It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “But there doesn’t seem to be evidence,” she pointed out. “Otherwise he’d have been arrested, don’t you think?”

  Papa didn’t look pleased by her response. “Lack of proof doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

  “It can hardly mean he’s guilty, either.”

  That seemed to please him even less. For a long moment he said nothing, but appeared to be thinking hard, judging from the furrows on his brow. “It’s one thing to suffer some disdain over your origins,” he said at last, “and another to suffer it because of your own actions. Have you thought what it would mean for your standing, if you encourage this man? Your sister’s teasing aside, I did hope to raise my family up by purchasing Hart House. I know you and Penelope are snubbed by some merely for the circumstances of my birth, but I have very high hopes for both of you.”

  “I don’t care about the opinion of those ­people,” she tried to say, but he shook his head.

  “You don’t care because you’ve been insulated from most consequences. It’s crass to speak of it, but the truth is that money has made the difference. Even ­people who shudder at the thought of their sons dancing with an attorney’s daughter will grit their teeth and smile when that attorney’s daughter is an heiress. I know you are much, much more than that,” he added at her expression. “But not everyone does. Have you any idea what they will say if you attach yourself to a man of even worse reputation and no fortune?”

  It took her a moment to master her voice. “Anyone who would condemn a man—­or a woman—­simply because of his fortune, or misfortune, is a fool!”

  “Abigail.” He put his hand on her arm. “You’re not chasing after this man, are you?”

  She blushed. “No!” Not really. Was she?

  His close scrutiny didn’t let up. “You’ve got a sensible head on your shoulders, and I find it hard to believe you’d do something like that. If any of my children gave me trouble in that way, I always thought it would be Penelope,” he said, making her smile a little uncomfortably. “Your mother would box my ears if I didn’t listen to your preference in choosing a husband, but she’d also be horror-­struck if you threw yourself away on a scoundrel. I’m willing to reserve judgment of Vane where rumor and gossip are concerned, but you know as well as I that there’s no smoke without some fire. If I come to believe he’s capable of anything remotely like what ­people say—­”

  “They say his dog is a witch’s familiar, Papa.” She raised her brows. “I’ve met that dog, and it’s as much a witch’s pet as Milo is.”

  His lips twitched. “He did teach that damned rat a useful trick.”

  “Mr. Vane’s reputation is not, I believe, based on his character or his actions,” she said softly. “I hope you trust me more than to think I would discount that.”

  “And what, precisely, have his actions been toward you?” He folded his arms and cocked his head.

  Abigail swallowed. “Measured, Papa. Polite but wary. He wouldn’t tell me his name the night he saved Milo, and he warned me himself about his reputation. If he’s a fortune hunter, he’s doing a very poor job of it, at least with regard to me. Lady Samantha told me he was once an eligible young man in Richmond, before he came home wounded from the war to find his father gone mad. I saw Mrs. Driscoll treat him with near-­contempt and impatience, and he endured it without a flicker of anger. I think he’s accustomed to being treated with apprehension and disapproval, and has simply withdrawn to avoid it. Wouldn’t you, if ­people said such awful things about you? I—­I think he is a decent gentleman acting to preserve his dignity.”

  “Perhaps so.” Papa shook his head. “I hope so. I admit he doesn’t seem like a villain. But Abigail—­” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I said I would reserve judgment, not acquit him entirely. Take care your feelings and wishes don’t blind you to his faults.”

  “I won’t,” she promised. No man was without fault. She was sensible enough to remember that.

  She just couldn’t believe Sebastian’s faults included murder and robbery.

  Chapter 13

  Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure what his visit to Hart House had gained him, but he was glad he’d gone—­and that astonished him.

  The last seven years had been about endurance, as everything he’d once counted on had been stripped away. He’d learned to cope with a lame leg, a meager income, the solitude of being a pariah. The whispered charges of patricide and thieving stung, though there was nothing he could do about them, and eventually he grew a hard shell of indifference. It was lonely, but it enabled him to survive.

