It Takes a Scandal (39 page)

“Abby, will you tell me where the grotto is?” Penelope asked as they walked.

“Why?”

Her sister shrugged. “Curiosity.”

Abigail wondered if Sebastian had left the rug and cushions there. But she also remembered the glass mosaic, and the thrill of finding it. “It’s just past the Fragrant Walk, down the hill. I expect there was once a path leading to it, but Sebastian cleared the brush away. It’s not difficult to find now.”

Penelope nodded. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to see it,” she began, but Penelope waved one hand.

“Oh! I just wondered. It might come in handy to know.”

It might. If her parents persisted, it might be the only place she could meet Sebastian. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told Penelope . . . But she looked at her sister’s face, determined and fearless as they strode through a darkening forest to try to clear Sebastian’s name, and decided that was ludicrous. She trusted Penelope.

They reached Montrose Hill at the same time Boris found them. He gave a happy bark and bounded over, tail wagging. Penelope stopped dead, but Abigail laughed and let him lick her hands and face before rewarding him with a piece of ham she’d filched from her dinner plate. And then Sebastian was there, obviously setting out for his evening walk. He swept her into his arms without a word. Abigail burrowed into his beloved form, heedless of her sister watching or Boris nosing at her pockets for more treats.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again for an age,” he whispered, his lips light on her earlobe.

“It
has
been an age, to my mind.”

He gave a low laugh and released her. “What are you doing here?” He included Penelope in his question.

“We’re here to find the stolen money,” Penelope told him.

Abigail nodded. “If my father won’t consent because he fears you’re a thief, we’ll just have to prove you aren’t.”

Sebastian looked startled, then his lips quirked. “I had the same thought. Unfortunately, I’ve pondered it for seven years with no luck. And after so long . . .”

“Well, we know who took the money: Lady Samantha.”

Sebastian stared. “How—?”

“We went to see her today. She was glad to confess, I think. She got your note and said she didn’t know what to do, but in the end she told us.” Abigail repeated everything she could remember from Samantha’s confession.

Sebastian’s jaw was clenched by the end, and he stared toward the river. “So she really was here. I didn’t think she could have been, but . . . she let my father out.” Abigail remembered him blaming himself for not locking the door that night, and felt a foolish burst of gratitude that she’d managed to lift that one bit of guilt from his shoulders.

“What was her last note to you?” piped up Penelope. “Your letter mentioned it.”

He gave a humorless half smile. “She wrote to say she’d found a solution to my problem and would I please call on her. Of course I never went—I wouldn’t have been allowed to see her in any event. Her brother made that clear enough.” He glanced over his shoulder as the sound of hoofbeats thudded down the drive. “Speak of the devil.”

Benedict Lennox, Lord Atherton, swung down from his horse and glared at them. “Searching hard already, I see.”

“What brings you to Montrose Hill?” asked Sebastian. Boris growled at the newcomer, and Abigail noted Sebastian did nothing to stay the dog.

Atherton shot a black look at Penelope. “A bribe.”

Penelope just smiled, coy and sweet.

“I think we can manage well enough on our own,” said Sebastian coolly. This time he wasn’t making any effort to hide his dislike. “Go home, Ben.”

Atherton’s answering grin was fierce. “Let’s have a look for the money first, Bastian.”

Boris’s growl grew louder.

“I’m glad for any help,” declared Abigail, reaching down to scratch the dog’s ears. “Lord Atherton, thank you for coming. It’s very decent of you.”

“Not really,” said Sebastian under his breath.

“I look forward to returning Lord Stratford’s funds so he can put a public end to that ridiculous rumor,” Abigail went on firmly. “I have an idea where we should look: the mausoleum.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I searched there that night. I follow your logic, but I searched everywhere. He wasn’t there.”

“But you were looking for your father, not a leather satchel full of guineas,” she argued. “Have you been there since?”

He hesitated. “No.”

Because it was now on Lord Stratford’s land. She turned to Atherton in triumph. “Have we your permission to go there?”

“By all means.” He knotted his horse’s reins. “Let’s be done with it.”

