She strode off again, leaving him no time to respond.
'Abigail...! Miss Summers...' Raven hurried after her, for once in his life completely at a loss for words.
It had never occurred to him that Abigail might be capable of displaying such anger. Or that she might ever be angry with him. He'd only made a simple statement of fact.
Her blazing green eyes rocketed every coherent thought out of his head. He'd heard her passionate nature translated into her music—but now he was experiencing its strength at first hand. He wanted to seize her and kiss her. He wanted to shout back that she had no business to abuse him. He didn't permit anyone to call him stupid.
'I beg your pardon,' said Abigail, looking straight ahead, but slowing to a more reasonable pace. 'I should not have insulted you. But you should not have said such a ridiculous thing.'
'I don't consider it ridiculous,' Gifford said tautly. 'I'm scarred across half my face. I have only one eye. Do you have any idea how hard it is to judge distances when you have only one eye? How often I miss my stroke?'
'Now you are confusing the practical consequences of your injury with other people's reactions to it,' Abigail said. 'Because you are frustrated by the limitations it imposes on you, doesn't mean the rest of us share your bitter feelings towards it.'
'I am not bitter!' Gifford's voice rose with rage and indignation. 'I was lucky to survive.'
Abigail stopped and turned to face him. 'You said a woman would have to be brave to dance with you. Those are not the words of a man who is at ease with his appearance.'
'It's not my lack of ease I was worried about.' Gifford suddenly realised their heated conversation was attracting the attention of other people taking a quiet promenade in the warmth of the early evening. He forced himself to lower his voice. 'It was the shock of
other people suddenly confronted by it I was considering,' he said in a fierce undertone. 'What is acceptable on a man-of-war is not necessarily equally acceptable in a lady's drawing room.'
'If a lady should turn you out of her drawing room for having been injured in the fight to preserve her drawing room, then she doesn't deserve to have a drawing room!' Abigail said categorically.
'So my scar does not disturb you?' said Gifford.
Abigail pressed her lips together and didn't deign to reply.
Gifford suddenly remembered the night of Miss Wyndham's death, when he had raced to Abigail's rescue without even considering whether he was wearing his eye-patch. Abigail had been confronted by him at his most gruesome, and she hadn't flinched at all. Of course, she'd already been in shock, but she might still have shown a little discomfort if she'd been prone to do so.
The lady's maid and the cook had been shocked by Miss Wyndham's death, but they'd also been upset by his scar. He'd seen how both women had first stared at it in horrified fascination and then carefully averted their gaze from his empty eye socket. He'd noticed a similar dreadful fascination with his eye-patch in at least one of the gossiping women Abigail had introduced him to in the Pump Room. He'd been indifferent to whether he shocked the gossiping women—he was even capable of playing up to their expectations of his piratical nature. But he wasn't indifferent to Abigail's opinion of him.
'I am not bitter,' he said. 'It was the fortune of war.'
'V-very philosophical.'
She was still angry with him. Gifford discovered he very much wanted Abigail to stop being angry with him. Unfortunately he had absolutely no experience in coaxing the people around him into a better mood. A captain who tried to placate his men was a captain heading for disaster, in Gifford's opinion. He'd never courted popularity. Consistency and equal treatment for everyone was a far better recipe for success.
'Perhaps we should turn around,' he said. 'We've walked quite a distance.'
'As you wish.' Abigail smartly about-faced and began to head back the way they'd come.
'You must be aware that not everyone has your indifference to...physical irregularities,' said Gifford carefully.
Abigail sighed, and fished in her reticule. She extricated her fan.
'I know,' she admitted. 'It is so very hot, even this late in the day,' she complained, fanning herself briskly.
Gifford wasn't surprised she was overheated. The weather was unpleasantly humid and, even to his inexperienced eye, Abigail's gown seemed too heavy for the season.
'Perhaps there might be a cooler dress amongst those Miss Wyndham has left you,' he suggested.
Abigail shot him an unreadable look and he wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. It seemed a perfectly sensible comment to him.
