It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 2

Mama must have been more resistant than usual to Papa’s persuasion, for when the Westons reached Hart House a week later, baggage in tow, there was a surprise waiting in her new dressing room. Abigail and Penelope came running when they heard their mother cry out, but when they burst into the room, they saw it had been an exclamation of delight. Mrs. Weston held a wriggling ball of black and brown fur up to her cheek. From the tiny pink tongue flicking frantically toward her face, the girls deduced how their father had schemed to win her over.

“Isn’t he darling?” cried their mother, holding up the puppy. He was a tiny thing, easily held in one hand. Penelope gasped in excitement and ran forward to see.

“A country lady needs a dog,” said Papa from the other side of the room. He stood in the doorway to the adjoining bedchamber looking very pleased with himself.

“Oh, Thomas, you shouldn’t have,” replied his wife, her beaming smile negating her words. “What a darling little creature!”

“I hope the sight of him gamboling about the lawn makes you more fond of Hart House.” Papa winked.

“You’re a shocking manipulator, Thomas Weston.” Mama let the puppy lick her face once more before handing him to Penelope, who cooed over the animal as much as her mother had done. “But for once I wholeheartedly thank you.” She crossed the room and kissed his cheek.

“For once!” Papa threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “If I’d known a little vermin catcher would steal your heart, I’d have got one years ago.”

“Vermin catcher! No,” protested his wife, hurrying back to stroke her pet’s ears.

“He’s too adorable for that,” added Penelope, laughing as the dog nipped at the ribbon on her dress.

Papa just shook his head. “What shall you call him, my dear?”

Mama gazed lovingly at her new baby. “Milo.”

Milo quickly became the center of life in Hart House, for better and for worse. Mrs. Weston took him with her everywhere, but he was as wily as an otter and needed only a moment to escape her sight and vanish into some dark cupboard or closet. More than once a day, a cry would go up to find Milo. After the first frantic search, Mr. Weston declared it was a dog’s duty to find his own way home and he refused to lift a finger to hunt for him. James seemed to develop sudden hearing difficulties whenever Milo was mentioned at all. Penelope doted on Milo almost as much as their mother did, but somehow she was never around when Milo went missing and had to be found. Abigail, as usual, was caught in the middle, reluctantly drawn into every search by her mother’s pleas. The puppy was a sweet little dog, but he was also a great deal of trouble, in her opinion.

That trouble came to a head the night of the ball. Papa had planned it for a week after their arrival, which was a shockingly short time to pull together such an event. Mama managed it, as she always did, but at great expense to household peace and harmony. And sure enough, in the confusion, Milo disappeared.


“Where’s he gone?” fretted Mrs. Weston, meeting her elder daughter in the front hall, now decorated with all manner of greenery and silk ribbons. “I told Marie to lock him in my room but she let him get out. Have you seen him, Abigail?”

“Not since this afternoon.”

“Oh dear.” Mama put one hand to her lips. “I hope he hasn’t got outside. He’s so small, he could be crushed by the horses or the carriage wheels.”

“I’ll go have a look,” Abigail offered. “I’m already dressed, and you have other things to see to.” Like getting Penelope out of her sulks; Abigail wanted no part of that. She’d had quite enough of her sister’s bad humor since they arrived in Richmond, and for some reason Penelope was in an especially cross mood today.

“Thank you, dear.” Mama pressed her hand gratefully. “Don’t go far, though. If he’s not to be found near the house, I’ll get James to go after him, since he refuses to attend the ball,” she finished darkly. “What I ever did to deserve these men in my life . . .” She shook her head, looking irked.

“I won’t,” Abigail promised. “I’m sure he’ll be nearby. His legs are too short to have taken him far.”

Her mother smiled and threw up her hands before hurrying off. Abigail went outside. With the servants rushing around getting ready, more than one door had been left open, and a small dog could have easily slipped out without notice.

