl the setdown he thought she deserved. What was he going to with this girl? She had no fortune, no beauty, and, apparently, no intelligence under that unbelievably homely face. He could hardly bring her to Bainbridge House; he kept bachelor quarters and had no place for a young, unchaperoned girl. He was also short of female relatives to foist her onto. His mother was dead, and Marianne, his sister, was in Street Petersburg with her diplomat husband. That left only Grandmama. She would not be pleased. Where is your maid?

    I have none. Sir.

    His eyebrow rose again. None? You came here, across the Atlantic, unescorted?

    Yes, sir.

    Miss Carrick, either you are very lucky or very stupid. I have not decided which. She put up her chin again. Either way, it will not do. You may be able to dispense with the rules of polite society in that wilderness, but such behavior will not be tolerated here. In the future, you will behave properly.

    Have I a choice?

    No, Miss Carrick, you do not. Mr. Warrenton.

    The little man snapped to attention. Your Grace?

    Please send a messenger to Bainbridge House. I wish to have my traveling carriage made ready, and my staff informed that I will be going into the country.

    Of course, Your Grace!

    Oh, and Warrenton, Oliver said.

    Yes, Your Grace?

    There is one thing more I would have you do for me.

    Certainly, Your Grace. Oliver drew closer and spoke in low tones. Once or twice Mr. Warrenton glanced over at the girl standing by the chair, looking blankly about her. ‘Twill be expensive, Your Grace, he said finally.

    The money does not signify. See to it, Warrenton, as soon as possible.

    Yes, Your Grace. He bowed again and ran from the room.

    Thus satisfied that he had thrust a spoke in his new cousin’s wheel, Oliver turned back to her. The information he had asked Warrenton to procure for him would take some time to gather. In the meantime, he had to do something with her. God save me, he thought. My inclination is to bring you to lodgings somewhere and leave you there, but your father was right about one thing. You would not know how to get on in London. I shall bring you to the dowager duchess, God help her.

    Who is she?

    My grandmother, and possibly your great-grandmother. You will behave properly with her, my girl, or you will answer to me.

    Sabrina’s eyes were downcast. Yes, Your Grace, she murmured. Oliver cast one more suspicious look at her and then turned away. The sooner they could be rid of her, the better.

    The coach was new, painted in the Bainbridge colors of midnight blue and gold, and bearing the Bainbridge crest. At another time Sabrina would have been in awe of such splendor, but all she cared for now was that it was well-sprung and comfortable. She was well aware that, on what was possibly the most important day of her life, she was far from her best. She hadn’t been able to bathe lately, except in salt water, she had a wretched cold, and she was so tired. She felt as dull and unattractive as she looked, and it was impossible to frame two coherent thoughts in a row, let alone speak intelligently. Had she had any money she would have found lodgings and waited until she recovered before facing Mr. Warrenton and the duke, but the fare for the stage from Liverpool had taken nearly all her funds. She was dependent on the mercy of strangers, none of whom seemed kindly disposed toward her. Papa might have warned me, she thought, and then smiled. Since when had Papa ever spared a thought for anyone but himself?

    Up until six months ago, life in the village of Sparta, in New York, had been placid and uneventful, enlivened only by Papa’s occasional bouts of drinking. Then Papa had died. The shop he had owned was Sabrina’s only means of livelihood, and her home, as well, since she lived above it, but she was forced to sell it to cover the debts that he had left. She had nowhere to go. Her Van Schuyler relatives had cast her off long ago, and she knew nothing of Papa’s family. Somehow she was going to have to manage on her own.

    Her prospects changed when she was packing her meager belongings, preparatory to vacating the shop. In the bottom of a bureau drawer she found a small wooden box, with two rings inside. Sabrina had little knowledge of jewels, but somehow she knew that these were old and valuable. How her improvident father had come across such treasures, she could not imagine. There were also letters in the box, one addressed to her, another to a solicitor in London, of all places, and the last, the most startling one, to His Grace, the Duke of Bainbridge. How in the world did Papa know a duke? she wondered, and opened his letter to her.

