It Takes a Scandal (13 page)

The answer to all those questions was obviously no.

A few minutes later Boris trotted up to meet him. Sebastian gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears. Boris was wet and covered in mud, and Mrs. Jones would lock him in the stables until he dried, but for now his long tongue flopped happily out of his mouth. He must have had a grand time, and best of all, he hadn’t shown himself too soon and interrupted anything.

“Good boy,” Sebastian told the dog. “Well done.”

Chapter 9

P
enelope insisted on hearing details on the walk home. Abigail put her off—how much could have happened in the few minutes they walked alone?—but she was forced into admitting that Mr. Vane had offered to show her the grotto.

“Good,” declared her sister. “I didn’t want to go out there again.”

“And you won’t tell anyone,” ordered Abigail.

Penelope scoffed. “As if I would ruin your
amour
! One of us should have something exciting happen. I’m rather disappointed it isn’t to be me, but I shall endure . . . somehow . . .”

Abigail made a face and swatted her sister’s arm. “Try to suffer in silence, please.”

“Heartless creature,” Penelope returned. “I sacrificed my dress to give you a moment alone with him! Look at this—it’s ruined!”

“And now you will tell Mama you need another dress, so I shan’t waste any tears over it.”

Penelope huffed and grumbled all the way home, which gave Abigail time to think. And by the time they reached home, she had decided on a course of action.

She liked Sebastian Vane. Nothing about him made her think he was dangerous or unhinged, rude or nefarious. The gossip about him was bad, it was true; but the very depths of depravity described made her doubt. If people would repeat that nonsense about a dog being a figment of witchcraft, they would repeat anything. There had to be more to the story about old Mr. Vane’s disappearance, and thieves were everywhere. So far she knew with certainty only that Sebastian Vane was the son of a man who went mad, which seemed beyond his control and hardly something he would have chosen. He was wounded, but not crippled, in honorable military service. As for his financial state, he still owned a very lovely property in Richmond, which counted for something.

And he wanted her. Just remembering the scorching look in his eyes made her feel hot and restless. She wasn’t ready to be as debauched as Lady Constance, but she was more than eager for Mr. Vane to show her some things. He could start with kissing, for one.

The next day Abigail took care not to meet anyone on her way out of the house. She was safe from Penelope—her sister was still pretending to favor her ankle—but she wasn’t taking any chances. And meeting Papa or James would be even worse, so she watched and waited and chose her moment to escape, leaving only a vague word with her maid that she was going for a stroll and would be back by dinner.

She reached the Fragrant Walk but saw no sign of Mr. Vane. Her steps sped up as she went, expecting to see his tall, rangy figure around every bit of shrubbery. By the time she got to the end of the gravel, where the path diverged into a walk that led back toward the lawn and a narrower track that disappeared into the woods, her heart was pounding.

He wasn’t there.

Perhaps she was early. Perhaps he was late. Perhaps he had changed his mind. She hitched her shawl more securely over her shoulders and headed down the path that wound through the trees, although a little more cautiously.

The woods grew thick very soon after leaving the well-raked walk. After ten yards she could barely see the sunlit lawn behind her. After twenty she bit her lip; she would feel like a great fool if she got lost in the woods. He had specifically said to meet him on the Fragrant Walk. If he arrived there ten minutes from now and she was nowhere to be seen, he might think she hadn’t come. And if he didn’t intend to arrive there at all today, well, wandering through the trees wouldn’t make her feel any better.

She was about to turn around when a familiar dog came trotting easily through the thicket. It was Mr. Vane’s dog, looking even larger and more fearsome than he had the other night. She stopped in her tracks as he came right up to her and sniffed the hem of her skirt. For all that she’d defended him yesterday, seeing the animal himself today was somewhat intimidating. He seemed calm and unthreatening, though, so she gingerly held out one hand.

“Have you brought cheese again?” Mr. Vane stepped out of the trees behind his beast. Abigail snatched back her hand. “I told you, Boris adores cheese.”

