Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “Christ.” With shaking hands he pulled her to him, kicking hard to keep them afloat. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. Even though it was the wrong moment to delay, he kissed her back. “Thank God,” he gasped when she released him. “Thank God I found you . . .”

  “Clary.” She could barely speak, but wheezed out the words. “He pushed me.”

  “I know.” His cravat had come undone as he swam, and now he peeled the limp linen from his neck. “Lovely day for a swim, Lady Atherton, but can I persuade you to come ashore?”

  She laughed, a weak, relieved sound. “Easily . . . my lord . . . Where is the shore?”

  He craned his neck. “That way.” He looped the cravat around her wrist. “Can you swim any more?”

  Her face looked fearful, but she nodded. He tightened the loop, and forced her fingers to curl around it. Her skin was like ice, and he could tell she was struggling. That thick, warm dress was like an anchor around her body. “I can pull you. Do not let go, do you hear me?”

  “I won’t.” A wave nearly rolled over her, and she spit out a mouthful of water. “I am not . . . going . . . to drown.”

  He grinned at the fierce determination in her voice. “That’s the woman I know. Ready?” He knotted the other end of the cravat around his fist. When she gave a weak nod, he struck out for the shore.

  Now that he had her, he had to be wise in using his energy. He could feel the cold creeping into his legs and shoulders, making them stiff. He swam a few strokes, then glided, letting the current propel them. Again he felt it start to turn, carrying them away from the shore he could see coming tantalizingly close. This part of the river was winding and picturesque, but Benedict realized he could use that to his advantage. In fact, when he stopped to get his bearings, he realized he knew exactly where they were. The current had carried them almost to the place where he had used to swim across as a boy. He knew this part of the river. And when he spied an exposed chunk of rock near the shore, he saw his opportunity. He dragged on the cravat to pull Penelope close.

  “Do you see that large rock?” She searched for a moment. Her lips were blue and her eyes looked unfocused. He slapped her gently on the cheek. “We’re going to swim toward it, do you hear me? The current will bend away before we get there, but the boulder will disrupt it. We’re going to wait until we get near and then swim with all our strength for it. For now, just float along. Understand?” She just stared, glassy-eyed, at the rock, and he slapped her again, a little more sharply. “Penelope!”

  The way she nodded made her head look heavy. “Swim for it.”

  He cupped his hand around her cheek and forced her to look at him. “We’re almost there. Just a bit farther, love. Think of how Clary ought to die.” Something sparked in her eyes. “I’m leaning toward disembowelment,” he added.

  “Drowned.” Her lips tried to turn up. “In a privy.”

  He laughed. “Better!” She was exhausted. He could feel her fighting to keep her head up. Benedict revised his plan; let the current carry them. He had to keep her afloat, and if he saved some strength now, he should be able to tow her ashore when the moment came.

  Soon, too soon, it was time. “Let’s go, Pen,” he said. “We’re almost there.” He didn’t add that getting ashore was only the first obstacle. The land in front of them was wild and lonely. These were the woods he had once explored with Sebastian Vane, before Mad Michael sold the whole acreage to Stratford for a few pounds. They’d been virtually untouched for a decade, and that meant he and Penelope had a long, challenging hike to Montrose Hill House. He ignored the flicker of uncertainty about turning to Sebastian. Abigail would help her sister, and if they turned him out on suspicion of being in league with his father and Clary . . . As long as they took in Penelope, he wouldn’t say anything except in thanks.

  He let her float out to the length of the cravat. “Come on, Penelope, swim,” he prodded her. “Just a few more yards.”

  She managed a faint nod and began moving her arms, and he struck out, keeping his eyes on the boulder. His shoulders burned; his right leg was beginning to cramp. His feet were numb. Every stroke felt like he was swimming through treacle, and the current was an insidious tug, trying to steer him off to the right. When he finally felt the welcome resistance of mud, he could barely stagger to his feet and reach for Penelope.

  His heart seized as he pulled her to him. Hair lay in snaky locks over her face, her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if she still breathed. “Penelope,” he said desperately, hauling her upright. “Wake up!”

