It Takes a Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “Not for a while. My brother was very attentive, keeping me from hearing anything. I sent Sebastian a note, explaining that I had found a solution to his problems and begging him to call on me, but he never came. Finally I asked Ben, and that’s when I heard Mr. Vane had disappeared. I didn’t hear the rumor that Sebastian had killed him for a few more days, and by then my father had come home. He discovered the money missing and—­” She stopped. For a moment her face crumpled in anguish. “I know you blamed Sebastian,” she said to her brother. “I knew it, and I was too much a coward to admit it was I. Now—­now I think you must have suspected me all along. Now I think you were trying to conceal my guilt. I never told, but you always knew when I was telling tales. You shouldn’t have done it, Ben.”

  Atherton looked heartsick at her gentle condemnation. “I didn’t know you took the money. I thought you’d merely tried to run off with him.”

  “But what happened to old Mr. Vane?” Penelope ventured.

  Samantha shook her head. “I have no idea. He was well and lucid when I left him that night, I swear it.”

  Abigail’s elation was tempered. Samantha’s confession exonerated Sebastian only of stealing the money. The whispers of murder were even worse. Now that she was set on clearing his name, she wanted to do it completely, not just the reason her father cited. “Thank you for telling us,” she said. “I have to tell Sebastian, you know.”

  Samantha nodded. “I want you to. See? I don’t even have the courage to face him myself. But you really love him,” she said wistfully. “I long ago realized my love was mere infatuation. I never had the strength to stand up for him the way you have. And he never really loved me . . . as I think he does you. He came to Stratford Court again for you, and he danced with you. He hasn’t dined with anyone in Richmond for years, nor danced since before the war. I would like him to be happy, and since I contributed to his ruin, I should do something to help him.”

  “Will you tell your father, too?”

  Her face as pale as snow, Samantha gave a tiny nod. “Somehow.” She looked away. “When you tell Sebastian, let him know I’m desperately sorry.”

  “Thank you, Lady Samantha,” said Abigail fervently. “From the bottom of my heart.”

  Samantha gave her a pained smile. “Good day, Miss Weston. And good luck.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” muttered her brother. Abigail followed him, glancing back to see Samantha once more walking slowly through the garden, head bowed.

  “Will your father be furious at her?” asked Penelope.

  Atherton’s mouth was set, his eyes hard. “Yes.”

  “But surely you’re glad the truth has come out,” Penelope persisted. “Surely you can’t abide a man taking the blame for another’s crime, even if that someone is your sister.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Penelope’s face turned dull pink. Abigail made a sharp motion at her; she had no interest in a quarrel with Lord Atherton. But her sister ignored her. “Perhaps you ought to help clear Sebastian’s name, too, since you helped to muddy it.”

  “I did nothing but take my father’s word,” he said thinly. “Vane never denied it. Samantha may have taken the money, but it was never found; curious, don’t you think? Who’s to say Vane didn’t find it and keep it, knowing no one would be able to prove he’d been at Stratford Court? I daresay a sack of guineas would have been very tempting.”

  Penelope nodded. “That’s right. Just because he got the girl you wanted, he must be a lying opportunist.”

  “Penelope!” Abigail seized her sister’s arm, white with fury. “Stop. Talking!”

  “No harm done, Miss Weston.” Atherton’s voice had never been so cold or remote. “He’s misled others besides your sister.”

  Abigail took a deep breath, clinging to her poise. “Thank you for your help, my lord. I know you were reluctant to give it, but I appreciate it deeply.”

  For a moment his eyes softened as he looked at her. Abigail gazed steadily back. Finally he nodded once and pushed open the door in the garden wall, revealing Adam walking the horses while he waited for them. “Good-­bye, Miss Weston.”

