“Then let me see you safely into his company.”
Abigail blinked, then realized he meant her brother’s company. “Thank you, Lord Atherton.” She took his arm. It was too late to return the novel without being graceless and rude. She would keep it, but as a reminder to keep her head about her.
Mrs. Driscoll was waiting to hold the door for them. “Good day, Miss Weston,” she said, bobbing her head. “Good day, my lord.”
“And a very good day to you, Mrs. Driscoll.” Lord Atherton gave her a brilliant smile. “I am relying on your advice about this.” He held up the wrapped package of his own.
The woman put up her hands. “If Lady Samantha has any objection, send it back, sir, and we’ll find something to tempt her,” she assured him. “I’ve never yet failed to find just the book my customers want.”
“I knew I could count on you,” he said humbly. “Between you and Miss Weston, I shall be lauded as the best of all brothers this year.”
Mrs. Driscoll tittered—actually giggled like a girl. Penelope shot a look of pure disbelief at Abigail, whose face surely mirrored it. Lord Atherton, though, merely set his hat back on his head and led them outside.
“Where shall we find Mr. Weston?” he asked, drawing Abigail to his side as a large wagon rumbled past.
“At the coffee house, most likely,” murmured Abigail, unsettled to realized that her arm was securely linked through his. When had that happened?
“Ah, Grenville’s! An excellent place to while away the time.” They started off, although in no great hurry. More than one person greeted Lord Atherton. That wasn’t very surprising; Abigail had seen men all but fall to their knees in London when they met a nobleman. But Lord Atherton was welcomed home as a favorite son, with everything from reverence to smiles and teasing comments. Even more surprising was that she and Penelope were included in these greetings, in a way they never had been before. It was hard not to think that just appearing on Lord Atherton’s arm had raised their social status in Richmond more than anything they did on their own could have. Again, the thought crossed her mind that Papa would be beside himself with delight.
But it was also hard not to compare this reception to the one Sebastian got. Mrs. Driscoll had treated him coldly, but she was abundantly cordial to Lord Atherton. Abigail’s smile felt a bit wan as Mrs. Huntley herself made a point of greeting her and Penelope very warmly, with a deep curtsy to Lord Atherton. Mrs. Huntley, who had looked at Sebastian as though he were the devil himself.
“I suppose this is how it feels to have an earl for a father,” Penelope whispered in her ear.
Abigail bit her lip. “Do you think that’s it?”
“If you say it’s due to how handsome and charming he is, I shall be sick.”
She gave her sister a black look and didn’t deign to reply.
“No one greets Jamie that way,” Penelope pointed out. “He’s handsome enough, and I daresay he could be charming if he put his mind to it. And he’s got money, too.”
“He hasn’t lived here all his life,” replied Abigail, realizing too late what she had invited her sister to mention.
“Mr. Vane,” exclaimed Penelope in full voice. Leaning close in expectation of a whisper, Abigail reared back, almost colliding with Lord Atherton.
“Miss Weston, are you all right?” Lord Atherton caught her and steadied her, but Abigail ignored him as she raised her head and searched . . .
“Mr. Vane,” called Penelope again before she picked up her skirt and hurried across the dusty street.
Abigail’s eyes frantically roamed the crowd. Lord Atherton’s arm, still around her waist, went hard and stiff as her fingers curled into his jacket. Where was he?
Diagonally across from them, motionless in the busy thoroughfare, stood Sebastian Vane, his gaze fixed on her.
Chapter 17
Sebastian returned to Richmond in some mental disquiet.
On the one hand, he had cause for optimism. According to the Bristol solicitor, Uncle Henry had left nearly four thousand pounds. While not as much as Sebastian had wished for, it was still a good sum. It would take some time for all the money to be extracted from Henry’s investments, but Sebastian didn’t want to waste a moment. From Bristol he’d gone directly to London and visited his own solicitor, to begin making plans to pay off his most onerous debts. He would still be a far sight from prosperous, but it was a step in the right direction.
