Love in the Time of Scandal (12 page)

She shuddered. “They’re terrible; every sort of wicked lasciviousness you can imagine. Worse than Lady Constance’s stories. But he said his name wasn’t part of them,” she added, with a silent sigh of relief that she’d been spared that.

Abigail’s brow wrinkled. “But you said Frances Lockwood accused you of stealing him. How long do you think before she repeats that, especially when the other rumor spreads?”

Penelope’s throat felt tight. It still hurt, deeply, that Frances would think that of her. She pleated a fold of her skirt and stared out the window until she could speak. “May I come live with you? For the rest of this year, and perhaps next as well?”

Abigail snorted. “I remember how well you liked Richmond when we spent the summer there. Now you want to spend the winter there as well? But this time at Montrose Hill House, where workmen are busy repairing everything from the roof to the stables.”

“I could endure,” Penelope assured her, although privately she wasn’t so certain, now that Abigail reminded her about Richmond. When their father had bought a country estate there, it had seemed like the end of the earth to Penelope, a good ten miles distant from London and as quiet as a country village. The only excitement had been Abigail’s romance with Sebastian Vane, which had involved clandestine meetings in the woods, a public argument in the middle of Richmond, a daring jaunt through the woods to solve an old mystery and recover lost treasure, and, best of all, a romantically thrilling night when Abigail fled the odious Lord Atherton’s advances and spent a night of passion in Sebastian’s arms.

Penelope was imagining that last part, as her sister had refused to tell her anything about it, but from Papa’s furious reaction both before and after Abigail returned home, she thought it must be reasonably close to the truth.

Her sister only smiled. “What’s wrong with Lord Atherton’s suggestion?”

The part about his presence
. Penelope managed not to say it aloud. “Don’t you think it unlikely that people who are calling me all kinds of vile names today will welcome me with approval and respect tomorrow if only Viscount Atherton is standing beside me?”

“I doubt the gossip would reverse course that quickly, but we both know it would eventually. Especially if people thought you would marry him. He’ll be an earl one day, and not some penniless, indebted one.”

A red flush blazed up her face. “I’m not going to marry him!”

“I didn’t say that. I said people would regard you differently if they
thought
you would marry him.” Abigail tilted her head and studied her shrewdly. “But that was quite an adamant exclamation.”

“I just don’t want you to get any ridiculous ideas,” she retorted. “Atherton is the last man on earth I would ever marry.”

“The last man?” Now Abigail gave her a look of such skepticism, Penelope flushed even hotter. “A handsome, wealthy, charming viscount. Really, Penelope? You’d rather have a bricklayer or a chimney sweep?”

She scowled and fiddled with her cup. “You know what I mean.”

Abigail was quiet for a moment. “I know that when he first came to call at Hart House, you were much more approving.”

Penelope rued the day she had ever admitted that to her sister. “That was before I knew his true character. And I only admitted then that he’s very handsome, which I have never denied.”

Her sister raised her brows. “His true character. Which facet do you mean: the bit of him that came with us to search the woods for the money Sebastian was accused of stealing, quite probably defying his father’s orders? Or perhaps you mean the bit where he let his sister confess that she actually had taken the money? That was horrible of him, I grant you. No, I know: you must mean the impulse that drove him to get a letter from Lord Stratford exonerating Sebastian, so Papa would let me marry him.” She shrugged as Penelope glared at her. “You’re not making a good argument so far.”

“He didn’t protest when his father started those evil rumors about Sebastian,” she pointed out. “And he kept the secret for years. He turned his back on a friend.”

Abigail hesitated. “It’s not as simple as all that. Sebastian has told me a great deal more about him, and I think you judge him too harshly.”

“Oh? What would pardon letting everyone think his dearest childhood friend was a thief and a murderer?” Penelope widened her eyes. “To say nothing of leaving Sebastian to crawl home after falling on his wounded knee—when Sebastian was an invited guest in his home?”

“I’m not saying he’s been above reproach in everything,” her sister countered. “But I suspect his lot hasn’t been as easy as it appears. Lord Stratford is neither a kind nor a loving father. Sebastian says he used to beat Atherton regularly.”

