How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  Something was very, very wrong.

  Chapter 23

  Benedict strode into the morning room with sharp steps that echoed his frustration at having to leave work. The pressure was on. Once the contract was signed, they’d need to launch straight into a production schedule twice as fast as originally planned—and now Tessie had developed a problem. It needed solving fast, and he couldn’t do it from the sitting room.

  That said, if the lawyer Charlie mentioned was from the Americans…God, what if he was there to say the contract had been given to someone else? What the devil would happen then?

  He entered the sitting room where his wife had a teacup in hand while the lawyer—a reedy-looking man if he’d ever seen one—was laughing.

  Thank God for Amelia. Benedict was too rough and too straight-talking to deal comfortably with London folk. Amelia was smooth as cream and could put anyone at ease. She was an element of his business negotiations that he hadn’t known he needed.

  The thin fellow stood when he saw Benedict enter. He gave a deep bow. This man was definitely not from the Americans.

  Benedict held out his hand. “Mr. Coventry, I presume.”

  The lawyer hesitated a moment before clasping it. His handshake was like a wet fish—clammy and soft.

  “What can I do for you?” Perhaps he was too direct, but he didn’t have time fit for wasting.

  The man flicked his eyes to Amelia and back to Benedict. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in private?”

  Muscles tightened around Amelia’s jaw. Her lips thinned almost imperceptibly. Nothing annoyed her like being left out of gossip.

  “This sounds serious. Perhaps we should relocate to the study.”

  The look Amelia shot him was furious and gave Benedict the distinct feeling that, if he wanted to be welcome in her bed any time soon, having this conversation without her was not an option.

  “Darling, will you join us?” He held his arm out.

  The lawyer made a gulping noise, like he’d gone to breathe but had inhaled his ego instead. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”

  “My wife is…” He hadn’t put any thought into what exactly she was, just that things worked better with her around. “…part of my business advisory council. And a board member of Asterly, Barnesworth & Co.”

  Her eyes widened in a transparent and utterly-unlike-her manner. But why not? The advice she’d given him so far was excellent, she was clearly invested, and perhaps an official role might go some way to repairing the damage he’d done the other morning acting like a complete ass.

  “I’m not here about any firm. This is not a business matter.” The distaste on the man’s face was plain. Bloody hell. Even lawyers were stratified.

  “Then what is this about?” Benedict asked. His patience—what little of it he had—was wearing thin indeed.

  “If we could just go into your study.” A twinge of urgency entered the man’s voice. This conversation was clearly not playing out the way the grasshopper had intended.

  “Spit it out, man.”

  Mr. Coventry wiped his brow. “This is highly unusual. To have this conversation in a lady’s room…”

  Benedict ran a hand through his hair. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. And he didn’t want to waste another five minutes changing rooms and making small talk.

  As if sensing his looming outburst, Amelia placed a firm hand on his arm, stepping in front of him. Probably trying to put the insufferable lawyer at ease.

  “I apologize if my husband seems abrupt. He is simply a very busy man and has never been one to stand on ceremony. If you could just tell us who sent you and what for, we can get this all fixed up so he can go back to his office.”

  She was sweet and reasonable and oh-so polite, even though he was sure she wanted to wring the grasshopper’s neck as much as he did. It was a level of poise he didn’t possess.

  Mr. Coventry swallowed. “I was sent by your grandfather. There has been an accident. Your cousin has passed, and you are the new heir to the Marquess of Harrington.”

  Chapter 24

  Benedict was vaguely aware of Amelia leaving the room with the damned lawyer. She would show him to the front door. She was the perfect hostess, even at a time like this.

  Benedict still sat on the edge of the spindly, flowery seat that, by all standards, should have collapsed under his weight a long time ago. This room, with its patterned wallpaper and abundance of small, useless cushions—this very feminine room—was exactly what the lawyer had said. Completely unsuitable for news like this.

  There wasn’t a brandy glass in the place.

  He squeezed his head between his hands, as if he could push out the words he’d heard over the past hour. Cousin. Carriage accident. Grandfather. Heir. Grandfather. Duty. Grandfather. Letter. Grandfather. New heir. Grandfather.

  He stared at the leather-bound package on the table in front of him. It was all the necessary paperwork for a new estate in Hemshire. According to the lawyer, his grandfather had bequeathed it to him. A training estate to prepare him for the eventual inheritance of a half dozen others. A letter from his grandfather lay on top.

  He didn’t want it.

  He didn’t want any of it.

  Amelia entered, tucking away a handkerchief and refusing to meet his gaze.

  “I don’t understand.” He’d said it a dozen times to the lawyer, and all he’d heard back was a whole lot of legal vernacular that his overwhelmed brain couldn’t deal with.

  “Why am I the future Earl of Hemshire? My mother was female. Obviously. What I mean is, why am I the heir? There are laws against this sort of thing.”

