her, quietly reading. Cary was charmed by Vera’s more discreet appearance; she had changed into a simple lowcut gown. It was black, but draped with a sheer silvery muslin that softened the effect of mourning, and her twist of dark hair was held in place with a silver filigree ornament. Her skin looked very white, and would look even whiter when pressed against his own naked flesh.
Miss Smith was not present, but Mrs. Spurgeon, after complimenting her host effusively on his formal evening attire, suggested they go in to dine without her. She took Cary’s arm possessively, and Vera followed with Cato, who was soon set up on his perch in the dining room.
When Abigail finally arrived, twenty minutes late, the others were halfway through their soup. Getting Paggles settled in the room next to hers had taken longer than Abigail had expected, and several items that she remembered packing seemed to be missing from her baggage, including all of her silk stockings. She’d been forced to wear heavy woollens under her dinner dress, and stout walking shoes instead of her pretty satin slippers. They made an embarrassing noise on the wooden floor.
She edged into the small dining room cautiously, keeping her eyes fixed on Cato, who was acrobatically hanging upside down from his perch. She was so concerned with the macaw’s movements that she scarcely noticed Cary rising from the table to mark her entrance. She had changed into a white dress, and hung a gold locket on a black velvet ribbon around her neck. In the candlelight her curly hair looked a deep golden-orange color and her freckles could hardly be seen. She had done her best, he supposed, but her appearance gave him no cause for regret.
As Abigail slipped into her seat, Cato slowly righted himself on his mahogany perch, looking at the newcomer first with one eye and then the other. He squawked, apparently outraged, as she drew her napkin into her lap. Cary watched, amused, as Miss Smith silently debated whether or not it was worth risking Cato’s displeasure to pick up her spoon.
“Your soup is cold, Miss Smith,” Mrs. Spurgeon informed her. “We waited for you half an hour, but you really can’t expect us to eat cold soup for your sake.”
“The turban, you fool!” Cato shrieked at her.
“Take the soup back to Cook; have it warmed,” Cary murmured to the nearest servant.
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Spurgeon. “It’s quite her own fault for being late. Quite your own fault for being late,” she loudly repeated for Abigail’s benefit.
“I don’t care for any soup, thank you.”
Cato heard Abigail’s voice and called out to her sweetly, “Beaks and claws!”
Cary had remained standing. “Would you like a glass of Madeira, Miss Smith?”
“Yes, please,” she answered without interrupting her surveillance of Cato, but, as he began mixing the wine with water, she looked at him. “What are you doing? Is that water?”
“Of course it’s water,” said Mrs. Spurgeon severely. “A lady does not drink wine straight from the bottle, Miss Smith.”
“I must say, I’ve never been offered wine, then given pink water,” said Abigail.
“Then you are not a lady,” Mrs. Spurgeon explained solicitously.
Cary was embarrassed for Miss Smith; Mrs. Nashe concealed her smile behind a napkin.
“It seems to me,” said Abigail, “that our Portuguese friends have gone to a great deal of trouble to make the wine. I see no reason to spoil it with water.”
“Portuguese friends!” cried Mrs. Spurgeon, as though the two things were incompatible. “Do you have Portuguese friends, Miss Smith? I certainly don’t. All my friends are English.”
“Portugal was our ally in the war, Mrs. Spurgeon,” Abigail said angrily.
Mrs. Spurgeon remained indefatigably insular. “And I don’t know what your nasty foreign friends have to do with Mr. Wayborn’s lovely Madeira.”
“Madeira is a Portuguese wine,” Abigail coldly explained.
“Swine?” Cato echoed uncertainly.
“Mr. Wayborn, is this true?” cried Mrs. Spurgeon, aghast. “I couldn’t possibly drink a foreign wine, sir. I must have English wine—by my doctor’s order. Haven’t you got any claret, or a nice Beaujolais?”
“The only thing the English have ever managed to bottle is gin,” said Abigail, “and I hardly call that fit to drink.”
“Perfectly dreadful in tea,” Cary agreed easily, winking at Vera.
“But Portuguese wine,” said Mrs. Spurgeon, unhappily.
“I think it’s very patriotic of Mr. Wayborn to serve Madeira,” said Mrs. Nashe. “I, for one, will never drink French wine again.”
“French swine?” Cato inquired politely.
“Her husband was killed by the French at Ciudad Rodrigo,” Mrs. Spurgeon called down the length of the table. “It’s given her a loathing of all things francaise.”
“Good God,” said Cary, looking at Vera. “I was at Ciudad Rodrigo.”
Abigail sniffed. “You were at Ciudad Rodrigo? The battle?”
Cary frowned at her. “Indeed, Miss Smith. I saw it from the infantry. The ranks.”
Mrs. Spurgeon goggled at him. “The ranks? You mean, you were not an officer?”
“No, ma’am. My elder brother wouldn’t buy me my colors, but I wanted to do my part for England, so I left Oxford and enlisted in the ranks as Mr. John Smith.”
“Smith!” said Abigail.
He looked back at her. “Naturally, Smith. When I want a false name, I always go with Smith. I reach for it again and again. So you see, we really are cousins.”
“Some people are called Smith, you know,” said Abigail, her cheeks red.
“A great many, or so I understand,” he agreed. “That is chiefly what makes it such a useful nom de guerre. When one calls oneself Silas Tomkyn Comberbache, one finds oneself subjected to uncomfortable amounts of scrutiny.”
“Good heavens,” Mrs. Spurgeon murmured as the soup was withdrawn and the entree brought in. “I hope this is not mutton, Mr. Wayborn. I have a very small, sensitive stomach. It cannot digest mutton. If this be mutton, sir, I shall be quite ill. I shall vomit!”
“It’s veal, Mrs. Spurgeon,” Cary hastily assured her, “which, as I’m sure you must know, allows one to enjoy the taste and appearance of mutton, without risking the old indijaggers.”
He was, Abigail noted, an exceptionally charming liar.
“And what did you study at Oxford, sir?” Mrs. Nashe asked presently in her quiet voice.
Cary smiled at her. “Promise you won’t laugh? My brother thought I was suited for a career in the Church. He was mistaken, of course.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Spurgeon. “Where’s it written that a good-looking man can’t be a fine clergyman? I’d rather be damned by a man like you, Mr. Wayborn, than consecrated by that grinning disfigurement, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Spurgeon,” he replied. “But I could never bring myself to excommunicate a woman. It was one of the things that made me so unsuitable for the Church.”
Abigail snorted.
Cary turned to Mrs. Nashe. “What was your husband’s regiment? Perhaps I knew him.”
“He was with the cavalry, sir. Lieutenant Arthur Nashe.”
Cary frowned. “That’s odd. I don’t remember having cavalry at Ciudad Rodrigo.”
Mrs. Nashe hastily covered her eyes with her napkin. Her shoulders shook with grief.
“You