PART TWO
Chapter 6
It has now been three years since any of the Bridgerton siblings have wed, and Lady Bridgerton has been heard to declare on several occasions that she is nearing her wit’s end. Benedict has not taken a bride (and it is the opinion of This Author that as he has attained the age of thirty, he is far past due), and neither has Colin, although he may be forgiven his tardiness, since he is, after all, merely six-and-twenty.
The dowager viscountess also has two girls about which she must worry. Eloise is nearly one-and-twenty and although she has received several proposals, she has shown no inclination to marry. Francesca is nearly twenty (the girls quite coincidentally share a birthday), and she, too, seems more interested in the season than she does in marriage.
This Author feels that Lady Bridgerton does not need to worry. It is inconceivable that any of the Bridgertons might not eventually make an acceptable match, and besides, her two married children have already given her a total of five grandchildren, and surely that is her heart’s desire.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 APRIL 1817
Alcohol and cheroots. Card games and lots of hired women. It was just the sort of party Benedict Bridgerton would have enjoyed immensely when he was fresh out of university.
Now he was just bored.
He wasn’t even certain why he’d agreed to attend. More boredom, he supposed. The London season of 1817 had thus far been a repeat of the previous year, and he hadn’t found 1816 terribly scintillating to begin with. To do the whole thing over again was beyond banal.
He didn’t even really know his host, one Phillip Cavender. It was one of those friend of a friend of a friend situations, and now Benedict was fervently wishing he’d remained in London. He’d just gotten over a blistering head cold, and he should have used that as an excuse to cry off, but his friend—whom he hadn’t even seen in the past four hours—had prodded and cajoled, and finally Benedict had given in.
Now he heartily regretted it.
He walked down the main hall of Cavender’s parents’ home. Through the doorway to his left he could see a high-stakes card game in process. One of the players was sweating profusely. “Stupid idiot,” Benedict muttered. The poor bloke was probably just a breath away from losing his ancestral home.
The door to his right was closed, but he could hear the sound of feminine giggling, followed by masculine laughter, followed by some rather unattractive grunting and squealing.
This was madness. He didn’t want to be here. He hated card games where the stakes were higher than the participants could afford, and he’d never had any interest in copulating in such a public manner. He had no idea what had happened to the friend who had brought him here, and he didn’t much like any of the other guests.
“I’m leaving,” he declared, even though there was no one in the hall to hear him. He had a small piece of property not so very far away, just an hour’s ride, really. It wasn’t much more than a cottage, but it was his, and right now it sounded like heaven.
But good manners dictated that he find his host and inform him of his departure, even if Mr. Cavender was so sotted that he wouldn’t remember the conversation the next day.
After about ten minutes of fruitless searching, however, Benedict was beginning to wish that his mother had not been so adamant in her quest to instill good manners in all of her children. It would have been a great deal easier just to leave and be done with it. “Three more minutes,” he grumbled. “If I don’t find the bloody idiot in three more minutes, I’m leaving.”
Just then, a pair of young men stumbled by, tripping over their own feet as they exploded in raucous laughter. Alcoholic fumes filled the air, and Benedict took a discreet step back, lest one of them was suddenly compelled to cast up the contents of his stomach.
Benedict had always been fond of his boots.
“Bridgerton!” one of them called out.
Benedict gave them a curt nod in greeting. They were both about five years younger than he was, and he didn’t know them well.
“Tha’s not a Bridgerton,” the other fellow slurred. “Tha’s a—why, it is a Bridgerton. Got the hair and the nose.” His eyes narrowed. “But which Bridgerton?”
Benedict ignored his question. “Have you seen our host?”
“We have a host?”
“Course we have a host,” the first man replied. “Cavender. Damned fine fellow, you know, t’let us use his house—”
“Hiss parents’ house,” the other one corrected. “Hasn’t inherited yet, poor bloke.”
“Just so! His parents’ house. Still jolly of him.”
“Have either of you seen him?” growled Benedict.
“Just outside,” replied the one who previously hadn’t recalled that they had a host. “In the front.”
“Thank you,” Benedict said shortly, then strode past them to the front door of the house. He’d head down the front steps, pay his respects to Cavender, then make his way to the stables to collect his phaeton. He’d barely even have to break his stride.
It was, thought Sophie Beckett, high time she found a new job.
It had been almost two years since she’d left London, two years since she’d finally stopped being Araminta’s virtual slave, two years since she’d been completely on her own.
