Lady Bridgerton didn’t say anything, and Sophie knew that in her heart she agreed—if not completely, then ninety-eight percent—with her assessment.
“Is it possible,” Lady Bridgerton asked, her words even more measured and careful than before, “that your background is not quite what it seems?”
Sophie said nothing.
“There are things about you that don’t add up, Sophie.” Sophie knew that she expected her to ask what, but she had a fair idea what Lady Bridgerton meant.
“Your accent is impeccable,” Lady Bridgerton said. “I know you told me that you had lessons with the children your mother worked for, but that doesn’t seem like enough of an explanation to me. Those lessons wouldn’t have started until you were a bit older, six at the very earliest, and your speech patterns would have already been rather set by that point.”
Sophie felt her eyes widen. She’d never seen that particular hole in her story, and she was rather surprised that no one else had until now. But then again, Lady Bridgerton was a good deal smarter than most of the people to whom she had told her fabricated history.
“And you know Latin,” Lady Bridgerton said. “Don’t try to deny it. I heard you muttering under your breath the other day when Hyacinth vexed you.”
Sophie kept her gaze fixed firmly on the window just to Lady Bridgerton’s left. She couldn’t quite bring herself to meet her eyes.
“Thank you for not denying it,” Lady Bridgerton said. And then she waited for Sophie to say something, waited so long that finally Sophie had to fill the interminable silence.
“I’m not a suitable match for your son,” was all she said.
“I see.”
“I really have to go.” She had to get the words out quickly, before she changed her mind.
Lady Bridgerton nodded. “If that is your wish, there is nothing I can do to stop you. Where is it you plan to go?”
“I have relatives in the north,” Sophie lied.
Lady Bridgerton clearly didn’t believe her, but she answered, “You will, of course, use one of our carriages.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly.”
“You can’t think I would permit you to do otherwise. I consider you to be my responsibility—at least for the next few days—and it is far too dangerous for you to leave unescorted. It’s not safe for women alone in this world.”
Sophie couldn’t quite suppress a rueful smile. Lady Bridgerton’s tone might be different, but her words were almost exactly those uttered by Benedict a few weeks earlier. And look where that had gotten her. She would never say that she and Lady Bridgerton were close friends, but she knew her well enough to know that she would not be budged on this issue.
“Very well,” Sophie acceded. “Thank you.” She could have the carriage drop her off somewhere, preferably not too far from a port where she could eventually book passage to America, and then decide where to go from there.
Lady Bridgerton offered her a small, sad smile. “I assume you already have your bags packed?”
Sophie nodded. It didn’t seem necessary to point out that she only had one bag, singular.
“Have you made all of your good-byes?”
Sophie shook her head. “I’d rather not,” she admitted.
Lady Bridgerton stood and nodded. “Sometimes that is best,” she agreed. “Why don’t you await me in the front hall? I will see to having a coach brought ’round.”
Sophie turned and started to walk out, but when she reached the doorway, she stopped and turned around. “Lady Bridgerton, I—”
The older lady’s eyes lit up, as if she were expecting some good news. Or if not good, then at least something different. “Yes?”
Sophie swallowed. “I just wanted to thank you.”
The light in Lady Bridgerton’s eyes dimmed a little. “Whatever for?”
“For having me here, for accepting me, and allowing me to pretend I was a part of your family.”
“Don’t be sil—”
“You didn’t have to let me take tea with you and the girls,” Sophie interrupted. If she didn’t get this all out now, she’d lose her courage. “Most women wouldn’t have done. It was lovely . . . and new . . . and . . .” She gulped. “I will miss you all.”
“You don’t have to go,” Lady Bridgerton said softly.
Sophie tried to smile, but it came out all wobbly, and it tasted like tears. “Yes,” she said, almost choking on the word. “I do.”
Lady Bridgerton stared at her for a very long moment, her pale blue eyes filled with compassion and then maybe a touch of realization. “I see,” she said quietly.
And Sophie feared that she did see.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Lady Bridgerton said. Sophie nodded as she stood aside to let the dowager viscountess pass. Lady Bridgerton paused in the hallway, looking down at Sophie’s well-worn bag. “Is that all you have?” she asked.
“Everything in the world.”
Lady Bridgerton swallowed uncomfortably, and her cheeks took on the slightest hue of pink, almost as if she were actually embarrassed by her riches—and Sophie’s lack thereof.
