Such a scurry on Bruton Street. The dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and her son, Benedict Bridgerton, were seen dashing out of her house Friday morning. Mr. Bridgerton practically threw his mother into a carriage, and they took off at breakneck speed. Francesca and Hyacinth Bridgerton were seen standing in the doorway, and This Author has it on the best authority that Francesca was heard to utter a very unladylike word.
But the Bridgerton household was not the only one to see such excitement. The Penwoods also experienced a great deal of activity, culminating in a public row right on the front steps between the countess and her daughter, Miss Posy Reiling.
As This Author has never liked Lady Penwood, she can only say, “Huzzah for Posy!”
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 16 JUNE 1817
It was cold. Really cold. And there was an awful scurrying noise that definitely belonged to a small, four-legged creature. Or even worse, a large, four-legged creature. Or to be more precise, a large version of a small, four- legged creature.
Rats.
“Oh, God,” Sophie moaned. She didn’t often take the Lord’s name in vain, but now seemed as good a time as any to start. Maybe He would hear, and maybe He would smite the rats. Yes, that would do very nicely. A big jolt of lightning. Huge. Of biblical proportions. It could hit the earth, spread little electrical tentacles around the globe, and sizzle all the rats dead.
It was a lovely dream. Right up there with the ones in which she found herself living happily ever after as Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton.
Sophie took a quick gasp as a sudden stab of pain pierced her heart. Of the two dreams, she feared that the genocide of the rats might be the more likely to come true.
She was on her own now. Well and truly on her own. She didn’t know why this was so upsetting. In all truth, she’d always been on her own. Not since her grandmother had deposited her on the front steps of Penwood Park had she had a champion, someone who put her interests above—or even at the same level—as their own.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she could add hunger to her growing list of miseries.
And thirst. They hadn’t even brought her so much as a sip of water. She was starting to have very strange fantasies about tea.
Sophie let out a long, slow breath, trying to remember to breathe through her mouth when it came time to inhale. The stench was overwhelming. She’d been given a crude chamber pot to use for her bodily functions, but so far she’d been holding it in, trying to relieve herself with as little frequency as possible. The chamber pot had been emptied before it had been tossed into her cell, but it hadn’t been cleaned, and in fact when Sophie had picked it up it had been wet, causing her to drop it immediately as her entire body shuddered with revulsion.
She had, of course, emptied many chamber pots in her time, but the people she’d worked for had generally managed to hit their mark, so to speak. Not to mention that Sophie had always been able to wash her hands afterward.
Now, in addition to the cold and the hunger, she didn’t feel clean in her own skin.
It was a horrible sensation. “You have a visitor.”
Sophie jumped to her feet at the warden’s gruff, unfriendly voice. Could Benedict have found out where she was? Would he even wish to come to her aid? Did he—
“Well, well, well.”
Araminta. Sophie’s heart sank.
“Sophie Beckett,” she clucked, approaching the cell and then holding a handkerchief to her nose, as if Sophie were the sole cause of the stench. “I
would never have guessed that you would have the audacity to show your face in London.”
Sophie clamped her mouth together in a mutinous line. She knew that Araminta wanted to get a rise out of her, and she refused to give her the satisfaction.
“Things aren’t going well for you, I’m afraid,” Araminta continued, shaking her head in a parody of sympathy. She leaned forward and whispered, “The magistrate doesn’t take very kindly to thieves.”
Sophie crossed her arms and stared stubbornly at the wall. If she so much as looked at Araminta, she probably wouldn’t be able to restrain herself from lunging at her, and the metal bars of her cell were likely to do serious damage to her face.
“The shoe clips were bad enough,” Araminta said, tapping her chin with her forefinger, “but he grew so very angry when I informed him of the theft of my wedding ring.”
“I didn’t—” Sophie caught herself before she yelled any more. That was exactly what Araminta wanted.
“Didn’t you?” she returned, smiling slyly. She waggled her fingers in the air. “I don’t appear to be wearing it, and it’s your word against mine.”
Sophie’s lips parted, but not a sound emerged. Araminta was right. And no judge would take her word over the Countess of Penwood’s.
