One Night To Be Sinful

by Samantha Garver

  "No worse than usual."

  In a way, Abigail was aware she and her friend had something in common. Remarkable things had occurred to them both on separate nights when the sky had gone gray with thunderclouds and the wind howled like a pack of wolves. On Bernice's blustery night, she had been attacked by two blackguards then rescued by the man who would love her for the rest of her life. On hers, the man she believed loved her had left Abby to die.

  She shook off the memory to ask the other woman, "Shall we go for a walk?"

  Bernice nodded, linking her arm through Abigail's as they moved from the room. "I should think I managed to acquire enough books to fill the new shelving arrangement you have planned." She held open the front door, squinting a bit in the sunlight that had broken through the clouds. "The book dealer gave me an excellent discount."

  "The one Rosabelle Desiree told us about?" As they began down the path from the door, Abigail found herself scanning the grounds for a familiar figure in a too-small coat. She squeezed her eyes shut when she realized what she was doing.

  "Yes," Bernice said. "I believe it was because of his ... relationship with Rose that he offered us such a deal."

  Abigail smiled, her lashes lifting. Since becoming friends with the well-known courtesan, they had come up with some very interesting terms in referring to the woman's line of work.

  "I heard you and Sebastian took your time in returning home from your trip." She turned her head in time to see Bernice's eyes gleam.

  "It was lovely countryside." The other woman's gaze lowered; then she peered at Abigail from beneath her lashes. "Or so it seemed from our window at the inn."

  Abby made out the strange sound through their shared laughter. It snapped through the air abruptly, like the crack of a whip. She gasped at the sudden pain against her right ear, lifting her fingertips to where her skin stung.

  "What was that?" Bernice was frowning.

  "I'm not certain. But I think I was just stung by a-" Abigail's words died in her throat as she looked at the hand she had placed against her ear and found it wet with blood.

  "My God, Abby," Bernice breathed, producing an embroidered handkerchief from her coat pocket. Remembered horror haunted her gaze as it met the other woman's. "That was a gunshot."

  "Terribly sorry!"

  Cold awareness flared to life inside Abigail as she let Bernice press the small square of cloth to her injured ear. Her gaze slowly moved to where she heard the sound of his voice. His damnably familiar voice.

  "Touchy trigger, you know." He stood so close to the invisible line that separated their properties that Abigail could see every line on the viscount's face and the less-than-apologetic gleam in his eyes.

  Lord Raleigh held his hunting rifle against his broad chest. It was Dobbs-a smirk curling his full lips-who held his gun with one hand at the trig ger and the barrel aimed toward the ground. Abigail was certain it was he who had fired the bullet that grazed her ear.

  "Abby." Bernice's voice came from far away, as did the dull pain in her ear. "Abby, who is that?"

  Abigail felt frozen in place, certain her heart had stopped. She did not blink, too scared she would release the tears that pressed against the backs of her eyes before the monsters waiting hungrily for her reaction. Had she moved just an inch to her right, had she not been happily watching her friend's blissful smile, the bullet would have torn through her cheek.

  "Abby?"

  "That"-her lips barely moved as she spoke-"is Lord Raleigh and his man."

  "I know the viscount." Bernice lifted a trembling hand to point, not at the men in the field but to the side of them. "I meant the other man."

  Though her head did not, Abigail's gaze shifted. He was moving away from the shadows of the stable, his even gait intent as he stepped through the opening in the horse pen and over her property line. His broad shoulders were hunched as if an invisible wind were beating at his back-or, perhaps, his insides-and his wide-brimmed hat cast his features into shadow.

  "Calvin?" Abigail whispered. Then, when she realized his intent, "Calvin!"

  Raleigh saw him first. Dobbs hadn't realized the other man approached until his gun was wrenched from his limp fingers. His expression was slow in displaying his surprise, but his pain was evident the moment Calvin slammed the butt of the rifle into his stomach.

  Abigail gasped, her lashes fluttering wildly as she tried to tell herself she wasn't really seeing this. She started across the lawn and toward the man who appeared to be eager to come to blows.