    Inside all the questions she had ever had about him were answered, in-between the bitter invective about his family. She was not, as she had thought, alone in the world. Why Papa had seen fit to argue with his father she did not know, but knowing his temper she wasn’t surprised. What mattered now was that there was someone she could turn to, should she find the courage.

    The tone of the letter turned fatherly toward the end. Should she be underage when her father died, she was to go to England, where the Duke of Bainbridge would be her guardian. It ended with an admonition not to be too honest, at least, not in the beginning.

    The word guardian worried her a little, and so the next day she visited the lawyer who’d handled her father’s affairs and learned that, as she was just turned seventeen, the duke was indeed legally responsible for her. The lawyer had kindly added that no one was trying to force her out and the duke did not have to learn of his new responsibility just yet. Distracted, Sabrina agreed.

    She had taken a room in a neighbor’s house, but already it was apparent she could not stay there forever. Mrs. Turner, while not mean-spirited, appeared to consider Sabrina an unpaid servant. Sabrina didn’t mind work, but she did mind the imposition. The daughter of the house, a year or so younger, was increasingly jealous, while the son was beginning to look at her in a leering, knowing way. She had to find some way out soon, and she focused on the prospect of a family as her salvation.

    Sabrina had never really known what family life was like. Now, as she worked and scrimped and saved enough to buy passage to England, she tried to imagine her relatives. In this year of our Lord 1812, relations between the United States and her former mother country were not good, but that hardly mattered to Sabrina. She had a grandfather, imagine that! Papa had probably looked like him, and perhaps taken his disposition from him. How grateful he would be, to have his long-lost granddaughter restored to him! Grandfather’s brother, the duke, would welcome her because she would be able to restore to him his property, the rings. Great-Grandmother was probably a sweet, frail old lady to whom Sabrina would be a comfort in her old age. There were also the duke’s children, and other relatives. For the first time Sabrina had the hope of belonging. She could hardly wait.

    Reality had come hard, in the form of the small, leaky ship that had brought her to England. Its passage had been all she could afford, and she had spent her days in discomfort and fear of the crew. Reality had been the hard, unpadded seats of the Liverpool to London stage, and the leers and lewd suggestions men seemed to feel free to make to an unaccompanied female. Reality had been Mr. Warrenton’s sneers, and the shocking realization that, not only had no one in England ever heard of her, no one wanted her, either. Reality was that the kindly old duke of her imaginings was dead, and in his place was Oliver Carrick, cool, arrogant, haughty, and undeniably the most handsome man she had ever seen.

    Cautiously on the seat across Sabrina opened one eye and looked at him. He sat in the corner opposite to her, his dark hair casually brushed back and his nose, strong and straight, making his face look hawklike, as he studied the passing countryside. To Sabrina’s uneducated eyes, he looked the very picture of a nobleman, though Bainbridge was his valet’s despair. Though everything he wore was of the finest material, crafted by the best tailors, no one would ever look to him as an arbiter of fashion. His boots, Hoby’s finest, had only an indifferent shine, his shirt points were only moderately high, and his neckcloth was tied neatly, but conservatively. His coat, made so that he could shrug into it unassisted, sat well upon his broad shoulders, shoulders that would be a bulwark against the world for some lucky girl. Sabrina could almost feel the strength and power in his arms as they closed about her....

    Oliver chose that moment to turn and stare at her, as if he could read her thoughts. Sabrina turned first a bright, deep red, and then very pale. She knew that she blushed easily, but no one had ever told her how much her face revealed of what she was thinking. Oliver, watching her changing reactions, was not about to enlighten her.

    Unlike Sabrina, he was not impressed with what he saw. At close quarters the girl was no more attractive than she had been in Warrenton’s offices, and the better light served only to show how dull were her complexion and hair. She had shown no interest in the world outside herself, and she sniffed continuously. She had not even made any effort to charm him. Having been on the marriage mart for years, Oliver had no illusions about women. He knew he was handsome. He also knew that, were he a foot shorter, bald, fat, and lame, he would still have been considered attractive. One must never discount a title, or all that lovely Bainbridge money.

    You’ll not see a penny from me, you know, he said pleasantly, and Sabrina’s eyes, which had closed again, opened.

    Excuse me? she said.

