It Takes a Scandal (7 page)

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” She was running out of things to say. Abigail couldn’t even explain to herself why she wanted to keep talking to him, but she did. There was something appealing about him, in spite of the aloofness of his demeanor. She liked the sound of his voice, and she really longed to see him smile.

“Not kind at all,” he replied. “Only fairness. When I was young, I was permitted to explore the grounds of Hart House freely and wantonly, and I did so at every opportunity. The previous owner, Lady Burton, was very gracious.”

“Yes, I gather Hart House has some interesting features. I heard there was a grotto or some such thing on the grounds, but no one seems to know where it is—or was.”

For the first time a spark brightened his eye. “I know about the grotto.” His mouth softened—not quite into a smile, but a less grim line than usual. Abigail felt inordinately heartened by it, and her heart positively leapt when he leaned closer. “I know where it is, too.”

“You do?” she gasped. “It still exists? I thought it had been filled in.”

“Only by the encroaching woods. One has to forge through the brambles to get there.” This time his mouth most definitely did curve, and something like triumph brought a wholly different cast to his face. He looked younger, almost rakish. “When I found it several years ago, I felt like the most intrepid explorer, as if I’d located the source of the Nile for the first time.”

Abigail was having a hard time keeping her mind on the topic. Mr. Vane was the most attractive man she’d ever seen. Good heavens; she’d read about women being dazzled by a man, falling in love almost on the spot. She’d never understood how that could happen until today. Were the women of Richmond blind? Why wasn’t he besieged by unmarried ladies? “You must have been very intrepid, indeed,” she said, scrambling for her wits. “Lady Samantha Lennox told us her brother searched and searched for the grotto but never found it.”

Like a candle being snuffed, the light went out of his face. His mouth flattened into the same flat line, and he seemed to withdraw without moving a muscle. “No.”

“Will this be all, miss?” The shopkeeper’s voice made Abigail jump. She turned, still reeling from his transformation—for both good and bad—and saw, with a shock of alarm, that the shopkeeper had found her books—all of them. And right on top, unwrapped and exposed for all the world to see, lay
50 Ways to Sin
.

For one horrified moment Abigail stared at it blankly. Oh heavens. She hadn’t expected this sort of shop to have it. She hadn’t expected the woman to hand it over so carelessly and brazenly; the London bookstore wrapped it in paper. She certainly hadn’t expected to be engaged in any sort of tête-à-tête with Mr. Vane when the woman brought it out. And yet part of her was elated as well to have a new copy at last. What would Lady Constance get up to in this one?

“Yes,” she burst out, shaking off her paralysis with a start. “Thank you.” She plopped her reticule on top of the pamphlet to hide the title, making a show of searching inside for money and tilting her bonnet so the brim hid her blushing face.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked the shopkeeper as Abigail fumbled with her coins. There was a decided chill to the woman’s voice as she turned to Mr. Vane.

“I’m looking for
The Nautical Almanac
,” he replied. “The latest edition.”

She sniffed. “I’ll have to see.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Driscoll.”

Abigail peeked at him around the edge of her bonnet. Mrs. Driscoll hardly addressed him as a respectable man of property, but he didn’t seem perturbed by it. She handed her money to the shopkeeper and unthinkingly picked up her reticule, only to remember a moment later and snatch up the books.

“Good day, Mr. Vane,” she said, turning to him. “I hope we see each other again.”

For a fraction of a second his eyes dipped to the books she held. “Perhaps we will, Miss Weston.”

Oh dear Lord. He’d seen it. Abigail bobbed an awkward curtsy, her face burning. Perhaps he wouldn’t know what it was. Perhaps he would think it wasn’t hers. But she had never been as good a liar as Penelope, and her reaction had probably been as guilty as it could be. Head down, she hurried out of the shop, leaving him standing at the counter waiting for his book.

“What was that about?” hissed Penelope, galloping up beside her. Abigail had entirely forgotten her sister.

