It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “I don’t,” said Abigail. “It was just a shock to see a reserved man of property almost given the cut direct in Richmond.”

  Lucy leaned forward. “You saw him in town?”

  “At the bookshop,” Penelope answered. “He seemed mysterious and intriguing to me, but his behavior was ordinary.”

  “And yet Mrs. Driscoll was almost rude to him,” added Abigail. “It was striking, for he was very civil to her.”

  Lucy nodded in a knowing way. “When Mad Michael—­that’s what they called old Mr. Vane—­when he was in one of his fits, he tore off his clothes, right in the middle of Richmond, and attacked Mrs. Driscoll, shouting that she was the devil’s own handmaiden and was trying to lure him into hell. It took three men to drag him away from her, and she was quite bruised as a result. I don’t wonder that she avoids the son as well.”

  This time the look Penelope gave her wasn’t merely startled, but a little alarmed. Abigail ignored it. “That would be quite frightening,” she allowed, “but surely the younger Mr. Vane wasn’t party to it?”

  “Oh, it was before he’d returned from the war.”

  Penelope frowned. “Then why avoid him and treat him so coldly?”

  Lucy darted a glance at Lady Samantha. “He wasn’t so reserved when he first came home. He threatened to beat Sir Richard Arnold, and nearly did come to blows with other gentlemen.”

  “Over what?”

  Again Lucy hesitated. It was Lady Samantha who answered. “Old Mr. Vane sold off a great deal of his land. His son was rudely surprised when he came home.” She seemed about to say something else, but instead paused, and when she went on, seemed to choose her words with care. “I daresay any man would have felt the same, let alone a man who’d been gravely wounded and come home to find his father so unwell.”

  That fit with the picture forming in Abigail’s head. He’d been gone, unable to keep his father from hurting anyone or selling his land. Coming home wounded, only to be confronted by a parent sinking into madness and an estate suddenly gone . . . Surely it would make anyone lose his temper.

  Lady Samantha pushed back her chair. “You must excuse me, I need to stretch my legs a bit after that excellent picnic.”

  “Shall I walk with you?” Abigail started to rise, but Lady Samantha shook her head.

  “No, I’ll be back in a few minutes. I never miss the dessert course.” She headed up the lawn toward the house.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Lucy leaned forward. “Now that she’s gone, I can tell you the rest of what I know about Sebastian Vane.” Abigail’s stomach clenched in apprehension. “She doesn’t like to hear an ill word about him, but she’s the only one in her family. Mr. Vane used to be quite welcome at Stratford Court, but now his name is never spoken there. It’s true that old Mr. Vane sold off all his property; he positively beggared the estate. ­People suspect his son did away with him to put a stop to it before everything was gone.”

  “What really happened to Mr. Vane the elder?” Abigail asked.

  “No one knows!” Lucy nodded somberly at Abigail’s surprise. “He disappeared. No body was ever found, but the only ­people in the house were the housekeeper and her husband, and Mr. Vane the son. The son tried to have him declared dead, but since there was no body . . .” She shrugged. “All too easy to push a man into the river.”

  “But why?”

  “To get rid of a lunatic, of course, and to inherit.” She grimaced. “It must be so horrifying to have a madman in the family.”

  “If the father can’t be proven dead, the son wouldn’t be able to inherit,” Abigail pointed out.

  Lucy paused. “I suppose that’s true. Perhaps that’s why Mr. Vane turned to thievery.”

  “What?” exclaimed Penelope.

  Their guest nodded. “Soon after the father disappeared, a large sum of money went missing from Stratford Court. Well, Sebastian Vane had been heard having a loud argument with Lord Stratford just a few weeks earlier, during which he threatened to ‘make the earl pay.’ Those were his words. And then, when the money vanished . . .”

  Abigail frowned. “Was Mr. Vane arrested?”

