by Julia Quinn
“I don’t think Eloise wants to marry,” Benedict said.
“Quiet your mouth,” Lady Bridgerton said.
“Such a statement is sacrilege around here,” Benedict said to Sophie.
“Don’t listen to him,” Lady Bridgerton said, walking toward the stairs. “Here, come with me, Miss Beckett. What did you say your given name was?”
“Sophia. Sophie.”
“Come with me, Sophie. I’ll introduce you to the girls. And,” she added, her nose crinkling with distaste, “we’ll find you something new to wear. I cannot have one of our maids dressed so shabbily. A person would think we didn’t pay you a fair wage.”
It had never been Sophie’s experience that members of the ton were concerned about paying their servants fairly, and she was touched by Lady Bridgerton’s generosity.
“You,” Lady Bridgerton said to Benedict. “Wait for me downstairs. We have much to discuss, you and I.”
“I’m quaking in my boots,” he deadpanned.
“Between him and his brother, I don’t know which one of them will kill me first,” Lady Bridgerton muttered.
“Which brother?” Sophie asked.
“Either. Both. All three. Scoundrels, the lot of them.”
But they were scoundrels she clearly loved. Sophie could hear it in the way she spoke, see it in her eyes when they lit with joy upon seeing her son.
And it made Sophie lonely and wistful and jealous. How different her life might have been had her mother lived through childbirth. They might have been unrespectable, Mrs. Beckett a mistress and Sophie a bastard, but Sophie liked to think that her mother would have loved her.
Which was more than she received from any other adult, her father included.
“Come along, Sophie,” Lady Bridgerton said briskly.
Sophie followed her up the stairs, wondering why, if she were merely about to begin a new job, she felt as if she were entering a new family.
Itfelt . . . nice.
And it had been a long, long while since her life had felt nice.
Chapter 14
Rosamund Reiling swears that she saw Benedict Bridgerton back in London. This Author is inclined to believe the veracity of the account; Miss Reiling can spot an unmarried bachelor at fifty paces.
Unfortunately for Miss Reiling, she can’t seem to land one.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 12 MAY 1817
Benedict had barely taken two steps toward the sitting room when his sister Eloise came dashing down the hall. Like all the Bridgertons, she had thick, chestnut hair and a wide smile. Unlike Benedict, however, her eyes were a clear, crisp gray, a shade quite unlike that possessed by any of her brothers and sisters.
“Benedict!” she called out, throwing her arms rather exuberantly around him. “Where have you been? Mother has been grumbling all week, wondering where you’d gone off to.”
“Funny, when I spoke to Mother, not two minutes ago, her grumbles were about you, wondering when you were finally planning to marry.”
Eloise pulled a face. “When I meet someone worth marrying, that’s when. I do wish someone new would move to town. I feel as though I meet the same hundred or so people over and over again.”
“You do meet the same hundred or so people over and over again.”
“Exactly my point,” she said. “There are no secrets left in London. I already know everything about everyone.”
“Really?” Benedict asked, with no small measure of sarcasm.
“Mock me all you want,” she said, jabbing her finger toward him in a manner he was sure his mother would deem unladylike, “but I am not exaggerating.”
“Not even a little bit?” he grinned.
She scowled at him. “Where were you this past week?”
He walked into the sitting room and plopped down on a sofa. He probably should have waited for her to sit, but she was just his sister, after all, and he’d never felt the need to stand on ceremony when they were alone. “Went to the Cavender party,” he said, propping his feet up on a low table. “It was abominable.”
“Mother will kill you if she catches you with your feet up,” Eloise said, sitting down in a chair that was kitty-corner to him. “And why was the party so dreadful?”
“The company.” He looked at his feet and decided to leave them where they were. “A more boring bunch of lazy louts, I’ve never met.”
“As long as you don’t mince words.”
Benedict raised a brow at her sarcasm. “You are hereby forbidden from marrying anyone who was in attendance.”
“An order I shall probably have no difficulty obeying.” She tapped her hands against the arms of her chair. Benedict had to smile; Eloise had always been a bundle of nervous energy.
“But,” she said, looking up with narrowed eyes, “that doesn’t explain where you were all week.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly nosy?”
“Oh, all the time. Where were you?”
“And persistent, too.”
“It’s the only way to be. Where were you?”
“Have I mentioned I’m considering investing in a company that manufactures human-sized muzzles?”
She threw a pillow at him. “Where were you?”
“As it happens,” he said, gently tossing the pillow back in her direction, “the answer isn’t the least bit interesting. I was at My Cottage, recuperating from a nasty cold.”
“I thought you’d already recuperated.”
He regarded her with an expression that was an unlikely cross between amazement and distaste. “How do you know that?”
“I know everything. You should know that by now.” She grinned. “Colds can be so nasty. Did you have a setback?”
