More than one masquerade attendee has reported to This Author that Benedict Bridgerton was seen in the company of an unknown lady dressed in a silver gown.
Try as she might, This Author has been completely unable to discern the mystery lady’s identity. And if This Author cannot uncover the truth, you may be assured that her identity is a well-kept secret indeed.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 JUNE 1815
She was gone.
Benedict stood on the pavement in front of Bridgerton House, surveying the street. All of Grosvenor Square was a mad crush of carriages. She could be in any one of them, just sitting there on the cobbles, trying to escape the traffic. Or she could be in one of the three carriages that had just escaped the tangle and rolled around the corner.
Either way, she was gone.
He was half-ready to strangle Lady Danbury, who’d jammed her cane onto his toe and insisted upon giving him her opinion on most of the partygoers’ costumes. By the time he’d managed to free himself, his mystery lady had disappeared through the ballroom’s side door.
And he knew that she had no intention of letting him see her again.
Benedict let out a low and rather viciously uttered curse. With all the ladies his mother had trotted out before him—and there had been many— he’d never once felt the same soul-searing connection that had burned between him and the lady in silver. From the moment he’d seen her—no, from the moment before he’d seen her, when he’d only just felt her presence, the air had been alive, crackling with tension and excitement. And
he’d been alive, too—alive in a way he hadn’t felt for years, as if everything were suddenly new and sparkling and full of passion and dreams.
And yet . . .
Benedict cursed again, this time with a touch of regret. And yet he didn’t even know the color of her eyes.
They definitely hadn’t been brown. Of that much he was positive. But in the dim light of the candled night, he’d been unable to discern whether they were blue or green. Or hazel or gray. And for some reason he found this the most upsetting. It ate at him, leaving a burning, hungry sensation in the pit of his stomach.
They said eyes were the windows to the soul. If he’d truly found the woman of his dreams, the one with whom he could finally imagine a family and a future, then by God he ought to know the color of her eyes.
It wasn’t going to be easy to find her. It was never easy to find someone who didn’t want to be found, and she’d made it more than clear that her identity was a secret.
His clues were paltry at best. A few dropped comments concerning Lady Whistledown’s column and . . .
Benedict looked down at the single glove still clutched in his right hand. He’d quite forgotten that he’d been holding it as he’d dashed through the ballroom. He brought it to his face and inhaled its scent, but much to his surprise, it didn’t smell of rosewater and soap, as had his mystery lady. Rather, its scent was a bit musty, as if it had been packed away in an attic trunk for many years.
Odd, that. Why would she be wearing an ancient glove?
He turned it over in his hand, as if the motion would somehow bring her back, and that was when he noticed a tiny bit of stitching at the hem.
SLG. Someone’s initials. Were they hers?
And a family crest. One he did not recognize.
But his mother would. His mother always knew that sort of thing. And chances were, if she knew the crest, she’d know who the initials SLG belonged to.
Benedict felt his first glimmer of hope. He would find her.
He would find her, and he would make her his. It was as simple as that.
It took a mere half hour to return Sophie to her regular, drab state. Gone were the dress, the glittering earbobs, and the fancy coiffure. The jeweled slippers were tucked neatly back in Araminta’s closet, and the rouge the maid had used for her lips was resting in its place on Rosamund’s dressing table. She’d even taken five minutes to massage the skin on her face, to remove the indentations left by the mask.
Sophie looked as she always looked before bed—plain, simple, and unassuming, her hair pulled into a loose braid, her feet tucked into warm stockings to keep out the chill night air.
She was back to looking what she was in truth—nothing more than a housemaid. Gone were all traces of the fairy princess she’d been for one short evening.
And saddest of all, gone was her fairy prince.
Benedict Bridgerton had been everything she’d read in Whistledown. Handsome, strong, debonair. He was the stuff of a young girl’s dreams, but not, she thought glumly, of her dreams. A man like that didn’t marry an earl’s by-blow. And he certainly didn’t marry a housemaid.
