Love in the Time of Scandal (27 page)

He must have sensed what she couldn’t say. “I love you, Penelope.” His arms tightened around her, as warm and strong as ever. “Enough to die for you.”

She was motionless for a moment, then twisted to face him. “What?”

“I love you.” He rested his forehead against hers. “You once told me it was the most important thing in marriage, after all . . .”

“But you don’t believe in it.”

Slowly he shook his head. “I had never seen a marriage based on love and respect. Nor did I expect to.”

She avoided his gaze, and her hands braced against his chest as he tried to gather her closer. “You didn’t even want to. I’m not the sort of girl you wanted to marry at all.”

“No, but I didn’t expect to love my wife, either. Don’t you remember all of what I asked for? A pleasant, good-natured companion. Someone pretty enough to look at, sweet enough not to drive me mad, and gentle enough never to argue or oppose me.” He gave a soft
tsk
. “What sort of idiot wants that?”

“One who doesn’t want to be tormented and bedeviled,” she reminded him.

“Ah yes,” he murmured, a hint of smile curving his mouth. “Tormented by wicked, lascivious thoughts about you in my bed. Bedeviled by your forthright nature and spirit of adventure. But also charmed by your exuberance. Impressed—and humbled—by your devotion to your friends. And deeply moved by your ability to put aside your dislike of me and try to make a happy marriage, even after the terrible beginning we had.”

Her face burned. “Oh—yes, that was quite a magnificent feat . . .” She stopped. “No,” she said in a low voice. “I cannot tease about that. Did you really never know? I fell partly in love with you the first day you came to Hart House.”

“Did you?” His voice warmed with interest. “Tell me more.”

“You were the handsomest man I’d ever seen—”

“And now?”

She blushed. “You still are—even more so than then. I’d never seen you naked then.” He growled in appreciation. “But you didn’t notice me, even when I tried to flirt with you by badgering you to go hunting for ghosts at Hampton Court.”

Benedict’s eyebrows shot up, and then he gave a soft laugh. “And here I thought I’d have my head handed to me if I dared try anything!”

“Well, you didn’t want me then.”

He rolled on top of her. “After a logical, calculated analysis, I decided your sister would be a safer choice. I knew if I married you, I’d never have a moment’s peace. I’d spend the rest of my life reading scandalous pamphlets”—he burrowed one hand under the blankets and began tugging at the hem of her nightgown—“and wondering how daring you were willing to be when making love”—she arched her back and wrapped her arms around his neck as he moved between her legs—“and going out of my mind wanting you . . . kissing you . . . even savoring the sound of you laughing at me.” He kissed her.

Penelope inhaled sharply as his hand trailed down her belly. She should be sound asleep by now, worn out from the ordeal of the last few hours. Instead her skin seemed to sizzle where he touched her, and she wanted him inside her more than ever before. She wanted him to hold her down and make love to her until every other memory of this night was scoured from her mind and her body was exhausted with pleasure, rather than from life-threatening danger. She clasped her hands around his arse and tugged. “As long as you love me back, there is no reason to deny yourself any of those things.”

He laughed and pushed forward, making them one. “And as long as you love me, I won’t.”

Chapter 26

B
enedict woke early the next morning. Penelope barely made a murmur as he extricated his arm from under her and slid from the bed. His clothes lay folded on a chair near the hearth. He dressed, gratefully pulling on a coat that wasn’t his. It was probably Sebastian’s; the shoulders were a little tight and the sleeves were too long. The boots were also too big, but only a bit, and the very fact that they were there, freely given before he even asked, touched him deeply. After folding the blanket more securely around his sleeping wife, he went in search of his host.

A sonorous bark stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. Sebastian’s enormous black boar hound clattered out of the sitting room, his ears pricked and a faint growl rumbling in his throat. Benedict stood motionless.

“Boris.” Sebastian Vane appeared in the doorway and put one hand on the dog’s head. “Sit.” The dog’s haunches dropped instantly. Sebastian glanced at him. “How did you sleep?”

