And in other news from the masquerade ball, Miss Posy Reiling’s costume as a mermaid was somewhat unfortunate, but not, This Author thinks, as dreadful as that of Mrs. Featherington and her two eldest daughters, who went as a bowl of fruit—Philippa as an orange, Prudence as an apple, and Mrs. Featherington as a bunch of grapes.
Sadly, none of the three looked the least bit appetizing.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 JUNE 1815
What had his life come to, Benedict wondered, that he was obsessed with a glove? He’d patted his coat pocket about a dozen times since he’d taken a seat in Lady Penwood’s sitting room, silently reassuring himself that it was still there. Uncharacteristically anxious, he wasn’t certain what he planned to say to the dowager countess once she arrived, but he was usually fairly glib of tongue; surely he’d figure out something as he went along.
His foot tapping, he glanced over at the mantel clock. He’d given his card to the butler about fifteen minutes earlier, which meant that Lady Penwood ought to be down soon. It seemed an unwritten rule that all ladies of the ton must keep their callers waiting for at least fifteen minutes, twenty if they were feeling particularly peevish.
A bloody stupid rule, Benedict thought irritably. Why the rest of the world didn’t value punctuality as he did, he would never know, but—
“Mr. Bridgerton!”
He looked up. A rather attractive, extremely fashionable blond woman in her forties glided into the room. She looked vaguely familiar, but that was to be expected. They’d surely attended many of the same society functions, even if they had not been introduced.
“You must be Lady Penwood,” he murmured, rising to his feet and offering her a polite bow.
“Indeed,” she replied with a gracious incline of her head. “I am so delighted that you have chosen to honor us with a call. I have, of course, informed my daughters of your presence. They shall be down shortly.”
Benedict smiled. That was exactly what he’d hoped she’d do. He would have been shocked if she’d behaved otherwise. No mother of marriageable daughters ever ignored a Bridgerton brother. “I look forward to meeting them,” he said.
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Then you have not yet met them?”
Blast. Now she’d be wondering why he was there. “I have heard such lovely things about them,” he improvised, trying not to groan. If Lady Whistledown caught hold of this—and Lady Whistledown seemed to catch hold of everything—it would soon be all over town that he was looking for a wife, and that he’d zeroed in on the countess’s daughters. Why else would he call upon two women to whom he had not even been introduced?
Lady Penwood beamed. “My Rosamund is considered one of the loveliest girls of the season.”
“And your Posy?” Benedict asked, somewhat perversely. The corners of her mouth tightened. “Posy is, er, delightful.” He smiled benignly. “I cannot wait to meet Posy.”
Lady Penwood blinked, then covered up her surprise with a slightly hard smile. “I’m sure Posy will be delighted to meet you.”
A maid entered with an ornate silver tea service, then set it down on a table at Lady Penwood’s nod. Before the maid could depart, however, the countess said (somewhat sharply, in Benedict’s opinion), “Where are the Penwood spoons?”
The maid bobbed a rather panicked curtsy, then replied, “Sophie was polishing the silver in the dining room, my lady, but she had to go upstairs when you—”
“Silence!” Lady Penwood cut in, even though she’d been the one to ask about the spoons in the first place. “I’m sure Mr. Bridgerton is not so high in the instep that he needs monogrammed spoons for his tea.”
“Of course not,” Benedict murmured, thinking that Lady Penwood must be a bit too high in the instep herself if she even thought to bring it up.
“Go! Go!” the countess ordered the maid, waving her briskly away. “Begone.”
The maid hurried out, and the countess turned back to him, explaining, “Our better silver is engraved with the Penwood crest.”
Benedict leaned forward. “Really?” he asked with obvious interest. This would be an excellent way to verify that the crest on the glove was indeed that of the Penwoods. “We don’t have anything like that at Bridgerton House,” he said, hoping he wasn’t lying. In all truth, he’d never even noticed the pattern of the silver. “I should love to see it.”
“Really?” Lady Penwood asked, her eyes lighting up. “I knew you were a man of taste and refinement.”
Benedict smiled, mostly so he wouldn’t groan.
“I shall have to send someone to the dining room to fetch a piece. Assuming, of course, that infernal girl managed to do her job.” The corners of her lips turned down in a most unattractive manner, and Benedict noticed that her frown lines were deep indeed.
“Is there a problem?” he asked politely.
She shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. “Merely that it is so difficult to find good help. I’m sure your mother says the same thing all the time.”
His mother never said any such thing, but that was probably because all of the Bridgerton servants were treated very well and thus were utterly devoted to the family. But Benedict nodded all the same.
