Page 16 of Love in the Time of Scandal
And to top it all off, it seemed he’d somehow earned Penelope Weston’s animosity, which apparently hadn’t faded in the slightest.
The thought of Penelope revived his temper. That minx. Did she plan to bedevil him forever? No, he vowed at once; he couldn’t let her. He ignored the fact that his attempt at cordial reconciliation hadn’t gone well. This time she wouldn’t be left to gloat at his predicament without consequence. And so even though he knew he shouldn’t—even though he suspected no earthly good could possibly come of confronting her about her actions—he set off to find her.
Chapter 6
After some thought, Penelope decided it was better if she avoided Frances Lockwood’s company for a few days.
Partly it was cowardice. She didn’t want to listen to raptures about Frances’s engagement to Lord Atherton, or her excited wedding plans, or long, dreamy odes on how very handsome he was. As much as she wanted Frances to be happy, she didn’t think she could bear to listen to her friend go on and on about how Atherton adored her or the way he kissed her. Just the thought made her feel like flinging herself off a balcony.
But it was also partly discretion. She had a bad feeling she’d spoken too rashly, too recklessly at the Venetian breakfast. Penelope knew she was very fortunate to have parents who indulged—or at least tolerated—her dramatic tendencies and natural cheekiness. Frances was not as lucky, and if she followed Penelope’s lead, she could find herself in terrible trouble. Therefore, avoiding Frances wasn’t merely for her own sake, to avoid hearing Atherton’s name, but for Frances’s sake as well.
When they reached the Gosnold rout, she stuck by her mother instead of seizing the relative freedom she was afforded at parties to mingle with other young ladies. Her mother gave her a mildly surprised look, but took it in stride. Penelope stood at her mother’s side, a polite smile fixed on her face and feeling absolutely certain that her brain was slowly softening like butter left in the sun. Married ladies talked about nothing: Mrs. Archer shared a long anecdote about a vexing situation with a maid; Mrs. Heathcomb described, in minute detail, her new set of china; and Lady Danford couldn’t resist any opportunity to mention her daughter’s recent engagement to Baron Redmaine.
She knew they talked about more exciting things when they were alone. After all, she’d started reading50 Ways to Sinafter overhearing a tantalizing bit of conversation among these same ladies. It had taken her a whole week of surreptitious searching to find her mother’s copy of the wicked story, which was even more risqué than she’d expected. For a few minutes she indulged in imagining what would happen if she asked them all what they’d thought of issue thirty-four, where Constance found her pleasure in a carriage.
Thankfully, a familiar face caught her eye before she could give in to the dangerous urge. She leaned toward her mother. “Mama, I see Olivia over there. May I join her?” At her parent’s nod, she slipped through the crowd, keeping a careful distance from the dancers, who had recently included Lord Atherton with Frances Lockwood. Resolutely she kept her gaze away, focused on Olivia. It was a surprise to see her here, although a welcome one. Olivia wasn’t always invited to routs and balls, and Penelope suspected she didn’t even attend all the ones she was invited to. Abigail had once told her Olivia couldn’t afford the wardrobe for it, which was partly why the sisters made a point of buying small gifts for her. Mr. Weston could well afford the purchase of another bonnet or pair of gloves, and it enabled his daughters to see their friend more often.
But there was something off about Olivia tonight. She stood alone near the doorway, and instead of wearing her usual warm smile and air of enjoyment, her face was pale and almost grim. Now that Penelope thought about it, she’d seen that look on Olivia’s face before, especially when she thought no one was watching her. Penelope frowned; what was wrong? Tonight Olivia seemed to be searching for someone. Her gaze was roving over the room, but then stopped. She gave a tiny nod before turning and slipping out of the room.
Penelope craned her neck, trying to deduce at whom Olivia had nodded. There was a cluster of gentlemen in the general area, some of them frightfully handsome and rakish. Questions blossomed in her mind: Was Olivia having an affair? She started to smile in astonishment at this possibility, but then remembered her friend’s expression. That made her frown. Surely Olivia would have looked more pleased—even eager—if she was meeting one of those handsome rogues for a tryst. Still frowning, she followed her friend out of the drawing room.
