Then she mentioned Samantha and Benedict, and he remembered everything. He remembered everything he had lost, and every reason that he would never have more of Abigail Weston than a chance meeting in town or in the woods. He knew he ought to regret inviting her to walk anywhere she wanted, but some part of him was too selfish to do that. Just a glimpse, now and then, would do no harm. Sooner or later someone would warn her away from him, and then it wouldn’t matter what he did.
Still, for some reason he lingered at the counter. He had no right to her attention. The less he knew about her, the better. But knowing wasn’t the same as acting. And she’d bought something very intriguing . . .
“Have you changed your mind?” asked Mrs. Driscoll curtly. She swept his coins up as though she feared he would take them back.
“Yes.” He gave her a steady look as he pulled out another coin, even though he could ill afford to spend it. “I would like a copy of that pamphlet.”
Her eyes narrowed warily. “What pamphlet?”
“The one you just sold. Fifty Ways to Sin.”
Chapter 5
Abigail’s curiosity about Mr. Vane, which had been considerable to begin with, waxed feverish after the encounter in the bookshop. That brief glimpse of animation tormented her. It made her think he wasn’t a recluse by nature, but by choice, either his own or one forced upon him. Mrs. Driscoll had been almost rude to him, even though he spoke to her quite civilly. What had happened to make a respectable proprietress all but shun a local landowner? Where was that lost grotto, the one whose discovery had made him feel intrepid? And why had mention of Lady Samantha and her brother doused the light in his eyes? She was so consumed by that question she completely forgot to ask Penelope for the troublesome copy of 50 Ways to Sin.
She paid close attention to the local gossip relayed by the ladies who came to call on Mama. She had always listened to gossip, and enjoyed some of it exceedingly, but now she gathered every word like a possible clue to the mysterious neighbor.
Sadly, no one else seemed as interested in him as she was. Even Penelope moved on to more fertile topics, like which eligible young men might retire to Richmond for the summer, a topic that was obviously near and dear to their mother’s heart as well. Eligible young men were discussed at every opportunity, with every lady who came to call on Mrs. Weston. At first Abigail thought this would be sufficient; sooner or later his name was bound to come up. It never did. No one seemed to consider Mr. Vane eligible, which only threw Abigail into deeper puzzlement. Why wouldn’t he be? Contrary to his vague warnings about his unsuitability, he was a handsome gentleman of property—but no one mentioned him.
But finally, one day while she was helping her mother sort embroidery silks, the butler came into the room and announced, to her astonishment, “Mr. Sebastian Vane to see you, madam.”
“Ah!” Mama smiled in delight, running one hand over Milo’s fur. “At last. Do show him in, Thomson.”
Abigail sat mute with shock and unexpected alarm. He was here himself! She hadn’t expected that, after the way he refused to call. It might be a heaven-sent opportunity to sort him out. But he also knew her little secret, about 50 Ways to Sin, and there was no way for her to intercept him before he met Mama. He might not know it was a secret. He might disapprove and be bent on telling Mama. He might have decided she had questionable judgment or morals. She wished there was any way at all she could rush into the hall and have a quick word with him, but then she realized she didn’t know what to say anyway. Please don’t tell my mother I bought a naughty story? Somehow that didn’t seem like a good idea.
Slowly she got to her feet as the door opened once more. She heard a measured step, with just a hint of tap indicating a cane, and then he stepped through the door. His hair was brushed back, and he wore a deep blue coat, and Abigail felt the strangest urge to run to him and stand at his side.
“Mr. Vane!” Mama went to him, her hand outstretched. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance at last. Thank you for coming.”
“I ought to have done so sooner, Mrs. Weston, to welcome you to Richmond.” He bowed over her hand.
She smiled. “Nonsense! I put little stock in trivial formalities. Come, Abigail, greet our neighbor, since you’ve already made his acquaintance.” Mama beckoned her toward them.
