It Takes a Scandal (2 page)

“Why were the windows upstairs barred?”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows at the hesitant question. “Because he’s gone mad—hadn’t you heard? He’s a danger to himself and must be locked in every night.”

Benedict glanced up the stairs. “But the door was unlocked. Perhaps Samantha  . . .”

“Crossed the river, in the dark, climbed the hill, found a way into the house, unlocked his door, and then left, without anyone seeing her?” Sebastian finished when Benedict didn’t. “How likely is that? And what would it gain her, in any event?” He shook his head, fumbling with his buttons, cursing the laudanum that made him clumsy—and forgetful—tonight.

“No,” murmured Benedict. “I know that even if she thought . . . That is to say, there would still be . . .” He flushed, stopping short of saying what they both knew.

“Even if he died, it wouldn’t change anything?” Sebastian gave him a hard look. “I suggest you go home to find your sister.”

Benedict hesitated, then jerked his head in a single nod. He went out and untied his horse from the post. With a quick, easy motion that gave Sebastian a pang of useless envy, he swung into the saddle and wheeled his horse around. “Good luck,” he said after a moment’s pause.

Sebastian nodded once. “And to you.”

Benedict disappeared into the night. It would take him close to an hour to get home on horseback. He would have to ride through Richmond and rouse the ferryman, although perhaps he’d paid the man to wait when he came across the river the first time. He’d be cold and stiff by the time he reached home—which must say something about how strongly he feared his sister had been persuaded to run off with Sebastian. Just another bit of proof that their friendship was irrevocably over.

Sebastian glanced longingly toward his dark and empty stables, wishing he, too, had a horse. It would make searching for his father much easier, if he had to go into the woods. Of course, he couldn’t ride anywhere. Thanks to his ruined knee, mounting a horse would be agony, and thanks to his father’s delusions, they didn’t have any horses anyway. He went to rouse the Joneses, unable to answer their alarmed queries about how Mr. Vane had got out. When a quick search of the house and stable revealed nothing, he struck out for the woods.

As he limped down the uneven path, the echo of his own words followed him.
Even if he died, it wouldn’t change anything.
That wasn’t quite true. If his father died, he wouldn’t have to sleep in his chair, ready to spring into action if another fit seized Michael. He wouldn’t suffer any more injuries trying to keep his father from harming other people. He wouldn’t have to watch his once intelligent, practical parent become a distorted shell of himself, filthy and insane and raving about the demons pursuing him. In many ways, Sebastian knew it would be a mercy when death finally claimed his father.

But it wouldn’t make him any more eligible. Samantha had to know that as well as anyone. Benedict would find her safe at home, and feel like an idiot for rushing to Montrose Hill. For a moment Sebastian wondered if his onetime friend would apologize for his accusations, and then he shrugged it off. The odds were highly against it, and if not for Benedict’s visit, he wouldn’t have known his father was missing until morning. Perhaps he should thank Benedict for being so suspicious. He raised his lantern higher and tried to think where his father might have gone.

At dawn, Mr. Jones found Sebastian and half carried him back to the house for a few hours of sleep. Together he and Mr. Jones combed the meadow and dragged the pond, an exercise which put Mr. Jones back into bed with chills and a cough.

Two letters arrived that day. One was from Benedict, apologizing for troubling him. Samantha had indeed been safe at home. The other letter was from Samantha herself, urging Sebastian to call on her. He supposed Benedict had told her what happened, and she also wanted to apologize. He hoped that was all she wanted to say; the sooner she redirected her affections, the better for all of them. Sebastian threw both notes on the fire.

But no trace of Michael Vane was ever seen again. And instead of making anything better, his father’s disappearance only made everything much, much worse.

Chapter 1

1822

Richmond-on-Thames

“W
ell, my dear, what do you think?”

Thomas Weston stood in the center of the main hall at Hart House and spread his arms wide, beaming.

“What’s wrong with a house in London?” his wife asked, casting a dark look on the dust motes floating in the sunlight that streamed through the open door and tall flanking windows. The estate agent who had brought them to view the house waited discreetly outside.