Sebastian hesitated, then shrugged. He muttered something about lanterns and headed toward the stables. Abigail took the chance to speak to Lord Atherton. Her former suitor was occupied with tending his horse, and didn’t look at her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“I’ve not done anything yet.”

“But you came.” She reached out to touch his arm, then stopped. “I’m sorry—”

“Samantha is set on confessing to our father,” he said brusquely. “If the money is returned at the same time, he won’t be as angry.”

She blinked. “Will he punish her?”

“Yes.”

Oh dear. “Will he hurt her?” she asked hesitantly.

Atherton shrugged. “Some. Not much. I, on the other hand, expect to be horsewhipped. Are we ready to go yet?”

Sebastian came back, lanterns glowing in his hands. “It’s a good distance.”

“How fortunate I have no other engagements this evening,” returned Atherton. He held out his hand, and after a pause Sebastian gave him a lantern. “Lead on, Vane.”

T
hey were a mostly quiet party as they walked. Sebastian thought this was the most quixotic endeavor imaginable. Like Abigail, he, too, had arrived at the idea that Samantha might know something. He’d written to her, hoping against hope she would tell him. The story Abigail related staggered him, although it fit. Once he allowed it was possible for Samantha to have been there that night—and he still found it incredible that she had—a host of possibilities opened up. Her story almost made him hopeful for a moment; if his father had been lucid that night, maybe he hadn’t fallen into the river and drowned, or wandered into the woods and died of hunger. Maybe he’d kept enough shreds of sanity to have planned an escape, perhaps thought of something that might save him . . .

But that was a remote possibility. Sebastian hadn’t seen more than a handful of lucid moments in his father’s last several months. He had combed these woods, not for one night but for months, searching for any sign of his father. True, he hadn’t been looking for a satchel of coins, and he had to remind himself that’s what they were seeking tonight, not Michael Vane. He couldn’t stop himself from instinctively keeping his eyes open for the green cloak and straw hat that had disappeared with his father, even though he knew he wouldn’t see them.

They spied the mausoleum after a half hour’s walk, almost lost to the growth of the woods. It was down the hill, quite steeply in some places, and more than once he almost lost his footing. His knee was still tender from the fall at Stratford Court. Having Abigail’s hand in his steadied him, and as the ornate stone chapel came in sight beneath its disguise of vines, he felt a bit of hope stir.

“What made you think of this?”

Her face was beautiful and pale in the darkening woods. “The book you gave me. It was so old, thirty years or more, but so well kept. He loved her, didn’t he?”

Sebastian remembered his father sleeping with a threadbare nightgown wrapped around his arm. “Dearly.”

“At first I assumed you had kept it so, but you were a boy, and then a soldier.
He
must have cared for it. It wasn’t a fine book at all, but it was filled with notes in her handwriting. I see why he would have kept it so carefully. It was a little piece of her.”

That was true. Michael Vane had burned most of his own books in his fits, but nothing from the little shelf that held his wife’s things.

“And I expected you would have searched here before, but you hadn’t been here in years, since it was no longer your property,” she continued. “I—I don’t know that anything will be here. Perhaps it’s a completely mad idea. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a look.”

He smiled. “It’s a brilliant idea. I should have thought of it myself.” Perhaps he would have—but perhaps not. As much as he’d longed to clear his name, there hadn’t been anything jolting him into action until Thomas Weston’s refusal. Even if this didn’t succeed—even if nothing succeeded—Sebastian would be glad he’d tried, with Abigail.

“It doesn’t look promising.” Benedict stopped and surveyed the chapel. The steps were completely covered in moss and bracken, and a fallen tree had narrowly missed the leaded roof.

“We’ve crawled through worse.” Sebastian handed his lantern to Abigail and began clearing the tangle of plants away. It made him think of the grotto, and how he’d cleaned it for her. After a moment Benedict joined him in silence until they had a narrow path up the steps. Gingerly Sebastian balanced on the top, crumbling step and pulled back the bolt holding the outer door closed. It opened with a loud, rusty groan, then stuck in the grit. Benedict stepped up and put his shoulder to it, and they heaved the door open.