“Good day, Mr. Vane.” She curtsied. He bowed, his deep brown eyes never veering from her face. “How kind of you to call.”
Abigail wished she could read his thoughts; his expression gave away nothing even though he studied her so intently, it seemed he must want to say something. “Good day, Miss Weston,” he said after a small pause. “I trust you are well?”
Now that you’ve come. She blushed at the unbidden thought. “Very well, sir, thank you.”
“I am glad to hear it.” He hesitated again, that intense gaze seeming to caress every inch of her face. “I’m very pleased to be so welcome.”
“Of course!” Mama resumed her seat on the sofa and waved one hand at the opposite chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Vane. May I offer you some tea?”
“Thank you.” He lowered himself with only the slightest tensing of his jaw. Abigail realized he had propped the cane against the back of the chair and walked around it unaided. She sat on the other end of the sofa, offering Milo a piece of rope James had knotted into a toy for him. The puppy took it between his paws and settled down on the cushion, happily chewing away.
“You own Montrose Hill, do you not?” Mama prepared a cup of tea and handed it to him. “We have a fine view of the house from the lawn, and I have often admired it.”
“Yes.” He glanced around the room. “I might say the same about Hart House. It looked so lonely after Lady Burton’s death. I’m glad to see it bright with life again.”
Mama smiled. “Thank you, sir. My husband assured me it would be an ideal refuge from London, and I must confess he was entirely correct.”
Mr. Vane nodded. He still hadn’t smiled, and aside from that moment of almost intimate appraisal, he hadn’t looked at Abigail, either. “I’ve lived here my entire life, ma’am, and have always found it preferable to town.”
“As do I,” Abigail put in, determined not to be ignored. “It’s so peaceful.”
He barely glanced at her. “Indeed, Miss Weston.”
“I owe you a great thanks for saving my dear Milo, Mr. Vane. Abigail told me how you rescued him from the woods.” Mama scratched her pet’s chin, and he gave a little yap before tearing at the rope again. “I don’t know what I would have done had he been lost.”
“I merely pulled him from the brambles, Mrs. Weston. Your daughter deserves more credit for his rescue. She tracked him into the woods.” Still unsmiling and grave, he darted a glance toward Abigail.
“And she was very pleased not to have to chase him further.” Mama’s tone was light as she petted her dog, but her eyes were sharp and inquisitive as she looked at Abigail, as if she could sense her daughter’s tension. “It spared her favorite gown, I understand.”
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “I’m very grateful. We could have found a new dog, but that dress was one of a kind.”
Her mother gasped in affected outrage. “Milo, don’t believe a word!” The puppy wagged his tail at the sound of his name. “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“I trust the pup suffered no harm from his adventure,” said Mr. Vane.
“None that a brisk bath couldn’t cure,” Mama assured him.
“Mr. Vane suggested you cut his coat, Mama, so he wouldn’t get caught in any thorn bushes.” Abigail watched him as she spoke. His eyes were trained on the cursed little dog, still gnawing on a knot almost as large as his own head. She was completely perplexed. Had he really just come to pay his respects to Mama, as a neighbor? If his manners prompted him to that, why did he refuse to tell her his name the night they met? He seemed determined to ignore her,
barely looking at her and replying dismissively to her conversation.
“Cut his coat! Oh, he’s such a handsome dog with his fur long,” Mama protested. “We’ll just keep a close eye on him from now on, and not let him run through the woods.”
Milo, who had been absorbed in chewing his rope toy, suddenly sprang up on the sofa. His ears stood up, his fur bristled, and a little growl rumbled in his throat. He barked a moment before the butler tapped at the door. “Mrs. Huntley, madam,” Thomson announced.
“Do show her in,” said Mama. “Hush, Milo.” The puppy sank down on the cushion, his dark little eyes fixed on the door.
Mr. Vane was already on his feet. His cup of tea was back on the table—untouched, Abigail realized. “It was a pleasure, Mrs. Weston,” he said, reaching for his cane. “I shan’t keep you.”