  For answer she bent at the waist and coughed up a good quantity of river water. “I am never going in the water again,” she said faintly. “Nor on a boat.”

  He laughed, a painful, raspy gasp of incredulous joy. His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her forehead. “I don’t blame you.” Half carrying her, he slogged out of the water, pulling his foot from the sucking mud with each step. They were on land.

  But that only revealed a new problem. The wind hadn’t abated and it sliced through their wet clothes like scythes. Penelope began a deep shuddering, and he searched for any shelter at all. There was a dark crevice at the boulder, and he steered her there. “We have to get dry,” he said, rubbing her arms roughly. “Then we’ll walk up the hill and see if your sister is receiving guests.”

  “Are we close to Montrose Hill?” Her words were slurred.

  “Very near,” he lied.

  The crevice turned out to be more than it appeared. He pulled away some vines and dead branches and realized it went farther back than expected. In fact, as he pushed deeper into the relative warmth out of the wind, he had the sense of space. He put out one arm and touched nothing. It was almost like a cave—and then he kicked something that skidded along the ground with a metallic clang.

  “Wait a moment.” He went down on his knee and groped around to discover a lantern and, a few fraught moments later, a flint and tinderbox. “Stay here,” he told Penelope, barely able to make out her pale, drooping figure. “I’m going to try to light this.”

  It took several tries to find the right position that allowed enough protection from the wind yet enough light to see, but finally he coaxed a flame in the small, rusty lantern. Penelope was where he’d left her, slumped down against the rock. He lifted the lantern, and she raised her face greedily toward the light.

  “We’ve got to get you dry.” He turned her around and began undoing buttons. The once-white wool of her walking dress was now gray and swollen with water. He finally just ripped the buttons away, desperate to get it off. It was only chilling her further. She clumsily helped as he peeled off the dress, leaving her in translucent undergarments. He tossed the dress aside and took her out of the rest of her clothes, wringing out each piece as much as possible before putting it back on her. Damp clothes were only marginally better than wet clothes, but everything counted.

  “Now yours.” Her teeth chattered as she wrapped her arms around herself and sank back to the floor.

  More to please her than for his own sake, he stripped off his shirt and wrung it out. There was a considerable pool of water on the floor now, and he looked toward the back of the crevice. The wavering light of the lantern pierced the darkness for only a few feet, and it wasn’t revealing an end to the narrow opening. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He went down on his knee for a quick embrace. “If there’s a lantern, there may be something else useful here. It looks like a small cave.”

  “I can come with you . . .” She started to struggle to her feet but he stopped her.

  “Rest,” he told her. “Catch your breath. We still have a stroll uphill. I swear I won’t leave you for long.”

  After a moment she gave in. Benedict let out his breath in relief—if she’d pleaded wi
th him to stay, he didn’t think he could have left her—and impulsively he kissed her. “Rest, love,” he whispered again, then caught up the lantern and picked his way into the gloom.

  It really was a small cave. The passage was narrow, but only for a few feet. He marveled; how many times had he explored this shore, on his own and with Sebastian, and neither of them had ever discovered it? For a moment he wondered if this led to the elusive Hart House grotto, but quickly discarded the idea. It was too close to the water, and would probably flood from time to time. And Penelope had promised to show him the grotto. His mouth firmed and he lifted the lantern higher. Once they were safely at Montrose Hill House, he’d be sure to remind her of that.

  He trailed one hand along the wall to keep his balance. The ground was coarse sand, and more than once a sharp rock bit into the bottom of his foot, clad only in stockings. The wall at his side curved away, opening into a cavity of some size. Benedict swung the lantern in a circle, but couldn’t make out much; the flame was too small, and the space too big. But there was something there . . . He raised the lantern over it. A stray piece of canvas. He shook it out, surprised by the size of it, and knocked something else over. A quick circuit of the space revealed a few discarded crates, broken open, and a pile of straw to one side. He stared at the odd collection, then scooped up the canvas and hurried back to Penelope.