After she’d left Penwood House, she’d pawned Araminta’s shoe clips, but the diamonds Araminta had liked to boast about had turned out not to be diamonds at all, but rather simple paste, and they hadn’t brought much money. She’d tried to find a job as a governess, but none of the agencies she’d queried was willing to take her on. She was obviously well educated, but she’d had no references, and besides, most women did not like to hire someone quite so young and pretty.
Sophie had eventually purchased a ticket on a coach to Wiltshire, since that was as far as she could go while still reserving the bulk of her pin money for emergencies. Luckily, she’d found employment quickly, as an upstairs maid for Mr. and Mrs. John Cavender. They were an ordinary sort of couple, expecting good work from their servants but not demanding the impossible. After toiling for Araminta for so many years, Sophie found the Cavenders a positive vacation.
But then their son had returned from his tour of Europe, and everything had changed. Phillip was constantly cornering her in the hall, and when his innuendo and suggestions were rebuffed, he’d grown more aggressive. Sophie had just started to think that maybe she ought to find employment elsewhere when Mr. and Mrs. Cavender had left for a week to visit Mrs. Cavender’s sister in Brighton, and Phillip had decided to throw a party for two dozen of his closest friends.
It had been difficult to avoid Phillip’s advances before, but at least Sophie had felt reasonably protected. Phillip would never dare attack her while his mother was in residence.
But with Mr. and Mrs. Cavender gone, Phillip seemed to think that he could do and take anything he wanted, and his friends were no better.
Sophie knew she should have left the grounds immediately, but Mrs. Cavender had treated her well, and she didn’t think it was polite to leave without giving two weeks’ notice. After two hours of being chased around the house, however, she decided that good manners were not worth her virtue, and so she’d told the (thankfully sympathetic) housekeeper that she could not stay, packed her meager belongings in one small bag, stolen down the side stairs, and let herself out. It was a two-mile hike into the village, but even in the dead of night, the road to town seemed infinitely safer than remaining at the Cavender home, and besides, she knew of a small inn where she could get a hot meal and a room for a reasonable price.
She’d just come ’round the house and had stepped onto the front drive, however, when she heard a raucous shout.
She looked up. Oh, blast. Phillip Cavender, looking even drunker and meaner than usual.
Sophie broke into a run, praying that alcohol had impaired Phillip’s coordination because she knew she could not match him for speed.
But her flight must have only served to excite him, because she heard him yell out with glee, then felt his footsteps rumbling on the ground, growing closer and closer until she felt his hand close round the back collar of her coat, jerking her to a halt.
Phillip laughed triumphantly, and Sophie had never been so terrified in her entire life.
“Look what I have here,” he cackled. “Little Miss Sophie. I shall have to introduce you to my friends.”
Sophie’s mouth went dry, and she wasn’t sure whether her heart started to beat double time or stopped altogether. “Let me go, Mr. Cavender,” she said in her sternest voice. She knew that he liked her helpless and pleading, and she refused to cater to his wishes.
“I don’t think so,” he said, turning her around so that she was forced to watch his lips stretch into a slippery smile. He turned his head to the side and called out, “Heasley! Fletcher! Look what I have here!”
Sophie watched with horror as two more men emerged from the shadows. From the looks of them, they were just as drunk, or maybe even more so, than Phillip.
“You always host the best parties,” one of them said in an oily voice.
Phillip puffed out with pride.
“Let me go!” Sophie said again.
Phillip grinned. “What do you think, boys? Should I do as the lady asks?”
“Hell, no!” came the reply from the younger of the two men.
“‘Lady,’” said the other—the same one who had told Phillip that he hosted the best parties, “might be a bit of a misnomer, don’t you think?”
“Quite right!” Phillip replied. “This one’s a housemaid, and as we all know, that breed is born to serve.” He gave Sophie a shove, pushing her toward one of his friends. “Here. Have a look at the goods.”
Sophie cried out as she was propelled forward, and she clutched tightly to her small bag. She was about to be raped; that much was clear. But her panicked mind wanted to hold on to some last shred of dignity, and she refused to allow these men to spill her every last belonging onto the cold ground.
The man who caught her fondled her roughly, then shoved her toward the third one. He’d just snaked his hand around her waist, when she heard someone yell out, “Cavender!”
Sophie shut her eyes in agony. A fourth man. Dear God, weren’t three enough?
