Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  Her father came to see her, as her mother had predicted. Penelope braced herself for any hint of trouble or gossip, but Papa was in good spirits. He teased her about being out of the races, and pretended to console her on the bad luck of twisting her ankle on the stairs instead of while dancing with a handsome nobleman in want of a bride. Penelope laughed with her father, although mention of being caught and saved by a handsome lord did make her face grow hot. She had been in the arms of a devilishly handsome man who’d saved her from disaster last night, though she could hardly tell either parent about it.

  Thankfully Olivia came that afternoon. Penelope was settled on the window seat, staring broodingly out the window at the sunlight dappling the trees in the square, when she saw her friend walking up the street. With an exclamation of relief, she hobbled downstairs as fast as she could to whisk her friend into the morning room, where she barely managed to wait until the maid had brought the tea tray and left them alone.

  “What in the world were you doing, meeting that wretched man?” she burst out.

  Olivia avoided Penelope’s gaze as she took a sip of tea. “Please don’t ask me that.”

  “Don’t ask?” Penelope goggled at her. “After I saved you from him?”

  “You should not have followed me.”

  Penelope frowned. Part of her agreed. If she hadn’t followed Olivia, Lord Atherton wouldn’t have followed her, but then Olivia would have been left alone at Clary’s mercy. Neither outcome could really be called preferable to the other. “What would have happened if I hadn’t? Lord Clary meant to do vile and immoral things to you, didn’t he?”

  Olivia’s jaw tightened. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?” Penelope protested. “Why did you meet him? He said you had an assignation with him—is that true?”

  “No!” Olivia grimaced. “Yes. Of a sort.”

  “What sort?”

  The other woman took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  Penelope scowled in alarm. It wasn’t like Olivia to be this mysterious. “Could you tell Abby? I can write to her today and tell her to come at once—”

  Olivia raised one hand. Her face was composed, but that upheld hand trembled, betraying the intensity of her feeling. “Don’t. That is, I can’t tell her any more than I can tell you, so there’s no need to bring her back to town.”

  “Oh.” There was something about Olivia’s implacable expression that Penelope did not like. It left her feeling shut out and helpless, and she hated feeling helpless. It was enraging and frustrating and terrifying. “You can’t tell her, or you won’t?”

  Olivia curled her hand into a fist before lowering it to her lap. She stared across the room, seeming to search for the answer for a moment. The sunlight slanting through the window cast her face into harsh relief, picking out the lines around her mouth and the faint dark circles under her eyes that made her suddenly look years older. “I won’t.”

  “But why not? I won’t tell a soul. I can see you’re violently distressed—as anyone would be, if Lord Clary had any influence over them. I know I’m not sensible like Abby but I want to help.”

  A wry smile twisted her friend’s mouth and she reached out to squeeze Penelope’s hand. “You are sensible. You’re the dearest friend I could ask for, and every bit as trustworthy and clever as Abigail. But this . . .” She hesitated, then released Penelope’s hand. “This is my problem, and I won’t drag you into it. I never wanted you to know about it, and if Lord Clary did anything to you in retaliation, I would never forgive myself.”

  “He already did,” Penelope told her. A dim voice—which sounded a great deal like her sister’s—sounded in her mind, protesting that she was about to be brazen and manipulative, but she ignored it, as she usually did. “He was angry I’d interrupted your—your assignation with him.”

  Olivia’s face went dead white. “What? I—I thought you left the room right behind me. What did he do to you?”

  “He grabbed me and wouldn’t let me leave the room. He said that if he couldn’t get what he wanted from you, he’d have it from me.” The protesting little voice sounded again. Penelope mentally cursed at it to be quiet; there was a greater good at stake here, and she felt it was more important to find out what trouble her friend was in. Olivia was determined to be noble and self-sacrificing, and Penelope wasn’t having that. “He shoved me into a chair, he ripped the brooch off my gown, and he seized my foot and twisted it. He’s the reason my ankle is injured.” She didn’t have to fake the shiver of revulsion that went through her at the memory.

