Surrender to Sin (11 page)

As he waited for the young woman, he became aware of a flurry of activity going on elsewhere in the house. At first the sounds were faint; he heard feet moving back and forth on the floor above him, going up and down various staircases. Voices mumbled behind this door and that. Finally, the hall door opened and Miss Smith came in wringing her hands. She had taken off her cloak. Her green plaid dress clashed resoundingly with her butterscotch hair, and her boots made a lot of noise. Angel ran to greet her.

Cary was struck again by his own physical reaction to her. She was not at all his usual sort of girl, and yet the attraction was inescapable. Not even her ugly dress could put him off. She glanced at him, looked away, and paced up the room, turning indecisively.

“May I be of some assistance to you, Cousin?” he inquired pleasantly.

Miss Smith looked at him. Clearly, she would have preferred eating a dog’s dinner to speaking to him. “Mr. Wayborn, sir,” she began haltingly, then halted altogether.

“I am listening, Miss Smith.” He smiled at her encouragingly.

She stumbled on. “I think we must—Do you suppose you could—?”

“Find it in my heart to forgive you? Well, perhaps, but where’s my incentive?”

Abigail was in too much distress to be baited. “Sir! I can’t find Paggles anywhere,” she said. “Would you be good enough to instigate a search of the house and grounds?”

“You would like me to instigate a search for Paggles?” he said slowly.

“Yes. Sir, I beg of you—”

“Certainly,” he replied, getting to his feet. “You had only to beg. It would be helpful, however, if you could tell me what a paggle is. And how many have you let loose in my house?”

Her face whitened. “Miss Paggles is my old nurse,” she said coldly.

“Just the one, then. And you have misplaced her? Pretty careless of you.”

He had misjudged the extent of her anxiety. “I have not misplaced her,” she shouted at him. “She was still abed when I went out. Now she’s nowhere to be found. None of the servants have seen her. If she has gone out, she hasn’t got her coat, nor her shoes. I wish you would take this seriously, Mr. Wayborn. She could be hurt, and it’s cold out.”

“Yes, all right. Steady on, Smith. Take me to her room.”

“She’s not
in
her room!” cried Abigail, maddened by his insouciant attitude. “I’ve searched the upstairs thoroughly. If she were in her room,
I
should not be
here
.”

“It seems reasonable to begin our search where the missing party was last seen,” he gently explained. “She can’t have gone far, and—forgive me—I think I know my own house better than you do. Take me to her room,” he repeated firmly, and this time Abigail meekly obeyed.

Paggles’s room was the mirror image of Abigail’s room next door, down to the red and white bed hangings and the Tudor roses on the ceiling. “Ah-ha!” Cary cried, as soon as Abigail had opened the door.

“What?” cried Abigail, her heart in her throat.

“Nothing. I do find it interesting, however, that you put your nurse in the room next to yours. Most people put their servants in the attics with the spiders. Do try to stay calm, Cousin. We’ve never lost a Paggles at Tanglewood Manor, and we never will.”

“Do you think she went through the wardrobe into my room?” Abigail inquired anxiously as he opened the big clothes press.

“Too full of clothes. A weasel couldn’t get through. Besides, if
I
can’t get it open—”

“But it’s really quite easy, if you touch it just so,” said Abigail, demonstrating how easily the back panel that separated Paggles’s clothes from her own could be made to disappear.

The sibilant hiss set Cary’s teeth on edge. Muttering under his breath, he went to the casement window. “Was this window open or closed?”

“Closed.” Abigail rushed to the window, pressing her forehead against the thick, leaded panes in an effort to see below. “Do you think she might have fallen out?”

“Not if it was closed. She could hardly fall out, then close the window behind her.”

“The wind might have blown it shut after,” Abigail said defensively.

“You’re right,” he said, opening the casement and looking down into the walled garden. The black stalks of the rosebushes were sheathed in ice, the fountain was frozen, and a gardener’s boy was shoveling snow from the path. “No sign of a broken nurse.”

Abigail leaned out of the window next to him. “Have you seen my nurse?” she called to the boy. “Older woman, white-haired, dressed in a nightgown?” The reply was negative.

“You know,” said Cary, closing the window, “she might have just slipped out the back door for a bit of a walk. How can you be sure she had neither coat nor shoes?”

“Because I hadn’t put them on her yet,” Abigail replied. “She was still in bed when I went out. She always waits for me.”

He hid a smile. “And do you always dress your old nurse?”

