Page 33 of Love in the Time of Scandal
She cleared her throat. “I don’t precisely know. I saw them dancing, looking in good charity with each other, and then I left the room. After the—theincident, when Mrs. Lockwood was glaring down her nose at me, Atherton said Frances had declared she never wanted to see him again. But I swear, Abby, I have no idea what happened. He didn’t tell me, and Frances... I don’t think Frances will ever speak to me again.” And that hurt. Penelope was aware of her own faults, but disloyalty was not one of them. Frances was—had been—her friend, and she never ever would have tried to attract any man who was courting her friend. The unvarnished betrayal in Frances’s eyes when she accused Penelope of lying about that cut very deeply.
“Not to be harsh, Pen, but that seems like the least of your worries at the moment.”
She knew it. Unfortunately she had no idea what to do about Clary. Hopefully he would tire of telling lies about her quickly. Hopefully a duke’s daughter would elope with a footman, or two peers would come to blows in Parliament. Any of those things would give people something far more interesting to talk about. “I know, although I miss having her friendship. But what am I to do about the rest?”
“Short of following Lord Atherton’s suggestion?” Penelope made an impatient gesture, and Abigail sighed. “You could marry someone else. You could persuade Jamie to take you to Italy for a few years. Or you could cut off your hair and live as a man for the rest of your life.”
Penelope’s jaw sagged open. “I meant within reason!”
“It would be very reasonable to marry someone else.”
“But who?” Real alarm stirred in her breast. Somehow she had been sure her sister would have a sensible yet acceptable alternative, because Abigail always did. Penelope would have spent her entire childhood being punished if not for her sister talking her into schemes which were just as exciting, yet somehow less dangerous, than her own ideas. Spend a few years in Italy with her brother? She’d rather live as a man, if it came down to that.
“Penelope, I don’t know,” Abigail said. “Since you haven’t got a more appealing suitor at the ready, I think your best choice is to graciously accept Lord Atherton’s proposal and make the best of it. You might come to revise your low opinion of him. Try to remember how you liked him when he first came to Hart House. Remember how entertaining he was when he took us to Hampton Court and tried to find a ghost for your amusement.” Penelope opened her mouth to protest, and Abigail held up one hand to stop her. “Sebastian doesn’t hold his behavior against him, and Sebastian was the wronged party. How can you be less willing to forgive? Not only has he done you no wrong, he’s offering to do you a very great favor.”
Penelope clamped her mouth shut and stared down at her hands. She couldn’t very well tell her sister that it was for her own peace of mind that she clung to her dislike. Abigail might decide that constituted permission to meddle.
As she was searching for a reply, the door opened to admit their mother. She was pale and held herself stiffly erect as she closed the door, very carefully, behind her. “Penelope,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “I have heard the most dreadful thing—your father just told me—did you...?” She paused, visibly fighting for composure. “Did you behave as people are suggesting?”
It was all there in her mother’s face; Mama knew, and apparently Papa did, too. She was doomed. “No, ma’am,” she whispered anyway, shrinking into her chair.
Mama gave her a look of pure disbelief, although that faded quickly. With jerky steps she crossed the room and sank into a chair. “I am completely at a loss. I can tell by your face that you know exactly what I’m referring to.” Cowed, Penelope gave a tiny nod. Mama’s throat worked. “And yet you chose not to tell me.”
Never had Penelope felt such searing shame, or such regret that she’d put something off. She’d had no idea how to bring it up; she’d had no idea how to respond.
Abigail stepped into the charged silence. “We were just discussing how to deal with it, Mama—”
“When I want your advice, I will ask for it, Abigail,” said her mother icily. “This is about Penelope, and why she did nothing even though she knew there were rumors out there calling her the very loosest and immoral of women!”
“I didn’t know how to tell you, Mama,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“And so you said nothing?” Mama’s eyes flashed with wrath, and her voice rose with each word. “Not even a hint? Not even in confidence? How could you?” She shook her head. “You lied to me. A slip on the stair at the Gosnolds’ party. A turned ankle. I trusted you, Penelope, and I believed you. What a foolish thing!”
Her mouth was dry. “I didn’t want you to worry... I didn’t think anything would come of it...”
“And what do you think now?” snapped Mrs. Weston. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, raising her clasped hands to her chin. Penelope knew that look; it was the Praying for Patience look, and her mother was only driven to it in dire situations. A frisson of alarm went through her. That look meant the worst was yet to come.
And then it did. The door opened and her father stepped into the room, followed a moment later by Lord Atherton.
“Abigail,” said Papa. “I need to speak with your mother and sister.”
His tone brooked no argument, nor any reply at all. Her sister all but ran from the room, with only a brief sympathetic glance at her. Penelope got to her feet, feeling like Joan of Arc must have felt when she saw the bonfire prepared for her. Atherton was watching her far too closely for comfort. The fact that he was here at all was very bad.
Papa turned to her. “What were you thinking, child?”
Her father’s disappointment crushed whatever defiance she had left. Penelope adored her father, and the expression on his face was utterly disillusioned. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t know what would happen... I was going to tell you...”
“You might have guessed that it warranted telling me or your mother, in warning if nothing else!” He ran one hand over his face. “Not that it matters. The only question now is how to mitigate the disaster.”
Penelope avoided looking at Lord Atherton, though facing her parents was no better. “I’m thinking of running away to the West Indies.” At this moment, any far-off colony, even with tropical insects and cannibalistic natives, sounded inviting.
“Do not be smart with me!” warned her father. “Who started those malicious rumors?”
She couldn’t resist a shocked peek at the viscount. He hadn’t told. At her glance, he raised one brow slightly and cocked his head toward Papa, as if in invitation for her to denounce Clary. She hovered in horrible indecision; if she told Papa, it might save her. But then again, it might not. Clary had disdained her father. What if Papa called him out and they fought a duel and Clary killed him? Penelope pictured her mother, weeping brokenheartedly over her father’s body lying dead in the grass on Hampstead Heath, and bit down on her lip. Oh God. She’d made a thorough mess of this, and she couldn’t let her father suffer for it. “I can’t, Papa.”
“Yes, you can, and you will.”
Her mind was running feverishly. Maybe she could say something, if not quite the truth, that would let her slip free of the noose. She could say Clary had been drunk and accosted her in the hallway, and was now lying to cover his own rude behavior. She could say it was some other man whose face she never saw. She could even blame Frances and suggest it was done out of pique, just a fit of female jealousy—she gave her head a shake to dislodge that idea. Too late she realized there was no good explanation, and if Papa had brought Lord Atherton here, he knew it, too. “I don’t think it would do any good to tell you, Papa,” she said softly. “Even if he would retract it, the damage has been done.”
