Love in the Time of Scandal (26 page)

God help him, she had been. Thank God that wretch Clary had come up on deck. If Benedict hadn’t realized she’d gone overboard when he had . . . He pushed the thought from his mind. So far all he’d done was get her out of the water. Without dry clothes and a fire, they were both flirting with terrible illness at the least. He pressed his lips to her temple. “You are not alone—not now, not ever. We’re going to walk to your sister’s house, where there will be a hot bath and tea and a warm bed.” She nodded, slumping against him. He looped her arm around his neck, secured his arm around her waist, and started out into the night.

Chapter 25

P
enelope was terribly afraid one of them was going to die that night.

The thought had been hovering over her mind ever since she hit the water. At first she had scorned it, filled with righteous fury and determination that Clary would never have the satisfaction of disposing of her so easily. When Benedict had found her, she’d been buoyed again; she was no longer alone, and he knew the river. His fierce promise that they would spend the night at Abigail’s, warm and safe—along with his vengeful words about Clary—gave her renewed strength.

Still, that strength was nearly gone by the time they made it to shore. Despite telling him she could swim, her limbs had become leaden. Her mind seemed to be receding from her body, pulling away until her senses felt attenuated and muted. She barely heard Benedict’s voice, urging her on, breaking in relief as he dragged her ashore. She was only dimly aware of her body moving, although she did feel the shudders that racked her from head to toe as the wind cut into her soaked clothes.

She had never explored as much as her sister had, but Penelope had walked in the woods. She knew Montrose Hill House was just that: a house atop a hill. A hill they would have to walk up, in this wind, sopping wet. Like a moth transfixed by a flame, her thoughts circled around those few facts. There was no strength in her legs; she could barely walk. Benedict, who had just swum across a stormy river pulling her weight behind him, must be even more exhausted.

And then he took the lantern away and left her. She pressed herself against the rock, trying to quell the horrible shivering, and closed her eyes to the darkness. The sky was as dark as night above her, and the weak lantern light vanished with Benedict. She knew he was only a few feet away and would be back soon, but it was hard not to feel utterly alone.

There was no denying that she had been wrong about a great many things. Lord Stratford was a far, far worse man than she had ever expected. It was one thing to be strict, and many fathers thrashed their children. When Benedict told her he’d been whipped as a boy, even as a young man, she’d blithely thought it was akin to the way her father had thrashed her brother on a few occasions. When Benedict said his father had no pity for others, she assumed it was wrapped up in the general arrogance associated with being an earl. When he said he hoped she and his father never met, a small part of her had wondered if that was because he was somewhat ashamed of her. She had been wrong, wrong, wrong.

Even if Benedict had wanted to keep her away from the earl because of shame over his marriage, she should have counted her blessings that she wouldn’t have to deal with Lord Stratford. Instead she had convinced herself that it was best to stand up to him, to assert their—her—independence from the tight control he had always exerted over his family. If Benedict had married her because her dowry freed him from the earl’s authority, she reasoned, shouldn’t he demonstrate that? Showing weakness only encouraged a bully.

Instead the earl had schemed to lure her aboard his yacht so Clary could corner her about Olivia. Perhaps Stratford had been deceived about Clary’s true nature; perhaps there was some honorable reason he wished to speak to Olivia. But every other time Penelope had given the earl the benefit of the doubt, she’d been wrong, so she could only believe that Stratford was as ruthless as Clary.

Tears leaked from her eyes and down her cheeks. She had contributed to this nightmare through her disregard for Benedict’s warnings, through her arrogance that she would know better how to deal with the earl than his son did, and through her own stubbornness in not telling anyone and everyone that Clary had assaulted her in the first place. What good was keeping her promise to Olivia if it led to her death—or worse, Benedict’s?

She heard his footsteps coming back, and the lantern glow pierced the gloom. Hastily she wiped her cheeks, hoping her generally soaked state would hide them. The last thing she deserved now was any sympathy. But her guilt only grew worse as he lifted her to her feet and murmured words of comfort. He had found something stiff and musty to wrap around her, while he wore only his soaking wet shirt and trousers. When he assured her that she was not alone—now or ever—she knew he meant it. Penelope sensed that if she faltered, he would try to carry her and doom them both. She managed to get her arm around his shoulders and swore a silent oath to herself: she was going to make it up that hill, for Benedict if not for herself. She loved him too much to do any less.