  But now there was Abigail. Not only was she undaunted by his attempts to warn her away, she persisted in trying to know him. She asked what his father had been like, before, rather than focusing on the scandal surrounding his disappearance. Sebastian hadn’t thought of those long-­ago happy days with his brilliant, eccentric, exciting father in years. She felt the same irresistible attraction he felt. She was kind and patient enough to forgive his cruel parting the first time at the grotto. And Sebastian began to feel that he would be a very great idiot if he ignored this chance.

  But he had treated her badly, and there was only so much he could do to atone. A book wasn’t enough, even though there was no one to whom he’d rather give one of his few remaining mementos of his mother, and he thought—­hoped—­Abigail would appreciate it. Fifty Ways to Sin had been a last-­minute addition, and one he worried about, but that, too, had pleased her. Clearing the grotto had yielded greater benefits than he’d expected, thanks to the mural. She’d likened it to buried treasure, but to his mind, the real treasure had been the way she held his hand and professed her faith in him.

  Abigail had split a crack right through the hard shell around his heart. Just seeing her made his heart lurch, and touching her set his blood roaring through his veins. But kissing her . . . Kissing her stripped away every notion that he should—­or could—­avoid her, and left him only with the insatiable desire to see her again.

  And that meant he had to force himself out of his hermetical ways and call on her. London ladies expected gentlemen to call on them. Abigail had invited him herself, more than once. Calling on her would be another chance to see her—­and another chance to please her. Although his first visit to Hart House hadn’t gone well, he acknowledged with some reluctance that it might have been his fault. He’d acted on instinct when Anne Huntley, a notorious gossip, arrived, but perhaps his abrupt departure had only served to make him look as reclusive and guilty as the towns­people called him.

  So he went to Hart House, not entirely certain that he would be welcome. It would have been far easier to remain as he was and not risk exposing himself to further disdain. But if he wanted any chance at all of more than a few furtive kisses in the grotto, he would have to win Abigail’s father’s approval. And although the visit was cordial and pleasant, he sensed Thomas Weston would demand more of him than drinking tea and teaching a lapdog a few tricks.

  Unfortunately he had no idea what he could do. Sebastian was well aware of his disadvantages. If he’d had any idea how he could repair his reputation and his fortune, he would have already done it.

  And then a letter arrived, almost like a gift from God. Mrs. Jones brought it into the kitchen one morning, where Sebastian was working on the broken mechanism of the spit jack. “This just arrived by messenger,” she said.

  “Oh?” Sebastian put down his tools and took it. Letters were rare, with the most frequent missives coming from his maternal grandmother. Those came only once a year, though, so this must be something else. He broke the seal and unfolded it.

  “Is it bad news, sir?” Mrs. Jones asked a few minutes later, as he was still sitting in stunned silence.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “No.” He looked up at her. “My uncle’s dead.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear it,” she exclaimed. “Mr. Henry Vane?”

 
“Yes.” Sebastian didn’t know what to say. He’d barely known Uncle Henry, who was several years younger than his father. Henry had been ambitious and freethinking, determined to seek his fortune and see the world; no estate in England would hold him, he’d declared more than once, and he proved it, joining the navy and sailing as a ship’s purser. Every other year or so he would come to Montrose Hill to regale them with his tales from the seas, and then his plans for making his fortune in trade in the East Indies. Sebastian remembered watching his uncle ride away at the end of his last visit, some ten years ago, feeling a bit envious. Part of his desire to join the army had sprung from that envy; he would have joined the navy but for his father pleading with him to remain on dry ground.

  After the war, Sebastian had tried to contact his uncle, desperate for any guidance on how to address his father’s deepening madness. Henry’s reply had been kind but distant, saying that his affairs in India had taken a turn for the worse and he was unable to offer any help. The last Sebastian had heard from his uncle had been a brief letter of condolence in response to word of Michael Vane’s disappearance and presumed death.

  But now his uncle was dead, too, and Sebastian could hardly comprehend what the letter conveyed. Due to the great distance involved, it had taken some time for word of Henry’s death to reach his solicitor in England. And when the solicitor executed Uncle Henry’s will . . .

