Page 69 of Love in the Time of Scandal
Stratford’s expression revealed nothing. “See that she’s cooperative.”
Without another word Benedict turned to go belowdecks. He knew this had been a mistake; whatever Stratford wanted, he wanted badly. Benedict had known there was some unspoken reason the earl wanted them at Stratford Court, but he’d—stupidly—thought it would involve him. He was certain Penelope had no inkling of what Stratford might want. Benedict himself couldn’t begin to imagine what his wife could possibly know that Stratford would be desperate to discover... And then a man—a man Benedict didn’t want within ten miles of Penelope—came around the deck.
Bloody hell.
His heart bounded into his throat as he bolted across the slippery, tilting deck and flung himself down the stairs. Lord Clary’s presence alone would be enough to put up his guard, but they’d been at sail for two hours. That meant Clary had been waiting below, in the cabin where Stratford had urged Penelope to go. Benedict threw open the cabin door, praying she was safely within, but what he saw was worse: her wet cloak and bedraggled bonnet, but no sign of Penelope herself.
The sails snapped loudly overhead as he pounded up to the deck again, shielding his eyes against the rain to search frantically for her. TheDianawas not a large craft; there weren’t many places to hide. He ducked under the boom to see around the straining sails, but she was nowhere.
His father and Clary were still behind the helm, having a fierce discussion. Benedict stalked up to them and seized Clary’s coat. “Where is my wife?”
Clary tried to brush him off, his face taut with fury. “Unhand me.”
Benedict gave him a hard shake. “Where?”
Clary wrested free and glared at him, then at Stratford. “She’s an obstinate creature—”
“You said you could persuade her,” cut in Stratford. “Must I do everything personally? Bring her up here and I’ll get the truth from her.”
A muscle twitched in Clary’s jaw. “I’ve already dealt with her.”
Benedict lunged at him again. “Where is she? The cabin is empty.Where is my wife?”
A hateful smirk spread over the man’s face. “Lost your bride, Lord Atherton? How convenient for you.”
“Fetch the girl, Clary,” said Stratford coldly. “My patience is running thin.”
Clary just kept smirking, and the reason dawned on Benedict with horrible certainty. He wheeled around, scanning the water off the starboard side of the boat, then off the port side. The river was choppy and turbulent, and the foaming of constantly breaking waves obscured anyone in it.
“Where is she?” snapped the earl.
“You should thank me, both of you,” retorted Clary. “Atherton has her fortune, and now you can choose a proper bride for him. I’ll find Mrs. Townsend another way.”
Without hesitation Benedict drew back his fist and drove it into Clary’s smug face. He didn’t wait to savor the view of the viscount going down on his knees, blood streaming from his nose, but stripped off his greatcoat as he rushed back to the rail. His hat had fallen off already. Feverishly he searched the river, tearing off his coat and waistcoat. There—was that a head, bobbing above the waves? Penelope’s dress was white, and there was something white in the water. He kept his gaze on it, not even daring to blink.
His father seized his arm as Benedict yanked off one boot, then the other. “What the devil are you doing?”
“I’m going after her. And when I come back, I’m going to put a bullet into your accomplice.” His eyes stung from staring at the point in the water where he thought—he hoped—a figure was struggling against the current.Please God, let that be Penelope, he prayed. How long since she’d left the deck? The wind was whisking the yacht along at a good pace. The river wasn’t very wide at this point but it could be dangerous, even on a clear, calm day. He’d swum across it more times than he could count as a boy, fleeing his father and escaping to the woods on Montrose Hill to pretend he was an orphan washed up on a wild and distant shore.
Stratford grabbed him again, this time forcing him around. “You will not go after her. I will deal with that idiot Clary—he knew I wanted to talk to her—”
“Yet instead he pushed her into the river.”
The earl brushed that aside with an impatient jerk of his head. “And in this water she’s lost. Don’t be a fool!” His gray hair was wild from the wind. “You are my son—myheir. How dare you risk yourself?”
Here at last was the paternal concern he’d always imagined Stratford must feel, somewhere deep inside, and it made Benedict want to kill him. Feeling it would be the last time they ever came face to face, one way or another, he threw off his father’s restraining hand. “I’d rather die trying to save her than live as your heir.” He stepped up onto the rail and dove over the side.
Chapter 24
The Thames was shockingly cold. Penelope almost gasped out her shallow breath as the frigid water closed over her head. For a paralyzed moment, everything—including her own heart—seemed to stop. She could see theDianagliding past her, almost right over her, blotting out the gray light of the sky. She could see Lord Clary turn his back and disappear, without even a flicker of regret that he’d tossed her into the river. Then the wake of the boat went over her, and she felt herself falling deeper into the cold, dark water.
With a jerk she thrust out her arms. Jamie had taught her and Abigail to swim, long ago. It was the summer she was six or seven, and they’d gone for an extended visit to her grandparents’ home in Somerset. There was a pond where all three Weston children went to fish and wade, and their mother had charged Jamie with making sure his sisters didn’t fall in. After he had to pull Penelope out—twice—Jamie declared that either they would learn to swim or he wouldn’t take them to the pond. Penelope had loved swimming. Abigail didn’t want to put her head under water, but Penelope would strip off her dress and jump right in, reveling in the freedom of movement and the feeling of weightlessness.
But floating on her back, giggling with her sister and trying to surreptitiously splash her brother, was a very different thing than fighting the current in the Thames, fully dressed and several years out of practice. She managed to get her head above water, but only had time to take a single deep breath before another ripple of the wake submerged her.
Slowly, clumsily, her muscles began to remember. She kicked and circled her arms, trying to angle her body so it would naturally float. When she broke the surface again, she almost cried from the relief of it.
But now what? Her skirts were weighing her down. The current was dragging her farther and farther from the boat. She had no idea where she was, or how far away the shore was. When she flipped onto her stomach and began paddling, her heart sank at the realization that the riverbank looked very far away.