    Let us be honest with each other, Miss Carrick. I know why you’ve come here. I tell you now, it won’t fadge.

    Her head hurt so much. She put her fingers to her temples to rub them. If you will excuse me, sir, I don’t feel up to this conversation. I am excessively tired and I have the headache.

    Miss Carrick, he said, his voice icy. If you have forgotten, let me remind you that I am a duke. You do not excuse me. I excuse you. We will have this conversation whether you will or not.

    She stared at him blankly. Oh. I’m sorry, sir. Um, I mean, Your Grace.

    Oliver leaned back against the squabs and studied her with distaste. I am taking you to Bainbridge Abbey. I am sure you know of it. He ignored the shake of her head. The dowager duchess is in residence there, and if she approves of you—and by no means is that certain—you may stay. What you will do then and how you will live is of no concern to me. I trust you will find ways to make yourself useful. But. He held up a warning finger. If she does not approve of you, then you are out. Either way you will not get a penny from us. Do you understand?

    Arrogant, haughty, cold, unfeeling and odious! she thought. She would have had some misgivings about concealing her background from the loving family of her imaginings, but she had no compunction about doing so from this man. What will people say when they learn you’ve turned out a relative in need, Your Grace? Particularly your own ward.

    Why, Miss Carrick. Are you threatening me?

    No, Your Grace. I wouldn’t dare.

    He gave her a sharp look. Very good. Because it occurs to me that you cannot prove your relationship to me, can you? Even now, how can you prove you are not an impostor?

    She went pale. What would he do when he learned that, in a very real sense, she was? The rings—

    Ah, yes, the rings. Which are now in my possession. I could throw you out right now and no one would care.

    London cannot be so very different from New York.

    I beg your pardon?

    There are sure to be people here, as there, who will believe anything bad of a person, true or not.

    He gazed at her steadily for a few moments. Miss Carrick, for your own good, I suggest you hold your tongue.

    Fine. Then I can go back to sleep, she said, closing her eyes. Oliver opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Few people had ever treated him in such a way, but he let it pass. He would deal with her later.

    Chapter 3

    Bainbridge Abbey was a long, weary, drive from London, and the day was drawing in by the time they arrived. Sabrina’s head ached so much she could barely see, and she was too exhausted to appreciate the occasional view of the Thames off to their right or the glimpse, in the distance, of Windsor Castle. So far she didn’t like England very much. It was either rainy or abysmally dusty, the people all spoke differently, and London was large, bewilderingly noisy, and dirty. A wave of homesickness for a place left far behind washed over her, and then passed, leaving her feeling empty and bereft. She was not wanted here. She should not have come.

    The coach turned in through large, wrought-iron gates displaying the Bainbridge crest and topped by gleaming brass globes. A man ran out of the gatehouse and then, seeing the duke, bent low in a bow and then ran back inside to tell his wife the news. The coach continued on down a winding drive that seemed to stretch on forever, and at length pulled up before a building that Sabrina assumed to be the Abbey. She was so tired that she received no impression of the building other than its size as she stepped down onto the graveled drive. In the twilight, it seemed to loom above her.

    The door was opened before they had ascended the marble stairs, by a properly correct butler with a face like a basset hound. He beamed at Oliver, totally ignoring Sabrina. Welcome, Your Grace. I must say, this is a pleasant surprise, he said.

    Thank you, Partridge, Oliver said, his voice echoing in the cavernous entrance hall. Is my grandmother in?

    Yes, Your Grace, in her studio. Shall I announce you?

    No, thank you, Partridge. I’ll just go up.

    And the er, young lady?

    Oliver turned to look at Sabrina, who was staring blankly at the gilt-framed paintings on the walls and the suit of armor that stood at the base of the wide, carved staircase. The young lady may wait in the book-room until we send for her.

    Very good, Your Grace. If you’ll come this way, Miss. Oliver watched as Sabrina followed behind the butler, his very stance expressing rigid disapproval, and then turned toward the stairs. Squaring his shoulders, he went up.

