by Maya Rodale
“An interesting turn of events,” Josephine mused. “Would you care for tea?”
“Or something stronger? I could use something stronger,” James muttered.
“No thank you. In a few short hours I’m sure we will celebrate Lady Amelia’s safe return with a bottle of your best brandy.”
“Right,” James said. “In the meantime, the duchess and I are at odds as to how to ensure her safe return.”
Claire explained the two positions.
“You are both right,” Darcy said. “It is impossible for us to find her by ourselves. But if word of this becomes public, Lady Amelia will be ruined. And she may not be the only one.”
Darcy’s gaze landed on her for just a second.
Bridget knew she was not supposed to feel a thrill at the word “ruined.” It was just so dramatic, so mysterious, so final. One was fine and then one day one was ruined and never quite knew why. It usually had something to do with being alone with a man. People were always left to imagine the worst. She did not wish this for herself or her sisters, of course.
But still, the word gave her a little thrill.
“We’ll also look pretty damn suspicious if all of us split up and go searching for her,” James said.
“We shall perhaps go search for her in turns, and someone should wait here in the event that she returns on her own,” Darcy replied. “Duke, Lady Claire why don’t you go for a stroll and see what you can learn about Lady Amelia . . . or my brother. You’ll also want to send some footmen out in plainclothes to seek information. If she does not return this morning, we’ll enlist a few Runners for the afternoon.”
And just like that, Lord Darcy ended the standoff between the duchess and the duke. He had calmly defused the tension in the room. It was impressive, that.
Or had he? There was a knot in Bridget’s stomach now. Because Darcy was here and now he was deeply embroiled in their private family drama, which would hardly improve his already low opinion of their family.
“Lady Bridget, why don’t you and Lord Darcy visit Hyde Park. Perhaps you’ll see your sister,” Josephine suggested. “Perhaps you’ll even find her with Mr. Wright.”
Bridget frowned at the duchess. What a bloody terrible idea. If she and Darcy were seen taking a pleasant stroll in the park, it would only attract undue attention and more gossip, especially after all the nonsense about clinging to each other in the lake. Honestly.
Or so she desperately believed. But the thought of being alone with Darcy made her feel anxious and strange. He was not one for conversation, she had learned, and she so hated silences.
Most of the time she found him insufferable, except for when his clothes were wet and she could gaze wantonly at his body. She doubted that would happen today. Alas.
“I’m sure we wouldn’t wish to trouble Lord Darcy anymore,” Bridget said, opting for the more polite response. “I’m certain he wishes to search for his brother instead.”
“It is no trouble,” he said evenly, his gaze resting on her alone. “I mean to spend the day making inquiries about Rupert. We can look for Lady Amelia as well.”
“But won’t it look suspicious? Won’t I be ruined if I am alone with a man?”
“I think we can all agree that it would be much better if the gossip were about you and someone as proper as Darcy here, rather than the truth,” Josephine said. She punctuated it with a look at her as if Bridget were batty to refuse to take this opportunity. In fact, the duchess looked as if she was glad of this opportunity to foist one of her unmarried girls on the company of an eligible bachelor.
“We’ll take my curricle, which shall allow us to cover more ground than on foot,” he said.
“It is acceptable for you to be out together if you are in an open carriage and not gone for very long,” Josephine said. “It will simply appear to be a social excursion. In fact, it shall probably provide an excellent distraction for the ton.”
Chapter 12
It seems that I shall be spending the day with Dreadful Darcy, roaming the city in search of my wayward sister. Horrors. But no worse than French lessons.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Once they were both ensconced in the curricle, Darcy cracked the whip and they were off. It went without saying that searching for missing siblings in the company of Lady Bridget Cavendish was not how Darcy had intended to spend his day. He was an important man, a busy man, and he had matters of vital importance requiring his attention.
But after Rupert confessed what he had confessed, everything had changed. Parliamentary matters could wait. An issue regarding a drainage ditch on their Lincolnshire estate could wait. He needed only to find his brother so they could find the blackmailer and ensure Rupert’s secret was safe.
Nothing else mattered.
Which was why he was in an open carriage with none other than Lady Bridget Cavendish of the American Cavendishes, fueling rumors that there was some romance between them. It was better that the ton speak of them, rather than Rupert. Or Amelia.
It was only logical.
And yet, Lady Bridget had brought a book. They were supposed to be searching all the faces in the crowds or at the very least, giving the appearance of a suitor calling upon a lady. He hated what it suggested about his company and her interest in him that she had brought a book.
He hated that he hated that.
There was no reason for him to care in the slightest what Lady Bridget, the girl who fell, thought of him.
“Well, I tried, Lord Darcy,” she said, heaving a sigh. “My apologies that you are now embroiled in my family’s affair and stuck spending hours with me when surely you have more lordly matters to attend to.”
“Lordly matters?”
“Yes, such as stomping around your various properties, issuing orders to servants, answering extremely important correspondence with very important Persons of Quality, and generally putting on airs.”