He nodded. “After driving in the rain.”
“Well, that wasn’t very smart of you.”
“Is there any reason,” he asked, glancing about the room as if he were directing his question at someone other than Eloise, “why I am allowing myself to be insulted by my ninnyhammer of a younger sister?”
“Probably because I do it so well.” She kicked at his foot, trying to knock it off the table. “Mother will be here at any second, I’m sure.”
“No, she won’t,” he returned. “She’s busy.”
“Doing what?”
He waved his hand toward the ceiling. “Orienting the new maid.”
She sat up straight. “We have a new maid? Nobody told me about it.”
“Heavens,” he drawled, “something has happened and Eloise doesn’t know about it.”
She leaned back in her chair, then kicked his foot again. “Housemaid? Lady’s maid? Scullery?”
“Why do you care?”
“It’s always good to know what’s what.”
“Lady’s maid, I believe.”
Eloise took all of one half second to digest that. “And how do you know?”
Benedict figured he might as well tell her the truth. The Lord knew, she’d know the whole story by sundown, even if he didn’t. “Because I brought her here.”
“The maid?”
“No, Mother. Of course the maid.”
“Since when do you trouble yourself with the hiring of servants?”
“Since this particular young lady nearly saved my life by nursing me while I was ill.”
Eloise’s mouth fell open. “You were that ill?”
Might as well let her believe he’d been at death’s door. A little pity and concern might work to his advantage next time he needed to wheedle her into something. “I have felt better,” he said mildly. “Where are you going?”
She’d already risen to her feet. “To go find Mother and meet the new maid. She’s probably going to wait on Francesca and me, now that Marie is gone.”
“You lost your maid?”
Eloise scowled. “She left us for that odious Lady Penwood.”
Benedict had to grin at her description. He remembered his one meeting with Lady Penwood quite well; he, too, had found h
er odious.
“Lady Penwood is notorious for mistreating her servants. She’s gone through three lady’s maids this year. Stole Mrs. Featherington’s right out from under her nose, but the poor girl only lasted a fortnight.”
Benedict listened patiently to his sister’s tirade, amazed that he was even interested. And yet for some strange reason, he was.
“Marie will come crawling back in a week, asking us to take her back on, you mark my words,” Eloise said.
“I always mark your words,” he replied, “I just don’t always care.”
“You,” Eloise returned, pointing her finger at him, “are going to regret that you said that.”
He shook his head, smiling faintly. “Doubtful.”
“Hmmph. I’m going upstairs.”
“Do enjoy yourself.”
She poked her tongue out at him—surely not appropriate behavior for a woman of twenty-one—and left the room. Benedict managed to enjoy just three minutes of solitude before footsteps once again sounded in the hall, tapping rhythmically in his direction. When he looked up, he saw his mother in the doorway.
He stood immediately. Certain manners could be ignored for one’s sister, but never for one’s mother.
“I saw your feet on the table,” Violet said before he could even open his mouth.
“I was merely polishing the surface with my boots.”
She raised her brows, then made her way to the chair so recently vacated by Eloise and sat down. “All right, Benedict,” she said in an extremely no-nonsense voice. “Who is she?”
“Miss Beckett, you mean?”
Violet gave him one businesslike nod.
“I have no idea, save that she worked for the Cavenders and was apparently mistreated by their son.”
Violet blanched. “Did he . . . Oh dear. Was she . . .”
“I don’t think so,” Benedict said grimly. “In fact, I’m certain she wasn’t. But not for lack of trying on his part.”
“The poor thing. How lucky for her that you were there to save her.”
Benedict found he didn’t like to relive that night on the Cavenders’ lawn. Even though the escapade had ended quite favorably, he could not seem to stop himself from racing through the gamut of “what-ifs.” What if he hadn’t come along in time? What if Cavender and his friends had been a little less drunk and a little more obstinate? Sophie could have been raped. Sophie would have been raped.
And now that he knew Sophie, had grown to care about her, the very notion chilled him to the bone.
“Well,” Violet said, “she is not who she says she is. Of that I’m certain.”
Benedict sat up straight. “Why do you say that?”
“She is far too educated to be a housemaid. Her mother’s employers may have allowed her to share in some of their daughters’ lessons, but all of them? I doubt it. Benedict, the girl speaks French!”
“She does?”
“Well, I can’t be positive,” Violet admitted, “but I caught her looking at a book on Francesca’s desk that was written in French.”
“Looking is not the same as reading, Mother.”
She shot him a peevish look. “I’m telling you, I was looking at the way her eyes were moving. She was reading it.”
“If you say so, you must be correct.”
Violet’s eyes narrowed. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“Normally,” Benedict said with a smile, “I would say yes, but in this case, I was speaking quite seriously.”
“Perhaps she is the cast-off daughter of an aristocratic family,” Violet mused.