Whenever she felt herself slowing or began to think of suggesting they rest, she forced herself to make a smart comment. It made her feel better that Benedict would worry less about her if she seemed unaffected. But when they finally climbed a small rise and saw the house in front of them, she burst into tears.

“I know, love, I know.” Benedict paused, letting them both rest. He held her face against his chest. “I told you we’d make it.”

In spite of her tears she laughed a little. “It seemed a rum bet until now . . .”

His arms tightened. “Then I suppose I just won, eh?” He tipped up her face and kissed her, long and deep. “I’ve never wanted to get you into bed more than I do this moment.”

She gave another weak laugh. “And I’ve never been more eager to go! The only thing that might tempt me away from it would be a hot bath.”

“If Vane has a tub that will hold both of us at once, I shall buy it from him immediately, hang the cost.” He kissed her once more. “Shall we?”

Only by keeping her eyes fixed on the wide front door did Penelope stay on her feet.
Almost there
, she told herself with every step. Benedict was shivering now, although she had almost stopped. She hoped that was a good thing and refused to think about it anymore.

Benedict had to bang on the door more than once before it opened. A puzzled woman looked at them. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Vane,” rasped Benedict. Penelope felt herself slipping from his grasp, but her hands wouldn’t work when she tried to hold on to him. “Her sister . . . nearly drowned . . .” The canvas fell away as she slid slowly toward the ground, and the wind felt like an icy knife. She just wanted to huddle on the ground and sleep.

“Penelope!” Abigail’s scream cut off the rest of his explanation.

She floated dimly through the next several minutes. There was a bustle of activity, and someone scooped her up and carried her inside and up a flight of stairs. “Ben,” she cried weakly, reaching out.
Don’t leave me now
, she wanted to beg.
Come with me. Forgive me for not trusting you
more.

“Sebastian is with him.” Abigail was beside her, hurrying along to open the door for whoever held her. “Put her down, Mr. Jones, and see to Lord Atherton. What happened?” Her sister began stripping off what remained of her clothing as the door closed behind the man. “Penelope, wake up! Talk to me!”

“What can I do?” another woman’s worried voice asked.

“Bring more towels and put them by the fire.” Abigail was yanking at her boot, none too gently. “Prepare hot tea for both our guests and make up the bed down the hall. And fetch Mr. Vane’s hunting knife; her boots won’t come off.”

She opened her eyes. “Ben—where is he?”

“No doubt Sebastian has nearly bundled him into the fireplace by now.”

“No! No, he mustn’t do anything to Benedict—” She struggled to sit up, but her sister held her down.

“To get him warm, Pen.” Her voice gentled. “What happened?”

Tears stung her eyes again. Now that Benedict couldn’t see her, she did nothing to check them. “We were on the yacht—Stratford’s yacht. He wanted us to go to Stratford Court. Benedict didn’t want to but I told him we should go for his mother’s sake . . .” Mrs. Jones returned, and Abigail began sawing at her boot laces. “Lord Clary was on the boat and he pushed me off. He wanted to know where Olivia was and I wouldn’t tell him so he pushed me into the river. And Benedict jumped in after me and then we had to swim and oh, Abby, the current is so strong.” She was sobbing so hard her sister probably couldn’t understand a word, but she had to get it out. “I didn’t know if we would make it and then we had to walk up the hill and I’m so, so tired, I don’t know if I can ever move again.”

“Shh,” crooned Abigail. She’d cut off both boots during Penelope’s increasingly hysterical outburst. “You can walk, just a few more steps. Fortunately Mrs. Jones had already prepared a hot bath, and we’re going to soak you in it until you look like a poached egg.” She helped Penelope sit up, now wearing only her shift, and with her housekeeper’s help they got Penelope into the bath. The water felt scalding, and she wept even harder as her feet and legs prickled painfully. Abigail folded a warm towel around her shoulders and pushed her down until her chest and arms were submerged.

Gradually her shivers began to ease, and with them her racking sobs. She rested her head against her sister’s shoulder, weary beyond words.

“Tell me again,” whispered Abigail, stroking her hair. “Who pushed you?”