'She might have had a black parasol,' he added, remembering what Abigail had said about the unsuit-
ability of her pink one. 'Did she leave you any parasols?'
Abigail started to laugh.
'What is it?' Gifford was first surprised and then bewildered by Abigail's inexplicable merriment.
She hid her face behind her fan and simply laughed.
'I don't see what's so amusing,' Gifford said stiffly. 'What is so funny? It was a very practical question.'
'I'm sorry.' Abigail retrieved her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Then she fanned her hot pink cheeks. Gifford wished he could tear off her hideous black bonnet. She couldn't be comfortable in it. But no doubt he would shock everyone if he did that—Abigail included. He liked the way her eyes sparkled with warmth. He smiled himself in response to her vitality.
'I was just thinking about...about...the kindness all you gentlemen have shown me,' Abigail said unsteadily.
'You find kindness a cause for laughter?' Gifford couldn't understand it. How could she find kindness a source of humour when she'd been so cross with him for disparaging his own appearance—something he had every right to do, now he came to think of it. It was his face.
'No, no. I didn't mean that. It's just that you are all so...so practical and logical about what I need to do to have a London Season,' Abigail explained. 'I can't say exactly why it's funny. But only imagine if I came on board your ship, and started ordering you to iuff your helm' or something similar. All the words might be correct, but what I said and the context I said them in might provoke you to laughter.'
'Our ideas seem naive to you?' said Raven. He remembered the world described in the novel he'd read and thought perhaps she was right. The subtle gradations of gossip, intrigue and insult had appalled him.
He'd always taken care to avoid the machinations of the Marriage Mart. He knew, without conceit, that he was one of the glittering prizes ambitious mothers tried to snare for their daughters. He also knew that his scar had not made any appreciable difference in his desirability to those mamas. It was his family's wealth which attracted their attention—not his personal attributes.
But his position and prolonged absences had rendered him relatively immune to all the manoeuvring. He ignored everyone but the few people he genuinely respected and whose company he enjoyed. He wanted Abigail to go to London for selfish reasons. He wanted to spend more time with her, but he wasn't ready to take the irretrievable step of committing himself to her.
It was only when he tried to imagine the situation from Abigail's point of view that he realised her position would be very different. She would be obliged to pander to the prejudices of fashionable society. She would have to take care not to offend anyone, nor to do anything which would draw criticism upon herself—and she would be in direct competition with all those other hopeful debutantes. Kittenish young females with the well-developed claws of fully grown cats. Gifford shuddered. He'd rather be thrown into a pool of sharks than expose himself to such hazards.
'Perhaps you would prefer not to be exposed to the hurly-burly of the Season,' he suggested tentatively.
Abigail stared at him. T'm twenty-seven, not eighty-seven,' she replied. 'I think I can withstand a certain amount of hurly-burly.'
'You've probably had more practice dealing with pinch-faced matrons,' said Gifford, thinking of the trio of harridans wh
o'd interrogated him in the Pump Room.
'If you have such a jaundiced opinion of the Season, why stay in London at all?' Abigail enquired.
'I haven't decided if I'm staying or not yet,' said Gifford unwarily.
'Oh.' Abigail fanned herself industriously and took care not to meet his eye.
Gifford cursed his hasty tongue. His successful career was based on his ability to keep a cool head. He'd made a point of never revealing any more than was absolutely necessary of his intentions to either friend or foe. Unfortunately his discretion deserted him around Abigail. Would she realise he only meant to go to London if she did?
'Have you decided?' he asked.
Abigail lifted her gaze to his face, then quickly looked away. 'I will need to find employment until then,' she said. 'I cannot impose upon Mrs Chesney.'
Gifford bit back his instinctive offer to help. Abigail's unselfconscious revelation of her three-hundred-pound inheritance had emphasised both the differences and the similarities between them. Admiral Pullen had told him that Abigail's father had been a baronet. Gifford hadn't bothered to look up the title, but it was entirely possible that Abigail's pedigree was more impressive than his. Gifford owed his own con-
sequence to his family's wealth and extensive property, not to the relatively recently acquired baronetcy.
