Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “I heard what’s going around London.” There was a tic in Weston’s jaw as he spoke. “I know what people are saying about her. And I heard from my wife that you were with Penelope the night of—” He broke off. “I am not a fool, Atherton.”

  “Of course not, sir.” He met Weston’s black glare evenly. “I heard the rumors, too. I warned her what might happen.”

  “Tell me truly,” said the other man in a voice that trembled ever-so-slightly with anger. “Are they even remotely true? Did you seduce my daughter and expose her to the grossest humiliation?”

  It was on the tip of Benedict’s tongue to tell Weston about Lord Clary, right now; he hadn’t assaulted her and saw no reason why he should take the blame for it. But he bit it back. Breaking her confidence was the wrong way to win her over. “No. I give you my word that I did not.”

  “And yet that is the tale sweeping London,” retorted Weston. “That she was caught in the most compromising of positions. Your name is not publicly linked with the episode—yet—but I doubt it will take long.”

  Benedict hesitated. It was unthinkable not to defend himself at all, but the wrong word now could spoil his chances. A different sort of father would have summoned him here to face him over pistols at dawn. Weston wasn’t that sort of father, apparently. “The person who started the rumor did so out of pique. Miss Weston was in some disarray, after her . . . fall when I came upon her and offered to help.”

  “Her fall,” repeated Weston dourly. “I saw her. That disarray, as you so politely name it, was not from any slip on the stairs.” He saw Benedict’s quickly suppressed flicker of surprise, and jerked his head in a nod. “Yes, I know she lied to us. Penelope does that. Most of the time her little lies are harmless, and the Lord above knows I told my father enough of them as a young man that I deserve to hear a few from my children. And I admit, I allow it; she’s my youngest, and I’ve always had an extra weakness when it comes to her. But I would do anything to protect her, Atherton, and hang the consequences.”

  Benedict heard that warning loud and clear. Thanks to his own father he was well attuned to veiled threats, and it was very easy to slip into the deferential mode that usually worked on the earl. “I completely understand, sir, and admire you all the more for it. But I fear . . .” This time he hesitated for effect. “Miss Weston didn’t wish to alarm you, but I fear in this instance she was mistaken in keeping the truth from you.”

  “She usually is,” grumbled Weston. “What really happened?”

  “I would tell you if I hadn’t given her my word that I wouldn’t,” he replied. “But—gentleman to gentleman—the culprit is not someone to cross lightly.”

  Weston glared at him for a minute. For once Benedict was grateful to his father; the scrutiny of this man was nothing to that of the earl’s, who would ruthlessly pry any crack in his composure into a gaping wound. Weston loved his daughter; he tolerated her foibles and wanted to protect her, even though she’d lied to him, and that explained his glowering demeanor today. Benedict found he admired the man for it. It was nothing to face him calmly and patiently. For a moment he wondered if Penelope truly appreciated her father. She must not, if she’d not trusted him enough to tell him how Clary threatened her.

  “I feared as much,” said Weston at last. “The story I heard wasn’t the usual tattle of idle ladies. My wife tells me the amusing rumors; how some forward wench tried to cozen a man into marrying her by letting the poor fool steal a kiss or put his hands on her, and the fortune hunters who try to trick silly girls into thinking they’re in love, just long enough to get them to Gretna Green. Penelope’s not that sort, nor would I be so quick to hand over my daughter to anyone who tried such nonsense. But this story . . . Atherton, I can’t let it go. It accuses my daughter of debauchery that would make a sailor blush. She’ll be the target of every rake and scoundrel in London. No respectable man will have her.”

  Benedict just waited.

  “Who started this tale?” demanded Weston after a moment. “You know who it is—tell me and I’ll deal with him until he publicly retracts this slander.”

  “I don’t think he would.” He had a feeling Clary would never retract the story, no matter what Weston did to him. “I fear any attempt to get him to retract would only make people talk about it more.”

  Weston growled under his breath, striding along with barely contained fury. “I don’t like my other options.”

