Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  “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?”

  “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.