It Takes a Scandal by Caroline Linden Page B

she was, on the same paths—especially after saying he would avoid the woods—there was no denying the anticipation that quickened her step.
    Or rather, had quickened her step until her sister interrupted. Really, why should she suffer because her sister couldn’t find someone else to torment? If Penelope would adopt an interest in something like needlework or practicing the pianoforte, she wouldn’t be bored at all. It would also restore her to their mother’s good graces, something Penelope ought to consider more important. Abigail pursed her lips, and started walking again—not quickly, but not slowly, either.
    “You didn’t wait for me,” complained her sister breathlessly when she caught up several minutes later.
    “You took too long.”
    Penelope snorted. “You’re walking out to look for him, aren’t you? I cannot believe you would scheme to slip off and meet a mysterious and possibly dangerous gentleman without me.”
    “I have no expectation of meeting anyone,” said Abigail, keeping her eyes on the path ahead of her. “I told you I intend to read.”
    “And you just happened to be wearing a bonnet that flatters your face and your favorite dress.” Penelope smirked.
    “Yes, I plead guilty to wearing my favorite dress,” said Abigail dryly. “That must be a sign of ill intent!”
    “I don’t blame you,” her sister remarked. “I’d like to meet the smoldering Mr. Vane as well.”
    Abigail just sighed and shook her head. There was no deterring her sister sometimes.
    “You’re not worried he might kill you in the woods?”
    “No!”
    Penelope laughed. “Or steal from you?”
    “He’d only get a book and a basket of food.” She glanced at her sister. “You don’t believe those rumors?”
    Penelope snorted. “If you’d walked to the Fragrant Walk with Lucy Walgrave, you’d doubt every word that came from her lips, too. I like a good gossip myself, but only if it seems plausible.”
    Abigail grinned. “I suppose some of it was plausible . . .”
    “Do you think he really is dying of love for Lady Samantha?”
    Her grin disappeared. “Seven years seems a long time to pine for someone.”
    “True,” conceded Penelope. “Any lover worth his salt would have kidnapped her to Gretna Green by now.”
    “Or perhaps Miss Walgrave’s report is outlandish in every respect,” Abigail retorted. “Lady Samantha seems old enough to have done something by now if she loved him and knew he loved her. I certainly would have, at any rate.”
    “Really,” murmured her sister with a speculative glance. “Is that why we’re walking about the woods?”
    “No.” Abigail kicked a loose stone from the path. “I am walking in the woods because I like them; they are cool and quiet and free of chattering busybodies—usually. You are walking in the woods because you are a pest.”
    Penelope was immune to such criticism. “There are much better places to read on the lawn or the terrace, and you know it. If you’re not walking out in hopes of meeting Mr. Vane, there must be something else you want to see.” She narrowed her eyes and studied Abigail closely for a few minutes. “The grotto,” she said at last.
    “I’m surprised it took you that long to guess. But Pen”—she stopped and turned to her sister in all seriousness—“don’t tell Mama. She wouldn’t think it ladylike to go in search of a cave.”
    “A grotto is no ordinary cave.” Penelope grinned. “I can’t believe you didn’t invite me.”
    Abigail sighed. Penelope would want to search as if they needed to find the grotto to save their family from ruination. Abigail preferred to wander, keeping her eyes open for a grotto, of course, but not supremely focused on the search. She did want to read her book, and if Mr. Vane happened to cross her path . . . “It might not even exist. Lady Turley said it had been filled in.”
    “Then why are you searching for it?”
    She didn’t look at her sister as she replied, “Mr.