It Takes a Scandal

Chapter 6

Abigail decided it was time to cast off subtlety. When she got back to the house, she sent Milo away with a footman and went in search of her sister, who turned out to be in the bright conservatory at the southern side of the house. “You should have seen the way Mrs. Huntley reacted when she saw Mr. Vane was here this afternoon.”

Penelope put down her book without a second glance. Abigail thought she saw the edge of a pamphlet sticking out from between the pages. At least Pen was being more cautious about reading 50 Ways to Sin this time; Mama never went into the conservatory, claiming it made her sneeze. “Why did no one tell me he was here?”

“He barely was here.” Abigail dropped onto the chair opposite Penelope. “I was astonished to see him at all—”

“Were you?” murmured her sister with a sly look.

“He only came to receive Mama’s thanks for rescuing Milo.” She made a bored face. “He hardly spoke a word to me. But then Mrs. Huntley arrived, and I vow, if he could have bolted out the window, I think he would have.”

“That’s somewhat understandable,” Penelope said. “I don’t know what Mama sees in her. I cannot endure one more telling of her husband’s illustrious connection to a king’s hawker two hundred years ago.”

“Yes, it’s odd how a royal connection makes such humble roots vastly more appealing.” Abigail grinned, and her sister snickered. “I had the same thought as Mr. Vane about escaping the room, although I hope I hid it better than he did. But the strangest thing was, when Mrs. Huntley came into the room a moment later, I thought she’d faint at the sight of him.”

Penelope sat a little straighter. “Oh?”

“Pen, she looked as though he made her stomach turn.”

“Did he say anything to her?”

Abigail shook her head. “A polite nod, nothing more. Then he rushed out the door!”

Penelope was entranced. “Goodness! Why? He seems perfectly ordinary—a bit reclusive, and desperately smitten with you, but otherwise unexceptional.”

“He is decidedly not smitten with me,” Abigail returned. “He admitted he’s avoiding me.”

“Because he wants to throw you to the ground and ravish you into unconsciousness.”

Abigail felt her face grow warm. “Well—probably not . . . unfortunately . . .”

Penelope shot upright with a jerk. “You do fancy him! I knew it! Oh, Abby—”

“If you tell anyone, I shall lead Mama straight to your hidden copy of 50 Ways to Sin,” Abigail interrupted. Her sister just grinned, a lively, devilish expression. “Speaking of which, I believe I was entitled to read it first.”

“Here. It’s a delicious one.” Penelope drew out the illicit pamphlet and tossed it to her. “What sort of wicked thoughts are you having about the mysterious Sebastian Vane?”

Abigail shoved the story into her pocket. “More curious than wicked. He’s so intriguing, Pen . . .”

“The dark, brooding sort always are,” agreed her sister.

“But he told me he’s unsuitable, and he said I would soon sort out why. So far I haven’t, though. None of Mama’s visitors gossip about him. All I have are Mrs. Huntley’s shocked reaction and Mrs. Driscoll’s barely civil treatment in the bookshop, and for the life of me I cannot make sense of either.” She didn’t mention what he had said to her on the path just today; any mention of madness or murder was inflammatory.

“And you want me to help you find out more,” guessed Penelope.

Abigail nodded. “Will you?”

“Of course!” her sister exclaimed. It was amazing how one prurient story had restored her to good humor. “We should ask Lady Samantha. She’s not some stuffy matron who would insist nothing smelled wrong even if she’d just trod on a rotten egg.”

“When are we to see her again?”

“Day after next, if the weather holds. Remember the picnic?”

“Oh yes.” Abigail’s mouth curved. Her mother had planned a picnic down by the river, to include Lady Samantha Lennox. Papa was so eager for them to become friends with the earl’s daughters, he had given Mama carte blanche to entertain whenever and wherever she liked, as long as the Lennox sisters came. Fortunately, Abigail genuinely liked Lady Samantha. “That should serve nicely.”