  Chapter 24

  Abigail barely listened to her sister rant about Lord Atherton’s behavior. He’d acted to protect his sister, but now the story was out. She had part of what she needed: Sebastian hadn’t taken the money. But she didn’t believe for a moment Atherton’s charge that he might have found it and kept it. That meant the money had disappeared along with Michael Vane. If they could find it, Sebastian could return it to Lord Stratford. ­Coupled with his daughter’s confession, the earl would have no choice but to exonerate Sebastian. Her heart jumped at the prospect. That would put her father’s objections to rest forever.

  But where would Michael Vane have hidden the money? From what she’d seen of the house, it seemed unlikely Sebastian wouldn’t have found it there, with all the floors and walls bare. He’d searched the grounds, too, and would have noticed a freshly dug hole. But there were acres of woods, with infinitely many places to hide a satchel of guineas. Any random tree trunk could have offered a spot.

  Except . . . Michael Vane had been lucid when Samantha saw him. He knew it was money she gave him, to help Sebastian. Would he have thrown it into a hole in the ground? She frowned. Perhaps. There was no way to know how long his lucidity might have lasted. Sebastian said he’d sold everything because he feared the devil was after his money.

  “What are you going to do next?” Penelope’s question roused her.

  “I have to tell Sebastian.”

  “And then?” her sister prodded. “How are you going to find the money? You know that’s the only way Lord Stratford will admit he was wrong.”

  “You’re right, and once again, I have no idea.” She stared furiously out the window. “Where would old Mr. Vane put it?”

  “Sebastian’s guess is probably the best.”

  And she’d been forbidden to see him again. Abigail thought some more. “We’ll have to sneak out and go see him.”

  “Brilliant!” Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “Tonight?”

  She couldn’t bear to wait. Her parents were already upset with her, so she had nothing to lose. “Yes.”

  She racked her brains all day for ideas. The list of places to look was pitifully short: the house, the river, the woods. Short, and as vast as the Arabian Desert. Unfortunately, Penelope was right: only Sebastian would really know where to start, and she wouldn’t see him until tonight. Both her parents were at home, although she knew they had accepted an invitation to dine at the Huntleys’ tonight. She crossed her fingers they would go as planned.

  Mama tapped at her door late that afternoon. “Are you feeling better, dearest?”

  “I’m in perfect health.”

  Her mother’s face was shadowed with worry. “Abby, you’ll understand one day. When you’ve met a fine gentleman without any of these troubles, you’ll be glad your father acted as he did.”

  She would not, but she refused to provoke her mother. She lifted one shoulder.

  “Well, I daresay a few nights of quiet will do you good,” said Mama after a moment of silence. “Papa and I dine with the Huntleys tonight. I’ll send Marie to tend you.” She crossed the room and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “We do want you to be happy, dearest.”

  Abigail nodded. She knew that, just as she knew she could be happiest with Sebastian. Hopefully her parents would realize that soon.

  When her mother had gone, Abigail curled up in the window seat to watch the sun sink beyond the curve of the river. She laid the cameo pendant on the sill and paged through The Children of the Abbey, hoping for some inspiration.

  And astonishingly, they provided some.

  She found Penelope in the drawing room. “I have an idea.”

  Her sister threw aside her magazine
and leapt from her chair. “A good one?”

  Abigail’s heart pounded. “Perhaps.” Perhaps not, but she chose to ignore that. “Are you still coming?”

  “Of course! I just have to do one thing—­don’t you dare leave without me!” Penelope bolted out of the room.

  It was a brisk night. Abigail put on a warm pelisse and bonnet before meeting her sister in the garden. A quick stop in the stable provided a lantern, and Abigail had borrowed James’s compass, which she was careful to read while she could still see Montrose House. She had a feeling she’d wandered in circles before Boris found her and led her there last time, and she didn’t have hours to waste tonight.

  “Abby, will you tell me where the grotto is?” Penelope asked as they walked.

  “Why?”

  Her sister shrugged. “Curiosity.”

  Abigail wondered if Sebastian had left the rug and cushions there. But she also remembered the glass mosaic, and the thrill of finding it. “It’s just past the Fragrant Walk, down the hill. I expect there was once a path leading to it, but Sebastian cleared the brush away. It’s not difficult to find now.”