    Gwendolyn Carrick, Dowager Duchess of Bainbridge, was busy painting in her studio when Oliver walked in. He watched her for a moment, and received the second shock of the day. She looked—ill. Well, not precisely ill. She was no thinner, and her color was good, but there was something about her, some fine-drawn quality, that troubled him. For the first time he realized, deep within himself, that his grandmother was old, and that he could very well lose her. And if that happened, he thought, a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, he would be alone. Oh, nonsense, he thought, and stepped forward.

    Gwendolyn looked up. Outside of her family, painting was the one enduring passion of Gwendolyn’s life, and ordinarily, once she was absorbed in it, it took a great deal to disturb her. There were, however, exceptions. Oliver had always occupied a special place in her heart. Oliver! she exclaimed. This is a surprise. Come give me a kiss.

    Obediently he walked over and kissed her cheek. That’s very pretty, Grandmama, he said, indicating the easel.

    She snorted. Pretty! You sound just like your grandfather. Pretty, indeed! She picked up her brush. Why are you here, Oliver?

    Grandmama, I have a problem.

    So I thought. Let me finish this before I lose the light. You may talk while I work.

    He shook his head. I’ll wait. I need your full attention.

    She turned from the easel. That serious?

    Yes, ma’am.

    Of course, it would be. I don’t know when you last came to me with a problem. She looked at her picture and sighed. Tomorrow would be soon enough to continue working. Come sit down, then. She led the way over to a pair of chairs. Well?

    Oliver plunged in. Grandmama, I seem to have acquired a ward.

    Gwendolyn blinked. A ward? Good gracious, Oliver, has one of your Cyprians had the nerve—

    No, no, nothing like that, he said, hastily. So far as I know I have no children, legitimate or otherwise.

    High time you did. When are you going to present me with an heir, Oliver?

    In due time, Grandmama.

    In due time! I’d say the time is past due. I’m sure you know your duty.

    I’m sure I do, ma’am, but about this new problem—

    Yes. A ward, you say?

    Yes. A young woman.

    Ah. Her eyes narrowed. Someone trying to blackmail you?

    Probably. She claims to be Gerald Carrick’s daughter.

    Gwendolyn drew in her breath. Good Lord. You’re not serious.

    She had the rings, Grandmama. He held up his hand.

    The Bainbridge signet, she said, wonderingly. Good Lord, then she really is Gerald’s daughter.

    I’m not sure, ma’am, he said, cautiously. She may be an impostor.

    Does she look like a Carrick?

    Not at all. She is lumpy and plain and dull. Oh, I grant she must have some shrewdness, to have hit on this plot, but she seems to have no other thoughts beyond her own advancement.

    Oliver, that does not surprise me in a child of Gerald’s.

    He leaned forward, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. Was he so bad?

    Oh, no, not really, or he wouldn’t have been if he’d had the right guidance. But you know your uncle Everett. Oliver nodded. Gerald was wild. It was not easy to control him. Of course Everett scolded him. Everett was always scolding him. I don’t know what I did wrong with that boy.

    Gerald?

    No, Everett. How Lionel and I ever managed to produce such a dry stick—but that’s neither here nor there. Gerald was a true Carrick, high-strung, hot-tempered and selfish—

    Am I a true Carrick, Grandmama? Oliver asked, smiling.

    —and the more Everett scolded the worse Gerald behaved.

    I’d heard there was a duel.

    Yes, over a woman. We kept it as quiet as we could, but of course some rumor leaked out. You may be sure that there are people who still remember it.

    Did Gerald kill his man?

    No, only winged him. He said the other man was such a poor shot that shooting him was no sport.

    You sound as if you were very fond of him, Grandmama.

    He was incorrigible! And, yes. She sighed. I loved him dearly. I’ve often wondered what became of him.

    Why did he leave?

    After the duel, Everett demanded that Gerald stay in Yorkshire and learn how to comport himself. Gerald didn’t take to that. Everett never did have any tact. There was a terrible row, and Gerald took the rings and went off to America. Your father was furious.

    I remember. I’m surprised Gerald didn’t sell the rings.

    Perhaps family meant more to him than he’d realized.

    Or perhaps he did sell them and that impostor downstairs bought them.

    She looks prosperous enough to buy such jewels, then?

    Well, no, he admitted. But, mind you, Grandmama, I believe this is all a hoax.