The Gosnold house was spacious and grand, with the staircase in a sweeping central hall. Penelope just caught sight of Olivia as she vanished down it. It took forever to descend against the flow of guests still arriving and going up. At the bottom Penelope turned left, but that only led toward the servants’ stair, so she went through the hall and down the opposite corridor.
This part of the house wasn’t open for guests. It was quiet and rather dim away from the rout. Penelope hesitated, then heard a door open and close ahead somewhere. Curiosity and a trace of concern propelled her forward. She’d be careful; the last thing she wanted to do was interrupt something amorous, but her imagination was capable of supplying many more unpleasant possibilities. Someone could be blackmailing Olivia, or threatening her, or simply harassing her.
At the door Penelope stopped to listen. A faint murmur of voices came through the wood, a man’s deeper voice and after a long pause a female voice. Penelope strained her ears. There was another silence, then a gasp... and then a sob. Her eyes grew round and she listened even harder, pressing her ear to the wood. “Please,” she made out Olivia saying. “Don’t make me do this...”
Without hesitation Penelope grasped the doorknob and turned it.
Olivia stood facing the door. The man behind her had one arm around her waist, and his other hand around her throat as he pressed his face to the side of her neck. When Penelope opened the door, the sudden burst of light made her friend turn away, but not before Penelope saw the anguish on her face. Any worry that she’d interrupted a romantic rendezvous vanished from her mind. She stepped boldly into the room.
“Olivia,” she said brightly. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Olivia wrenched free and stumbled several steps forward. For a moment she just stood, visibly trembling, her hands pressed flat to her skirt. She kept her chin down, but not far enough to hide the red imprint of fingers on her neck. “Yes. Here I am.”
The man who’d been holding Olivia slowly raised his head and glared at Penelope. With a shock of disgust, she recognized Simon, Lord Clary. He was only a viscount, but had excellent connections. His wife was a duke’s daughter, and his mother came from an illustrious naval family. He was widely regarded as a handsome man: black hair, expertly brushed around his high, pale forehead. Deep, dark eyes. A long, aristocratic nose. A mouth that looked carved from stone. He was aloof, mysterious, and always wore an expression that suggested he was faintly bored by everyone nearby. Some thought he was madly attractive. Privately, Penelope thought he looked like the devil. That was not the dark and dangerous air she found appealing. In fact, it was more like menace.
“Mrs. Jennings was looking for you,” Penelope went on in the same obliviously cheery tone. “She was admiring the bonnet you wore the other day and I believe she meant to ask where you got your trimmings.” It was all a lie, and Olivia would know that; neither of them knew anyone called Mrs. Jennings.
Olivia glanced at Clary. Her face was dead white. “Thank you,” she said, very softly. Clary made a noise like a growl, and she leapt backward. Her eyes glittered, and Penelope realized it wasn’t anger or fear driving her friend, but hatred. Without another word Olivia whipped around and all but ran out the door, clutching her skirts.
Penelope stared after her in amazement. What in blazes? She took a step after Olivia, but was brought up short when Lord Clary seized her arm.
“You’re a forward wench,” he said quietly.
“I’m not a wench, I’m a young lady,” she returned. “And I didn’t think it was forward to speak to one of my dearest friends, which Mrs. Townsend is.”
“Mrs. Townsend was engaged in a private conversation—which you interrupted.”
“Did I?” Penelope made her eyes very round and wide like a ninny. “Good heavens, sir, I had no idea! I’m dreadfully sorry.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Are you?” he murmured at last. “How sorry?”
Not as sorry as I am to be still talking to you, she thought. “Profoundly sorry. In fact, I’m quite prostrate with shame and regret. I feel faint from it, in fact—oh dear, I may swoon! I’d better find my mother at once!” She tried to pull out of his grip, thinking it was time to retreat.
“We wouldn’t want that.” Lord Clary reached past her to push the door closed. “You must sit down.” With an iron grip on her arm, he yanked her across the room to an armchair, spun her around, and shoved her into it. And as Penelope tried to catch her breath, he went down on one knee in front of her and braced his hands on the arms of the chair. “Did she bid you follow her into this room?”
“Who? Mrs. Townsend?” Penelope forced herself to stay calm, when she really wanted to poke him in the eye and run for it. “Of course not.”