  Penelope nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t know you wanted to see it,” she began, but Penelope waved one hand.

  “Oh! I just wondered. It might come in handy to know.”

  It might. If her parents persisted, it might be the only place she could meet Sebastian. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told Penelope . . . But she looked at her sister’s face, determined and fearless as they strode through a darkening forest to try to clear Sebastian’s name, and decided that was ludicrous. She trusted Penelope.

  They reached Montrose Hill at the same time Boris found them. He gave a happy bark and bounded over, tail wagging. Penelope stopped dead, but Abigail laughed and let him lick her hands and face before rewarding him with a piece of ham she’d filched from her dinner plate. And then Sebastian was there, obviously setting out for his evening walk. He swept her into his arms without a word. Abigail burrowed into his beloved form, heedless of her sister watching or Boris nosing at her pockets for more treats.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again for an age,” he whispered, his lips light on her earlobe.

  “It has been an age, to my mind.”

  He gave a low laugh and released her. “What are you doing here?” He included Penelope in his question.

  “We’re here to find the stolen money,” Penelope told him.

  Abigail nodded. “If my father won’t consent because he fears you’re a thief, we’ll just have to prove you aren’t.”

  Sebastian looked startled, then his lips quirked. “I had the same thought. Unfortunately, I’ve pondered it for seven years with no luck. And after so long . . .”

  “Well, we know who took the money: Lady Samantha.”

  Sebastian stared. “How—­?”

  “We went to see her today. She was glad to confess, I think. She got your note and said she didn’t know what to do, but in the end she told us.” Abigail repeated everything she could remember from Samantha’s confession.

  Sebastian’s jaw was clenched by the end, and he stared toward the river. “So she really was here. I didn’t think she could have been, but . . . she let my father out.” Abigail remembered him blaming himself for not locking the door that night, and felt a foolish burst of gratitude that she’d managed to lift that one bit of guilt from his shoulders.

  “What was her last note to you?” piped up Penelope. “Your letter mentioned it.”

  He gave a humorless half smile. “She wrote to say she’d found a solution to my problem and would I please call on her. Of course I never went—­I wouldn’t have been allowed to see her in any event. Her brother made that clear enough.” He glanced over his shoulder as the sound of hoofbeats thudded down the drive. “Speak of the devil.”

  Benedict Lennox, Lord Atherton, swung down from his horse and glared at them. “Searching hard already, I see.”

  “What brings you to Montrose Hill?” asked Sebastian. Boris growled at the newcomer, and Abigail noted Sebastian did nothing to stay the dog.

  Atherton shot a black look at Penelope. “A bribe.”

  Penelope just smiled, coy and sweet.

  “I think we can manage well enough on our own,” said Sebastian coolly. This time he wasn’t making any effort to hide his dislike. “Go home, Ben.”

  Atherton’s answering grin was fierce. “Let’s have a look for the money first, Bastian.”

  Boris’s growl grew louder.

  “I’m glad for any help,” declared Abigail, reaching down to scratch the dog’s ears. “Lord Atherton, thank you for coming. It’s very decent of you.”

  “Not really,” said Sebastian under his breath.

  “I look forward to returning Lord Stratford’s funds so he can put a public end to that ridiculous rumor,” Abigail went on firmly. “I have an idea where we should look: the mausoleum.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “I searched there that night. I follow your logic, but I searched everywhere. He wasn’t there.”

  “But you were looking for your father, not a leather satchel full of guineas,” she argued. “Have you been there since?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  Because it was now on Lord Stratford’s land. She turned to Atherton in triumph. “Have we your permission to go there?”

  “By all means.” He knotted his horse’s reins. “Let’s be done with it.”

  Sebastian hesitated, then shrugged. He muttered something about lanterns and headed toward the stables. Abigail took the chance to speak to Lord Atherton. Her former suitor was occupied with tending his horse, and didn’t look at her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “I’ve not done anything yet.”