“Bridgerton!” Phillip called out. “Come join us!”
Sophie’s eyes snapped open. Bridgerton?
A tall, powerfully built man emerged from the shadows, moving forward with easy, confident grace.
“What have we here?”
Dear God, she’d recognize that voice anywhere. She heard it often enough in her dreams.
It was Benedict Bridgerton. Her Prince Charming.
The night air was chilly, but Benedict found it refreshing after being forced to breathe the alcohol and tobacco fumes inside. The moon was nearly full, glowing round and fat, and a gentle breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees. All in all, it was an excellent night to leave a boring party and ride home.
But first things first. He had to find his host, go through the motions of thanking him for his hospitality, and inform him of his departure. As he reached the bottom step, he called out, “Cavender!”
“Over here!” came the reply, and Benedict turned his head to the right. Cavender was standing under a stately old elm with two other gentlemen. They appeared to be having a bit of fun with a housemaid, pushing her back and forth between them.
Benedict groaned. He was too far away to determine whether the housemaid was enjoying their attentions, and if she was not, then he was going to have to save her, which was not how he’d planned to spend his evening. He’d never been particularly enamored of playing the hero, but he had far too many younger sisters—four, to be precise—to ignore any female in distress.
“Ho there!” he called out as he ambled over, keeping his posture purposefully casual. It was always better to move slowly and assess the situation than it was to charge in blindly.
“Bridgerton!” Cavender called out. “Come join us!”
Benedict drew close just as one of the men snaked an arm around the young woman’s waist and pinned her to him, her back to his front. His other hand was on her bottom, squeezing and kneading.
Benedict brought his gaze to the maid’s eyes. They were huge and filled with terror, and she was looking at him as if he’d just dropped fully formed from the sky.
“What have we here?” he asked.
“Just a bit of sport,” Cavender chortled. “My parents were kind enough to hire this prime morsel as the upstairs maid.”
“She doesn’t appear to be enjoying your attentions,” Benedict said quietly.
“She likes it just fine,” Cavender replied with a grin. “Fine enough for me, anyway.”
“But not,” Benedict said, stepping forward, “for me.”
“You can have your turn with her,” Cavender said, ever jovial. “Just as soon as we’re through.”
“You misunderstand.”
There was a hard edge to Benedict’s voice, and the three men all froze, looking over at him with wary curiosity.
“Release the girl,” he said.
Still stunned by the sudden change of atmosphere, and with reflexes most likely dulled by alcohol, the man holding the girl did nothing.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Benedict said, crossing his arms, “but I will. And I can assure you that the three-to-one odds don’t frighten me.”
“Now, see here,” Cavender said angrily. “You can’t come here and order me about on my own property.”
“It’s your parents’ property,” Benedict pointed out, reminding them all that Cavender was still rather wet behind the ears.
“It’s my home,” Cavender shot back, “and she’s my maid. And she’ll do what I want.”
“I wasn’t aware that slavery was legal in this country,” Benedict murmured.
“She has to do what I say!”
“Does she?”
“I’ll fire her if she doesn’t.”
“Very well,” Benedict said with a tiny quirk of a smile. “Ask her then. Ask the girl if she wants to tup with all three of you. Because that is what you had in mind, isn’t it?”
Cavender sputtered as he fought for words.
“Ask her,” Benedict said again, grinning now, mostly because he knew his smile would infuriate the younger man. “And if she says no, you can fire her right here on the spot.”
“I’m not going to ask her,” Cavender whined.
“Well, then, you can’t really expect her to do it, can you?” Benedict looked at the girl. She was a fetching thing, with a short bob of light brown curls and eyes that loomed almost too large in her face. “Fine,” he said, sparing a brief glance back at Cavender. “I’ll ask her.”
The girl’s lips parted slightly, and Benedict had the oddest sensation that they had met before. But that was impossible, unless she’d worked for some other aristocratic family. And even then, he would have only seen her in passing. His taste in women had never run to housemaids, and in all truth, he tended not to notice them.
“Miss . . .” He frowned. “I say, what’s your name?”
“Sophie Beckett,” she gasped, sounding as if there were a very large frog caught in her throat.
“Miss Beckett,” he continued, “would you be so kind as to answer the following question?”
“No!” she burst out.
“You’re not going to answer?” he asked, his eyes amused.
“No, I do not want to tup with these three men!” The words practically exploded from her mouth.