Abigail and Penelope squeezed up between them until all four were pressed against the inner gate, which was locked. They held the lanterns aloft and Penelope sneezed as they peered into the gloom beyond.

It was as black as pitch in the crypt. As his eyes adjusted, Sebastian tried to make out his mother’s bier at the back. He dimly remembered her funeral, when the crypt had been opened last. He’d cried and cried until he fell asleep in a corner and was almost forgotten. With a flash of memory he felt his father’s arms scooping him up, warm and strong, Michael Vane’s familiar voice stark with relief at finding him.

But there was nothing else. No leather satchel sat invitingly on the center sarcophagus, which really concealed the stair leading to the underground crypt. Sebastian told himself not to be dismayed; it had been a slim chance. But his heart felt as though it had turned to lead, and he rested his head against the bars.

“I wish we could go in,” whispered Abigail. “Hold the lantern a little to the right, please.” She pressed her face to the gate, making it rattle. “I think I see something . . .”

He raised his head. “What?”

She screwed up her face in frustration. “I can’t tell. It’s too dark.”

“What do you think it is?” demanded her sister. “Let me look!” Abigail stepped aside to let her wiggle into place. Sebastian slid his arm around her waist, tucking her snugly against him. Absently he took a deep breath with his face against her temple; her hair smelled like roses. It made the disappointment a little less.

Penelope squirmed and pressed against the bars for several minutes, trying to get a better view. At her urging, Benedict edged around her to hold his lantern aloft. She squinted for a few minutes. “Yes, I think you’re right, Abby! There’s something behind the sarcophagus!”

“But what?” asked Benedict. “We’d have to break in to have a better look, so please don’t say it’s a dead rat.”

“It looks like . . .” She stretched onto her toes. “It looks like a shoe.”

Benedict looked at him, eyebrows raised. Sebastian let go of Abigail and drew his knife. “I’ve no objection to breaking the lock. Do you?”

Benedict shook his head. “None at all.” He helped Abigail and Penelope move out of the way as Sebastian slid the blade of his hunting knife between the bars above the lock. “Ready? Now!” Benedict pulled hard on the gate as Sebastian drove his weight against the knife handle, using the bars as a fulcrum. The bars squealed, then with a loud snap, the rusted metal gave way. Benedict almost flew backward down the steps as the gate swung open.

Some sense made Sebastian throw up a hand to stop the ladies from rushing inside. “Let us make sure it’s safe,” he said, taking his lantern back from Abigail. In the glow of the light, her eyes were huge and dark as she nodded soberly. Benedict took another lantern, and together they stepped inside.

The crypt wasn’t long, barely twenty feet. Three columns of biers lined the walls, the names of long-dead Vanes etched in their sides, but so covered with dust and cobwebs, the names were illegible. The ornate sarcophagus filled the center, with only a narrow aisle on each side. Sebastian took the left side, Benedict the right. Just as they used to do, all those years ago.

“There is something,” said Benedict as they reached the sarcophagus. “There—in the back—”

Sebastian heard his voice catch at the same moment his lantern light reached around the corner. “Stop,” he ordered. “Do not come in,” he shouted at the ladies, who had started forward at Benedict’s exclamation. He looked at his old friend. “Take them out,” he said. “Now, Ben.”

Benedict, looking as though he would be ill, obeyed.

Sebastian barely heard their worried questions. He took a step, and then another. He held his breath. He’d seen bodies before, even skeletal ones. Battlefield graves were notorious for opening in the first heavy rain. But he’d never seen his father’s, and the sight nearly made him fall to his knees.

Michael Vane hadn’t fallen in the river, or into a hole in the ground. He’d made it to the crypt and curled up next to his beloved Eleanor’s tomb, where he still lay. His straw hat had disintegrated, and his green cloak was eaten away in gaping holes. But the ragged iron-gray hair still had the wave in front, just as Sebastian remembered. And clutched in the exposed bones of his arms was a leather satchel.