A Wedding Wager (5 page)

“Oh, I spoke in jest, puss, you know that.” He chuckled and patted her cheek. “Nothing is too good for you. Indeed, you should be buying new bonnets, not refurbishing old ones. Shame on you, Mrs. Sutton. I said no expense was to be spared.”

“And none has been, my dear sir.” His wife soothed him with a well-practiced hand. “Go back into the library, and I’ll have Morrison set out a light repast. It’s been several hours since breakfast, and you know how hungry you get. Dinner will not be served until six o’clock. We live by London hours now, you must remember.”

“How could I forget?” William said with a mock grimace. “How a man’s to eat his dinner that late and then sleep afterwards, I’ll never understand.”

“But in general, Papa, people in Society do not sleep immediately after dinner. They rarely seek their beds until two or three in the morning, sometimes not even until the sun is up.” Abigail tried to keep a wistful note
out of her voice at the thought of such nighttime revelry but failed.

Her father looked at her sharply. Then he shook his head. “Well, I can’t be doing with it, I’ll tell you that. But you young things … another matter … quite another matter. But I’ll not have you getting all haggard and drawn, my girl, with all these late nights. Just you remember that.”

“Oh, I will, Papa.” Abigail dropped a curtsy, giving him a dimpling smile that made him laugh again and call her a minx. Then she turned and hurried up to her own chamber.

She untied the ribbons of her bonnet and tossed it onto the bed before going restlessly to the window. The street below was quiet, but she could hear the sounds of London, the iron wheels on cobbles, the raucous calls of barrow boys, chairmen, and piemen, the shouts of jarveys as they drove their hackneys through the unruly traffic.

Abigail didn’t want to be in the serenity of her chamber or even on the quiet residential street below her window. She was in London, the world at her feet, and she was cooped up waiting for someone to produce the key to the door. But she could take a walk for herself, surely? Along Piccadilly, which was not very far away, just at the end of the street, really. She took walks alone at home all the time. She would be quite safe.

Abandoning her bonnet, Abigail ran softly downstairs, hoping not to meet a servant. She flew across the
hall and pulled open the front door. Miraculously, no one had come into the hall. She stepped outside onto the top step and breathed deeply. Conscience told her she should not be doing this, at least not without an escort. This was London, not the provincial town she was used to. She could have demanded the company of a footman, or even her maid, but a recklessness was in her blood, unusual because, in general, she was not one to stir the waters. She tossed her head, relishing its bonnetless freedom, and set off up the street, walking quickly, looking behind her once or twice, half expecting an arresting shout. But she reached the end of the street undetected and turned down towards Piccadilly.

Already the scene was livelier, the sounds of the city noisier. People glanced curiously at the well-dressed young woman, hatless and coatless and unescorted, but Abigail didn’t care; it merely added to the excitement of the adventure.

She walked slowly along Piccadilly, looking in the shop windows, ignoring the stares, until a young buck in a flamboyant gold-and-scarlet-striped waistcoat put up his quizzing glass and ogled her, beckoning to her. She turned away with a toss of her head and increased her pace, aware as she did so that he was following her. Suddenly frightened, she ducked into a narrow opening and found herself in a noisome court, enclosed on four sides by the high brick walls of surrounding buildings.

Her eyes darted from side to side as panic threatened to engulf her. A slatternly woman leaned against a wall
at the far side of the court, watching her, a corncob pipe between her lips. Beside her, a man leaned, whittling a piece of wood. They both regarded the new arrival with a speculative air.

Abigail turned to run back the way she had come and found herself confronting the man in the striped waistcoat. “Well, well, what pretty little thing have we here?” he asked. His voice was rather unpleasantly high, with a whining note that set her teeth on edge.

“Let me pass, sir,” she demanded as confidently as she could, but she could hear the tremor in her own voice.

“Oh, I don’t think I wish to do that,” he said, holding her upper arms tightly. “That would be looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. Such a tasty tidbit to run into my arms. Let’s have a kiss, chuck.” He bent his head, the full, glistening mouth descending.

Abigail screamed and kicked at his shins. She could smell the wine on his breath, his sweat overlaid by a heavy perfume. She screamed again just as his mouth engulfed hers, and she thought she would suffocate in the vile, heated stench of him.

