It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 4

“I think this is our most likely hope.”

Abigail eyed the bookshop. It was large and clean, with windows that sparkled in the morning light. It looked welcoming and respectable and utterly unlike the shop in London that sold 50 Ways to Sin. Now that they had held their ball, Mama felt they had been introduced to, and become part of, Richmond society. When Penelope asked if they might walk into town to visit the shops, Mama agreed, provided James went with them. Their brother had departed almost at once on his own errands, leaving them outside a milliner’s shop. Penelope, of course, had other plans, and towed Abigail through the streets to this bookshop. “Are you certain?”


“Of course not,” whispered Penelope. “That’s why you have to go in and ask.”

“This looks like a shop Mama might visit,” replied Abigail, stubbornly resisting her sister’s attempts to nudge her forward. “You’re going to get us both in horrid trouble, Pen.”

“I gave my word I would take the entire blame if this goes wrong. Mama would murder me, but she’d probably forgive you. And you gave me your word you would try. Please, Abby.” There was a note of desperation in Penelope’s voice. “I am wasting away from boredom . . .”

“We’ve only been in Richmond eleven days,” muttered Abigail, but she relented at her sister’s expression. Unlike her, Penelope wasn’t happy with a good book and a cozy spot to read. Penelope craved adventure and gossip and excitement, and since getting caught reading the notorious pamphlet over a month ago, she hadn’t had much of any of those things. Their mother had clamped down on Penelope’s freedom like a vise. She was allowed to go to dances and parties again, but she was no longer permitted to wander freely and talk with friends; she was required to stay near their mother, and dance with the gentlemen chosen for her. She was only allowed to walk into town because her siblings had come with her.

But Abigail also knew—just as well as her sister knew—that if they were discovered on this errand, there would be hell to pay. When Penelope had been caught before, she had sworn on her very life that Abigail had nothing to do with it and hadn’t even known about the pamphlet. That was a bold-faced lie, of course, but it had left Abigail free . . . free to shop where she liked. But if Mama learned she had been trying to purchase the pamphlet, she would know that Penelope had lied to her, and even worse, that Abigail had helped deceive her. Both their lives would become misery.

“Very well,” she said at last. “You’d better stay far away from me. Jamie will be back for us soon, so we haven’t got much time.”

Wild joy and eagerness lit her sister’s face. “Thank you, Abby! Thank you! I shall be utterly demure and as silent as a mouse. Just ask politely for it, and try to look mature and sophisticated when you do.”

They went into the bookshop, where a little bell tinkled over the door. The shop was beautifully arranged, with bookcases lining the walls and a bench in the middle. It was calm and peaceful, just as a bookshop should be. It was also thankfully almost empty of witnesses to the impending crime. Penelope strolled to a bookcase and pretended great interest in the books there, although Abigail knew her sister’s attention was focused on her.

Trying to look, as her sister had suggested, mature and sophisticated despite the thumping of her heart, she approached the counter, where a middle-aged proprietress was wrapping up a book for another lady. When that customer had left with her package, Abigail stepped up to the counter.

“May I help you, ma’am?” the shopkeeper asked pleasantly.

Abigail took out a piece of paper where she’d written two titles, one for herself and one her brother wanted. She had permission to buy those. She said a small prayer no one ever learned she’d written a third title on the list after her mother approved it. “I hope so. Do you happen to have these?”

The shopkeeper read the list, shooting her a quick, measuring look at the end. “I believe so,” she said in neutral tone. “I must check in the back, especially for the last.”

“Thank you.” Abigail inclined her head regally and the woman disappeared into the back room of the shop. So far, so good. Over her left shoulder, she caught her sister’s eyes. Penelope was holding what looked like a prayer book in front of her, but her gaze was fixed on Abigail. At Abigail’s tiny nod, her eyes brightened hopefully before dropping back to the prayer book. She turned a page with exaggerated care, although Abigail noticed her eyes weren’t moving across the pages.

The bell on the door tinkled again behind her. It sounded loud in the hushed bookshop. Abigail darted a wary glance around her bonnet brim, praying her brother hadn’t come to fetch them early, but gasped when she saw who it was. “Mr. Vane!”

He stood half turned in the doorway, as if he’d been about to go back out. At her exclamation he seemed to flinch, but he faced her readily enough. “Miss Weston.” He bowed.

Abigail curtsied. She could feel her sister’s stare boring into her back, but she ignored it. “How lovely to see you again.”

In daylight he was just as handsome as she’d thought before. His sleepy-lidded eyes were brown, she saw, and if he were to smile, the effect would probably be devastating. She remembered what James had said about reduced circumstances and studied him closer, but country clothing was more forgiving; she couldn’t see any difference between his coat and her brother’s. Why would such a man become a recluse?