“Does he?” She looked doubtfully at the big dog, who looked as though he could eat a whole leg of ham in one meal. Boris instantly sat, his tail thumping the ground, and gazed at her with attentive black eyes.

“Cheese is his favorite thing in the world. He’ll be your willing slave for a morsel of it.”

“He’s a very fierce animal to be controlled by cheese.”

Mr. Vane shrugged. “Every male has his weakness, I suppose.”

“I hope so,” she murmured, thinking more of the man than the dog. She extended her hand to Boris once more. With surprisingly gentleness, he sniffed her fingers and butted his head into her palm. Abigail patted him, and the dog panted and closed his eyes a little.

“You have made a friend,” said Mr. Vane dryly.

She smiled, now scratching Boris’s ears. He gave a whimper like a puppy and scooted closer to her, stretching his neck. His head came up almost to her bosom, and she scratched his ears a little nervously. His tongue flopped out of his mouth until it looked like he was grinning at her. “You’re not as fierce as you look,” she told him, relaxing a little.

“Certainly not when he senses the chance of getting some cheese.”

“Well.” She slanted a look at the dog’s master. “I have got some in my pocket.” She’d brought it on a whim.

He raised a brow. “Do you normally bring food when setting off to explore a grotto?”

She flipped one hand. “I’ve never seen one before, but it seemed best to be prepared. And, as you see, it’s already paid off.” Boris was now nearly lying across her feet, openly begging for more affection.

“Boris,” said Mr. Vane, and in the blink of an eye the big dog scrambled to his feet and trotted back to his master. “Let’s go,” he said, sounding grim.

Abigail raised her chin. “Not if you don’t want to show me. I’ve no interest in being a thorn in your side.”

He gave her a searing glance, so intense the air seemed to shimmer for a moment between them. “A thorn you are not.” He hesitated, his expression softening. “Forgive my lack of manners. I’ve not been much in company lately, and have quite forgotten how to speak to a lady.” He put out one hand. “Will you still come?”

Her heart leapt. Holding up her skirt, she put her hand in his, and stepped off the dirt path into the bracken with him.

“Have you always known about the grotto?” she asked as they walked.

He brushed a thick fern out of the way with his cane. “Since I was a boy. Hart House was built for a royal mistress—one of Charles II’s, I think—and as such was filled with all manner of follies and whimsies. The grotto was only one of them, but one of the few to survive the intervening decades.”

“I understood Lady Burton had filled it in years ago.”

“The woods did it for her.” He turned his head from side to side, frowning at the trees. “Over there, I think. It’s been a while since I visited it.”

They pushed through a stand of beeches and skirted a muddy pond like the one Penelope had tumbled into. Squinting at the sky and trees from time to time, Mr. Vane led her around a patch of bramble bushes and down a gentle slope. Abigail couldn’t see anything that looked remotely like a grotto. She had imagined a clearing, with an archway or a gate and stone steps leading into a cleft in the ground, perhaps with a stream running down the middle: something dramatic and worthy of its mystical name. Instead they were in a thick spot of forest, shaded by the canopy of trees overhead and surrounded by overgrown shrubbery running rampant over a small rise. Wild harebells grew all around them. It was quiet and shady, but there was no sign of a cave when Mr. Vane finally stopped.

As if he could read her thoughts, he cocked one brow. “Disappointed?”

“Not at all!” She turned around, searching for any glimpse of the grotto. “I just—I just don’t see it yet . . .”

“And yet you’re less than ten feet from it.” She peered at the ground as if it might erupt at her feet, and he shook his head. “It took me nearly ten years to discover it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she murmured. “But why did you let it disappear into the forest again?”

His expression turned wry as he unsheathed a large knife that had been strapped against his good leg. “Once I found it, my curiosity was satisfied; its elusiveness made it fascinating, and once it was no longer elusive, I was content to leave it as it was.” He strode forward and began cutting at the vines and plants that covered a large boulder.

