Surrender to Sin (8 page)

“That wretched cur is not allowed upstairs, Polly,” Cary said severely. “He eats the plaster off the walls and hides marrow bones under all the pillows.”

“Yes, sir,” the girl said. “I’ve just come to build the fires, sir, and to tell you that the other carriage is stuck halfway up the drive in the snow. The lady says she can’t walk, sir. She wants to be carried up to the house in a chair. A
sedan
chair.”

Muttering under his breath, Cary left the room.

“I’m Polly, Miss,” said the servant, a sturdily built, blue-eyed lass with red cheeks. “I’ve brought you some hot water.” She set the steaming jug on the washstand and closed the doors of the empty wardrobe. “Whatever you do, Miss,” she said, giggling, “don’t let the master get you in the old press. He got me in there once and the next thing I knew, my skirts was over my head! Of course, he was only eleven at the time and hadn’t a clue what to do with me once he got me. I expect it’d be a different story now,” she added wistfully.

Abigail washed her face and hands, tuning out Polly’s chatter. She could not flatter herself into thinking Cary Wayborn had kissed her because of some powerful attraction; clearly, molesting young women was simply a matter of course with him. She wished she had never come here. Her hero, the gypsy prince who had rescued her in Piccadilly, was no hero at all.

Was there even a secret door, she wondered, leading through the wardrobe to the next room, or had that merely been a ploy to get her inside? When Polly was gone, she went into the wardrobe and felt along the back panel. When she pressed it at the top, it sprang back instantly.

With a sibilant hiss.

“This takes me back,” Mrs. Spurgeon screeched in Cary’s ear. “To be in the arms of a handsome young man again—at my age, too! On my wedding night, my dear husband carried me across the threshold. Of course, I was a mere slip of a girl then. I was light as a feather.”

“You’re still light as a feather, Mrs. Spurgeon,” Cary muttered, grunting from the exertion of carrying the stout lady through the portico into the house. He would much rather have been carrying Mrs. Nashe, who was a good three stone lighter and extremely attractive. He tried to set his burden on her feet just inside the door, but the woman clung to him, crying, “Oh! Don’t drop me, sir! I break like the finest porcelain when I’m dropped.”

As he struggled towards the fireplace, his knees buckling under the lady’s weight, he saw Miss Smith enter the room. She looked as though she’d been crying, and he felt a stab of guilt.

He’d behaved very badly. Abigail was the first likely female to come his way in months, and he had pounced on her like a cad. Living alone in the country had left him more desperate than he cared to admit. Indeed, his housekeeper would have been shocked to know the young master had eyed her broad rear end more than once. He was definitely not a monk by nature, and Miss Smith had some right to consider herself ill-used.

All the same, he told himself, it was only a kiss. There was no need for the girl to carry on as if he were the villain of a horrid mystery. It was not as though he had made any serious attempt on her virtue. Frankly, she was behaving like a ninny, and he had no patience for ninnies. He could only hope that Mrs. Nashe would prove more congenial.

“There you are, Miss Smith,” Mrs. Spurgeon boomed, catching sight of her ward. “Take my muff. It fell in the snow. It’s quite wet. Where’s Evans?”

“No, don’t!” cried Abigail, darting forward as Cary nearly dumped Mrs. Spurgeon in the chair still occupied by Paggles. He managed to shift to the other chair in time, but lost his balance and fell on top of Mrs. Spurgeon as she landed. His nose lodged briefly in her bosom, and he doubted he would ever get the smell of sweat and talcum out of his nostrils.

“Oh, this
does
remind me of my wedding night,” she giggled.

Cary removed her arms from his neck and leaped to his feet, bowling into Miss Smith, who was standing behind him. Fortunately, the footstool broke her fall.

“Pardon me,” he said, offering her his hand. She gave him a look of such intense dislike that he flushed, and, withdrawing his hand, he went to help Mrs. Nashe instead. The pretty widow was struggling to carry a very large birdcage nearly filled by a scarlet macaw.

“What a gorgeous bird,” he said lightly, looking at the woman, not the bird, as he relieved her of the cage. She looked up at him through her dark lashes, which he took for encouragement. “Is it a canary or a canard?” he asked.

Mrs. Nashe laughed softly. Cary was enchanted by the flirtatious sound.

“Go and find his perch, Evans,” Mrs. Spurgeon commanded, and a thin gray woman seemed to materialize at her bidding. Cato caught sight of the lady’s maid and shrieked in a fair imitation of his mistress’s voice, “Evans! Where’s my yellow wig?”

Cary and Mrs. Nashe smiled in shared amusement. The young widow had charming dimples, he noticed, and smooth skin.
She
was not adverse to a little flirtation at any rate.

Abigail was not distracted by the bird’s indiscretion. “You are not thinking of letting that
thing
out of its cage!” she cried, jumping up from the footstool.

Cato turned his icy blue gaze upon her. Shuddering, Abigail moved closer to Paggles.

