It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “If his lordship had any proof of that charge, I’d have been in prison these past seven years,” said Sebastian through white lips. “It’s not true. My uncle’s solicitor in Bristol can prove the inheritance.”

  Weston shook his head. “A solicitor would be just the person to help disguise and conceal the money, then announce a very timely and convenient ‘inheritance.’ ”

  “Papa, you’re being unreasonable!” Abigail exclaimed. “Think about it for a while—­I know you had such hopes when Lord Atherton called on me, but I hope you wanted me to marry for love, not just a title!”

  “I want you to marry well,” he said with icy finality. “And Sebastian Vane is not a wise choice. I won’t risk your future on him.”

  No. He refused to listen to the echo of Weston’s denial yesterday. Abigail said she loved him. Sebastian loved her more than he’d ever thought a man could love a woman, and he was a long way from giving up. But Abigail’s hand was so tight around his, he could hardly feel his own fingers. Weston looked angry enough to hurt someone.

  Sebastian raised her hand to his lips. Even if Abigail was right, her father needed some time to calm his temper. “Perhaps you should go with him, darling.”

  Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I won’t.”

  “Just for now,” Sebastian murmured, softly enough that Weston couldn’t hear him.

  “You damned well better,” growled her father. “Now, Abigail.”

  She whipped around to glare at him. “I have to fetch my shoes. They’re upstairs. In the bedroom.” She hurried off, swiping at her eyes.

  When Abigail came back downstairs, Boris trotted at her heels as if they were setting out on a walk. At the door, she lavished a multitude of pets and kisses on the dog’s head until Boris heaved a sigh of happiness. When she glanced up at him again, Sebastian understood that she was giving his dog the farewell she couldn’t give him. “Good-­bye,” she whispered. “For now.”

  In spite of himself he smiled. “Good-­bye, love.”

  She followed her father to the waiting gig. Boris scrambled to his feet to follow her, and Sebastian stopped him with a curt command. Thomas Weston, grim-­faced, never looked at him again, but Sebastian could see Abigail’s face turned back until they vanished down the rutted, muddy drive.

  Boris nudged his hand, startling him out of his reverie. “Yes, I know,” he muttered, his mind racing. Weston had handed him a chance to make everything right. The man believed him a thief, not a murderer. He was found wanting because of missing money, not his missing father. Sebastian had always discounted the rumors of theft because he truly believed Stratford had blamed him out of spite after their furious confrontation. Sebastian had all but called him a swindler, and a man like the earl would repay that insult tenfold. But even he didn’t think the earl would create the entire story out of thin air. Some money must have gone missing, and Stratford merely seized the opportunity to darken his name a little more.

  He drew a deep breath. It seemed impossible that he would discover anything now, after so many years. No one at Stratford Court would receive him, let alone jump to help him. Proving that he wasn’t a thief was as improbable as proving that he hadn’t killed his father.

  But somehow he had to do just that.

  Unknowingly, Abigail had reached the exact same conclusion. She refused to look at her father as he drove them home in frosty silence. When they reached Hart House, she ran upstairs to her room and pushed a bureau in front of the door. Mama knocked, Papa pounded, and Penelope pleaded at the keyhole; she ignored them all.

  Papa said Sebastian was too risky to wager her future happiness on. She thought otherwise, and she meant to prove it. She paced her room, wishing they’d lived in Richmond longer. She needed information and didn’t know how to get it. She needed to know more about the stolen money before she could prove someone—­anyone—­other than Sebastian had been responsible.

  Because she loved him. She knew he hadn’t done it, just as she knew he was the only man for her. Papa was wrong about him, and once she proved it, he would have no choice. Abigail refused to admit any other possibility. She just needed a plan.

  After several hours she had made little progress. She knew frustratingly little. When Penelope brought a tray of dinner, Abigail let her in, both for the food and for her sister’s help.

