It Takes a Scandal (3 page)

“He tormented her?” James raised his eyebrows. “I recall horrid tales of him dancing with her, and even a cruel report that he took her ballooning. Dear sister, if any eligible, wealthy viscount torments you so, do let me know at once. I’ll rush straight to the betting books and wager my entire fortune that you’ll be married to the fellow before the end of the year.”

“Stop it.” She scowled at him. “Obviously he stopped tormenting her. But even so, Joan’s father is a baronet; her uncle is the Earl of Doncaster. She has connections, and we don’t.”

“Take heart, Abby.” He gave her one of his rare, sly grins. “I’m sure the butcher will treasure you with all his heart.”

“He’d better,” she retorted, before giving in to the urge to laugh. Her brother joined in a moment later.

“What’s so funny?” Penelope joined them, looking a little grim. “Jamie, did you know Papa already bought this house?”

“Yes.”

She made a face at him. “And you didn’t tell us! You’re utterly worthless as a source of gossip.”

“Being able to hold my tongue is a useful skill. You might try it some time.”

Penelope huffed. “Where would be the pleasure in that?” She faced Abigail. “There is one absolute failing of this house, and I’m sure you know what it is.”

“Ah . . .” Abigail darted a look at her brother, who shrugged.

“You know,” repeated Penelope meaningfully. “We’re all the way out here in Richmond, away from the shops of London.”

“There are shops here as well, you know,” said her brother.

“Not the right shops,” she replied without looking at him. She seemed to be trying to bore a hole in Abigail with her bright blue gaze. “How shall we ever get the right lotion, and rouge, and hair pomade? We’ll look like Druids camping out on the moors.”

“Buy plenty in London and bring it with you,” suggested James. “A little planning will solve nearly every problem.”

Penelope gritted her teeth, still staring fiercely at Abigail. “But we may run out. And what if I put on weight, with so many fewer balls to attend? I shall need a new corset—perhaps one of those with the extra gussets under the bosoms, you know, the sort that hold each side separately—”

“I regret underestimating your suffering,” said James hastily. “You’d best ask Mama’s advice.” He was already edging away, and disappeared into the house in a minute.

“Poor Jamie,” said Abigail in amusement. “How will he ever marry, when the mere mention of a corset makes him turn green?”

“How will he ever marry, when the only things he talks about are horses and money?” Penelope flicked one hand, dismissing their brother. “You know what I meant, don’t you?”

“I believe so.” Abigail turned and strolled a little farther from the house. Who knew when her parents might come out to see the view? Her mother seemed possessed of supernatural hearing at times, and unlike her sister, Abigail had the common sense not to test it.

Penelope followed her. “How are we to get new issues of
50 Ways to Sin
all the way out here? It took weeks to discover the bookseller in Madox Street. For all we know, no one will be selling it in Richmond.”

“Perhaps we ought not to look for it at all.” Abigail gave her a stern look. “You’re still in Mama’s black books over that, you know. Querying every broadsheet seller in Richmond will make it worse.”

Fifty Ways to Sin
was the most notorious pamphlet in all of London. Each issue recounted one of the author’s amorous encounters with prominent gentlemen, in lush and explicit detail. The author, calling herself Lady Constance, concealed her lovers’ names, but wrote of them in such terms that made everyone desperate to unmask the gentlemen involved. The true identities of the men, to say nothing of Lady Constance herself, were hotly debated by most of London, and the pamphlets were highly coveted. The erotic nature of the stories meant they had to be sold rather discreetly; one had to know which booksellers to ask, and since the pamphlets were published irregularly, one had to ask at the right moment, or they would be all sold out. No one was a more avid fan than Penelope, although Abigail was nearly as engrossed.

Together with their friend Joan—now the Viscountess Burke—they had analyzed every issue in great detail.
Fifty Ways to Sin
had provided a remarkable education on topics normally forbidden to young ladies. The lure of that forbidden fruit had been Penelope’s downfall, though. In her eagerness to read one issue, she’d been caught by their mother, and was now under strict watch. So far Abigail had escaped that scrutiny, and she meant to keep it that way.