The next evening when he went out for his walk, Sebastian took Abigail Weston’s warning to heart. Avoid the woods at all times, she’d said, so he did. As usual, he walked toward the woods, but then only skirted the edges. Boris, who was accustomed to romping through the thickets and chasing small animals, whined and barked at him before loping into the woods on his own. Sebastian forced himself not to watch the dog disappear down the winding path that led toward Hart House. The chances that he would run into her again were remote, but the odds seemed to be against him lately.

He sighed and walked on. Once he would have taken her words as an invitation. He would have found reason after reason to lurk about the edge of Hart House land, doing his best to “happen” across her path. He would have responded to her smiles and sunny laugh with teasing and laughter of his own. He would have invited her to walk down the Fragrant Walk, which seemed specially designed for the purpose of stealing kisses. He probably would have shown her the grotto as well, where one might steal more than a chaste kiss from a willing girl.

That had certainly been his and Benedict Lennox’s intent, when they’d gone hunting for the grotto as boys. Well, not originally; when they’d first heard tales of an old grotto, females of any sort hadn’t figured in their plans. They’d been all of nine and ten years old, convinced it would be a grand hideout from thrashings and tutors and other outrages. Old Lady Burton had been amused by their earnest request to search for it, but she’d given her permission, and for ten years they’d climbed and crawled through damned near the entire woods. Over the years their plans for the grotto had changed from hiding out of sight of tutors, to storing various contraband they coveted, to seducing local wenches there. Since they’d never found it, all the plans were only castles in the air.

But then Sebastian had uncovered it—literally, by falling through the bracken that had grown over the steps. He would have told Benedict about it immediately if they hadn’t had a furious argument the day before. Sebastian was never quite sure why they argued so hotly. At the time, all he’d been able to think about was his newly purchased commission. Of course he’d known Benedict envied him—who wouldn’t have?—but Benedict was heir to an earl, forbidden from doing anything dangerous. But that last night Benedict had been in a fury, and all but provoked a fight. They had nearly come to blows before Ben stormed off.

In hindsight Sebastian thought it must have been Benedict’s own burning desire to buy a commission, too, that set him off. He could sympathize; Lord Stratford was a harsh and demanding father, and Benedict had long yearned to escape. Sebastian had assumed that last quarrel would be forgotten by the time he returned, but that had been the last time they were friends. When he came home from the army, everything had changed, and those days of boyhood friendship were distant memories.

He reached the dip in the hill, a little hollow before the ground swelled and rolled gently down to the river. He stopped and gazed down the slope. From here he could see across the river to Stratford Court, the massive Tudor mansion where Benedict had grown up. Its red brick looked black now as the shadows grew long, the windows gleaming like quicksilver where they caught the fading light. From here, one could raise a lantern that could be seen from the second floor bedchambers on the north end of the house. He’d done it often enough as a boy, signaling to Benedict.

His jaw hardened. That was another lifetime ago. That was before a Frenchman shot out his knee. Before his father lost his wits. Before he came home from war to find that his father, sinking deeper into lunacy every day, had sold two-thirds of Montrose Hill lands at a mere pittance—mainly to the Earl of Stratford, Benedict’s father. Before Sebastian had forced himself out of bed, against doctor’s orders, and tried to mend the damage, only to have doors around town shut in his face. People whispered that Michael Vane was possessed by demons. They demanded his debts be paid immediately. They watched his son through wary eyes, as though they expected him to tear off his clothes and run naked through the town assaulting people, too. People he had known all his life suddenly began crossing the road when they saw him. People he had trusted and respected refused to receive him.

Then his father disappeared, which only made things worse. There were whispers that he’d dispatched his father to his grave, an unforgivable sin no matter how deranged the father had become.