“A good deal better than I would have at the bottom of the river.”

Sebastian nodded. “And Penelope?”

His throat closed. “She’s well—thanks to you.”

His onetime friend tilted his head. “I didn’t jump off a boat and save her life, then carry her more than a mile up the hill.”

If only that could atone for the fact that he’d allowed her to be on the yacht in the first place. Benedict hesitated. “Would you take a walk with me? We’ll want a lantern.”

If Sebastian was surprised, he didn’t show it. He fetched two greatcoats, handing over one without comment. Benedict shrugged into it, feeling very keenly every time he had failed Sebastian, every time he had retreated behind his father’s domination and expectations and protested,
What could I have done?
He had been a coward not to try. Penelope had been right about that. From now on, he meant to act as he knew he should, without fear of anyone’s anger.

“They’ll be looking for you, no doubt,” said Sebastian as they walked down the hill, Boris bounding ahead of them.

“Perhaps.” Benedict squinted in the sunlight, dazzling today. “Perhaps not.” He felt his companion’s swift glance. “It’s quite possible we’re both presumed dead, if not outright desired dead.”

“That sounds harsh even for his lordship.”

Benedict heard the rest of Sebastian’s mildly spoken comment. The earl would never want his son and heir dead. Without Benedict, the earldom would go to a distant cousin, a rather hedonistic fellow who cared only for horse racing. All of Stratford’s carefully collected artworks would be sold to finance a stud farm, or lost outright at the races. To a man who couldn’t countenance a nouveau riche heiress as the next countess, the idea would be unthinkable. All Stratford’s punishment and cruelty had come with the explicit admonition that it would mold him into a proper earl, fit to take his father’s place.

But he’d learned more from his father’s lessons than the earl intended—some of it later than he should have, but with a depth of meaning Stratford could never have imparted.

“After our last words, I daresay my father and I won’t be on speaking terms again soon. I have finally seen, with absolute clarity and certainty, how devoid of feeling he is. Any concern he ever had for my health and safety was solely for my position as the heir to Stratford.” He hesitated. “And I am ashamed of what I did in the hopes of retaining his regard. I should have told you that I never believed you stole from him, or had any hand in your father’s disappearance.”

This time Sebastian couldn’t hide his astonishment.

Benedict forced himself to go on. “I told myself I didn’t know for certain, but the truth is that I didn’t want to risk angering my father. And—and partly because I hated you then.”

Sebastian stopped in his tracks. “Ben . . .”

“I hated you for being able to do what I could not,” he went on, feeling the lash of guilt, and the insidious ache of envy, all over again. “God, how I wanted to ride off with you to fight the French! I’d even have taken a crippling bullet in the leg. Instead I was stuck at home, where my father knew I didn’t want to be, and he made me writhe for longing to be somewhere else. Three days after you left he sent me to sack Mr. Samwell.”

Sebastian would remember Mr. Samwell, who had been steward at Stratford Court for years. Samwell had scolded them both many times for various pranks and transgressions. What neither of them realized—what Benedict didn’t admit—was that Samwell had been trying to spare them the earl’s wrath. The steward must have recognized the earl’s controlling, abusive nature long before Benedict knew what to call it, and he’d tried to keep both boys out of trouble. When Benedict had gone to tell him he’d lost his place, the old man had only sighed wearily and said he’d expected it for some time. And even though Benedict had delivered the earl’s message in full, that Samwell must be off the property by the next day or be chased off with a horsewhip, the steward didn’t turn on him.

“Why?”

Benedict only raised his hand uselessly in response to his companion’s incredulous question. “I don’t even know. His lordship never explains. But it was only the beginning of what he demanded. By the time you returned I had learned very well what would happen if I defied him.”

Sebastian’s probing gaze grew more compassionate.

“Penelope was right about me,” Benedict added in a low voice. “I was a coward for not standing by you. The sad truth is that I didn’t know how to defy him.” Until now.