“Is that what you think I do all day?”
“You and every other lord I’ve met since I have arrived.”
“Let me assure you that I am able to spare a few hours from my important work of strolling around my properties and answering my correspondence to search for missing siblings. After all, it has been impressed upon me that nothing is more important than family.”
He glanced at her, to see how she took his reference to their earlier conversation when she dared to do what no one else in the haute ton would do: chastise his behavior.
“I am glad you have your priorities in order,” she replied. “Where do you think Rupert has gone off to?”
“He is not with his . . . friend,” Darcy said. He’d gone to call on Frederick Croft but Croft was not at home. Not that Darcy could say that to her. “I thought he might have spoken with you.”
She was quiet for a long moment, while they traveled the length of Curzon Street. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tapping her fingers on the book—that book—in a nervous manner. Something was vexing her.
“Do you think they are together?” she asked, finally.
Ah. Of course. She was nervous that her sister had run off with the man she fancied herself in love with.
“I have no idea. But it would be for the best if she were with him.”
“How could you say that?” she asked angrily.
“Because I am thinking rationally. It is vastly preferable that she be in the company of Rupert, who will respect and protect her, rather than some nefarious creature who would use her in the worst ways imaginable.”
“Well, when you phrase it like that . . .”
“Furthermore, if it were discovered or suggested that they were together, they could marry to avert scandal.”
It was the truth. It was logic. It was reason. And it was, according to Lady Bridget, a personal affront.
“How could she do that to me?”
There was no denying the anguish in her voice.
He didn’t know how to reply. Especially not when confronted with the depths of her emotions. He thought she fancied Rupert because Rupert was charming, but glancing at her now, he realized she seemed actually heartbroken at the thought of him with another woman. Worst of all, he knew what he knew about Rupert and couldn’t say his brother wasn’t interested in any woman.
Darcy, being either diplomatic or cowardly, changed the subject.
“What are you reading?”
“It is Amelia’s guidebook to London,” she replied, and he felt vastly relieved. “I found it while snooping through her room because I am the sort of person who will snoop through someone’s rooms. You probably disapprove.”
“In this instance, I think it’s a laudable activity,” he said, noting an expression of slight surprise on her face. “In other circumstances, less so.”
“We shall never suit, Darcy. For I would snoop through all your things while you were at Parliament or your club or wherever you go to be lordly all day.”
“You wouldn’t find anything of interest.”
She leaned in and peered up at him. “Oh, Darcy, you don’t have any deep, dark secrets?”
He glanced down at her. At her breasts. At the wicked smile on her lips and the spark in her eye. His deep, dark secret was how much he fantasized about tasting those lips, caressing those breasts . . .
“If I had any secrets, I wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave them about where any snoop could find them,” he said stiffly.
“You would make an excellent spy.”
“Yes, in all my free time,” he remarked dryly, and she laughed.
“I suppose one could trust you not to snoop through their private belongings. Why, I bet I could leave my diary lying around and you wouldn’t read it.”
Ah, again with that diary of hers. He would rather read parliamentary reports on taxation and agricultural treatises on the latest technological advances in drainage ditches than the intimate ramblings of a young woman. She probably had pages with nothing but Rupert and Bridget written on them. And he knew she had a list of things she disliked about him, the Dreadful Darcy. No, he did not need to read all that.
“You could be assured that I would respect your privacy,” he said. “Anyway, are there any indications in that book of where your sister might have gone?”
“She has circled a few things, including Hyde Park, so we might as well carry on with our original plan. Besides, she is a country girl at heart and loves nature more than cities. I bet she misses it.”
“There are people who prey on country girls who are innocent to the ways of the city,” he said grimly.
“She is not innocent to the ways of the city, but do tell me all the dangers a young lady faces in London. I’m imagining packs of roving marauders with murderous intent. Don’t the words ‘murderous intent’ just send shivers up and down your spine?”
“No. Men do not get shivers,” he informed her. “On their spine or otherwise.”
“Oh.”
She seemed deflated. Was it the lack of marauders with murderous intent or the fact that men did not feel ridiculous shivers and thrills? Probably both.
“There are pickpockets,” he said, indulging her in listing the dangers that might befall a maiden and trying to, oh, amuse her.
“This dress—most dresses—do not have pockets,” Bridget pointed out. “It ruins the line of the gown.”
“To think I have lived my whole life without knowing that,” he said dryly. “They might snatch your reticule, then. It’s easy enough and happens often. There are also men who have little regard for a woman’s virtue.”
She grinned. Oh bloody hell, he thought, mentally kicking himself. He had to introduce that line of conversation.
“Yes, young ladies are warned from an early age to protect our virtue. It is apparently in constant peril and we must protect it at all costs. We are under strict orders to avoid finding ourselves alone with a man. And yet . . .” Her voice trailed off. He glanced over and caught her gazing at him. God, he felt something like a shiver. She dropped her voice to a deliberately dramatic low tone. “Here we are. Alone.”