  "Now see here!" Lord Raleigh reached for Calvin's arm, but something in the other man's face stilled him.

  "He could have killed her."

  Calvin's voice, as Abby approached, made the hair stand up on her nape. It was dark and gravelly, filled with foreboding. His knuckles had gone white, his grip fierce over the gun he still held. His gaze moved slowly, near black in rage, between the viscount and the man who was doubled over.

  "Calvin." She was breathless.

  "It was an accident," Raleigh said to him. Something passed between the two men as their gazes clashed, something that terrified the woman who had stepped toward them. The viscount's eye broke away first as he did a slow survey of the man opposite him. "A gentleman of rank would understand that."

  "I understand what is going on, Raleigh," Calvin returned, totally unconcerned with the judgment that laced the other's words. "And I can assure you, it is not about to continue while I am here."

  "Calvin," Abigail hissed as her gaze darted between the viscount in his tailor-made suit and tilted hat to the other man in the coat too tight across the shoulders and a hat that appeared rather battered.

  "ANho do you think you are?" Raleigh said through his too-white teeth.

  "Not a hirable henchman." Calvin glared down at Dobbs and back. "Not a crooked magistrate you can put in your pocket. I take care of Lady Abigail."

  A whole new kind of anger burst to life inside Abby. Her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed as she focused on Calvin anew.

  "Come, Dobbs." Raleigh nudged his toady none too gently as he began to turn away. "The lack of culture this close to the edge of my property is tiresome.

  "You take your friend and you go, Raleigh-"

  "Calvin, stop this at once," Abigail ordered.

  "Don't either one of you come anywhere near the lady's home again. For the next man to threaten her, there will be hell to pay."

  "I said stop!" She couldn't be positive that it was her tone and not the fact the viscount had finally left that made Calvin turn in her direction.

  It was breathtaking, actually, how quickly his gaze could go from being pitch black with anger to brilliant blue with concern. It met her own gaze only briefly before turning to her injured ear. He lifted a hand. "You are hurt."

  Without compunction, Abigail slapped his hand away. "What do you think you are doing?"

  She saw the moment understanding hit Calvin, when he realized that she was infuriated with him. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he said very slowly, "What was I supposed to do? Let him go on with his scare tactics?"

  "You are to let me handle this, Calvin." Abigail shook her head. "This is my home, my affair. In fact, it is none of your concern at all." She sucked in a deep breath when he stepped closer.

  "Like hell it isn't."

  Her free hand clenching into a fist, the other tightening around her crutch, Abigail held her ground. "Who do you think you are, sir? Have you forgotten that you are under my employ?" She scowled up at the man twice her size and a full head taller than she.

  "They could have killed you, Abigail." Calvin stared at her as if she were insane.

  "I am beginning to think it is you who will get me killed. I was handling everything on my own. You cannot imagine how you may have made this worse for me. What happens when you are no longer here to fight my battles? Then what can I possibly do after you have enraged them so?"

  A small, alarmed sound escaped Abigail when Calvin's hand shot out fast as light
ning, closing around her upper arm like a vise and drawing her near. He lowered his head until their noses almost touched and their lips were a heartbeat apart.

  "I would not leave you to them," Calvin said. "I will be here to watch over you."

  Despite his intoxicating nearness-the clean scent of his soap and an altogether too disconcert ing smell that was pure maleness-his words cut through her like knives. She heard not his true intent but the weakness in herself his words implied. A moment before his lips touched hers, she said, "Not if I do not want you here."

  His fingers tightened around her arm almost to the point of hurting, then released her as if her skin were poison. Calvin's expression was unreadable, almost frightening Abigail. Then he turned away.

  Abby stared at his broad back, her heart pounding against her temples and her breathing unsteady, until he threw open the door to the house and dis appeared inside. She winced when it slammed closed after him.

  "So," Bernice, who had been standing at Abby's side for God knew how long, said with forced cheerfulness, "that was your new butler?"

