Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “I would say that it sounds like you’re lying, because Olivia isn’t a thief.”

  Clary went very still. “Watch your words, girl.”

  “You may call me Lady Atherton if we ever meet again—which I sincerely hope we do not. I think I will rejoin my husband now. Good day to you, sir.” She turned toward the door, trembling with fury and fear. The last time she found herself in a room with him, it had almost ended very badly . . . But Benedict was only one deck away. She just had to get back to his side.

  And after this, she would never argue one word against avoiding his father. Clary was a monster, but Stratford had schemed to put her at Clary’s mercy, aboard a boat where she couldn’t walk away, and for that she tossed out every notion she’d ever had that she ought to try harder to think better of the earl since he was family now. He would never be her family.

  Clary didn’t stop her from opening the door, but he followed her. “You can run back to your husband, if you think he’ll save you,” he taunted, crowding indecently close behind her. Penelope clutched her skirts and tried to walk faster, but the wet floors made it treacherous. “Of course, he may not take your side as eagerly as he did before. After all, he already got what he wanted from you. And Stratford wants to find Olivia Townsend nearly as much as I do. Why do you think he came to London to get you?” Penelope glanced over her shoulder in shock before she could stop herself. Clary’s thin smile widened, gloating. “You should be flattered. An earl and a viscount both hanging on your every word! A clever girl would think carefully about what that means, and about how she should answer their questions.”

  “Given the earl and viscount in question, I am sure it means nothing good for Mrs. Townsend, and that’s why I won’t tell either of you anything.” She turned her back on him and grabbed the rail to climb the stairs to the deck. The rain had stopped, although the sky was thick with dark clouds. It might have been late twilight instead of midday. The wind was quieter, but she shivered as it cut right through her damp skirts. Her cloak was still in the cabin. It made her hate Clary even more; she ought to have been drying off in the snug, warm cabin, not rushing back out into the elements even less dressed for it than before.

  Just as she reached the top step, Clary caught her arm. “Perhaps you ought to think of your husband instead of Mrs. Townsend.” He tilted his head toward the helm, on the other side of the ship behind the billowing sail. “He’ll tell you what it costs to cross Stratford—and be assured, refusing me in this is the same as crossing Lord Stratford. Do you want to bring down his wrath on your dear husband?” He sneered the last two words.

  “I know my husband,” she said, low and furious. “I know he wouldn’t hand over a defenseless, innocent woman to your grasp, no matter what his father said.”

  A muscle twitched in Clary’s jaw. “Where is she?”

  Penelope twisted loose of his grip and started across the deck. It wasn’t that large a boat but she couldn’t see Benedict; the sails, straining at the lines, obscured everything from this position.

  Clary pursued her. “I won’t ask again,” he said, raising his voice. “Where is she?”

  “Somewhere you can’t hurt her!”

  He swore. This time when he grabbed her, she couldn’t wrestle free. The wind drove his hair straight back from his face, emphasizing the sharp hook of his nose and the point of his chin. He looked like a demon, and the cold hatred in his eyes made her suddenly afraid. “Last chance,” he said, looming over her.

  “Let me go,” she said, biting off every word.

  For a moment he didn’t move. His fingers bit into her arms. “As the lady wishes.” He released her with a little push, so that she staggered a step backward. Her leather half boots slipped on the wet deck. Penelope reached for the railing to catch her balance. The yacht was tacking hard, canted over at a good angle, and the rushing water was very near.

  Then Clary put one hand in the middle of her chest and shoved, sending her head over heels backward into the Thames.

  “Really, Benedict, I’m disappointed. I trust her father paid you a pretty penny to take her. She’s a stubborn, headstrong female with little delicacy about her.”

  Benedict tried not to let his father’s careless insult goad him. “I’m very well pleased with the marriage.”

  Stratford cut him a narrow-eyed look. “Not much of a beauty, is she?”