  There were most likely only two. One was for Penelope to leave town for an extended time. That had the disadvantage of making the rumors appear true, or close enough to true that it wouldn’t matter. Even though Penelope had suggested fleeing London herself, he doubted she would really do it. He had an easier time picturing her attacking Lord Clary with a fireplace poker than slinking off to the country in shame.

  The other option was marriage. Since Benedict had never been Thomas Weston’s confidant before today, he guessed the man was leaning toward that second option, with Benedict doing the honorable thing. Given that this aligned perfectly with his own desires, he had no real objection. It wasn’t how he’d hoped to achieve his goal, but perhaps the end justified the means . . .

  “The trouble is, Penelope doesn’t care much for you.” Weston stopped and faced him again. “Or so she says. I can’t bear to give my child to a man she doesn’t want, but neither can I sit idly by and let her sink into ruin and shame. You, sir, are the solution to my quandary, one way or another. Either give me the name of the blighter who’s telling lies about my daughter, or persuade me that you can make her happy.”

  “I cannot do either before I speak to Penelope.” But Benedict’s heart skipped a beat. He remembered Penelope’s laughter as he whispered to her about the naughty Tudor ghosts. He remembered the way she’d blushed bright red when Frances Lockwood accused her of wanting him for herself. Somehow he didn’t think her antipathy ran as deep as she claimed.

  Not that it mattered much. She was in a desperate spot, and he was her only ally.

  Weston gave a curt nod. “Very well. But you’d best come out of that conversation prepared to do one or the other. I promise you won’t like the consequences otherwise.” He waved one hand. “No time to waste.”

  Penelope would not willingly have admitted it, but she was immensely grateful to Lord Atherton for one thing. He’d warned her, privately, about the nightmare that was about to destroy her life, and given her time to brace herself.

  She’d dashed off a frantic letter to her sister as soon as she and Mama returned from the shopping expedition, with the result that Abigail reached Grosvenor Square almost at the same time the horrid rumors did. When she heard Abigail’s voice in the hall, Penelope lurched off the sofa and ran from the room as fast as she could on her still-tender ankle. “Abby!”

  “Oh, Penelope.” Abigail opened her arms and let Penelope fling herself into them. For a moment she just wallowed in the relief. Abigail was only a year older than she, and they had been the closest of friends before Abigail’s marriage. Only when her sister was gone did Penelope realize how much she depended on her.

  “Thank you,” she said, finally releasing her sister and stepping back. “I’m so glad you came!”

  Abigail smiled. “As if I wouldn’t! I’ve never received a letter with more exclamation points and underscored words.”

  “I’ve never written a more desperate one,” Penelope replied. “If I could have made it burst into flames when you finished reading it, I would have done so.”

  Her sister laughed. “Then let’s have a cup of tea and you can explain it better. Some parts were indecipherable.”

  Penelope grimaced as they went back into the small parlor. Given her state of mind when she wrote that letter, it was a small miracle Abigail could read any of it. “I don’t know that I can explain it any better now.”

  “Try,” said her sister with a patient smile. “What have you got yourself
into, Pen?”

  “A great lot of trouble,” she admitted. “I didn’t mean to!”

  “You never do. What happened?”

  Penelope made a face, but she let it go. The whole wretched story, from Frances Lockwood’s infatuation to Lord Atherton’s actions and warning, came rushing out. The only part she withheld was how Viscount Clary had been mistreating Olivia, and that only because Olivia had explicitly begged her not to tell Abigail. Her sister listened intently, with only an occasional question. By the time she finished, Penelope felt as if a great weight had lifted off her—probably only for a few moments, but it felt so wonderful to unburden herself, she didn’t care.

  “My,” murmured Abigail at the end. “That is quite a tangle. And Mama doesn’t know?”

  Penelope shook her head.

  Her sister sighed. “You’d better tell her. You know she’ll hear it eventually.”

  “Agreed—but I would rather have a response in mind when I tell her, to spare me from being murdered on the spot.” Abigail gave her a doubtful look, and Penelope flushed. “And I also kept hoping I wouldn’t need to tell her.”

  “Not a good gamble, Pen.”

