Page 31 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“I don’t think he would.” He had a feeling Clary would never retract the story, no matter what Weston did to him. “I fear any attempt to get him to retract would only make people talk about it more.”
Weston growled under his breath, striding along with barely contained fury. “I don’t like my other options.”
There were most likely only two. One was for Penelope to leave town for an extended time. That had the disadvantage of making the rumors appear true, or close enough to true that it wouldn’t matter. Even though Penelope had suggested fleeing London herself, he doubted she would really do it. He had an easier time picturing her attacking Lord Clary with a fireplace poker than slinking off to the country in shame.
The other option was marriage. Since Benedict had never been Thomas Weston’s confidant before today, he guessed the man was leaning toward that second option, with Benedict doing the honorable thing. Given that this aligned perfectly with his own desires, he had no real objection. It wasn’t how he’d hoped to achieve his goal, but perhaps the end justified the means...
“The trouble is, Penelope doesn’t care much for you.” Weston stopped and faced him again. “Or so she says. I can’t bear to give my child to a man she doesn’t want, but neither can I sit idly by and let her sink into ruin and shame. You, sir, are the solution to my quandary, one way or another. Either give me the name of the blighter who’s telling lies about my daughter, or persuade me that you can make her happy.”
“I cannot do either before I speak to Penelope.” But Benedict’s heart skipped a beat. He remembered Penelope’s laughter as he whispered to her about the naughty Tudor ghosts. He remembered the way she’d blushed bright red when Frances Lockwood accused her of wanting him for herself. Somehow he didn’t think her antipathy ran as deep as she claimed.
Not that it mattered much. She was in a desperate spot, and he was her only ally.
Weston gave a curt nod. “Very well. But you’d best come out of that conversation prepared to do one or the other. I promise you won’t like the consequences otherwise.” He waved one hand. “No time to waste.”
Penelope would not willingly have admitted it, but she was immensely grateful to Lord Atherton for one thing. He’d warned her, privately, about the nightmare that was about to destroy her life, and given her time to brace herself.
She’d dashed off a frantic letter to her sister as soon as she and Mama returned from the shopping expedition, with the result that Abigail reached Grosvenor Square almost at the same time the horrid rumors did. When she heard Abigail’s voice in the hall, Penelope lurched off the sofa and ran from the room as fast as she could on her still-tender ankle. “Abby!”
“Oh, Penelope.” Abigail opened her arms and let Penelope fling herself into them. For a moment she just wallowed in the relief. Abigail was only a year older than she, and they had been the closest of friends before Abigail’s marriage. Only when her sister was gone did Penelope realize how much she depended on her.
“Thank you,” she said, finally releasing her sister and stepping back. “I’m so glad you came!”
Abigail smiled. “As if I wouldn’t! I’ve never received a letter with more exclamation points and underscored words.”
“I’ve never written a more desperate one,” Penelope replied. “If I could have made it burst into flames when you finished reading it, I would have done so.”
Her sister laughed. “Then let’s have a cup of tea and you can explain it better. Some parts were indecipherable.”
Penelope grimaced as they went back into the small parlor. Given her state of mind when she wrote that letter, it was a small miracle Abigail could read any of it. “I don’t know that I can explain it any better now.”
“Try,” said her sister with a patient smile. “What have you got yourself into, Pen?”
“A great lot of trouble,” she admitted. “I didn’t mean to!”
“You never do. What happened?”
Penelope made a face, but she let it go. The whole wretched story, from Frances Lockwood’s infatuation to Lord Atherton’s actions and warning, came rushing out. The only part she withheld was how Viscount Clary had been mistreating Olivia, and that only because Olivia had explicitly begged her not to tell Abigail. Her sister listened intently, with only an occasional question. By the time she finished, Penelope felt as if a great weight had lifted off her—probably only for a few moments, but it felt so wonderful to unburden herself, she didn’t care.
“My,” murmured Abigail at the end. “That is quite a tangle. And Mama doesn’t know?”
Penelope shook her head.
Her sister sighed. “You’d better tell her. You know she’ll hear it eventually.”
“Agreed—but I would rather have a response in mind when I tell her, to spare me from being murdered on the spot.” Abigail gave her a doubtful look, and Penelope flushed. “And I also kept hoping I wouldn’t need to tell her.”
“Not a good gamble, Pen.”
She groaned. “So what should I do?”
Abigail took her time fussing over another cup of tea. That alone warned Penelope that she wouldn’t like her sister’s response. “Did Lord Atherton tell you precisely what the rumors are?”
She shuddered. “They’re terrible; every sort of wicked lasciviousness you can imagine. Worse than Lady Constance’s stories. But he said his name wasn’t part of them,” she added, with a silent sigh of relief that she’d been spared that.
Abigail’s brow wrinkled. “But you said Frances Lockwood accused you of stealing him. How long do you think before she repeats that, especially when the other rumor spreads?”
Penelope’s throat felt tight. It still hurt, deeply, that Frances would think that of her. She pleated a fold of her skirt and stared out the window until she could speak. “May I come live with you? For the rest of this year, and perhaps next as well?”
