Page 75 of Love in the Time of Scandal
Benedict forced himself to go on. “I told myself I didn’t know for certain, but the truth is that I didn’t want to risk angering my father. And—and partly because I hated you then.”
Sebastian stopped in his tracks. “Ben...”
“I hated you for being able to do what I could not,” he went on, feeling the lash of guilt, and the insidious ache of envy, all over again. “God, how I wanted to ride off with you to fight the French! I’d even have taken a crippling bullet in the leg. Instead I was stuck at home, where my father knew I didn’t want to be, and he made me writhe for longing to be somewhere else. Three days after you left he sent me to sack Mr. Samwell.”
Sebastian would remember Mr. Samwell, who had been steward at Stratford Court for years. Samwell had scolded them both many times for various pranks and transgressions. What neither of them realized—what Benedict didn’t admit—was that Samwell had been trying to spare them the earl’s wrath. The steward must have recognized the earl’s controlling, abusive nature long before Benedict knew what to call it, and he’d tried to keep both boys out of trouble. When Benedict had gone to tell him he’d lost his place, the old man had only sighed wearily and said he’d expected it for some time. And even though Benedict had delivered the earl’s message in full, that Samwell must be off the property by the next day or be chased off with a horsewhip, the steward didn’t turn on him.
“Why?”
Benedict only raised his hand uselessly in response to his companion’s incredulous question. “I don’t even know. His lordship never explains. But it was only the beginning of what he demanded. By the time you returned I had learned very well what would happen if I defied him.”
Sebastian’s probing gaze grew more compassionate.
“Penelope was right about me,” Benedict added in a low voice. “I was a coward for not standing by you. The sad truth is that I didn’t know how to defy him.” Until now.
“I suspect we both have much to regret,” said Sebastian. “Fortunately it is in the past.” He hesitated, then went on, “I never thanked you for your part in... everything.”
Benedict dared a quick glance at his former friend and saw nothing but calm assurance. But then, Sebastian must feel much the same way he did. Penelope had taken great delight in telling him how much Sebastian adored Abigail, and for the first time he truly appreciated how much love could improve a man’s outlook on life. “Thank you for taking us in last night.”
“Did you think we wouldn’t?”
Benedict shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t know.”
“Well.” Sebastian cleared his throat. “We are nearly brothers now.”
Benedict’s head jerked up. “I suppose we are.”
“Feels a bit like the wheel has turned full circle, doesn’t it?”
Slowly Benedict grinned. “It does. Happily.”
They walked on for a while. “Where are we going?” Sebastian asked as they drew near the water.
Benedict stepped down over a rocky ledge onto the narrow shore and held aside some saplings so Sebastian could negotiate the step. He shielded his eyes and looked left, then right. The sun sparkled off the river, and all the clouds had blown away. “When we made it to shore, I found a small cave. In all the years we explored these woods, did you ever know of one?”
“Never.”
Benedict nodded. “It’s not large—more of a gash in an outcropping of rock—but someone’s been using it. I found that bit of canvas there, and just wanted to have another look in daylight.”
Together they walked along the water’s edge for about a hundred yards. Finally the hulking shape of the boulder appeared. From this vantage point it just looked like part of the woods, covered with creeping vines and more green than rock. Even when he walked right up to it, the crevice didn’t become obvious until he could almost touch the stone. Exchanging a glance with Sebastian, who was a few steps behind, he carefully stepped into it.
There lay Penelope’s discarded dress, still wet. He kicked it aside to clear the path and lit the lantern, opening the shutter all the way to illuminate the space. Boris, who had been sniffing along the edge of the water, barked from the bank behind them, but quieted at a word from his master. Benedict followed the narrow passage; it seemed far shorter this morning. He handed Sebastian the lantern and bent down to examine the crates in the small chamber.
“Who would have guessed?” murmured Sebastian, gazing around. “Do you think it’s been in use recently?”
Benedict pushed over one of the crates. It was flat and wide, and when he checked the corners, there were bits of wool stuck to the wood. “I have a feeling it has been. The straw is fresh. I daresay the water doesn’t come in except at high tide, but there’s enough moisture for it to rot if left long enough.”
Sebastian tapped his cane against the broken wood. “Odd shape for a crate.”
Benedict stared at it. He’d seen that type of crate before, many times. All his life, a steady stream of pictures and statuary had come to Stratford Court. The earl had one of the finest collections of art in England. He was well-known for his eye for it, and just as feared for his ruthless pursuit of it. Stratford Court would have rivaled the Royal Academy in London if the earl had ever permitted anyone to see his collection. Of course he never did; in fact, he had his own private gallery where even his family was rarely invited. Heaven only knew what paintings were inside it. Benedict had seen it a few times as a boy. On occasion his father had brought him in to see a new masterpiece removed from its packing and installed for the earl’s pleasure. Benedict had been about thirteen when his father decided he had no eye for art—a grave failing in the earl’s eyes—and after that he hadn’t been permitted in the gallery.
“Not if it’s meant to hold a painting,” Benedict said.
For a moment there was silence, save for the faint rushing of the river. “Smugglers, do you think?” asked Sebastian at last.
He didn’t answer. His father owned this land. Despite it being eighty acres of good riverfront property, the earl hadn’t done a thing to it; it was even wilder than it had been when old Mr. Vane owned it. Benedict had thought his father simply didn’t care about it—why should he clear it and build on it when his own manicured estate lay just across the river?—but perhaps there was another reason. If a small boat were to stop here and unload crated works of art, perhaps at night, no one would notice. Skiffs crossed the river all the time, and besides, this was Stratford’s own land... But why would the earl need to go through that subterfuge?
“Sebastian,” he said, his voice loud in the enclosed space, “I don’t suppose there was a lot of looting in the war, was there?”