  Lucy craned her neck, peering in the direction Lady Samantha had gone, then lowered her voice even more. “He was never arrested, and it was because of Samantha. You heard her say Mr. Vane used to be her brother’s friend. What she won’t tell is that he was also mad in love with her, before the war and all the trouble with his family. And she loved him, although it was a great secret because she was so young and he was only a gentleman while her father is an earl. Well, when he came home, I heard he went to Stratford Court and asked—­demanded!—­to marry her. Her dowry would have solved all his problems, don’t you see? But Lord Stratford refused, for obvious reasons, and that was why they quarreled so bitterly. It left Vane in desperate need of money, so he stole several thousand guineas from the earl. And he wasn’t arrested,” she added as Penelope opened her mouth to speak, “only because her brother Lord Atherton, who was once Vane’s friend, persuaded his father not to, for her sake.”

  Abigail regarded her doubtfully. “It seems very difficult to break into a house, steal a large sum of money, and escape without being caught, all with a shot-­up knee.”

  Lucy waved this aside. “But because he was so often there, he would have known exactly how to get in and find what he wanted. I think it’s very likely he did it.”

  “If he stole a lot of money,” asked Penelope, “why is he still bankrupt?”

  “I don’t know,” exclaimed Lucy. “Maybe he’s not, but just told ­people he is. It would add proof to the rumor, wouldn’t it, if he suddenly had plenty of money? Or maybe he was just too wily to spend it all at once. He might have it buried in his garden for all we know, and only digs up a few guineas when he needs them.”

  Penelope still looked unconvinced. “The Earl of Stratford must be a very devoted father, to overlook such a loss and allow the thief to freely walk the same streets as his daughter.”

  “Well, everyone believes he stole it,” said Lucy, almost defensively. “No one will extend him credit. I daresay no one thinks he’s likely to kill anyone else, but a thief will keep stealing. And I know this for a fact: Lord Atherton hasn’t spoken to Sebastian Vane since then. I heard they had a bitter falling out over Vane’s romance with Lady Samantha. Lord Stratford is an important man around here, and his favor matters. None of his family will even say Vane’s name.”

  Abigail cleared her throat. “Lady Samantha just did, and she was rather kind to him.”

  The other girl gave her a faintly pitying look. “Isn’t it obvious? She’s still in love with him. I daresay he’s still in love with her, too, and that’s why he never goes out. Could you imagine how cruel it would be to live so near your heart’s desire and know you were doomed never to have it? And she, of course, is forbidden to see him or speak to him, which must be why she’s never married even though she’s at least a year older than I am.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence. “Well,” said Penelope at last. “How melodramatic.”

  Lucy shook her head with a sad sigh. “Isn’t it? And she’s such a lovely girl and so sweet. It’s so dreadful to hear such tragic scandals connected to her name.”

  “But not too dreadful to repeat them,” said Penelope under her breath as she jumped to her feet. Fortunately their guest didn’t appear to hear. “Enough of that gloomy topic. Miss Walgrave, would you care to see the Fragrant Walk?”

  Lucy looked a little disappointed that the gossip was over. “I don’t want to trouble you . . .”

  “It would be no trouble at all.” Penelope summoned a gracious smile. “Come, you’ll adore it. My brother declares he’s never seen a more romantic spot in his life.”

  Miss Walgrave brightened. “Does he? Why, I must see it, then.”

  Abigail shot a grateful look at her siste
r as their guest gathered her shawl. She knew very well Penelope was luring the other girl away to give her time to digest that last shocking tidbit in peace. Her sister merely smiled and linked arms with Miss Walgrave, baldly lying about Jamie’s interest in the Fragrant Walk, which Abigail had never once heard him mention. It would serve him right if Penelope set every young lady in town on him; Jamie had refused to attend any of Mama’s entertainments, which had somehow only made him more appealing in the eyes of the local unmarried ladies.

