Love in the Time of Scandal (28 page)

Benedict glanced toward Sebastian, who looked as dumbfounded as he felt. Dead? But that was incredible; just yesterday his father had been as hale as ever. It flickered through his mind that it might be a lie, that Geoffrey had been told to say whatever it took to get him to return to Stratford Court, but it was incredible that Stratford would speak such heresy.

“Will you come with us?” Geoffrey asked again.

He roused himself with a start. “No. You may tell my mother Lady Atherton and I are at Montrose Hill House.” He didn’t want to go near Stratford Court yet. Surely the news about his father was a mistake of some sort.

But it was not.

Less than an hour after he and Sebastian returned to the house, a carriage rattled up the drive. Before the groom could dismount and open the door, the Countess of Stratford threw herself out. Benedict scarcely recognized her. Her hair was a disheveled mess, she wore a plain morning dress, and her cloak was in danger of falling off altogether. She stared wildly about. “Benedict—oh, Ben!”

“Mother.” He strode from the house and caught her as she flung herself at him. “I’m here.”

“They told me you drowned,” she wept. “You and your bride both. They said you had been swept over the side of the yacht and vanished from sight!”

“We are both alive.” He set her back. “But what’s this about Father? Geoffrey said . . .”

She nodded. Her face was flushed and her eyes glittered as if with fever. It was the least composed he had ever seen her. “He suffered an apoplexy while still aboard the yacht. As soon as
Diana
reached dock, he was rushed to the house, but never regained consciousness. He expired before midnight; the doctor said it was his heart. There was nothing anyone could do for him.” She touched his face, almost disbelieving. “Lord Clary said he turned white and clutched his chest when he discovered you had been swept overboard, and collapsed in a fit. He died thinking you were lost.”

“Clary?” Benedict asked sharply. “Is he at Stratford Court?”

“No, he left for London early this morning.”

“Why was he on the yacht?”

The countess paused at the urgency of his questions. “He said he’d come to look at a painting his lordship was considering selling. He expressed his sympathy and returned to town at once. Why?”

Benedict shook his head. Of course Clary would run; the bastard. There would be time to see justice done to Lord Clary later. “Father’s really dead?” he asked in a hushed voice, as if to say it too loudly would cause the earl to emerge, lip curled in scorn, from the Stratford carriage.

She sobered. “Yes.” To his astonishment, she tugged his head down and whispered in his ear, “He can never hurt you, or any of us, again.”

His throat closed up. He’d never actually wished his father dead—not much—but he certainly felt no sorrow. It was more like numb amazement. He embraced his mother a little tighter. “I’m not sorry,” he breathed.

A movement behind him caught his eye. Penelope stood watching in the doorway of the house. Everyone else had stayed tactfully away. But his wife was there, waiting, a thick shawl around her and an expression of watchful concern on her face. “But here—you must meet Penelope.”

The countess hung back. “She must have no good opinion of me . . .”

He looked toward his wife and crooked his hand. Without hesitation she started toward them. “Mother, she is the fairest, most generous person I’ve ever known. Be yourself and she will love you.”

She mustered a smile as Penelope reached them. Benedict drew his wife to his side. “Mother, you remember Penelope. Darling, my mother, the Countess of Stratford. Or I should say, the dowager countess.”

Penelope’s gaze flew to his. He’d told her Geoffrey’s report about his father, but also that he didn’t quite believe it. Without a word she dipped a curtsy. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance again, madam. I hope this time we shall truly get to know one another and become friends.”

His mother looked amazed; she glanced from one to the other. Benedict could see the moment she realized the truth. “My dear,” she said in a voice that quavered with emotion, “welcome to the family. I can see that my son adores you, and I can do no less.”

Penelope’s lips parted in surprised delight. “Your ladyship is too kind . . .”

“No,” said Benedict, grinning. He tipped up her chin and kissed her. “She is absolutely right.”

Epilogue

Three weeks later

T
he gardens were still beautiful, even muffled by the first frost of the year. The air was sharp and clear, and Benedict filled his lungs with it. For the first time in . . . ever, he was glad to be here.