Araminta smiled slightly, her expression vaguely feline. “The man in front—I think he said he was the warden—said you’re not likely to be hanged, so you needn’t worry on that score. Transportation is a much more likely outcome.”
Sophie almost laughed. Just the day before she’d been considering emigrating to America. Now it seemed she’d be leaving for certain—except her destination would be Australia. And she’d be in chains.
“I’ll plead for clemency on your behalf,” Araminta said. “I don’t want you killed, only . . . gone.”
“A model of Christian charity,” Sophie muttered. “I’m sure the justice will be touched.”
Araminta brushed her fingers against her temple, idly pushing back her hair. “Won’t he, though?” She looked directly at Sophie and smiled. It was a hard and hollow expression, and suddenly Sophie had to know—
“Why do you hate me?” she whispered.
Araminta did nothing but stare at her for a moment, and then she whispered, “Because he loved you.”
Sophie was stunned into silence.
Araminta’s eyes grew impossibly brittle. “I will never forgive him for that.”
Sophie shook her head in disbelief. “He never loved me.”
“He clothed you, he fed you.” Araminta’s mouth tightened. “He forced me to live with you.”
“That wasn’t love,” Sophie said. “That was guilt. If he loved me he wouldn’t have left me with you. He wasn’t stupid; he had to have known how much you hated me. If he loved me he wouldn’t have forgotten me in his will. If he loved me—” She broke off, choking on her own voice.
Araminta crossed her arms.
“If he loved me,” Sophie continued, “he might have taken the time to talk to me. He might have asked me how my day went, or what I was studying, or did I enjoy my breakfast.” She swallowed convulsively, turning away. It was too hard to look at Araminta just then. “He never loved me,” she said quietly. “He didn’t know how to love.”
No words passed between the two women for many moments, and then Araminta said, “He was punishing me.”
Slowly, Sophie turned back around.
“For not giving him an heir.” Araminta’s hands began to shake. “He hated me for that.”
Sophie didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if there was anything to say.
After a long moment, Araminta said, “At first I hated you because you were an insult to me. No woman should have to shelter her husband’s bastard.”
Sophie said nothing.
“But then . . . But then . . .”
To Sophie’s great surprise, Araminta sagged against the wall, as if the memories were sucking away her very strength.
“But then it changed,” Araminta finally said. “How could he have had you with some whore, and I could not give him a child?”
There seemed little point in Sophie’s defending her mother.
“I didn’t just hate you, you know,” Araminta whispered. “I hated seeing you.”
Somehow, that didn’t surprise Sophie.
“I hated hearing your voice. I hated the fact that your eyes were his. I hated knowing that you were in my house.”
“It was my house, too,” Sophie said quietly.
“Yes,” Araminta replied. “I know. I hated that, too.”
Sophie turned quite sharply, looking Araminta in the eye. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Haven’t you done enough? You’ve already ensured my transportation to Australia.”
Araminta shrugged. “I can’t seem to stay away. There’s something so lovely about seeing you in jail. I shall have to bathe for three hours straight to rid myself of the stench, but it’s worth it.”
“Then excuse me if I go sit in the corner and pretend to read a book,” Sophie spat out. “There is nothing lovely about seeing you.” She marched over to the wobbly three-legged stool that was her cell’s only piece of furniture and sat down, trying not to look as miserable as she felt. Araminta had bested her, it was true, but her spirit had not been broken, and she refused to let Araminta think otherwise.
She sat, arms crossed, her back to the cell opening, listening for signs that Araminta was leaving.
But Araminta stayed.
Finally, after about ten minutes of this nonsense, Sophie jumped to her feet and yelled, “Would you go?”
Araminta cocked her head slightly to the side. “I’m thinking.”
Sophie would have asked, “About what?” but she was rather afraid of the answer.
“I wonder what it is like in Australia,” Araminta mused. “I’ve never been, of course; no civilized person of my acquaintance would even consider it. But I hear it is dreadfully warm. And you with your fair skin. That lovely complexion of yours isn’t likely to survive the hot sun. In fact
—”
But whatever Araminta had been about to say was cut off (thankfully— because Sophie feared she might be moved to attempt murder if she had to listen to another word) by a commotion erupting around the corner.
