It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 21

Sebastian’s knee wasn’t broken. The fall had torn his skin and Mrs. Jones had gasped over the amount of blood inside his boot, but once she’d cleaned him up and splinted the joint, the pain began to subside. She brought him a cup of strong tea when he was thoroughly bandaged, and Sebastian didn’t complain about the drop of laudanum he could taste in it. Tonight he couldn’t deny the desire for a little oblivion.

In the morning he took stock of his situation. For the first time in years he felt a sense of urgency. Benedict was set on winning Abigail, and Sebastian didn’t intend to yield the field for a moment longer than necessary. When the Joneses tried to give up their half day off, he told them to go. Mrs. Jones frowned and gave him a stern lecture about staying in bed, but they went. And as soon as they disappeared down the path toward town, Sebastian threw off his bedclothes and got dressed.

He was under no illusion about his disadvantages. For the first time in a long time, he envied Benedict his health, his fortune, his status. But by God, he loved Abigail. A man of action—the man he used to be—would stride into her house, propriety be damned, and ask her to marry him. A few persuasive kisses would be employed. If he could get her alone, and she encouraged him, more than kisses might occur.

Boris was waiting by the door. Sebastian tried to close him in, but Boris began baying at the door, alternating his deep, fearsome bark with pleading little whines that might have come from a dog one-tenth his size. Sebastian cursed under his breath but went back. The Joneses wouldn’t be back for hours, and there was no one in the house who could let him out.

“If you have an ounce of gratitude in you, you’ll come with me and help persuade her to live with us,” he told the dog, who burst out of the house like an inmate being released from prison. “Abigail, Boris. Abigail who always has cheese for you. Your favorite person in all the world.”

Boris gave a joyful woof and bounded off toward the woods, tail thrashing happily. Sebastian shook his head and continued on his way. Not for the first time he wished he kept a horse. Mounted, he could be there in a matter of minutes. On foot it would take him close to an hour. He spent the walk planning every word he would say, and hoped Mr. Weston would be at home.

To his relief, the gentleman was, and greeted him politely. “Vane. How do you do, sir?”

“Very well, sir. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Come, sit. I trust you’ve recovered from your indisposition last night.”

The splint and bandages were clear through his trouser leg, but Sebastian nodded. “I must thank you for allowing Miss Penelope to let Adam help me home.”

“No trouble at all,” said Weston graciously. “Delighted to be of assistance.”

He drew a deep breath. “I have come to ask permission to court your daughter Abigail.”

Weston was already shaking his head. “Vane, you’re a good neighbor. But I have to tell you that my daughter may very likely be engaged by now.”

“Benedict Lennox intends to ask her,” confirmed Sebastian even though the words made his fist clench. “Has she said she will accept him?”


The older man looked startled. “Atherton told you that?”

“At Stratford Court last evening.”

Weston blinked. “I see. Indeed. He asked my blessing on his suit, and I gave it. I believe he plans to speak to Abigail today.”

“If he’s already proposed and she’s accepted, I will wish them great happiness and be on my way. However . . .” Sebastian flexed his hands. “If he hasn’t proposed, or if she hasn’t accepted, I would like your permission, sir.”

Mr. Weston leaned back in his chair. “Forgive my blunt speaking, Vane, but . . . why should I?”

“I love your daughter very much.”

“Ah.” Weston grimaced. “I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid I cannot.”

He’d been braced for that. “I understand you may be reluctant because of my financial state. In your place, I would be suspicious as well. I can provide for a wife; I’ve recently come into some money that will enable me to retire a good portion of my debt.”

“Oh? How much?” asked Weston evenly.

“A little more than four thousand pounds, from my uncle who died in India.”

Weston’s eyes narrowed. “India.”

Sebastian nodded. “I was in Bristol just a week ago seeing the solicitor about the inheritance.”

Mr. Weston got up and walked to the window, where he folded his arms and stared outside.

“I know there are other reasons for doubting me,” Sebastian went on. “Let me explain the rumors about my father—”

“It’s not because of those,” interrupted Weston. “I think you should take my answer and not press, Vane.”

