Page 2 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Very good,” the earl told her. “Do you know how?”
Elizabeth’s terrified gaze veered to him. Benedict managed to give her an infinitesimal shake of his head before their father turned on him. “Benedict says he does not know,” Stratford said sharply. “Do not look at him for answers, Elizabeth.”
In the moment the earl’s back was turned to them, Elizabeth nudged her sister and touched one finger to her lips. Samantha’s green eyes grew round and she moved closer to Elizabeth, reaching for her hand.
Stratford turned back to his daughters. “Do either of you know?” Elizabeth blinked several times, but she shook her head. “Samantha?” prodded their father. “It would be a sin not to answer me.”
Samantha’s expression grew worried. Benedict’s throat clogged and his eyes stung. He took a breath to calm his roiling nerves and spoke before his sister could. “It was my fault, Father.”
“Your fault?” Fury flashed in the earl’s face though his voice remained coldly calm. “How so, Benedict?”
What should he say? If the earl didn’t believe his story, he’d be whipped for lying, his sister would be punished for the actual crime, the nursemaid would be sacked for not keeping better watch over her charges, and his mother would be excoriated for hiring the nursemaid at all. Of course, confessing to the crime would get him whipped anyway. All over an ugly statue that everyone tried to avoid seeing.
A fine sweat broke out on his brow. Boys at school told of lying to deny their misdeeds, but how did one lie to claim a crime? He would have to ask, next term. Not that it would help him now.
His breath shuddered. “It was a cricket ball, sir. I was tossing it and—and it got away from me so I lunged to catch it—” His stomach heaved. He’d be whipped hard for this. “I apologize, sir.”
For a long moment Stratford stared at him in the narrow-eyed flinty way he had. Like a hawk, he seemed not to need to blink. “When did this carelessness occur?”
“Not long ago, Father.” His heart was pounding painfully hard, but he made himself continue. Elizabeth looked like she would cry, and that would help neither of them. “I was trying to find a maid to fetch a broom so I could sweep it up.”
The blow on the back of his head made him flinch. “Viscounts do not sweep,” snapped the earl. “Fetch a broom, indeed!”
“No, Father,” he whispered.
“Nor do they lie and attempt to conceal their sins!” The second blow was harder, but he was ready for that one. The earl paced around him, his coattails swinging. “Elizabeth, where is your nursemaid?”
“In the garden, Father.” Her thin voice quavered.
“Return to her with your sister, and do not wander off again.” He turned back to Benedict. “Come with me.”
Elizabeth shot him an anguished glance as she took Samantha’s hand. He saw Elizabeth stoop and grab a doll, lying almost out of sight one step down, as they hurried down the stairs. It was her favorite doll, with the blue silk dress and the painted wooden head with real hair. He hoped she shook the broken glass out of the doll’s clothing.
It was a long walk to the earl’s study. Benedict counted every step to keep his mind from what was to come, his gaze fixed on his father’s heels striding in front of him. Twenty-two steps down to the ground floor. Fortysteps to the north. Eleven to the west. Six to cross his father’s study and standbefore the wide, polished desk with the ornate pen and inkstand.
“I cannot abide liars, Benedict.” The earl walked around his desk to the wide windows that looked out toward the river. “You should know that by now.”
Benedict stole a glance out the windows. The river glittered placidly, invitingly. It was a beautiful summer day and he’d finished his lessons early, planning to take the punt across the river to the wilder bank. His friend Sebastian was probably sitting up in the old oak tree right now, dangling his feet over the water and waiting for him to come. They’d recently begun a determined search for a long-lost legendary grotto. Everyone said it had been filled in years ago, but Lady Burton, who owned the estate where the grotto had been—and hopefully still was—had granted them permission to look for it. Benedict was secretly sure that grotto would prove the perfect spot to hide when his father was in a fury. If he knew where it was, he’d run from the room right now, call to his sisters to follow him, and row them all across the river. They could stay in the grotto indefinitely; Sebastian would smuggle them food from his house, and they would never return to Stratford Court again. After a while they would send a note to their mother, and then she, too, would run away and join them in the woods. The four of them could live there forever, climbing trees and washing in the river, and never facing another thrashing over a broken statue or anything else.
The earl lifted the thin rod that stood against the window frame, bursting the moment of wishful thinking. “Not only a liar, but a careless one as well. That statue is irreplaceable. And yet you didn’t come to confess at once. I must have been remiss, if you thought that would escape my notice.” He circled the desk. “Nothing escapes my notice.”
“No, sir.”
“Well?” The rod slashed down and made a loud crack against his lordship’s boot. “What are you waiting for?”
Benedict cast one more longing glance at the river and the distant woods before closing his eyes. It would be at least a week before he could escape to them now. Gingerly he laid his hands flat on the desk and braced himself.
“I grow tired of this, Benedict. I expect more from you.”
“I know, sir,” he whispered, ashamed that his voice shook. His father despised weak, fearful people.
“No,” said the earl quietly. “I don’t think you do—yet.” He raised the rod and began.
It was dark when his bedroom door opened. “Ben?” whispered Elizabeth nervously. “Are you awake?”
He raised his head, wincing as his back throbbed anew. “Yes.”
There was a rustle and the door closed with a quiet click. “I managed to save a bit of milk.” She crouched down next to his bed and held up the cup. “I think Nanny looked the other way on purpose.”
