Page 30 of Love in the Time of Scandal
He hadn’t expected Penelope to seize on his proposal with protestations of relief and gratitude. He knew her better than that.
However, things still hadn’t gone the way he anticipated, or hoped. He’d meant to charm her, persuade her, even woo her, just a little. For a moment it had seemed he was making progress. When he’d asked if she really hated him, she couldn’t bring herself to say yes. When she said Clary ought to be run down by a poultry wagon, he’d almost laughed aloud. Whatever her other faults, Penelope had a quick wit.
Of course, in the end she exercised it on him, and then she turned him down flat.
Was he mad to pursue this? Yes, they had once got on well together, but perhaps that had been merely a mood of hers. He thought of the summer day when they had gone with a group to Hampton Court. Benedict had remarked that the palace supposedly had ghosts, and Penelope immediately wanted to see the haunted corridors. It was exactly the sort of lark he’d loved as a boy, so together they set off while the rest of the party strolled in the gardens. For a moment it was crystal clear in his memory: the hazy warmth of the day, the hushed quiet inside the corridors, the gleeful look on her face when he’d put a finger to his lips, taken her by the hand, and led her down a corridor not open to visitors. For an hour, he and Penelope had trespassed and whispered and laughed together, sometimes hand in hand, as they sought out quieter and dimmer corridors to investigate for possible specters. That day there had been no trace of dislike or even disinterest in her manner. That day she had made him not just smile, but laugh out loud. That day she hadn’t wished openly for his absence, she’d gone off alone with him, happily and willingly. And for the first time he wondered what would have happened had he fixed his attention on her, and not on her sister...
Well. Perhaps he ought to give her some time to think about it. Whether she liked him or not, Benedict suspected her resolve to brave it out would waver once the gossip hit full stride.
It was just after dinner when that moment arrived, symbolized by a note from Thomas Weston. Benedict unfolded it, raising his eyebrows when he saw the signature at the bottom. It was short and terse, requesting a meeting the next morning in Green Park but giving no hint of what he wanted to discuss.
Benedict regarded it for a few minutes. It was possible Penelope had regretted her answer to him and told her father, who wanted to discuss the offer he’d made today. But in that event, he would expect a more solicitous and tempered query. This peremptory summons hinted at something else.
He might well end up married to Penelope after all, and sooner rather than later.
He reached the park early, but Thomas Weston was already pacing along the Queen’s Walk, head down and hands clasped behind his back. Benedict dismounted and gave his horse a long rein. “Good morning, sir.”
Weston looked up. “Atherton.” He made a sweeping motion with one hand. “I felt the need to walk.” Benedict fell in step beside him and waited.
“I expect you know why I wanted to see you,” said the older man after a minute.
Benedict murmured that he had some idea.
“I’ve thought of a dozen or more things I’d like to say,” said Weston, his gaze fixed ahead of him. “Most of them aren’t fit for female ears, and in my house there’s always a female listening, somewhere, somehow. The park seemed safer.” He shot a dark look at Benedict. “Frankly I never thought I’d have to have this sort of conversation with a gentleman of your caliber, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned as the father of two daughters, it’s that I shouldn’t expect anything to go as I think it ought to go. Our conversation some months ago, when you asked for Abigail, was exactly as I had anticipated such a conversation would be.” He threw up one hand. “That ought to have been my first warning. Abby’s a sensible, intelligent girl but even she has a way of setting her heart on something and doing whatever it takes to get it. I completely overlooked her determination.” He gave Benedict another look. “I won’t make the same mistaken presumption about Penelope.”
Perhaps it was best to clear the air. “Sir, when I asked for your daughter Abigail’s hand, I did so with the noblest intentions.”