“What the devil . . . ?” Araminta said, taking a few steps back and craning her neck for a better view.
And then Sophie heard a very familiar voice. “Benedict?” she whispered.
“What did you say?” Araminta demanded.
But Sophie had already jumped to her feet and had her face pressed up against the bars of her cell.
“I said,” Benedict boomed, “let us pass!”
“Benedict!” Sophie yelled. She forgot that she didn’t particularly want the Bridgertons to see her in such demeaning surroundings. She forgot that she had no future with him. All she could think was that he had come for her, and he was here.
If Sophie could have fit her head through the bars, she would have.
A rather sickening smack, obviously that of flesh against bone, echoed through the air, followed by a duller thud, most probably that of body against floor.
Running steps, and then . . . “Benedict!”
“Sophie! My God, are you well?” His hands reached through the bars, cupping her cheeks. His lips found hers; the kiss was not one of passion but of terror and relief.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” Araminta squeaked.
Sophie somehow managed to pull her eyes off of Benedict and onto Araminta’s shocked face. In the flurry of excitement, she’d quite forgotten that Araminta was still unaware of her ties to the Bridgerton family.
It was one of life’s most perfect moments. Maybe it meant she was a shallow person. Maybe it meant that she didn’t have her priorities in the proper order. But Sophie just loved that Araminta, for whom position and power were everything, had just witnessed Sophie being kissed by one of London’s most eligible bachelors.
Of course, Sophie was also rather glad to see Benedict.
Benedict pulled away, his reluctant hands trailing lightly across Sophie’s face as he drew back out of her cell. As he crossed his arms, he gave Araminta a glare that Sophie was convinced would scorch earth.
“What are your charges against her?” Benedict demanded.
Sophie’s feelings for Araminta could best be categorized as “extreme dislike,” but even so, she never would have described the older woman as stupid. She was now, however, prepared to reassess that judgment because Araminta, instead of quaking and cowering as any sane person might do under such fire, instead planted her hands on her hips and belted out, “Theft!”
At that very moment, Lady Bridgerton came scurrying around the corner. “I can’t believe Sophie would do any such thing,” she said, rushing to her son’s side. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Araminta. “And,” she added rather peevishly, “I never liked you, Lady Penwood.”
Araminta drew back and planted an affronted hand on her chest. “This is not about me,” she huffed. “It is about that girl”—(said with a scathing glance toward Sophie)—“who had the audacity to steal my wedding band!” “I never stole your wedding band, and you know it!” Sophie protested.
“The last thing I would want of yours—” “You stole my shoe clips!”
Sophie’s mouth shut into a belligerent line.
“Ha! See!” Araminta looked about, trying to gauge how many people had seen. “A clear admission of guilt.”
“She is your stepdaughter,” Benedict ground out. “She should never have been in a position where she felt she had to—”
Araminta’s face twisted and grew red. “Don’t you ever,” she warned, “call her my stepdaughter. She is nothing to me. Nothing!”
“I beg your pardon,” Lady Bridgerton said in a remarkably polite voice, “but if she truly meant nothing to you, you’d hardly be here in this filthy jail, attempting to have her hanged for theft.”
Araminta was saved from having to reply by the arrival of the magistrate, who was followed by an extremely grumpy-looking warden, who also happened to be sporting a rather stunning black eye.
As the warden had spanked her on the bottom while shoving her into her cell, Sophie really couldn’t help but smile.
“What is going on here?” the magistrate demanded.
“This woman,” Benedict said, his loud, deep voice effectively blotting out all other attempts at an answer, “has accused my fiancée of theft.”
Fiancée?
Sophie just managed to snap her mouth closed, but even so, she had to clutch tightly on to the bars of her cell, because her legs had turned to instant water.
“Fiancée?” Araminta gasped.
The magistrate straightened. “And precisely who are you, sir?” he asked, clearly aware that Benedict was someone important, even if he wasn’t positive who.
Benedict crossed his arms as he said his name.