“One of these days I’m going to have to give Sophie the boot,” the countess said with a sniff. “She cannot do anything right.”
Benedict felt a vague pang of pity for the poor, unseen Sophie. But the last thing he wanted to do was get into a discussion on servants with Lady Penwood, and so he changed the subject by motioning to the teapot, and saying, “I imagine it’s well steeped by now.”
“Of course, of course.” Lady Penwood looked up and smiled. “How do you take yours?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
As she prepared his cup, Benedict heard the clatter of feet coming down the stairs, and his heart began to race with excitement. Any minute now the countess’s daughters would slip through the door, and surely one of them would be the woman he’d met the night before. It was true that he had not
seen most of her face, but he knew her approximate size and height. And he was fairly certain that her hair was a long, light brown.
Surely he’d recognize her when he saw her. How could he not?
But when the two young ladies entered the room, he knew instantly that neither was the woman who’d haunted his every thought. One of them was far too blond, and besides, she held herself with a prissy, rather affected manner. There was no joy in her aspect, no mischief in her smile. The other looked friendly enough, but she was too chubby, and her hair was too dark.
Benedict did his best not to look disappointed. He smiled during the introductions and gallantly kissed each of their hands, murmuring some nonsense about how delighted he was to meet them. He made a point of fawning over the chubby one, if only because her mother so obviously preferred the other.
Mothers like that, he decided, didn’t deserve to be mothers.
“And do you have any other children?” Benedict asked Lady Penwood, once the introductions were through.
She gave him an odd look. “Of course not. Else I would have brought them out to meet you.”
“I thought you might have children still in the schoolroom,” he demurred. “Perhaps from your union with the earl.”
She shook her head. “Lord Penwood and I were not blessed with children. Such a pity it was that the title left the Gunningworth family.”
Benedict could not help but notice that the countess looked more irritated than saddened by her lack of Penwood progeny. “Did your husband have any brothers or sisters?” he asked. Maybe his mystery lady was a Gunningworth cousin.
The countess shot him a suspicious look, which, Benedict had to admit, was well deserved, considering that his questions were not at all the usual fare for an afternoon call. “Obviously,” she replied, “my late husband did not have any brothers, as the title passed out of the family.”
Benedict knew he should keep his mouth shut, but something about the woman was so bloody irritating he had to say, “He could have had a brother who predeceased him.”
“Well, he did not.”
Rosamund and Posy were watching the exchange with great interest, their heads bobbing back and forth like balls at a tennis match.
“And any sisters?” Benedict inquired. “The only reason I ask is that I come from such a large family.” He motioned to Rosamund and Posy. “I cannot imagine having only one sibling. I thought perhaps that your daughters might have cousins to keep them company.”
It was, he thought, rather paltry as far as explanations went, but it would have to do.
“He did have one sister,” the countess replied with a disdainful sniff. “But she lived and died a spinster. She was a woman of great faith,” she explained, “and chose to devote her life to charitable works.”
So much for that theory.
“I very much enjoyed your masquerade ball last night,” Rosamund suddenly said.
Benedict looked at her in surprise. The two girls had been so silent he’d forgotten they could even speak. “It was really my mother’s ball,” he answered. “I had no part in the planning. But I shall convey your compliments.”
“Please do,” Rosamund said. “Did you enjoy the ball, Mr. Bridgerton?”
Benedict stared at her for a moment before answering. She had a hard look in her eyes, as if she was searching for a specific piece of information. “I did indeed,” he finally said.
“I noticed you spent a great deal of time with one lady in particular,” Rosamund persisted.
Lady Penwood twisted her head sharply to look at him, but she did not say anything.
“Did you?” Benedict murmured.
“She was wearing silver,” Rosamund said. “Who was she?”
“A mystery woman,” he said with an enigmatic smile. No need for them to know that she was a mystery to him as well.
“Surely you can share her name with us,” Lady Penwood said.
Benedict just smiled and stood. He wasn’t going to get any more information here. “I’m afraid I must be going, ladies,” he said affably, offering them a smooth bow.
“You never did see the spoons,” Lady Penwood reminded him.
“I’ll have to save them for another time,” Benedict said. It was unlikely that his mother would have incorrectly identified the Penwood crest, and
besides, if he spent much more time in the company of the hard and brittle Countess of Penwood, he might retch.
“It has been lovely,” he lied.
“Indeed,” Lady Penwood said, rising to walk him to the door. “Brief, but lovely.”
Benedict didn’t bother to smile again.
