Love in the Time of Scandal (10 page)

Chapter 10

F
or once Penelope was not at all sorry to be unwell. She kept to the house that night, thinking it best to give Frances and Mrs. Lockwood time to cool their tempers, and to give herself time to think of an appropriate response. Sooner or later she would see them again, and she hoped to have something conciliatory to say when they did meet. Even if Frances’s friendship was lost forever, Penelope did not want anyone to think she had schemed to steal the other girl’s suitor. No good explanation had come to her yet, but surely something would.

A package arrived from Olivia the next morning. Penelope opened it to find the travel journal of Italy she’d bought in Madox Street. “I expect you are imagining yourself anywhere but home by now,” read the enclosed note, “and I enclose this to aid in your imaginary wanderings. I am feeling much better about the vexing matter we discussed yesterday, and have every expectation of a solution soon.”

The gift made her smile and breathe a sigh of relief. Olivia was no fool, and even though it had looked very bad with Clary, Penelope was hardly in a position to judge by appearances.

But she was not made to be an invalid. The day was bright and sunny and it seemed the walls of the house were closing in on her. When her mother mentioned after breakfast that she was going shopping, Penelope asked if she could go as well. It took multiple assurances that her ankle was strong enough, that the swelling had entirely subsided, and that she would be very careful when she walked, but finally Mrs. Weston consented.

Shopping with her mother was not the same as shopping with Olivia or her sister, but on this day Penelope didn’t care. It was bliss to be outside, with the sunshine on her shoulders. She followed her mother into various shops and amused herself by trying on fur tippets and admiring the latest style of bonnets. For the first time in two days she was able to forget about Frances Lockwood and Lord Clary, and apparently it was obvious.

“You seem restored,” remarked her mother.

“Restored? What do you mean?”

Her mother gave her a thoughtful look. “You seem your happy self again, as if you’ve shaken off some great worry.”

Oh heavens. Had her mother noticed? Penelope ducked her head, uncomfortably aware that she had not shaken off anything; she had merely forgotten it for a little while, until now. She picked up a carved fan and fluttered it in front of her face. “It’s just lovely to be out of the house again.”

“I imagine.” Mama sent the shopkeeper to wrap up the gloves she was purchasing, and then she and Penelope left the shop. “Shall you feel well enough to attend the Crawfords’ soiree tomorrow?”

Oh dear. That was a conundrum. Mrs. Lockwood was nearly as close friends with Mrs. Crawford as Mama was. There was a strong chance Frances would be there. For a moment the word “no
”
hovered on her lips, but then Penelope swallowed it.
Be brave
, she told herself. “I believe so, Mama.”

“Very good.” Her mother’s eyes flickered, then widened. “Good heavens. Is that—?”

Penelope tensed. Oh no; she said a quick prayer it wasn’t Mrs. Lockwood, descending on them with vengeance in her heart. “Who, Mama?” She didn’t even dare look but kept her bonnet brim tilted to hide her face.

“I believe it’s Lord Atherton,” murmured her mother in wonder. She was almost staring, which meant she missed Penelope’s cringe of horror. Hastily Penelope revised her prayer. She would much rather see Mrs. Lockwood than him, especially in view of her mother. “And he is coming directly toward us.”

Grimly Penelope eyed a nearby shop. Could she plausibly pretend a sudden desire to dash inside? Unfortunately it was a tobacconist. Her mother would never believe she wanted to go in there. She dared a peek around her bonnet brim.

It was indeed Atherton, his gaze focused and intent on her. It was eerily reminiscent of the look he’d given her the other night, the mesmerized expression that hinted at real interest. That was dangerous; it tempted her mind to wander off and wonder what might happen if he really did look at her, long enough to truly see her for the first time, and realize . . . And realize that she saw through him, and that she wasn’t fooled by his charming facade and perfect face. Penelope squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and reminded herself that she’d seen Atherton’s true colors last summer, when he allowed Sebastian Vane—a guest in his family home who had once been his dearest friend—to crawl home unaided after his own father had caused Sebastian to fall on his crippled knee. She’d seen Atherton’s real measure when he persisted in pursuing her sister, Abigail, even when it was clear Abigail was in love with someone else. She’d known what the viscount really was when she learned he had allowed accusations of murder and theft to endure for years against Sebastian, without speaking a word of support or protest. Atherton might be the handsomest man in all of England, and he had saved her from Clary, but Penelope really didn’t want to see him.