  “My goodness, Abby!” Penelope whisked through the door with eyes as wide as saucers. “I thought Papa would tear the house down when you were gone! And now you’re back, he’s still in a terrible temper!”

  “If he’d been calm and sensible, there would have been no need for that,” she said coldly. “Pen, I need help.”

  “Right.” Her sister set down the tray and nodded, rapt. “How?”

  “We have to prove Sebastian didn’t steal four thousand guineas from Lord Stratford seven years ago.”

  Penelope kept nodding. “How?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, that’s not a good start.”

  Abigail threw herself on her bed with a moan. “I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  Abigail pointed at her desk. “I made a list, in order.”

  Penelope read it in silence. “Not much, I see.”

  “No.”

  There was a long silence.

  “We need to ask someone,” said Penelope. “Someone who was here at the time, who might know firsthand.”

  Abigail covered her eyes. “I thought of that. Lord Atherton would probably know, but he won’t be eager to help me. I—­I turned him down, Pen.”

  “Good for you,” muttered her sister. “But I meant Lady Samantha.”

  “Do you think she’d tell us anything?” Abigail was doubtful. “I suspect no one at Stratford Court will be much help. You saw how they treated Sebastian.”

  “But Lady Samantha thought better of him than most, and she was friendly and kind even before her brother arrived. She lives at Stratford Court, so she would at least know the details of the stolen money.”

  “But her father might not even let her talk to us, once Lord Atherton . . .”

  Penelope snorted. “Do you think he intends to go around telling everyone you laughed in his face? He thinks too highly of himself, that one. I expect he’ll scurry back to London and say he was never in love with you anyway.”

  She blinked. “You really hate him.”

  Her sister flipped one hand. “Let’s call on Lady Samantha; she did invite us the other night, and if we both go, she might be persuaded to tell us.”

  It still sounded unlikely to Abigail, but she had no other ideas. She nodded. “Let’s go tomorrow.”

  Whether her parents hoped she was reconsidering Atherton’s proposal or for some other reason, they were allowed to go. Adam drove them all the way around town and over the bridge, a longer journey than the ferry. Abigail’s nerves were drawn tight by the time they were shown out to join Lady Samantha in the exquisite Stratford topiary garden.

  “Miss Weston. Miss Penelope.” With a strained smile she greeted them. “I’m not terribly surprised to see you.”

  Abigail’s face warmed; had Lord Atherton told her? “We—­we have a particular reason for calling today—­”

  Samantha held up one hand. “Yes, I know.”

  Abigail exchanged a wary glance with her sister. “You do?”

  The other girl nodded, a quick jerky motion. “I had a letter this morning.” She started walking, her head lowered and her eyes trained on the path. “I don’t know what to do about it.”

  Penelope motioned her to go, so Abigail fell in step with their hostess. “I only hope to ask a few questions.”

  Samantha nodded. “About the missing money. I know.” She drew a crumpled letter from her pocket and held it out.

  Abigail smoothed it open so her sister could see it, too. She caught her br
eath as she recognized Sebastian’s handwriting:

  My dear Lady Samantha,

  I may be the last person you wish to hear from at this moment, but I pray you won’t throw this on the fire unread. I must beg your help. For years I have been reluctant to stir up trouble with your family, for reasons you know well. But now I stand in danger of losing everything I hold dear if I cannot prove myself innocent of stealing from your father. You must know as well as I that it would have been impossible for me to have done so, just as you know why and how such a rumor would have begun in the first place. Your last note to me hinted at something; would you tell me anything you know that might help me clear my name? I will understand if you refuse, but I would be eternally in your debt if you could look past our estrangement to the memory of our childhood affection for each other.

  Your servant,

  S. Vane

  Your last note to me. Abigail mouthed the words questioningly at her sister, who shrugged. She folded the letter and handed it back. “Yes, it’s about Mr. Vane. It appears he and I had the same thought.”