He frowned. He wouldn't say anything to Abigail yet—but he would consider the matter. Possibly discuss it with Malcolm. There must be something they could think of for Abigail to do for which they could pay her a reasonable wage. And without her feeling as if she was the object of their charity.
'Then you will go to London?' he said, suddenly realising her reply had sounded like a tacit agreement.
'I think I may,' she said cautiously. And smiled at him.
Chapter Six
Abigail took one last tour around the house which had been her home for the past five years. Bessie, Mrs Thorpe and Joshua had all left for Oxfordshire. The pianoforte had already been moved to Mrs Chesney's.
Mrs Chesney occupied the ground floor rooms in her house. She had given over her sitting room for Abigail's use. The room was somewhat cramped with a narrow bed and the pianoforte squashed in together with the existing furniture, but Abigail was grateful she had a place to sleep.
She paused in what had been Miss Wyndham's drawing room. Apart from the absence of the pianoforte it looked unchanged—yet also subtly different. It was tidier than Abigail had ever seen it. The small personal belongings which gave a house a sense of homeliness were missing. Abigail swallowed back tears. She had been quite contented with her previous life. Miss Wyndham had been kind to her, and to a large extent her duties had comprised of doing things which gave her pleasure.
Abigail loved her music, and often Miss Wyndham had encouraged her to play for hours. When she wasn't
playing for Miss Wyndham she'd read to her, or painted pictures for the old lady to admire—and criticise where necessary. Miss Wyndham had been a well-informed critic. Abigail's most onerous duty had been to manage the household accounts. She'd rarely been called upon to perform intimate chores for her employer, because Bessie had been responsible for Miss Wyndham's personal care.
Abigail had never questioned what was expected of her, Miss Wyndham was the only employer she'd ever known. And though Abigail had been reasonably content, she had also often been lonely, and even frustrated by the limitations of her life. Sometimes it had been hard to fully appreciate her good fortune. But now she realised she was unlikely to find another such indulgent employer. Miss Wyndham had spoiled her.
But the future was not necessarily gloomy. Her pulse quickened as she contemplated the various possibilities. It might even be quite...interesting.
Abigail took one last look around the drawing room, then closed the door on it forever. She ran lightly downstairs. There was no real reason for her to check the dining room again, they'd never used it. But she saw that the door was open, and went towards it.
Charles Johnson stepped out.
Abigail's heart thudded up into her throat.
In one horrified instant she noticed the ugly bruise discolouring his jaw. The vicious glint in his eyes. His unkempt appearance.
Charles still wore the customary attire of a dandy— but his chin was darkened with stubble. His neckcloth
was askew, and the sour smell of stale wine clung to him.
He scowled at her, his lips curling back from his teeth with hatred. The disgusting image of a gutter rat dressed as a gentleman flashed into her mind.
For a few seconds she was paralysed with disbelief. Then she dived towards the front door.
He seized her from behind. His arms locked around her, clamping her elbows to her sides in a suffocating hold. Hot, sour breath dampened her cheek. He panted against her ear and she cringed away from the revolting intimacy, trying to kick backwards.
Charles cursed obscenely and tightened his painful grip upon her.
'If you don't stop fighting, I'll give you to Sampson,' he hissed viciously.
Abigail lifted her head and found herself staring at a thickset man with lank, straw-coloured hair. She'd never seen him before, but he grinned at her. She saw he would be happy to hurt her.
She went still. Cold with terror.
Charles released her but she didn't move. Sampson was less than a foot away from her.
'Come into the dining room, Abigail?' Charles invited her. His voice dripped with vile unction.
He stepped back and threw her a mocking bow.
She glanced at Sampson. He stood between her and the front door. She was trapped.
She walked into the dining room and briefly debated whether it was better to put the width of the table between herself and her tormenters—or whether she should stay close to the door.
