It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 25

Lord Atherton made Abigail and Penelope go out of the mausoleum entirely. He looked a little green, and Abigail felt very thankful he’d stopped them before they could see what was there. Sebastian remained inside.

To distract herself she asked her sister, “What bribe did you offer Lord Atherton to get him to come tonight?”

“Oh. I thought he owed it to Sebastian, after the dinner party . . . I promised to tell him where the grotto is if he came and helped.” Penelope gave a faltering smile. “It worked.”

“Ah.” She’d better tell Sebastian to remove the rug and cushions before they gave anyone the wrong idea. Or rather, the right idea.

Lord Atherton had gone back up the steps but not inside. He swung the heavy outer door closed, then open again. She edged a little closer. “What are you doing?”

“I wondered how he’d got locked in.” From the inside of the door he slid the bolt out. “I didn’t think there’d be one on the inside.” He glanced at the gate, still ajar. “I suppose Mr. Vane had keys to that.”

Penelope joined her. “What a terrible way to die,” she murmured. “Alone in that little crypt.”

He’d wanted to die. He’d told Sebastian so—and when his son refused to help him, Michael found a way. Perhaps it had even been how he wanted to die: next to his beloved wife, without staining his son’s conscience. Wordlessly Abigail groped for her sister’s hand.

It was full dark by the time Sebastian emerged. His coat was covered in dust and his limp seemed worse than ever, but he carried a large leather sack in his arms. He closed the gate gently, even though it swung open an inch because of bent bars, and then he closed the outer door and slid the bolt home. He handed the sack to Benedict.


“I didn’t count it,” he said quietly, “but it’s guineas.”

Benedict was motionless. “I’m sorry.”

Sebastian just looked at him. He turned to Abigail, who went into his arms, ignoring the grime and dirt covering his coat. He made a motion to stop her, then simply let her slide beneath the coat to embrace him, her head against his chest where only she could hear how ragged his breath was.

“He looked peaceful,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “He must have come here after I searched—there was so much ground to cover. If only I’d come back and looked again . . .”

She tightened her arms around him. “It’s done. Who knows what he was thinking, but he must have come here on purpose.” That inner bolt, and the locked gate, lingered in her mind. Michael Vane hadn’t wanted to be found.

“Let’s go.” Benedict sounded greatly subdued. He had the satchel hefted under one arm. “Let’s go, Sebastian.”

Sebastian raised his head at the sound of his name. For a long moment he and Benedict just stared at each other, then he looked down at Abigail again. She nodded hopefully. It was time to go, and to let the world know how wrong they’d been about him.

Even in the dim light of Penelope’s lantern, she could see his mouth curve into a weary smile. “Yes. Let’s go home.”

Sebastian arrived at Hart House early the next morning, before Abigail had even finished dressing. The previous evening’s events had left her wide awake until the small hours of the morning, and then she’d slept later than usual. The first she learned of his arrival was when her sister burst through her door as her maid was pinning up her hair. “Sebastian is here!”

“What? How do you know?” Abigail leapt from her chair, ignoring Betsy’s squawk about her hair.

“Milo started barking, so I went to look.” Penelope beamed at her. “Aren’t you going to see him?”

“Yes, I am.” She seized the hairpin from the startled maid, rammed it into her hair, and flew out the door and down the stairs.

Thomson was standing guard outside her father’s study. “I’m sorry, Miss Weston, you’re not to go in.”

“Just let me knock.”

“Nor to knock.”

Penelope skidded up beside her just as the study door opened to reveal Papa, his face set in a furious glower. “Abigail, come here. Only Abigail,” he growled as Penelope tried to follow. She gave her sister an apologetic glance before slipping past her father into the study.

“I ought to whip your backside for sneaking off last night.” Papa stalked back to his chair. “What the devil were you thinking?”

She rushed to sit beside Sebastian on the sofa. “I love him, Papa. You said I couldn’t marry him because you thought he was a thief, so we had to prove otherwise.”

“What if you’d been wrong?”

She smiled at Sebastian. He grinned back. Abigail’s heart soared; she’d never seen him look so happy. “I knew I wasn’t.”

“Your father agrees, now that he’s read Lord Stratford’s letter.” Sebastian turned to her father again. “Have you any other objections, Mr. Weston?”

“Lord Stratford—?”

Papa grumbled something under his breath. He handed Abigail a page from his desk.

Dear Sir,

I must correct a false impression you may have formed the other night when we spoke. I am absolutely persuaded that Sebastian Vane had no part in any theft from Stratford Court.

Stratford

She raised hopeful eyes to her father. He glared broodingly at her for a moment, then sighed, dragging one hand over his face. “This is the moment where I have to admit I was wrong and you were right, isn’t it?”

“Have you any other objection, Mr. Weston?” repeated Sebastian. His hand was in a fist on his knee, and he looked as tense as a bowstring.

Papa sighed. He glanced away and shook his head, then he turned back to Abigail. The ire faded from his face until he looked a little sad. “Only that I’m going to miss her terribly.”

Abigail gasped, and jumped up to throw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Papa!” She whirled around and threw herself into Sebastian’s arms. He had risen when she did, and he caught her easily.

“Give me a moment to leave the room,” said Papa dryly as he got to his feet. “But I will be right outside the door. Bear it in mind, Vane.”

Sebastian was kissing her before the door had latched. For a moment there was nothing but the two of them, clinging to each other without anything to divide them again.

“Stratford’s letter?” she asked some time later, when her hair had come undone from its pins and his jacket was wildly askew.

He grinned. “I’m as astonished as you are! Benedict sent it early this morning and asked me to deliver it. Somehow he guessed I’d come here . . .” He tipped up her chin and kissed her again until Abigail almost forgot what he’d been saying. “He sent another letter as well,” he added, his merriment fading. “From my father. It was inside the satchel. He must have written it, planning to leave it for me, and then become confused, or changed his mind. He . . . He said he was going to join my mother and leave me in peace. If he’d left it behind that night, I might have found him in time—”

She put her finger on his lips. “Don’t. It can’t be changed now. You must forgive yourself.”

He nodded. Gently he took her hand, turning it so he could press his lips to the pulse in her wrist. “I’d much rather think of the future.”

“Which will be . . . ?” she prompted, her heart skipping a beat at the way his sleepy eyes glowed, and his mouth curved up on one side.

“A wedding.” He kissed her. “A marriage.” He kissed her again. “A lifetime with you.”

She sighed and linked her hands behind his neck. “Just the way it was meant to be.”