Abigail and Penelope squeezed up between them until all four were pressed against the inner gate, which was locked. They held the lanterns aloft and Penelope sneezed as they peered into the gloom beyond.
It was as black as pitch in the crypt. As his eyes adjusted, Sebastian tried to make out his mother’s bier at the back. He dimly remembered her funeral, when the crypt had been opened last. He’d cried and cried until he fell asleep in a corner and was almost forgotten. With a flash of memory he felt his father’s arms scooping him up, warm and strong, Michael Vane’s familiar voice stark with relief at finding him.
But there was nothing else. No leather satchel sat invitingly on the center sarcophagus, which really concealed the stair leading to the underground crypt. Sebastian told himself not to be dismayed; it had been a slim chance. But his heart felt as though it had turned to lead, and he rested his head against the bars.
“I wish we could go in,” whispered Abigail. “Hold the lantern a little to the right, please.” She pressed her face to the gate, making it rattle. “I think I see something . . .”
He raised his head. “What?”
She screwed up her face in frustration. “I can’t tell. It’s too dark.”
“What do you think it is?” demanded her sister. “Let me look!” Abigail stepped aside to let her wiggle into place. Sebastian slid his arm around her waist, tucking her snugly against him. Absently he took a deep breath with his face against her temple; her hair smelled like roses. It made the disappointment a little less.
Penelope squirmed and pressed against the bars for several minutes, trying to get a better view. At her urging, Benedict edged around her to hold his lantern aloft. She squinted for a few minutes. “Yes, I think you’re right, Abby! There’s something behind the sarcophagus!”
“But what?” asked Benedict. “We’d have to break in to have a better look, so please don’t say it’s a dead rat.”
“It looks like . . .” She stretched onto her toes. “It looks like a shoe.”
Benedict looked at him, eyebrows raised. Sebastian let go of Abigail and drew his knife. “I’ve no objection to breaking the lock. Do you?”
Benedict shook his head. “None at all.” He helped Abigail and Penelope move out of the way as Sebastian slid the blade of his hunting knife between the bars above the lock. “Ready? Now!” Benedict pulled hard on the gate as Sebastian drove his weight against the knife handle, using the bars as a fulcrum. The bars squealed, then with a loud snap, the rusted metal gave way. Benedict almost flew backward down the steps as the gate swung open.
Some sense made Sebastian throw up a hand to stop the ladies from rushing inside. “Let us make sure it’s safe,” he said, taking his lantern back from Abigail. In the glow of the light, her eyes were huge and dark as she nodded soberly. Benedict took another lantern, and together they stepped inside.
The crypt wasn’t long, barely twenty feet. Three columns of biers lined the walls, the names of long-dead Vanes etched in their sides, but so covered with dust and cobwebs, the names were illegible. The ornate sarcophagus filled the center, with only a narrow aisle on each side. Sebastian took the left side, Benedict the right. Just as they used to do, all those years ago.
“There is something,” said Benedict as they reached the sarcophagus. “There—in the back—”
Sebastian heard his voice catch at the same moment his lantern light reached around the corner. “Stop,” he ordered. “Do not come in,” he shouted at the ladies, who had started forward at Benedict’s exclamation. He looked at his old friend. “Take them out,” he said. “Now, Ben.”
Benedict, looking as though he would be ill, obeyed.
Sebastian barely heard their worried questions. He took a step, and then another. He held his breath. He’d seen bodies before, even skeletal ones. Battlefield graves were notorious for opening in the first heavy rain. But he’d never seen his father’s, and the sight nearly made him fall to his knees.
Michael Vane hadn’t fallen in the river, or into a hole in the ground. He’d made it to the crypt and curled up next to his beloved Eleanor’s tomb, where he still lay. His straw hat had disintegrated, and his green cloak was eaten away in gaping holes. But the ragged iron-gray hair still had the wave in front, just as Sebastian remembered. And clutched in the exposed bones of his arms was a leather satchel.
