Surrender To Sin. Tamara Lejeune
“do forgive me if I’ve offended you in any way. I never meant—I must have been thinking of Badajoz.”
Mrs. Nashe turned her head to one side and sobbed outright. Cary grimaced as if in pain. As much as he disliked tears and hysterics, he felt guilty for having induced them with such a blunder. In his London days, he had charmed women with ease, but in rustic exile, his skills seemed to have rusted over. In the space of an afternoon, he had met two attractive females, driven one to scorn, and the other to tears.
Mrs. Nashe smiled at him through her tears, which somehow made it worse. “It’s just that I can’t bear talking about it, you see,” she bravely explained. “Dear Arthur! How he suffered!”
“One might think you were Portuguese, Vera,” Mrs. Spurgeon observed, “the way you carry on. Eat your veal. If he were here, your husband would not approve of these hysterics.”
“I beg you will excuse me, Mrs. Spurgeon,” gasped Vera, her face red.
Perhaps it was selfish of him, but, as the pretty widow fled the room, all Cary could think was that he would definitely not be welcome in her bed that night. If only things hadn’t gone so wrong with Miss Smith. She did look rather fetching in her white dress.
Perhaps he could get back into her good graces…?
“Well done, sir!” Abigail snapped, throwing down her napkin and running after Vera.
“Come and sit by me, Mr. Wayborn,” Mrs. Spurgeon cooed, her good ivory teeth glinting in the candlelight. “The fire’s so warm, I scarcely need my shawl,” she added, flinging off that article to expose the immense powdered shoulder of a sibyl. “So it’s to be piquet after dinner, instead of whist. Oh, well. I think you’ll find me a worthy opponent, if the stakes are high enough. What shall we play for, hmm?”
Cary stifled a groan. I’m cursed, he thought, as Mrs. Spurgeon heaved her bosom at him.
Abigail quietly knocked on Mrs. Nashe’s door. “I was wondering if you might like some tea, Vera,” she called. “You didn’t eat very much. Would you like a tray?”
Vera surprised her by opening the door. “I’m really quite all right,” she said, smiling bravely. “You mustn’t fuss over me, dear. I’m just being silly.”
“I don’t think you’re being silly,” Abigail said quietly.
“Of course I am. If Arthur were here, he’d say the same. Stiff upper lip. Life goes on.”
“It was unforgivably rude of Mr. Wayborn to say he didn’t remember there being cavalry at Ciudad Rodrigo! Of course there were cavalry. Our host is not a very nice person, I’m afraid. I’m heartily sorry I brought us all here.”
“You brought us here, Miss Smith?” Vera’s dark eyes widened in surprise.
“Yes,” Abigail said, wringing her hands guiltily. “It is all my doing, but, you see, when I met him in London, I thought he was…Well, I thought him quite perfect, actually.”
“But he isn’t?” Vera smiled gently. “Most men aren’t, you know.”
“He was so kind and helpful. I thought I’d met a Knight of the Round Table, right there in Piccadilly. But I was mistaken. He led me to believe he was married, when in fact, he isn’t.”
Vera blinked at her in confusion. “You mean he led you to believe he was not married when, in fact, he is. That is dreadful.”
“No, no,” said Abigail. “He’s not married at all, but he made me think he was.”
“Indefensible,” said Vera, hiding a smile.
“Indeed. If I’d known he was a bachelor, I should never have trusted him! I should never have come here. Forgive me, but I must warn you, Mrs. Nashe. He’s already tried kissing me, and you’re quite five times as pretty as I am. You mustn’t let him get you alone.”
Mrs. Nashe laughed softly. “He reminds me so much of Arthur. Sinfully handsome, but perhaps just a little…impulsive. I never loved him any less for that. Tell me, Miss Smith, do you think I might get away with hiding in my room the rest of the evening? I absolutely loathe playing cards with that old witch.”
“Leave it to me,” Abigail assured her. “Are you certain I can’t do anything for you?”
“Quite certain. But perhaps there is something I can do for you.” Vera looked rather pointedly at Abigail’s heavy walking shoes. “I’ve a pair of evening slippers I could lend you.”
Abigail laughed. “You’re very kind, but I seem to have forgotten to pack any stockings. All I have are my woollies. No, please!” she said, as Mrs. Nashe went to the trunk that sat open on the bureau in her room. “I’ll be able to buy stockings in the village tomorrow.”
Mrs. Nashe pressed the white silk stockings on her. “We’re bound to be snowed in, by the looks of it,” she said. “We can’t have you tramping through the house in those clunky boots like a bailiff! I wonder,” she said, as though experiencing a sudden thought. “We stopped at any number of inns today. Do you think someone could have gone through your belongings?”
“And taken my stockings?” Abigail laughed aloud. “Heavens, no. There’s a much simpler explanation. My nurse Paggles is quite absent-minded, I’m afraid. When I was packing, I caught her several times taking things out and putting them away. When she saw the trunks out at home, she got it in her head that we’d only just arrived, and I couldn’t convince her we were actually going away.” She glanced down at the stockings Mrs. Nashe had given her. “Just my sort, too. From Daughtry’s in Jermyn Street?”
“Where else?”
“You’re so kind. I’ll tell the others that you’re lying down with a sick headache and you’re not to be disturbed.”
“Good night, Miss Smith.”
Abigail ran upstairs to put the borrowed stockings away, then checked on Paggles in the next room, using the door in the hall, not the secret panel in the wardrobe; Paggles would likely die of fright if someone suddenly jumped out of her wardrobe. She found the old woman snoring contentedly in the four-poster bed, with Mr. Wayborn’s corgi nestled at her feet. She built up the fire, pulled the blankets up to Paggles’s chin, then went back down to the dining room.
Mrs. Spurgeon had moved as close as she could to Cary, who was seated at the head of the table, with Cato’s perch beside him. “Beaks and claws,” Cato greeted Abigail coyly.
“So you have come back, Miss Smith,” Mrs. Spurgeon observed without pleasure.
“Only because I’m hungry,” Abigail retorted, slipping into her seat.
“And thirsty, too, no doubt.” Disentangling Mrs. Spurgeon from his arm, Cary poured Madeira into a crystal goblet. “Take this to Miss Smith,” he told the servant.
As Abigail took her wine from the servant’s tray, Cato suddenly swooped from his perch and flew down the length of the table towards her. For a moment, Abigail could only stare in horror, then, hastily and ignominiously, she sought refuge under the table, overturning her chair in the process, and pouring half the Madeira down the front of her dress. The clatter of her falling chair was completely lost in the chaos that followed.
Where Angel had been hiding she had no idea; she had thought the corgi was upstairs in Paggles’s room. Evidently he had slipped out before she had closed the door, then followed her silently downstairs. He appeared now, as if from thin air, and it was the macaw’s turn to be terrified as, instead of finding his favorite victim at the end of the table, he suddenly encountered a dog that had no fear of him.
Cato had no words in his vocabulary to express his feelings on the occasion. He could only squawk, shriek, and scream as he narrowly escaped Angel’s jaws. Hastily he took flight, beating his wings in a disorderly retreat. As the corgi snarled at him, Cato crashed onto the massive iron chandelier hung above the table.