And then he was spinning away from her, falling back against the wall, spluttering. A voice said quietly, “Are you hurt, my dear?”

She let her hand drop from her mouth, where she had been desperately rubbing at the imprint of those foul lips, and looked at her savior. A young man, his fair hair tied at his nape with a black velvet ribbon, shining in the gloomy courtyard, bent his concerned blue eyes upon
her. And Abigail thought she had never before seen such a beautiful creature.

“No … no, I don’t think so, thank you, sir,” she stammered.

Sebastian blinked at the well-modulated tones of a young woman of breeding. He had assumed the buck’s victim had been a servant girl running an errand or even a denizen of a Covent Garden nunnery, but now, as he took in the girl’s clothes, the freshness of her complexion, the elegance of her speech, he realized he had been mistaken. Her assailant, still bent double against the wall, coughing and choking as he struggled to get breath back into his lungs after the powerful blow to the pit of his belly, had obviously assumed that a lone young woman, hatless and seemingly fancy-free, was fair game.

“Come.” Sebastian took the girl’s arm and led her out of the fetid court and back into the sunlit street, where the air immediately smelled fresher, and Abigail’s breathing slowed, the panic fading.

“Where is your maid … your governess … whoever’s with you?” Sebastian asked, looking up and down the street.

Abigail shook her head reluctantly. She knew what this man would think of her the minute he realized she was alone. “I … I came out alone,” she confessed, hanging her head. “I only wanted to be free for a little while.”

Sebastian regarded her in silence for a moment. He understood the desire; it had often struck him that women, young women in particular, must find the restrictions
on their movements unendurable at times. Even Serena, who had more freedom than most women, obeyed certain social conventions. Or had done, he amended. He didn’t know what she did now.

“Where do you live?” he asked finally.

“Bruton Street.”

He nodded. As he’d assumed, a most respectable address. “Your family will be beside themselves with worry.” He hadn’t really considered the comment in the nature of a reproof, but the girl’s china-blue eyes welled with tears, and her lip trembled. She was little more than a child, he realized, and presumably had acted as impetuously as any child.

“I don’t mean to scold,” he said hastily. “’Tis hardly my place to do so, but I will escort you home now.” He offered her his arm with a small bow that went a long way towards restoring Abigail’s dignity. “Sebastian Sullivan at your service, ma’am.”

Abigail managed a small curtsy. “Abigail Sutton, sir. And I am most truly grateful for your assistance.”

He laughed, but not in mockery. “’Tis a pleasure, Miss Sutton.”

On the short walk to Bruton Street, Sebastian learned a great deal about Abigail Sutton. She had recovered her equanimity with remarkable speed and chattered as if to an old and valued friend. “I did not care for Paris particularly,” she confided, “but Mama thought it necessary I should acquire some experience of the Continent and to practice my French. I’m afraid I wasn’t very good
at foreign languages at school. My French is barely passable, but I do speak a little Italian, and my drawing is quite good, or so Miss Trenton told me at school. She said I had quite a talent. I play the pianoforte a little, and I sing, so I have all the accomplishments, although I am not at all proficient with the harp.”

“I cannot imagine why one would wish to become proficient with the harp. It seems to be an instrument purely the province of elderly ladies with very severe coiffures,” Sebastian said solemnly, eliciting a delighted chuckle from his companion.

They arrived at the house on Bruton Street, and Sebastian would have been prepared to leave his charge once he had seen her admitted, but the door flew open before he could even raise the knocker, and a distraught lady of ample girth seemed to explode onto the top step.

“Abigail … child … where have you been? Your father is beside himself with worry. I have been tearing my hair out.”

Hands waved in the general direction of her powdered coiffure illustrated the truth of this. Wisps escaped from the tight confines of hidden pins, and straggling locks tumbled around her face. Scarlet rouge stood out dramatically against the white of her powdered cheeks.

“What on earth can you have been thinking of?” she continued, her voice rising. “And who is this? A man … you have been alone with a strange man in the public street. What kind of man would take advantage
of a young girl … oh, your father will have to call him out, and I daresay—”

“Just a minute, ma’am.” Sebastian’s crisp tones cut through Mrs. Sutton’s rising hysteria. “That seems an unnecessarily vigorous response to what was intended only as a courtesy with the best of motives. I merely escorted Miss Sutton home after she ran into some unpleasantness in Piccadilly.” He bowed, hat in hand. “The Honorable Sebastian Sullivan at your service, ma’am.”