“I hate you, Pen,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed forward. “I really, really do.”

“That much?” Penelope grinned wickedly. She looked over her shoulder. “So that’s the mysterious Mr. Vane! I think he fancies you, Abby.”

“Be quiet,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I notice you were very animated when talking to him. Do you fancy him as well?” She looked back again. “And do you know, he’s watching you walk away through the window.”

“Turn around,” she ordered. “He might be staring because he saw
it
.”

“No!” Her sister’s eyes grew round in alarm. “Why did you let him see it?”

“I didn’t let him, the shopkeeper just slapped it down right in front of him before I could stop her!” Abigail pulled out the troublesome pamphlet and thrust it at her sister. “We have to find a better way to get it. Presuming Mama doesn’t hear of this and confine us both to our rooms, that is.”

Penelope stuffed the pamphlet into her reticule. “You’re right. I agree. If I’d known an eager suitor would follow you into the shop, I never would have asked you to do it today.”

She shot a murderous glare at her sister and stalked away without another word. Mr. Vane was the least eager suitor she could imagine. The trouble was . . . she wished he would be. Or at least that he would show some sign that he was interested, because she found him fascinating.

On the other hand, for her own sake, she should probably hope she never saw him again. He’d seen
50 Ways to Sin
. He knew she’d bought it. All he had to do was ask Mrs. Driscoll what it was, and she’d be sunk. In fact, she probably already was. All it would take was one word about the Weston girls purchasing that wicked story, and her mother would hear it eventually. Nothing Penelope could say would save her from the consequences of that.

For now, she only hoped he wouldn’t follow her.

“W
ill that be all, Mr. Vane?” Mrs. Driscoll pushed his book across the counter as if she couldn’t even bear to hand it to him.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sebastian counted out the price from his purse. He no longer presumed anyone would extend him credit. It made things easier if he just carried money; he couldn’t outspend his limited income if he had to pay coin for everything, and no one could complain of his custom when they were paid on the spot. Mrs. Driscoll had once been kind and cordial to him, but then his father had assaulted her in the midst of one of his fits, and ever since, Sebastian had been tarred by association. The bookshop owner always watched him warily, as if she expected him to suddenly fly at her in a rage, too.

Mr. Weston must not have established an account here yet, if his daughter also had to pay in coin. Sebastian’s fingers slowed as he laid his money on the counter. He should have known he’d run into her today, the first day in weeks he’d come into town. And in spite of himself, something inside him had surged with pleasure when she turned around and said his name with every sign of delight.

He would have been content just to exchange greetings and have a chance to look at her for a few minutes. Her hair looked more reddish in the warm light of the shop, or perhaps it was the reflection of her cherry-red pelisse. Her eyes were the same clear gray, though, and he was almost mesmerized by the invitation in them. She wanted to talk to him. She smiled when he complimented her. Her eyes lit up when he said he knew where the old grotto was. Sebastian almost forgot who he was for a few minutes, dazzled by her smile and her eyes and the way her gloved hands pressed together at her bosom . . .

Then she mentioned Samantha and Benedict, and he remembered everything. He remembered everything he had lost, and every reason that he would never have more of Abigail Weston than a chance meeting in town or in the woods. He knew he ought to regret inviting her to walk anywhere she wanted, but some part of him was too selfish to do that. Just a glimpse, now and then, would do no harm. Sooner or later someone would warn her away from him, and then it wouldn’t matter what he did.

Still, for some reason he lingered at the counter. He had no right to her attention. The less he knew about her, the better. But knowing wasn’t the same as acting. And she’d bought something very intriguing . . .

“Have you changed your mind?” asked Mrs. Driscoll curtly. She swept his coins up as though she feared he would take them back.

“Yes.” He gave her a steady look as he pulled out another coin, even though he could ill afford to spend it. “I would like a copy of that pamphlet.”

Her eyes narrowed warily. “What pamphlet?”

“The one you just sold.
Fifty Ways to Sin
.”