The magistrate paled. “Er, any relation to the viscount?” “He’s my brother.”
“And she’s”—he gulped as he pointed to Sophie—“your fiancée?” Sophie waited for some sort of supernatural sign to stir the air, branding
Benedict as a liar, but to her surprise, nothing happened. Lady Bridgerton was even nodding.
“You can’t marry her,” Araminta insisted.
Benedict turned to his mother. “Is there any reason I need to consult Lady Penwood about this?”
“None that I can think of,” Lady Bridgerton replied.
“She is nothing but a whore,” Araminta hissed. “Her mother was a whore, and blood runs—urp!”
Benedict had her by the throat before anyone was even aware that he had moved. “Don’t,” he warned, “make me hit you.”
The magistrate tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “You really ought to let her go.”
“Might I muzzle her?”
The magistrate looked torn, but eventually he shook his head. With obvious reluctance, Benedict released Araminta.
“If you marry her,” Araminta said, rubbing her throat, “I shall make sure everyone knows exactly what she is—the bastard daughter of a whore.”
The magistrate turned to Araminta with a stern expression. “I don’t think we need that sort of language.”
“I can assure you I am not in the habit of speaking in such a manner,” she replied, sniffing disdainfully, “but the occasion warrants strong speech.” Sophie actually bit her knuckle as she stared at Benedict, who was flexing and unflexing his fingers in a most menacing manner. Clearly he felt
the occasion warranted strong fists.
The magistrate cleared his throat. “You accuse her of a very serious crime.” He gulped. “And she’s going to be married to a Bridgerton.”
“I am the Countess of Penwood,” she shrilled. “Countess!”
The magistrate looked back and forth between the occupants of the room. As a countess, Araminta outranked everyone, but at the same time, she was only one Penwood against two Bridgertons, one of whom was very large, visibly angry, and had already planted his fist in the warden’s eye.
“She stole from me!”
“No, you stole from her!” Benedict roared. The room fell into instant silence.
“You stole her very childhood,” Benedict said, his body shaking with rage. There were huge gaps in his knowledge of Sophie’s life, but somehow he knew that this woman had caused much of the pain that lurked behind her green eyes. And he’d have been willing to bet that her dear, departed papa was responsible for the rest.
Benedict turned to the magistrate and said, “My fiancée is the bastard daughter of the late Earl of Penwood. And that is why the dowager countess has falsely accused her of theft. It is revenge and hate, pure and simple.”
The magistrate looked from Benedict to Araminta and then finally to Sophie. “Is this true?” he asked her. “Have you been falsely accused?”
“She took the shoe clips!” Araminta shrieked. “I swear on my husband’s grave, she took the shoe clips!”
“Oh, for the love of God, Mother, I took the shoe clips.” Sophie’s mouth fell open. “Posy?”
Benedict looked at the newcomer, a short, slightly pudgy young woman who was obviously the countess’s daughter, then glanced back to Sophie, who had gone white as a sheet.
“Get out of here,” Araminta hissed. “You have no place in these proceedings.”
“Obviously she does,” the magistrate said, turning to Araminta, “if she took the shoe clips. Do you want to have her charged?”
“She’s my daughter!”
“Put me in the cell with Sophie!” Posy said dramatically, clasping one of her hands to her breast with great effect. “If she is transported for theft, then I must be as well.”
For the first time in several days, Benedict found himself smiling.
The warden took out his keys. “Sir?” he said hesitantly, nudging the magistrate.
“Put those away,” the magistrate snapped. “We’re not incarcerating the countess’s daughter.”
“Do not put those away,” Lady Bridgerton cut in. “I want my future daughter-in-law released immediately.”
The warden looked helplessly at the magistrate.
“Oh, very well,” the magistrate said, jabbing his finger in Sophie’s direction. “Let that one free. But no one is going anywhere until I have this sorted out.”
Araminta bristled in protest, but Sophie was duly released. She started to run to Benedict, but the magistrate held out a restraining arm. “Not so fast,” he warned. “We’ll be having no lovey-dovey reunions until I figure out who is to be arrested.”