“But that . . .” Sophie said, motioning to the bag, “that’s not what’s important. What you have . . .” She stopped and swallowed, doing battle with the lump in her throat. “I don’t mean what you own . . .”
“I know what you mean, Sophie.” Lady Bridgerton dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. “Thank you.”
Sophie’s shoulders rose and fell in a tiny shrug. “It’s the truth.”
“Let me give you some money before you go, Sophie,” Lady Bridgerton blurted out.
Sophie shook her head. “I couldn’t. I’ve already taken two of the dresses you gave me. I didn’t want to, but—”
“It’s all right,” Lady Bridgerton assured her. “What else could you do? The ones you came with are gone.” She cleared her throat. “But please, let me give you some money.” She saw Sophie open her mouth to protest and said, “Please. It would make me feel better.”
Lady Bridgerton had a way of looking at a person that truly made one want to do as she asked, and besides that, Sophie really did need the money. Lady Bridgerton was a generous lady; she might even give Sophie enough to book third-class passage across the ocean. Sophie found herself saying, “Thank you,” before her conscience had a chance to grapple with the offer.
Lady Bridgerton gave her a brief nod and disappeared down the hall.
Sophie took a long, shaky breath, then picked up her bag and walked slowly down the stairs. She waited in the foyer for a moment, then decided she might as well wait outside. It was a fine spring day, and Sophie thought that a bit of sun on her nose might be just the thing to make her feel better. Well, at least a little bit better. Besides, she’d be less likely to run into one of the Bridgerton daughters, and much as she was going to miss them, she just didn’t want to have to say good-bye.
Still clutching her bag in one hand, she pushed open the front door and descended the steps.
It shouldn’t take too long for the coach to be brought around. Five minutes, maybe ten, maybe—
“Sophie Beckett!”
Sophie’s stomach dropped right down to her ankles. Araminta. How could she have forgotten?
Frozen into inaction, she looked around and up the stairs, trying to figure out which way to flee. If she ran back into the Bridgerton house, Araminta would know where to find her, and if she took off on foot—
“Constable!” Araminta shrieked. “I want a constable!”
Sophie dropped her bag and took off running.
“Someone stop her!” Araminta screamed. “Stop thief! Stop thief!”
Sophie kept running, even though she knew it would make her look guilty. She ran with every last fiber in her muscles, with every gulp of air she could force into her lungs. She ran and she ran and she ran . . .
Until someone tackled her, thumping into her back and knocking her to the ground.
“I got her!” the man yelled. “I got her for you!”
Sophie blinked and gasped at the pain. Her head had hit the pavement with a stunning blow, and the man who had caught her was practically sitting on her abdomen.
“There you are!” Araminta crowed as she hurried over. “Sophie Beckett. The nerve!”
Sophie glared at her. Words didn’t exist to express the loathing in her heart. Not to mention that she was in too much pain to speak.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Araminta said, smiling evilly. “Posy told me she’d seen you.”
Sophie closed her eyes for a longer than the usual blink. Oh, Posy. She doubted that she’d meant to give her away, but Posy’s tongue had a way of getting ahead of her mind.
Araminta planted her foot very close to Sophie’s hand—the one that was being held immobile by her captor’s fingers around her wrist—then smiled as she moved her foot onto Sophie’s hand. “You shouldn’t have stolen from me,” Araminta said, her blue eyes glinting.
Sophie just grunted. It was all she could manage.
“You see,” Araminta continued gleefully, “now I can have you thrown in jail. I suppose I could have done so before, but now I have the truth on my side.”
Just then, a man ran up, skidding to a halt before Araminta. “The authorities are on the way, milady. We’ll have this thief taken away in no time.”
Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth, torn between praying that the authorities would be delayed until Lady Bridgerton came outside, and praying that they’d come right away, so that the Bridgertons would never see her shame.
And in the end, she got her wish. The latter one, that was. Not two minutes later the authorities arrived, threw her into a wagon, and carted her off to jail.
And all Sophie could think of as she rode away was that the Bridgertons would never know what had happened to her, and maybe that was for the best.
Chapter 21
La, but such excitement yesterday on the front steps of Lady Bridgerton’s residence on Bruton Street!
First, Penelope Featherington was seen in the company of not one, not two, but THREE Bridgerton brothers, surely a heretofore impossible feat for the poor girl, who is rather infamous for her wallflower ways. Sadly (but perhaps predictably) for Miss Featherington, when she finally departed, it was on the arm of the viscount, the only married man in the bunch.