“Lord Clary.” Olivia would have to understand. Penelope was never keeping another secret again. “He’s been threatening Olivia. She told me she had a plan to escape whatever hold he has over her, but then she left London and Clary wants to find her. And—and he told me Lord Stratford also wants to know.” Her voice shook. “I don’t know what they want from her, but I fear she’s in danger—”

Abigail shushed her. “Don’t worry about Olivia now. So Clary pushed you off the boat—are you sure it was deliberate?”

She nodded. He’d looked her right in the face as he did it, and she would never forget his expression.

“Did he also push Benedict? I cannot believe Lord Stratford would permit such a thing.”

“I don’t know.” She blinked back a few more tears. “But he saved my life, Abigail. I never would have made it without him.”

Her sister smiled. “I told you he was a better man than you credited him.”

She stared at the flickering flames. He was. Yet another thing she’d been very wrong about. “I know. I . . . I love him, Abby. And I’ve wished he would fall in love with me almost since the first moment I saw him. I wanted to hate him for what he did to Sebastian, but even then I wanted him. And now—now I understand why he acted as he did. With that
monster
for a father, how could he have done anything else? And that makes me a terrible person for assuming I knew better than he did how he should have behaved, and how could he ever love me after the things I said to him?”

Abigail handed her a handkerchief as Penelope began sniffling. “I think you’re too hard on yourself.”

She sighed. “Perhaps.” But she feared she had finally been truly honest.

After a long soak and two cups of hot tea, Abigail helped her out of the tub and into a thick nightgown. She combed Penelope’s hair and put her to bed, waving aside Penelope’s protest upon realizing it was Abigail’s own bed.

“Mama gave me the furniture from my room at Hart House so we have plenty of beds now.” She tucked the blankets securely around Penelope. “Sebastian and I will be down the hall.” She banked the fire and tidied the room, pausing at the door. “Shall I make up another bed for Benedict?”

“No,” she said at once. She could only hope he would want to come to her, once he’d recovered from being nearly drowned, thanks to her.

The door opened sometime later, startling her from a restless sleep. She’d been fighting to keep her eyes open, hoping he would come. “Ben,” she mumbled, trying to push herself up even though her body felt like it had been turned to lead.

“Yes.” He eased beneath the covers, curling himself around her body. His lips brushed her neck. “I’m here.”

She went limp again. “Thank goodness. I was so afraid . . .”

“I had a moment or two of alarm myself.” He kissed her again before drawing her snugly into his arms. “Who would have thought sneaking out to swim the river as a lad would prove so useful?”

She gave a wheezy laugh, which somehow turned into a sob. “I’m sorry, so sorry. It was my fault . . .”

“No.” His voice was fierce. “Don’t say that. It was Clary’s fault alone . . .”

Not quite. Benedict’s voice trailed off, and Penelope knew what he was thinking. It was also his father’s fault, even if Stratford had had no part in shoving her over the side. She swallowed hard. “But I urged you to go on the boat. You were right, we should have refused—”

“I wish we had,” he said with feeling, “but neither of us knew. Your arguments were logical; I agreed with them. If you’re at fault for innocently suggesting a false course, I am even more at fault for consenting, for I knew all along what my father is.”

“He wants to find Olivia,” she murmured. “Olivia Townsend is the woman Clary was abusing the night you saved me from him, and she’s the one who needed two hundred pounds so she could leave London. Clary demanded I tell him where she is, and he said your father wants to know as well.”

“Both of them may go to perdition, with my compliments.”

“He pushed me over because I wouldn’t tell him . . .” She turned her head, trying to meet his eye. “Clary was waiting in the cabin.”

“I know. Penelope, if I’d had any idea he was on board, we would never have set foot on that yacht, no matter what my father threatened.”

She shivered. “What will they do now?”

Benedict’s face hardened. “I don’t know, but neither will ever have another chance to hurt you.”

“What about your mother?”

He touched one finger to her lips. “Not even if it means I never see her again, either.”

“You saved my life,” she whispered.

“So surprised!” He smiled. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She closed her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“I jumped over the side as soon as I realized you were in the water, praying it wasn’t too late. Thank heavens you can swim.”

Penelope thought of all the times she had thought badly of him, all the slights she had cast on his character. Things had improved between them, but he’d risked his life for her. Her throat closed up at how close they had both come to dying. Wordlessly she gripped a fold of his nightshirt.