“The cage is too small for him to live in,” Mrs. Spurgeon replied. “He’s not a lovebird, Miss Smith. He hates being in a cage, don’t you, Cato?”

“Lovebird!” cried Cato in a mocking screech that made Abigail’s flesh crawl.

“He’s quite a talker,” Cary said approvingly, noticing with some amusement that the closer he brought the birdcage, the farther away Miss Smith moved. “Friend of mine had a macaw for a while. But it never spoke a word of English—just screamed all day long.”

“Cato is a remarkably intelligent bird,” said Mrs. Spurgeon proudly. Abigail’s was the only voice of dissent, and Mrs. Spurgeon waved her off like a duchess swatting a fly. “Piffle! Cato did not attack you, Miss Smith. He was only being friendly. He’s perfectly tame.”

“He
bit
me on the ear,” Abigail reminded her.

“Mr. Wayborn, do look at Miss Smith’s ear and tell me do you see a mark.”

Abigail hastily covered both her ears. “Mrs. Spurgeon, I absolutely forbid you to let that bird out of its cage.”

In no time at all, Cato was in possession of his freedom and his tall perch. Angelically, he preened his red and blue feathers. Abigail rather huffily took Paggles out of the room, keeping a close eye on the bird as she backed out. Cary and Mrs. Nashe were so enjoying their silent courtship that only Mrs. Spurgeon seemed to notice Miss Smith’s departure.

“Silly girl,” she said, gazing complacently at her handsome young host, who hastily turned from the younger widow to the elder. “Why Mr. Leighton thought she would suit me I can’t think. I was quite relieved when she took herself off to the baggage coach. And that stupid old nurse of hers! I’ve had quite enough of Miss Smith. I’ve half a mind to send her packing.”

She smiled coquettishly at Cary, but the effect was spoiled entirely when Cato lifted his head and said, quite clearly, “Not my wooden teeth, you fool!”

Cary struggled to keep a straight face. “Here’s Mrs. Grimstock,” he said, relieved to see the housekeeper. “She’ll show you upstairs to your rooms.”

“Upstairs?” Mrs. Spurgeon pressed her hand to her breast as though he had suggested she take up residence in Cato’s cage. “I’m afraid my legs are far too weak to negotiate stairs, Mr. Wayborn. Unless of course, you would like to carry me up to bed every night,” she tittered.

“We do have a few rooms downstairs,” Cary said with what he hoped was unruffled calm. “My man’s moved most of my things to the gatehouse by now.”

“
Your
room, sir?” Mrs. Spurgeon sprang to her feet like a young gazelle. “Do let’s see how the man lives, Vera,” she cried, forgetting how weak her legs were. “There’s nothing I like better than poking about the chambers of a bachelor—one learns the most shocking secrets.”

“I assure you, I have no secrets, madam,” Cary said stiffly.

“Everyone has secrets, Mr. Wayborn,” said she, following him down the hall.

“Oh, yes, indeed!” she cried when she was standing in Cary’s room. “This looks to be a comfortable bed! It will do very nicely. What do you have there, sir?” she demanded, as Cary began removing a few things from his desk. “French letters?”

“English bills, mostly,” Cary replied, trying to preserve an air of politeness with this impossible woman. He was afraid her coarse, inquisitive comments were going to ruin his budding affair with the attractive nurse, but to his relief, Mrs. Nashe gave him a sympathetic smile. Evidently, it took more than French letters to shock her. But then, he remembered, Vera Nashe was a widow, not a silly virgin who would go into histrionics over a little kiss.

Mrs. Spurgeon went over the room thoroughly, looking into the privy closet and the dressing room with its copper tub. “Evans can sleep in here. I like to have her close by.”

“Poor Evans,” Cary murmured for Mrs. Nashe’s ears alone.

“Is there a room hereabouts for Vera?”

“Poor Vera,” Cary murmured, and Mrs. Nashe looked at him with dark glowing eyes, an unmistakably intimate invitation. He felt himself becoming quite excited at the thought of stealing into his own house later that night, creeping through the halls like a burglar, then slipping into bed with a willing woman. With any luck, Vera would be as randy as himself.

“I think I might have something suitable for Mrs. Nashe right down the hall,” he said pleasantly, offering Vera his arm, “if not closer at hand.”

Alas, Mrs. Spurgeon insisted on seeing the small guest room first. “It’s much bigger than your room in London, my dear,” she said, “but then, this is a gentleman’s country estate. Dower house, indeed! Mr. Leighton would not be so cruel as to put me in a vile little dower house.”

“I will leave you to settle in,” said Cary, bowing politely. “If you should need anything, you’ve only to ask. My servants, and, indeed, myself, are at your disposal.”

Mrs. Spurgeon held out her large hand. Her bejeweled rings did nothing to soften the masculine effect of hairy knuckles and thick, flat nails. Suppressing his revulsion, Cary kissed it.