Mama looked startled. “Why, no—do stay and finish your tea, sir.”
“Thank you, no; I must be going.” He bowed and turned, looking for all the world like he wanted to run out the door, but it opened before he got there, and Thomson ushered in Mrs. Huntley.
Anne Huntley was the wife of a gentleman who owned a large house near the gates of Richmond Park. It was rumored that his family was descended from a favorite retainer of King Charles II, who had granted the land himself. Since Mrs. Huntley herself had told them this rumor, Abigail supposed it was true, as well as a mark of the woman’s pride. For some reason she and Mama had struck up a friendship very easily, but Milo didn’t like her. Every time she called, the little dog barked until Mama had him taken away.
This time was no different—Milo erupted in a fury of yipping as soon as the woman stepped into the room— but more striking was the reaction of Mr. Vane and Mrs. Huntley to the sight of each other.
Mrs. Huntley gasped and clapped one hand to her bosom, stopping in her tracks.
Mr. Vane, his face more stony than ever, bowed very formally. Without another word he left.
Mama, still trying to calm Milo, didn’t notice. But Abigail could have sworn Mrs. Huntley drew away from his approach as if he had the plague. She was now the second person who had looked at Mr. Vane as though she smelled brimstone in his presence.
Impulsively, she scooped up Milo from the sofa. “I’ll take him outside so you can enjoy Mrs. Huntley’s visit,” she told her mother, and without waiting for permission, she rushed out. “Hush, dog,” she muttered to Milo as she hurried toward the hall. How could Mr. Vane have made it so far, so quickly? He walked with a cane, while she was practically running. By the time she had snatched a lead from the hook behind the door, Mr. Vane was already striding down the drive.
“Mr. Vane,” she called. His stride hesitated only a moment, and he didn’t look back. Cursing under her breath, Abigail slipped the lead over Milo’s head and put him down. Now that he was away from Mrs. Huntley, he had stopped barking, and trotted along eagerly enough as she hurried after the mysterious man. “Mr. Vane!”
He only stopped when she caught up to him. “Yes, Miss Weston?”
“You left so suddenly,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I hope Milo didn’t cause it.” The little pest was sniffing around his boots, with no sign of the frenzy that had gripped him just a few minutes ago. Now that she thought about it, Milo barked at most everyone except Mr. Vane.
He looked down at Milo. “No.”
“I hope you didn’t leave because of me,” she dared to say.
“Why would you think that?” He glanced at her, then back at the dog. “Nothing of the sort.”
“You seem determined to avoid looking at me,” she said softly. “If I’ve done something to offend—”
“You haven’t.” He stepped over Milo and continued walking. Abigail realized he had come on foot from Montrose Hill. Excellent; that gave her more time to draw him out.
“But you are avoiding me.” She kept pace with him, Milo at her heels.
“No,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I never intended to stay long; your other visitor barely hastened my departure.”
“Yes, and I’m so anxious to hear all about Mr. Huntley’s illustrious roots,” she muttered. “For once I agree with Milo.”
Her companion made a noise like a faint snort.
“I think you agree with him, too,” she said, encouraged. “I gather Mrs. Huntley was the reason you left so quickly.”
He sighed. “If I didn’t go, she would have, and that would have been uncomfortable for your mother. I had expressed my niceties, so I took my leave.”
“Why on earth would she have left?” Abigail thought it was better to pretend she hadn’t noticed the antipathy between them. “You aren’t so fearsome as all that, sir.”
He slanted a look at her. “How would you know?”
Abigail tilted her head and met his gaze thoughtfully. “You just aren’t. Not in my opinion.”
He stopped walking. “And your opinion is infallible?”
“Of course not!” She laughed. “I never said so. But I expect I’m more fearsome than you, as you look like you want to run the other way every time we meet.”
And again his mouth softened. It was the only change in his face, but it had a remarkable effect. “How do you know what I want?”
