How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  He looked over to Amelia, who was deep in conversation with the young Bradenstock fop. His insides writhed to see her so in her element.

  He’d failed again. He’d failed his mother, his firm, his village, and now his wife.

  Standing at the foot of the servants’ stairs, Amelia took a deep breath. She’d give anything not to go in. For some emergency upstairs to call her away so that she had a good excuse for not walking through that door.

  But there was no emergency, and she had no excuse.

  She took another deep breath. Her feet were leaden.

  The sudden scrape of chairs and clatter of cutlery on china as the servants stood gave way to awkward silence.

  More than one of them refused to look at her. The rest of them held expressions of disgust, disappointment, and suspicion. She didn’t blame them.

  She’d practiced this in her head a dozen times over while making vapid conversation upstairs. But not one variation of what she’d rehearsed felt like it was enough.

  “I’ve come down to apologize—to you in particular, Peter—”

  He held her gaze, clearly hurt but thankfully prepared to hear her out.

  “—but to the rest of you as well.”

  Some of their faces softened, just a fraction, but enough to give her confidence moving forward.

  “What I said was disrespectful and unkind. Truly unkind, and I am ashamed and embarrassed those words came out of my mouth. Particularly when you were defending me. I repaid kindness and loyalty with cruelty. I do hope you’ll give me the opportunity to make it up to you.”

  There. The words were said.

  Some of the weight lifted off her. Not all of it—she’d carry the shame around for a long time to come—but she’d started to repair the damage.

  “Thank you for your apology, m’lady,” Peter said. “Though I must say, I don’t think much of your friends.”

  “An opinion we’re beginning to share,” Amelia said wryly. As desperate as she’d been to have all of these people visit, the reality was far from what she’d envisioned.

  Tomorrow would be easier. She’d planned a day of parlor games—how wrong could that go? And the hunt was the following day. Assuming none of her guests shot each other, it should round out the visit in a way that made The Times for all the right reasons.

  Crack. Amelia whirled around at the high-pitched sound of ceramic breaking. Benedict was sitting on the floor, one arm hugging an almost-empty bottle, the other wiping at his pants. A broken cup lay beside him. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “We ran out of whiskey.” He waved the bottle in his hand in the general direction of the men in the room. “I went to get some more.”

  Which explained where he’d disappeared to after dinner. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. If they hadn’t been having this discussion in front of their entire staff, she’d strip his hide.

  “Generally, one is expected to join one’s guests after dinner rather than leaving them to their own devices.”

  “Generally, one expects their guests not to be jackasses.”

  Behind her, the servants sniggered.

  She crossed her arms and glared at him. “You’ll be pleased to know that, despite your lack of manners, I managed to convince Mr. Grunt and Mr. Harcombe to visit the firm again tomorrow.”

  He straightened quickly and then swayed as the movement set him off balance.

  “So unless you want to botch this again, I suggest you leave the liquor here and go sleep it off.”

  Chapter 29

  The aftereffects of his night spent drinking made what should have been an exuberant day painful. Tessie’s high-pitched whistle as she chugged back to the warehouse after a successful run of the track almost split his head open. When Oliver patted him on the back in excitement, he almost cast up his accounts on the spot.

  But despite him, Tessie had done what she needed to. When she’d finished, the two Americans had gone over every inch of her, asking questions about every design feature that differed from Trevithick’s existing model. After that, they’d gone to the upstairs office and pored over every test record, every costing, every piece of thinking behind her design. They’d asked to see the letters of patent, and after four solid hours, they turned to him and offered him the contract.

  To move to America.

  They would buy the license to build three engines. But the parts would be built in America, and he would need to supervise.

  Benedict gave the excuse that there was work still to be done when he saw Grunt and Harcombe into the wagon with a promise to give them his decision that night. In truth, he needed the long walk home to process their offer.

  A cloud of fog marred his vision as he sighed into the night air. The licensing fee was better than expected. With it, he could turn the firm’s focus to producing a prototype of Fiona’s invention. The town would still have work, just not the work they were expecting. And diversifying their investments was a smart strategic move.

  He could achieve what he’d set out to—bring enough industry into Abingdale that no one in his town would need to survive on the goodwill of the aristocracy if they didn’t want to.

  But it would come at a cost.

  He felt nauseous—a roiling pit of fear and guilt and heartbreak had settled into his core the second he’d realized he was considering the offer.

  Perhaps Amelia would welcome a move to the Americas. Perhaps it would be the fresh start they needed. He tried to picture her—perfect Lady Amelia—in a country with no traditions, where wealth was no indication of breeding, and an Irish working man could have the same influence as a gently-born aristocrat.

  He couldn’t ask that of her.

  Benedict kicked his boots against the wall by the servants’ entrance, knocking off as much mud as possible. At least the kitchen was warm and bustling. Mrs. Duggan gave him a nod as he passed through, barely pausing in her direction of the staff around her.

  He climbed up the back staircase. He needed to see her. He was hungry for the sight, the touch, of her. They’d barely exchanged more than a quick peck on the cheek since their guests had arrived.