He was thrown off kilter by that. Everyone wanted to know about those rumors. He’d never told anyone except Abigail the full story. “Then why, sir?”

Weston’s glance held a shade of pity. “It won’t serve anything. I hate to accuse a man—indeed, I think many of the rumors about you are grossly exaggerated. But there is one I cannot discount; the source is unimpeachable, and with my daughter’s future at stake, I won’t chance it. I’m sorry.”

Sebastian stared. Not the accusation of murder? What, then? “I believe my father’s lunacy was caused by scientific research he conducted, not his blood. He was an inventor, experimenting with metals and solutions—”

“Vane, please,” said Weston, shaking his head.

He had trouble controlling his breathing. “Then why?” Weston frowned at his demand, and he tried to soften it. “I would like to know why.”

Weston’s jaw firmed. He came back to his desk and sat down. “Very well. I expected to see you here at some point, asking for my daughter. I’m no fool, Vane; I presume you’ve met Abby walking in the woods a time or two. She’s a tenderhearted girl, inclined to see the best in people. I could see in her face when you called that she was smitten. So I went into town and made some inquiries. I know you’ve been paying off debts recently, hinting to your creditors of a sudden flush of funds, in sudden possession of ready money after years of barely making payments. That’s all well and good; there are a number of explanations.”

“I inherited the funds,” he repeated. “I have letters from my uncle’s solicitor.”

“But letters can be forged, can’t they?” Weston held up one hand. “I make no accusation, and I don’t believe every rumor I hear—most of them are nonsense—but one story did catch my ear. Your father sold off a great deal of property while you were with Wellington’s army, and it left you in a very bad way when your father disappeared. Without a body, the estate couldn’t go to probate, which left everything tied up, didn’t it?”

Sebastian closed his eyes.

“That’s why I doubt you killed him,” Weston added, a touch kindlier. “At least not deliberately. No real benefit to a missing man, is there? But not long afterward, a good sum of money disappeared from Stratford Court.”

Stratford. Sebastian wished the earl had simply broken his knee last night. “I did not steal that money,” he said, softly but clearly.

“Four thousand guineas,” said Weston as if he hadn’t heard. “Curiously close to the sum you . . . inherited, just at the moment you might have felt the desire to improve your respectability. Understand, I make no accusations. But I dislike such dangerous coincidences. My daughter has a very handsome dowry. Paying out four thousand on old debts would be a very worthy investment for a man on the brink of gaining ten times that amount.”

Slowly, stiffly, he forced himself up from the chair. His hands were numb, and his heart felt dead. “I appreciate your candor.” Each word was ice cold on his lips. “I am not a thief. Whatever happened to Lord Stratford’s money, I had nothing to do with it. And I would count myself the most fortunate man in the world to marry your daughter without a farthing in dowry.”

“I’m sorry, Vane,” said Weston once more, driving the final stake through his hopes.

He gave a jerky nod and turned toward the door. He took a step and almost fell before realizing he’d forgotten to retrieve his cane. He fumbled for it, then bowed and left, barely able to see in front of him.

No. Weston’s reply echoed through his mind like the slamming of a door. No. Forbidden even to ask Abigail to marry him. No. Distrusted as a thief because he’d tried to use his inheritance—his divine stroke of bloody good fortune—to make himself more acceptable as a husband. No. He was damned sure that Stratford would have had him arrested years ago if there’d been a hint of proof he’d stolen that money. Instead the earl had done something far worse: cost him the only girl he had ever loved . . .

He staggered into the wall as he reached the hall. With curiously steady hands he pulled at his cravat, short of breath. Would he be allowed to see Abigail again? Wildly he thought of the grotto—they could meet there, whether her parents approved or not . . . But that would be fleeting. He would know it was doomed. Hadn’t he told himself that the first time he saw her?

“Mr. Vane!” He started. Penelope Weston beckoned him across the hall. Slowly he obeyed her summons, crossing the room to the small antechamber she ducked into. “Are you here to see Abigail?”

“I would like to.” He had no idea what he would say to her.