“She can no longer do it herself,” Abigail explained. “She’s rather special to me, you see. She was the only servant to come away with my mother from Westlands when she married my father. She’s been with me my whole life.”

He suddenly snapped his fingers. “I know just where she’s gone.”

“Where? Tell me, please.”

He caught her by the hand. “Where do old nurses go, after all?” he said, leading her down the hall to a door. “To the nursery, of course. Just as I thought,” he said, opening the door. The light was very dim, but Abigail could make out a set of narrow stairs clearly intended for use by the servants. “Footprints in the dust. You’re quite right, Cousin; she hasn’t got her shoes.”

Impatiently, Abigail pushed past him, running upstairs. The door to the nursery stood half-open. She went in, calling for her nurse. Carousel horses had been painted on the planked floor, but the light coming through the huge, cheerful windows had long since faded their bright colors. In a square of warm light, Paggles was seated in a rocking chair cradling a china-faced doll in her arms. Overwhelmed with relief, Abigail choked back a sob.

Paggles’s smile, though almost toothless, was lovely with contentment. “Good morning, Miss Abby. And Dickie-bird!” she added brightly as Cary came up behind Abigail. “How good of you to visit your old nursey. Such a good boy.”

“Dickie-bird?” Cary murmured in Abigail’s ear. “Cousin, I must protest.”

“She thinks you’re Lord Wayborn,” Abigail explained. “He’s called Richard, you know.”

“Evidently not. Evidently, he’s called Dickie-bird.” Cary strode forward, all charm, and took the old woman’s hands in his. “Dearest, loveliest Paggles. How good it is to see you again. Why don’t we take you back to your room now? Miss Smith, will you help me?”

“Who is Smith?” cried Paggles, horribly confused. “I keep hearing that name. Don’t let Smith take me to the poorhouse! Mayn’t I stay here with you, Dickie-bird?”

Cary looked at Abigail, puzzled.

“No one is sending you to the Poor House, darling,” cried Abigail, kneeling at the old woman’s feet. She felt horribly guilty; she had never expected that her assumption of a false name might frighten Paggles out of her wits. She turned to Cary. “Mrs. Spurgeon mentioned sending a servant to the—the
P.H.
, sir, and now she can’t get it out of her head.”

Paggles looked at her, her pale eyes clouded by confusion. “My lady?”

“My lady?” Cary murmured.

“She sometimes confuses me with my mother,” Abigail explained quickly, before turning to the old woman. “It’s Miss Abby, dear. And Dickie-bird is here, too. Don’t you want to go back to your room now? It’s nice and warm there.”

Paggles shook her head rapidly. “I must stay here in the nursery. Smith cannot get me here, not if Dickie-bird won’t let him,” she muttered, rocking back and forth. “Where is Smith now? Gone, I hope! Oh, I’m frightened, Miss Abby.”

Abigail covered her face with her hands.

“Don’t distress yourself, Miss Sm…Abby,” said Cary. “She’s perfectly welcome to stay in the nursery.” He found the bell-rope and gave it a firm tug. To Paggles he said quite forcefully, “No one is taking you to the poorhouse, Nurse Paggles. Dickie-bird won’t let them. You’re quite safe here. I shall have a fire lit, and your clothes brought to you. And, what’s more, you shall have a lovely breakfast on a tray.”

“With marmalade?” Paggles’s voice quivered with pleasure.

“With marmalade,” he promised.

“Such a good boy,” said Paggles. “I knew you would not send me to the poorhouse.” She squeezed Abigail’s hand. “Go out and play now, Annie-Fanny. It will be teatime before you know it.”

“Carpe diem,” Cary agreed, pulling Abigail to her feet. “As a matter of fact, Annie-Fanny and I were just about to go skating.”

“Ice skating!” cried Paggles in delight. “Do you remember, Miss Abby, when the Tsar of Russia came to London, and there was ice skating in the Park? And we rode down the slide in a toboggan. It was after the bad man was sent to Elba, but before he came back again.”

“Yes, of course, darling,” Abigail murmured, “but I would not dream of leaving you now. I never liked skating anyway. I’d much rather stay with you.”

“You’re not proposing to stay shut up in the nursery all day?” Cary objected.

“No, my lady, you mustn’t!” cried Paggles. “Go out and enjoy yourself. Mustn’t fuss over silly old Paggles. I’m quite happy where I am. Make her go with you, Dickie-bird, and I shall knit you a muffler, there’s a good boy.”