Despite the public observance of mourning for his father, the halls of Stratford Court had never seemed lighter. In part that was because they were filled. Both his sisters had come for the funeral, and stayed to rebuild the bonds of family. Samantha and Gray planned to return to London soon, but Elizabeth and her husband, Lord Turley, were staying until after Christmas, when Elizabeth’s child was due. She had confided a wish to birth her baby here, with her mother by her side, something that would have been unthinkable a month ago. There was black crepe on the doors, but the house felt happier than he ever remembered.

Penelope came up beside him on the step leading down to the garden, and he slipped his arm around her waist. He’d begun doing it when she was still recovering from their harrowing swim through the Thames, and continued even after she insisted she was well because he liked it. Even better,
she
liked it. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and gave a small sigh of happiness. Benedict smiled. He loved the feel of her beside him.

“I’ve sold the yacht,” he told her. “Lord Marsden had coveted it for some time, and he leapt when I offered it to him.” Marsden was Scottish. If he bought the
Diana
, there was little chance it would sail up and down the Thames. Benedict didn’t want to keep it, and he knew Penelope would never set foot on it again.

“I suppose that’s a better use for it than chopping it into kindling,” Penelope replied. “I hope you offered him a good price.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “If he’d only offered a year’s maintenance, it would have been a fair price.”

“A shilling would have sufficed,” she muttered, but then she smiled. “May he sail it in good health—his own and all his guests aboard.”

“May he sail it in good health around all the isles of Scotland.”

Penelope laughed, and together they walked out into the garden. The scent of lavender lingered. His mother had spoken of plans to cultivate more roses in the spring, and she’d drawn Penelope into her scheme. Together they had subjected him to a detailed description of the new garden arrangements until he put his hands on his ears and laughingly told them to do as they wished—which, he realized, had been what Penelope wanted all along. Her triumphant smile made up for any suspicion that he might have been manipulated. The budding friendship between his mother and his wife warmed Benedict’s heart more than any horticultural inconvenience could offset.

“I’ve been thinking of selling some other things,” he told her as they walked.

“Not our house in London,” she protested. “After we’d just got it so well arranged?”

He laughed. “Not the house in Margaret Street.” That was theirs, even if it was a bit small for an earl’s household. He led Penelope off the path and threw open the garden door, holding her a little closer when the wind from the river hit them as they left the enclosed garden. “Some land.”

For a moment she just stared at him, then her face softened in understanding. “How much land, my lord?”

“Close to eighty acres.” Across the rolling lawns, on the other side of the river, rose the hill, still wild and untamed. Near the crest one could just make out the chimneys of Montrose Hill House.

“I hope you ask a fair price,” she said again.

He smiled, his gaze lingering on those chimneys. “Fifty pounds is all I’ll take, and not a farthing more.” He glanced down at her. “Let Vane maintain his own side of the river. I’ve got enough here to look after.”

The unanswered questions about his father still lingered at the back of his mind. He had inspected his father’s gallery, but just entering the room made his skin prickle, as if the specter of the earl lurked in the shadows to protect his collection. After noting a number of pictures that would fit perfectly into the crates across the river, he’d left the gallery and locked it again. Perhaps Gray could help him sort it out. And if the gallery turned out to hold stolen or looted art . . . he would deal with that when he was sure. No one had approached the small cave across the river, let alone landed near it. He and Sebastian had set round-the-clock watches on it, all for naught.

The other possible actor, Lord Clary, had vanished. By the time Benedict went to London to swear a complaint against the viscount for attempted murder, Clary had left. Lady Clary was no help, saying her husband had told her he had some pressing business at his estate in Wales. A rider to Wales confirmed that Lord Clary was not there. Benedict doubted he was anywhere near Wales, but until his investigators located the man, there was little he could do. The moment Clary showed his face in society again, though, Benedict would be waiting, and ready.

By far the greater concern was Olivia Townsend, from whom no one had heard a word. Benedict agreed with Penelope that Clary had probably gone searching for her. But Penelope’s letter to her brother, Jamie, had finally caught up to him; he rode out to Stratford Court two days after the earl’s funeral and peremptorily declared that he would find Olivia. So far they’d received only two brief notes relating his progress—or lack thereof—but Penelope was confident Jamie was much cleverer than Clary and would track down Olivia first. Benedict hoped she was right, as much as he hoped that James Weston left enough of Clary for him to exact his own vengeance.