  There was a smallness to her voice when she replied. Pity that made him feel powerless. “Some peerages can go through the female line if there’s no direct heir. Not many, but Hemshire is one of them. Most of your grandfather’s titles will revert back to the crown—including Harrington. But the earldom will pass on to you. Your mother would have been the Countess of Hemshire in her own right if she’d outlived her brother and nephew.”

  His mother. Countess in her own right? She would have been euphoric. It might even have been enough to keep her from leaving, if she’d known this was in her future.

  But she’d left and taken with her any reason for him to accept the position.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want it. He can give it to someone else. I’m not interested.”

  Amelia held him to her side and stroked his hair. “It doesn’t work that way,” she said gently. “It’s not something you get to choose.”

  “I don’t want to be the bloody earl!”

  As he leapt out of the chair, she stepped backward, tripping over a side table and falling.

  He would have helped her up, but the livid look on her face made him hesitate.

  “Well, you’re not the earl,” she spat. “Not yet, anyway. And the last time I saw your grandfather, he was fighting fit. You have at least a decade…unless he does something foolish, which I highly doubt, given you’re completely unsuited to the role and he’s bound to want to keep it out of your hands for as long as humanly possible. He’ll likely live to a thousand.”

  She untangled her skirts from her legs and pushed herself to standing.

  “This is unfair.” He slammed his hand into the wall, the plaster cracking under the impact. The pain in his hand was a welcome distraction from the nausea in his stomach.

  Amelia’s expression was pure scorn. “This is a rather extraordinary display of emotion, isn’t it? Even from you.”

  “I just—” He couldn’t put into words just how furious he was. Instead he thumped his bruised and bleeding fist into his palm over and over.

  “Given you’ve never met your cousin, your grief seems a little extreme.” Her voice was sharp and full of edges. Was she angry with him?

  What the hell did she have to be angry about? It was his life being ruined.

  But of course, if he was the future Earl of Hemshire, she was the futur
e countess. No doubt the chance that he might turn down the title had her in her own panic.

  “This is exactly what you wanted,” he said. “Don’t pretend that you’re not ecstatic right now.”

  Her face went slack, as if she’d copped a blow to her mid-section. Then it firmed into the brittle mask he’d not seen in weeks. “Actually, the plan was to marry a duke,” she said quietly. She moved to the window, turning her back on him. “But I suppose an earl will do.”

  Finally the truth, out there for him to smack straight into. Whatever she’d said over these past weeks, whatever she’d done, she hadn’t been one-hundred-percent happy. There was still that part of her that found him lacking, just a little bit.

  Until now.

  Until a title he didn’t want was forced on him.

  Until responsibilities he didn’t want and had no idea how to live up to were made his. As if he didn’t have enough burdens as it was.

  But she didn’t care. As long as she was the future countess. “You are a cold one. So caught up in your titles you can’t see how much I don’t want this.”

  She whirled around. “I’m cold? You’re so caught up in how awful it is to be handed something people dream of, you can’t see anything. You poor darling. How dreadful Ducky’s death must be for you.” She grabbed a vase from the still-standing side table and threw it at his head.

  It wasn’t her loss of control that sucked the air from his lungs. It was the grief etched into all her features. The way she bit her lip hard. The tears running down her face. The lines around her eyes that made her look older than she was.

  He was more than an ass. Of course she’d known his cousin. Amelia knew everyone.

  “Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

  If she heard him, she showed no sign of it. “Forget those of us that knew and liked him. Our grief pales in comparison to that of Mr. Benedict Asterly, who has been granted a future title, estate, vote in the House of Lords, political influence. What a poor wretch. My heart bleeds for you.”

  “That’s not…I didn’t mean that. Obviously, I am sad for his loss.” Even to him, the words sounded like insincere platitudes.

  “Why? You never met him. He was nothing but a parasite to you. Another great example of injustice and oppression.”

  He closed the gap between them and tried to wrap her in his arms, but she pulled out of his embrace and shoved him in the chest.

  “Well, we were of similar age. To me he was a sweet, kind boy who told terrible jokes and always saved a quadrille for me. He cared about the people of his estate. He showed up to every parliamentary session. He fought for his country even when your grandfather forbade it.”

  She put the couch between them.

  “Amelia.”

  She untucked her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped it across her face. “Did you know he was the only person to write to me after our marriage? He hoped that it might signal the healing of your family rift. For you to think that I would be happy that my friend has died so that I could have a bloody title shows that you don’t know me at all.”

  Amelia stuffed her feet into walking boots and grabbed a coat. Normally she would change into a walking dress before leaving the house, but right now she just needed to get out—away from her boneheaded husband, away from the house and all its reminders of what she’d lost. She just needed a moment to grieve.

  Ducky.

  There were so many vile people in this world. It wasn’t fair that someone sweet and kind should be taken so soon. Ducky was one of the few people she liked. He and Benedict might have actually gotten along if they’d managed to set aside the conflict their parents had created. They both had a similar sense of humor. They both liked the work of Voltaire. Ducky was softer, though—more willing to shift and ebb with the plans of others than Benedict was.