She walked along the gravel path, keeping a keen eye out for her mother’s pet. It was lovely to be outside, where it was quiet and cool, and where she didn’t have to listen to Penelope grumble. In a week’s time Penelope had found a long list of things to dislike: the sounds of boatmen on the river, the lack of shops nearby, the way the door of her bedroom squeaked. But to Abigail, the hardest thing about life in Richmond was enduring her sister’s disgruntlement; otherwise she thought Papa had done tremendously well in his choice. As much as she liked the bustle and activity of London, there was a peace out here that couldn’t be found in the city. The air was different as well, warmer and softer somehow without the smells of town, even before one encountered the path lined with flowering shrubs and trees. It smelled utterly divine on this walk, which was one of Abigail’s new favorite spots on earth. Without hesitation she turned down it and took a deep breath in appreciation. Hart House suited her remarkably well.

She reached the end of the sweet-scented path, and stopped to look around. “Milo,” she called again. “Where are you, silly dog?” There was a rustle in the shrubbery ahead. She walked forward, whistling a little tune. “Come here, Milo. Your mistress is worried about you.”

Obediently, Milo trotted out of the bushes onto the path, tail wagging and head held high. And, to Abigail’s horror, there was something in his mouth—something squirming.

“Milo!” she gasped. “Put it down!”

The puppy saw her and gave a little bound, his eyes shining joyfully. Oh no; he thought this was a game.

“Milo,” she said sternly, “drop that rabbit!” For it certainly looked like a young rabbit wriggling frantically between his teeth. Her stomach lurched at the thought of having to carry the dog back into the house covered with the blood of a baby bunny.

He shook his head, almost as if in reply to her command, and the rabbit made another desperate squeal. Abigail put one hand over her mouth; she hadn’t known rabbits could make a noise like that.

She crouched down, taking care to keep her skirt out of the dirt. “Milo,” she said gently but firmly, “come here.” She had no idea how she would get the rabbit away from him, but somehow it seemed an easier prospect if she had hold of the dog first. “Come, boy.”

He backed away, stubby tail still wagging from side to side. Abigail pressed her lips together; she should have brought a treat of some sort to tempt him. “Come,” she said again, scooting forward on her tiptoes. “Come here.”

For answer he turned and loped away, still holding his prey in his teeth. Abigail scrambled to her feet and ran after him. “Milo, you wretched little pest, come here!” He only ran faster, every now and then giving his head a shake, before he veered to the left down a wilder path, little more than a dirt track through the trees.

She paused, clutching her skirt with one hand. Her mother had said not to go too far. Abigail had no hope of finding the little brown dog in the woods, with twilight rapidly encroaching. The wise thing would be to go back to the house and let her mother send James out into the thicket after the miserable little rabbit killer. “I’m not chasing you in there,” she muttered after the dog, whom she could still hear rustling in the underbrush even though she couldn’t see him any longer. “It wouldn’t hurt you to spend a night in the woods.” She didn’t think about what harm might befall the small animals of the wood.

But as she turned to go back, there was a sharp yip—Milo—and then the deep, menacing bark of a much bigger dog. There was another yip, this time higher and sounding pained, before Milo began whimpering. Abigail whirled back around, her pique forgotten. Mama would be devastated if anything happened to the puppy.

“Milo!” she cried, plunging into the woods. “Where are you?” She warded off branches and vines as best she could, but she could feel her hair snagging and slipping from its pins. She pulled her skirt tight around her and went deeper into the woods. “Milo!” She could hear something—hopefully her mother’s pet—struggling in the leaves and branches up ahead, still whimpering loudly. If he was caught in something, he’d be easier to catch. As to what dog was making that sonorous barking . . . she didn’t want to think about that.

She almost fell in astonishment when a large black beast appeared in front of her. He lifted his square, jowly head and regarded her with calm eyes, then let out another deep, echoing bark. It sounded like the hound of hell was baying at her, but the animal himself looked peaceful.

“Don’t mind him,” said a voice. “He won’t hurt you.”

The sound of someone so near almost sent her leaping out of her skin. It took her a moment to locate the speaker. He wore a brown coat that blended with the trees, but took off his hat as he approached.

“He startled me,” she managed to say.

The stranger’s mouth quirked. “He does that sometimes. Sit,” he said to his dog, who obediently sat. “Is that your dog in the bracken?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s my mother’s dog,” she replied. “Milo. He’s only a puppy, but he ran off and I think he might have a rabbit in his mouth.”