She beamed. “Brilliant! Your timing is exquisite. Lord Atherton just left.” She was brimming with glee. “In quite a different mood than when he arrived, I must say. He was all smiles and flattery before, but after a private talk with Abby, he strode out of here as if the place were on fire. That augurs well, don’t you think?”

Part of him leapt in jubilation that she’d disappointed Benedict. At least he wouldn’t have to suffer that misery. “Where is she?”

“In the garden still, I expect. Lord Atherton walked off with her but came back alone, and then he hurried his sister into the carriage and left.” She led the way to the garden, and pointed off to the north. “Lord Atherton came from that way, near the Fragrant Walk.”

“I know where it is.” On impulse he caught her hand and pressed it. “I’m in your debt, Miss Weston.”

“Make my sister deliriously happy, and all debts are paid.” She waved him off.

He limped around the formal garden, along the kitchen wall where he’d kissed her just a few days ago, and toward the Fragrant Walk. There was no sign of Abigail. He peered into the woods, but saw nothing. A fat raindrop hit his face; for the first time he realized how dark the sky had become. A storm was rolling up the Thames. He hesitated. Abigail had probably gone into the house, and he should go home before the downpour.


Cursing himself, he went back to Hart House. To his relief, Penelope was still at hand. “Has she come back inside?” he asked. “I didn’t see her.”

“I don’t think so,” she said in surprise. “Let me check.”

He waited at the back of the hall, by the garden door. When Penelope returned several minutes later, she was frowning. “She’s not in her room, and her maid hasn’t seen her. Neither has Thomson. She’s not with our mother, either.”

“Is there anywhere else she might go?” Thunder growled in the distance. “It’s threatening to storm.”

Penelope hesitated. “She’s very fond of walking in the woods.”

He strode through the door back onto the terrace and glanced at the sky again. “In the rain?”

“It’s not raining . . . yet . . .”

“Surely she wouldn’t,” he murmured, letting his eyes roam up Montrose Hill. He’d never realized how visible his home was from Hart House.

“You don’t know my sister if you think she wouldn’t,” said Penelope, breaking into his thoughts. “She seems so proper and responsible, but Abigail usually manages to get what she wants.”

A slow smile curved his mouth. If she wanted him, he meant to see that she got him. He couldn’t change Mr. Weston’s mind, but perhaps . . . perhaps Abigail could. “Thank you, Miss Penelope.” He started toward the wood.

“Pen,” she called after him. He glanced back and she shrugged. “I hope we’ll be on family terms soon.” She grinned and raised one hand. “Good luck, Sebastian.”

Sebastian strode back through the gardens and down the Fragrant Walk, breathing deeply of the fragrance that would always remind him of her. He cut into the woods, forgetting everything he knew about how dangerous they could be in the dark. Ben had left, looking grim, without taking leave of his host. Abigail had remained outside, alone, and not been seen since. Sebastian had no grounds for his suspicion that she had gone looking for him, but he walked as quickly as his leg would allow.

By the time he reached his house, he was beginning to worry. The sky was deep purple now, growing darker by the moment as thunder cracked and streaks of lightning lit the roiling clouds. She could be lost in the woods. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to come see him; perhaps she’d only meant to clear her thoughts in the quiet of the trees. His blood ran cold. Perhaps she’d gone to the grotto, which would be damned near impossible to find in the rain, even with a lantern. He’d just been so set on the thought—the hope—that she might have come to him, he hadn’t taken the time to rule out those other possibilities.

What an idiot. Cursing himself, he limped across the ragged grass. He needed a lantern and his greatcoat, for she’d probably be chilled to the bone. First the grotto, then the usual paths where he had met her. If she wasn’t there, he would return to Hart House and get Weston’s servants to come out with him. He’d search the whole wood until she was found, storm be damned.

Something caught his eye as he neared the house. There was a movement in the woods, and then, to his intense relief, Abigail emerged from the trees, a look of deep uncertainty on her face. She raised one hand, and he saw Boris’s big black head butting her arm. She stopped and turned to the dog, bending down to him and patting his ears. Sebastian had no trouble recognizing his dog’s expression, even in the fading light: bliss.