  The last she’d heard, he’d been courting Josephine Livingston. She should send some flowers.

  She kicked a pebble out of her way. It bounced and rolled on the drive. She kicked it again, thoughts tumbling through her head.

  Benedict’s accusations had hurt. To call her heartless? To suggest she’d choose a title over a person? It was cruel, and she didn’t deserve such treatment. She almost wished her aim with that vase had been a little better.

  But as hurt as she was, it made sense that he’d lash out at her. He had just found out that his life was not going to turn out as planned—in fact, the very opposite. If anyone knew the kaleidoscope of anger, grief, and fear that rolled through you when your life upended unexpectedly, she did.

  The pebble rolled and bounced again, lodging at the base of new shoots sprouting through hard dirt.

  Winter was beginning to lose its grip. She wasn’t an avid enough gardener to tell what the plant would be—tulips? Jonquils? Daffodils? But in a few more months, this path would be lined with color.

  The irony didn’t escape her. She was surrounded by new life but had no idea what it would be.

  If Benedict truly refused to take on the title when his grandfather passed, who knew what would become of the people who lived there. There would be no guarantee those who relied on the Earl of Hemshire would be well taken care of.

  So Benedict was going to need to take up the mantle, whatever his personal opinions. And as much as he might wish to do so later rather than sooner, it wasn’t possible. It was an immense task to manage an estate properly, to become acquainted with all the information necessary to help run the county. And given Benedict’s blindness on so many aspects of a lord’s life, he was going to need all the time and help he could get.

  Sweat rolled down Benedict’s neck as he put his weight into the crank of the slip roller. The sheet of steel between the rollers formed a wide curve as it wound out of the machine. The crank reached the bottom, and he shifted his grip, raising it up, his muscles straining.

  “You know, we have people to do that,” John said as he entered the empty workshop.

  “I gave them the afternoon off.” Benedict pushed on the crank again. His mind had been a chaotic jumble of thoughts from the moment the solicitor had left. Channeling them into hard labor was the only way he could get them under control.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  He didn’t particularly, but he couldn’t get his thoughts straight on his own, and of all the people he could turn to, John understood the machinations of the upper class the best.

  Except for Amelia. But he was not sure she’d want to help given the way he’d just treated her.

  “Alexander Douglass died in a racing accident last week.” He grunted as he switched grips and leaned into the shaft again.

  “Ducky?” John frowned. Benedict could almost see John forming connecting lines in his mind until he reached the absurd conclusion. “You’re the new heir.”

  Benedict exhaled in frustration. “How is that not a surprise to anyone else?”

  John shrugged.

  “Of course, I bolloxed things up by yelling at my wife. Who may or may not forgive me.”

  He heaved on the crank, his muscles burning.

  “And I’m stuck with an estate I don’t want, out in bloody nowheres-shire.”

  He huffed with the turn.

  “And my damned grandfather has written to me.”

  John’s eyes widened at the mention of the marquess. He’d been there when Benedict had received word that Lord Harrington refused to send help to Benedict’s sick and impoverished mother. When the marquess had refused to attend her funeral.

  “What did he want?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t read it. Here, help with this.”

  John grabbed the other side of the sheet and helped guide it off the machine. Together they carried it to the edge of the room and leaned it against the wall.

  “It could be what we need?”

  Benedict snapped his head around.

  John put up his hands in defense. “The heirdom. Not the letter.”

  And there was half his bloody problem. The Americans st
ill insisted on seeing him play nice with the English before they’d sign any contract. They needed to know that signing with him wouldn’t jeopardize any of their other ventures. With no one coming to their ridiculous hunt, word of his sudden elevation to the one-day peerage might be all that saved the deal.

  He grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the sweat off his face. “I don’t want anything from that man. Not his title, not his practice estate, not his damned letter.”

  He should have told the lawyer to go to buggery. Shouldn’t have let the grasshopper leave without taking those damned papers with him.

  But he hadn’t. Now he either had to face his grandfather to hand them back or accept that he had new burdens to bear.

  But first, he needed to make up with his wife.

  Chapter 25

  The letters started arriving thick and fast over the following days—belated acceptances to Amelia’s house party. The dog ate my invitation or So sorry, this fell behind the dresser. Or I asked my maid to answer for me, but she forgot. She’s been fired.

  It would be amusing, really, the pathetic excuses for their previous silence, if it weren’t so irritating. Because it wasn’t Amelia that the ton was replying to.

  Certainly, her name might be at the top of each page, but it wasn’t until Benedict’s elevation in status that London had cared about her. Her father was right—to them, she was only worth who she could marry.

  She had known that her whole life, but it had only begun to grate in the past few months. It was Benedict’s fault. For making her feel like she was so much more.

  But after weeks of complaining that her party was over before it could start, she could hardly tell them all to go jump off a cliff. Besides, it was what they needed to get the contract signed, and it was important for Benedict to be introduced to the people he’d be associating with when he took up the title.

  So it was all hands on deck. Every able body in the village had been employed to get the house up to snuff.