  But it seemed Mr. Vane might have a different reason for avoiding social occasions. Good heavens; murder and thieving and a broken heart. Could he really be so in love with Lady Samantha after so many years that he couldn’t bear to see her? Abigail tried to consider it analytically and suppress any sort of unpleasant feeling. It was possible, she decided, although not very likely. If Mr. Vane really couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Lady Samantha even in passing on the street, he would do much better to sell his house and live somewhere else. It didn’t seem as though he had many friends in Richmond to exert any hold on him. And seven years was a long time to shut one’s self away from all society. Abigail allowed that she might be more passionate in her feelings than some, but she couldn’t imagine any unrequited infatuation being enough nourishment for her soul over the course of one year, let alone seven.

  The rest was much more serious, of course. Could he have killed his father? She didn’t want to believe that. Perhaps it had been an accident . . . She didn’t know what to make of the stolen money, but she had noticed that Miss Walgrave’s telling of that portion was couched more as supposition than fact. There must be more to the story, and she hated to convict a man based on gossip, especially from such an enthusiast as Miss Walgrave. She thought of the way Mr. Vane threw the charges in her face the other day. Surely only a man of ice-­cold blood and iron nerve could bring up his crimes in that way.

  She stood and headed toward the house, taking her time. Even if Miss Walgrave had been exaggerating, there was something in Lady Samantha’s demeanor that made Abigail think part of the story might have a germ of truth. Lady Samantha did grow pale every time Mr. Vane was mentioned. She defended him when everyone else seemed quite happy to malign him or ignore him. And there had been that look her sister, Lady Turley, gave her when Penelope first mentioned Mr. Vane at the Westons’ ball. It had been concern, as if Lady Turley feared for Lady Samantha’s well-­being. For a moment Abigail wished she could see Lady Samantha and Mr. Vane together, to judge any attachment, and then she decided she didn’t actually want to see that.

  She was so deep in her thoughts, she almost missed Lady Samantha. The earl’s daughter stood on the very edge of the terrace, her back to the river. Above the roof of Hart House, over the trees, Montrose Hill House was clearly visible in the distance. In the warm sunlight, the faded brick was a soft pink, the regular rows of windows gleaming like silver among the vines that climbed one side. From here it looked gracious and comfortable, the quintessential English house.

  Almost as soon as Abigail spied her, Lady Samantha abandoned her study and resumed walking toward the picnic. She caught sight of Abigail and stopped, a faintly rueful smile on her face. “Miss Weston. I didn’t realize Montrose Hill was so near to Hart House.”

  “It’s not, really. My father paid a call and said it must be nearly two miles. The hill makes it look closer.”

  “Ah. I’m glad your father called on Mr. Vane.” Lady Samantha bit her lip. “You must have noticed that Lucy’s chatter was . . .”

  “A bit gleeful in its scandalousness?”

  “Yes.” The other girl’s eyes darkened. “I wish she wouldn’t repeat every shocking little thing she hears.”

  “It smacks of unfairness,” Abigail agreed. “Whatever Mr. Vane’s family troubles, it’s horrible to whisper of murder about him.”

  “He used to be a very eligible young man. He still would be, most likely, if only . . .” Lady Samantha stopped and forced a smile. “If only idle neighbors like us would stop talking about him! I’m no better than Lucy, am I?”

  “You are far kinder to Mr. Vane,” said Abigail quietly. “And since you were acquainted with him at one time, I credit your words much more than Miss Walgrave’s.”

  Lady Samantha hesitated. “I knew Mr. Vane a very long time ago,” she said at last. “Even I wouldn’t suppose I know what sort of man he is today, and I shouldn’t talk of him as if I do. Perhaps you’ll form an entirely different opinion.”

  “Perhaps,” Abigail agreed.

  She certainly intended to try.

  Chapter 8

  On the next fine day, Abigail went to the kitchen and asked for a luncheon packed in a basket. She wore her favorite walking dress, the one that made her eyes look a little blue, and a plain straw bonnet. She carried the book she’d bought the other day in town. When her mother stopped her on the terrace and asked where she was going, Abigail replied, innocently, “I’m going for a walk, and if I find a convenient spot to read, I have a new novel.”

  Her mother wasn’t suspicious. “Very well. Don’t go too far, dear, and be back in time for supper.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Abigail smiled and headed for the woods.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t make it far. “Where are you going?” Penelope asked, passing her in the garden.