Naturally her prayers were not answered. “Mrs. Weston,” he said, his voice as rich as caramel. “How delightful to see you again.” His blue eyes settled on Penelope. “Miss Weston.”

“The delight is entirely ours, sir,” replied Mama warmly. Penelope dipped a stiff curtsy and said nothing. What did he want? He looked magnificent today in regular clothing instead of his uniform, with a charcoal coat and dark blue trousers that outlined his form exquisitely. It was really unfair for a man to be that beautiful and yet a complete fraud as a person.

He laughed. “I flatter myself to hope it’s even half as great as mine! I’ve worried over Miss Weston since the other night, and it gladdens my heart to see her on her feet again.”

She jerked her head up. Mama was regarding her with surprise, and Atherton with an expression of warmth and concern and . . . determination. What the devil? “Yes, thank you, sir,” she said politely.

“I was very fortunately close at hand when she suffered her mishap the other night,” he told Mama, still radiating charm.

“How very kind.” Mama sent Penelope a probing look. “You didn’t tell me Lord Atherton assisted you when you slipped on the stairs.”

She widened her eyes innocently. “Didn’t I? Oh dear, I must have forgotten. I was very shaken, you know.”

“No doubt,” murmured the viscount.

She flushed, reminding herself to be more polite. He could expose her as a liar with just one word. “I must thank you once again, my lord. Your help was both timely and considerate.”

“Not at all! I was very distressed when I discovered you after your fall, and have worried ever since that you would suffer a lasting injury.”

Penelope clenched her jaw. She’d heard his slight hesitation before the word “fall” and knew he was calling her a liar. She gave a carefree little laugh. “Not at all! A slightly sore ankle. The more I walk on it, the better it feels.”

“Oh?” His blue eyes gleamed. “How fortunate we met. I was on my way to take a turn in the park. Perhaps you would care to accompany me?” He turned to her mother before she could utter a word. “With your permission, Mrs. Weston.”

“Of course,” said Mama at once, pleasantly surprised. “It will be good exercise, and spare you standing around waiting in the upholsterer’s shop.”

She could almost hear what her mother was thinking. Lord Atherton—and his parents, the Earl and Countess of Stratford—had every reason to dislike her family. It had been a thorn in her father’s side ever since Abigail rejected Atherton, dashing Papa’s hopes of a noble connection. But here Atherton was, smiling as charmingly as ever. A chance to restore the goodwill between the viscount and the Westons would delight both of Penelope’s parents beyond description. Even more, Atherton had fixed his attention on her in a way that implied he held no grudge over the things she had said to him. Of course, Mama couldn’t know about those things, but Penelope did, and it all left her very ill at ease. What was he plotting? A public stroll in the park was the last thing they should do together. Really, after the way they parted last, she thought he would never want to see her again. He did not like her; he had all but told her so the other night when they danced together. So why was he here watching her with an unwavering attention that made her skin feel taut and warm?

Penelope writhed inside, but saw no way out. He’d better have a good reason for this. She forced a smile to her lips. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

She put her hand on his arm and let him lead her off, across Pall Mall and down a side street into St. James’s Park. She waited until no one was within earshot to demand, “To what do I owe this honor, my lord?”

He smiled down at her, although now it seemed more ominous than before. “I wanted a private conversation.”

Oh Lord. That stamped out the unwanted but unmistakable thrill that had shivered over her when he drew her to his side. A chill of apprehension went down her back. About what? Mrs. Lockwood, most likely, or even worse, Lord Clary. She wet her lips. “How very mysterious of you. I’m sure we haven’t anything private to discuss.”

“Are you sure? Very sure?” He dipped his head closer and murmured in her ear, “Perhaps you should hear what I have to say before you answer.”

Her heart seemed to leap into her throat—in anxiety, she told herself, not in reaction to his breath on her cheek. “Go on, then,” she said coolly.

“I wanted to warn you.”

She tensed. “About what?”

“You can’t guess, after what happened the other night?”

