It Takes a Scandal (14 page)

“I don’t know. I never just kept going.”

“Why not? I thought it was your childhood dream to discover it. How could you not explore every inch of it, once you found it?” she asked teasingly.

He ran one hand over his head. “I only found it the night before I left to join my regiment, bound for Spain in ’11. I hadn’t time that night to explore every inch, and later . . .” He shrugged.

Abigail hastily turned away. Later he had been wounded, occupied with an infirm parent, and then dogged by rumors of madness, murder, and theft. “Then we shall explore it now together,” she said firmly, holding the light aloft and starting forward. “And if we locate any buried treasure, we will share it evenly.”

“I would be content not to locate any wild animals.”

She laughed, the sound ringing around them. “Won’t Boris defend us?”

“Boris won’t come down here. He prefers to remain above ground.” He turned and looked up. “See?”

Abigail peered past him to see Boris watching from the top of the stairs. He showed no sign of following them, but sat with his head cocked to one side as if wondering what made them do something so foolish as descend into the earth. “I hope we won’t need him.”

She fancied Mr. Vane almost smiled for a moment. “I hope not, too.”

Slowly they proceeded down the passage. After about ten feet it turned sharply to the left, and once around the turn the dim light from the opening vanished. With the light seemed to go the last trace of warmth as well, and Abigail shivered as she hiked her shawl over her shoulders.

“Are you cold?” murmured Mr. Vane, very close behind her.

“Not much. I think it was just the sunlight disappearing.”

His eyes reflected the candle’s flame. In the flickering light his face was imposing and forbidding, and Abigail’s stomach twisted in on itself. She didn’t really know him, but here she was exploring a cave with him in secret. “Don’t be nervous,” he said softly, as if he could read her thoughts. “I have a good sense of direction. I shan’t let us get lost.”

“I feel as though we should be unspooling a string behind us, to follow back.”

The corner of his mouth crooked upward. “Have you brought a string?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.” He looked at her. “Shall we go back?”

With a deep breath, she shook her head and moved forward. Slowly they followed the passage as it turned and curved deeper into the ground—or so Abigail imagined. Her fears of getting lost faded, though, as there were no other passages branching to the sides, just the one they followed. The air grew cooler, scented with moist earth and moss. Every now and then a wisp of air rushed past them, making the flame dance, and once Abigail thought she heard the distant scurrying of tiny feet, although she never saw the creature.

“Why do you think you never found it when you were a boy?” she asked. His footsteps echoed louder than hers, as his boots scuffed the stone floor and his cane gave a soft tap with every step.

“Lack of focus, most likely. It didn’t take much to distract us once we were deep in the woods.”

“Us?”

He hesitated. “I wasn’t the only boy in Richmond keen to discover the grotto. It was the object of many grandiose plans.”

“Such as?” She wondered what he’d been like as a boy, before terrible things had happened to him.

“The usual pursuits of boys,” he said vaguely. “Hiding from tutors, escaping punishment, and so on. Much like your sister mentioned yesterday, it seemed an ideal refuge, hidden in the woods and thought by most people to be long lost.”

“But ten years! It must have seemed ridiculous that you would find it by accident, after spending all those years searching for it.”

“We spent more of our time close to the river,” he said. “The trees were better for climbing there.”

“Of course.” She laughed, until the candle flickered wildly. She stopped dead in her tracks.

“What’s wrong?” He put his hand on her back and stepped in front of her, as if he could see better than she could what lay ahead.

“I thought the candle would go out,” she whispered, staring at the dancing flame and willing it to stay lit.

For a moment they both remained motionless, mesmerized by the flame. “We should turn back,” said Mr. Vane.

The flame steadied, and so did Abigail’s nerve. She looked up at him. “Not yet. See? It’s fine.” The flame burned as brightly as ever. It was reflected in his dark eyes as he looked down at her, his hand still on her back, his arm still around her.

“As you wish.” He let her go and swept out his arm, beckoning her to take the lead again. “Let us continue, then.”

It seemed they had been walking forever, although Abigail thought that if their path were laid out aboveground and well lit, it would probably fit inside the dining room at Hart House. And still the darkness stretched ahead of them without end. She would never have admitted it aloud, but the grotto was proving a little disappointing. It was just a narrow passage under ground, as dark as sin and as cold as winter. She hadn’t really expected it to hold a magnificent pool lined with mosaics and statues, as she’d seen in one illustration, but she had expected there to be something of interest. Who would simply dig a tunnel in the middle of a forest? Finally, just as she was beginning to wonder how deep it was—or if they ought to turn back—the grotto opened up. The ceiling rose above them, the walls expanded, and she realized they had come to a chamber. And there was something about the walls . . .

“Look,” she gasped. “The walls are sparkling!”

Mr. Vane put out his hand. “Cut glass, embedded in the walls.”

“Oh, if only we’d brought more candles!” Abigail held the lone light up, watching the flame dance and flicker in the thousands of shards of glass covering the walls. “What a marvel! Who would have guessed it from the surface?”

“Someone went to some trouble,” he agreed.

“Well.” She grinned. “It’s a sort of buried treasure, I suppose.”

He turned and looked at her. Again the candlelight caught his eyes. “Cut glass isn’t a treasure.”

“But the beauty it can present is.” She moved the candle in an arc, smiling at the sparks that seemed to leap from the walls. It would be magnificent in the light of a dozen candles.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“It’s quite the most marvelous thing I’ve ever seen.” She roamed around the chamber, holding the candle close to the walls to see the glass. “Goodness! How much effort must have gone into creating this room!”

“I agree.” He didn’t follow her, and when she turned around she could hardly see him. Outside the limited range of her candle, he was cloaked in shadow, his neck cloth and face ghostly in the dark.

