Read The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe for Free Online Page A

his food down on the napkin. He was losing track of this conversation. She was upset with him now, for more than one reason, it seemed.
    â€œDoes anyone else in Auldale know anything about you?” he asked, pushing aside everything else that was unimportant.
    She stared and then finally shook her head. No.
    â€œThen come to dinner.”
    She could imagine that scene. Arriving at the manor and John introducing her to his mother. Mrs. Martin would certainly not be pleased. She’d hired a courtesan for her son, not for Sunday dinner.
    â€œBut I know, John. Your mother will hardly thank you if she ever does discover.”
    â€œI find your company pleasant and restful. Why shouldn’t she?”
    He was just being obstinate now. There was surrender in his voice, acceptance.
    She turned to the food. To the slices of roast beef still wrapped in paper.
    He’d called her pleasant. Restful. All adjectives that served to make her genderless and asexual. She wasn’t a threat to his self-imposed celibacy.
    The novelty of it all had its own pleasure. When had she ever spent this many hours with a man with whom she hadn’t yet slept? Other actors, she supposed. Or her neighbor in London, Mr. Baswick. He was the fellow who had informed her of the advertisement in the paper. But even that was over the course of months, not days.
    At some point, however, this little platonic idyll would end. It had to. She could hardly live forever off the ten pounds Mrs. Martin had advanced her. Really, she should have bargained for expenses paid as well, because the price of the inn and food did add up.
    â€œI didn’t mean to offend,” he said suddenly, and she realized then how long the silence had dragged on.
    She opened her mouth automatically to deny any offense but he continued, not looking at her.
    â€œWhen you thought me a misanthrope, you were right. I do prefer my own company. Jasper’s company.”
    She had been teasing before. Hadn’t meant to hurt him, but he was so serious now, as if her words had had an impact.
    â€œWar . . .” He fell off. Took a breath that seemed to physically shake the morose thoughts away. “I enjoy your company too. I appreciate that you make no apologies for your life. Have no shame for your actions. And you have no reason to feel shame.”
    He stopped but there was so much more in what he didn’t say.
    â€œWhy do you feel shame?” she asked.
    He sucked in air sharply. The scar that twisted the left side of his face seemed more pronounced, as if there lay the story, even if he kept playing with the remnants of his food. Even if he never looked at her again. War. He’d started to say it earlier.
    The man’s realm. She knew nothing of battlefields, other than the fake battles staged with wooden swords on the boards—jealous, spiteful competitors who worked like assassins and puppet masters, doing their damage in shadows.
    What had he seen? What had he experienced?
    What had he done?
    The last thought shocked her.
    She’d taken for granted that this man before her was good. His mother’s word, his own restraint. The increasing kindness he’d shown her over the week.
    But he’d killed men. That was the nature of war. That’s how England had vanquished Napoleon.
    What else had he done? How had he done it? Why?
    He glanced up. Brown eyes dark, pained, even as his lips smirked at her.
    She blinked against the stinging, embarrassed by the sudden damp against her eyelashes.
    He looked away again, brushed off his pants and stood. Jasper was there instantly in his master’s place, scarfing down the remains of lunch as if he thought he only had a moment before Angelina would push him away.
    â€œRunning away won’t help,” she said mildly. She closed the basket and rose to her knees.
    â€œA strategic retreat.” His voice was taut, the words an attempt at humor even as he fought against himself. But he