Once Upon a Scandal (33 page)

“This also concerns you, Miss Martine.”

There was a twitch in her jaw that would not be quieted. A strain in her neck. “Very well,” she said, straightening her shoulders as she settled upon an embroidered settee.

Mr. Wiggins cleared his throat. “I apologize in advance for the shock of this. I’ve a will to read.”

“A will?”

Jessica’s hands were clutching the arms of her chair. Just as Jane’s were.

“The last will and testament of Benjamin Alden, the Right Honorable Lord Marworth.”

A hand flew to her mouth as she doubled over. Surely, she’d been sliced in half. How blood and entrails hadn’t spilled onto the rag carpet, she couldn’t fathom. Hadn’t anyone else heard that tearing sound? The sound of a heart ripped in two?

“Are you quite all right?” the lawyer asked solicitously. Had she groaned aloud? Of course she had. The anguish she felt, the clawing heat of it, was excruciating. If she started screaming, she would never stop.

But there was a child here. A child who’d loved Benjamin, too. And he’d no idea that the world had just imploded, turning in upon itself in its grief. She would not frighten him.

“I’m fine. Go on,” she replied, sweat beading along her upper lip and brow. She would never be fine again.

“Very well,” he said, clearing his throat once more, as if this was a casual oration on any given Sunday. Or the recitation of a shop list passed between a matron and her housekeeper. “Heretofore, and in the king’s name, and so on and so forth. The will is newly inked, by the way. Just a month past. Wasn’t that good luck?”

There must be something sharp hidden in the room. Something that could separate his head from his neck with a minimum of bloodshed. Or was she imagining all of this? Please, let her be in the throes of a night terror. She was so dizzy she couldn’t be sure what was real and what was not.

“To Mistress Oakley and the honorable Arthur Oakley, Lord Marworth has left the property known as Painshill Park, with the proviso they offer it as a shelter, as they see fit, to those who have suffered depredations and disgrace, etcetera, etcetera. Several other people currently employed there are also included in the proviso, with absurdly generous settlements, if I may voice my objections at this sensitive time. One never wants to give those of a certain station the means to put on airs. By the by, the Park is fully funded, so you certainly won’t lack for money, Mistress Oakley. No, indeed.”

At that, Jessica burst into tears, Arthur rushing forward to offer a pudgy-armed embrace.

“You’ll know just what to do, Jessica,” Jane said, her voice wavering. “And it means security for you, for Arthur, and the others.”

Not an hour ago, she’d doubted Benjamin’s compassion.

“As for Miss Martine,” Mr. Wiggins said, pausing over the text. “This I’m to read directly to you, my lady.”

He cleared his throat yet again. Did several vocal exercises, or so it seemed, many keening notes among them. Took a long pause once more, and spoke.

Her breath stilled with the very sincere hope she would never breathe again.

“How tragic,” Jessica whispered.

Jane could only nod mutely. The room had gone indistinct.

“You’ve been given the majority of his unencumbered assets,” Mr. Wiggins continued. “Investments spread far and wide, ’round the world really. You’re quite the heiress, with enough funds to settle anywhere you wish.”

Did he think it mattered? That she cared in the least about money, when a hole had opened up inside her? A chasm, growing wider as pieces of herself fell through it and away. Soon, there would be nothing left except the pain, which she feared would last through this last life and into the next.

“Mr. Wiggins, if you would,” Jessica sniffed. “When did it happen? How did it happen?”

“Oddly coincidental, it was,” the lawyer mused. “The day after this new will was drawn up and signed, a friend, a Lord Winchester, saw Lord Marworth walking near the Vauxhall Gardens. Seems he slipped and fell into the Thames. His body was never recovered.”

She gasped, as hope speared her. Hadn’t that ruse already been played? Dear God, let Benjamin’s death be the least original thing he’d ever done.

• • •

She raced from the room, flying into her chamber to search frantically for Sophia’s letter. Wouldn’t Sophia tell her the truth? That his death was a lie, an elaborate hoax, just as hers had been? That he’d seen a chance to begin again, to leave regrets and revenge behind so he could forge a new path leading to her? The past didn’t matter anymore, nor did her future if it was not spent with him. She could forgive him anything. How indulgent to think she could not. She loved him. She always would.

The letter was right where she’d left it, of course, on top of the small, white escritoire. Just a simple piece of vellum, folded in thirds, with the power to dictate whether or not she died inside.

She fell to her knees and prayed. Prayed as she never had before, with a desperation that left her shaking. And then she reached for the note and sat upon the floor, bracing herself against the foot of her canopied bed. One heartbeat. And then ten, each accompanied by a sawing breath, making her lightheaded. On the twentieth, she unfolded the letter.

The note floated from Jane’s fingertips as a bubble of laughter escaped. It was soon joined by another, and then several more, until she was laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was behaving hysterically, but she could not help it. She could hear Mr. Wiggins, clucking sympathetically out in the hall.

“Poor Miss Martine. She’s gone quite mad with grief, hasn’t she?”

How much nobler, the power to save rather than destroy.—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

From a distance, Caerlaverock Castle looked like the loneliest place on earth. Faced with red sandstone and set amidst acres of rocky pastureland, it was more a fortress, complete with a moat, than a place spun from fairy tales. A good portion appeared to be in ruins, its south wall crumbling into brackish waters.

The east side of the structure, however, appeared to be more recently built—from the seventeenth century at least—and as she approached, leaning out the window of the carriage she’d hired, she thought she saw lights twinkling. Not many, but signs of life in an otherwise barren expanse.

