It has now been three years since any of the Bridgerton siblings have married, and Lady Bridgerton has often lamented that she is nearing her wits’ end. Benedict remains unmarried, and it is the opinion of This Author that at thirty, he is well overdue. Colin, while still single, may be forgiven for his delay, as he is only twenty-six.
Lady Bridgerton also has two daughters to consider. Eloise is almost twenty-one and, despite several proposals, has shown no interest in matrimony. Francesca is nearing twenty (the sisters share a birthday), and she, too, seems more captivated by the season than by the prospect of marriage.
This Author believes that Lady Bridgerton need not worry. It is hard to imagine that any of the Bridgertons will fail to make suitable matches, and with two married children already providing her with five grandchildren, surely that is enough to satisfy her heart’s desire.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 APRIL 1817
Alcohol and cheroots. Card games and an abundance of hired companions. It was the kind of party Benedict Bridgerton would have relished in his university days.
Now, however, he found it utterly tedious.
He couldn’t recall why he had agreed to come in the first place—perhaps more boredom than anything else. The London season of 1817 had thus far mirrored the previous year, which hadn’t been particularly thrilling to begin with. Repeating the same experience felt dreadfully mundane.
He hardly knew his host, one Phillip Cavender, a tenuous connection through friends of friends. Now, Benedict wished he had stayed home in London. Having just recovered from a severe cold, he should have used that as an excuse to decline, but his friend—who had mysteriously vanished four hours ago—had insisted, and ultimately, Benedict had relented.
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.
“Well, that seems to settle that,” Benedict said. He glanced up at the man still holding her. “I suggest you release her so that Cavender here may relieve her of employment.”
“And where will she go?” Cavender sneered. “I can assure you she won’t work in this district again.”
Sophie turned to Benedict, wondering much the same thing.
Benedict gave a careless shrug. “I’ll find her a position in my mother’s household.” He looked over at her and raised a brow. “I assume that’s acceptable?”
Sophie’s mouth dropped open in horrified surprise. He wanted to take her to his home?
“That’s not quite the reaction I expected,” Benedict said dryly. “It will certainly be more pleasant than your employment here. At the very least, I
can assure you you won’t be raped. What do you say?”
Sophie glanced frantically at the three men who had intended to rape her. She really didn’t have a choice. Benedict Bridgerton was her only means off the Cavender property. She knew she couldn’t possibly work for his mother; to be in such close proximity to Benedict and still have to be a servant would be more than she could bear. But she could find a way to avoid that later. For now she just needed to get away from Phillip.
She turned to Benedict and nodded, still afraid to use her voice. She felt as if she were choking inside, although she wasn’t certain whether that was from fear or relief.
“Good,” he said. “Shall we be off?”
She gave a rather pointed look at the arm that was still holding her hostage.
“Oh, for the love of God,” Benedict snarled. “Will you let go of her or will I have to shoot your damned hand off?”
Benedict wasn’t even holding a gun, but the tone of his voice was such that the man let go instantly.
“Good,” Benedict said, holding his arm out toward the maid. She stepped forward, and with trembling fingers placed her hand on his elbow.
“You can’t just take her!” Phillip yelled.
Benedict gave him a supercilious look. “I just did.” “You’ll be sorry you did this,” Phillip said.
“I doubt it. Now get out of my sight.”
Phillip made a huffy sound, then turned his friends and said, “Let’s get out of here.” Then he turned to Benedict and added, “Don’t think you shall ever receive another invitation to one of my parties.”
“My heart is breaking,” Benedict drawled.
Phillip let out one more outraged snort, and then he and his two friends stalked back to the house.
Sophie watched them walk away, then slowly dragged her gaze back to Benedict. When she’d been trapped by Phillip and his leering friends, she’d known what they wanted to do to her, and she’d almost wanted to die. And then, all of a sudden, there was Benedict Bridgerton, standing before her like a hero from her dreams, and she’d thought maybe she had died, because why else would he be here with her unless she was in heaven?
She’d been so completely and utterly stunned, she’d almost forgotten that Phillip’s friend still held her pinned against him and was grabbing her behind in a most humiliating manner. For one brief second the world had melted away, and the only thing she could see, the only thing she knew, was Benedict Bridgerton.
It had been a moment of perfection.
But then the world had come crashing back, and all she could think was
—what on earth was he doing here? It was a disgusting party, full of drunkards and whores. When she’d met him two years ago, he hadn’t seemed the sort who would frequent such events. But she’d only known him for a few short hours. Perhaps she’d misjudged him. She closed her eyes in agony. For the past two years, the memory of Benedict Bridgerton had been the brightest light in her drab and dreary life. If she’d misjudged him, if he was little better than Phillip and his friends, then she’d be left with nothing.
Not even a memory of love.
But he had saved her. That was irrefutable. Maybe it didn’t really matter why he’d come to Phillip’s party, only that he had, and he had saved her.
“Are you all right?” he suddenly asked.
Sophie nodded, looking him squarely in the eye, waiting for him to recognize her.
“Are you certain?”
She nodded again, still waiting. It had to happen soon. “Good. They were handling you roughly.”
“I’ll be all right.” Sophie chewed on her lower lip. She had no idea how he would react once he realized who she was. Would he be delighted? Furious? The suspense was killing her.
“How much time will it take for you to pack your things?”
Sophie blinked rather dumbly, then realized she was still holding her satchel. “It’s all right here,” she said. “I was trying to leave when they caught me.”
“Smart girl,” he murmured approvingly.
Sophie just stared at him, unable to believe he hadn’t recognized her. “Let’s be off, then,” he said. “It makes me ill just to be on Cavender’s
property.”
Sophie said nothing, but her chin jutted slightly forward, and her head tilted to the side as she watched his face.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked. And then Sophie started to think.
Two years ago, when she’d met him, half of her face had been covered by a mask.
Her hair had been lightly powdered, making it seem blonder than it actually was. Furthermore, she’d since cut it and sold the locks to a wigmaker. Her previous long waves were now short curls.
Without Mrs. Gibbons to feed her, she’d lost nearly a stone.
And when one got right down to it, they’d only been in each other’s company a mere hour and a half.
She stared at him, right into his eyes. And that was when she knew. He wasn’t going to recognize her.
He had no idea who she was.
Sophie didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