  In spite of himself, a faint smile curved his mouth. Penelope might not be the earl’s idea of a beauty, but she shone with vitality and verve and Benedict thought he’d never seen anyone more bewitching. “I couldn’t disagree more.”

  The earl sniffed. “I take it that means she’s as loose and wanton as gossip holds. I’m astonished you would make such a woman your bride.”

  “Every word of that gossip was a lie.” Not that Benedict wasn’t deeply, quietly elated by her wantonness in his bed. The smile lingered on his face.

  His father saw, and it displeased him. Benedict realized that, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. In fact . . . let Stratford know that his marriage wasn’t a disaster. Let him realize that Penelope was no shrinking violet to be cowed and intimidated. Let him be very aware that his influence was waning, almost to the point of nothingness.

  Stratford faced forward again, into the wind. “I never thought I’d see the day a common chit got my son by the ballocks.”

  “Penelope,” said Benedict, “is my wife, not a common chit. It doesn’t become you to speak so coarsely of the future Countess of Stratford, sir.”

  “What a proud day it will be when a coal miner’s daughter presides over Stratford Court.”

  “I quite agree,” he said, as if the earl had expressed approval.

  His father exhaled, his breath steaming faintly in the cooling air. Penelope would probably say it was the smoke of brimstone. Benedict’s lips twitched. He shouldn’t find her irreverence as amusing as he did. “Then perhaps you will begin educating her on her duties.”

  Something about that word “duties” always made his shoulders tense. In Stratford’s world, duty meant something beyond its ordinary meaning. Benedict had learned, through painful years of experience, that when his father brought up duty, it portended a disagreeable task or an unreasonable demand. “The only duty she has is to me.”

  “And your duty is to me.”

  Benedict’s hands clenched. Everything always came back to the earl’s demands. “I’ve fulfilled that duty many times over.”

  “And you would deny your own father a simple request?” Stratford raised his brows. “I find that hard to believe. It is a small thing; there’s no need to grow snappish and petulant,” he went on before Benedict could reply. “You need only exercise your husbandly authority over your wife and persuade her to be cooperative.”

  The unease that had hovered around him all day burst into full-blown alarm. “No.”

  “No.” Stratford’s eyes glittered with pique. “Really, Benedict? After all these years, you must know that is not an acceptable answer.”

  Once it would not have been. Once he would have been holding himself taut and still, praying that the request would be minor or at least easy to fulfill, never daring to refuse. Not that his father didn’t usually find some fault in his actions, no matter how hard he tried to please. He no longer remembered every beating—they had blurred together by now—but he acutely remembered the feeling of placing his hands on the earl’s desk, bowing his head, and bracing himself for the first blow of Stratford’s thin wooden cane. It was supple enough to bend without breaking, landing one stinging blow after another. In his mind, Benedict could still see that cane, propped against the frame of the wide windows in the earl’s study, an ever-present reminder of the consequences of defiance. Stratford’s only mercy had been that he used it over clothing, preferring to leave bruises and aches instead of scars.

  Benedict closed his eyes a moment a
nd inhaled deeply. Those whippings were a thing of the past. “After all these years, I am a grown man, no longer subject to being beaten for disobedience. How I choose to exercise my husbandly authority is strictly my right, and any man—any man—who interferes with that right will find his interference turned back on him.” He met his father’s furious eyes. “I mean it, Father,” he added, softly but with warning. “Leave her alone.”

  After a moment the earl turned away. “I don’t wish to have anything to do with her. However, it appears she is in possession of some information I need. After she answers a single question, you may take your common strumpet of a wife and do what you will with her, far from my sight.”

  Damn it. “What information?” he demanded, racking his brain. What could Stratford possibly want from Penelope?

  Stratford’s expression revealed nothing. “See that she’s cooperative.”

