Page 11 of Love in the Time of Scandal
Her friend sighed. “I feel like a wicked woman, contributing to the misbehavior of a young lady.”
“You’re not contributing. You’re merely failing to stop me from misbehaving, something both Abigail and Joan also failed to do.”
“And I feel worthy of any lawyer in London, drawing that distinction,” retorted Olivia. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things.”
“Because you’re the best sort of friend.” She grinned and squeezed Olivia’s hand. “And because you always want to save me from myself, even though it’s hopeless.”
“I certainly hope not,” murmured the other woman. “Well, get on with it before my conscience gets the better of me.”
“Do you require assistance, ma’am?”
They both jumped at the question. A thin young man, almost a boy, was beaming at them. “Oh! Er...”
“We have some novels over here,” he said, holding out one hand. “Poetry as well.”
“Have you anything for travelers?” Olivia asked, recovering first. “Perhaps Italy?”
The young man nodded, bobbing on his feet once more. “We do, we do indeed have a selection of books about Italy. Would you care to come this way?” He headed toward a back corner of the shop.
“Try to be quick,” Olivia breathed before following him.
Penelope took a quick peek around the bookcase. The shopkeeper, a rotund, pink-faced man, was attending to a tall man in a greatcoat. She remembered from Joan’s report that one had to ask specifically for the pamphlet, which meant she had to wait. Keeping her ears attuned to the murmur of conversation, she turned to the shelves in front of her. The books here were old and well-worn. In some cases the titles were rubbed off the spines entirely. She took down one, only to find it was a medical text, with horrifying engravings of bones. The next one she opened released a puff of dust that made her sneeze. She put it back with a grimace. What did her sister see in bookshops? Abigail could happily visit one every day, for some utterly unknown reason.
The bell sounded; the shopkeeper was escorting the tall man out the door, bowing and scraping all the while. He must have bought a great many books, from the shopkeeper’s solicitous manner. Her heart unaccountably hammering, Penelope stepped into his path as he turned back toward the counter.
He stopped at once. “Good day, madam. May I help you find something?”
“Yes,” she said, striving to sound very cool and poised. “Have you any issues of50 Ways toSin?”
“Ah.” He rocked back on his heels and patted his ample stomach. “I’m not certain. Very popular, those are. But if you’ll pardon me a few moments, I’ll have a look in the back.”
She nodded, and he hurried off. As he disappeared through the curtain behind the counter, she exchanged a glance with Olivia, who was studying a collection of books laid out on the counter by the clerk. Her friend gave a tiny nod, and asked the clerk if he had any more recent editions.
Penelope stationed herself at the other end of the counter and affected great interest in the button on her glove, straining her ears for any exclamations of discovery from the back room. She could hear rustlings and mutterings, but nothing that sounded like success. A few feet away, Olivia kept asking for other choices of travel memoirs. Penelope knew her friend was trying to draw it out as long as possible, to provide an excuse in case anyone came in. This shop was only a few steps from Bond Street, where any number of busybodies might be strolling right now, eyes alert for improper behavior.
Penelope knew she was risking extreme punishment;50 Ways to Sinwas the most wicked thing she’d ever read. In lush, erotic detail it recounted the many adventurous love affairs of Lady Constance, a lady of very flexible morals. Penelope’s mother had caught her reading it once before, and her wrath had been terrible to behold. First had come a long lecture on decent, modest behavior, all of which Penelope had already heard though she didn’t dare point that out. Then had come the stern reminders that even if she had no care for her own good name—which would only demonstrate what a feckless, silly girl she was—she should bear in mind her family’s reputation and how it would reflect on them. At the time Abigail had also been unwed, and it gave Penelope an honest pang to think she might tarnish her sister by association, but now Abigail was happily married, so that worry was eliminated. Even better, Abigail had married a man who endorsed her readings of50 Ways to Sin, contrary to her mother’s dire warnings that it would disgust gentlemen, so Penelope doubted she was hurting her chances of marriage by reading it.
Her mother had finished the lecture with an expression of deep disappointment that, after all her father had done to give her a comfortable life, Penelope had recklessly gone her own way and indulged her most prurient curiosity. To that, there was no argument. However much she might wish her life was more exciting, Penelope adored her father and didn’t want to disappoint him. She had sat in penitent silence, promising that she wouldn’t buy any more copies of the shocking story if only Mama wouldn’t tell him. To her relief, her mother had agreed, and then imposed a harsh sentence of social restriction that lasted for almost two months. Finally her penance had ended, though, and Penelope was allowed to go out without her mother or a trusted maid following her.
And here she was, breaking that promise only a few weeks later, almost tempting fate to punish her again. A part of her felt guilty, but that part wasn’t big enough to overrule the rest of her, the part that felt trapped in a box that seemed smaller every day. This visit wasn’t just about50 Ways to Sin, although it was the most deliciously wicked story imaginable; no, it was more about Penelope’s longing for excitement. Love and adventure seemed to be happening to everyone except her—or to Olivia, although Olivia expressed no interest in being the center of an illicit love affair or a clandestine adventure or anything exciting. As much as Penelope knew she was wrong to feel such urges, she couldn’t stop them, and sometimes they simply had to be indulged or she would burst.
Hence, here she was, doing something no decent young lady in London would dream of.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the shopkeeper came back with a flat package tied with string. “Here you are, madam. Number thirty-four.” He winked as he laid it on the counter.
She blinked, fighting to keep her voice calm. “Oh? Have you any copies of issue thirty-three as well?”
“No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. These do sell quite quickly, you know.”
“Yes.” She smiled, hoping her expression was still cool and poised. “I understand they do.” At the other end of the counter, Olivia was paging through a book. Penelope knew she wouldn’t buy it; Olivia rarely had funds to spare. Today, though, Penelope felt in such good charity with the world, she impulsively told the shopkeeper to add the cost of the travel book to her own purchase, and she paid for both before her friend could protest.
“Thank you, a hundred times thank you!” Penelope all but clapped her hands in glee when they were back in Madox Street. “Oh, wasn’t that a jolly trick?”
“I presume you were successful.” Olivia eyed the package in her hand.
Penelope laughed. “More than successful! I’ve read through issue thirty-two, but this is thirty-four. There’s another one out there.” It was at once thrilling and disappointing. Finding it would be a challenge, but on the other hand, she knew there was an issue to search for. It was surely a sign of how mundane her life was that she was this delighted at the prospect.
Olivia gaped at her. “You’ve read through—? Goodness, Penelope, where are you getting them?”