  “But you came.” She reached out to touch his arm, then stopped. “I’m sorry—­”

  “Samantha is set on confessing to our father,” he said brusquely. “If the money is returned at the same time, he won’t be as angry.”

  She blinked. “Will he punish her?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh dear. “Will he hurt her?” she asked hesitantly.

  Atherton shrugged. “Some. Not much. I, on the other hand, expect to be horsewhipped. Are we ready to go yet?”

  Sebastian came back, lanterns glowing in his hands. “It’s a good distance.”

  “How fortunate I have no other engagements this evening,” returned Atherton. He held out his hand, and after a pause Sebastian gave him a lantern. “Lead on, Vane.”

  They were a mostly quiet party as they walked. Sebastian thought this was the most quixotic endeavor imaginable. Like Abigail, he, too, had arrived at the idea that Samantha might know something. He’d written to her, hoping against hope she would tell him. The story Abigail related staggered him, although it fit. Once he allowed it was possible for Samantha to have been there that night—­and he still found it incredible that she had—­a host of possibilities opened up. Her story almost made him hopeful for a moment; if his father had been lucid that night, maybe he hadn’t fallen into the river and drowned, or wandered into the woods and died of hunger. Maybe he’d kept enough shreds of sanity to have planned an escape, perhaps thought of something that might save him . . .

  But that was a remote possibility. Sebastian hadn’t seen more than a handful of lucid moments in his father’s last several months. He had combed these woods, not for one night but for months, searching for any sign of his father. True, he hadn’t been looking for a satchel of coins, and he had to remind himself that’s what they were seeking tonight, not Michael Vane. He couldn’t stop himself from instinctively keeping his eyes open for the green cloak and straw hat that had disappeared with his father, even though he knew he wouldn’t see them.

  They spied the mausoleum after a half hour’s walk, almost lost to the growth of the wood
s. It was down the hill, quite steeply in some places, and more than once he almost lost his footing. His knee was still tender from the fall at Stratford Court. Having Abigail’s hand in his steadied him, and as the ornate stone chapel came in sight beneath its disguise of vines, he felt a bit of hope stir.

  “What made you think of this?”

  Her face was beautiful and pale in the darkening woods. “The book you gave me. It was so old, thirty years or more, but so well kept. He loved her, didn’t he?”

  Sebastian remembered his father sleeping with a threadbare nightgown wrapped around his arm. “Dearly.”

  “At first I assumed you had kept it so, but you were a boy, and then a soldier. He must have cared for it. It wasn’t a fine book at all, but it was filled with notes in her handwriting. I see why he would have kept it so carefully. It was a little piece of her.”

  That was true. Michael Vane had burned most of his own books in his fits, but nothing from the little shelf that held his wife’s things.

  “And I expected you would have searched here before, but you hadn’t been here in years, since it was no longer your property,” she continued. “I—­I don’t know that anything will be here. Perhaps it’s a completely mad idea. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a look.”

  He smiled. “It’s a brilliant idea. I should have thought of it myself.” Perhaps he would have—­but perhaps not. As much as he’d longed to clear his name, there hadn’t been anything jolting him into action until Thomas Weston’s refusal. Even if this didn’t succeed—­even if nothing succeeded—­Sebastian would be glad he’d tried, with Abigail.

  “It doesn’t look promising.” Benedict stopped and surveyed the chapel. The steps were completely covered in moss and bracken, and a fallen tree had narrowly missed the leaded roof.

  “We’ve crawled through worse.” Sebastian handed his lantern to Abigail and began clearing the tangle of plants away. It made him think of the grotto, and how he’d cleaned it for her. After a moment Benedict joined him in silence until they had a narrow path up the steps. Gingerly Sebastian balanced on the top, crumbling step and pulled back the bolt holding the outer door closed. It opened with a loud, rusty groan, then stuck in the grit. Benedict stepped up and put his shoulder to it, and they heaved the door open.