Penelope pressed her lips together, unwilling to feel sorry for the viscount. It was not difficult to believe Lord Stratford was a cruel father, but Atherton was a grown man; if he couldn’t stand up to his father now, what did that say about him? “He schemed to marry Frances, just a few weeks after he was courting you.”

“Thank goodness,” said Abigail, to Penelope’s astonishment. “I would have felt terrible if he’d been truly hurt.”

“
Schemed
,” she tried again, emphasizing the word and making it sound as noxious as possible. “He wasn’t in love with her any more than he was in love with you! What do you make of a man who would do that?”

“I would guess he’s trying to find a wife,” her sister calmly replied. “You said she was a very sweet girl; did she have other admirers?”

“Yes,” Penelope muttered after a moment.

“Does she have some connections? A dowry?”

“Yes,” she growled.

“It sounds very ordinary to me. A handsome gentleman of his age and rank will want a bride, and she sounds just the type a gentleman would prefer. What did you do to disrupt it?”

Penelope, already sulking, did not see that question coming. She gaped, then blushed, and mulishly set her chin. “Nothing.”

“Really?” said Abigail so dryly, Penelope flushed deeper red. Her face would be permanently scarlet after this conversation.

“She asked what sort of man I wanted to marry and I told her. I encouraged her to be sure Atherton cared for her before she accepted him. That’s all,” she insisted.

“And what happened?”

She cleared her throat. “I don’t precisely know. I saw them dancing, looking in good charity with each other, and then I left the room. After the—the
incident
, when Mrs. Lockwood was glaring down her nose at me, Atherton said Frances had declared she never wanted to see him again. But I swear, Abby, I have no idea what happened. He didn’t tell me, and Frances . . . I don’t think Frances will ever speak to me again.” And that hurt. Penelope was aware of her own faults, but disloyalty was not one of them. Frances was—had been—her friend, and she never ever would have tried to attract any man who was courting her friend. The unvarnished betrayal in Frances’s eyes when she accused Penelope of lying about that cut very deeply.

“Not to be harsh, Pen, but that seems like the least of your worries at the moment.”

She knew it. Unfortunately she had no idea what to do about Clary. Hopefully he would tire of telling lies about her quickly. Hopefully a duke’s daughter would elope with a footman, or two peers would come to blows in Parliament. Any of those things would give people something far more interesting to talk about. “I know, although I miss having her friendship. But what am I to do about the rest?”

“Short of following Lord Atherton’s suggestion?” Penelope made an impatient gesture, and Abigail sighed. “You could marry someone else. You could persuade Jamie to take you to Italy for a few years. Or you could cut off your hair and live as a man for the rest of your life.”

Penelope’s jaw sagged open. “I meant within reason!”

“It would be very reasonable to marry someone else.”

“But who?” Real alarm stirred in her breast. Somehow she had been sure her sister would have a sensible yet acceptable alternative, because Abigail always did. Penelope would have spent her entire childhood being punished if not for her sister talking her into schemes which were just as exciting, yet somehow less dangerous, than her own ideas. Spend a few years in Italy with her brother? She’d rather live as a man, if it came down to that.

“Penelope, I don’t know,” Abigail said. “Since you haven’t got a more appealing suitor at the ready, I think your best choice is to graciously accept Lord Atherton’s proposal and make the best of it. You might come to revise your low opinion of him. Try to remember how you liked him when he first came to Hart House. Remember how entertaining he was when he took us to Hampton Court and tried to find a ghost for your amusement.” Penelope opened her mouth to protest, and Abigail held up one hand to stop her. “Sebastian doesn’t hold his behavior against him, and Sebastian was the wronged party. How can you be less willing to forgive? Not only has he done you no wrong, he’s offering to do you a very great favor.”

Penelope clamped her mouth shut and stared down at her hands. She couldn’t very well tell her sister that it was for her own peace of mind that she clung to her dislike. Abigail might decide that constituted permission to meddle.

As she was searching for a reply, the door opened to admit their mother. She was pale and held herself stiffly erect as she closed the door, very carefully, behind her. “Penelope,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “I have heard the most dreadful thing—your father just told me—did you . . . ?” She paused, visibly fighting for composure. “Did you behave as people are suggesting?”

It was all there in her mother’s face; Mama knew, and apparently Papa did, too. She was doomed. “No, ma’am,” she whispered anyway, shrinking into her chair.