  “Oh my God.” For a moment it looked like Olivia would be ill. She set down her tea and pushed it away, so violently the cup rattled against the saucer. “Why did you follow me?” She pressed her hands to her temple and gave a sharp shake of her head. “No, that’s unjust—I am at fault. I should have made certain you left. I was stupid, I . . . I was just so grateful to be free of him, I ran and—” She looked up fearfully. “Did Clary— What did he—?”

  “I kicked him between the legs, as Jamie taught me to do, and then someone else came into the room and got rid of Clary.”

  “You kicked . . . ?” Olivia’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. For one fleeting moment a smile of pure vengeful delight flashed across her face. Then her brow creased. “Who came in and sent Clary away?”

  “Lord Atherton.” Penelope said it as if the name meant nothing to her.

  “Atherton?” Olivia’s eyebrows went up, and her face went blank with astonishment again.

  Penelope stirred her tea and lifted one shoulder. “He was quite gallant, actually.”

  “Viscount Atherton? The one who courted Abby last summer?” Olivia went on incredulously. “The one about to propose to Miss Lockwood?”

  She gritted her teeth. “The very one.” She was growing very tired of discussing Atherton’s romantic intentions. “I’m sure Clary learned his lesson and will keep away from me, but I suspect he won’t do the same for you—and I also fear he’ll take out his fury on you.” She watched closely for any sign that this shocked Olivia and saw none; the other woman had clearly already thought of it. “You have to tell me. Or someone. Tell Jamie! He’ll be glad to put a dent in Clary’s smug face.”

  Olivia had the tense look of someone thinking very hard. “No, don’t tell your brother.”

  Penelope wanted to rip out her hair in frustration. Why were some people so amiable? If someone like Clary was compelling her to meet him in secluded spots for vile reasons, she wouldn’t hesitate to tell anyone who might help her—or at least lend her a pistol, so she could see to Clary on her own. “Why not? Jamie won’t think badly of you,” she argued, trying to make her friend see reason. “He’s stiff and dull but he’s not an idiot, and he’s been your friend since . . . longer than I can remember! He’ll keep your confidence, I know he will.”

  “I know he would, too.” For a long moment Olivia hesitated, her mouth working subtly as if struggling with what to say. “It’s not that I don’t trust him—or you or Abigail. You simply have to believe me when I say there’s nothing any of you can do to help. I don’t want you caught up in my problems. Promise me you’ll stay far away from Clary, and even from me if he’s nearby.”

  “Promise me you’ll do something to save yourself from him, then.” Penelope threw up her hand when Olivia said nothing. She thrust her teacup back onto the table and leaned toward her friend. “There must be something you can do, or someone you can ask to help you. I promise I won’t tell a soul, not even Abby, if you wish,” she said in a low, fierce voice. “But you have to see that Clary is a monster! If you could handle him yourself, why haven’t you already done it?”

  “I know!” burst out Olivia, losing her composure at last. She rubbed her hands along her skirt, and bright red spots burned in her cheeks. “I know that, Penelope! But . . . he’s not easy to refuse, and I just nee
d time. But you must promise me that you’ll stay far, far away from him. Please.”

  “If you let me tell Jamie so he can keep close to you,” replied Penelope quickly. She had no qualms committing her brother to being a watchman.

  Her friend sat back, her expression closed and hard. “Absolutely not.” She inhaled a deep breath. “I know I have to do something about—about him. I promise you that I am thinking, frantically, and when I construct a plan that will work, I will come to you at once for any help I need.”

  “Olivia . . .” Penelope gazed at her in worry, at a loss for words. “How did you get tangled up with him in the first place?”

  The other woman didn’t answer for a long minute, then simply said, “Henry.”