“Oh, that.” She flipped one hand and pretended a great interest in the shrubbery they were passing, to hide the sudden thudding of her heart. She had hoped for more time . . . but perhaps it was best to hear it now and absorb the blow in private. “What is Mrs. Lockwood saying?”

“How interesting you would think of her. What have you got to fear from Mrs. Lockwood?”

Penelope gave him a guarded look. Why did he sound amused? “You know what. She saw—”

“Us?” he finished when she didn’t. “Alone together, in extremely suggestive disarray—what some might even call a compromising position? Certainly. But I suspect she also saw the young lady who’s been keeping company with her own daughter for several weeks. What, pray, does it gain her to go about accusing that young lady of impropriety? It might make some people wonder how much of it rubbed off on Miss Lockwood.”

That made sense and yet . . . If Mrs. Lockwood hadn’t been causing trouble, what did he want to warn her about? Suddenly she wished wholeheartedly that Atherton was teasing her, that Mrs. Lockwood or Frances was the problem, because if his warning about that night didn’t involve either of them, it would have to be about . . . Lord Clary. “She could say she was deceived! She could say she regretted allowing me to speak to her daughter, and . . . and . . .”

Atherton nodded once. “She could. But I somehow doubt she’s behind the rumors I heard.”

Oh Lord. Penelope steeled herself. “Why is that?”

“Because they are rather vile—far worse than anything I would expect Mrs. Lockwood to say.”

“What?” she demanded at once. He wanted to tell her, so he ought to tell her, not draw it out and make her want to shake him.

He turned them into the Birdcage Walk. The trees were losing their leaves, which crunched and rustled underfoot. The sun was warm but the breeze was brisker here, and Penelope had to fight off the urge to press closer to her companion. Her arm, tucked against his side, was deliciously warm, while the rest of her was acutely aware of the chill in the air.

“I believe there’s no question that Lord Clary is responsible.” He glanced down at her. “Why
were
you in that room with him?”

Penelope flushed. “I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t?” repeated the viscount. “Or won’t?”

“Very well, I won’t.” Her face still burned, but she met his eyes without flinching. “I swore not to.”

“Ah,” he murmured. “Swore to whom?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.” She shot a defiant glance his way and added, “Nor will I.”

He shrugged. “As you like. I recommend you avoid him from now on.”

“Huh!” She snorted. “As if I ever wanted to speak to that vile pig.”

“And yet you were alone with him, in a room far from the other guests. Why?” he asked again. “Did someone send you?”

“I already told you, I didn’t mean to be alone with him,” she snapped. “I won’t tell you more, so please stop asking.”

Something flashed in his eyes, but only for a moment. “Whatever led you there was a foolish instinct. I hope you won’t give in to it again.”

She shuddered at the thought. “I don’t plan to.” She took a deep breath. “You said you wanted to warn me. Please just tell me what he’s saying. I promise I shan’t faint or weep or have a hysterical fit.”

Atherton took his time replying. “I thought you might like to know before it reaches your family’s ears. Your reputation is about to take a public flogging. The rumor I heard is that you’ve been little more than a whore, slipping away for liaisons during every ball and soiree this year.”

It took a moment for the awful words to sink in. The blood roared in her ears; her stomach dropped, and then heaved. “That no-account, lying, disgusting
villain
,” she managed to gasp. “That’s—that’s a slanderous lie!”

“Indeed.”

She wrenched loose of his arm and paced away. She pressed her hands to her stomach, both to still them and to keep from casting up her accounts. And she had been worried Frances would call her a sly schemer—nothing pleasant, but not on this scale. If people believed this about her—tears prickled in her eyes—if her parents heard this—

Atherton followed her. “I suppose Clary means to ruin your chances of a decent marriage.”

Her lungs felt tight. Whether Clary intended that or not, he had achieved it. “Surely—surely people won’t believe it,” she whispered.

“Perhaps not,” he said after a moment.

Of course they would. Not everyone, but enough to stain her name forever.

“I do have a suggestion for how you can preserve your reputation.” Penelope started as the viscount’s voice came again, softer and closer than before. Gently he eased her shawl up around her shoulders again. “You could spike Clary’s guns before the gossip takes root, if you already had a suitor.”