She moved to the end of the room, but she didn't seek refuge behind the long table.
She watched Charles and Sampson. Her heart raced. She felt sick. She was aware only of the two men and every obstacle blocking her route to the door.
Charles laughed at her.
'Abigail at bay!' he sneered. 'All your airs and graces won't save you now, bitch! You turned the old harpy against me. You.r
Abigail stared at him. The civilised veneer Charles had always presented to his aunt had been scoured away. Fear suffocated her. Threatened to devour her.
'No smug set-downs?' Charles mocked her. 'No slippery, disdainful evasions?'
'Why are you here?' she asked. Her voice was pitched too high, but she was amazed she could speak at all.
'To collect my dues!' he snarled.
'The bed?' Abigail didn't understand what he meant. Was he going to contest her right to the clothes and the pianoforte?
'No! You bitch!' Charles lunged at her. Rammed her against the wall. Drove the breath from her lungs.
She gasped. Wheezed. Struggled for air. And inhaled the sickening wine fumes Charles breathed into her face. She twisted her head to the side. Charles cursed.
'The jewels. Aunt Fanny's jewels.' He dragged her forward a few inches—then slammed her back into the wall. Her head jolted backwards, then rebounded off the hard surface.
It hurt. Her eyes filled with tears of shock and pain. But the thick coils of her hair beneath her muslin cap absorbed some of the impact.
'Where are they?' he snarled. 'Where've you hidden them.'
'I don't...I don't have them!' Abigail gasped.
'Where are they?' He moved his hand from her shoulder to her throat. Caressing it obscenely. 'Who has them?'
'No one!' With a huge surge of effort Abigail flung him off.
Charles hadn't expected her to retaliate. He staggered backwards, almost tripping over a chair. Abigail stumbled behind the minimal protection of the table. Sobbing for breath.
Charles cursed and lurched after her.
She ran and pitched up against the far wall. She thrust away from it, intent on reaching the door.
Sampson blocked her. She saw the flash of
his teeth as he grinned at her.
She stood sobbing for breath, her terrified gaze darting between the two men. Charles advanced on her down the length of the room. His smile was the most unpleasant thing she'd ever seen.
'What happened to the jewels, Abigail?' he purred. 'It was a plot between you and the lawyer, wasn't it?'
'She s-sold them.' Abigail backed away from both men until she found her shoulders jammed into the corner.
She'd never seen Miss Wyndham's jewels. Hadn't even been aware of their existence until Charles had
demanded them at the reading of the will. All she could do was repeat what Bessie had said then.
'Every time...every time you visited—we lived on soup and bread and butter for weeks after. You've already had whatever they were worth!'
Charles stared at her. She stared back. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. Too late she realised she should have pretended she did have the jewels. Or at least knew where they were. Any excuse to get out of this room—away from her captors.
'So...' Charles exhaled on a long hiss of frustration. 'The maid was right. But there's another way to screw money out of the old bitch's leavings.'
He moved away from Abigail and gestured towards the table. She risked a brief glance away from him. There was a bottle on the table. Two glasses of wine already poured. One had been half drunk. The other was still full.
'Shall we drink a toast to my old aunt?' he asked ironically, taking up the half full glass. 'Her deceitT
Abigail mutely shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together.
'Don't you know it's rude to turn a gentleman down?' Charles mocked her. He reached towards the full glass.
'We're wasting time,' the servant interrupted edgily. 'She don't need to drink the wine. A drugged doxy can be more trouble than she's worth sometimes. Just tell her I'll shoot her if she don't come peaceable.'
Drugged? Abigail's eyes flew to Sampson. He was levelling a pistol at her. He grinned at her.
'You c-can't t-take me anywhere!' Her voice was a strangled scream.
Charles laughed. 'Who's to stop us?' he asked rhetorically. 'A few old scolds? Or that old woman of a lawyer? Pullen's a blustering old fool. Even that clod of a footman isn't around to stop us. Accept it, Abigail. You've got no one. No one and nothing. Now move.'
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