That one was the cruelest irony. His father had disappeared, not turned up dead. A missing man couldn’t be judged incompetent, which meant Sebastian had no grounds to contest the sale of the land in court. A missing man wasn’t the same as a dead man, which meant Sebastian couldn’t even inherit the remaining property and begin to rebuild his estate. With his father missing, he was effectively bankrupt, unable to sell Montrose Hill but barely able to maintain it. In his darker moods, he thought that if he had decided to kill his father, he damned sure wouldn’t have done it in a way that made things worse for him. At least the rumor that he was a thief made some sense, even if it was equally untrue.

Sometimes, Sebastian thought he might have preferred to go mad. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel his losses so sharply.

He turned to go back up the hill. He couldn’t go farther down it; that land, which had once been part of his estate, belonged to Lord Stratford now. According to the records, his father had sold that prime piece of land, some eighty acres situated along a graceful sweep of well-drained riverfront, for fifty pounds. The attorney who handled the gift—it could hardly be called a sale—had been apologetic when Sebastian confronted him, but consistent: Michael Vane had insisted on selling it, and he’d been pleased with the price. No one had known he was mad then. There was nothing that could be done about it. Sebastian was lucky he had anything left.

As he climbed, Hart House came into view off to his right below. The white stone glowed softly in the twilight, a fine jewel nestled in the verdant woods and lawns around it. Unlike Montrose Hill, there was no shortage of funds at Hart House. It had struck him quite forcibly during his ill-conceived visit the previous day. The Westons had plenty of money. They weren’t scraping by, trying to hold on to the last shreds of respectability. Abigail Weston had no idea what she was doing, circling around him like a bee over a flower, not realizing the flower was poisonous. He supposed she had wild romantic notions about him; nothing else could explain her interest. He had tried to warn her off. The only trouble was . . .

His gaze strayed toward the woods. She said she intended to search every inch of them for the grotto. Perhaps she meant it, perhaps she didn’t. The grotto wasn’t far from the Fragrant Walk, although it was well hidden. He pictured her crawling through the hedge and wild bracken that had overrun the entrance. He pictured her tumbling down the steps, cracking her head and twisting her ankle. He’d have to check the damned grotto every day to make sure she wasn’t lying hurt at the bottom, her fair skin bruised and cut, her stunning eyes bleak with pain. And if he meant to do that . . .

Boris wandered out of the woods, his tail wagging happily. He trotted over to Sebastian, tongue hanging out, and butted his hand. Sebastian scratched his dog’s ears, wondering if Boris had met her in the woods. That would also be just his luck, that his dog would get to see her when he couldn’t.


“I’m a bloody idiot,” he told Boris, still scratching. The dog just leaned against his good leg and moaned as Sebastian dug his fingertips into that one spot behind the left ear that left Boris weak with bliss. With his other hand Sebastian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a somewhat crumpled pamphlet. Fifty Ways to Sin, read the title in plain type. It might have been a political treatise, it looked so drab. If Miss Weston hadn’t blushed so beautifully when Mrs. Driscoll brought it out, Sebastian wouldn’t have given the little booklet a second glance. If she hadn’t tried to conceal the title, he wouldn’t have been driven to buy his own copy. He’d told himself it would likely prove to be some morality tale, or perhaps a guide for young ladies on how to avoid lecherous gentlemen. What else would a respectable, proper young lady buy?

Instead it had been an erotic story, an explicit account of an encounter entirely in the dark between two people who were strangers to each other. With unfortunate vividness, the scene had played across his mind’s eye—and it was Abigail Weston he imagined, giving herself to him with wanton abandon. He had to take himself in hand and satisfy the fierce craving of his body, the images were so real. Just the thought of her reading the same story was enough to make him hard again. He was tormented by the question of how she would react to the arousing tale. Horror? Alarm? Shame? Or maybe . . . curiosity. Interest. Even desire. She’d bought it, after all—and she sought out his company.

The real trouble was that while he knew he should avoid her, he wasn’t sure he had the will to do so for long.