    It may very well be. Perhaps I should see her now.

    I think you should wash your face first, he said, reaching out to touch her nose, bedaubed with blue paint.

    Impertinent boy! Very well. I will change my clothes and receive the chit in state.

    A half-hour later the dowager sat in her drawing room, wearing a regal gown of purple satin, with a magnificent brocade turban atop her head. The chair she had chosen was not her favorite, being unpadded and uncomfortable, but it was massive, of dark carved oak, and strongly resembled a throne. In all, her appearance was nicely calculated to strike terror into an impostor’s heart. Between them, she and Oliver should be able to send the girl packing.

    Sabrina had nearly fallen asleep in the book-room, after reflecting on the irony of twice being in a room devoted to books, and being too tired to read. At Her Grace’s summons, she followed a disapproving Partridge up the stairs to the drawing room. It was an impressive room, twice as long as it was wide, decorated in the exotic chinoiserie style of half a century earlier. The wallpaper was hand-painted, the furniture was enameled and gilded, and the windows looking out upon the drive were hung with brocade. The room was dominated by a full-length portrait of a stern-faced man wearing wig and full Court dress, hanging over the mantel at the far end of the room. Underneath this daunting picture sat the dowager duchess, with my lord duke by her side. Sabrina, who had never before seen anything like this house, was properly awed. Something urged her to correct behavior, and she dropped a quick, inexpert curtsy.

    The Dowager looked startled. Didn’t know she could curtsy, either, Oliver whispered in her ear. Gwendolyn didn’t answer, but looked intently at the girl who hovered near the door, as if about to take flight.

    Come closer, girl, and let me see you, she barked out.

    Sabrina walked down the length of the room, acutely aware of their unfriendly gazes. This was not the sweet old lady she had envisioned, this tall, fierce woman who looked eminently capable of caring for herself without the help of a long-lost grandchild. Was nothing to be as she’d hoped?

    So, the dowager said, her voice milder. "You are Gerald Carrick’s child.

    Yes, my lady, Sabrina whispered, her eyes studying a pattern in the Turkey carpet.

    Got any brothers or sisters?

    No, my lady.

    Quite alone in the world, then. Convenient.

    Excuse me? Sabrina looked up, startled.

    That’s better, girl. Look at me when I’m talking to you. She studied Sabrina closely. You’re right, Oliver. She don’t look like a Carrick.

    I’m said to take after my mother.

    Oh? And who was your mother, pray tell?

    Annemarie Van Schuyler.

    Dutch? the dowager said in surprise, as Oliver had.

    No, Your Grace. Patroon, which is New York aristocracy.

    Don’t give yourself airs, girl. New York means less than nothing here.

    It means something to me! Sabrina’s eyes flashed. If I am such a burden to you advance me passage home—

    You’ll get nothing from us, Oliver snapped. I warned you of that.

    You’ll get it back, Sabrina snapped back. With interest, if you so desire, my lord!

    Children. The word was spoken quietly, but firmly, and they subsided. No need to be so hasty. Miss Carrick, I don’t believe I wish to send you back.

    Grandmama, are you mad? Oliver said. The more he saw of this girl, the more he thought they’d do better without her, no matter what it cost. Her savage American ways were certain to disgrace the family.

    Oliver, don’t question me. I know what I’m doing. She fastened her eyes on Sabrina again. Tell me about your father. I have not seen Gerald these past twenty years. What can you tell me of him?

    Sabrina’s eyes were downcast. Nothing good, my lady.

    Oh? And what do you consider bad, miss?

    Probably not the same things as you, my lady.

    Oliver, the girl is presuming to judge me. Go on. Tell me what you consider bad.

    Well—he liked to drink and to gamble, if he could get the money. I don’t know if he wenched or not. If he did he did it someplace else, else everyone would have known of it.

    And these were major sins?

    No, my lady. Sabrina’s mouth closed. She didn’t think the dowager would understand that to her Papa’s worst failing had been his long neglect of his daughter. Do you wish to know how he died?

    That bothers me, girl. I’m told he died six months ago. Why did you take so long to arrive here?

    "I didn’t know about the Carricks until after Papa died. That was when I found

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