“Thank you,” said his wife softly, returning his attention to the opposite shore. “It will make things right again.”

His arm tightened around her. “I could never think of that land as mine. If for some reason Sebastian won’t take it back, you shall have to get your sister to speak reason to him.”

“Oh, he’ll accept your offer.” She grinned. “Abigail is quite fond of walking in the woods, you know, and he’ll want more woods for her to explore.”

His mouth curved. “Indeed. I wonder if there were any other long-lost treasures in those woods. Perhaps we should explore them before selling them.”

“What could you possibly mean by that?”

“What?” He stopped dead. “Don’t tell me—have you truly forgotten?” A telling blush rose in her face but she merely widened her eyes curiously. “You do know,” he accused her, winding his arm around her waist and anchoring her against him. “You owe me a debt, madam.”

“It’s too cold to go,” she protested, revealing that she knew exactly what he meant. When she wanted his help clearing Sebastian’s name, Penelope had promised to show him the Hart House grotto. He’d heard stories of it since boyhood, and despite years spent traipsing through the woods, usually with Sebastian, he’d never found it. But at some point Sebastian had, and he in turn had shown Abigail, who told Penelope. There had been a few distractions since she made the promise—a scandal, a hasty wedding, a fitful courtship that finally blossomed into love, to say nothing of the near-fatal yacht trip—but he hadn’t forgotten, or lost his interest in seeing that grotto. “Abby said it was as cold as ice in there, even in summer. I can’t imagine how frosty it will be now.”

“A heavy cloak and warm boots will keep you warm.”

“It’s out in the woods. Quite deep in the woods, in fact.” She made a face. “The last time I went looking for it, I fell in the mud and turned my ankle.”

“I’ve walked in the woods hundreds of times and swear to protect you from any dangerous mud puddles.” He raised his brows expectantly. “I’ve only been looking for it for twenty years. Are you really going to cry off a promise?”

She huffed. “And it will still be there in the spring!”

“Come, darling,” he coaxed. “We could sneak across right now.”

“Now! Are you mad?”

He laughed. “Perhaps. I used to dream of seducing a wench in the grotto, you know.” He skimmed one hand up her waist to cover her breast.

A fine blush colored her cheeks. “I don’t see any need to abandon the comforts of a heated bedchamber for that.”

“No?” His lips whispered across her temple. “Can you really deny yourself the thrill of something so primal and untamed? What would Lady Constance advise?”

“A roaring fire to banish the chill.”

“And risk a smoky end to my seduction?” He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. “But I promise you won’t be thinking about the cold.”

She laughed, pressing a quick kiss on his mouth. “No, I’ll be worrying about the child.”

Benedict went still. “What child?”

Penelope hesitated, then took his hand and laid it on her belly. “The one who will be born next summer.”

Benedict ran his fingers over her still-flat stomach. “What?” he said again, stupidly.

She nodded. “I spoke with your sister, my mother, and the midwife. Everyone agrees.”

A child. The fleeting thought crossed his mind that he must be vigilant and not slip into his father’s way of treating children, but then he banished it. The willow rod no longer stood in the study; he’d thrown it on the fire the day of his father’s funeral. And Penelope would be quick to correct him if he ever erred in that direction. Rather, he would think about all the ways he wished he had been raised, and see to it that his child had a happier life than he had had—at least until now.

He drew his wife into his arms and kissed her. He was unspeakably glad to have her. He was even thankful to his father, for if Stratford had been a more benevolent parent, Benedict might be safely married to a woman of excellent breeding and mild temper who never would have captivated his heart and soul. “Then you
must
show me the grotto, so I’ll know where our son’s gone when he wants to avoid his tutors.”

“Or our daughter.”

He laughed. “Yes, with you as her mother, any daughter of ours would be just as daring as a son.”

“You don’t seem to mind my daring anymore,” she said with a coy look.

“I adore your daring ways.”

She smiled and tugged at his cravat. “Except when exploring grottos.”

“Surely I can win you over.” He gave her his best smile.

Penelope’s face softened, and Benedict marveled anew at the unadulterated love shining in her eyes. “You already have.”