  She groaned. “So what should I do?”

  Abigail took her time fussing over another cup of tea. That alone warned Penelope that she wouldn’t like her sister’s response. “Did Lord Atherton tell you precisely what the rumors are?”

  She shuddered. “They’re terrible; every sort of wicked lasciviousness you can imagine. Worse than Lady Constance’s stories. But he said his name wasn’t part of them,” she added, with a silent sigh of relief that she’d been spared that.

  Abigail’s brow wrinkled. “But you said Frances Lockwood accused you of stealing him. How long do you think before she repeats that, especially when the other rumor spreads?”

  Penelope’s throat felt tight. It still hurt, deeply, that Frances would think that of her. She pleated a fold of her skirt and stared out the window until she could speak. “May I come live with you? For the rest of this year, and perhaps next as well?”

  Abigail snorted. “I remember how well you liked Richmond when we spent the summer there. Now you want to spend the winter there as well? But this time at Montrose Hill House, where workmen are busy repairing everything from the roof to the stables.”

  “I could endure,” Penelope assured her, although privately she wasn’t so certain, now that Abigail reminded her about Richmond. When their father had bought a country estate there, it had seemed like the end of the earth to Penelope, a good ten miles distant from London and as quiet as a country village. The only excitement had been Abigail’s romance with Sebastian Vane, which had involved clandestine meetings in the woods, a public argument in the middle of Richmond, a daring jaunt through the woods to solve an old mystery and recover lost treasure, and, best of all, a romantically thrilling night when Abigail fled the odious Lord Atherton’s advances and spent a night of passion in Sebastian’s arms.

  Penelope was imagining that last part, as her sister had refused to tell her anything about it, but from Papa’s furious reaction both before and after Abigail returned home, she thought it must be reasonably close to the truth.

  Her sister only smiled. “What’s wrong with Lord Atherton’s suggestion?”

  The part about his presence. Penelope managed not to say it aloud. “Don’t you think it unlikely that people who are calling me all kinds of vile names today will welcome me with approval and respect tomorrow if only Viscount Atherton is standing beside me?”

  “I doubt the gossip would reverse course that quickly, but we both know it would eventually. Especially if people thought you would marry him. He’ll be an earl one day, and not some penniless, indebted one.”

  A red flush blazed up her face. “I’m not going to marry him!”

  “I didn’t say that. I said people would regard you differently if they thought you would marry him.” Abigail tilted her head and studied her shrewdly. “But that was quite an adamant exclamation.”

  “I just don’t want you to get any ridiculous ideas,” she retorted. “Atherton is the last man on earth I would ever marry.”

  “The last man?” Now Abigail gave her a look of such skepticism, Penelope flushed even hotter. “A handsome, wealthy, charming viscount. Really, Penelope? You’d rather have a bricklayer or a chimney sweep?”

  She scowled and fiddled with her cup. “You know what I mean.”

  Abigail was quiet for a moment. “I know that when he first came to call at Hart House, you were much more approving.”

  Penelope rued the day she had ever admitted that to her sister. “That was before I knew his true character. And I only admitted then that he’s very handsome, which I have never denied.”

  Her sister raised her brows. “His true character. Which facet do you mean: the bit of him that came with us to search the woods for the money Sebastian was accused of stealing, quite probably defying his father’s orders? Or perhaps you mean the bit where he let his sister confess that she actually had taken the money? That was horrible of him, I grant you. No, I know: you must mean the impulse that drove him to get a letter from Lord Stratford exonerating Sebastian, so Papa would let me marry him.” She shrugged as Penelope glared at her. “You’re not making a good argument so far.”

  “He didn’t protest when his father started those evil rumors about Sebastian,” she pointed out. “And he kept the secret for years. He turned his back on a friend.”

  Abigail hesitated. “It’s not as simple as all that. Sebastian has told me a great deal more about him, and I think you judge him too harshly.”

  “Oh? What would pardon letting everyone think his dearest childhood friend was a thief and a murderer?” Penelope widened her eyes. “To say nothing of leaving Sebastian to crawl home after falling on his wounded knee—when Sebastian was an invited guest in his home?”