  Without another word Benedict turned to go belowdecks. He knew this had been a mistake; whatever Stratford wanted, he wanted badly. Benedict had known there was some unspoken reason the earl wanted them at Stratford Court, but he’d—stupidly—thought it would involve him. He was certain Penelope had no inkling of what Stratford might want. Benedict himself couldn’t begin to imagine what his wife could possibly know that Stratford would be desperate to discover . . . And then a man—a man Benedict didn’t want within ten miles of Penelope—came around the deck.

  Bloody hell.

  His heart bounded into his throat as he bolted across the slippery, tilting deck and flung himself down the stairs. Lord Clary’s presence alone would be enough to put up his guard, but they’d been at sail for two hours. That meant Clary had been waiting below, in the cabin where Stratford had urged Penelope to go. Benedict threw open the cabin door, praying she was safely within, but what he saw was worse: her wet cloak and bedraggled bonnet, but no sign of Penelope herself.

  The sails snapped loudly overhead as he pounded up to the deck again, shielding his eyes against the rain to search frantically for her. The Diana was not a large craft; there weren’t many places to hide. He ducked under the boom to see around the straining sails, but she was nowhere.

  His father and Clary were still behind the helm, having a fierce discussion. Benedict stalked up to them and seized Clary’s coat. “Where is my wife?”

  Clary tried to brush him off, his face taut with fury. “Unhand me.”

  Benedict gave him a hard shake. “Where?”

  Clary wrested free and glared at him, then at Stratford. “She’s an obstinate creature—”

  “You said you could persuade her,” cut in Stratford. “Must I do everything personally? Bring her up here and I’ll get the truth from her.”

  A muscle twitched in Clary’s jaw. “I’ve already dealt with her.”

  Benedict lunged at him again. “Where is she? The cabin is empty. Where is my wife?”

  A hateful smirk spread over the man’s face. “Lost your bride, Lord Atherton? How convenient for you.”

  “Fetch the girl, Clary,” said Stratford coldly. “My patience is running thin.”

  Clary just kept smirking, and the reason dawned on Benedict with horrible certainty. He wheeled around, scanning the water off the starboard side of the boat, then off the port side. The river was choppy and turbulent, and the foaming of constantly breaking waves obscured anyone in it.

  “Where is she?” snapped the earl.

  “You should thank me, both of you,” retorted Clary. “Atherton has her fortune, and now you can choose a proper bride for him. I’ll find Mrs. Townsend another way.”

  Without hesitation Benedict drew back his fist and drove it into Clary’s smug face. He didn’t wait to savor the view of the viscount going down on his knees, blood streaming from his nose, but stripped off his greatcoat as he rushed back to the rail. His hat had fallen off already. Feverishly he searched the river, tearing off his coat and waistcoat. There—was that a head, bobbing above the waves? Penelope’s dress was white, and there was something white in the water. He kept his gaze on it, not even daring to blink.

  His father seized his arm as Benedict yanked off one boot, then the other. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “I’m going after her. And when I come back, I’m going to put a bullet into your accomplice.” His eyes stung from staring at the point in the water where he thought—he hoped—a figure was struggling against the current. Please God, let that be Penelope, he prayed. How long since she’d left the deck? The wind was whisking the yacht along at a good pace. The river wasn’t very wide at this point but it could be dangerous, even on a clear, calm day. He’d swum across it more times than he could count as a boy, fleeing his father and escaping to the woods on Montrose Hill to pretend he was an orphan washed up on a wild and distant shore.

  Stratford grabbed him again, this time forcing him around. “You will not go after her. I will deal with that idiot Clary—he knew I wanted to talk to her—”

  “Yet instead he pushed her into the river.”

  The earl brushed that aside with an impatient jerk of his head. “And in this water she’s lost. Don’t be a fool!” His gray hair was wild from the wind. “You are my son—my heir. How dare you risk yourself?”

  Here at last was the paternal concern he’d always imagined Stratford must feel, somewhere deep inside, and it made Benedict want to kill him. Feeling it would be the last time they ever came face to face, one way or another, he threw off his father’s restraining hand. “I’d rather die trying to save her than live as your heir.” He stepped up onto the rail and dove over the side.