“You needn’t fear for your virtue now. We are in an open carriage.”
Even if they were married one wouldn’t act intimately in an open carriage. Public displays of affection or emotion were high on the list of things that were Not Done.
“And if we were in a closed carriage? Alone?”
If they were alone in a closed carriage he would find himself in a torturous internal battle, wanting to kiss her senseless and touch her everywhere until she begged for him to take her.
“Obviously, as a gentleman, I would treat you with the utmost respect,” he said. But his voice was a bit rough. He coughed and added, “And this is not an appropriate topic of conversation.”
She sighed. Disappointed. Chastised? Didn’t she realize that he couldn’t, just physically could not, say such thoughts aloud? He was English, for God’s sake.
“Well then we mustn’t speak of it. Let’s consider other dangers. What about being kidnapped and held for ransom?” Bridget’s voice was actually breathless when she asked.
“It’s a possibility.”
“Well, I would pity whoever took Amelia,” she declared.
“You don’t really mean that, do you?”
“Not really. I am beginning to get nervous. Amelia has always embarked on ‘explorations.’ Once she even spent the afternoon at the circus with the lion tamer. Thank God we found her before they set off for their next destination. But she’s never been away this long, or overnight.”
“Are you going to cry?”
“No.” She sniffed. Then she smiled. “Perhaps. Only to distress you.”
Darcy drove the carriage through the park, where they joined the throngs of carriages and riders on Rotten Row. In her opinion, this was one of the more ridiculous habits of the haute ton. Whoever thought that it was a capital idea to cause a buildup of traffic for amusement? If one wanted to go that slowly, one might as well walk.
She hoped Darcy was keeping an eye out for Amelia and Rupert because she was too distracted by the carriages full of lords and ladies who were out only to spy on one another and gossip endlessly. He nodded at some acquaintances as they passed, but she was all too aware of the stares and whispers and the shocking sight of an esteemed earl with one of the Americans. Especially her, the girl who fell first in the ballroom and then into the lake. She watched as they all glanced at her, then Darcy, and then turned to whisper at each other.
I can see you talking about me, she wanted to shout. But perfect ladies did not shout things out at random. She didn’t need Josephine to tell her that.
Perhaps it was even a good thing that she was seen with the stuffy old Darcy. As if his company implicitly endorsed her and would provide some of the approval that had eluded her and her family. They would need all the help they could get if there were rumors about Amelia, roaming the streets of London without a chaperone.
Because it was polite and proper, she and Darcy chatted amiably with many of his acquaintances that they encountered. But the conversations were simply about the weather or other inanities; there were no clues about Amelia or Rupert.
Lady Tunbridge, a buxom, forthright woman of middle age, was the only person who had something interesting to say. Bridget had made her acquaintance at her first London ball, which Lady Tunbridge had hosted.
“Hello, Lord Darcy and . . . Lady Bridget.” She did not conceal her surprise. “What brings you to the park together?”
“We thought it would be lovely to spend some time out of doors,” Darcy replied. Just then, at that exact moment, there was a rumble of thunder. As if God was punishing them for the lie.
“Indeed.” Lady Tunbridge looked from one to the oth
er, as if she suspected that something suspicious was underfoot. Which it was. Which Bridget could not say. Which made her want to say it.
“I had gone to visit with the new duke over the matter of a shared border property line,” Darcy said. She was quite sure that he was lying. The notion of Darcy lying was oddly thrilling. “I stayed for tea and then in the course of conversation over tea, Lady Bridget and I agreed that it might be nice to visit the park.” There was another rumble of thunder. “Before the rain.”
Lady Tunbridge appeared skeptical, even though Bridget thought Darcy was doing an admirable job with this fictitious story. This, oddly, raised her opinion of him. Perhaps he wasn’t such a stuck-up, self-righteous man after all. Who knew such a common vice as lying could make a man more attractive?
“In America, it is far less rainy and unpredictable,” she volunteered. “Here, it is so rare for it not to be raining, one must venture forth when one can.”
She and Darcy were allied in a lie against Lady Tunbridge and they had a secret to keep from the whole world. How intimate. It was thrilling enough to give her a shiver down her spine (she got shivers). This was a far, far better way to spend the day than practicing her penmanship or helping with preparations for the ball.
“And how are your sisters, Lady Bridget?”
“Why do you ask?”
Darcy coughed.
“Because it is the sort of benign question one asks when making polite conversation with an acquaintance on the street,” Lady Tunbridge answered sharply. “Good Lord, what do they teach you in America? I daresay I have no wish to know.”
“My sisters are very well, thank you.”
“And Darcy, your brother . . .” She sighed, and both Darcy and Bridget straightened with interest. “I suppose you’ve heard the latest.”
Beside her, Darcy tensed. She felt the muscles in his arm and leg go positively rigid and she was sure he was clenching his jaw . . . and yet somehow managing to speak.
