Bridgerton Collection Volume 1 (Bridgertons)

by Julia Quinn

The levity left Violet’s eyes. “I don’t know, Benedict. I wish I did. I quite liked Sophie.”

  “She’s Penwood’s daughter,” he said.

  Violet frowned. “I suspected something like that. Illegitimate, I assume?”

  Benedict nodded.

  His mother opened her mouth to say something, but he never did find out what, because at that moment, the door to her office came flying open, slamming against the wall with an amazing crash. Francesca, who had obviously been running across the house, smashed into her mother’s desk, followed by Hyacinth, who smashed into Francesca.

  “What is wrong?” Violet asked, rising to her feet.

  “It’s Sophie,” Francesca panted.

  “I know,” Violet said. “She’s gone. We—”

  “No!” Hyacinth cut in, slapping a piece of paper down on the desk. “Look.”

  Benedict tried to grab the paper, which he immediately recognized as an issue of Whistledown, but his mother got there first. “What is it?” he asked, his stomach sinking as he watched her face pale.

  She handed him the paper. He scanned it quickly, passing by bits about the Duke of Ashbourne, the Earl of Macclesfield, and Penelope Featherington before he reached the section about what had to be Sophie.

  “Jail?” he said, the word mere breath on his lips.

  “We must see her released,” his mother said, throwing her shoulders back like a general girding for battle.

  But Benedict was already out the door.

  “Wait!” Violet yelled, dashing after him. “I’m coming, too.”

  Benedict stopped short just before he reached the stairs. “You are not coming,” he ordered. “I will not have you exposed to—”

  “Oh, please,” Violet returned. “I’m hardly a wilting flower. And I can vouch for Sophie’s honesty and integrity.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Hyacinth said, skidding to a halt alongside Francesca, who had also followed them out into the upstairs hall.

  “No!” came the simultaneous reply from her mother and brother.

  “But—”

  “I said no,” Violet said again, her voice sharp.

  Francesca let out a sullen snort. “I suppose it would be fruitless for me to insist upon—”

  “Don’t even finish that sentence,” Benedict warned.

  “As if you would let me even try.”

  Benedict ignored her and turned to his mother. “If you want to go, we leave immediately.”

  She nodded. “Have the carriage brought ’round, and I’ll be waiting out front.”

  Ten minutes later, they were on their way.

  Chapter 22

  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.