“What,” Araminta said as she heard the front door close behind Benedict Bridgerton, “do you suppose that was about?”
“Well,” Posy said, “he might—”
“I didn’t ask you,” Araminta bit off.
“Well, then, who did you ask?” Posy returned with uncharacteristic gumption.
“Perhaps he saw me from afar,” Rosamund said, “and—”
“He didn’t see you from afar,” Araminta snapped as she strode across the room.
Rosamund lurched backward in surprise. Her mother rarely spoke to her in such impatient tones.
Araminta continued, “You yourself said he was besotted with some woman in a silver dress.”
“I didn’t say ‘besotted’ precisely . . .”
“Don’t argue with me over such trivialities. Besotted or not, he didn’t come here looking for either of you,” Araminta said with a fair amount of derision. “I don’t know what he was up to. He . . .”
Her words trailed off as she reached the window. Pulling the sheer curtain back, she saw Mr. Bridgerton standing on the pavement, pulling something from his pocket. “What is he doing?” she whispered.
“I think he’s holding a glove,” Posy said helpfully.
“It’s not a—” Araminta said automatically, too used to contradicting everything Posy had to say. “Why, it is a glove.”
“I should think I know a glove when I see one,” Posy muttered.
“What is he looking at?” Rosamund asked, nudging her sister out of the way.
“There’s something on the glove,” Posy said. “Perhaps it’s a piece of embroidery. We’ve some gloves with the Penwood crest embroidered on the
hem. Maybe that glove has the same.” Araminta went white.
“Are you feeling all right, Mother?” Posy asked. “You look rather pale.” “He came here looking for her,” Araminta whispered.
“Who?” Rosamund asked. “The woman in silver.”
“Well, he isn’t going to find her here,” Posy replied, “as I was a mermaid and Rosamund was Marie Antoinette. And you, of course, were Queen Elizabeth.”
“The shoes,” Araminta gasped. “The shoes.” “What shoes?” Rosamund asked irritably.
“They were scuffed. Someone wore my shoes.” Araminta’s face, already impossibly pale, blanched even more. “It was her. How did she do it? It had to be her.”
“Who?” Rosamund demanded.
“Mother, are you certain you’re all right?” Posy asked again. “You’re not at all yourself.”
But Araminta had already run out of the room.
“Stupid, stupid shoe,” Sophie grumbled, scrubbing at the heel of one of Araminta’s older pieces of footwear. “She hasn’t even worn this one for years.”
She finished polishing the toe and put it back in its place in the neatly ordered row of shoes. But before she could reach for another pair, the door to the closet burst open, slamming against the wall with such force that Sophie nearly screamed with surprise.
“Oh, goodness, you gave me a fright,” she said to Araminta. “I didn’t hear you coming, and—”
“Pack your things,” Araminta said in a low, cruel voice. “I want you out of this house by sunrise.”
The rag Sophie had been using to polish the shoes fell from her hand. “What?” she gasped. “Why?”
“Do I really need a reason? We both know I ceased receiving any funds for your care nearly a year ago. It’s enough that I don’t want you here any longer.”
it?”
“But where will I go?”
Araminta’s eyes narrowed to nasty slits. “That’s not my concern, now, is
“But—”
“You’re twenty years of age. Certainly old enough to make your way in
the world. There will be no more coddling from me.” “You never coddled me,” Sophie said in a low voice. “Don’t you dare talk back to me.”
“Why not?” Sophie returned, her voice growing shrill. “What have I to lose? You’re booting me out of the house, anyway.”
“You might treat me with a little respect,” Araminta hissed, planting her foot on Sophie’s skirt so that she was pinned in her kneeling position, “considering that I have clothed and sheltered you this past year out of the goodness of my heart.”
“You do nothing out of the goodness of your heart.” Sophie tugged at her skirt, but it was firmly trapped under Araminta’s heel. “Why did you really keep me here?”
Araminta cackled. “You’re cheaper than a regular maid, and I do enjoy ordering you about.”
Sophie hated being Araminta’s virtual slave, but at least Penwood House was home. Mrs. Gibbons was her friend, and Posy was usually sympathetic, and the rest of the world was . . . well . . . rather scary. Where would she go? What would she do? How would she support herself?
“Why now?” Sophie asked.
Araminta shrugged. “You’re no longer useful to me.”
Sophie looked at the long row of shoes she’d just polished. “I’m not?”
Araminta ground the pointy heel of her shoe into Sophie’s skirt, tearing the fabric. “You went to the ball last night, didn’t you?”