If Miss Featherington were to somehow manage to drag a Bridgerton brother to the altar, it would surely mean the end of the world as we know it, and This Author, who freely admits she would not know heads from tails in such a world, would be forced to resign her post on the spot.
If Miss Featherington’s gathering weren’t enough gossip, not three hours later, a woman was accosted right in front of the town house by the Countess of Penwood, who lives three doors down. It seems the woman, who This Author suspects was working in the Bridgerton household, used to work for Lady Penwood. Lady Penwood alleges that the unidentified woman stole from her two years ago and immediately had the poor thing carted off to jail.
This Author is not certain what the punishment is these days for theft, but one has to suspect that if one has the audacity to steal from a countess, the punishment is quite strict. The poor girl in question is likely to be hanged, or at the very least, find herself transported.
The previous housemaid wars (reported last month in This Column) seem rather trivial now.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 13 JUNE 1817
Benedict’s first inclination the following morning was to pour himself a good, stiff drink. Or maybe three. It might have been scandalously early in the day for spirits, but alcoholic oblivion sounded rather appealing after the emotional skewering he’d received the previous evening at the hands of Sophie Beckett.
But then he remembered that he’d made a date that morning for a fencing match with his brother Colin. Suddenly, skewering his brother sounded rather appealing, no matter that he’d had nothing to do with Benedict’s wretched mood.
That, Benedict thought with a grim smile as he pulled on his gear, was what brothers were for.
“I’ve only an hour,” Colin said as he attached the safety tip to his foil. “I have an appointment this afternoon.”
“No matter,” Benedict replied, lunging forward a few times to loosen up the muscles in his leg. He hadn’t fenced in some time; the sword felt good in his hand. He drew back and touched the tip to the floor, letting the blade bend slightly. “It won’t take more than an hour to best you.”
Colin rolled his eyes before he drew down his mask.
Benedict walked to the center of the room. “Are you ready?”
“Not quite,” Colin replied, following him.
Benedict lunged again.
“I said I wasn’t ready!” Colin hollered as he jumped out of the way.
“You’re too slow,” Benedict snapped.
Colin cursed under his breath, then added a louder, “Bloody hell,” for good measure. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” Benedict nearly snarled. “Why would you say so?”
Colin took a step backward until they were a suitable distance apart to start the match. “Oh, I don’t know,” he intoned, sarcasm evident. “I suppose it could be because you nearly took my head off.”
“I’ve a tip on my blade.”
“And you were slashing like you were using a sabre,” Colin shot back.
Benedict gave a hard smile. “It’s more fun that way.”
“Not for my neck.” Colin passed his sword from hand to hand as he flexed and stretched his fingers. He paused and frowned. “You sure you have a foil there?”
Benedict scowled. “For the love of God, Colin, I would never use a real weapon.”
“Just making sure,” Colin muttered, touching his neck lightly. “Are you ready?”
Benedict nodded and bent his knees.
“Regular rules,” Colin said, assuming a fencer’s crouch. “No slashing.”
Benedict gave him a curt nod.
“En garde!”
Both men raised their right arms, twisting their wrists until their palms were up, foils gripped in their fingers.
“Is that new?” Colin suddenly asked, eyeing the handle of Benedict’s foil with interest.
Benedict cursed at the loss of his concentration. “Yes, it’s new,” he bit off. “I prefer an Italian grip.”
Colin stepped back, completely losing his fencing posture as he looked at his own foil, with a less elaborate French grip. “Might I borrow it some time? I wouldn’t mind seeing if—”
“Yes!” Benedict snapped, barely resisting the urge to advance and lunge that very second. “Will you get back en garde?”
Colin gave him a lopsided smile, and Benedict just knew that he had asked about his grip simply to annoy him. “As you wish,” Colin murmured, assuming position again.
They held still for one moment, and then Colin said, “Fence!”
Benedict advanced immediately, lunging and attacking, but Colin had always been particularly fleet of foot, and he retreated carefully, meeting Benedict’s attack with an expert parry.
“You’re in a bloody bad mood today,” Colin said, lunging forward and just nearly catching Benedict on the shoulder.
Benedict stepped out of his way, lifting his blade to block the attack. “Yes, well, I had a bad”—he advanced again, his foil stretched straight forward—“day.”
Colin sidestepped his attack neatly. “Nice riposte,” he said, touching his forehead with the handle of his foil in a mock salute.
“Shut up and fence,” Benedict snapped.