“Sebastian?” Abigail’s voice rang with worry. “What’s there?”
He lowered himself to the floor and stared in numb sorrow at his father’s remains. “My father. And, I believe, the money.”
Chapter 25
Lord Atherton made Abigail and Penelope go out of the mausoleum entirely. He looked a little green, and Abigail felt very thankful he’d stopped them before they could see what was there. Sebastian remained inside.
To distract herself she asked her sister, “What bribe did you offer Lord Atherton to get him to come tonight?”
“Oh. I thought he owed it to Sebastian, after the dinner party . . . I promised to tell him where the grotto is if he came and helped.” Penelope gave a faltering smile. “It worked.”
“Ah.” She’d better tell Sebastian to remove the rug and cushions before they gave anyone the wrong idea. Or rather, the right idea.
Lord Atherton had gone back up the steps but not inside. He swung the heavy outer door closed, then open again. She edged a little closer. “What are you doing?”
“I wondered how he’d got locked in.” From the inside of the door he slid the bolt out. “I didn’t think there’d be one on the inside.” He glanced at the gate, still ajar. “I suppose Mr. Vane had keys to that.”
Penelope joined her. “What a terrible way to die,” she murmured. “Alone in that little crypt.”
He’d wanted to die. He’d told Sebastian so—and when his son refused to help him, Michael found a way. Perhaps it had even been how he wanted to die: next to his beloved wife, without staining his son’s conscience. Wordlessly Abigail groped for her sister’s hand.
It was full dark by the time Sebastian emerged. His coat was covered in dust and his limp seemed worse than ever, but he carried a large leather sack in his arms. He closed the gate gently, even though it swung open an inch because of bent bars, and then he closed the outer door and slid the bolt home. He handed the sack to Benedict.
“I didn’t count it,” he said quietly, “but it’s guineas.”
Benedict was motionless. “I’m sorry.”
Sebastian just looked at him. He turned to Abigail, who went into his arms, ignoring the grime and dirt covering his coat. He made a motion to stop her, then simply let her slide beneath the coat to embrace him, her head against his chest where only she could hear how ragged his breath was.
“He looked peaceful,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “He must have come here after I searched—there was so much ground to cover. If only I’d come back and looked again . . .”
She tightened her arms around him. “It’s done. Who knows what he was thinking, but he must have come here on purpose.” That inner bolt, and the locked gate, lingered in her mind. Michael Vane hadn’t wanted to be found.
“Let’s go.” Benedict sounded greatly subdued. He had the satchel hefted under one arm. “Let’s go, Sebastian.”
Sebastian raised his head at the sound of his name. For a long moment he and Benedict just stared at each other, then he looked down at Abigail again. She nodded hopefully. It was time to go, and to let the world know how wrong they’d been about him.
Even in the dim light of Penelope’s lantern, she could see his mouth curve into a weary smile. “Yes. Let’s go home.”
Sebastian arrived at Hart House early the next morning, before Abigail had even finished dressing. The previous evening’s events had left her wide awake until the small hours of the morning, and then she’d slept later than usual. The first she learned of his arrival was when h
er sister burst through her door as her maid was pinning up her hair. “Sebastian is here!”
“What? How do you know?” Abigail leapt from her chair, ignoring Betsy’s squawk about her hair.
“Milo started barking, so I went to look.” Penelope beamed at her. “Aren’t you going to see him?”
“Yes, I am.” She seized the hairpin from the startled maid, rammed it into her hair, and flew out the door and down the stairs.
Thomson was standing guard outside her father’s study. “I’m sorry, Miss Weston, you’re not to go in.”
“Just let me knock.”
“Nor to knock.”
Penelope skidded up beside her just as the study door opened to reveal Papa, his face set in a furious glower. “Abigail, come here. Only Abigail,” he growled as Penelope tried to follow. She gave her sister an apologetic glance before slipping past her father into the study.