“I suspect we both have much to regret,” said Sebastian. “Fortunately it is in the past.” He hesitated, then went on, “I never thanked you for your part in . . . everything.”

Benedict dared a quick glance at his former friend and saw nothing but calm assurance. But then, Sebastian must feel much the same way he did. Penelope had taken great delight in telling him how much Sebastian adored Abigail, and for the first time he truly appreciated how much love could improve a man’s outlook on life. “Thank you for taking us in last night.”

“Did you think we wouldn’t?”

Benedict shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t know.”

“Well.” Sebastian cleared his throat. “We are nearly brothers now.”

Benedict’s head jerked up. “I suppose we are.”

“Feels a bit like the wheel has turned full circle, doesn’t it?”

Slowly Benedict grinned. “It does. Happily.”

They walked on for a while. “Where are we going?” Sebastian asked as they drew near the water.

Benedict stepped down over a rocky ledge onto the narrow shore and held aside some saplings so Sebastian could negotiate the step. He shielded his eyes and looked left, then right. The sun sparkled off the river, and all the clouds had blown away. “When we made it to shore, I found a small cave. In all the years we explored these woods, did you ever know of one?”

“Never.”

Benedict nodded. “It’s not large—more of a gash in an outcropping of rock—but someone’s been using it. I found that bit of canvas there, and just wanted to have another look in daylight.”

Together they walked along the water’s edge for about a hundred yards. Finally the hulking shape of the boulder appeared. From this vantage point it just looked like part of the woods, covered with creeping vines and more green than rock. Even when he walked right up to it, the crevice didn’t become obvious until he could almost touch the stone. Exchanging a glance with Sebastian, who was a few steps behind, he carefully stepped into it.

There lay Penelope’s discarded dress, still wet. He kicked it aside to clear the path and lit the lantern, opening the shutter all the way to illuminate the space. Boris, who had been sniffing along the edge of the water, barked from the bank behind them, but quieted at a word from his master. Benedict followed the narrow passage; it seemed far shorter this morning. He handed Sebastian the lantern and bent down to examine the crates in the small chamber.

“Who would have guessed?” murmured Sebastian, gazing around. “Do you think it’s been in use recently?”

Benedict pushed over one of the crates. It was flat and wide, and when he checked the corners, there were bits of wool stuck to the wood. “I have a feeling it has been. The straw is fresh. I daresay the water doesn’t come in except at high tide, but there’s enough moisture for it to rot if left long enough.”

Sebastian tapped his cane against the broken wood. “Odd shape for a crate.”

Benedict stared at it. He’d seen that type of crate before, many times. All his life, a steady stream of pictures and statuary had come to Stratford Court. The earl had one of the finest collections of art in England. He was well-known for his eye for it, and just as feared for his ruthless pursuit of it. Stratford Court would have rivaled the Royal Academy in London if the earl had ever permitted anyone to see his collection. Of course he never did; in fact, he had his own private gallery where even his family was rarely invited. Heaven only knew what paintings were inside it. Benedict had seen it a few times as a boy. On occasion his father had brought him in to see a new masterpiece removed from its packing and installed for the earl’s pleasure. Benedict had been about thirteen when his father decided he had no eye for art—a grave failing in the earl’s eyes—and after that he hadn’t been permitted in the gallery.

“Not if it’s meant to hold a painting,” Benedict said.

For a moment there was silence, save for the faint rushing of the river. “Smugglers, do you think?” asked Sebastian at last.

He didn’t answer. His father owned this land. Despite it being eighty acres of good riverfront property, the earl hadn’t done a thing to it; it was even wilder than it had been when old Mr. Vane owned it. Benedict had thought his father simply didn’t care about it—why should he clear it and build on it when his own manicured estate lay just across the river?—but perhaps there was another reason. If a small boat were to stop here and unload crated works of art, perhaps at night, no one would notice. Skiffs crossed the river all the time, and besides, this was Stratford’s own land . . . But why would the earl need to go through that subterfuge?