  Oh Lord. Henry Townsend, Olivia’s late husband, had been the sort of man who couldn’t avoid trouble if he sat alone in a locked room. Penelope bit back some very rude words about Henry. “Then I give you my word I won’t say anything. But I won’t stop thinking about it. If I had known he was hounding you so horribly, I would have told Lord Atherton to punch him a few more times.”

  “Lord Atherton punched him?” Olivia blinked in confusion.

  Penelope cleared her throat. She hadn’t really meant to mention him again. “Yes. When he saved me from Clary, he might have punched the earl in the stomach once or twice.”

  Instead of looking pleased, Olivia paled. “Once or twice?”

  “I wish he’d done it a dozen more times,” Penelope added, repressing the primal thrill that went through her at the memory of Atherton standing over Clary, fists at the ready to defend her. “Clary deserved it.”

  Her friend swallowed hard. “But it means he’ll remember you—both of you.”

  “That can’t be helped now, so I choose to relish the fact that he did punch Clary, and not lightly, either.” Penelope relented at the worry in Olivia’s expression. She reached for her friend’s hand. “Don’t fret. I’m sure Atherton won’t tell anyone; do you know, I think he rather enjoyed it. And he never saw you there at all, so he knows nothing of your involvement.” Which is about how much I know, thought Penelope, wondering what Henry Townsend could have done that was so vile, Clary would expect to violate his widow—and that Olivia would feel she had no choice but to allow it.

  Olivia grasped her hand and squeezed. “I’m very grateful he happened by when he did,” she said with a trace of her usual smile. “You must have been so happy to see him.”

  “Er . . . yes.” Penelope smiled uncomfortably and eased her hand free. “That once.” If only he’d left immediately after sending off Clary.

  “It sounds quite heroic, Pen. Surely this will help you think better of him, should he marry Miss Lockwood.”

  Penelope was quite certain that wouldn’t happen now, but she didn’t feel like volunteering the information. The less said about the Lockwoods, the better. She was still praying Mrs. Lockwood might suffer a feverish delirium that would erase her memory of the Gosnold rout entirely, or that Lord Atherton’s regiment would be posted suddenly and immediately to northern Scotland. “Surely,” she mumbled in agreement.

  Olivia sighed, with a sympathetic smile. “Well, I for one am very grateful to him.” She hesitated. “Just as I am very grateful to you. I wish Clary had never set eyes on you, but I must confess I was very happy when you opened the door.”

  Penelope smiled cautiously in reply. “Then I’m not sorry I did it. I—I do know how you feel. When Atherton appeared I almost thought I could kiss him.” Olivia blinked, then snorted with laughter at her exaggerated grimace. Penelope grinned, immensely relieved to see her friend happy again. “You are sure you’re all right, Olivia?”

  Still smiling—although a little bittersweetly—Olivia nodded. “I’m sure.” She rose. “Be careful of Clary,” she said again. “For me, if not for your own sake.”

  “He’s the very last person I ever want to see again,” Penelope assured her with complete honesty. “Just remember you can count on me for any help you need.”

  “I will.” Olivia gave her a quick embrace. “Thank you, Penelope.”

  Chapter 9

  Benedict’s sense that his encounter with Penelope would yield an unexpected opportunity was confirmed within a day.

  It was not, however, the one he had expected.

  “Atherton, you sly dog.” Hollander sidled up to him in the officers’ common room the next night. “Very cleverly done.”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” he replied, pouring a glass of port.

  Hollander snorted. “No idea! You were so indignant: I refuse to discuss a lady!” He chuckled. “Now I see why—but good Lord, you might have let some of us in on the secret.”

  “Is it secret?” Benedict sipped his port, pretending not to care even as his attention sharpened.

  “Not any longer.” Hollander glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The rumors are true, aren’t they? You certainly seemed eager to squash Cabot’s interest in her the other night.”

  Benedict lifted one shoulder. His mind raced; what were these rumors about Penelope? He’d expected there would be some—it was too much to hope that both Mrs. Lockwood and Frances would be completely discreet—but from Hollander’s avid expression, they were more salacious than expected.