  “I d-don’t know which is more frightening,” she said, her voice shaking as he came back down the passage. “The wind, or the dark.”

  “The wind.” He lifted her to her feet and wrapped the canvas around her. It was stiff and scratchy but it would break the wind. “There’s nothing to fear from the dark.”

  Her blue eyes seemed to fill her face as she looked up at him. “There is. When I fell in the water, it was so dark. I’ve never felt so alone.”

  God help him, she had been. Thank God that wretch Clary had come up on deck. If Benedict hadn’t realized she’d gone overboard when he had . . . He pushed the thought from his mind. So far all he’d done was get her out of the water. Without dry clothes and a fire, they were both flirting with terrible illness at the least. He pressed his lips to her temple. “You are not alone—not now, not ever. We’re going to walk to your sister’s house, where there will be a hot bath and tea and a warm bed.” She nodded, slumping against him. He looped her arm around his neck, secured his arm around her waist, and started out into the night.

  Chapter 25

  Penelope was terribly afraid one of them was going to die that night.

  The thought had been hovering over her mind ever since she hit the water. At first she had scorned it, filled with righteous fury and determination that Clary would never have the satisfaction of disposing of her so easily. When Benedict had found her, she’d been buoyed again; she was no longer alone, and he knew the river. His fierce promise that they would spend the night at Abigail’s, warm and safe—along with his vengeful words about Clary—gave her renewed strength.

  Still, that strength was nearly gone by the time they made it to shore. Despite telling him she could swim, her limbs had become leaden. Her mind seemed to be receding from her body, pulling away until her senses felt attenuated and muted. She barely heard Benedict’s voice, urging her on, breaking in relief as he dragged her ashore. She was only dimly aware of her body moving, although she did feel the shudders that racked her from head to toe as the wind cut into her soaked clothes.

  She had never explored as much as her sister had, but Penelope had walked in the woods. She knew Montrose Hill House was just that: a house atop a hill. A hill they would have to walk up, in this wind, sopping wet. Like a moth transfixed by a flame, her thoughts circled around those few facts. There was no strength in her legs; she could barely walk. Benedict, who had just swum across a stormy river pulling her weight behind him, must be even more exhausted.

  And then he took the lantern away and left her. She pressed herself against the rock, trying to quell the horrible shivering, and closed her eyes to the darkness. The sky was as dark as night above her, and the weak lantern light vanished with Benedict. She knew he was only a few feet away and would be back soon, but it was hard not to feel utterly alone.

  There was no denying that she had been wrong about a great many things. Lord Stratford was a far, far worse man than she had ever expected. It was one thing to be strict, and many fathers thrashed their children. When Benedict told her he’d been whipped as a boy, even as a young man, she’d blithely thought it was akin to the way her father had thrashed her brother on a few occasions. When Benedict said his father had no pity for others, she assumed it was wrapped up in the general arrogance associated with being an earl. When he said he hoped she and his father never met, a small part of her had wondered if that was because he was somewhat ashamed of her. She had been wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Even if Benedict had wanted to keep her away from the earl because of shame over his marriage, she should have counted her blessings that she wouldn’t have to deal with Lord Stratford. Instead she had convinced herself that it was best to stand up to him, to assert their—her—independence from the tight control he had always exerted over his family. If Benedict had married her because her dowry freed him from the earl’s authority, she reasoned, shouldn’t he demonstrate that? Showing weakness only encouraged a bully.

  Instead the earl had schemed to lure her aboard his yacht so Clary could corner her about Olivia. Perhaps Stratford had been deceived about Clary’s true nature; perhaps there was some honorable reason he wished to speak to Olivia. But every other time Penelope had given the earl the benefit of the doubt, she’d been wrong, so she could only believe that Stratford was as ruthless as Clary.

  Tears leaked from her eyes and down her cheeks. She had contributed to this nightmare through her disregard for Benedict’s warnings, through her arrogance that she would know better how to deal with the earl than his son did, and through her own stubbornness in not telling anyone and everyone that Clary had assaulted her in the first place. What good was keeping her promise to Olivia if it led to her death—or worse, Benedict’s?