“London is London. A country estate is what sets a man apart and makes him a gentleman.”

“It’s also what squanders his fortune and incites him to spend ever more, redecorating and building and entertaining.” His wife tipped back her head. “That plaster is already cracked. You’ll be a pauper within the year, fixing every little thing around this house.”

“A bit of cracked plaster,” he scoffed. “The house is sound, Mrs. Weston! It’s within a day’s drive of town, so you can go back and forth if it pleases you. You’ll never be apart from your dressmakers and bonnet shops and all those furbelows you don’t seem to mind spending my fortune on.”

“A new bonnet is nothing to the cost of a new house,” she replied tartly. “To say nothing of landscaping and furnishings and staff.”

He put his hands on his hips and sighed. “But think of the parties you can throw here, in the finest gowns from Bond Street,” he cajoled. “Mrs. Weston of Hart House! It will be the most coveted invitation in all of Richmond, I’ve no doubt. And think of the girls—picture our daughters gliding down these stairs, also in splendid new gowns, dancing with the gentlemen of the neighborhood, forming friendships with the daughters of the nobility.” He put his arm around her and drew her into the very center of the hall. “Imagine it: you and I, standing right here, welcoming our genteel and noble guests. My lord, my lady.” He made an extravagant bow to an imaginary couple. “What an honor to have you grace our humble home. May I present my wife?” He swept her hand up to kiss it, giving her a sideways, hopeful glance. Mrs. Weston pursed up her lips, obviously trying not to smile. Encouraged, he went on. “Why, yes, my lord, she is the most beautiful lady in all of Surrey, and the most gracious hostess. Indeed, my lady, her gown is the very latest fashion; I’m sure she would be delighted to commend you to her dressmaker.” Mrs. Weston rolled her eyes at her husband’s antics.

From the top of the curving staircase overlooking them, Penelope Weston leaned closer to her sister. They were watching their parents’ little drama from there, after exploring the upper rooms. “He’s laying it on a bit strong, isn’t he?”

“Just wait,” murmured Abigail in reply. “You know what’s coming . . .”

As if he could hear her, her father clapped one hand to his heart. “And you must meet my daughters! Two lovelier, sweeter girls you’ve never met, and every bit as beautiful as their mother. What’s that? You have an unmarried son and heir? A gentleman in search of a bride? A bride whose family is refined and respectable, with property in London and Richmond?”

“There it is,” said Abigail with a wry smile. Penelope gave a quiet snort.

“Stop, Thomas!” Mrs. Weston finally burst out laughing and swatted his shoulder. “You’re too ridiculous—as if buying this house will guarantee a match for one—or both!—of our girls!”

“Well, it can’t hurt, can it?” He gave her a winning smile. “Come, Clara; what say you? It’s a fine house, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very fine,” she agreed. “Exceedingly fine! It must cost the earth, and how much time do you expect to spend out here in the wilds?”

“Wilds!” He threw up one hand. “It’s less than ten miles from London.”

“We’re settled in town,” she went on. “We’re comfortable. You’re ignoring how disrupting it will be to pack up and move house, even a mere ten miles.”

“But once we’re settled here, it will seem a mere trifle. We can journey by river. I shall buy you a barge with ten Egyptians to sail you back and forth, like a modern Cleopatra.” He sidled closer. “What will convince you, my love?”

She gave him a stern look. “We both know you aren’t really asking my approval. I expect you’ve already bought it, haven’t you?”

“But I still want you to be pleased,” he answered, not bothering to deny it.

Upstairs, Abigail stifled a laugh. How like her father. So this would be their country house. She looked around it with new consideration. It really was a lovely building. Mama would come around once it was time to choose carpets and furnishings, if by some chance Papa didn’t manage to win her over sooner. He usually did, though.

“I’m going to go choose my room now,” whispered Penelope. “As far away from Mama’s as possible.” She disappeared toward the bedchambers.

Abigail went down the stairs and walked past her parents, her mother still pretending outraged disapproval and her father still cajoling her, and out onto the gravel drive. The house itself wasn’t enormous, but it was well proportioned and handsome. The landscape was peaceful and beautiful, and the air was certainly clearer here than in town. Yes, Mama would come around. Within a year, she’d probably prefer it to their house in Grosvenor Square.

