A Study in Scandal (Scandalous)

by Caroline Linden

  His brows climbed even higher. “Is that what you require, my dear? But of course…” He smiled, cold and cynical. “My romantic daughter wants to clear Sebastian Vane, so he might have the girl who spurned your brother.”

  Samantha bit back an instinctive protest. It was true Benedict had once courted Abigail Weston, but she was quite sure her brother had never been in love with her. And Miss Weston was genuinely in love with Sebastian, which meant Samantha understood completely why she’d refused Benedict. In time, she was sure even Benedict would be grateful to her for that.

  Stratford flipped his coattails out behind him and sat down, reaching for a fresh piece of paper. He wrote two lines and signed his name with a flourish. “Will that do? Is it sufficiently humble, as I confess my great error in judgment?” He handed her the paper.

  It was a stark admission of error, and even though it was exactly what she had wanted, it frightened her. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “Perfectly.” This was not like her father, this overt courteousness. He had just sat down and done as she asked, without a word of reproach. He hadn’t even raised his voice. A knot of dread twisted in her stomach. “Thank you, Father.”

  He bowed his head. “I am delighted it meets with your approval.” She curtsied, thinking it was best to escape while she could, but it was too late. Her father got up from his chair again and came around his desk. He touched her chin, raising her face so he could study it. Samantha stood very still; her heart thundered. She had rarely been this close to him, and never with his unwavering attention fixed on her.

  His eyes were as cold as a winter sky. “I see I failed with you,” he murmured. “Perhaps even more than I failed with your brother. I don’t quite know you, Samantha. It was always clear to me you were never as biddable as you ought to be, but you did appear to work at improving. Today, though…” He made a soft tsk, then continued in the same soft, leisurely tone that terrified her more than any furious shouting could have done. “It was all an act, wasn’t it? All these years you were merely pretending to be the dutiful daughter. You chose that hotheaded arrogant Vane over your family. You stole from me—your own father—and lied about it for seven years. Even now I suspect you confessed only because you want to help Vane, or perhaps that parvenue heiress he hopes to marry. I can tolerate some soft-heartedness in a woman, but not soft-headedness.” He released her and walked back to his desk. “And all this after I spoiled you so. I see now how wrong I was. You may go.”

  Her knees went weak with relief. That was all? She couldn’t even react to the astonishing claim that he’d spoiled her, since no punishment had been threatened. “Thank you, sir.”

  As if in a daze she opened the door and let herself out. Blindly she walked through the corridors. She felt off balance and disconcerted, having braced herself for a tremendous blow that never came. Even the relief of having confessed was absent, leaving only a terrible confusion. Was that to be her father’s only reaction?

  “What happened?” Her brother’s urgent question startled her so badly she almost screamed.

  Mutely she held out the paper. Benedict seized it and then looked at her in amazement. “He wrote this?” She nodded. “What did he do to you?” She couldn’t speak. “Samantha, what did he do to you?” repeated her brother, sounding panicked.

  It broke her daze. “Nothing,” she said.

  He swore and grabbed her arm, pulling her behind him to their mother’s suite. Lady Stratford was pacing when Benedict opened the door, but she stopped immediately at their entrance.

  “She’s told him,” Benedict said, “but she won’t say how she’s to be punished.”

  Anxious hope leapt in Lady Stratford’s eyes. “Perhaps he was content to have the money returned…”

  Benedict shook his head, watching Samantha closely. “I doubt it.”

  “He said…” Her voice failed for a moment. “He called me a woman philosopher. He said he had failed with me. But he wrote that”—she motioned to the paper Benedict still held—“and said nothing of consequences.” She looked from her brother to her mother. “That can’t be all he intends to do, can it?”

  “Perhaps,” said the countess, her face as pale as milk.

  “Doubtful,” muttered Benedict.

  Now Samantha began to be afraid. “What should I do?”

  “Nothing,” said her mother. “Do not show the slightest sign of fear or alarm. Act as if the matter is over and done with and no further thought of it will ever cross your mind.”