  Chapter 14

  The worst part about admitting you were wrong, Abigail thought as she gazed silently at the closed door across from hers, was not doing it to yourself but to the one you had treated unfairly. Most especially when you were rather adamant in your selfassurance that it was you who were right. She sighed.

  Abigail wasn't certain but had a sneaking suspicion a full hour had passed as she stood staring at Calvin's bedchamber door. She was trying to gather her resolve, but her heart only continued to pound heavily in her chest and her leg was starting to hurt.

  She took a deep breath and lifted her closed hand to knock.

  "He isn't there, lass."

  Abigail released a startled gasp before turning to regard the woman who stood at the top of the stairs. She didn't try to pretend she didn't know what her cook was talking about. "Do you know where he is?"

  Mrs. Poole shook her head, opening her own chamber door. "Haven't seen him since breakfast. His lunch plate is still in the kitchen. Margot said she saw him walking away from the house. Said he looked a bit perturbed."

  Abigail winced. "Did she say if she saw he had all his belongings with him?"

  Mrs. Poole looked back over her shoulder, her eyes reflecting sympathy as they met Abby's and she shook her head.

  When the older woman had closed her door for her afternoon nap, Abigail did not move away from Calvin's bedchamber. Without qualm, without thinking about it so long she would lose her resolve, she reached for the doorknob. She made a valiant attempt at ignoring the rush of relief she felt when her gaze immediately fell across the opened valise in the middle of the floor. A small smile tickled the corner of her lips as she spotted a familiar coat thrown across one of the chairs. The expression in her gaze turned thoughtful as she let the door fall closed again.

  "Thank you, Timothy," she said an hour later. She rested a gloved palm on the other's shoulder as he carefully set her on her feet. Abigail gave him a brief pat on the back when she caught him nervously eyeing the pedestrians moving up and down the earthen road that bisected North Rutherford. "I'll be quick. I promise."

  Timothy nodded, not meeting her eye. He did not lean comfortably against the side of the carriage as Calvin had when he brought her to the village, but climbed back into the driver's perch. He kept his head down. Abigail glanced back over her shoulder before entering the dress shop and felt a pang of sympathy for Timothy. He clutched the reins to him as if waiting for her to come running back and ordering him to bolt.

  A bell not unlike the one above the door of the bookshop announced Abigail's arrival inside the boutique. The small building smelled of perfume and clean linens. It was crowded, but not untidy. There were tables of folded materials, various dressmaker's dummies all clad in gowns that varied in price from those the lower middle class could afford to those in loftier ranges. There were only two other women in the shop, both familiar to the newcomer.

  Marcella Rueben looked up from the length of silk she was scrutinizing, her ugly frown of concentration quickly disappearing in lieu of a pretty, artificial smile.

  "Hello, Lady Wolcott." Her jovial voice, as with everything else about the coldly attractive woman, was fake.

  Abigail offered the other only a brief nod, not even bothering to force a smile, before moving to the back of the shop. An ignorant observer might think her unpleasant and the wealthy merchant's daughter the opposite. Abigail didn't care. She was well aware of the sort of woman Marcella was; she smiled in your face and said nasty things behind your back. She had been one of the instigators in all the talk that had revolved for a short time around Sebastian Black, Bernice's husband. She had also, as Abigail heard it, made certain the entire village of North Rutherford knew when her engagement had ended because she was hideously disfigured.

  Abby made herself push away the memory as well as the remembered disgust as she came to a halt at the worktable where the proprietress of the dress shop sat. Her head was bowed over the neartranslucent bit of lace she was sewing, her brow furrowed in concentration. Without looking up from her work, she said, "Good afternoon, Lady Abby." Her tone indicated genuine welcome and warmth.

  "Moira." Abigail smiled. "How are you?"

  "Staying busy." Her dainty hands moved fluidly over her needle and string, even as she peered up from under her brows, making sure Marcella was out of earshot. She spoke softly, "I've been working on that pair of breeches you asked about. I think I should like to take a few more measurements, if you do not mind. Of"-she nodded downward"your right leg. I think the breeches should have more give there."