He looked toward the whimpering sounds. “A terrier?”

“Yes, a small golden-brown one.”

He nodded. “I’ll fetch him.” He glanced at her dress. “You aren’t dressed for walking in the woods.”

She blushed, and realized she was still holding her gown in a death grip, pulling the fabric tightly around her hips and exposing her legs almost to the knee. “I didn’t plan to walk in the woods. The cursed dog ran away, and I was chasing him.” She released her skirts, fluffing them a bit.

His gaze flicked downward for a moment, following the descent of her skirt. “It looks like a very elegant party you’re attending. I don’t want to keep you from it.” He hung his hat on a branch just over his head and headed into the thicket of bracken and fallen trees, whistling between his teeth as he went. Only when he had to step over a tree branch did she notice he used a cane, pressed tight to his left side.


“Thank you, sir,” Abigail called after him self-consciously. It was very awkward to be left standing in the middle of the woods with that giant dog watching her, even though the dog hadn’t moved since his master commanded him to sit. She also didn’t know what to make of his comment. Obviously it wasn’t his fault she was late for her parents’ ball; it was Milo’s, and her own, and that flighty maid Marie’s fault, if one was honest about it. She wondered who he was. Her parents had invited every last person in Richmond, it seemed, and most of them had accepted. Clearly he had not, or else he wasn’t from Richmond.

But he was retrieving Milo for her, which she deeply appreciated. By straining her eyes, she could see him go down on his knees and disappear behind a shrub, only to emerge a few minutes later with Milo in his arm. Slowly he tramped back through the brush toward her, occasionally using his cane to swish some bracken out of his way.

“Thank you,” she said again as he drew near. “I cannot tell you how little I wanted to go in there myself.” She put her arms out for the puppy.

He held up the dog by the scruff of his neck and studied him. Milo wiggled and whined, but lapsed into silence at a curt “Shh!” from the man holding him. “He’s filthy.” Again his gaze skimmed over her. “He’ll ruin your gown.”

Abigail pursed her lips. Even she could see the mud matting the puppy’s fur, which would indeed ruin her fine pale silk gown. “I can change it.”

“I’ll carry him home for you.” He lowered the puppy and tucked the dog under his arm. “Hart House?”

She stared. “Yes, how did you know?”

Not a trace of smile touched his lips. “You can’t have come far, and Hart House is the closest house from here. In addition, Hart House was recently taken by a man with two beautiful daughters. I presume you are one of them.”

“I am Miss Abigail Weston,” she said slowly, uncertainly. Was that a compliment? An opening for an introduction?

“I thought so.” He reached up and fetched his hat from the branch where he’d hung it earlier. “Shall we?”

She wanted to ask who he was. She wanted to ask why he was out in the woods; he hadn’t a gun that she could see, so he hadn’t been shooting. And while she knew there was another estate that shared these woods, she was fairly sure this was still her father’s property. “What made you think I was Miss Weston?”

“Rumor.” He pointed the way out of the bracken with his cane. “Proceed, please.”

“If you have a bit of cord, I could tie it around Milo’s neck and take him home that way,” she said in a last effort.

“I haven’t.” He didn’t seem impatient, merely bored, as though she was preventing him from fulfilling some sort of obligation. Which, perhaps, he was; he certainly didn’t look pleased about any part of it.

Abigail told herself to be grateful, and softened her tone. “Thank you. I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “No trouble at all, Miss Weston,” he finally said, his voice a low rumble. “Shall we get out of the woods before it’s too dark to see?”

Her gaze flew to the sky. “Oh! Yes.” It was growing late, and she would have to change her shoes and perhaps even her dress before joining the ball. Papa would be irked, and even Mama would fuss at her to hurry. She turned and picked her way through the bracken, listening as he followed. He muttered something to his dog, who fell in step behind them, but otherwise said nothing.

For a few minutes they walked, single file, down the narrow dirt path. Abigail didn’t know what to say. He walked with a quiet tread, and all she could hear was the big dog’s breathing. Discreetly she brushed away some leaves caught in her hair and on her dress. She would have to steal up to her room and examine the damage in a mirror. It would have been so much worse if she’d had to crawl into that wild thicket herself, but there was no question her appearance had suffered some indignities.