But for one night he’d been hers, and she supposed that would have to be enough.
She picked up a little stuffed dog she’d had since she’d been a small girl. She’d kept it all these years as a reminder of happier times. It usually sat on her dresser, but for some reason she wanted it closer right now. She crawled into bed, the little dog tucked under her arm, and curled up under the covers.
Then she squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip as silent tears trickled onto her pillow.
It was a long, long night.
“Do you recognize this?”
Benedict Bridgerton was sitting next to his mother in her very feminine rose-and-cream drawing room, holding out his only link to the woman in silver. Violet Bridgerton took the glove and examined the crest. She needed only a second before she announced, “Penwood.”
“As in ‘Earl of’?”
Violet nodded. “And the G would be for Gunningworth. The title recently passed out of their family, if I recall correctly. The earl died without issue . . . oh, it must have been six or seven years ago. The title went to a distant cousin. And,” she added with a disapproving nod of her head, “you forgot to dance with Penelope Featherington last night. You’re lucky your brother was there to dance in your stead.”
Benedict fought a groan and tried to ignore her scolding. “Who, then, is SLG?”
Violet’s blue eyes narrowed. “Why are you interested?”
“I don’t suppose,” Benedict said on a groan, “that you will simply answer my question without posing one of your own.”
She let out a ladylike snort. “You know me far better than that.” Benedict just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
“Who,” Violet asked, “does the glove belong to, Benedict?” And then, when he didn’t answer quickly enough for her taste, she added, “You might as well tell me everything. You know I will figure it out on my own soon enough, and it will be far less embarrassing for you if I don’t have to ask any questions.”
Benedict sighed. He was going to have to tell her everything. Or at least, almost everything. There was little he enjoyed less than sharing such details with his mother—she tended to grab hold of any hope that he might actually marry and cling on to it with the tenacity of a barnacle. But he had little choice. Not if he wanted to find her.
“I met someone last night at the masquerade,” he finally said. Violet clapped her hands together with delight. “Really?” “She’s the reason I forgot to dance with Penelope.”
Violet looked nearly ready to die of rapture. “Who? One of Penwood’s daughters?” She frowned. “No, that’s impossible. He had no daughters. But he did have two stepdaughters.” She frowned again. “Although I must say, having met those two girls . . . well . . .”
“Well, what?”
Violet’s brow wrinkled as she fumbled for polite words. “Well, I simply wouldn’t have guessed you’d be interested in either of them, that’s all. But if you are,” she added, her face brightening considerably, “then I shall surely invite the dowager countess over for tea. It’s the very least I can do.”
Benedict started to say something, then stopped when he saw that his mother was frowning yet again. “What now?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Violet said. “Just that . . . well . . .” “Spit it out, Mother.”
She smiled weakly. “Just that I don’t particularly like the dowager countess. I’ve always found her rather cold and ambitious.”
“Some would say you’re ambitious as well, Mother,” Benedict pointed out.
Violet pulled a face. “Of course I have great ambition that my children marry well and happily, but I am not the sort who’d marry her daughter off to a seventy-year-old man just because he was a duke!”
“Did the dowager countess do that?” Benedict couldn’t recall any seventy-year-old dukes making recent trips to the altar.
“No,” Violet admitted, “but she would. Whereas I—”
Benedict bit back a smile as his mother pointed to herself with great flourish.
“I would allow my children to marry paupers if it would bring them happiness.”
Benedict raised a brow.
“They would be well-principled and hardworking paupers, of course,” Violet explained. “No gamblers need apply.”
Benedict didn’t want to laugh at his mother, so instead he coughed discreetly into his handkerchief.
“But you should not concern yourself with me,” Violet said, giving her son a sideways look before punching him lightly in the arm.
“Of course I must,” he said quickly.
She smiled serenely. “I shall put aside my feelings for the dowager countess if you care for one of her daughters . . .” She looked up hopefully. “Do you care for one of her daughters?”
“I have no idea,” Benedict admitted. “I never got her name. Just her glove.”