Her brother, James, came around the side of the house. He’d probably been off inspecting the stables. “What do you think, Abby?”

“Papa’s already bought it.”

He nodded, squinting in the sunlight. “I know.”

“What?” she exclaimed. “He told you, but not Mama?”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “If he bought it before he showed it to her, she couldn’t argue him out of it, could she?”

“That’s cheating!”

James laughed. “All’s fair in love, I suppose. Father’s had his heart set on a country property for some time now, and this is a good one; the house is sound, only in need of decoration and a few minor modernizations. The prospect is ideal, as Mama will agree when she can plan picnics and boating trips. And the price was reasonable.”

Abigail shook her head. “He’s in there now, telling her Pen and I are likely to meet titled gentlemen because of this house.”

“I shouldn’t doubt it. The Earl of Stratford’s seat is nearby, and there are dozens of villas and small estates where the nobility come for the fresh air.”

“The Earl of Stratford!” Abigail snorted. “Now you’re as fanciful as Papa.”

“I never said any of them would marry you,” he pointed out. “Just that you’re likely to meet them—fat, gouty, senile, or lecherous though they may be. Besides, Lord Stratford is Papa’s age, and already married. He’s got a son, but I believe he’s away in the army. You and Pen are out of luck there; perhaps the Marquess of Dorre, who owns Penton Lodge near Kew, will bring his sons. Although I hear rumors the middle one is someone to avoid.”

“How do you know all that?”

He shrugged. “I pay attention. Don’t you?”

Abigail bit her lip. She did pay attention to gossip about gentlemen, titled or otherwise. Still, even she hadn’t known about Dorre’s middle son; what had he done, that people ought to avoid him? “Perhaps you’ll meet a young lady now that we have a country property. In fact, since the house will be yours one day, it’s far more likely to snare you a bride.”

Her brother’s lips twitched. “Don’t you know I’m hopeless? Penelope told me so herself.”

“No, she said you were dull and unimaginative, and no one wants to marry a dull man.” Abigail grinned. “I myself find it far more likely that you’ll marry an aristocratic girl than that some viscount or earl will appear out of nowhere to call on me or Pen.”

“Don’t wager your pin money on it,” he said shortly.

She laughed. “Believe me, I won’t. Haven’t I learned after all these years that you usually beat me?” Together they walked through a covered walkway to a very pleasant lawn overlooking the river. The house was set on the head of a gently rolling slope toward the river, and one could probably go punting right into the heart of London from here. Even if Mama didn’t come to like it here, Abigail thought she very well might.

Still, her father’s reasoning was somewhat daft. “They must know it’s not terribly likely for any of us,” she murmured. Her brother shot her an unreadable glance. Abigail flipped one hand. “Aristocratic husbands—or wife. Everyone looks down on us as nouveau riche tradesmen.”

“Noblemen,” said James, staring down at the sparkling river, “have married actresses. Mistresses. Americans. Some lord somewhere has probably married a scullery maid. Believing a pretty girl with a handsome dowry could catch one isn’t too much of a stretch. They don’t put up much of a fight, when enough money is involved.”

“
Could
catch one,” she repeated, laying heavy emphasis on the first word. “Not necessarily
will
catch one. And what if I don’t like any that might deign to take me? Mama chose a humble attorney’s son, and she seems happy enough. Perhaps I’m destined to be a butcher’s wife.”

“Your friend’s marriage raised her hopes.” He gave her a sideways glance. “To say nothing of Father’s hopes.”

Abigail grimaced. Her dear friend Joan Bennet, who had been every bit as ignored by the gentlemen of London as Abigail and Penelope, had recently married one of the most eligible, and elusive, men in London, Viscount Burke. It certainly had caught everyone by surprise—even including Joan, if she could be believed. But Mr. and Mrs. Weston had indeed been very pleased by the news. “You’ll recall that began inauspiciously,” she reminded her brother. “She hated him at first, and he tormented her.”