  That sounded difficult. It would only trade the burden of a guilty conscience for the tension of waiting, waiting, waiting for the axe to fall on her. She looked to her brother.

  He didn’t seem to know what to do. He ran his hands through his hair and avoided her gaze. “He told me to go, and stay gone. But I can’t leave you here alone to face him—“

  “What could you do?” She raised her hands at his expression. “What could any of us do?”

  No one said anything. They all knew the answer: nothing. It had always been that way in the earl’s house.

  “Promise you’ll send me word in London if he acts on this.” Benedict’s voice made her start. “I won’t let him hurt you, Samantha. I swear I won’t.”

  She shivered at the raw emotion in her brother’s voice. If Benedict, who had endured innumerable thrashings as a boy at the earl’s hands, feared for her safety, she ought to be terrified. But it was comforting to know he was on her side, even if she had no idea what he could do to protect her, or even what she needed protection from. “I promise.”

  Chapter Two

  For two terrible days silence reigned at Stratford Court. Samantha asked Benedict to send the earl’s note to Sebastian before he left, but then there was nothing else for her to do. It felt as if she—and her mother—were both holding their breath, waiting to see what the earl would do.

  Stratford, however, seemed unchanged. Not one word of the matter crossed his lips, and with some disbelief Samantha began to think he might have simply given up on her. It hadn’t been his way, but if he no longer cared what happened to her, perhaps it wasn’t worth his trouble and effort to punish her.

  She should have known better.

  At breakfast on the third day, Stratford finished his spartan meal and leaned back in his chair. “I shall be departing this morning.”

  “Indeed,” said the countess with her usual cool composure. “I will notify the housekeeper about dinner. Will you be gone long, my dear?”

  “A few days.” His piercing gaze landed on Samantha, quietly eating her toast. “Aren’t you curious to know where I’m going?”

  The toast stuck in her throat. Samantha seized her tea and gulped it down, shooting a wide-eyed look at her mother. The countess’s expression was blank. It was very unlike the earl to encourage inquisitiveness. “I didn’t like to be presumptuous and ask, Father,” she managed to croak.

  His smile was flat. “No? A lesson learned, at last. This time I shall tell you, because it concerns you.”

  All the tension that had slowly ebbed during the last few days returned in full force, keeping her immobile in her chair as she waited for the blow. If Stratford had waited three days, he must have planned some awful new punishment for her.

  “This week has been a most illuminating one,” Stratford said. “And a humbling one. I realized I failed as your father, Samantha, failed miserably. And therefore, perhaps it’s time I quit the field and found you a husband to guide your actions. A man with a firm hand, who won’t tempt you to abuse his tender nature as you’ve done mine. I’m going to Penton Lodge to see the Marquess of Dorre. He’s looking for a bride for his second son. I’m sure he’ll take you without much protest.”

  For a moment the sunlight streaming through the windows seem to go out, leaving the room cold and gray. Samantha couldn’t draw breath into her lungs. Lord Dorre’s second son, Philip, was a handsome man, but with a brutal nature that even his father’s immense wealth couldn’t overshadow. Someone ha
d once told her that he had put down a horse by shooting out each of its legs. There were whispers that he had got into a fight with another man and left the fellow crippled, unable to walk or speak. Every girl in Richmond would sooner claim a broken ankle—would sooner break her ankle in truth—than dance with Lord Philip. Samantha thought she’d rather be whipped than spend even one day with Philip, let alone marry him.

  “My dear,” exclaimed the countess in obvious distress. “Would you ally yourself with such a known libertine?”

  That was true. Samantha had forgotten the tales of Lord Philip’s debauched parties in London, attended by all manner of wicked persons. Lord Stratford must know of them as well, if she did, and for a moment hope reared its head. One thing Stratford could not abide was drunkenness and public indiscretion.