Slowly he came toward the counter. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“It certainly is not! I cannot thank you enough for helping with Milo the other night. When I returned to the house and saw how wild I looked, merely from running after him, I realized how great a service you did me.” She smiled ruefully. “Going into that thicket would have left me unfit to be seen.”

His gaze traveled over her. “I am delighted to see that did not occur.”

A small smile touched her lips at the compliment. “My mother begs you to call on her someday, so she can thank you herself.”

“It was a trifle,” he said in his quiet way.

Abigail kept smiling, even though she could see her sister from the corner of one eye, almost falling over in her attempt to get a better look at him. Penelope was keeping her word to be as quiet as a mouse, but she had made no promises to hide her rabid curiosity about elusive and mysterious gentlemen. Abigail casually turned, further blocking her sister’s view. “It struck me that I don’t know where my father’s property ends. I would hate to trespass on your land. Can you tell me precisely where the dividing line is, so I don’t intrude on you again?”

Mr. Vane’s eyes flickered to the side; he had seen Penelope. Abigail said a fierce prayer that her sister, for once in her life, held her tongue and minded her own affairs. “I’m no longer entirely certain myself, Miss Weston. But you have my permission to walk in the woods at will, even if you stray onto Montrose land.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” She was running out of things to say. Abigail couldn’t even explain to herself why she wanted to keep talking to him, but she did. There was something appealing about him, in spite of the aloofness of his demeanor. She liked the sound of his voice, and she really longed to see him smile.

“Not kind at all,” he replied. “Only fairness. When I was young, I was permitted to explore the grounds of Hart House freely and wantonly, and I did so at every opportunity. The previous owner, Lady Burton, was very gracious.”

“Yes, I gather Hart House has some interesting features. I heard there was a grotto or some such thing on the grounds, but no one seems to know where it is—or was.”

For the first time a spark brightened his eye. “I know about the grotto.” His mouth softened—not quite into a smile, but a less grim line than usual. Abigail felt inordinately heartened by it, and her heart positively leapt when he leaned closer. “I know where it is, too.”


“You do?” she gasped. “It still exists? I thought it had been filled in.”

“Only by the encroaching woods. One has to forge through the brambles to get there.” This time his mouth most definitely did curve, and something like triumph brought a wholly different cast to his face. He looked younger, almost rakish. “When I found it several years ago, I felt like the most intrepid explorer, as if I’d located the source of the Nile for the first time.”

Abigail was having a hard time keeping her mind on the topic. Mr. Vane was the most attractive man she’d ever seen. Good heavens; she’d read about women being dazzled by a man, falling in love almost on the spot. She’d never understood how that could happen until today. Were the women of Richmond blind? Why wasn’t he besieged by unmarried ladies? “You must have been very intrepid, indeed,” she said, scrambling for her wits. “Lady Samantha Lennox told us her brother searched and searched for the grotto but never found it.”

Like a candle being snuffed, the light went out of his face. His mouth flattened into the same flat line, and he seemed to withdraw without moving a muscle. “No.”

“Will this be all, miss?” The shopkeeper’s voice made Abigail jump. She turned, still reeling from his transformation—for both good and bad—and saw, with a shock of alarm, that the shopkeeper had found her books—all of them. And right on top, unwrapped and exposed for all the world to see, lay 50 Ways to Sin.

For one horrified moment Abigail stared at it blankly. Oh heavens. She hadn’t expected this sort of shop to have it. She hadn’t expected the woman to hand it over so carelessly and brazenly; the London bookstore wrapped it in paper. She certainly hadn’t expected to be engaged in any sort of tête-à-tête with Mr. Vane when the woman brought it out. And yet part of her was elated as well to have a new copy at last. What would Lady Constance get up to in this one?

“Yes,” she burst out, shaking off her paralysis with a start. “Thank you.” She plopped her reticule on top of the pamphlet to hide the title, making a show of searching inside for money and tilting her bonnet so the brim hid her blushing face.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked the shopkeeper as Abigail fumbled with her coins. There was a decided chill to the woman’s voice as she turned to Mr. Vane.

“I’m looking for The Nautical Almanac,” he replied. “The latest edition.”

She sniffed. “I’ll have to see.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Driscoll.”

Abigail peeked at him around the edge of her bonnet. Mrs. Driscoll hardly addressed him as a respectable man of property, but he didn’t seem perturbed by it. She handed her money to the shopkeeper and unthinkingly picked up her reticule, only to remember a moment later and snatch up the books.