Mama gave her a look of pure disbelief, although that faded quickly. With jerky steps she crossed the room and sank into a chair. “I am completely at a loss. I can tell by your face that you know exactly what I’m referring to.” Cowed, Penelope gave a tiny nod. Mama’s throat worked. “And yet you chose not to tell me.”

Never had Penelope felt such searing shame, or such regret that she’d put something off. She’d had no idea how to bring it up; she’d had no idea how to respond.

Abigail stepped into the charged silence. “We were just discussing how to deal with it, Mama—”

“When I want your advice, I will ask for it, Abigail,” said her mother icily. “This is about Penelope, and why she did nothing even though she knew there were rumors out there calling her the very loosest and immoral of women!”

“I didn’t know how to tell you, Mama,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“And so you said nothing?” Mama’s eyes flashed with wrath, and her voice rose with each word. “Not even a hint? Not even in confidence? How could you?” She shook her head. “You lied to me. A slip on the stair at the Gosnolds’ party. A turned ankle. I trusted you, Penelope, and I believed you. What a foolish thing!”

Her mouth was dry. “I didn’t want you to worry . . . I didn’t think anything would come of it . . .”

“And what do you think now?” snapped Mrs. Weston. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, raising her clasped hands to her chin. Penelope knew that look; it was the Praying for Patience look, and her mother was only driven to it in dire situations. A frisson of alarm went through her. That look meant the worst was yet to come.

And then it did. The door opened and her father stepped into the room, followed a moment later by Lord Atherton.

“Abigail,” said Papa. “I need to speak with your mother and sister.”

His tone brooked no argument, nor any reply at all. Her sister all but ran from the room, with only a brief sympathetic glance at her. Penelope got to her feet, feeling like Joan of Arc must have felt when she saw the bonfire prepared for her. Atherton was watching her far too closely for comfort. The fact that he was here at all was very bad.

Papa turned to her. “What were you thinking, child?”

Her father’s disappointment crushed whatever defiance she had left. Penelope adored her father, and the expression on his face was utterly disillusioned. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t know what would happen . . . I was going to tell you . . .”

“You might have guessed that it warranted telling me or your mother, in warning if nothing else!” He ran one hand over his face. “Not that it matters. The only question now is how to mitigate the disaster.”

Penelope avoided looking at Lord Atherton, though facing her parents was no better. “I’m thinking of running away to the West Indies.” At this moment, any far-off colony, even with tropical insects and cannibalistic natives, sounded inviting.

“Do not be smart with me!” warned her father. “Who started those malicious rumors?”

She couldn’t resist a shocked peek at the viscount. He hadn’t told. At her glance, he raised one brow slightly and cocked his head toward Papa, as if in invitation for her to denounce Clary. She hovered in horrible indecision; if she told Papa, it might save her. But then again, it might not. Clary had disdained her father. What if Papa called him out and they fought a duel and Clary killed him? Penelope pictured her mother, weeping brokenheartedly over her father’s body lying dead in the grass on Hampstead Heath, and bit down on her lip. Oh God. She’d made a thorough mess of this, and she couldn’t let her father suffer for it. “I can’t, Papa.”

“Yes, you can, and you will.”

Her mind was running feverishly. Maybe she could say something, if not quite the truth, that would let her slip free of the noose. She could say Clary had been drunk and accosted her in the hallway, and was now lying to cover his own rude behavior. She could say it was some other man whose face she never saw. She could even blame Frances and suggest it was done out of pique, just a fit of female jealousy—she gave her head a shake to dislodge that idea. Too late she realized there was no good explanation, and if Papa had brought Lord Atherton here, he knew it, too. “I don’t think it would do any good to tell you, Papa,” she said softly. “Even if he would retract it, the damage has been done.”

Her father exhaled and then slowly lowered himself into a chair next to her mother. He hung his head, and when Mama reached out her hand, he clasped it as if it would save him from drowning. Penelope looked away, painfully aware of how deeply she had disappointed both her parents, and caught sight of Atherton. He was watching Mama and Papa with an odd expression, but he must have felt her gaze on him; with a jerk he turned his head and met her eyes. She had the strangest sense that he was looking at her in a completely different light, almost as if he’d never seen her before.