  Slowly the earl turned to face his wife. She sat motionless, but her eyes were wide with appeal and her chin quivered. “Ah, I see,” he said quietly. “You worry for her. ’Tis true, Lord Philip has a temper and a taste for danger.” He looked at Samantha. “But our daughter is a clever girl, Lady Stratford. Clever enough to keep a secret from her entire family for seven years! I expect she’ll learn soon enough how to please her husband and keep him from straying into immoral pleasures. I’m sure he’ll be able to instruct her on his…tastes. Samantha is far past the age when she should be married anyway. It’s my duty as a father to find her a husband, and I shan’t neglect it any longer.”

  “He is cruel,” whispered Lady Stratford. “Please, my dear—”

  The earl slammed one hand down on the table, making the silverware—and his wife—jump. His eyes blazed with fury. “Remember your place, Lady Stratford!” He pushed back his chair and rose. “Tell your maid to fetch your trunks,” he said coldly to Samantha. “You shall be married within the month.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  A month. The words hung in the silence, as if a judge had pronounced a death sentence on her. A month.

  Samantha stared at her plate in shock, her half-eaten toast forgotten. He meant it. God help her, he really might do it. So much for Benedict’s hope that the return of the stolen money would soften his anger. He hadn’t cared about the money at all.

  Nor, apparently, about her.

  “I will speak to him,” came the countess’s voice, so strained and quiet Samantha barely heard it. “I will persuade him against this. Perhaps not against marriage—” Her face contorted for a moment. “I should have suspected. You ought to have been married by now, mistress of your own home. If you had been, you would be safe—” She stopped and closed her eyes.

  Samantha said nothing. She hadn’t married yet because it hadn’t pleased her father that she marry. And she had been in no hurry; when she married and left home, her mother would be left to face her father’s tyranny alone. Aside from the fact that she had no suitors who satisfied the earl, Samantha had known, deep in her heart, that she was her mother’s only remaining comfort.

  If she married Lord Philip, her mother wouldn’t even have the consolation of knowing she was safe, never mind happy. And she had a terrible feeling her mother would be unable to influence her father this time. There wasn’t anything she could say, though, so she just nodded. There was a chance, after all—slim and wispy though it might be—that her mother would be able to sway her father into choosing someone kinder than Lord Philip.

  All the courage that had propelled her to confess and insist that her father retract his charges against Sebastian fled. She knew she’d done the right thing, but now…for herself… She was terrified.

  “Mama.” She met her mother’s stricken gaze. “Perhaps Lord Philip isn’t as bad as everyone whispers. Perhaps it’s all exaggeration, or lies, or…” She wet her lips. “Surely a gentleman would not beat his wife,” she said, more to persuade herself than because she believed it.

  “No,” said her mother at once. “I trust not. I cannot believe Stratford would sit by and allow his daughter to be beaten.”

  For all his faults, the Earl of Stratford had never struck his wife or daughters. Samantha tried not to think of all the times he had caned her brother. That was in the past now, as Benedict was taller and stronger than the earl and, most importantly, in London with his regiment of the King’s Household Guard.

  London. If only she could enlist in a regiment, or flee to distant relatives. But a daughter belonged to her father, even when she was of age. If her father signed a marriage contract he would see that she fulfilled it, and then she would belong to her husband. Even if Lord Philip wasn’t as depraved as rumor held, Samantha had a feeling he would not be a kind or considerate husband.

  “This is my fault,” said her mother suddenly. “I should have seen how precarious your position here has become. Forgive me, darling—” She broke off and pressed her fist to her mouth.

  “No, Mama. Any fault is not yours but mine.” Samantha herself should have known. Benedict had bolted for London as soon as he was able. Elizabeth, three years Samantha’s elder, had thrown herself into finding a husband as soon as she made her debut. Only Samantha had stayed behind, content with her sketchbooks and her secrets.

  She summoned a deep breath and said a little prayer for courage. “May I call on my friend Lucy Walgrave?”

  The countess blinked. “Today?”