Sophie felt the blood drain from her face, and she knew that Araminta saw the truth in her eyes. “N-no,” she lied. “How would I—”
“I don’t know how you did it, but I know you were there.” Araminta kicked a pair of shoes in Sophie’s direction. “Put these on.”
Sophie just stared at the shoes in dismay. They were white satin, stitched in silver. They were the shoes she’d worn the night before.
“Put them on!” Araminta screamed. “I know that Rosamund’s and Posy’s feet are too large. You’re the only one who could have worn my
shoes last night.”
“And from that you think I went to the ball?” Sophie asked, her voice breathy with panic.
“Put on the shoes, Sophie.”
Sophie did as she was told. They were, of course, a perfect fit.
“You have overstepped your bounds,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I warned you years ago not to forget your place in this world. You are a bastard, a by-blow, the product of—”
“I know what a bastard is,” Sophie snapped.
Araminta raised one haughty brow, silently mocking Sophie’s outburst. “You are unfit to mingle with polite society,” she continued, “and yet you dared to pretend you are as good as the rest of us by attending the masquerade.”
“Yes, I dared,” Sophie cried out, well past caring that Araminta had somehow discovered her secret. “I dared, and I’d dare again. My blood is just as blue as yours, and my heart far kinder, and—”
One minute Sophie was on her feet, screaming at Araminta, and the next she was on the floor, clutching her cheek, made red by Araminta’s palm.
“Don’t you ever compare yourself to me,” Araminta warned.
Sophie remained on the floor. How could her father have done this to her, leaving her in the care of a woman who so obviously detested her? Had he cared so little? Or had he simply been blind?
“You will be gone by morning,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I don’t ever want to see your face again.”
Sophie started to make her way to the door.
“But not,” Araminta said, planting the heel of her hand against Sophie’s shoulder, “until you finish the job I have assigned you.”
“It will take me until morning just to finish,” Sophie protested.
“That is your problem, not mine.” And with that, Araminta slammed the door shut, turning the lock with a very loud click.
Sophie stared down at the flickering candle she’d brought in to help illuminate the long, dark closet. There was no way the wick would last until morning.
And there was no way—absolutely no way in hell—that she was going to polish the rest of Araminta’s shoes.
Sophie sat down on the floor, arms crossed and legs crossed, and stared at the candle flame until her eyes crossed, too. When the sun rose tomorrow, her life would be forever altered. Penwood House might not have been terribly welcoming, but at least it was safe.
She had almost no money. She hadn’t received so much as a farthing from Araminta in the past seven years. Luckily, she still had a bit of the pin money she’d received when her father had been alive and she’d been treated as his ward, not his wife’s slave. There had been many opportunities to spend it, but Sophie had always known that this day might come, and it had seemed prudent to hold on to what little funds she possessed.
But her paltry few pounds wasn’t going to get her very far. She needed a ticket out of London, and that cost money. Probably well over half what she had saved. She supposed she could stay in town for a bit, but the London slums were dirty and dangerous, and Sophie knew that her budget would not place her in any of the better neighborhoods. Besides, if she were going to be on her own, she might as well return to the countryside she loved.
Not to mention that Benedict Bridgerton was here. London was a large city, and Sophie had no doubt that she could successfully avoid him for years, but she was desperately afraid that she wouldn’t want to avoid him, that she’d find herself gazing at his house, hoping for the merest of glimpses as he came through the front door.
And if he saw her . . . Well, Sophie didn’t know what would happen. He might be furious at her deception. He might want to make her his mistress. He might not recognize her at all.
The only thing she was certain he would not do was to throw himself at her feet, declare his undying devotion, and demand her hand in marriage.
Sons of viscounts did not marry baseborn nobodies. Not even in romantic novels.
No, she’d have to leave London. Keep herself far from temptation. But she’d need more money, enough to keep her going until she found employment. Enough to—
Sophie’s eyes fell on something sparkly—a pair of shoes tucked away in the corner. Except she’d cleaned those shoes just an hour earlier, and she knew that those sparklies weren’t the shoes but a pair of jeweled shoe clips, easily detachable and small enough to fit in her pocket.
Did she dare?
She thought about all the money that Araminta had received for her upkeep, money Araminta had never seen fit to share.
She thought about all those years she’d toiled as a lady’s maid, without drawing a single wage.
She thought about her conscience, then quickly squelched it. In times like these, she didn’t have room for a conscience.
She took the shoe clips.
And then, several hours later when Posy came (against her mother’s wishes) and let her out, she packed up all of her belongings and left.
Much to her surprise, she didn’t look back.