Her sister’s face wrinkled up in frustration. “I know! Oh, blast and damn. Why did you have to give all our copies to Joan?” When their friend had recently married, with a whiff of hushed-up scandal, the Weston sisters had agreed she needed them more, and they gave her all the copies they could find. With a husband of her own, Joan might actually be able to test some of the more incredible acts described, and—presuming she was a very good friend indeed—report back on the truth of them. The only trouble was, her new husband had taken her off to his family estate in the country, and the issues had gone with her. Or so Abigail supposed; if she had a handsome husband, she would be sure to take every issue with her, for helpful suggestion and instruction.

“You agreed,” Abigail reminded her sister.

“I know!” Penelope put her hands on her temples. “I thought there would be a new issue, or three or four, by now. How could it be a month without even
one
?”

“Perhaps Lady Constance retired to the country for the summer as well.”

“Don’t say that!” Penelope kicked at the ground, sending a stray pebble bounding into the grass. “Papa’s already decided we shall have a ball. He intends to impress everyone in Richmond right from the start.”

“Already?” Abigail felt a stirring of interest. “We haven’t even taken possession of the house. When does he propose to have it?”

“In a fortnight. Just enough time for Mama to order a new gown,” Penelope finished in a gruff imitation of their father. “He might ask us! Joan won’t be there, we shan’t know a single soul in the room, and now Papa will be expecting all sorts of noblemen to appear magically in front of us, begging every dance of the evening.” Her tone expressed what she thought the odds of that were.

“We shall have to endure as best we can,” murmured Abigail dryly.

Her sister just scowled.

“It might be a wonderful change,” she pointed out. “We’ve had plenty of chances to meet gentlemen in London, with no real luck. Perhaps in Richmond there are more men of taste and good humor, and less pride and condescension.”

“Perhaps,” Penelope begrudged. “But it’s so quiet! Why would anyone interesting want to spend time here?”

“It’s one summer.” Abigail laughed. “You make it sound like eternal exile. And I shall tease you to no end if you end up meeting the man of your dreams here.”

“I highly doubt it. You can have the gentlemen farmers and country squires.” Penelope nudged her shoulder with a small grin. “I shall save myself for an exciting, mysterious man of town who would kill and maim for the chance to spend just one night in my arms.”

“That’s a very short-lived marriage,” Abigail observed. “To say nothing of what Mama would say about it.” She knew Penelope was wildly irked about being so closely watched.

Her sister gave a gusty sigh. “Mama! As if I’d even have a chance at a clandestine kiss with her trailing around behind me everywhere! Abby, you must help me—I swear I’ll run mad otherwise. I will owe you the greatest favor in the world if you promise.”

She thought about it. There was no finer conspirator than Penelope, if one wanted to sneak around. Such a favor might come in handy at a future date. Besides, she was sure she knew what her sister wanted, and it would certainly suit her as well. “Very well. I’ll help you track down any copies of
50 Ways to Sin
that might have escaped London.”

“Thank you!” Penelope seized her hand and squeezed it near to pain. “Bless you, Abby!”

“And in return you must not pester me to death about it.” She pulled free of her sister’s fervent grasp. “I mean it, Pen. I’ll try to find it, but if you nag—”

“Not a bit!” Her sister looked wounded. “I’ll merely help.”

Abigail had suffered Penelope’s help before. She put up one hand. “Only if I ask for your help. Otherwise you must hold your peace.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Very well.”

“And one more promise . . .” She fixed a stern eye on her sister. “I get to read it first.”

Chapter 2

M
ama must have been more resistant than usual to Papa’s persuasion, for when the Westons reached Hart House a week later, baggage in tow, there was a surprise waiting in her new dressing room. Abigail and Penelope came running when they heard their mother cry out, but when they burst into the room, they saw it had been an exclamation of delight. Mrs. Weston held a wriggling ball of black and brown fur up to her cheek. From the tiny pink tongue flicking frantically toward her face, the girls deduced how their father had schemed to win her over.

“Isn’t he darling?” cried their mother, holding up the puppy. He was a tiny thing, easily held in one hand. Penelope gasped in excitement and ran forward to see.