As soon as the path widened, she fell back a step to walk at his side. It felt strange to walk in front of him like a princess with a retainer at her heels. He walked very easily despite the cane; if she hadn’t seen it, she would have thought he had only a trace of a limp. But walking beside him she could see how he leaned, stiff-armed, on the cane.

“Did you see any sign of the rabbit when you found Milo?” she asked, trying to break the awkward silence.

“No. There was no blood on him, either, so I presume it got away.”

“Thank goodness,” she exclaimed. “I was so dreading telling my mother he’d killed a baby bunny.”

He slanted her a look. “That’s what terriers do. They chase vermin.”

“This one isn’t supposed to,” she retorted. “He’s a pampered little thing my father gave to my mother as an apology.”

“She’d better train him and keep him indoors, then.”

“Easier said than done,” she said under her breath. “But you have my eternal gratitude for fetching him. What was he caught in?”

“A bramble bush.” He held up the puppy again. Milo’s little tongue flopped out and he panted happily as Abigail glared at him. “Cut his coat if you don’t want him to get caught on every thorn he passes.” He paused. “What was he in apology for?”

“Oh.” She blushed and trained her eyes ahead. Mama would never forgive her for telling a complete stranger that Papa had bought Milo as an apology for the house. “Presumption.”

“Ah.” He tucked the puppy back under his arm. “I hope the apology was accepted.”

“Obviously—accepted and taken into the bosom of her heart.” Abigail rolled her eyes. “My mother will probably meet us at the door with half the constabulary behind her, ready to search the countryside for him.”

“Won’t she be receiving her guests by now?”

“Ah—yes, perhaps,” she murmured. So he knew about the ball and when it was to start. Who was he? “I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t know your name.”

For the first time a faint smile curved his lips. “Haven’t you guessed by now?”

She racked her brain. What was the name of the estate that bordered theirs? Montgomery . . . Merrymont . . . Montrose Hill, she remembered in a burst of relief. “You’re the owner of Montrose Hill.”

There was a slight hesitation before he responded. “Indeed.”

Abigail waited, but he didn’t offer his name. He didn’t say anything else, just strode along at the same steady pace. It was a bit rude, to be honest. “I’m very sorry you couldn’t attend my mother’s ball.” That was also a bit rude, but she knew Mama had sent an invitation to Montrose Hill. She just couldn’t remember the name of the owner.

“Didn’t it work out better for you that I didn’t?” he replied, seeming unperturbed. “If I’d been dressing for a ball, I would not have been in the woods to rescue your dog.”

“But we might have met under more cordial circumstances.”

Again he glanced at her with his unfathomable dark eyes. Abigail boldly gazed back. He was a striking figure, in a brooding sort of way. His dark, wavy hair curled above his collar, and his shoulders were broad beneath his coat. He held Milo easily in one big hand, although he wasn’t a large man, but rather lean and rangy. But it was his face that held her attention. His nose was a sharp slash, slightly crooked. His eyes were heavy-lidded, a bit sleepy looking despite the keen spark in his gaze. But no laugh lines bracketed his mouth, even though his lips looked firm and sensual. A somber man, she thought, who kept secrets.


“What would it have changed, if we met under more cordial circumstances?” he asked at last, very softly. “I don’t attend balls.”

“Not ever?” she blurted out in surprise.

“No.” He looked away. “You’ll sort out why soon enough.”

“That’s very mysterious,” she muttered.

“My apologies. It wasn’t meant to be.” They had finally come in sight of the house. “Run in and fetch a maid.”

She frowned at being so carelessly ordered about. “Please come in, sir. My mother will wish to thank you for saving her darling.”

He sighed. “Your thanks are enough.” He stopped and shifted Milo, who had begun wriggling as they drew close to home. “Shh,” he said again to the puppy, who quieted a little. “He’ll run off if I let him go.”

“Give him to me, then.” Again she put out her arms for the dog.