Mrs. Spurgeon fluttered her eyes at him and showed him her good ivory dentures. “You
will
come and dine with us tonight, Mr. Wayborn, won’t you? I insist! I could not in good conscience send you away to the gatehouse without your supper, after all. If you’re afraid to be alone with me, sir, Vera will be there to act as chaperone.”

Tonight, he told himself, he would be in full possession of the ravishing Mrs. Nashe. Surely he could endure a few hours in Mrs. Spurgeon’s company, when such rewards were promised him afterwards? With a speaking glance to Vera, Cary accepted the invitation.

“And after dinner, whist, of course,” said Mrs. Spurgeon, “though it means Miss Smith will have to partner you, Vera. You might as well stay with us, Mr. Wayborn, until it’s our bedtime. No sense in your spending a lonely night at the gatehouse like a monk.”

“None indeed. You’re very kind. I confess I
have
been a monk all this long winter.”

“Tonight I insist you break your vows,” she cried. “But not yet. Run along now, there’s a good boy. Unless, of course, you want to help me change into my evening clothes!”

As Cary went out, he spied Miss Smith carrying a heavy tray upstairs. She exasperated him; as Mrs. Spurgeon’s paid companion, she had no business performing the tasks of a menial. “One of the servants will do that for you,” he called up to her.

Abigail looked down at him scornfully. “I’m bringing a little soup to my old nurse. I can manage very well, thank you, Mr. Wayborn,” she said, continuing on upstairs.

Cary flushed; her last remark seemed to rebuke him for not helping her himself. He was heartily glad she had not responded to his kisses, the priggish little miss. If she had, it would have made things quite awkward between himself and the fascinating Mrs. Nashe.

Almost more irritated with Miss Smith than he was pleased with Mrs. Nashe, he walked down the snowy drive to the gatehouse. A primitive place, it boasted a single room with a ladder leading up to a small loft with a sagging iron bed. The gardener evidently had been using the place as a depository for broken pots and other doubtful rubbish. The fireplace smoked so badly that his tea tasted of soot. There was no convenience, only an earthenware chamberpot, which he sincerely hoped was not cracked like the old brown teapot.

Dressing for dinner was a challenge. The only looking glass in the place was so badly in need of re-silvering that he was compelled to set his dressing case on the mantel and use the tiny mirror set inside the lid to tie his neck cloth.

When he returned for his supper at the appointed time, he found Mrs. Spurgeon awaiting him arrayed in a splendid scarlet gown that ill-advisedly left one brawny shoulder bare. In a shocking upset, her yellow wig had been replaced by a green and gold head-wrap adorned with peacock feathers. Mrs. Nashe was with her, quietly reading. Cary was charmed by Vera’s more discreet appearance; she had changed into a simple lowcut gown. It was black, but draped with a sheer silvery muslin that softened the effect of mourning, and her twist of dark hair was held in place with a silver filigree ornament. Her skin looked very white, and would look even whiter when pressed against his own naked flesh.

Miss Smith was not present, but Mrs. Spurgeon, after complimenting her host effusively on his formal evening attire, suggested they go in to dine without her. She took Cary’s arm possessively, and Vera followed with Cato, who was soon set up on his perch in the dining room.

When Abigail finally arrived, twenty minutes late, the others were halfway through their soup. Getting Paggles settled in the room next to hers had taken longer than Abigail had expected, and several items that she remembered packing seemed to be missing from her baggage, including all of her silk stockings. She’d been forced to wear heavy woollens under her dinner dress, and stout walking shoes instead of her pretty satin slippers. They made an embarrassing noise on the wooden floor.

She edged into the small dining room cautiously, keeping her eyes fixed on Cato, who was acrobatically hanging upside down from his perch. She was so concerned with the macaw’s movements that she scarcely noticed Cary rising from the table to mark her entrance. She had changed into a white dress, and hung a gold locket on a black velvet ribbon around her neck. In the candlelight her curly hair looked a deep golden-orange color and her freckles could hardly be seen. She had done her best, he supposed, but her appearance gave him no cause for regret.

As Abigail slipped into her seat, Cato slowly righted himself on his mahogany perch, looking at the newcomer first with one eye and then the other. He squawked, apparently outraged, as she drew her napkin into her lap. Cary watched, amused, as Miss Smith silently debated whether or not it was worth risking Cato’s displeasure to pick up her spoon.

“Your soup is cold, Miss Smith,” Mrs. Spurgeon informed her. “We waited for you half an hour, but you really can’t expect us to eat cold soup for your sake.”

“The turban, you fool!” Cato shrieked at her.

“Take the soup back to Cook; have it warmed,” Cary murmured to the nearest servant.

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Spurgeon. “It’s quite her own fault for being late. Quite your own fault for being late,” she loudly repeated for Abigail’s benefit.

“I don’t care for any soup, thank you.”

Cato heard Abigail’s voice and called out to her sweetly, “Beaks and claws!”

Cary had remained standing. “Would you like a glass of Madeira, Miss Smith?”