“Good day, Mr. Vane,” she said, turning to him. “I hope we see each other again.”

For a fraction of a second his eyes dipped to the books she held. “Perhaps we will, Miss Weston.”

Oh dear Lord. He’d seen it. Abigail bobbed an awkward curtsy, her face burning. Perhaps he wouldn’t know what it was. Perhaps he would think it wasn’t hers. But she had never been as good a liar as Penelope, and her reaction had probably been as guilty as it could be. Head down, she hurried out of the shop, leaving him standing at the counter waiting for his book.

“What was that about?” hissed Penelope, galloping up beside her. Abigail had entirely forgotten her sister.

“I hate you, Pen,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed forward. “I really, really do.”

“That much?” Penelope grinned wickedly. She looked over her shoulder. “So that’s the mysterious Mr. Vane! I think he fancies you, Abby.”

“Be quiet,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I notice you were very animated when talking to him. Do you fancy him as well?” She looked back again. “And do you know, he’s watching you walk away through the window.”

“Turn around,” she ordered. “He might be staring because he saw it.”

“No!” Her sister’s eyes grew round in alarm. “Why did you let him see it?”

“I didn’t let him, the shopkeeper just slapped it down right in front of him before I could stop her!” Abigail pulled out the troublesome pamphlet and thrust it at her sister. “We have to find a better way to get it. Presuming Mama doesn’t hear of this and confine us both to our rooms, that is.”

Penelope stuffed the pamphlet into her reticule. “You’re right. I agree. If I’d known an eager suitor would follow you into the shop, I never would have asked you to do it today.”

She shot a murderous glare at her sister and stalked away without another word. Mr. Vane was the least eager suitor she could imagine. The trouble was . . . she wished he would be. Or at least that he would show some sign that he was interested, because she found him fascinating.

On the other hand, for her own sake, she should probably hope she never saw him again. He’d seen 50 Ways to Sin. He knew she’d bought it. All he had to do was ask Mrs. Driscoll what it was, and she’d be sunk. In fact, she probably already was. All it would take was one word about the Weston girls purchasing that wicked story, and her mother would hear it eventually. Nothing Penelope could say would save her from the consequences of that.

For now, she only hoped he wouldn’t follow her.

“Will that be all, Mr. Vane?” Mrs. Driscoll pushed his book across the counter as if she couldn’t even bear to hand it to him.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sebastian counted out the price from his purse. He no longer presumed anyone would extend him credit. It made things easier if he just carried money; he couldn’t outspend his limited income if he had to pay coin for everything, and no one could complain of his custom when they were paid on the spot. Mrs. Driscoll had once been kind and cordial to him, but then his father had assaulted her in the midst of one of his fits, and ever since, Sebastian had been tarred by association. The bookshop owner always watched him warily, as if she expected him to suddenly fly at her in a rage, too.

Mr. Weston must not have established an account here yet, if his daughter also had to pay in coin. Sebastian’s fingers slowed as he laid his money on the counter. He should have known he’d run into her today, the first day in weeks he’d come into town. And in spite of himself, something inside him had surged with pleasure when she turned around and said his name with every sign of delight.

He would have been content just to exchange greetings and have a chance to look at her for a few minutes. Her hair looked more reddish in the warm light of the shop, or perhaps it was the reflection of her cherry-red pelisse. Her eyes were the same clear gray, though, and he was almost mesmerized by the invitation in them. She wanted to talk to him. She smiled when he complimented her. Her eyes lit up when he said he knew where the old grotto was. Sebastian almost forgot who he was for a few minutes, dazzled by her smile and her eyes and the way her gloved hands pressed together at her bosom . . .

Then she mentioned Samantha and Benedict, and he remembered everything. He remembered everything he had lost, and every reason that he would never have more of Abigail Weston than a chance meeting in town or in the woods. He knew he ought to regret inviting her to walk anywhere she wanted, but some part of him was too selfish to do that. Just a glimpse, now and then, would do no harm. Sooner or later someone would warn her away from him, and then it wouldn’t matter what he did.


Still, for some reason he lingered at the counter. He had no right to her attention. The less he knew about her, the better. But knowing wasn’t the same as acting. And she’d bought something very intriguing . . .

“Have you changed your mind?” asked Mrs. Driscoll curtly. She swept his coins up as though she feared he would take them back.

“Yes.” He gave her a steady look as he pulled out another coin, even though he could ill afford to spend it. “I would like a copy of that pamphlet.”

Her eyes narrowed warily. “What pamphlet?”

“The one you just sold. Fifty Ways to Sin.”