Page 77 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Why was he on the yacht?”
The countess paused at the urgency of his questions. “He said he’d come to look at a painting his lordship was considering selling. He expressed his sympathy and returned to town at once. Why?”
Benedict shook his head. Of course Clary would run; the bastard. There would be time to see justice done to Lord Clary later. “Father’s really dead?” he asked in a hushed voice, as if to say it too loudly would cause the earl to emerge, lip curled in scorn, from the Stratford carriage.
She sobered. “Yes.” To his astonishment, she tugged his head down and whispered in his ear, “He can never hurt you, or any of us, again.”
His throat closed up. He’d never actually wished his father dead—not much—but he certainly felt no sorrow. It was more like numb amazement. He embraced his mother a little tighter. “I’m not sorry,” he breathed.
A movement behind him caught his eye. Penelope stood watching in the doorway of the house. Everyone else had stayed tactfully away. But his wife was there, waiting, a thick shawl around her and an expression of watchful concern on her face. “But here—you must meet Penelope.”
The countess hung back. “She must have no good opinion of me...”
He looked toward his wife and crooked his hand. Without hesitation she started toward them. “Mother, she is the fairest, most generous person I’ve ever known. Be yourself and she will love you.”
She mustered a smile as Penelope reached them. Benedict drew his wife to his side. “Mother, you remember Penelope. Darling, my mother, the Countess of Stratford. Or I should say, the dowager countess.”
Penelope’s gaze flew to his. He’d told her Geoffrey’s report about his father, but also that he didn’t quite believe it. Without a word she dipped a curtsy. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance again, madam. I hope this time we shall truly get to know one another and become friends.”
His mother looked amazed; she glanced from one to the other. Benedict could see the moment she realized the truth. “My dear,” she said in a voice that quavered with emotion, “welcome to the family. I can see that my son adores you, and I can do no less.”
Penelope’s lips parted in surprised delight. “Your ladyship is too kind...”
“No,” said Benedict, grinning. He tipped up her chin and kissed her. “She is absolutely right.”
Epilogue
Three weeks later
The gardens were still beautiful, even muffled by the first frost of the year. The air was sharp and clear, and Benedict filled his lungs with it. For the first time in... ever, he was glad to be here.
Despite the public observance of mourning for his father, the halls of Stratford Court had never seemed lighter. In part that was because they were filled. Both his sisters had come for the funeral, and stayed to rebuild the bonds of family. Samantha and Gray planned to return to London soon, but Elizabeth and her husband, Lord Turley, were staying until after Christmas, when Elizabeth’s child was due. She had confided a wish to birth her baby here, with her mother by her side, something that would have been unthinkable a month ago. There was black crepe on the doors, but the house felt happier than he ever remembered.
Penelope came up beside him on the step leading down to the garden, and he slipped his arm around her waist. He’d begun doing it when she was still recovering from their harrowing swim through the Thames, and continued even after she insisted she was well because he liked it. Even better,sheliked it. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and gave a small sigh of happiness. Benedict smiled. He loved the feel of her beside him.
“I’ve sold the yacht,” he told her. “Lord Marsden had coveted it for some time, and he leapt when I offered it to him.” Marsden was Scottish. If he bought theDiana, there was little chance it would sail up and down the Thames. Benedict didn’t want to keep it, and he knew Penelope would never set foot on it again.
“I suppose that’s a better use for it than chopping it into kindling,” Penelope replied. “I hope you offered him a good price.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “If he’d only offered a year’s maintenance, it would have been a fair price.”
“A shilling would have sufficed,” she muttered, but then she smiled. “May he sail it in good health—his own and all his guests aboard.”
“May he sail it in good health around all the isles of Scotland.”
Penelope laughed, and together they walked out into the garden. The scent of lavender lingered. His mother had spoken of plans to cultivate more roses in the spring, and she’d drawn Penelope into her scheme. Together they had subjected him to a detailed description of the new garden arrangements until he put his hands on his ears and laughingly told them to do as they wished—which, he realized, had been what Penelope wanted all along. Her triumphant smile made up for any suspicion that he might have been manipulated. The budding friendship between his mother and his wife warmed Benedict’s heart more than any horticultural inconvenience could offset.
“I’ve been thinking of selling some other things,” he told her as they walked.
“Not our house in London,” she protested. “After we’d just got it so well arranged?”
He laughed. “Not the house in Margaret Street.” That was theirs, even if it was a bit small for an earl’s household. He led Penelope off the path and threw open the garden door, holding her a little closer when the wind from the river hit them as they left the enclosed garden. “Some land.”
For a moment she just stared at him, then her face softened in understanding. “How much land, my lord?”
“Close to eighty acres.” Across the rolling lawns, on the other side of the river, rose the hill, still wild and untamed. Near the crest one could just make out the chimneys of Montrose Hill House.
“I hope you ask a fair price,” she said again.