Chapter 5

A
bigail’s curiosity about Mr. Vane, which had been considerable to begin with, waxed feverish after the encounter in the bookshop. That brief glimpse of animation tormented her. It made her think he wasn’t a recluse by nature, but by choice, either his own or one forced upon him. Mrs. Driscoll had been almost rude to him, even though he spoke to her quite civilly. What had happened to make a respectable proprietress all but shun a local landowner? Where was that lost grotto, the one whose discovery had made him feel intrepid? And why had mention of Lady Samantha and her brother doused the light in his eyes? She was so consumed by that question she completely forgot to ask Penelope for the troublesome copy of
50 Ways to Sin
.

She paid close attention to the local gossip relayed by the ladies who came to call on Mama. She had always listened to gossip, and enjoyed some of it exceedingly, but now she gathered every word like a possible clue to the mysterious neighbor.

Sadly, no one else seemed as interested in him as she was. Even Penelope moved on to more fertile topics, like which eligible young men might retire to Richmond for the summer, a topic that was obviously near and dear to their mother’s heart as well. Eligible young men were discussed at every opportunity, with every lady who came to call on Mrs. Weston. At first Abigail thought this would be sufficient; sooner or later his name was bound to come up. It never did. No one seemed to consider Mr. Vane eligible, which only threw Abigail into deeper puzzlement. Why wouldn’t he be? Contrary to his vague warnings about his unsuitability, he was a handsome gentleman of property—but no one mentioned him.

But finally, one day while she was helping her mother sort embroidery silks, the butler came into the room and announced, to her astonishment, “Mr. Sebastian Vane to see you, madam.”

“Ah!” Mama smiled in delight, running one hand over Milo’s fur. “At last. Do show him in, Thomson.”

Abigail sat mute with shock and unexpected alarm. He was here himself! She hadn’t expected that, after the way he refused to call. It might be a heaven-sent opportunity to sort him out. But he also knew her little secret, about
50 Ways to Sin
, and there was no way for her to intercept him before he met Mama. He might not know it was a secret. He might disapprove and be bent on telling Mama. He might have decided she had questionable judgment or morals. She wished there was any way at all she could rush into the hall and have a quick word with him, but then she realized she didn’t know what to say anyway.
Please don’t tell my mother I bought a naughty story?
Somehow that didn’t seem like a good idea.

Slowly she got to her feet as the door opened once more. She heard a measured step, with just a hint of tap indicating a cane, and then he stepped through the door. His hair was brushed back, and he wore a deep blue coat, and Abigail felt the strangest urge to run to him and stand at his side.

“Mr. Vane!” Mama went to him, her hand outstretched. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance at last. Thank you for coming.”

“I ought to have done so sooner, Mrs. Weston, to welcome you to Richmond.” He bowed over her hand.

She smiled. “Nonsense! I put little stock in trivial formalities. Come, Abigail, greet our neighbor, since you’ve already made his acquaintance.” Mama beckoned her toward them.

“Good day, Mr. Vane.” She curtsied. He bowed, his deep brown eyes never veering from her face. “How kind of you to call.”

Abigail wished she could read his thoughts; his expression gave away nothing even though he studied her so intently, it seemed he must want to say something. “Good day, Miss Weston,” he said after a small pause. “I trust you are well?”

Now that you’ve come.
She blushed at the unbidden thought. “Very well, sir, thank you.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He hesitated again, that intense gaze seeming to caress every inch of her face. “I’m very pleased to be so welcome.”

“Of course!” Mama resumed her seat on the sofa and waved one hand at the opposite chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Vane. May I offer you some tea?”

“Thank you.” He lowered himself with only the slightest tensing of his jaw. Abigail realized he had propped the cane against the back of the chair and walked around it unaided. She sat on the other end of the sofa, offering Milo a piece of rope James had knotted into a toy for him. The puppy took it between his paws and settled down on the cushion, happily chewing away.