Violet gave him a stern look. “I’m not even going to ask how you obtained her glove.”
“It was all very innocent, I assure you.”
Violet’s expression was dubious in the extreme. “I have far too many sons to believe that,” she muttered.
“The initials?” Benedict reminded her.
Violet examined the glove again. “It’s rather old,” she said.
Benedict nodded. “I thought so as well. It smelled a bit musty, as if it had been packed away for some time.”
“And the stitches show wear,” she commented. “I don’t know what the L is for, but the S could very well be for Sarah. The late earl’s mother, who has also passed on. Which would make sense, given the age of the glove.”
Benedict stared down at the glove in his mother’s hands for a moment before saying, “As I’m fairly certain I did not converse with a ghost last night, who do you think the glove might belong to?”
“I have no idea. Someone in the Gunningworth family, I imagine.” “Do you know where they live?”
“At Penwood House, actually,” Violet replied. “The new earl hasn’t given them the boot yet. Don’t know why. Perhaps he’s afraid they’ll want to live with him once he takes up residence. I don’t think he’s even in town for the season. Never met him myself.”
“Do you happen to know—”
“Where Penwood House is?” Violet cut in. “Of course I do. It’s not far, only a few blocks away.” She gave him directions, and Benedict, in his haste to be on his way, was already on his feet and halfway out the door before she finished.
“Oh, Benedict!” Violet called out, her smile very amused. He turned around. “Yes?”
“The countess’s daughters are named Rosamund and Posy. Just in case you’re interested.”
Rosamund and Posy. Neither seemed fitting, but what did he know? Perhaps he didn’t seem a proper Benedict to people he met. He turned on his heel and tried to exit once again, but his mother stopped him with yet another, “Oh, Benedict!”
He turned around. “Yes, Mother?” he asked, sounding purposefully beleaguered.
“You will tell me what happens, won’t you?” “Of course, Mother.”
“You’re lying to me,” she said with a smile, “but I forgive you. It’s so nice to see you in love.”
“I’m not—”
“Whatever you say, dear,” she said with a wave.
Benedict decided there was little point in replying, so with nothing more than a roll of his eyes, he left the room and hurried out of the house.
“Sophieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Sophie’s chin snapped up. Araminta sounded even more irate than usual, if that were possible. Araminta was always upset with her.
“Sophie! Drat it, where is that infernal girl?”
“The infernal girl is right here,” Sophie muttered, setting down the silver spoon she’d been polishing. As lady’s maid to Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy, she shouldn’t have had to add the polishing to her list of chores, but Araminta positively reveled in working her to the bone.
“Right here,” she called out, rising to her feet and walking out into the hall. The Lord only knew what Araminta was upset about this time. She looked this way and that. “My lady?”
Araminta came storming around the corner. “What,” she snapped, holding something up in her right hand, “is the meaning of this?”
Sophie’s eyes fell to Araminta’s hand, and she only just managed to stifle a gasp. Araminta was holding the shoes that Sophie had borrowed the night before. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.
“These shoes are brand-new. Brand-new!”
Sophie stood quietly until she realized that Araminta required a reply. “Um, what is the problem?”
“Look at this!” Araminta screeched, jabbing her finger toward one of the heels. “It’s scuffed. Scuffed! How could something like this happen?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, my lady,” Sophie said. “Perhaps—”
“There is no perhaps about it,” Araminta huffed. “Someone has been wearing my shoes.”
“I assure you no one has been wearing your shoes,” Sophie replied, amazed that she was able to keep her voice even. “We all know how particular you are about your footwear.”
Araminta narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you being sarcastic?”
Sophie rather thought that if Araminta had to ask, then she was playing her sarcasm very well indeed, but she lied, and said, “No! Of course not. I
merely meant that you take very good care of your shoes. They last longer that way.”
Araminta said nothing, so Sophie added, “Which means you don’t have to buy as many pairs.”
