Page 71 of A Perfect Gentleman

At last, when her cheeks had finally lost their flush, she left the cloakroom, joining the chattering women making their way down the crowded staircase. Abby looked over the banister as she went down, scanning the hall below for a sign of Graeme. Like the staircase, the hall was filled with people and noise. But she had eyes for only one man.

As Abby took a step down, she felt a sudden shove in the small of her back. She staggered, grabbing frantically at the railing. Though she managed to get her hand around the wooden banister, she feared her momentum would have carried her forward had someone not caught hold of her arm and kept her upright.

Abby clutched the railing. Terror iced her insides as she thought of what could have happened. She turned shakily toward her rescuer. A blond woman had both hands around Abby’s arm and was gazing at her with concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” The truth was, Abby was trembling. What if she had fallen? She could have lost the child, and that thought filled her with terror.

“You look a little pale,” the other woman said, taking Abby’s arm and guiding her back up the staircase, easing around the women behind them. “Perhaps you should sit down for a moment.”

“Yes, perhaps I should.” Her rescuer glanced toward the crowded cloakroom, then steered Abby down the hall to an alcove.

There was a plush window seat below the bay window, and Abby sat down on it gratefully. It was quiet here and somewhat shielded from the hall by the heavy draperies hanging on either side of the alcove. Her companion sat down beside her, watching her carefully.

“Better?”

Abby gave her a small smile. “Yes, thank you, it’s very kind of you to help me. I’m sorry to be so clumsy.”

“What happened?”

“I think someone stumbled into me from behind, and I started to fall. Fortunately you were there and I was able to grab the rail.” But it hadn’t felt as if someone had lurched into her; it had felt like a push against her back. As it had that time beside the river. But no, that was absurd.

“How rude. They didn’t even stop to see if you were all right.”

“No. Perhaps they didn’t realize.”

“Oh, dear, you’ve torn loose a ruffle on your skirt.”

Abby followed her companion’s gaze and saw that several inches of ruffle had indeed ripped away and was trailing across the floor. “Perhaps I can find some pins.”

“Don’t worry.” The blonde opened the reticule dangling from her wrist. “I always carry a little sewing kit with me for emergencies.”

“You’re very prepared.”

The woman laughed. “I fear it’s more that I am clumsy and quite accustomed to tearing a ruffle or losing a button.” Pulling out a small, slim case, she popped it open and extracted a needle and thread.

“How cunning!” Abby leaned forward to examine the compartmented case, where a thimble, two needles, miniature scissors, and a small roll of dark thread were all neatly tucked away.

“Do you like it? I fashioned it myself from a tin of lozenges. It comes in quite handy.” She threaded one of the needles. “I’m afraid I’ve only black thread, but at least it will keep your ruffle off the floor. It would be a shame to tear it further. It’s such a lovely dress.”

Nimbly, she knelt down in front of Abby and began to tack the ruffle back in place.

“Thank you. You’re very kind.” Abby watched her newfound friend work, intrigued.

She was slender and small-boned, and though not short, she had a delicate appearance. Her hair was a pale blond mingled with gold and arranged in a tidy knot at the crown of her head. There were women on whom it would have looked severe, but on her it simply revealed to full effect her soft oval face and large expressive blue eyes.

Her gown was simple, even plain, but the sky-blue color favored her classic English coloring and strawberries-and-cream complexion. More friendly and straightforward than most women Abby was accustomed to meeting here, she seemed the sort of woman Abby would like to know.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” Abby smiled. “I am Abigail Parr.”

The woman’s head snapped up. “Lady Montclair.”

“One of them, anyway.”

The other woman stared at her in silence, then hastily said, “Oh. I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to stare. I am, um, Laura Hinsdale.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Hinsdale,” Abby said lightly. “Obviously you’ve heard about ‘the mad American.’ ”