“Good dog,” he muttered. “Damned good dog.” Then he raised his voice. “Abigail!”

She turned toward him, and the hesitation on her face vanished. In the blink of an eye, Sebastian’s heart went from pounding with apprehension to throbbing with hope. He took a step in her direction, and she ran at him, holding up her green skirt. He dropped his cane and caught her in both arms, inhaling a harsh breath of elation at the feel of her against him again.

“Oh, Sebastian,” she gasped against his chest. “I worried so when you disappeared last night, and Penelope said you were avoiding me—”

“Even when I wanted to avoid you, I couldn’t.” He tipped up her chin until she met his eyes. “I was just at Hart House, hoping it wasn’t too late.”

Her bosom heaved with every breath she took. “Too late for what?”

He gazed into her eyes, those starry eyes that had bewitched him from the start. “To tell you I adore you. I tried to deny it, and then I tried to ignore it, and now it seems like the only truth I know. I love you, Abigail Weston.”

Her smile was glorious. “Lord Atherton proposed to me today.”

“What did you tell him?” he asked in a low voice, tensing in spite of himself. Penelope could have been completely wrong, after all . . .

“No,” she exclaimed with a little burst of disbelieving laughter. “I told him no! And he—and he—” She stopped, staring pleadingly at him.

“What did he do?” Sebastian felt the sudden urge to go pound Ben into the dirt.

“He asked . . . if I was rejecting him for you,” she whispered. “I told him of course not, because you hadn’t asked me anything, and yet . . . I think I rejected him because I was hoping so desperately you would ask me . . . because I am in love with you, and I could never marry him when I would always want you instead.”

His heart soared. “And you came here to tell me that?”

She nodded.

All the glory of heaven seemed to shine on him. Sebastian thought he heard angels singing. A smile curved his mouth. “I wasn’t going to Hart House merely to tell you I love you. I want you to choose me over Ben, whether I deserve it or not.”

“I already did,” she said softly. “Weeks ago.”

His fingers tightened on her arms as the joyful glow receded. “But I spoke to your father today. I asked his permission to marry you—”

“Yes,” she cried, straining toward him.

He held her at bay. “He refused, darling.”

“Bother him!” Her smile was blinding with happiness. “He’ll change his mind after I talk to him.”

Sebastian knew he should doubt. Thomas Weston had been firm in his denial. But her reply was everything he’d hoped to hear; her confidence swept aside his worry, and recklessly he believed. He kissed her hungrily. “Marry me, Abigail,” he breathed against her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered, winding her arms around his neck. “Yes, yes, yes.”

They might have stood there kissing for an hour, but the storm chose that moment to break. Icy drops of rain pelted down, swelling to a downpour in a matter of seconds. Abigail shrieked with laughter, Sebastian cursed, and they ran for the house, hand in hand. By the time he managed to get the door open and let them in, her hair hung in dripping locks and his neck was soaked where the water had run down his coat collar. Boris trotted past them and gave a great shake, sending water everywhere.

“Boris!” He wiped his face as Abigail laughed again. “I’m sorry, I’m not prepared for visitors,” he said, belatedly realizing how rough his home was. The fire was laid in the grate, but not lit until absolutely necessary. The furniture was old and threadbare, the floors scuffed. He could make her a cup of tea, but there was no milk, no cake, no biscuits.

“I didn’t come for tea.” Her eyes shone. “I consider myself at home.”


He grinned. “You are.”

She pulled a few pins from her hair and shook her head, sending wet curls tumbling down her back. “Perhaps you could read to me?”

Sebastian went very still. “What would you like to hear?”

Beautiful color bloomed in her cheeks. “I think you know . . .”

Rain lashed the windows. It might last an hour or all night. A man of honor would resist. A man of conscience would remember her father’s very definite refusal. But Sebastian was done with all that. He wanted Abigail; he wanted to marry her. Making love to her would satisfy the first driving desire, and almost surely lead to the latter. For once in his cursed life, he was going to get what he wanted, scruples be damned.

“I do,” he murmured, and led her up the stairs.