“I always thought so.” Weston stopped and turned to face him, and for a moment Benedict wondered if he’d been summoned to Green Park so Weston could shoot him and dispose of his body in some remote corner. The man certainly looked capable of it at the moment. “But here we are, because of the decidedlylessnoble intentions you seem to have toward Penelope.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bloody hell. Had Clary decided to draw him into the mud as well? That would be the surest way to attract his father’s notice—and wrath. Benedict had hoped to avoid it.
“I heard what’s going around London.” There was a tic in Weston’s jaw as he spoke. “I know what people are saying about her. And I heard from my wife that you were with Penelope the night of—” He broke off. “I am not a fool, Atherton.”
“Of course not, sir.” He met Weston’s black glare evenly. “I heard the rumors, too. I warned her what might happen.”
“Tell me truly,” said the other man in a voice that trembled ever-so-slightly with anger. “Are they even remotely true? Did you seduce my daughter and expose her to the grossest humiliation?”
It was on the tip of Benedict’s tongue to tell Weston about Lord Clary, right now;hehadn’t assaulted her and saw no reason why he should take the blame for it. But he bit it back. Breaking her confidence was the wrong way to win her over. “No. I give you my word that I did not.”
“And yet that is the tale sweeping London,” retorted Weston. “That she was caught in the most compromising of positions. Your name is not publicly linked with the episode—yet—but I doubt it will take long.”
Benedict hesitated. It was unthinkable not to defend himself at all, but the wrong word now could spoil his chances. A different sort of father would have summoned him here to face him over pistols at dawn. Weston wasn’t that sort of father, apparently. “The person who started the rumor did so out of pique. Miss Weston was in some disarray, after her... fall when I came upon her and offered to help.”
“Her fall,” repeated Weston dourly. “I saw her. That disarray, as you so politely name it, was not from any slip on the stairs.” He saw Benedict’s quickly suppressed flicker of surprise, and jerked his head in a nod. “Yes, I know she lied to us. Penelope does that. Most of the time her little lies are harmless, and the Lord above knows I told my father enough of them as a young man that I deserve to hear a few from my children. And I admit, I allow it; she’s my youngest, and I’ve always had an extra weakness when it comes to her. But I would do anything to protect her, Atherton, and hang the consequences.”
Benedict heard that warning loud and clear. Thanks to his own father he was well attuned to veiled threats, and it was very easy to slip into the deferential mode that usually worked on the earl. “I completely understand, sir, and admire you all the more for it. But I fear...” This time he hesitated for effect. “Miss Weston didn’t wish to alarm you, but I fear in this instance she was mistaken in keeping the truth from you.”
“She usually is,” grumbled Weston. “What really happened?”
“I would tell you if I hadn’t given her my word that I wouldn’t,” he replied. “But—gentleman to gentleman—the culprit is not someone to cross lightly.”
Weston glared at him for a minute. For once Benedict was grateful to his father; the scrutiny of this man was nothing to that of the earl’s, who would ruthlessly pry any crack in his composure into a gaping wound. Weston loved his daughter; he tolerated her foibles and wanted to protect her, even though she’d lied to him, and that explained his glowering demeanor today. Benedict found he admired the man for it. It was nothing to face him calmly and patiently. For a moment he wondered if Penelope truly appreciated her father. She must not, if she’d not trusted him enough to tell him how Clary threatened her.
“I feared as much,” said Weston at last. “The story I heard wasn’t the usual tattle of idle ladies. My wife tells me the amusing rumors; how some forward wench tried to cozen a man into marrying her by letting the poor fool steal a kiss or put his hands on her, and the fortune hunters who try to trick silly girls into thinking they’re in love, just long enough to get them to Gretna Green. Penelope’s not that sort, nor would I be so quick to hand over my daughter to anyone who tried such nonsense. But this story... Atherton, I can’t let it go. It accuses my daughter of debauchery that would make a sailor blush. She’ll be the target of every rake and scoundrel in London. No respectable man will have her.”
Benedict just waited.
“Who started this tale?” demanded Weston after a moment. “You know who it is—tell me and I’ll deal with him until he publicly retracts this slander.”