But his optimism was tempered by the knowledge that it was only a modest step. Four thousand pounds wouldn’t cover half the debt his father had left him, and as soon as one creditor was paid, the others might catch wind of it and begin clamoring for their own repayment, with interest. They’d mostly given up asking, since he’d been unable to pay for so long. Still, he wanted them dealt with before any hint of him marrying an heiress got out and brought them all to his door in pursuit of Abigail’s dowry. It struck him that he could stretch his windfall, if he was canny about it, so he’d told his solicitor to make overtures to every creditor and try to bargain on the amount owed by intimating that this was likely the creditor’s only chance to see any of his funds returned.
He was well aware that it might not work, but he’d worry about that when the time came. For now, he wanted to see Abigail. He’d been away from her for sixteen days, every one of them long and lonely. Pride be damned; he wanted her, and if she would have him, he was a fool to wait until he was respectable and well-off—especially since that might never happen. The morning after he arrived home, on the last coach from London, he put on his best coat and hat, tucked his gift for her into his pocket, and set out for Hart House, barely noticing the pronounced limp he’d acquired after so many long journeys in public coaches.
He was quickly disappointed, however. “Miss Weston is not at home,” the butler told him.
“I see. Is she expected back today?”
Thomson just looked at him in the stony-faced way butlers so often had.
Sebastian amended his question. “I meant to inquire if the family is still in residence, and hasn’t returned to London.”
“No, sir,” said the butler at once. “They are still in residence.”
That was a relief, tempering the disappointment. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Thank you.” He turned and started toward Montrose Hill.
“Sir.” Thomson cleared his throat. “I believe they have only gone to town for the afternoon. If you would care to leave your card . . .”
He didn’t have cards anymore, but Sebastian’s heart jumped. “No need,” he replied. “Thank you.” He touched his hat and walked away, this time toward Richmond village.
It was less than a mile, but by the time he reached the village his knee ached. He’d got out of the habit of nightly rambles while he was away, and felt it. Still, it would be worth it to see her again, and his eyes seemed unable to fix on any point as he searched for her. Without thinking he headed for the bookshop, wondering if she’d read the book he sent her . . . or if she’d read the pamphlets again.
He was a little distracted by that last thought, and failed to keep his attention on the people around him. It was the sound of his name that brought his head up, halting his steps. “Mr. Vane,” cried the voice again as he scanned the crowd. It took him a moment to realize it was Penelope Weston’s voice, and that she was hurrying across the street toward him, and that Abigail was behind her, as beautiful as ever with her eyes wide and her lips parted in surprise, and that holding her in his arm, gazing down at her in tender concern . . . was Benedict Lennox.
“Mr. Vane!” Beaming, Penelope Weston bobbed a quick curtsy in front of him. “How brilliant to meet you here again!”
With a jerk, he tore his eyes off Abigail and Benedict. “Is it?”
“Yes! We’d been wondering when you would return—my sister and I were just discussing it, in fact—and here you are! Rat
her like fate, don’t you think?”
It did feel like fate—his fate, anyway, which was apparently to lose everything that meant anything to him. He could feel his face hardening as Abigail tipped up her face to Benedict and said something. Ben raised his head and looked right at Sebastian without a trace of expression before dropping his gaze back to Abigail and replying to her. Sebastian’s fingers shook, they gripped his cane so hard. He was dimly aware that Penelope was still waiting for a response, but he couldn’t make one. When had Benedict come home? When the devil had he become so cozy with Abigail? He was practically embracing her on a public street. And the way she was looking at him . . .
“I beg your pardon, Miss Weston,” he said, groping for his wits. “What did you say?”
“I said welcome home,” she said, her voice gone soft. “I hope your trip was pleasant.”
“Yes.” From the corner of his eye he could see Abigail crossing the street, Benedict close behind her. “I hope all was well with you?”
Penelope Weston made a face. She glanced over her shoulder at her sister and her companion, drawing nearer. “It could have been better, if you ask me.”