“No one is to be arrested,” Benedict growled.
“She is going to Australia!” Araminta cried out, pointing toward Sophie.
“Put me in the cell!” Posy sighed, placing the back of her hand against her brow. “I did it!”
“Posy, will you be quiet?” Sophie whispered. “Trust me, you do not want to be in that cell. It’s dreadful. And there are rats.”
Posy started inching away from the cell.
“You will never see another invitation again in this town,” Lady Bridgerton said to Araminta.
“I am a countess!” Araminta hissed.
“And I am more popular,” Lady Bridgerton returned, the snide words so out of character that both Benedict’s and Sophie’s mouths dropped open.
“Enough!” the magistrate said. He turned to Posy, pointing to Araminta as he said, “Is she your mother?”
Posy nodded.
“And you said you stole the shoe clips?”
Posy nodded again. “And no one stole her wedding ring. It’s in her jewelry box at home.”
No one gasped, because no one was terribly surprised. But Araminta said, nonetheless, “It is not!”
“Your other jewelry box,” Posy clarified. “The one you keep in the third drawer from the left.”
Araminta paled.
The magistrate said, “You don’t seem to have a very good case against Miss Beckett, Lady Penwood.”
Araminta began to shake with rage, her outstretched arm quivering as she pointed one long finger at Sophie. “She stole from me,” she said in a deadly low voice before turning furious eyes on Posy. “My daughter is lying. I do not know why, and I certainly do not know what she hopes to gain, but she is lying.”
Something very uncomfortable began to churn in Sophie’s stomach. Posy was going to be in horrible trouble when she went home. There was no telling what Araminta would do in retaliation for such public humiliation. She couldn’t let Posy take the blame for her. She had to—
“Posy didn’t—” The words burst forth from her mouth before she had a chance to think, but she didn’t manage to finish her sentence because Posy elbowed her in the belly.
Hard.
“Did you say something?” the magistrate inquired.
Sophie shook her head, completely unable to speak. Posy had knocked her breath clear to Scotland.
The magistrate let out a weary sigh and raked his hand through his thinning blond hair. He looked at Posy, then at Sophie, then Araminta, then Benedict. Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat, forcing him to look at her, too.
“Clearly,” the magistrate said, looking very much as if he’d rather be anywhere other than where he was, “this is about a great deal more than a stolen shoe clip.”
“Shoe clips,” Araminta sniffed. “There were two of them.” “Regardless,” the magistrate ground out, “you all obviously detest one
another, and I would like to know why before I go ahead and charge anyone.”
For a second, no one spoke. Then everyone spoke.
“Silence!” the magistrate roared. “You,” he said, pointing at Sophie, “start.”
“Uhhhh . . .” Now that Sophie actually had the floor, she felt terribly self-conscious.
The magistrate cleared his throat. Loudly.
“What he said was correct,” Sophie said quickly, pointing to Benedict. “I am the daughter of the Earl of Penwood, although I was never acknowledged as such.”
Araminta opened her mouth to say something, but the magistrate sent her such a withering glare that she kept quiet.
“I lived at Penwood Park for seven years before she married the earl,” she continued, motioning to Araminta. “The earl said that he was my guardian, but everyone knew the truth.” She paused, remembering her father’s face, and thinking that she ought not be so surprised that she couldn’t picture him with a smile. “I look a great deal like him,” she said.
“I knew your father,” Lady Bridgerton said softly. “And your aunt. It explains why I’ve always thought you looked so familiar.”
Sophie flashed her a small, grateful smile. Something in Lady Bridgerton’s tone was very reassuring, and it made her feel a little warmer inside, a little more secure.
“Please continue,” the magistrate said.
Sophie gave him a nod, then added, “When the earl married the countess, she didn’t want me living there, but the earl insisted. I rarely saw him, and I don’t think he thought very much of me, but he did see me as his responsibility, and he wouldn’t allow her to boot me out. But when he died .
. .”
