Surrender to Sin (9 page)

“Yes, please,” she answered without interrupting her surveillance of Cato, but, as he began mixing the wine with water, she looked at him. “What are you doing? Is that
water
?”

“Of course it’s water,” said Mrs. Spurgeon severely. “A lady does not drink wine straight from the bottle, Miss Smith.”

“I must say, I’ve never been offered wine, then given pink water,” said Abigail.

“Then you are not a lady,” Mrs. Spurgeon explained solicitously.

Cary was embarrassed for Miss Smith; Mrs. Nashe concealed her smile behind a napkin.

“It seems to me,” said Abigail, “that our Portuguese friends have gone to a great deal of trouble to make the wine. I see no reason to spoil it with water.”

“Portuguese friends!” cried Mrs. Spurgeon, as though the two things were incompatible. “Do you have
Portuguese
friends, Miss Smith? I certainly don’t. All my friends are
English
.”

“Portugal was our ally in the war, Mrs. Spurgeon,” Abigail said angrily.

Mrs. Spurgeon remained indefatigably insular. “And I don’t know what your nasty foreign friends have to do with Mr. Wayborn’s lovely Madeira.”

“Madeira is a Portuguese wine,” Abigail coldly explained.

“Swine?” Cato echoed uncertainly.

“Mr. Wayborn, is this true?” cried Mrs. Spurgeon, aghast. “I couldn’t possibly drink a
foreign
wine, sir. I must have
English
wine—by my doctor’s order. Haven’t you got any claret, or a nice Beaujolais?”

“The only thing the English have ever managed to bottle is gin,” said Abigail, “and I hardly call
that
fit to drink.”

“Perfectly dreadful in tea,” Cary agreed easily, winking at Vera.

“But Portuguese wine,” said Mrs. Spurgeon, unhappily.

“I think it’s very patriotic of Mr. Wayborn to serve Madeira,” said Mrs. Nashe. “I, for one, will never drink French wine again.”

“French swine?” Cato inquired politely.

“Her husband was killed by the French at Ciudad Rodrigo,” Mrs. Spurgeon called down the length of the table. “It’s given her a loathing of all things
francaise
.”

“Good God,” said Cary, looking at Vera. “I was at Ciudad Rodrigo.”

Abigail sniffed. “
You
were at Ciudad Rodrigo? The
battle
?”

Cary frowned at her. “Indeed, Miss Smith. I saw it from the infantry. The ranks.”

Mrs. Spurgeon goggled at him. “The ranks? You mean, you were not an
officer
?”

“No, ma’am. My elder brother wouldn’t buy me my colors, but I wanted to do my part for England, so I left Oxford and enlisted in the ranks as Mr. John Smith.”

“Smith!” said Abigail.

He looked back at her. “Naturally, Smith. When I want a false name, I always go with Smith. I reach for it again and again. So you see, we really
are
cousins.”

“Some people
are
called Smith, you know,” said Abigail, her cheeks red.

“A great many, or so I understand,” he agreed. “That is chiefly what makes it such a useful
nom de guerre
. When one calls oneself Silas Tomkyn Comberbache, one finds oneself subjected to uncomfortable amounts of scrutiny.”

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Spurgeon murmured as the soup was withdrawn and the entree brought in. “I hope this is not mutton, Mr. Wayborn. I have a very small, sensitive stomach. It cannot digest mutton. If this be mutton, sir, I shall be quite ill. I shall vomit!”

“It’s veal, Mrs. Spurgeon,” Cary hastily assured her, “which, as I’m sure you must know, allows one to enjoy the taste and appearance of mutton, without risking the old indijaggers.”

He was, Abigail noted, an exceptionally charming liar.

“And what did you study at Oxford, sir?” Mrs. Nashe asked presently in her quiet voice.

Cary smiled at her. “Promise you won’t laugh? My brother thought I was suited for a career in the Church. He was mistaken, of course.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Spurgeon. “Where’s it written that a good-looking man can’t be a fine clergyman? I’d rather be damned by a man like you, Mr. Wayborn, than consecrated by that grinning disfigurement, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Spurgeon,” he replied. “But I could never bring myself to excommunicate a woman. It was one of the things that made me so unsuitable for the Church.”

Abigail snorted.

Cary turned to Mrs. Nashe. “What was your husband’s regiment? Perhaps I knew him.”

“He was with the cavalry, sir. Lieutenant Arthur Nashe.”

Cary frowned. “That’s odd. I don’t remember having cavalry at Ciudad Rodrigo.”

Mrs. Nashe hastily covered her eyes with her napkin. Her shoulders shook with grief.

“You were in the ranks, sir,” Abigail angrily pointed out. “You had no way of knowing what the cavalry were doing! I daresay Wellington made his plans without consulting you.”

Cary was dismayed, to say the least. “My dear Mrs. Nashe,” he said quietly, “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. Gobbets of candle wax fell onto the leg of “veal” as the chandelier tipped dangerously then righted itself beneath the bird. Angel barked, and Cato screamed back in undisciplined argument.

Mrs. Spurgeon added her piercing voice to the confusion of animal noises. “Mr. Wayborn!
What
is that uncivilized beast doing in here?”

Abigail heard Cary push back his chair. In the next moment, he was down on all fours, looking under the table at her. She looked back at him as defiantly as she could through the bottom of her glass as she finished the Madeira.

“More wine, cousin?”

“Mr. Wayborn, that wicked bird belongs in a cage!”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” he said, cursing under his breath as he bumped his head on the table. “Would you be so kind as to take the dog out? I’ll manage the bird. Or are you frightened of dogs as well?” As he spoke, he shoved the snarling corgi under the table.

“No, indeed,” said Abigail, scooping Angel up with real affection. “Best dog ever!”

Over their heads, they could hear Mrs. Spurgeon threatening to climb up on her chair to rescue her darling boy. Abigail crawled out from under the table while Cary emerged from the other side. Cato spied Abigail, but with Angel tucked under one arm, the tender morsel was unassailable. He shrieked in frustrated rage.