Somehow he guessed she meant Benedict. The thought that at least one Weston sister preferred him was comforting, even if it wasn’t the Weston sister he preferred. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he murmured, and then Abigail reached them.
“Mr. Vane,” she said, her voice a little out of breath. And for a moment Sebastian was lost again, caught in her shining gray gaze. “How lovely to see you again.”
He bowed. “And you, Miss Weston.”
“Well, well,” said Benedict in a hearty tone. “Vane! It’s been years.”
Sebastian straightened to his full height and stared his former friend in the face. He’d always been a couple of inches taller, and even with the cane he still had a slight advantage. “Indeed.”
“Are you already acquainted?” asked Penelope, who seemed to be the only one of them who retained full possession of her powers of speech. “Oh, but of course—you’ve known each other for years.”
Sebastian clenched his jaw for a second. “We’ve not seen each other much of late, Miss Weston.”
“No,” agreed Benedict at once, his smile growing harder and more fixed. “How surprising you know Mr. Vane, Miss Penelope.”
“We’re neighbors.” Sebastian held tight to his temper. He wished Abigail would say something, but then, he couldn’t think of anything that would soothe the shock of seeing her on Benedict’s arm—no, not politely holding his arm, but clutching his jacket and letting him put his arm around her waist. Sebastian’s own arm flexed and tightened, remembering how it felt to hold Abigail. And remembering how and why he had held her only a few weeks ago. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten how near Montrose Hill and Hart House are to each other.”
Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Happily I’ve had the chance to rediscover it.” He glanced down at Abigail. “Miss Weston was kind enough to walk with me through the woods, indulging me as I revisited childhood haunts.”
He looked at Abigail, whose cheeks were a dull scarlet. “That was very kind of her.”
“Half those woods are Mr. Vane’s, you know,” put in Penelope. “I hope you weren’t trespassing, Lord Atherton.”
Sebastian was mean enough to take some enjoyment from the irked look Benedict shot Penelope, who merely gave him a sunny smile. But Benedict’s words ruined his pleasure immediately. “Oh, not half, Miss Weston. A good portion of it actually belongs to my father.” He turned to Sebastian, brows raised. “All the riverfront acreage, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Sebastian had to force the word past his lips. All that land did belong to Benedict’s father, the Earl of Stratford, because Michael Vane had sold it to him for fifty pounds. And when Sebastian had tried to speak to the earl about it, Stratford laughed in his face—which was almost as bad as Benedict’s reaction. Benedict had been indifferent and dismissive and said it was just as well, for his father would manage the land far better than a madman could.
That had been his last lengthy conversation with Benedict, come to think of it. And it wasn’t one Sebastian wished to renew, now or ever.
He bowed slightly. “I don’t want to keep you from your shopping. Good day, Miss Weston, Miss Penelope.” He looked right at Benedict. “My lord.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Abigail, putting out her hand.
He stopped at once. She had let go of Benedict’s arm to reach toward him, and part of him yearned to take that hand and pull her to his side. He wrapped his fingers more firmly around the cane’s head and waited. Everyone waited, in fact, all watching her.
Her cheeks flushed darker and she cleared her throat. “You’re not interrupting, Mr. Vane. We—my sister and I”—she paused, then went on without looking at Benedict—“are very glad you’ve come home. I’m sure Boris was beside himself!” She smiled, but no one else did, and so it withered on her lips. “I hope your trip was as rewarding as you’d hoped,” she added, a little uncertainly.
Sebastian looked at her. She was as beautiful as he’d remembered; even the slightly flustered air and pink cheeks reminded him of their last meeting, when he’d brought her to climax in his arms. The memory made him excruciatingly aware of the box in his pocket, tried up with a bit of red ribbon. His uncle had left him a cameo pendant that had once belonged to his great-grandmother, a small but delicate piece. Sebastian had bought a new chain for it and imagined fastening it around Abigail’s neck, the cameo nestled between her lovely breasts. He’d imagined bestowing a kiss on the spot where it would rest.