Abigail seated herself on a nearby fallen tree and watched as he worked. “Perhaps it will so move me, I’ll be drawn back. Perhaps I’ll restore it and care for it and come often, if it proves a refuge.”

“Oh?” He took off his hat and tossed it onto a nearby bush. “Why would you need a refuge?”

His hair was brown, falling to his collar with a gentle wave. Abigail watched the few stray beams of sunlight dapple his head and shoulders as he bent down to rip out some sprawling plant. She followed his example and shed her own bonnet, placing it on the trunk beside her. “Why wouldn’t I need a refuge?” she parried his question. “Who can say they never have need of a quiet, private place?”

“Who, indeed?” he muttered, lifting a fallen sapling and shoving it aside. “The grounds of Hart House offer no quiet place?”

“Not enough of one. No sooner do I find one than my sister is sure to invade it and pester me with some mad scheme or diversion; she’s utterly bored in Richmond.” While his back was turned, she took out the hunk of cheese, wrapped in cloth, from her pocket and broke off a small chunk for Boris, who lapped it from her fingertips gently and eagerly.

“Your sister was with you in the bookshop the other day. I presume she enjoys that better than the woods?”

Abigail pressed her lips together, remembering what Penelope had made her buy in the bookshop. “Yes.”

“Is it a refuge from her you seek?”

“Sometimes.” She felt bad impugning her sister, and fed Boris another morsel of cheese in atonement. “Not often. Penelope is the best sister in the world. But when she’s bored, she can be a trifle . . .”

“Tiresome?” he suggested when she hesitated.

“Demanding.”

He grunted, slashing a trailing vine from the path he was clearing. “So demanding she compels you to dig up a long-buried grotto?”

“I never demanded that. You offered,” Abigail pointed out.

His dark eyes turned toward her. She tensed for him to argue, but he only slid his knife back into the sheath strapped at his hip. “So I did.” He swept one arm to the side. “Your grotto, my lady.”

She jumped to her feet and scanned the ground. “Where?”

“Come.” He retrieved his cane—again she realized he’d set it aside without her noticing—and waved her to come closer. “The steps become visible only a moment before you fall headfirst down them.”

She edged closer, finally spying the rough stone stair disappearing into the earth. Vines still rambled over the opening, but he had cleared away just enough to expose the top few steps. They must have been completely covered. “How did you ever discover it?”

“By falling headfirst down it one day. The vines appear solid, but if you walk on them . . .” He grimaced.

She took a cautious step down, and then another. “It seems as though the earth will swallow us up.”

He stepped down behind her and put his hand at her back. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t.” Together they went down, slowly and carefully. Mr. Vane pushed back the encroaching vines just enough to allow them to squeeze under, and when they reached the bottom, there was enough space to stand comfortably upright.

It was cool and dark, but remarkably dry. As her eyes adjusted, Abigail could make out the stone walls cutting down into the earth. Dry leaves crunched underfoot as she went forward one step, then another. Ahead of her was only darkness, thick and impenetrable. “We should have brought a torch,” she said, starting as her voice echoed back at her. “We can hardly explore if we’re blind.”

“You didn’t bring a candle?”

She glanced at him, but as it often was, his expression was neutral. “I didn’t think of it,” she confessed. She didn’t add that she’d thought mostly of seeing him, and had presumed that if they found the grotto at all, it would only be after some considerable searching.

Mr. Vane gave a small shake of his head as he rummaged in his pocket. “You must think through all the consequences of your actions, Miss Weston.” He drew out a short candle and a flint. “Grottos are dark places.”

“I knew that.”

When he had lit the candle, he handed it to her. The light of a single flame didn’t illuminate very far, but against the absolute blackness of the grotto, it seemed brilliant. “Lead the way.”

“How far does it go?” She took the candle carefully, avoiding a stream of wax that ran down the side. “Will we come out by the river if we just keep going?”