“I ought to whip your backside for sneaking off last night.” Papa stalked back to his chair. “What the devil were you thinking?”
She rushed to sit beside Sebastian on the sofa. “I love him, Papa. You said I couldn’t marry him because you thought he was a thief, so we had to prove otherwise.”
“What if you’d been wrong?”
She smiled at Sebastian. He grinned back. Abigail’s heart soared; she’d never seen him look so happy. “I knew I wasn’t.”
“Your father agrees, now that he’s read Lord Stratford’s letter.” Sebastian turned to her father again. “Have you any other objections, Mr. Weston?”
“Lord Stratford—?”
Papa grumbled something under his breath. He handed Abigail a page from his desk.
Dear Sir,
I must correct a false impression you may have formed the other night when we spoke. I am absolutely persuaded that Sebastian Vane had no part in any theft from Stratford Court.
Stratford
She raised hopeful eyes to her father. He glared broodingly at her for a moment, then sighed, dragging one hand over his face. “This is the moment where I have to admit I was wrong and you were right, isn’t it?”
“Have you any other objection, Mr. Weston?” repeated Sebastian. His hand was in a fist on his knee, and he looked as tense as a bowstring.
Papa sighed. He glanced away and shook his head, then he turned back to Abigail. The ire faded from his face until he looked a little sad. “Only that I’m going to miss her terribly.”
Abigail gasped, and jumped up to throw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Papa!” She whirled around and threw herself into Sebastian’s arms. He had risen when she did, and he caught her easily.
“Give me a moment to leave the room,” said Papa dryly as he got to his feet. “But I will be right outside the door. Bear it in mind, Vane.”
Sebastian was kissing her before the door had latched. For a moment there was nothing but the two of them, clinging to each other without anything to divide them again.
“Stratford’s letter?” she asked some time later, when her hair had come undone from its pins and his jacket was wildly askew.
He grinned. “I’m as astonished as you are! Benedict sent it early this morning and asked me to deliver it. Somehow he guessed I’d come here . . .” He tipped up her chin and kissed her again until Abigail almost forgot what he’d been saying. “He sent another letter as well,” he added, his merriment fading. “From my father. It was inside the satchel. He must have written it, planning to leave it for me, and then become confused, or changed his mind. He . . . He said he was going to join my mother and leave me in peace. If he’d left it behind that night, I might have found him in time—”
She put her finger on his lips. “Don’t. It can’t be changed now. You must forgive yourself.”
He nodded. Gently he took her hand, turning it so he could press his lips to the pulse in her wrist. “I’d much rather think of the future.”
“Which will be . . . ?” she prompted, her heart skipping a beat at the way his sleepy eyes glowed, and his mouth curved up on one side.
“A wedding.” He kissed her. “A marriage.” He kissed her again. “A lifetime with you.”
She sighed and linked her hands behind his neck. “Just the way it was meant to be.”
About the Author
CAROLINE LINDEN was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer software before turning to writing fiction. Ten years, twelve books, three Red Sox championships, and one dog later, she has never been happier with her decision. Her books have won the NEC Reader’s Choice Beanpot Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, and RWA’s RITA® Award. Since she never won any prizes in math, she takes this as a sign that her decision was also a smart one. Visit her online at www.CarolineLinden.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Caroline Linden
IT TAKES A SCANDAL
LOVE AND OTHER SCANDALS
THE WAY TO A DUKE’S HEART
BLAME IT ON BATH
ONE NIGHT IN LONDON
I LOVE THE EARL
YOU ONLY LOVE ONCE
FOR YOUR ARMS ONLY
A VIEW TO A KISS
A RAKE’S GUIDE TO SEDUCTION
WHAT A ROUGE DESIRES
WHAT A GENTLEMAN WANTS
WHAT A WOMAN NEEDS
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
IT TAKES A SCANDAL. Copyright © 2014 by P.F. Belsley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition MAY 2013 ISBN: 9780062244918
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062244901
FIRST EDITION
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