It Takes a Scandal (27 page)

“He’s probably very annoyed at us for not meeting him already,” added Penelope. That was a lie—James had probably forgotten all about them by now—but Abigail didn’t protest. The weight of the novel in her arm felt like a weight on her conscience. Was it misleading to accept Lord Atherton’s gift? She was uncomfortably aware that her sister was right: her parents would be very pleased when they heard of it, and would think it meant far more than it really did—or at least more than it meant to her.

For a moment she hovered on the brink of returning it. As much as she hated her sister for suggesting that Lord Atherton was courting her and that she was leading him on, even more she hated to think that Lord Atherton might feel the same way. Because, of course, when Sebastian returned . . .

She paused on that thought. What would happen when Sebastian returned? She had no idea. He might begin courting her in earnest, as he’d hinted, but he might not. She still felt a helpless attraction and fascination for him, buried inside her like an ember waiting to ignite at the first touch of his mouth on hers, but he might not feel the same—or rather, he might not feel anything more. She wasn’t reckless enough to throw herself into an affair like Lady Constance; Abigail wanted more. She wanted him to want her in every way. She wanted him to go out of his way to meet her, to call on her—perhaps with flowers in hand—and to look at her as if he couldn’t tear himself away. Just as Lord Atherton was doing.

She sighed quietly. She had no idea what she’d do when Sebastian returned. If he slipped back into his cool, aloof personality and rebuffed her, she might be glad to have the company of someone who could distract her. Surely it would be easy to fall in love with the attentive Lord Atherton, if she knew Sebastian would never love her. If only Sebastian would return; the longer he stayed away without sending her any word, the more she began to doubt everything that had happened between them.

“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

S
ebastian 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! Rather 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.