But it seemed he might have lost more than he gained in the fortnight he’d been away. “Thank you,” he said in reply to her remark. “It was unremarkable.”
Penelope clapped her hands together. “Well! The four of us can’t just stand here all day; we’re blocking half the street. Do visit Hart House soon, Mr. Vane. I’ve never been to Bristol and look forward to being regaled with exciting stories.”
“I doubt it could live up to your expectations,” he told her. “If Richmond bores you, Bristol would numb you.”
“Bored in Richmond!” Benedict laughed. “Ah yes, I remember your lament, Miss Penelope. Surely it’s grown on you since we visited Kew and Hampton Court?”
“My opinion of those places improved,” she replied. “Although you promised to show us a ghost at Hampton Court and I didn’t see even a floating veil. And then we came back to dull little Richmond.”
“I can’t have you think that of my home.” Benedict gave her a teasing smile. “How about a dinner party, to breathe some life into the place? My mother would be delighted to have one; she’s been talking of it since I returned home. What say you, Miss Penelope?”
The Weston girls exchanged a glance Sebastian couldn’t quite interpret. Surprise, but also something else. So they hadn’t been invited to Stratford Court yet. “That’s very kind, sir,” said Abigail with a forced smile. “I’m sure it would be delightful.”
“Excellent. We’ll send out cards at once.” This time when he faced Sebastian, there was a definite challenge in Benedict’s eye. “How about it, Vane? Will you join us as well?”
He burned to say no. He never wanted to see Lord Stratford again, let alone dine at his table. But on the other hand . . . He glanced at Abigail. It was hard to blame her for wanting a man with two good legs and a respectable fortune. It was, unfortunately, harder to see her choose Benedict Lennox, of all people. She had stepped away from Benedict now, though, closer to her sister, and that alone made him take a deep breath and say, “Of course.”
Benedict’s smile faded a little. “Excellent.” He turned back toward the Weston ladies. “Shall we continue in search of your brother? I believe you said he was waiting for you at the coffee shop.”
“No, he isn’t!” Penelope sounded almost gleeful. She raised one
arm. “James!”
Mr. Weston nodded in greeting as he joined them. “Atherton, Vane; how do you do?” He surveyed his sisters. “I see I’m just in time to rescue you.”
“That’s a fine apology for being late meeting us,” Penelope accused him.
James Weston gave her an amused look. “You seem to be in good hands, but I know my duty. Gentlemen, thank you for entertaining my sisters. I shall return them to the safety of Hart House now.”
“Not a duty, but a pleasure.” Benedict laid one hand on his heart as he bowed. “Thank you again for your invaluable assistance, Miss Weston.”
“You’re very welcome, sir,” murmured Abigail.
“Good day, my lord!” chirped Penelope. “I do hope Lady Samantha appreciates the immense effort you expended on her behalf!”
With one last sharp glance at Sebastian, Benedict touched the brim of his hat and strode away, swinging his walking stick at his side. One might even think he did it to excess, as if to demonstrate how his cane was merely for show, and that he was very agile without it.
“I left the carriage down the street.” Mr. Weston looked at Penelope. “I hope you didn’t stir up trouble with Atherton.”
She made a face. “Why do you always suspect me of something dreadful?”
Her brother snorted. “Experience! Tell me what you did, he looked a bit out of humor . . .” They began walking.
Abigail, though, lingered. “Have you been home long?”
“Since last night, on the late coach from London.”
“Welcome home,” she said softly.
He bowed his head. “Thank you.” The image of her in Benedict’s arms had scoured away all the things he meant to say to her.
There was a long moment of silence.
“I see you’ve met Lord Atherton,” he said. He had to know. “He seems quite taken with you.” All he wanted was one word, one indication that she didn’t return Benedict’s obvious attraction to her. He could excuse Benedict’s interest in her—that was perfectly understandable—but did she welcome it?
It Takes a Scandal Page 22