She’d not brought Jessica. In truth, she’d wanted to be alone when she saw Benjamin again. No filter for his actions. No sounding board for her thoughts. It wasn’t as if she had a reputation to protect.

However, when the carriage clambered across the drive, stopping at the entrance to the castle, she knew a moment’s hesitation. Although it was romantic in its benign neglect, this did not look like a place suitable for Benjamin Alden, Lord Marworth. Caerlaverock, in this condition, was better suited to a crofter. Perhaps Sophia had misunderstood the direction? No one had emerged to greet the carriage. There was only a profound sense of emptiness.

Still, she disembarked. As a sharp wind off the lochs gained strength, she knocked on the door. And waited. Apparently, there was no one to answer it. However, she did hear a chopping sound, evidence someone was nearby. She followed it, walking along the castle face and past one rounded corner. She could see a makeshift shed nestled against one of the walls and a man within, shirtsleeves rolled up despite the chill, slamming an ax into a wood log, cleaving it in two.

At the sight, her heart cleaved as well. His hair had grown longer, curling almost to his shoulders, and his jawline was shadowed, several days unshaven. Once-elegant clothes—trousers and a linen shirt—had been sacrificed to the task at hand and would never again be presentable.

But he had never been more beautiful to her. He was alive, and he was here, not thirty feet away.

“Benjamin.”

She’d whispered his name, but it must have carried on the wind, because he looked up, his expression inscrutable, as the ax slipped from his hands, forgotten.

“Jane?” He blinked, pushing hair back from his eyes, standing rooted to his spot. “What are you doing here?”

Not exactly the reception for which she’d hoped. “I might ask you the same. Why have you moved into a Scottish castle with winter on the way?” How thin his face was.

“I’m setting a new fashion, of course.” At the corner of his mouth, she saw the first hint of a smile. “All the best people will soon be doing the same.”

She looked at the turrets silhouetted against the sky, several stones missing from each. “Why a decrepit castle, then? Not to mention one appearing woefully understaffed?”

“Well that, I’ll admit, I’d not anticipated.” He’d taken a hesitant step forward. “I’m traveling incognito, you see. Mr. Alden does not impress a booking agent in the same way Lord Marworth does.”

A reminder of the enormous step he’d taken. “Why did you do it? Why did you abandon your title and give away your property?”

He stilled. “Wiggins has been to see you?”

She nodded.

“He moves quickly then. Another thing I’d not foreseen.” He studied his hands for a moment, rubbing his thumbs and forefingers together. “The honest answer is I’d seen another person pull it off, and thought I’d give it a go.” His feet shifted in the barren soil. “It seemed an appropriate penance.”

To that, she did not quite know what to say. Had he really done it because of her? Because of what she’d done? “It sounds like a lonely existence.”

His eyes, when they met hers, were as blue as she’d ever seen them. “I’ve gotten quite used to loneliness these past few months. I’ve never been so lonely in my life.”

“Lady Marchmain sent a note and said you might have need of company.” With nervous fingers, she tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “How lucky to find you were so close, not an hour’s ride away.”

He took another step forward. “Quite a coincidence, that. I can’t imagine how it happened.” He touched her cheek, the lightest caress, before stuffing both hands into his pockets. “May I invite you inside? There’s not much to it, but I’ve collected a few rudimentary supplies. I’m even capable of a moderately decent tea.”

“That is precisely the reason I’ve come,” she said, willing away her sudden blush. “To judge you for your tea.”

• • •

His heart was beating ferociously, his breath uneven as he led her back to the castle. What did it mean that she was here? Had she come out of pity because Sophia had told her his woeful state?

He’d convinced himself she would never willingly see him again. It was why he’d followed her here. Why he’d leapt at the opportunity to lease this ramshackle castle, the closest available property.

He’d wanted something far closer. Something close enough to chance a glimpse of her in town. Close enough to follow her home from a distance for her safety. Close enough to watch her walk along the path she’d worn near her small stone house.

He’d spent a lot of time on horseback lately.

And it had been an exquisite torture. The best he could have devised. To be able to see her from afar, as he hid in the shadows, close enough to see but never to touch. He’d meant only to ensure she was well. To be certain she’d found her footing. And of course she had. He was the one floundering. How he dreaded the approach of November, when he’d told himself he must leave her behind. Because no matter what he and Winchester had imagined, he could not trail after her forever. If she couldn’t forgive him—and it was hard to see why she would—he must accept it and say a final goodbye.

And yet she was here.

Through the front door, and into the great hall, a cavernous space with high, coffered ceilings and stone floors and walls. The moth-eaten carpet did little to quiet the echo of their footsteps towards the enormous center table, stained and scarred. He took an oil lamp he’d left upon it, anxious now, and escorted her through a labyrinth of dark corridors.

“However do you know your way?” she asked behind him. It was nearly as cold within as the outside, as he’d learned through a month’s worth of endless nights.

“Trial and error. And lots of practice.”

“Are you not frightened you’ll take a wrong turn and never find your way back out?”

“And admit to fear?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Even if only to myself? Never.”

A final turn and the corridor ended at a heavy oak door with an ancient iron latch. With a quick movement, he had it open.

“How pretty,” she said, perhaps surprised by the cheerful room. They were in the newer wing of the castle. A pair of tall windows looked out on hills in the distance, a fireplace faced with blue and white delft tiles nestled between them. There was a settee with rounded bolsters, along with a pair of upholstered Chippendale chairs and several small tables. Earlier, he’d lit oil lamps along the walls and left a fire burning in the grate, the stacks of wood he’d cut corded beside it.