  “I am writing to inform you that under the terms of your uncle’s will, the entirety of his estate has descended to you, as his closest living relative,” wrote Mr. Black, the Bristol solicitor. “If you will reply by post at your convenience, we may arrange a transfer of the funds and some few items of property, primarily family mementos, which Mr. Vane left in my care.”

  He didn’t list the amount, but he didn’t need to. Anything would be a godsend at this point. Sebastian’s mind whirled. He doubted it was a great fortune, but it might be enough to ease his debts. It probably wouldn’t allow him to repurchase any of his lost lands, but if he were no longer scraping for every farthing . . .

  He wouldn’t be a penniless suitor.

  “I have to go to Bristol,” he said abruptly, climbing to his feet.

  Mrs. Jones’s eyebrows went up, and then comprehension dawned in her face. “Oh, indeed? Is there some good news as well?”

  “Yes.” He smiled morosely. “Even the good news comes on the heels of sad tidings.”

  “Well, if anyone’s been due a little good news, it’s you, sir,” she replied loyally. “No matter what heels it comes on. I’ll have Mr. Jones fetch a valise and see to hiring a chaise.”

  Sebastian went up the stairs toward his bedchamber to pack, then paused in the corridor. He had moved into the room closest to the top of the stairs after the war, when his injured leg ached so badly, every step saved was priceless. He had stayed there after his leg healed because it let him keep closer track of his father, who once tried to sneak out of the house after midnight with some gunpowder and a hammer, rambling about a brilliant plan to create lightning in the stable.

  But now he looked down the corridor, toward the large master chamber and the adjoining bedroom that had been his mother’s so long ago. It was dim down that way; all the doors had been closed for years, and the windows were no doubt coated in dust.

  Slowly he walked down the corridor, his cane seeming to echo more loudly than usual. At his father’s door he paused again, then gently opened it.

  The finer furnishings had been sold, and what remained had been stripped of any fabrics. The rug was gone, taken out so no rodents would ruin it. The bare windows were hazy with dirt but allowed the blaze of the afternoon sun into the room through the bars that still covered them. Sebastian took a deep breath, catching the faintest whiff of camphor. His father had suffered from an inflammation of the lungs before he disappeared, and Mrs. Jones had used the camphor liberally to ease Michael Vane’s breathing. For a moment he felt again the grief of watching his father waste away, the alarm of having to restrain him, and the shame of thinking, in weaker moments, that it would be a mercy when his father died.

  He walked through the room and opened the door into the adjoining bedroom, where his mother had slept. She’d died when he was only a child, and his father had used her room as his private study after that. Eleanor Vane’s room was as barren as Sebastian’s memory was of her, devoid even of furniture. Only the wall coverings offered any clue to the woman who had once lived here. Wreaths of delicately painted vines and flowers ornamented the light blue paper, and when Sebastian looked closely, he could see tiny figures on swings beneath some wreaths, whimsical little creatures forever caught in a moment of artless joy. It was a small sign that there had once been love and happiness at Montrose Hill, and somehow the fact that they had survived seemed to hint that there would be again, someday.

  For the first time he thought about bringing a bride to Montrose Hill.

  Abigail looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching, and smiled in surprise. “Boris!” She put aside her book and scratched the dog’s ears, glancing hopefully down the path behind him. “You’re not out by yourself, are you, boy?”

  “No.” Sebastian came around the bend in the path. “Although if he were, I’d look for him right here.”

  “Here?” She grinned, reaching into her basket for a treat for the dog, who instantly sat and regarded her expectantly. “Have I discovered his favorite spot in the woods?”

  “His favorite spot is at your feet,” said Sebastian dryly. “He is your devoted servant.”

  “I’m always ready with a bribe.” She fed Boris a piece of cheese. “I wonder how you’d like a bit of sausage.”

