Page 99 of A Perfect Gentleman

“My, yes, of course, so charming. But the wall is rather low, don’t you think? You must be careful. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stop and rest first? That’s the last bench, and—”

“No.” Abby spoke more sharply than she had intended. With an inward sigh, she turned to apologize. Mrs. Ponsonby was clutching the parasol so tightly her knuckles had turned white, and her customary ingratiating smile was more a grimace. Whatever was the matter with her? “Is something wrong?”

“Why aren’t you sleepy?” The older woman’s voice was thin and high. “You should be sleepy. The others fell asleep.”

Abby stared, taken aback by the odd statement. “Well, ah, I—the meal was a trifle heavy, and—Mrs. Ponsonby, are you all right? You’re trembling.”

“Didn’t you eat the soup?”

“No, I didn’t care for it.” Abby reached out to take the other woman’s arm, alarmed by the wild look in her eyes. “Come, you should sit—”

A shriek broke from the woman as she jerked her arm out of Abby’s grasp. “You never do what you’re supposed to! Why won’t you die?”

Mrs. Ponsonby lifted the folded parasol and swung it at Abby’s head. Instinctively Abby dodged, and it struck only a glancing blow, knocking Abby’s bonnet askew. Still, it was hard enough to make her head ring.

Abby whirled to run, but her heel caught, and she stumbled. She grabbed at a bush as she fell, and though the thorns pierced her skin, she was able to break her fall. The baby. She had to protect the baby.

Mrs. Ponsonby was already on her, swinging the parasol from the tip end, so that the heavier handle would strike Abby. All Abby could do was raise her arms to block the blow. As the other woman drew back to hit her again, Abby grabbed the parasol, and they grappled over it. Abby was larger and younger than the other woman, but Mrs. Ponsonby held the better position and she seemed possessed of an insane strength.

She now put all her weight against the shaft, bearing down, and Abby knew she intended to crush it against Abby’s throat. Abby locked her arms, exerting all her strength and will.

“Die! You will die,” the other woman said over and over, almost chanting.

At that moment a voice floated through the garden behind them. “Lady Montclair? Mrs. Ponsonby?”

Abby was flooded with relief. Some servant at the inn must have been sent in search of her. Mrs. Ponsonby would have to stop now that there was a witness.

But she did not. Instead she bore down harder, taking advantage of Abby’s momentary relaxation, and the parasol moved several perilous inches closer. Abby turned her head, shouting, “Here!”

A slender woman appeared in the distance, and at the scene before her, she broke into a run. Her bonnet fell back, exposing the sedate knot of blond hair atop her head, and Abby recognized her. Laura Hinsdale.

Despair flooded her. It had been Laura Hinsdale behind this. It was not help running toward her, but reinforcements for her enemy.

chapter 33

Graeme dismounted and strode up to the door of the small cottage. He wished he had not jumped up and run out at his mother’s news. It would have been far more pleasant to have taken Abby with him. But by the time he thought of it, he was already halfway there. Well, it wasn’t as if he was likely to learn anything from the man. He would get this task done, and then he would have as much time with Abigail as he wanted.

He smiled a little to himself, wondering if that was even possible. The door opened to reveal a small, stoop-shouldered man with a fringe of white hair.

“Reverend Cumbrey? Please forgive me for dropping in on you like this. I was hoping for a word with you. I am Lord Montclair, Reginald’s son.”

“Lord Montclair!” The man’s face lit up. “Come in. Come in. It’s no trouble, no trouble at all.” Cumbrey smiled benignly at him. “Always happy to talk to Montclair’s son. Such a good man, your father. You look very like him. I expect you hear that often, though.”

“Now and then. But one never objects to such a compliment.”

The old man offered him tea and inquired about his mother and the dowager countess. The social niceties taken care of, he settled back in his chair. “Now, then, lad, what can I do for you?”

“I was interested in the fund my father established, the one for soldiers.”

“Ah, yes, wounded and indigent soldiers. Excellent idea. I was always happy to hold a fete or two at St. Veronica’s. I was always fond of him . . . and his cousin George, of course.”

“Do you recall why my father ended it?”

“I was sorry to see him do so.” The old man shook his head dolefully. “But, of course, things were in such a state at the time. I believe he had been adversely affected by a stock that crashed. Ponsonby, too. Then poor Ponsonby had that dreadful accident, you know.”

“Yes,” Graeme said encouragingly when the vicar paused. “The loss of money had an effect on the fund?”

“On them, of course. I don’t believe any of the fund money was invested in it. Your father always kept it in something safe, you see. He was careful like that. I remember he told me once he hadn’t a head for business, so he took extra care with the charity’s money. No, it was losing his friend like that, I think, that hit him hard.” He sighed. “Especially coming right after they’d quarreled.”