  When he found her, she was at the piano, friends crowded around as she sang.

  She was beautiful. She was smiling. She was happy.

  How could he think of taking her to America? She’d finally found her way back into the bosom of society.

  Nathaniel joined her for the chorus, his voice smooth and polished. Every move of his slight form was graceful. His appearance perfect.

  Benedict looked down at his mud-stained boots, the ends of his coat sodden where it had trailed through uncut grass. Amelia might be where she belonged in this company, but Benedict would never fit in here.

  As the music trailed off, he ducked out of the doorway. A dead, numbing weight settled over him. The sound of her died away, and with it went what little spark of hope he’d had.

  He knew what he needed to do.

  “Hello, poppet,” he said as he opened the door to Cassandra’s room. She was sitting up against the bedhead, knees drawn, a book resting on them as usual.

  She’d braided her hair before bed, the thick plait hanging over her shoulder. He preferred it like this, rather than the artificial tumble of curls Daisy had nearly perfected. The simple braid was a reminder that she was still the little girl he’d raised.

  “Ben!” She put aside the book and patted the blanket beside her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  He crossed the room and settled in on the bed next to her, drawing her into a hug. “Sorry I haven’t been in to see you today, poppet. I’ve been caught up.”

  She snuggled against him, the only person who’d ever just loved him with no conditions and no hesitation.

  “Yes,” she said. “Amelia mentioned you’ve been working with the Americans.” There was a twang to her voice—a slight shudder at the Americans—and Benedict wondered if the less
-than-desirable aspects of his ever-so-desirable wife were rubbing off.

  “I think we got there. Tessie was brilliant today.”

  Benedict had no idea who had shortened the coupling chains, or why, but the Americans had believed his story that one of the newer workers had misheard an instruction.

  The deal was ready to be signed, if he could bring himself to do it.

  It wouldn’t be forever—a couple of years at the most—but it was long enough that Amelia could really establish herself in London, unencumbered by a husband who simply couldn’t be the perfect gentleman she needed.

  Hopefully, two years would ease the agony he was already feeling. Because she was going to leave, sooner or later. These past few days had proved that.

  The house would never go back to what it was before she arrived, and there were too many memories of her for him to stay once she’d gone.

  So America it was.

  “How do you feel about an adventure?” he asked Cassandra.

  “Oooh, London? Amelia said Lord Roxburough was planning to sell his townhouse and that she wants to buy it.”

  The words hurt to hear, but if she was already talking of leaving for London, then he was making the right decision. “I was thinking a little farther than that. Maybe Boston.”

  Cassandra wrinkled up her nose, a crease forming between her brows. “Amelia would hate that. She says the Americas are full of people with too much money and not enough polish.”

  His wife at her finest, clearly.

  “I think it best that you don’t get too attached to Amelia, poppet. I don’t think she’ll be around much longer. We need to let her go back to where she belongs.”

  Cassandra pulled away. “But she’s our family. She belongs here.”

  He rested his chin on her head, giving her a tight squeeze.

  He wanted her words to be true, but after the past few days, he could no longer convince himself that Abingdale was where Amelia would be happy.

  “I don’t think that’s the case, Cass. But we’ll get by in America without her.”

  It was like a physical blow. Amelia struggled to breathe, sagging against the hallway wall next to Cassandra’s room.

  She’d thought she’d finally found The Place. The Person. After a lifetime of having no one who truly loved her, she’d found herself with a family.

  Except that family didn’t feel the same if they were planning to leave her here and go away.

  After a long moment of not moving, not breathing, she quietly put down the tray with Cassandra’s dessert and left.

  She fished a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiping away the tracks her tears had made. She had ten minutes before she needed to be back downstairs. Ten minutes to put a smile on her face and be the perfect hostess once again, despite the world beneath her fracturing.

  Chapter 30

  Amelia had managed to keep a smile on her face right through dinner and dessert. Even when the Karstarks showed up uninvited once again. Even when Lady Wildeforde made sly comments as Peter served. Even when Mr. Grunt described all the things she’d love about Boston.

  But inside, she was breaking.

  Today had been a perfect day. Lady Luella had remained in her bedroom, Nathaniel Bradenstock had remained in the billiards room, and without their cutting influence, Amelia had been able to reconnect with her old friends like nothing had happened.

  Yes, the conversation seemed rather pointless in comparison to her conversations with Fiona, but not every woman could be a chemist.

  The truth was, she had managed to achieve everything she’d set out to. Her house party was a success, her friends had welcomed her back into the fold, and she’d managed to help save Benedict’s business.

  But despite all of that, she still was not enough. Not for him to take her with him.

  Which killed her, because against all reason, he was enough for her.

  She loved him. How had she not told him that yet?

  Benedict stood by the piano, turning the pages for Miss Appleby as she played. It hadn’t escaped Amelia’s notice that, despite how uncomfortable he was entertaining, he paid special attention to the debutantes clinging to the fringes of the room each night.

  He was a kind man. Kinder than she deserved, if she were to be honest.