This time there was nothing glancing about his gaze. It ranged over her hair, pinned up with sprigs of jasmine, over her face, then slowly down her figure right to the tips of her green satin slippers. Abigail was immobilized by the intensity of it, even though he did nothing but look.

“He’ll ruin your gown,” he said. “I didn’t carry him all the way here only to dirty you up at the end. You look too lovely to spoil.”

She was saved from a reply by the appearance of her brother, striding around the house. At the sight of them he paused for half a step, then came to join them. “Abigail! There you are. Mother was growing worried.”

“Milo ran into the woods and this gentleman was kind enough to fetch him for me.” She turned a challenging look on the stranger. Surely he would have to introduce himself now.

“Very kind of you, sir.” James bowed. “James Weston, at your service.”

The stranger’s eyes slid toward her again before he returned James’s bow. “Sebastian Vane of Montrose Hill.”

“Thank you for bringing my sister home.” James gave the puppy a black look. “I wish I could say the same for the rat.”

“He’s not a rat,” protested Abigail, even though she’d had several unkind thoughts about Milo herself. “Mama loves him, as you know well.”

“That has nothing to do with it. He’s a rat catcher, and if he weren’t a ‘darling ball of fluff,’ he’d be in the stables doing just that,” James retorted, mimicking Penelope’s description of the dog.

“He would probably prefer that as well.” Mr. Vane held out the squirming puppy and let James take him. “Good evening, sir.”

“Won’t you come in? My mother will want to express her thanks.” James reluctantly took Milo, holding the muddy pup away from his coat. Milo wagged his tail, his little pink tongue hanging happily out of his mouth.

“Your sister has already extended a kind invitation to do so, but I must decline.” He tipped his broad-brimmed hat. “Good evening, Miss Weston. Mr. Weston.” This time he barely looked at her as he turned on his heel and limped away, the big black dog still silently trotting in his wake.

“Well,” said James as he disappeared back down the path. “A conquest already.”

Abigail scowled at him. “You mean of Milo’s? I assure you, the man could hardly stand to look at me. He wouldn’t even tell me his name.”

Her brother grinned. “I’m only teasing, Abby. Sebastian Vane! I gather he’s a recluse. Mother was surprised when he declined the invitation to the ball, but Father assured her Vane never goes out.”

“Why not?” Abigail turned to look after him. She could believe he was a recluse; he seemed unaccustomed to talking at all. But there had been something in his eyes, that last time he looked at her, something almost like longing. As if he’d wanted to accept her invitation, but couldn’t. And he’d called her lovely.

James shrugged. “I think he’s fallen on hard times. The limp probably doesn’t help. If a man can’t dance and can’t afford to make a good appearance . . .”

“Oh.” Abigail continued to stare toward the woods, even though Mr. Vane had long since vanished. “That needn’t make one a recluse.”

“Men have pride, Abby,” he said. “And I know Mother will think it very bad of you to linger out here while she’s greeting everyone in Richmond. Chop, chop, dear sister.”

“For that, you can take care of Milo.” She smiled sweetly at his expression. “Do scrub all that mud out of his ears, would you?”

She left him frowning at the little dog and went into the house, where she whisked up the back stairs to her room. A quick glance in the mirror showed she had leaves in her hair and some loose pins, but only a few streaks of dirt on her hem. A quick brushing removed most of it, and she sat down at her dressing table to fix her hair.

A recluse. Why? He might have fallen on hard times, but his house was gracious and beautiful, a handsome brick mansion. One could easily see it, for it sat on the ridge of the hill that rose beyond Hart House. And he was handsome enough—even without counting his reserve—that most girls would overlook a limp, if they noticed it at all. When he used the cane it was almost imperceptible. Even more, Abigail didn’t sense he wanted to be a recluse. He could have held back when she was chasing Milo and avoided her entirely; she hadn’t noticed him at all until he spoke to her. He hadn’t needed to walk her back to the house. He hadn’t needed to give her that long, appraising look at the end, as though he was drinking in every facet of her appearance . . .

Well. If balls were good for anything, they were good for gossip. Surely a man as mysterious as Sebastian Vane would have inspired some whispers. She pinned one last sprig of loose jasmine into her hair and went down the stairs, determined to find out.