“A country lady needs a dog,” said Papa from the other side of the room. He stood in the doorway to the adjoining bedchamber looking very pleased with himself.

“Oh, Thomas, you shouldn’t have,” replied his wife, her beaming smile negating her words. “What a darling little creature!”

“I hope the sight of him gamboling about the lawn makes you more fond of Hart House.” Papa winked.

“You’re a shocking manipulator, Thomas Weston.” Mama let the puppy lick her face once more before handing him to Penelope, who cooed over the animal as much as her mother had done. “But for once I wholeheartedly thank you.” She crossed the room and kissed his cheek.

“For once!” Papa threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “If I’d known a little vermin catcher would steal your heart, I’d have got one years ago.”

“Vermin catcher! No,” protested his wife, hurrying back to stroke her pet’s ears.

“He’s too adorable for that,” added Penelope, laughing as the dog nipped at the ribbon on her dress.

Papa just shook his head. “What shall you call him, my dear?”

Mama gazed lovingly at her new baby. “Milo.”

Milo quickly became the center of life in Hart House, for better and for worse. Mrs. Weston took him with her everywhere, but he was as wily as an otter and needed only a moment to escape her sight and vanish into some dark cupboard or closet. More than once a day, a cry would go up to find Milo. After the first frantic search, Mr. Weston declared it was a dog’s duty to find his own way home and he refused to lift a finger to hunt for him. James seemed to develop sudden hearing difficulties whenever Milo was mentioned at all. Penelope doted on Milo almost as much as their mother did, but somehow she was never around when Milo went missing and had to be found. Abigail, as usual, was caught in the middle, reluctantly drawn into every search by her mother’s pleas. The puppy was a sweet little dog, but he was also a great deal of trouble, in her opinion.

That trouble came to a head the night of the ball. Papa had planned it for a week after their arrival, which was a shockingly short time to pull together such an event. Mama managed it, as she always did, but at great expense to household peace and harmony. And sure enough, in the confusion, Milo disappeared.

“Where’s he gone?” fretted Mrs. Weston, meeting her elder daughter in the front hall, now decorated with all manner of greenery and silk ribbons. “I told Marie to lock him in my room but she let him get out. Have you seen him, Abigail?”

“Not since this afternoon.”

“Oh dear.” Mama put one hand to her lips. “I hope he hasn’t got outside. He’s so small, he could be crushed by the horses or the carriage wheels.”

“I’ll go have a look,” Abigail offered. “I’m already dressed, and you have other things to see to.” Like getting Penelope out of her sulks; Abigail wanted no part of that. She’d had quite enough of her sister’s bad humor since they arrived in Richmond, and for some reason Penelope was in an especially cross mood today.

“Thank you, dear.” Mama pressed her hand gratefully. “Don’t go far, though. If he’s not to be found near the house, I’ll get James to go after him, since he refuses to attend the ball,” she finished darkly. “What I ever did to deserve these men in my life  . . .” She shook her head, looking irked.

“I won’t,” Abigail promised. “I’m sure he’ll be nearby. His legs are too short to have taken him far.”

Her mother smiled and threw up her hands before hurrying off. Abigail went outside. With the servants rushing around getting ready, more than one door had been left open, and a small dog could have easily slipped out without notice.

She walked along the gravel path, keeping a keen eye out for her mother’s pet. It was lovely to be outside, where it was quiet and cool, and where she didn’t have to listen to Penelope grumble. In a week’s time Penelope had found a long list of things to dislike: the sounds of boatmen on the river, the lack of shops nearby, the way the door of her bedroom squeaked. But to Abigail, the hardest thing about life in Richmond was enduring her sister’s disgruntlement; otherwise she thought Papa had done tremendously well in his choice. As much as she liked the bustle and activity of London, there was a peace out here that couldn’t be found in the city. The air was different as well, warmer and softer somehow without the smells of town, even before one encountered the path lined with flowering shrubs and trees. It smelled utterly divine on this walk, which was one of Abigail’s new favorite spots on earth. Without hesitation she turned down it and took a deep breath in appreciation. Hart House suited her remarkably well.