  "All right." Abigail nodded, noting the distinct difference in the ways Marcella and Moira had looked at her injured leg. The latter woman had been the first to make clothes for her after the accident; it had been her idea to lift the hem so that her skirts would not get caught in her brace. "By the bye, Moira, do you happen to have extra material of the heavy sort you showed me for my riding coat?"

  "Yes." The seamstress put down her needlework to offer Abigail her full attention. "I ordered several yards of the wool in black and brown, besides the blue I'm using for your coat. Did you decide you wanted another made?"

  "More or less." From the corner of her eye, Abigail saw a dummy clad in a rather beautiful nightrail. She spoke absently as she eyed the sim ple cut of the gown, the square neckline and gauzy folds of silk that draped from it. "The coat will not be for me, however."

  "Oh?"

  "It's for ... a friend." Abigail suddenly realized she never thought she would say that about a man who was not her brother since her accident.

  "A lady friend?"

  "No."

  "Oh." Moira's tone suddenly changed. She produced a writing tablet from under the various scraps of material on her table. "Do you have his measurements?"

  Abigail's brows snapped together as she turned back to face the woman. "Well"-she propped her crutch against her leg and held her hands apart"his shoulders are about this large. His arms from shoulder to wrist are as long as mine from shoulder to fingertips." She thought about it a moment, then said, "I believe he's about three times as big as I."

  Moira stared at her.

  Abigail blinked. "That doesn't help very much, does it?"

  The seamstress scribbled something on her tablet. "It is a gift, hm? I shall do my best, and if it isn't right, you send him here to have it fitted properly."

  "Thank you."

  "And when do you need it?"

  "I know it is a lot to ask but," Abigail tried, "this afternoon?"

  Moira's brows lifted, but a moment later she shrugged. "Give me two hours."

  Abigail smiled. The other woman was already moving toward her workroom when she called after her, "Moira?"

  "I'll have the nightgown ready also," she called back over her shoulder.

  Abigail turned to leave the shop, certain that Timothy would not mind the wait if he could go down to the bookshop
and sit with Emily, whom he had a small crush on. She caught sight of Marcella watching her from beneath her brows and had a feeling the woman had heard her less-than-adequate measurements for the gentleman's coat.

  "There is something peculiar," Bernice said by way of greeting, "about her relationship with that man.

  The two women standing on the other side of the opened door, soft golden light from the beeswax candles inside creating a warm glow behind them, did not appear taken aback with either Bernice's presence in London or her lack of greeting.

  "You think so too?" Harriet lifted a brow.

  "Come in, Bernice." Augusta moved out of the doorway.

  "Definitely." Bernice slipped out of her erminelined cloak, handing it over into Augusta's waiting hands. "I saw as much today, when I called on Abigail."

  "What happened?" Augusta's voice was muffled from the cloakroom.

  "That awful Lord Raleigh and his hired thug made an attempt at frightening Abby again."

  "Another message on her wall?" Harriet's stocking feet were silent on the wood floor as she led the way to the parlor. "Did Dobbs refer to her as a birch, perhaps?"

  "Message?" Bernice blinked. "No, they shot at her."

  "My God," Augusta gasped, pressing a hand to her throat. Her face appeared strange when it was lacking a smile. "Is Abby okay?"

  Bernice propped herself on a high-backed chair that was worn in spots. "A little scratch on her ear. They didn't mean to hit her, I think, just frighten." She waved her hand dismissively. "You know Abby. It takes more than thinly veiled threats from rotten excuses for human beings to get her riled."

  "Yes." Augusta's smile returned.

  "It was not the shooting, in truth, that interested me."

  Harriet peered at Augusta from the corner of her eye. "The woman is rescued from thieving villains, has a pistol pointed at her in the middle of a ball, marries an infamous earl, and thinks she's seen it all."

  Augusta chuckled from where she sat beside Harriet on the settee. "Go on, Bernice. What was it that interested you about the whole scene?"

  The other woman's eyes gleamed like the bronze of an ancient statue behind her spectacles. "At the time the viscount's accidental gunfire occurred, Abby's new butler arrived."