Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(61)

She shoved aside the misgivings that swiftly followed that hopeful thought. “I need to see him.”

A smile wreathed her cousin’s cheeks. “Yes, you do.”

“Now.”

Beatrice’s smile dipped. “Now?” She looked to the window. Another rumble of thunder shook the foundations of the house. “You can’t.”

Abigail glanced over to the pellets of rain that lashed against the window. It would be the height of foolishness to venture out in such a volatile storm. Only a woman with little regard for her reputation or the threat of scandal would risk being seen visiting the viscount’s residence.

Then, Abigail had thrown away her reputation long ago. “I must.” She grasped Beatrice’s hands, and with her eyes, silently beseeched her cousin for assistance.

“Oh, Abby,” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Think of the scandal.”

A sound half-sob, half-snort wrenched from Abigail. “There can be no greater scandal than the one of my past. No one will be out on this night. I’ll go by hackney. Please, Beatrice. Please,” she implored, squeezing Beatrice’s hands.

Beatrice’s concerned blue eyes ran over Abigail’s face, and Abigail knew the moment her cousin capitulated. “Oh, dear.”

Abigail flung her arms around her cousin. “Thank you.”

Her cousin continued to trouble her lip. “You’ll need to go through the kitchens. I’ll have one of the footman hail a hackney.”

Abigail nodded, for the first time since last evening, humiliation buoyed with a budding sense of hope. She would speak to Geoffrey. He would understand. She would make him. “Go,” she urged, lest her cousin change her mind.

Beatrice hesitated, and with a curt nod, fled.

Abigail hurried over to the rose-inlaid armoire at the center of the room, and threw the doors open. She reached inside and shoved aside gowns, pushing them out of the way. She grasped her black, muslin cloak and pulled it out.

She remembered the moment Geoffrey had tossed aside propriety to wade into the lake at Hyde Park and rescue her lace. Hope grew and blossomed within her chest. If he loved her as Beatrice said, then perhaps he’d wade deeper into the quagmire of scandal that was her life.

Abigail draped the cloak over her shoulders, and clasped the fish hooks at her throat. She took a deep breath, and pulled the hood overhead. Her uncle and cousin had been good enough to not speak to her of their hasty flight from Lady Ainsworth’s; they would surely desire an audience with her sometime, in order to address her fate. Abigail suspected they would pack her up with the same swiftness as her parents had. As it was, she’d already greatly compromised Beatrice’s ability to make a match.

Abigail opened the door, and peeked first left and then right. When she’d ascertained the hall was empty, she slipped outside and made her way swiftly down the long corridor. The muslin fabric rustled in the quiet like the shot of a cannon and with bated breath, she expected discovery to come at any moment.

But it didn’t, and Abigail continued forward, taking the servant’s passageways lower into the house, and into the now silent kitchen. The fires in the kitchen had long since gone cold. Abigail’s eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light.

A flash of lightening lit the sky and spilled light into the room.

She gasped, and slapped a hand to her breast as the bluish-white light bathed Beatrice in an eerie glow.

Beatrice held her finger to her lips. “Shh,” her cousin mouthed. She motioned Abigail forward.

Abigail raced into the kitchen and wrapped her arms about Beatrice.

“You must return quickly,” Beatrice whispered against her ear, the words muffled by the muslin fabric. “Father mustn’t discover you gone. The hackney is waiting at the end of the street.” She touched her hand to Abigail’s cheek. “It is horrid weather, but I can think of no other way to make sure you remain unseen. One of the servants will follow you for protection, Abby.”

Abigail nodded. Tears of gratification clogged her throat.

Her cousin offered a tremulous smile. “I know,” she whispered. “There is no need to thank me. The driver has your destination.” She gripped her forearms and gave a slight squeeze. “Now, go!”

Abigail fled through the opened door. A blast of wind sucked the breath from her lungs. It whipped the fabric of her cloak and skirts wildly against her ankles. She raced down the pavement; her slippers sank into ice-cold puddles. A gasp escaped her as she stumbled. Abigail quickly righted herself and peered into the sheets of rain, sending a silent thanks to the heavens when she spied the hackney.

She raced the remaining distance and skidded to a stop in front of the conveyance. The driver tossed the door open, and quickly handed her inside.

He closed the door, and a moment later, the carriage rocked forward.

Abigail huddled against the side of the carriage, seeking warmth and finding none in the hard, wooden seats of the hack. She resisted the urge to glance out the curtained window, into the empty streets.

Her reputation could hardly be shredded any more than it had this evening, but she still needed to protect her uncle and his family from further shame.

As the carriage wheels rolled through the muddied puddles of the London streets, her mind turned over what she would say to Geoffrey.

She smoothed her palms over the front of her cloak. She’d tell him all…as she should have, when he’d made his honorable intentions toward her clear. She would tell him of Alexander’s betrayal, the shame of what she’d done…and he would understand. She would make him. Because the alternative was not to be countenanced.