  As expected, his disinterest provoked his fellow officer. “You won’t say?” Hollander’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, I see. You’ve enjoyed her and don’t want any competition, do you?”

  “Competition at what?” Cabot dropped into the chair opposite Benedict. He looked between the two of them. “What are you whispering about, Hollander?”

  “Atherton put one over on all of us, it seems,” the man replied, never taking his eyes from Benedict’s face. “Not very sporting of him. I daresay he’s been having the Weston girl all this time, and warning the rest of us off to preserve his place between her—”

  Benedict was out of his chair and had the man by his collar. “Not one more word,” he said through his teeth.

  Cabot seized his arm and hauled him back. “Bloody hell, Atherton! You can’t attack a Guardsman!”

  Benedict released his fellow officer with a small shove and glanced around the room. Hollander’s eyes were wide, but his mouth curved in a slow, delighted smile. Everyone had gone silent, staring at them in a mixture of astonishment and anticipation. He straightened his shoulders and kept his voice low. “That’s arrant nonsense, Hollander, and I’ll thank you not to repeat it.”

  Hollander smirked as he got to his feet. “That you’ve been having her, or that you’re warning us lot off?”

  “Having who?” asked Cabot. His face blanked. “You don’t mean—?”

  “The Weston girl. It turns out she’s even less a lady than she pretends.”

  Cabot gaped a moment before recovering himself. He waved them toward the door. “Step outside, gentlemen. This is a private conversation,” he barked as men started to follow them. “Are you brawling over a woman?” he demanded once they reached the courtyard.

  “Not brawling at all,” said Benedict in a flat tone. “Hollander’s gossiping like an old woman.”

  “Oh?” The corporal leaned forward, arms folded over his chest. “Have you heard that gossip? Every woman and man, young or old, will be repeating it soon.”

  “No, what is it?” asked Cabot, to Benedict’s private relief. He was dying to know but did not want to ask.

  “That Penelope Weston is little more than a whore,” replied Hollander. “They say she can be tumbled for the asking, at any ball or rout. They say she left a rout early the other night, in significant dishabille, after a particularly vigorous rendezvous.” He stared defiantly at Benedict, who somehow managed to keep his own expression fixed and unresponsive.

  Cabot frowned. “Are you sure? That sounds unlikely. She’s an heiress, and a pretty one at that.”

  Hollander
shrugged. “She’s no lady.”

  “And the only two things a female can be are a lady or a whore?” Benedict asked coldly. It took some doing to keep his fists at his sides, even though he doubted Hollander was really the one to blame for this.

  “Just reporting what I was told,” retorted Hollander.

  “Peace!” Lieutenant Cabot threw up his hands. “Hollander, that’s a vile thing to say about any woman without hard proof. Atherton . . .” He hesitated. “Don’t strike him for repeating gossip, no matter how unbecoming it may be for an officer of the Guards to repeat such sensational and defaming whispers.” He glared at Hollander. “Good night, sir.”

  Hollander snorted and walked away. When the door of the barracks had closed behind him, Cabot turned to Benedict. “Not after the girl, eh?”

  He flexed his hands. They were stiff from being clenched into fists. “Not willing to be labeled a despoiler of young women, no.”

  “Trying to strangle a man who suggests you want her makes it appear you want her.”

  “Hollander suggested I knew she was a whore and kept it secret so no one else would have a chance to ride her.” Benedict glared at his mate. “If he accused you of murdering your father, would you look guilty if you tried to close his mouth?”

  Cabot inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “I still say it’s better not to fly at his throat. Hollander loves a good fight; it will only encourage him.”

  Benedict gave a nod of grudging assent. The door behind them opened again, and this time it was Bannister.

  “I hear I missed the bare-knuckle brawl,” he said with a faint smile. “Do relate it blow by blow!”

  Cabot sighed and squared his shoulders. “There was no brawl. I’ll go tell Hollander to hold his tongue.” He went into the barracks.