“Sebastian,” he said, his voice loud in the enclosed space, “I don’t suppose there was a lot of looting in the war, was there?”

“Only every chance that arose,” was the wry reply. “The army looks the other way—in fact, they might even prefer that men find their own supplies.”

“But what about finer things? Jewels, coin, valuables . . . ?”

“And paintings?” Sebastian finished when he didn’t say it. “By the officers, certainly. Enlisted men had no way to carry much, but officers could ship baggage at will.”

Benedict nodded. He didn’t want to know more. The war had been over for a few years, but that didn’t mean much. Napoleon’s armies had relocated vast quantities of priceless art from all across the Continent; Stratford had spoken with distaste of the public exhibition of looted treasures in Paris. Even though the Duke of Wellington had ordered stolen artworks returned, it was a monumental task. If even some of that art had fallen into private hands . . . or slippery government hands . . . Benedict doubted his father would have any qualms in acquiring it through any means possible. When Lord Stratford wanted something, he was rarely denied. But smuggling?

He led the way back into the sunshine, dousing the lantern. What was he to do? A few broken crates and discarded straw proved nothing. Benedict knew little about where Stratford’s art came from; he’d never taken much interest in it, even before he was forbidden to see it. Even if he wanted to accuse his father, whom would he report it to? Stratford might be the coldest man in England, but he knew the value of alliances and connections.

“What will you do?”

He started at Sebastian’s question, asked so neutrally. “What can I do? What do a few broken crates prove? I don’t wish to protect him, or ignore any wrong he’s done,” he hastened to add, “but this is only suspicion, and I dare not act without proof.” He grimaced; hadn’t those been nearly the same words he used to excuse saying nothing on Sebastian’s behalf years ago? “But if one were ever to spy a craft landing here, and discover what it left . . .”

His companion got a knowing look. “I daresay Mr. Weston wouldn’t oppose a sentry or two on his property.” He raised one hand and pointed. “The boundary is only there, around that curve.”

A dark smile split his face. “Let’s go see how good the view is.”

They had made it a good distance along the waterfront when Boris began barking, and someone hailed them from the river. A longboat was gliding past, dragging the oars to slow its progress. Sebastian hushed his dog again and raised one hand, and the boat pulled nearer. Benedict stepped forward to see better, and the servant in the boat exclaimed aloud. “My lord!” He stood up in the prow and waved his arm so vigorously, the boat almost overturned.

“I knew they’d be out looking for you,” murmured Sebastian. “The heir to an earldom doesn’t just wash away.”

Benedict’s mouth firmed. He didn’t give a damn about the earldom. If nothing else, Stratford’s reaction to Penelope’s possible murder had hardened his heart until no trace of weakness remained, dutiful or fearful or otherwise. “Yes,” he replied coolly as the boat plowed ashore and the servant leapt out to splash toward him. “Here I am.”

“My lord.” The man gulped for breath. It was Geoffrey from the stables, Benedict realized. “Thank heaven, sir. We’ve been searching since dawn. Her ladyship will be overjoyed that we found you . . .”

Benedict ignored the mention of his mother’s worry. “My wife and I were very fortunate to make it to land. You may tell the earl he shall remain disappointed.” He turned away, intending that cryptic reply to be his final message to Stratford.

“But my lord,” Geoffrey exclaimed. “I can’t.”

“If he sacks you, you have a position with my household,” said Benedict without looking back.

“No, sir. I mean your father is dead. You are the earl.”

Benedict froze. Sebastian inhaled sharply. “What?”

Geoffrey bobbed his head, as did the two men at the oars of the boat. “His lordship your father suffered a fatal attack last night. He expired shortly after he reached Stratford Court, sir. Her ladyship your mother sent every servant in the house to search for you and Lady Atherton—that is, the new countess—as soon as it was light.” He hesitated, then added, “My sympathies, my lord.”