She studied the sparkling glass. Each shard seemed to be set just so into the walls, creating a mosaic of color. “It makes one wonder why the grotto was allowed to fall into such disuse. Although I suppose it isn’t very convenient to the house.”

“I’ve noticed that when people want something enough, there is no inconvenience that cannot be overcome,” he said after a moment.

She smiled. “True. I certainly shan’t be put off visiting again.” She continued walking around the room, following the wall and watching the flame’s reflection leap from shard to shard. Every now and then she noticed some bits of silvered glass, mirroring the light of her candle better than the rest.

“So you’ve seen the mysterious grotto; are you ready to go home now?” he asked after she had gone all the way around the chamber.

It was so quiet and still, she could hear her own breath. She wasn’t ready at all to leave. “So soon?”

He didn’t move. “What else is there to do?”

She wanted to sit and study the walls. She wanted to spread a blanket on the floor and spend an hour here, teasing more of those elusive smiles from him. But there was no blanket, they had only one candle, and she suddenly felt unsure of herself.

“Miss Weston,” he said when she didn’t answer his question, “we should go. Before anything regrettable happens.”

She wet her lips. “What do you plan to do that you might regret, Mr. Vane?”

The question seemed to check him. He turned away, tipping back his head to survey the ceiling, which seemed to be just as encrusted as the walls. “I never plan to do anything regarding you, and yet somehow something happens every time we meet.”

“Surely you cannot regret this.” She raised the candle high again. “Wouldn’t you have explored the grotto earlier if you had known this might be here?”

Slowly he turned to face her again. “No.”

“No?” she exclaimed in astonishment.

“It wouldn’t have been the same.”

“Yes, it would have,” she protested. “I don’t think anyone’s touched it in decades—”

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” he repeated, “without you.”

Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat. She drew an unsteady breath, and the flame flickered as her fingers clenched around the candle.

“It’s not safe to explore a cave alone,” he went on, his voice still low. “Promise me you won’t come again on your own.”

“I want to see this room again, with more light . . .”

He hesitated, and seemed to retreat into reserve again. “I only asked that you promise not to come alone. Bring your sister, if you want, and a supply of lanterns.” His words echoed as he headed back the way they had come, out of the chamber.

Abigail felt another pang of disappointment, but started after him. Even with the candle, she didn’t want to be alone in the grotto. “Mr. Vane, wait,” she called, just as another stray puff of air caught the candle flame and snuffed it out before she could shelter it. She froze, paralyzed by the swift plunge into absolute darkness. “Mr. Vane?” she said, her voice rising a little.

“I’m here.” This time she heard his cane, tapping firmly on the floor. “Keep talking and don’t move.”

“I’m not very frightened of the dark, but this came on a little suddenly.” Her eyes felt like they were turning inside out, she was staring so intently into the void. “And now it does seem as though we walked a very long way to get to this chamber, and how shall we find our way out without the candle?”

“We’ll find our way out.” His voice was as steady and matter-of-fact as ever, which calmed her nerves somewhat. She could hear his steps still, but because of the echo she had no idea if he was getting closer to her or farther away. Her own feet felt glued to the floor, as if to move would be to become irretrievably lost.

“Do you still have your flint? I hope we can relight the candle. Next time I shall bring a lantern, I swear!” She gave a shaky laugh.

“I still have the flint, right in my pocket.”

“Thank goodness!” She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a gasp of terror. “I knew we ought to have brought Boris. He could have led us out . . .”

He gave a soft tsk. “Boris would be useless. He would eat your cheese and run off to follow some scent.”

“Truly?” Her skin was beginning to crawl. She imagined the ceiling of the chamber collapsing and entombing them both. Her parents would never know what had happened to her.

“Truly. He’s also a little afraid of the dark.” The soft tap of his cane sounded nearer, to Abigail’s straining ears.

“Is he?” She gulped. “I couldn’t blame him for being frightened of this darkness.”

“Everything is exactly the same as it was when you could see,” he said. “Close your eyes and you won’t know it’s dark.”

“I don’t see how I could forget.” Her voice wavered.

“Close your eyes,” he commanded softly. “Trust me.”

She closed her eyes. “Where are you?”

“Getting nearer.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I can hear your breathing. Put out your hands.”

Reluctantly Abigail reached out in front of her, keeping her eyes tightly closed. She felt dizzy and off-balance, and when something hit her elbow, she would have staggered and fallen if he hadn’t seized her arm and yanked her to him. Gasping in relief, she clutched at his coat and burrowed into his side, desperately happy not to be alone, even if they were still entombed in the pitch-black grotto.

S
ebastian wrapped his arms around her and tried not to think how perfectly she fit against him. She was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, and for a minute he just held her, letting his own pulse calm down. When the light had gone out, he’d cursed—and then he heard the panic in her voice, and cursed himself. What an idiot, bringing a young lady down into a cave without any forethought at all, not even a lantern that would remain lit. If he’d had an ounce of sense, they would be strolling along as before, the air between them humming with awareness but still separating them.

Now, though . . . nothing separated them. The hum had become a crackle of desire, at least in his head. He raised one hand to touch her hair and inhaled deeply of roses, the same scent of roses that drifted in his windows all summer from the overgrown flowers his mother had planted decades ago. Abigail Weston smelled dangerously of home.

Gradually her trembling lessened and then stopped. Sebastian made no effort to release her, and she didn’t move. Against his will, the images from
50 Ways to Sin
drifted across his mind. Lady Constance had called the darkness very freeing, and she was right—it freed his imagination from all restraint and sense. He imagined kissing Abigail Weston until she forgot all about the darkness. He imagined letting his hands roam over every soft, silky inch of her skin until she begged for more. He imagined laying her down and making love to her, driving her wild with passion so that he wouldn’t be the only one dying of desire . . .