"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - The St Germain Chronicles" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

“Now, that’s the odd part of it,” Whittenfield said leaning forward as he spoke.
“He didn’t give it to her, she bought it for herself.” He did not wait for his listeners
to exclaim at this, but went on at once. “But that comes later in the story. Let me tell
it as it must be told.” He puffed his cigar once and set it aside again. “She became
acquainted with this foreigner through an act of theft.”
“What could anyone steal from her?” Twilford asked of the air.
“You don’t understand—it was Sabrina who was the thief.”
The reaction ranged from guffaws to shock; the sixth guest gave a small, wry
smile and said nothing.
“Yes, she had decided to steal money so that she and her children could eat that
night. You must understand that she had not stolen before and she knew that the
penalties for it were quite harsh, but she had come to believe that she had no other
choice. It was late in the afternoon when she saw this foreigner come to his house,
and she determined to wait for him and accost him as he came out. She thought
that since the man was not a native of the place, he might be reluctant to complain
to the authorities, and of course, since he was foreign, he was regarded with a
degree of dislike throughout the neighborhood.”
Everard shook his head. “Sounds like a rackety thing to do.”
“It was better than starving,” said the sixth guest.
The other man with the pipe coughed and made a gruff protest. “But what is the
point of all this, Whittenfield? Get on with it, man.”
“Lord Graveston, you are trying to rush me,” Whittenfield said with the slightest
hint of a slur in his pronunciation. “That won’t do. You’ll have to listen, the same as
the rest.”
“Then stop this infernal dallying about,” Lord Graveston said with considerable
asperity. “At this rate, it will be time for breakfast before you’re half done with your
story, and we’ll never know what the point of it is.”
Whittenfield shrugged. “I don’t see the virtue in haste when one is recounting the
travail of a family member, but if you insist, then I will do my humble best…”
“For all the saints in hell, Charles…” Dominick expostulated.
“Very well,” Whittenfield sighed lavishly. “Since you insist. As I told you, Sabrina
conspired to set upon this foreigner and rob him so that she would have money for
food and lodging for her and her children. She went down the street at night, filled
with terror but determined now on her course. There were beggars sleeping in
doorways, and a few poxy whores plied their trade in this quarter, but most of the
denizens of the night left her alone. She was an Englishwoman, don’t you see, and
isolated from them. It was a cold, raw night and her shawl did not keep her warm.
Think of her predicament, gentlemen—is it surprising that she nearly turned back
half a dozen times?”
“What’s surprising is that she attempted it at all,” Dominick said quietly. “Not
that I approve of thieving, but in this case…”
“Precisely my point,” Whittenfield burst out, the contents of his glass sloshing
dangerously. “Most women would have not been able to do a damned thing, at least
not any of the women I know. Sabrina, though, was most—unfeminine.”
“Hardly that,” murmured the sixth guest.
“She reached the house of the foreigner and slipped into the doorway of the
shuttered baker’s shop across the street, and set herself to wait for her prey to
appear.”
“How do you know that?” one of the guests interrupted. “How do you know that
her shawl wasn’t warm, or that there was a baker’s shop where she could wait for