  “Don’t,” said his master at once. He came to a stop in front of her and looked down at his dog, who completely ignored him. Boris’s eyes were trained on Abigail as he licked his chops for every last trace of cheese. “He’d never go home with me again if you fed him sausage.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t be allowed inside Hart House, where Milo rules over all. You wouldn’t like that at all,” she told Boris. “He’s a terrible pest, that Milo.”

  Sebastian just grinned, and Abigail’s heart skipped a beat. “You seem happy today,” she said on impulse. “It suits you.”

  He tilted his head and looked at her without any of the reserve that usually filled his face. That reserve had fascinated her and intrigued her, but Abigail realized she liked this side of him even better. “I might be,” he said.

  “Oh?” She arched one brow. “I hope you decide you are.”

  “I’ve had some news.”

  “Good news, I hope,” she prompted when he said no more.

  “I’m not sure, but it requires me to go away for a few days.”

  “I see,” she murmured. “I hope it turns out well . . .”

  He lifted one shoulder. “It involves someone I hardly knew. But I wanted to see you before I left, and lo, Boris did, too.” He nudged the dog with one boot, but the animal stayed put, lying at Abigail’s feet.

  “Is he going with you?”

  “No. I’ll tell Mrs. Jones to let him out. Perhaps he’ll find you in the woods.”

  “Will you be back in time to attend my mother’s barge excursion?” Abigail knew from the look on his face what the answer would be. She tried not to feel disappointed; a man couldn’t help it when something required him to go away.

  “Unfortunately not. I shall send her a note with my regrets.” He sat on the log beside her, just far enough away to keep from touching her.

  “I’m sure she’ll be very sorry to hear it.” Abigail broke off another bite of cheese for Boris, who nipped it delicately from her fingers and rested his big head on her knee, gazing up at her in soulful adoration. “Is it a long journey?”

  “To Bristol.”

  Abigail nodded. At least two days’ journey. “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow. I
t’s been a while since I traveled.” He stretched out his left leg and frowned at it. “Not since I came back from the war in a miller’s cart, now that I think about it.”

  Abigail gasped, thinking of being jolted about like a sack of flour, let alone with a severely injured leg. “A miller’s cart!”

  He shrugged. “The army’s got little use for a man with a shattered leg. And the longer one remains under an army doctor’s eye, the more likely they are to want to cut off a bad limb. I scraped together some funds and took myself off as soon as I reached English soil.” He paused. “I’d just learned of my father’s condition as well, and needed to go home. A miller’s cart served my purpose.”

  She bit her lip. “I hope you’re able to make a more comfortable journey this time.”

  He grimaced. “I expect so! At least there’s a happier prospect at the end of this one.”

  “Oh?” She glanced at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. He was being very coy about it, but there was a subtle hum of excitement about him that she wasn’t used to seeing. What news was taking him away? Had he found some way to reclaim his property? Had he inherited a fortune? She was dying to know but held her tongue.

  He grinned, sending her heart soaring. It must be good news—­even if he wouldn’t tell her, she felt a happy thrill that something had pleased him so much. “You must forgive me for being vague,” he said, as if he could read her thoughts. “I don’t entirely know what it betides for me, but I have hopes it might be happy.”

  “I hope so, too!” She beamed at him.

  His own smile lingered as his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I have very high hopes,” he murmured, shifting his weight toward her. “Will you kiss me for luck?”

  “Of course,” she whispered as he tipped up her chin and brushed his mouth over hers. “I wish you more good luck than that . . .”

  “You should.” He cupped her jaw in his hand, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I could use some luck.” He kissed her again, this time the lingering, deep kiss that made her burn. She inched closer, remembering how it had felt to be in his arms when he kissed her, and in a sudden movement he twisted off the log, falling to his knees in front of her and gathering her close. Oh yes—­that was it. Abigail slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. She shivered as his fingers drew down her cheek, along her throat, toward her bosom. She pressed her toes into the ground and arched her back, whimpering in pleasure as his hand curved around her breast and his fingers circled her nipple. Even through the cloth of her dress she felt his touch like a shock of electricity. He groaned deep in his throat, and tore his mouth away from hers.