  Chapter 24

  The Thames was shockingly cold. Penelope almost gasped out her shallow breath as the frigid water closed over her head. For a paralyzed moment, everything—including her own heart—seemed to stop. She could see the Diana gliding past her, almost right over her, blotting out the gray light of the sky. She could see Lord Clary turn his back and disappear, without even a flicker of regret that he’d tossed her into the river. Then the wake of the boat went over her, and she felt herself falling deeper into the cold, dark water.

  With a jerk she thrust out her arms. Jamie had taught her and Abigail to swim, long ago. It was the summer she was six or seven, and they’d gone for an extended visit to her grandparents’ home in Somerset. There was a pond where all three Weston children went to fish and wade, and their mother had charged Jamie with making sure his sisters didn’t fall in. After he had to pull Penelope out—twice—Jamie declared that either they would learn to swim or he wouldn’t take them to the pond. Penelope had loved swimming. Abigail didn’t want to put her head under water, but Penelope would strip off her dress and jump right in, reveling in the freedom of movement and the feeling of weightlessness.

  But floating on her back, giggling with her sister and trying to surreptitiously splash her brother, was a very different thing than fighting the current in the Thames, fully dressed and several years out of practice. She managed to get her head above water, but only had time to take a single deep breath before another ripple of the wake submerged her.

  Slowly, clumsily, her muscles began to remember. She kicked and circled her arms, trying to angle her body so it would naturally float. When she broke the surface again, she almost cried from the relief of it.

  But now what? Her skirts were weighing her down. The current was dragging her farther and farther from the boat. She had no idea where she was, or how far away the shore was. When she flipped onto her stomach and began paddling, her heart sank at the realization that the riverbank looked very far away.

  Then again, so was the yacht. As if nothing had happened, Diana was still sailing on. She spat out a mouthful of water and searched for any sign of alarm or concern, and saw nothing. “Ben,” she whimpered. But he could have no idea. Neither of them had suspected Clary was on the boat, and as far as Benedict knew, she was safely warming her hands in the cabin.
He might not realize she was missing until they reached the dock.

  The waves were calming a little as the wake passed. Penelope squashed the flicker of panic in her breast; now was not the time. Her jaw firmed. She was not going to let that villainous snake kill her. She was going to save herself and then see Lord Clary in the dock for attempted murder. Whatever he wanted from Olivia no longer concerned her; he had tried to kill her and she would see him hang for it.

  Her hair was a wet, heavy knot on her head. She managed to pull out a few pins until it collapsed into a long braid. Thank heaven she’d had Lizzie do a simple chignon. She made a few efforts to tear away her skirts, but the fabric was too sturdy. Realizing she could hardly feel her feet anymore, she scanned the shore for a mark—a tall tree—and began to swim for it.

  Benedict cut through the water, driven by fear and fury. From the water’s surface he lost his vantage point to look for Penelope, and every dozen yards or so he stopped to shout her name. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest; it must be keeping him warm, for he barely felt the cold of the river. Penelope had been in the water longer, and he didn’t even know if she could swim. The thought that he might already be too late, that she could be sinking unconscious beneath the waves, drove him onward.

  When he felt the current start to turn, he stopped to tread water and listen. “Penelope!” he shouted. “Pen, where are you?” There was no answer. “Penelope! Answer me!” His heart twisted in anguish. She had to answer. “Penelope!”

  A faint sound ahead of him caught his ear. He swam forward a few more strokes and stopped again. “Penelope! Keep calling so I can follow your voice!”

  “Ben . . .”

  Before he heard the rest of his name, he gulped in a breath and plowed under the waves. She was still alive, and damn it all, he meant to keep her that way. Every few feet he came up to exchange a shout with her, until finally he saw her face, deathly white but alert and alive.