  She heard his footsteps coming back, and the lantern glow pierced the gloom. Hastily she wiped her cheeks, hoping her generally soaked state would hide them. The last thing she deserved now was any sympathy. But her guilt only grew worse as he lifted her to her feet and murmured words of comfort. He had found something stiff and musty to wrap around her, while he wore only his soaking wet shirt and trousers. When he assured her that she was not alone—now or ever—she knew he meant it. Penelope sensed that if she faltered, he would try to carry her and doom them both. She managed to get her arm around his shoulders and swore a silent oath to herself: she was going to make it up that hill, for Benedict if not for herself. She loved him too much to do any less.

  Whenever she felt herself slowing or began to think of suggesting they rest, she forced herself to make a smart comment. It made her feel better that Benedict would worry less about her if she seemed unaffected. But when they finally climbed a small rise and saw the house in front of them, she burst into tears.

  “I know, love, I know.” Benedict paused, letting them both rest. He held her face against his chest. “I told you we’d make it.”

  In spite of her tears she laughed a little. “It seemed a rum bet until now . . .”

  His arms tightened. “Then I suppose I just won, eh?” He tipped up her face and kissed her, long and deep. “I’ve never wanted to get you into bed more than I do this moment.”

  She gave another weak laugh. “And I’ve never been more eager to go! The only thing that might tempt me away from it would be a hot bath.”

  “If Vane has a tub that will hold both of us at once, I shall buy it from him immediately, hang the cost.” He kissed her once more. “Shall we?”

  Only by keeping her eyes fixed on the wide front door did Penelope stay on her feet. Almost there, she told herself with every step. Bene
dict was shivering now, although she had almost stopped. She hoped that was a good thing and refused to think about it anymore.

  Benedict had to bang on the door more than once before it opened. A puzzled woman looked at them. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Vane,” rasped Benedict. Penelope felt herself slipping from his grasp, but her hands wouldn’t work when she tried to hold on to him. “Her sister . . . nearly drowned . . .” The canvas fell away as she slid slowly toward the ground, and the wind felt like an icy knife. She just wanted to huddle on the ground and sleep.

  “Penelope!” Abigail’s scream cut off the rest of his explanation.

  She floated dimly through the next several minutes. There was a bustle of activity, and someone scooped her up and carried her inside and up a flight of stairs. “Ben,” she cried weakly, reaching out. Don’t leave me now, she wanted to beg. Come with me. Forgive me for not trusting you more.

  “Sebastian is with him.” Abigail was beside her, hurrying along to open the door for whoever held her. “Put her down, Mr. Jones, and see to Lord Atherton. What happened?” Her sister began stripping off what remained of her clothing as the door closed behind the man. “Penelope, wake up! Talk to me!”

  “What can I do?” another woman’s worried voice asked.

  “Bring more towels and put them by the fire.” Abigail was yanking at her boot, none too gently. “Prepare hot tea for both our guests and make up the bed down the hall. And fetch Mr. Vane’s hunting knife; her boots won’t come off.”

  She opened her eyes. “Ben—where is he?”

  “No doubt Sebastian has nearly bundled him into the fireplace by now.”

  “No! No, he mustn’t do anything to Benedict—” She struggled to sit up, but her sister held her down.

  “To get him warm, Pen.” Her voice gentled. “What happened?”

  Tears stung her eyes again. Now that Benedict couldn’t see her, she did nothing to check them. “We were on the yacht—Stratford’s yacht. He wanted us to go to Stratford Court. Benedict didn’t want to but I told him we should go for his mother’s sake . . .” Mrs. Jones returned, and Abigail began sawing at her boot laces. “Lord Clary was on the boat and he pushed me off. He wanted to know where Olivia was and I wouldn’t tell him so he pushed me into the river. And Benedict jumped in after me and then we had to swim and oh, Abby, the current is so strong.” She was sobbing so hard her sister probably couldn’t understand a word, but she had to get it out. “I didn’t know if we would make it and then we had to walk up the hill and I’m so, so tired, I don’t know if I can ever move again.”