“You wouldn’t tell me your name the first night we met,” she pointed out. “You started to duck back out the door when you saw me in the bookshop. Today you barely glanced my way, even when I spoke directly to you. What conclusion would you draw, if you were in my place?”
For a long moment he just regarded her in silence. Abigail met his gaze without flinching, ignoring the little jerks on the lead as Milo tried to wander away. “Yes,” he said at last. “You are correct. I do want to run the other way when I see you.”
“Why?” She hurried to keep up as he walked on, more briskly than before. “What have I done?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he said, adding under his breath, “and I pray it stays that way.”
“Then what ought I to do?” They were making good progress down the road. She had run out without a shawl or a bonnet, and had to squint against the sun when she looked up at him.
“Absolutely nothing,” he repeated. “For your own sake.”
“But if I’ve been doing nothing and it disgusts you, it makes no sense that I continue doing nothing.”
He paused. “You don’t disgust me.” He pointed past her with his cane. “There is the path to my home. Pardon me, Miss Weston.”
She let him pass, but kept dogging his heels, dragging poor Milo in her wake. “If I don’t disgust you, why won’t you speak to me? There was only that one moment, when you told me about the lost grotto, when I felt we were cordial.”
He heaved a soundless sigh. “I’m speaking to you now, aren’t I?”
“Without saying anything,” she grumbled. “We are neighbors, sir. Surely we can have an amiable relationship.”
With unexpected speed and grace he whirled on her. Abigail nearly tripped as she leapt back once, then again until her back hit a tree as he stalked toward her. He loomed over her, so close she could see the lines around his eyes, but not so close he was touching her. “Amiable,” he whispered. “We will never be amiable.”
“Why n-not?” she stammered. Her heart was beating a tattoo inside her chest.
He smiled, but there was nothing light about it. It was a black and bitter expression, and the sight made her eyes grow wide. “Because I am a wicked man, Miss Weston. Don’t you listen to the gossip? Madness runs in my family. My estate is utterly ruined. People call me a thief. They even say I killed my father. Ask anyone in town, and they’ll warn you to stay far, far away from me. To a beautiful, innocent young woman, I might as well be the devil incarnate.”
“Did you kill your father?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Abigail wished them back.
“What do you think?
” he asked in the same soft, dangerous tone.
She frowned. “I doubt it.”
“But you don’t know. That should warn you to run away.”
She stared at him. “You intrigue me.”
He leaned closer. In confusion she closed her eyes. “And you intrigue me,” he replied, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. “That’s why I avoid you.”
“Isn’t that all the more reason not to avoid someone?” she asked unsteadily. She could smell his shaving soap and a fresh scent that put her in mind of a sun-drenched field. This was attraction, potent and primitive and reckless.
He shuddered. “Not in this case.” She forced her eyes open. His face was still taut and tense, but his eyes were dark with longing. Slowly he reached up one hand, as if he would touch her cheek, but at the last moment he let it fall.
“Why did you come today, if you mean to avoid me?” She had no idea what she was doing, arguing with a man who baldly admitted he wanted to run the other way when he saw her . . . even though she intrigued him.
He stepped back. “Foolishness.”
She didn’t move. “Will you show me the grotto, before you begin ignoring me forever?”
“No.”
“Then I shall have to find it on my own.” She eased away from the tree. “You did give me permission to walk in the woods. Do you mean to rescind that?”
He looked like he very much wanted to say yes. “No.”
“Very well then.” She stepped closer to him, thrilling at the way his eyes darkened even more and his breathing hitched. He did find her intriguing. Abigail had heard enough rumor and innuendo in her life to discount at least half of anything the gossips said. She hadn’t heard enough about Sebastian Vane—yet—to decide what she thought of it in his case, but the edge in his voice when he threw the rumors in her face hinted at a man more wronged than wicked. She’d get to the bottom of that later, but for now . . . “I intend to search every inch of these woods until I find it.”
It Takes a Scandal Page 6
