Surrender To Sin. Tamara Lejeune

you, sir,” she said breathlessly. “But are we really cousins, do you think?”

      He studied her for a moment, seemingly oblivious to the bustling crowd surging past them. Abigail blushed again, knowing that he must be searching for some family resemblance. There was none, of course. How could there be, she thought hopelessly, when he is like a painting by Caravaggio, and I’m an unsightly mass of freckles capped by frizzy hair?

      “You must be one of my Derbyshire cousins,” he said, at the conclusion of his scrutiny.

      His familiarity with her mother’s family coaxed Abigail further out of her shyness. “Lord Wayborn is my uncle, sir. Though, to own the truth, I’ve never met him. It is generally thought that my mother married to disoblige her family.”

      Cary politely ignored this last, rather indiscreet revelation. “Then we are indeed cousins,” he said. “And where were you going just now, before that feculent lout knocked you down?”

      Abigail gasped in dismay. “You mustn’t call his lordship insulting names, sir.”

      He snorted. “My dear cousin, I was at school with the feculent lout. Believe me, I do not insult. I merely describe. Now, where were you going? I’ll carry your boxes.”

      “My father is to collect me at Mr. Hatchard’s Bookshop, but there’s really no need—”

      “What a charming coincidence. I was on my way to Hatchard’s myself,” he said, grinning. “Fortunately, I know a shortcut.”

      Abigail was not sure she believed a word he said, but before she could reflect on the propriety of accepting so much assistance from a stranger, he had exchanged her packages for his stick and was steering her boldly through the crowd. She was now doubly bound to follow him; he was carrying the servants’ Christmas presents, and she had his walking stick.

      “I don’t often have business at Hatchard’s,” Cary said easily, glancing at her now and then as she struggled to keep up with him, “but I’m told a book makes a nice Christmas present.”

      He turned into an alley next to a tobacconist’s shop, and Abigail stopped in her tracks. She had never been off the main streets of London before, and this rather noisome, narrow alley hardly inspired confidence. She could see no end to its darkness, and she imagined it to be filled with unsavory characters and stray animals carrying a variety of incurable diseases.

      “Sir,” she called to him nervously, “are you quite sure this is the way to Hatchard’s?”

      He had stopped to shift her pile of boxes. “If you could just take this little one under my left arm,” he said, just as a small package popped out and hit the ground. “Not fragile, I hope?”

      “It’s gloves,” said Abigail, stepping forward unthinkingly to pick it up. She was now standing in an alley for the first time in her life. To her relief, no desperate underworld character jumped out at her from the shadows. Indeed, the only people there besides herself and her “cousin” were a few honest deliverymen unloading a cart.

      “I thought of getting her gloves,” Cary murmured. “But my sister has got gloves enough for a dozen Hindoo deities.”

      To carry the little package more easily, Abigail slipped her finger through the twine binding it. “A book is a handsome gift, too,” she said, holding her skirts up out of the frozen mud and horse manure dotting the cobbles. As she stepped around the manure-making end of the carthorse, she nearly collided with a broad-shouldered man carrying a large sack.

      “Beg pardon, miss,” he said gruffly, not looking at her as he tossed his burden onto a waiting pile. Clutching Cary’s stick, Abigail scurried around him.

      “My sister is engaged to be married,” Cary went on, apparently not noticing her near mishap, “so I thought I’d get her one of those books you females can only read after marriage.” He slipped past a large white sheet hung on a clothesline, and disappeared from sight. Abigail edged around the sheet, careful not to touch it, only to find that her guide was nowhere in sight.

      “This way, cousin.”

      He had turned into another alley, this one so narrow they were forced to walk in single file. “What sort of books would you consider off limits to an unmarried woman?” she asked curiously. Somehow it was quite easy to talk to the back of his head.

      “Oh, you know,” he responded carelessly, “Tom Jones, Moll Flanders, that sort of thing.”

      “I’ve read them both, and I’m not married,” said Abigail, inching forward in the darkness.

      “And which did you prefer, cousin? The rake or the trollop?”

      Abigail gave what she hoped was a sophisticated answer. “On the whole I found that Tom lifted the spirits while Moll rather depressed them. And you, sir?”

      “Oh, I never read questionable material myself,” he airily replied. “What would my cousin the Vicar say? I shall leave all such risky endeavors to Mrs. Wayborn. While I am out shooting pheasant for her supper, let her be tucked up in bed reading Fanny Hill for my…edification. So much more useful than embroidering my handkerchiefs, don’t you agree?”

      “I’ve never thought about it,” said Abigail, wondering what Mrs. Wayborn would think if she knew her husband was in the habit of cutting through dark alleys with strange young women.

      “Do you feel the wall growing hot?” he asked presently. “Shall we?”

      Before Abigail could reply, he opened a door. A flickering crimson glow suddenly outlined his face. The hellish light, however, was accompanied by the comforting smell of freshly baked bread. Abigail entered the bakery first, a wall of heat slamming into her as she passed a row of huge brick ovens. The baker’s apprentices gaped at them, making Abigail blush, but Cary was the picture of unruffled calm as he helped himself to a hot cross bun. “Cousin?”

      Abigail mutely shook her head.

      Cary led her swiftly through the front of the shop where customers lined up at the glass-front cases. Mainly servants from well-heeled Mayfair households, they parted respectfully to let Cary and Abigail through. In a few seconds, the cousins were out on the street again, and Hatchard’s signboard was just ahead. Abigail felt as though she had been brought safely through a hostile foreign territory, but now was within sight of the British embassy. She drank in the cold, clean air and heard with pleasure the chatter of busy shoppers.

      Her companion appeared unaffected by the adventure. Obviously, he was as comfortable in the back alleys of London as he would be in the court of St. James or a gypsy gathering. Abigail smiled at him shyly. “Thank you, sir. It was kind of you to help a complete stranger.”

      “But we are not complete strangers, cousin,” he pointed out. “We are relative strangers. Would you be good enough to open the door for me? My hands are a bit full.”

      “Oh, yes, of course,” she said quickly.

      Abigail felt safe inside Hatchard’s Bookshop. The staff knew her there, and the senior clerk, Mr. Eldridge, came forward to greet her personally. Miss Ritchie was a voracious reader, and, better still, she always paid her bills, which was more than the gentleman with her could say. Mr. Eldridge frankly could not account for their having arrived together.

      Cary gave Abigail’s packages to an attendant, and she returned his stick, then extended her hand to him in farewell. “Sir, allow me to thank you again—” she began, breaking off as he gravely removed the package still dangling by a string from her little finger. Abigail decided that his departure would be a relief to her. If she was so incapable of behaving like a sensible woman in his presence, then the sooner he was gone, the better. “Goodbye,” she said quickly.

      As he bent over her gloved hand, she completed her disgrace by diving behind the sales counter, to the considerable surprise of the clerk. Cary was perhaps even more astonished by the maneuver. “What are you doing?” he demanded, leaning across the counter to look down at her.

      Abigail