Sophie stopped and swallowed, trying to get past the lump in her throat. She’d never actually told her story to anyone before; the words seemed strange and foreign coming from her mouth. “When he died,” she continued, “his will specified that Lady Penwood’s portion would be trebled if she kept me in her household until I turned twenty. So she did. But my position changed dramatically. I became a servant. Well, not really a servant.” Sophie smiled wryly. “A servant is paid. So I was really more like a slave.”
Sophie looked over at Araminta. She was standing with her arms crossed and her nose tipped in the air. Her lips were pursed tightly, and it suddenly struck Sophie how very many times before she had seen that exact
same expression on Araminta’s face. More times than she could dare to count. Enough times to have broken her soul.
Yet here she was, dirty and penniless to be sure, but with her mind and spirit still strong.
“Sophie?” Benedict asked, gazing at her with a concerned expression. “Is everything all right?”
She nodded slowly, because she was just coming to realize that everything was all right. The man she loved had (in a rather roundabout way) just asked her to marry him, Araminta was finally about to receive the drubbing she deserved—at the hands of the Bridgertons, no less, who would leave her in shreds by the time they were through, and Posy . . . now that might have been the loveliest of all. Posy, who had always wanted to be a sister to her, who had never quite had the courage to be herself, had stood up to her mother and quite possibly saved the day. Sophie was one hundred percent certain that if Benedict had not come and declared her his fiancée, Posy’s testimony would have been the only thing to save her from transportation—or maybe even execution. And Sophie knew better than anyone that Posy would pay dearly for her courage. Araminta was probably already plotting how to make her life a living hell.
Yes, everything was all right, and Sophie suddenly found herself standing a little straighter as she said, “Allow me to finish my story. After the earl died, Lady Penwood kept me on as her unpaid lady’s maid. Although in truth I was made to do the work of three maids.”
“You know, Lady Whistledown said that very thing just last month!” Posy said excitedly. “I told Mother that she—”
“Posy, shut up!” Araminta snapped.
“When I turned twenty,” Sophie continued, “she didn’t turn me out. To this day I don’t know why.”
“I think we’ve heard enough,” Araminta said.
“I don’t think we’ve heard nearly enough,” Benedict snapped.
Sophie looked to the magistrate for guidance. At his nod she continued. “I can only deduce that she rather enjoyed having someone to order about. Or maybe she just liked having a maid she didn’t have to pay. There was nothing left from his will.”
“That’s not true,” Posy blurted out. Sophie turned to her in shock.
“He did leave you money,” Posy insisted.
Sophie felt her jaw go slack. “That’s not possible. I had nothing. My father saw to my welfare up to age twenty, but after that—”
“After that,” Posy said rather forcefully, “you had a dowry.” “A dowry?” Sophie whispered.
“That’s not true!” Araminta shrilled.
“It is true,” Posy insisted. “You ought not leave incriminating evidence about, Mother. I read a copy of the earl’s will last year.” She turned to the rest of the room and said, “It was in the same box where she put her wedding band.”
“You stole my dowry?” Sophie said, her voice barely more than breath. All these years she’d thought her father had left her with nothing. She’d known that he’d never loved her, that he saw her as little more than his responsibility, but it had stung that he’d left dowries for Rosamund and Posy—who were not even his blood daughters—and not for her.
She’d never really thought that he’d ignored her on purpose; in all truth, she’d mostly felt . . . forgotten.
Which had felt worse than a deliberate snub would have done.
“He left me a dowry,” she said dazedly. Then to Benedict, “I have a dowry.”
“I don’t care if you have a dowry,” Benedict replied. “I don’t need it.” “I care,” Sophie said. “I thought he’d forgotten me. All these years I’d
thought he’d written up his will and simply forgotten about me. I know he couldn’t really leave money to his bastard daughter, but he’d told all the world I was his ward. There was no reason he couldn’t provide for his ward.” For some reason she looked to Lady Bridgerton. “He could have provided for a ward. People do that all the time.”
The magistrate cleared his throat and turned on Araminta, “And what has happened to her dowry?”
Araminta said nothing.
Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat. “I don’t think it’s terribly legal,” she said, “to embezzle a young woman’s dowry.” She smiled—a slow, satisfied sort of smile. “Eh, Araminta?”