Which was, of course, utter ridiculousness, as Araminta already owned more pairs of shoes than any one person could hope to wear in a lifetime.
“This is your fault,” Araminta growled.
According to Araminta, everything was always Sophie’s fault, but this time she was actually correct, so Sophie just gulped and said, “What would you like me to do about it, my lady?”
“I want to know who wore my shoes.”
“Perhaps they were scuffed in your closet,” Sophie suggested. “Maybe you accidentally kicked them last time you walked by.”
“I never accidentally do anything,” Araminta snapped.
Sophie silently agreed. Araminta was deliberate in all things. “I can ask the maids,” Sophie said. “Perhaps one of them knows something.”
“The maids are a pack of idiots,” Araminta replied. “What they know could fit on my littlest fingernail.”
Sophie waited for Araminta to say, “Present company excluded,” but of course she did not. Finally, Sophie said, “I can try to polish the shoe. I’m sure we can do something about the scuff mark.”
“The heels are covered in satin,” Araminta sneered. “If you can find a way to polish that, then we should have you admitted to the Royal College of Fabric Scientists.”
Sophie badly wanted to ask if there even existed a Royal College of Fabric Scientists, but Araminta didn’t have much of a sense of humor even when she wasn’t in a complete snit. To poke fun now would be a clear invitation for disaster. “I could try to rub it out,” Sophie suggested. “Or brush it.”
“You do that,” Araminta said. “In fact, while you’re at it . . .”
Oh, blast. All bad things began with Araminta saying, “While you’re at
it.”
“. . . you might as well polish all of my shoes.”
“All of them?” Sophie gulped. Araminta’s collection must have
numbered at least eighty pair.
“All of them. And while you’re at it . . .”
Not again.
“Lady Penwood?”
Araminta blessedly stopped in mid-command to turn and see what the butler wanted.
“A gentleman is here to see you, my lady,” he said, handing her a crisp, white card.
Araminta took it from him and read the name. Her eyes widened, and she let out a little, “Oh!” before turning back to the butler, and barking out, “Tea! And biscuits! The best silver. At once.”
The butler hurried out, leaving Sophie staring at Araminta with unfeigned curiosity. “May I be of any help?” Sophie asked.
Araminta blinked twice, staring at Sophie as if she’d forgotten her presence. “No,” she snapped. “I’m far too busy to bother with you. Go upstairs at once.” She paused, then added, “What are you doing down here, anyway?”
Sophie motioned toward the dining room she’d recently exited. “You asked me to polish—”
“I asked you to see to my shoes,” Araminta fairly yelled.
“All—all right,” Sophie said slowly. Araminta was acting very odd, even for Araminta. “I’ll just put away—”
“Now!”
Sophie hurried to the stairs. “Wait!”
Sophie turned around. “Yes?” she asked hesitantly.
Araminta’s lips tightened into an unattractive frown. “Make sure that Rosamund’s and Posy’s hair is properly dressed.”
“Of course.”
“Then you may instruct Rosamund to lock you in my closet.”
Sophie stared at her. She actually wanted Sophie to give the order to have herself locked in the closet?
“Do you understand me?”
Sophie couldn’t quite bring herself to nod. Some things were simply too demeaning.
Araminta marched over until their faces were quite close. “You didn’t answer,” she hissed. “Do you understand me?”
Sophie nodded, but just barely. Every day, it seemed, brought more evidence of the depth of Araminta’s hatred for her. “Why do you keep me here?” she whispered before she had time to think better of it.
“Because I find you useful,” was Araminta’s low reply.
Sophie watched as Araminta stalked from the room, then hurried up the stairs. Rosamund’s and Posy’s hair looked quite acceptable, so she sighed, turned to Posy, and said, “Lock me in the closet, if you will.”
Posy blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was instructed to ask Rosamund, but I can’t quite bring myself to do so.”
Posy peered in the closet with great interest. “May I ask why?” “I’m meant to polish your mother’s shoes.”
Posy swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.” “So am I,” Sophie said with a sigh. “So am I.”
