Surrender To Sin. Tamara Lejeune

“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