A breathless Polly came into the room at that moment. Cary’s instructions to her were so thorough that Abigail could think of nothing to add. In short order, Paggles had all of her things around her, and Cary withdrew while Abigail got her dressed. When Polly had brought up Paggles’s breakfast, Abigail quietly went down the stairs to find Cary.

“Your marmalade is quince preserve,” she told him, “but I daresay, she won’t notice. You’ve made her very happy, sir. I’m truly grateful. She’s a dear old thing, but she does get fuddled at times.”

“I really hadn’t noticed. I can answer to Dickie-bird, if you can answer to Annie-Fanny.”

She couldn’t help laughing. “My mother was Lady Anne Frances.”

“What a pity you were not named for her. Then you would be Annie-Fanny too.”

“I was named after Paggles, actually.”

“I see,” he said gravely. “Then you actually are called Paggles.”

“No,
she
is called Abigail,” the young lady clarified. “But when he was a boy, Dickie-bird couldn’t say Abigail. It sort of came out as Paggles, and got stuck that way.”

He looked at her with a critical eye. “Young Paggles, in fact.”

“Abigail—such an old-fashioned name,” she said, blushing. “My father calls me Abby.”

“Your father. Mr. John Smith, I presume?”

Abigail sighed. “His Christian name is William, sir.”

“You ought to have called yourself Williams, then,” he said sternly. “Too late now, of course, but may I suggest we drop the Smith, at least in Miss Paggles’s presence? She seems to have a morbid fear of all things Smith. Can’t say I blame her. Nasty things, Smiths.”

“Yes, sir,” Abigail said meekly. “Thank you, sir.”

He smiled faintly. “Well, young Paggles, if you hurry, I think we can still get out of the house before Mrs. Spurgeon is fully assembled. I’ll give you breakfast at the Tudor Rose. Skating,” he said in reply to her bewildered expression. “You. Me. Ice. Yes?”

“I don’t skate,” said Abigail firmly. “Sir, I never said I’d go skating with you.”

“No,” he agreed. “But neither did I go in your room and steal your shoes. Mrs. Nashe confessed to the fell deed not twenty minutes ago—at least, I hope it was not twenty minutes ago. It was she who whistled at me; she who threw your shoes out the window.”

Abigail frowned at him. “Why would Vera do such a thing?”

“She wants you to go skating with me. So does Paggles. It’s a conspiracy, in fact.”

Abigail stood up straight. “Sir, as much as I appreciate your helping me find Paggles, I’m afraid that your idea of what constitutes an enjoyable activity may differ too sharply from mine to bring enjoyment to either of us.”

“Good Lord,” he said. “I didn’t realize people actually talked like that. Don’t worry, Cousin Abigail. I promise I won’t kiss you again. You have my word as a gentleman. Though I should like to point out that when I kissed you, you seemed to like it.”

“What?” she cried, exasperated. “I thought you were a bat.”

He glared at her fiercely. “You little beast! You did
not
think I was a bat.”

“I certainly did! Don’t you remember? I jumped out of the wardrobe—”

“Not that,” he said impatiently. “Less said about
that
the better. I mean, this morning, outside. When I met you by the bridge,” he pressed as she looked at him blankly.

“So you
did
kiss me!” she exclaimed angrily. “I thought so!”

Cary’s eyebrows shot up. “You
thought
so? What the devil do you mean?” he demanded. “Was there any doubt?”

“Well—”

She scarcely got the word out. He swung her around, pushed her against the wall, and drove his mouth hard against hers. Abigail froze in shock as she felt the point of his tongue urging its way between her lips. Unthinkingly, she let him in. He kissed her expertly. Unfortunately, she was so worried that she might disgrace herself by falling at his feet in a dead faint that she could scarcely enjoy herself. He left her mouth briefly and kissed her neck, his hands skimming boldly down to her waist. As she tried to speak, he claimed her mouth again. It was just as well; she had no idea what she would have said.

Cary stopped kissing her eventually, but only when they heard Polly on the stairs.

“What do you think of that?” he asked breathlessly, holding her steady.

Abigail was equally breathless. And trembling. And confused. But at least the feeling of desperate panic was subsiding, and she now had a very clear notion of the sort of man she ought to marry. A calm, plain, respectful fellow who never, ever pounced on her or threatened her peace of mind. A good-looking passionate man put far too much stress on the heart.