  Her smile was wistful. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you? And he with you.”

  Slowly Abigail nodded.

  Samantha sighed. “My brother told me he asked you to marry him, and that you refused.”

  Again Abigail nodded.

  “He also said that he thought you wouldn’t have him because of Mr. Vane.” She studied Abigail. “Is that so?”

  “I said no to your brother’s very flattering proposal because I don’t love him the way he deserves to be loved,” Abigail began, but Lady Samantha held up one hand.

  “I know.” Her smile was a little sad. “I could tell. I—­I was sorry, I must admit; I would have liked having you for a sister.”

  “And I you,” Abigail said impulsively, then bit her lip.

  “Then you were right. Benedict hated losing at anything to him, but if you love Sebastian instead . . .” She spread her hands.

  It was the first time she’d ever heard anyone else call him by name. Abigail heard Penelope’s quiet gasp beside her. Somehow that steadied her nerve. “I do,” she said simply.

  Samantha’s shoulders slumped a little. Her eyes closed. “He deserves to be loved.”

  There was no reply one could make to that.

  Samantha looked up again, staring into the distance. “It makes it easier for me to decide. I’ll tell you what I know, which may not be enough to help—­”

  “Samantha!”

  They all jumped at the harsh exclamation. Lord Atherton was striding toward them, his face set. He stopped beside his sister, stony-­faced. “Miss Weston. Miss Penelope. I beg your pardon, but I must have a word with my sister.”

  “No, Ben, not now,” she said, resisting his attempt to take her arm. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Just come with me a moment, please, Samantha—­”

  “I am speaking to the Misses Weston!”

  Atherton gave them a frustrated glance, then lowered his voice. “I heard about the letter—­it should never have been given to you.”

  “I’m glad,” she said with a sudden flare of spirit. “It should have been sent, and delivered, years ago!” She took his hand. “Walk with us, Ben. I was just about to tell the Weston ladies a story.”

  He glanced again at Abigail and Penelope. “They don’t want to involve themselves in our affairs. I have it from Miss Weston’s own lips.”

  “This is a different matter,” said Penelope boldly. “What are you afraid of?”

  “What gives you the right to ask?” he retorted. “What makes you think Samantha knows anything?”

  “Because she was at Montrose Hill the night Michael Vane disappeared,” said Abigail softly, watching Samantha pale. Lord Atherton made a sharp motion with one hand, then went still. “As were you, my lord. I suspect you both know more than you’ve said, and have let an innocent man suffer.”

  “I want to tell them, Ben.” Samantha touched his arm. “It’s all right.”

  His mouth thinned. He looked at each of them in turn, then swept out one hand. “As you wish. Lead on, Samantha.”

  “I should begin by confessing I was desperately in love with Sebastian when I was a girl.” Samantha ignored her brother’s scowl. “It was many years ago, before the war. He was . . .” A smile illuminated her face in a way that made Abigail’s stomach clench. “He was wonderful,” Samantha said wistfully. “Dashing, strong, clever in a quiet, sly way. He and Benedict were closer than brothers; I can’t remember when they weren’t signaling each other with lanterns or swimming the river to share some caper. And the sad thing is . . . it’s my fault they aren’t still friends today.”

  “Not true,” muttered her brother.

  “I cried so bitterly when he went into the army, but I was certain he would return to marry me. I was only twelve or thirteen. He was nineteen, and doubtless thought of me as a child. But my belief remained unshaken, and by the time he did come home, I had persuaded myself that he would fall desperately in love when he saw how I’d grown up.” She paused. “Unfortunately, things had changed for him. He was terribly wounded. His father’s mind had broken, and Mr. Vane had done some shocking things. He—­he sold a large piece of property to my father. He sold some of his other property to others, but the parcel my father bought was the best: the acreage that lay along the river. Without it, Montrose House was cut off from the water. And even worse, my father bought it for almost nothing.”