  “For a walk.”

  “Oh, I fancy a walk,” said her sister.

  “It’s going to be long and quiet.”

  “There’s nothing else to do,” replied Penelope. “Let me get my pelisse.”

  “I plan to walk until I find a cozy spot to read.” Abigail pulled the book out of the basket and held it up. “You’ll be bored.”

  Penelope flipped one hand. “I’m already bored. You can read anytime. Don’t be so dull, Abby! I’ll just be a moment.” She hurried into the house.

  Abigail huffed. She glanced around. All was quiet and peaceful at Hart House, with a gentle breeze from the river and a sunny sky overhead. Penelope was probably bored out of her mind, but her company was the last thing Abigail wanted right now. She intended to walk through the woods in search of the grotto, and if she happened across Mr. Vane’s path, she wouldn’t be disappointed. She was wildly curious to know if he truly meant to avoid her, or if he felt the same inexplicable pull she did. Even though she told herself there was only a slim chance he would happen to be walking in the woods at the same time she was, on the same paths—­especially after saying he would avoid the woods—­there was no denying the anticipation that quickened her step.

  Or rather, had quickened her step until her sister interrupted. Really, why should she suffer because her sister couldn’t find someone else to torment? If Penelope would adopt an interest in something like needlework or practicing the pianoforte, she wouldn’t be bored at all. It would also restore her to their mother’s good graces, something Penelope ought to consider more important. Abigail pursed her lips, and started walking again—­not quickly, but not slowly, either.

  “You didn’t wait for me,” complained her sister breathlessly when she caught up several minutes later.

  “You took too long.”

  Penelope snorted. “You’re walking out to look for him, aren’t you? I cannot believe you would scheme to slip off and meet a mysterious and possibly dangerous gentleman without me.”

  “I have no expectation of meeting anyone,” said Abigail, keeping her eyes on the path ahead of her. “I told you I intend to read.”

  “And you just happened to be wearing a bonnet that flatters your face and your favorite dress.” Penelope smirked.

  “Yes, I plead guilty to wearing my favorite dress,” said Abigail dryly. “That must be a sign of ill intent!”

  “I don’t blame you,” her sister remarked. “I’d like to meet the smoldering Mr. Vane as well.”

  Abigail just sighed and shook her head. There was no deterring her sister so
metimes.

  “You’re not worried he might kill you in the woods?”

  “No!”

  Penelope laughed. “Or steal from you?”

  “He’d only get a book and a basket of food.” She glanced at her sister. “You don’t believe those rumors?”

  Penelope snorted. “If you’d walked to the Fragrant Walk with Lucy Walgrave, you’d doubt every word that came from her lips, too. I like a good gossip myself, but only if it seems plausible.”

  Abigail grinned. “I suppose some of it was plausible . . .”

  “Do you think he really is dying of love for Lady Samantha?”

  Her grin disappeared. “Seven years seems a long time to pine for someone.”

  “True,” conceded Penelope. “Any lover worth his salt would have kidnapped her to Gretna Green by now.”

  “Or perhaps Miss Walgrave’s report is outlandish in every respect,” Abigail retorted. “Lady Samantha seems old enough to have done something by now if she loved him and knew he loved her. I certainly would have, at any rate.”

  “Really,” murmured her sister with a speculative glance. “Is that why we’re walking about the woods?”

  “No.” Abigail kicked a loose stone from the path. “I am walking in the woods because I like them; they are cool and quiet and free of chattering busybodies—­usually. You are walking in the woods because you are a pest.”

  Penelope was immune to such criticism. “There are much better places to read on the lawn or the terrace, and you know it. If you’re not walking out in hopes of meeting Mr. Vane, there must be something else you want to see.” She narrowed her eyes and studied Abigail closely for a few minutes. “The grotto,” she said at last.

  “I’m surprised it took you that long to guess. But Pen”—­she stopped and turned to her sister in all seriousness—­“don’t tell Mama. She wouldn’t think it ladylike to go in search of a cave.”