  “Why not? Perhaps she will know something about Lord Philip to put my mind at ease.” Even as she said it, Samantha remembered that Lucy was very fond of salacious stories. If Lucy had anything to relate, it probably wouldn’t be good.

  Never mind that, she told herself. It was more important to get out of the house and let her brain cool down so she could think what to do.

  “Yes,” declared the countess, a bit of color rising in her cheeks. “Of course you should go. It will be good for you.”

  Samantha waited until the earl left. In his absence, everyone at Stratford Court seemed to give a visible sigh of relief. The groom who brought the carriage around even gave her a slight smile as she climbed up, as if he knew she was clinging to sanity by a thin thread. For a moment Samantha wished intensely that her father would go far, far away, and never come back. Even the grooms pitied her, and they couldn’t know her fate yet.

  Lucy lived on the other side of Richmond, all the way across the river. Impulsively Samantha told the driver to set her down in town. She had long since stopped taking a maid when she went to Lucy’s, and today she needed fresh air. “I shall walk from here. Fetch me from Miss Walgrave’s house in one hour,” she told the driver, who nodded and set the horses in motion. Samantha didn’t know where he went, but today she enjoyed a fantasy wherein he went to a tavern and enjoyed himself over a pint of ale. As hard as it was to be the Earl of Stratford’s child, it must be even harder to be his servant. She turned away and started down the street, trying not to think that this might be her last taste of freedom.

  No. She mustn’t think that. She walked along, oblivious to everything around her. If only Benedict were here. Stratford had ordered him to stay away, but there was no one whose advice she trusted more than Ben’s…

  It seemed like a sign from above, when she turned the corner and the first thing she saw was the coach bound for London. Samantha stopped in her tracks. Her breath grew short and her heart raced. No. The Earl of Stratford’s daughter would never take a public coach…but perhaps that was why a mad urge to do just that billowed up inside her, choking her with longing. London was only ten miles away.

  London, where her brother was.

  Her feet started moving as her brain disposed of one argument after another. No one would know where she had gone…but her mother was the only one who would truly care, and Mama would understand. Her father would be furious…but he was away from home for the next few days. She could take the coach back to Richmond tomorrow and the earl would never know.

  By the time she reached the driver, it seemed preordained that she would ask for a place on the coach; that he would have one left; and that the price woul
d be almost exactly the sum in her reticule. When he added that the coach would depart in just a few minutes, Samantha only smiled. She climbed up and took her seat, keeping back from the window. Now that she had made her decision, she didn’t want anyone to see her and try to stop her.

  The coach was nearly full. The four other passengers gave her some curious glances, but no one spoke to her. They started off with a jerk, and she felt a small burst of excitement. This was an adventure, something she’d had very few of in her well-behaved, circumscribed life. She imagined Benedict’s reaction when she appeared on his doorstep. He would be surprised, but also, she hoped, glad that she’d come to him.

  The dust blowing through the windows made her cough; she would be filthy when she reached London. A discreet glance at her fellow passengers showed that she was the only one unprepared for travel. Everyone else wore sturdy boots and plain clothing. She felt a little out of place in her ruby spencer and pink dress, and unconsciously tucked her soft leather boots further beneath her skirts.

  Before long the spires of London came into sight. Now she watched out the window in delight as the coach rumbled over city streets. They passed the expanse of Hyde Park, then the lush Green Park. The bustle of Piccadilly slowed the coach as they reached the heart of the city. Samantha’s toes curled inside her shoes; she knew where Benedict’s Guard regiment was quartered, but she’d never actually gone there, only to the parade ground nearby. Resolutely she forced aside the whisper of doubt. She could ask and be directed to the headquarters, and someone there would help her find Ben.

  The coach finally turned into a yard seething with activity. It was hard not to gape in amazement as she climbed down. When her family came to London, the Stratford coach took them directly to the large house in Portland Place, bypassing this part of town. She didn’t know exactly where she was now; the bustling yard and street beyond were far noisier, dirtier, and busier than Portland Place ever was.