  She stopped again, biting her lip, and a note of apology entered her voice. “My father is a demanding man. He drives himself very hard, and he expects others to do the same. I suppose he thought Mr. Vane deserved to lose his land, with his wits gone. They had never been friendly,” she hastened to add. “Only Ben and Sebastian were. But Sebastian obviously felt that friendship ought to have weighed a little in his father’s favor. He came to Stratford Court, on crutches with his leg in splints, and asked my father to reverse the sale. I don’t know precisely what happened . . .”

  Atherton’s face might have been carved of stone. Abigail remembered Sebastian’s description; a shouting match, ending with curses and a slammed door. The earl had mocked him, asked if his wits had also fled, and offered to sell back the land—­including the parcel that held Eleanor Vane’s grave—­for several times what he’d paid.

  “But anyone could see Sebastian was in a fury when he left. He even argued with Ben. My father was in a foul temper, too, and rode off to London soon after. I was a fool,” Samantha went on, her voice growing softer. “I still thought he would marry me, even when he told me—­he told me—­he wouldn’t be a good husband. If I had been less headstrong, I would have understood that he was telling me he didn’t love me. Instead I only saw that his father had ruined his fortune, leaving Sebastian penniless, and that he blamed my father. In truth . . . in truth, I blamed my father, too. My father would never let me marry a penniless gentleman, which flew in the face of my determination to marry Sebastian.”

  “Samantha,” said her brother desperately. “Stop. None of this matters. You were a girl—­it was so long ago . . .”

  “I wanted to mend everything,” she said, fixing a reproachful look on him. “My father had just sold a very valuable painting, and the buyer had paid him in guineas. I don’t remember how I knew this, but I knew the chest of coins was in my father’s study. I decided it would make things fair if I gave that money back to the Vanes.”

  Her brother swore, very quietly, and pulled away from her. Samantha went on, inexorably, while Abigail and Penelope listened in rapt dismay. “My father was still away, so one night I took the money. I—­I put it in a leather satchel and took it across the river. Ben had told me years before how best to get across in the punt, and I went to Montrose Hill. My original plan had been to give it to Sebastian, but I reconsidered; he would never take it. I would give it to M
r. Vane, then, and explain that he must give it to Sebastian and tell him it was a hidden savings. Then the Vanes wouldn’t be destitute, and everything would be fine.”

  “Didn’t you worry about your father’s reaction?” asked Penelope. Abigail jumped at her sister’s voice; she’d been so caught up in Samantha’s tale, listening with growing alarm and elation as various mysteries resolved themselves.

  Samantha blushed. “I did, but not much. He had recently sacked his valet, and I persuaded myself he would blame the valet. I never dreamed . . .”

  Atherton cursed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. Abigail didn’t say anything. It seemed fairly obvious to her what would have happened, but Samantha had already admitted she was young and headstrong then. “So you took the money,” she murmured.

  “I did. I took it to Montrose Hill and found a way into the house. It was late, and everyone was asleep. I found Mr. Vane’s room—­” She cringed. “It was locked. That ought to have warned me, you’re probably thinking. It should have. But I was set on my plan, and the key was right there by the door, so I let myself in. Old Mr. Vane . . . He had been a very kindly gentleman. When I came into his room, he called me Eleanor and kissed my hand. I corrected him, and I remember he touched his brow and said, ‘Of course, pretty little Samantha. I remember you now.’ ” She looked at them pleadingly. “He seemed like himself; he seemed to know me. I explained why I had come, and he nodded. He understood! He took the money and promised he would make everything right. He kissed my brow and scolded me for coming so late at night. He even walked me out of the house himself and cautioned me to be careful. I—­I thought he was recovering . . .” Her voice faltered and died.

  Abigail closed her eyes, heartsick. That explained how Michael Vane had escaped. Sebastian hadn’t forgotten to lock the door that night. But then . . . “When did you realize things had gone wrong?” she asked.