  Looking at him—in his stark black and white evening clothes, his hair perfectly done—he looked every part the heir. He would make an excellent earl when the time came, one who would care for his tenants, ensure their health and well-being, and argue for their rights in the House of Lords.

  In a room full of men with their bright, fashionable clothes, elegant manners, and lofty titles, Benedict stood above them all.

  She was embarrassed, really, to remember how she’d once thought him beneath her.

  The music ended, and he looked up from the piano. Their gazes collided, and with it, she tried to convey everything she was too proud to say in person.

  I love you. Don’t leave. Please.

  She could have sworn his look said all the same things. He opened his mouth as if to speak, taking a step toward her, and her pulse thrummed. But something caught his attention. He turned his head just a fraction, and their connection was lost.

  And with it, her hope.

  She looked to the door to see what had distracted him. Greenhill had entered. There was a sense of urgency to his movements as he strode toward Benedict. He didn’t skirt around the sides of the room trying to stay inconspicuous. He walked right through the guests to the piano and whispered into Benedict’s ear.

  Benedict paled. Something was wrong.

  She followed them into the foyer where Fiona stood, drumming her fingers impatiently against her skirts. Her hair was windswept, as if she’d ridden hard to get here. Her face was drawn, and she had the aura of a tightly coiled spring, ready to unleash.

  “What’s wrong?” Amelia asked.

  Fiona swallowed. Her hands twisted in her skirts. “Trouble in the village. Charles Tucker has them riled up.”

  “Damn, damn, damn.” Benedict rubbed his jaw.

  “I don’t understand,” Amelia said. “What do you mean when you say trouble?”

  Fiona bit her lip. “He told them you’ve invited the Karstarks here again. They’re planning to march on the house in protest.”

  The hair on the back of Amelia’s neck lifted. She grabbed Benedict’s hand, gripping it until her knuckles went white.

  “This house? Our house?” She couldn’t keep the shrill pitch from her voice.

  “They’ve lit torches and are carrying pitchforks.” Fiona’s voice wavered, as if it were buckling under the weight of her words. “I think you need to get everyone out of here.”

  Benedict yanked at his cravat. “We can’t send everyone away. If the mood has run in this direction, they’ll be in more danger on the roads. I’ll go. I’ll talk some sense into them.”

  Amelia’s stomach churned. If it was too dangerous for her guests on the road, it was too dangerous for Benedict to walk into the maw directly.

  “You can’t.” She clutched his lapels, not caring how strangled or desperate she sounded as she begged. This was her family. She’d finally understood what that meant, and there was no way she was going to let it be taken from her.

  He cradled her face in his hands. The rough caress of his callused fingers sent shivers of longing through her—longing for a life, a full and long life. Not one cut short by a pack of angry men.

  “I don’t have a choice,” he whispered, drawing her closer to him, kissing her gently on the forehead.

  “Then I’m coming with you.” She tugged hard at her sleeves. She was Lady Amelia Asterly, and she could manage any situation.

  He caught her hands, trapping them between his. “Like hell you are. You stay here. Keep Cassandra safe.” The urgency in his tone, the fear in his eyes—he wasn’t trying to push her aside. He was entrusting the person most dear to him to her charge.

  She nodded. Instinct fought against r
eason, but he was right. Cassandra came first.

  She raised onto her toes and gently touched her lips to his. “I’ll look after her. Be safe.” Her voice broke on those last two words, and her control was not far off.

  Benedict turned to Greenhill, who was standing nearby, waiting for orders. He’d heard the conversation. His weathered face was grim, but he stood to attention, ready to take on whatever might be needed.

  “Find Wildeforde,” Benedict said. “Tell him what’s happened but don’t let anyone hear you. I’ll meet him in the stables.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Benedict turned to Fiona, placing a hand on each of her shoulders. “You should stay too.”

  Fiona shook her head. “My father is one of the instigators. You’ll never talk him down, but I might.”

  He hesitated. Amelia knew that exposing a woman to danger went completely against everything he was. But she also knew he was a pragmatist. He nodded curtly. “Let’s go.”

  He gave Amelia a long look, heavy with all of the things they had not said to each other. And then he strode through the door.

  By the time Benedict arrived at the village green, almost every man in Abingdale—and a few of the boys—was deep in his cups. A bonfire had been set up with men sitting on logs, crates, and makeshift benches all around it.

  Above the roar and crackle of the flame was shouting and swearing. Men staggered. Some engaged in mock fights. Others leaned on scythes and pitchforks, all kinds of everyday working tools turned potential weapons.

  Tucker—that bastard—had built a makeshift stage and was bellowing to the audience in front of him. Alastair walked through the crowd, acknowledging the men and turning their attention toward the revolutionary.

  “Oh my lord,” Fiona breathed. “It wasn’t half this bad when I left.”

  “Hell,” Wildeforde said. He turned to Fiona, grabbing her roughly by the arms. “You go home, now. Stay out of sight and lock the door behind you.”

  “But my father—” She strained to see around him, but he held her fast. In all their years together, Benedict had never seen this level of fear on Wildeforde’s face.