Marianne had been dumbstruck during this masterly speech and looked at her daughter’s escort properly for the first time. Everything about him spoke of refinement and breeding. “Oh, my goodness, sir, I didn’t mean to imply … you have done my daughter a great service, I’m sure. Will you come in? I know my husband would wish to thank you in person.”

Abigail was sinking with embarrassment as she saw her mother through Sebastian’s eyes. Her mother’s less refined vowels had escaped in the passion of the moment, and with her hair adrift and her gown in disarray, she looked a fright. But Sebastian was smiling at Mrs. Sutton, bowing over her hand, as if he didn’t notice any of these giveaway indications of the lady’s less than genteel origins.

“I should be honored, ma’am. But believe me, it was a mere bagatelle, and I enjoyed Miss Sutton’s company.” He turned to Abigail, indicating the open front door. “Miss Sutton, allow me to complete my self-appointed task and see you safely within doors.”

Abigail blushed and hurried into the house ahead of him. As she had feared her father emerged instantly from the dining salon, a napkin tucked into his collar. His face was flushed. “Eh, what’s this, Abigail? Where’ve you been? Mama’s near hysterical with worry.” His eye fell on Sebastian, and his flush deepened. “And who might you be, sir? What business d’ye have with my daughter?”

Sebastian, reflecting that it was enough to stop anyone doing a good turn, bowed once again and introduced himself. “The Honorable Sebastian Sullivan, at your service, sir. I escorted your daughter home.”

“Eh?” William frowned at the young man. “Home from where?”

“Oh, Papa, indeed, you mustn’t,” Abigail exclaimed, mortified at this catechism. “Mr. Sullivan rescued me from a most horrid man, and I am so grateful to him. You mustn’t speak to him like that.”

William cast a glance at his wife, who said, “Indeed, William, we must be most grateful to the gentleman. He has done Abigail a great service.”

William snorted. “It wouldn’t have been necessary if she hadn’t been out where she’s not supposed to be in the first place. But I suppose I must thank you … Sullivan, did you say?” He extended a hand.

“Yes, sir.” Sebastian took the hand and responded to the firm warmth of the handshake in like manner. “And believe me, I did nothing.”

“Well, you can say that if you please, but I’ll not believe it. Come in and have a bite of nuncheon with us.
’Tis well past noon. You’ll be glad of a bite and a draught of ale, I’ll be bound.” He swept Sebastian ahead of him into the dining parlor, leaving Abigail with her mother.

“Come upstairs at once, child. I wish to hear everything that happened.” Marianne had recovered her composure and was already beginning to think that Abigail’s unwise adventure could be turned to advantage. “What a personable young man he is.” She shooed her daughter ahead of her upstairs. “You must tidy yourself and change your gown, and then you must thank Mr. Sullivan prettily for his kindness.”

Abigail did not interrupt as her mother fussed, summoning her maid to help Abigail change her gown and rearrange her hair.

“So what happened, Abigail?” Marianne demanded as she adjusted a fichu in the neck of her daughter’s sprigged muslin gown.

“A man accosted me. ’Twas nothing, really, Mama, but I was a little frightened, and Mr. Sullivan offered to escort me home.” She concealed the true horror of the attack, reasoning that it would do her mother no good to hear it, and she certainly had no wish to relive it by describing it.

“To be sure, I cannot imagine what he must have thought … a young girl walking alone in Piccadilly,” her mother scolded. “He must think you a veritable hoyden. You will never catch a suitable husband if you behave in such fashion. You may count yourself fortunate if Mr. Sullivan keeps a still tongue in his head. It
will be the finish of all your prospects if the gossip mongerers hear of it. All my efforts wasted, all your father’s money wasted.” She sighed heavily, and Abigail bit her lip, knowing that her mother would go on like this for several days at least … until something else distracted her.

Marianne surveyed her daughter’s appearance with a slight frown. The pale green sprigged muslin was made even more demure with the addition of the fichu, and the modest hoop was exactly right for a young girl just out of the schoolroom. Her fair curls were confined simply with pink ribbon, and the pink satin slippers accentuated the smallness of her feet. She looked as dainty as a Dresden doll and every bit as innocent.