  “I’m not saying he’s been above reproach in everything,” her sister countered. “But I suspect his lot hasn’t been as easy as it appears. Lord Stratford is neither a kind nor a loving father. Sebastian says he used to beat Atherton regularly.”

  Penelope pressed her lips together, unwilling to feel sorry for the viscount. It was not difficult to believe Lord Stratford was a cruel father, but Atherton was a grown man; if he couldn’t stand up to his father now, what did that say about him? “He schemed to marry Frances, just a few weeks after he was courting you.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Abigail, to Penelope’s astonishment. “I would have felt terrible if he’d been truly hurt.”

  “Schemed,” she tried again, emphasizing the word and making it sound as noxious as possible. “He wasn’t in love with her any more than he was in love with you! What do you make of a man who would do that?”

  “I would guess he’s trying to find a wife,” her sister calmly replied. “You said she was a very sweet girl; did she have other admirers?”

  “Yes,” Penelope muttered after a moment.

  “Does she have some connections? A dowry?”

  “Yes,” she growled.

  “It sounds very ordinary to me. A handsome gentleman of his age and rank will want a bride, and she sounds just the type a gentleman would prefer. What did you do to disrupt it?”

  Penelope, already sulking, did not see that question coming. She gaped, then blushed, and mulishly set her chin. “Nothing.”

  “Really?” said Abigail so dryly, Penelope flushed deeper red. Her face would be permanently scarlet after this conversation.

  “She asked what sort of man I wanted to marry and I told her. I encouraged her to be sure Atherton cared for her before she accepted him. That’s all,” she insisted.

  “And what happened?”

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t precisely know. I saw them dancing, looking in good charity with each other, and then I left the room. After the—the inci
dent, when Mrs. Lockwood was glaring down her nose at me, Atherton said Frances had declared she never wanted to see him again. But I swear, Abby, I have no idea what happened. He didn’t tell me, and Frances . . . I don’t think Frances will ever speak to me again.” And that hurt. Penelope was aware of her own faults, but disloyalty was not one of them. Frances was—had been—her friend, and she never ever would have tried to attract any man who was courting her friend. The unvarnished betrayal in Frances’s eyes when she accused Penelope of lying about that cut very deeply.

  “Not to be harsh, Pen, but that seems like the least of your worries at the moment.”

  She knew it. Unfortunately she had no idea what to do about Clary. Hopefully he would tire of telling lies about her quickly. Hopefully a duke’s daughter would elope with a footman, or two peers would come to blows in Parliament. Any of those things would give people something far more interesting to talk about. “I know, although I miss having her friendship. But what am I to do about the rest?”

  “Short of following Lord Atherton’s suggestion?” Penelope made an impatient gesture, and Abigail sighed. “You could marry someone else. You could persuade Jamie to take you to Italy for a few years. Or you could cut off your hair and live as a man for the rest of your life.”

  Penelope’s jaw sagged open. “I meant within reason!”

  “It would be very reasonable to marry someone else.”

  “But who?” Real alarm stirred in her breast. Somehow she had been sure her sister would have a sensible yet acceptable alternative, because Abigail always did. Penelope would have spent her entire childhood being punished if not for her sister talking her into schemes which were just as exciting, yet somehow less dangerous, than her own ideas. Spend a few years in Italy with her brother? She’d rather live as a man, if it came down to that.

  “Penelope, I don’t know,” Abigail said. “Since you haven’t got a more appealing suitor at the ready, I think your best choice is to graciously accept Lord Atherton’s proposal and make the best of it. You might come to revise your low opinion of him. Try to remember how you liked him when he first came to Hart House. Remember how entertaining he was when he took us to Hampton Court and tried to find a ghost for your amusement.” Penelope opened her mouth to protest, and Abigail held up one hand to stop her. “Sebastian doesn’t hold his behavior against him, and Sebastian was the wronged party. How can you be less willing to forgive? Not only has he done you no wrong, he’s offering to do you a very great favor.”