“Cast-off?”
“For getting herself with child,” she explained.
Benedict was not used to his mother speaking quite so frankly. “Er, no,” he said, thinking about Sophie’s steadfast refusal to become his mistress. “I don’t think so.”
But then he thought—why not? Maybe she refused to bring an illegitimate child into this world because she had already had an illegitimate child and didn’t want to repeat the mistake.
Benedict’s mouth suddenly tasted quite sour. If Sophie had had a child, then Sophie had had a lover.
“Or maybe,” Violet continued, warming to the endeavor, “she’s the illegitimate child of a nobleman.”
That was considerably more plausible—and more palatable. “One would think he’d have settled enough funds on her so that she didn’t have to work as a housemaid.”
“A great many men completely ignore their by-blows,” Violet said, her face wrinkling with distaste. “It’s nothing short of scandalous.”
“More scandalous than their having the by-blows in the first place?”
Violet’s expression turned quite peevish.
“Besides,” Benedict said, leaning back against the sofa and propping one ankle on the other knee, “if she were the bastard of a nobleman, and he’d cared for her enough to make sure she had schooling as a child, then why is she completely penniless now?”
“Hmmm, that’s a good point.” Violet tapped her index finger against her cheek, pursed her lips, then continued tapping. “But have no fear,” she finally said, “I shall discover her identity within a month.”
“I’d recommend asking Eloise for help,” Benedict said dryly.
Violet nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. That girl could get Napoleon to spill his secrets.”
Benedict stood. “I must be going. I’m weary from the road and would like to get home.”
“You can always avail yourself here.”
He gave her a half smile. His mother liked nothing better than to have her children close at hand. “I need to get back to my own lodgings,” he said, leaning down and dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you for finding a position for Sophie.”
“Miss Beckett, you mean?” Violet asked, her lips curving slyly.
“Sophie, Miss Beckett,” Benedict said, feigning indifference. “Whatever you wish to call her.”
When he left, he did not see his mother smiling broadly at his back.
Sophie knew that she should not allow herself to grow too comfortable at Bridgerton House—she would, after all, be leaving just as soon as she could make the arrangements—but as she looked around her room, surely the nicest any servant had ever been assigned, and she thought about Lady Bridgerton’s friendly manner and easy smile . . .
She just couldn’t help wishing that she could stay forever.
But that was impossible. She knew that as well as she knew that her name was Sophia Maria Beckett, not Sophia Maria Gunningworth.
First and foremost, there was always the danger that she’d come into contact with Araminta, especially now that Lady Bridgerton had elevated her from housemaid to lady’s maid. A lady’s maid might, for example, find herself acting as a chaperone or escort on outings outside the house. Outings to places where Araminta and the girls might choose to frequent.
And Sophie had no doubt that Araminta would find a way to make her life a living hell. Araminta hated her in a way that defied reason, went beyond emotion. If she saw Sophie in London, she would not be content simply to ignore her. Sophie had no doubt that Araminta would lie, cheat, and steal just to make Sophie’s life more difficult.
She hated Sophie that much.
But if Sophie were to be honest with herself, the true reason she could not remain in London was not Araminta. It was Benedict.
How could she avoid him when she lived in his mother’s household? She was furious with him right now—beyond furious, in all truth—but she knew, deep down, that anger could only be short-lived. How could she resist him, day in and day out, when the mere sight of him made her weak with longing? Someday soon he’d smile at her, one of those sideways, crooked sorts of smiles, and she’d find herself clutching on to the furniture, just to keep herself from melting into a pathetic pool on the floor.
She’d fallen in love with the wrong man. She could never have him on her terms, and she refused to go to him on his.
It was hopeless.
Sophie immediately jumped to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. “Was there anything you needed, my lady?” she asked.
“No, not at all,” Lady Bridgerton replied. “I was merely checking to see if you were getting settled in. Is there anything I can get for you?”
Sophie blinked. Lady Bridgerton was asking her if she needed anything? Rather the reverse of the usual lady-servant relationship. “Er, no thank you,” Sophie said. “I would be happy to get something for you, though.”
Lady Bridgerton waved her offer way. “No need. You shouldn’t feel you have to do anything for us today. I’d prefer that you get yourself settled in first so that you do not feel distracted when you begin.”
Sophie cast her eyes toward her small bag. “I don’t have much to unpack. Truly, I should be happy to begin work immediately.”
“Nonsense. It’s already nearly the end of the day, and we are not planning to go out this evening, anyway. The girls and I have made do with only one lady’s maid for the past week; we shall certainly survive for one more night.”
“But—”
Lady Bridgerton smiled. “No arguments, if you please. One last day free is the least I can do after you saved my son.”
“I did very little,” Sophie said. “He would have been fine without me.”
“Nonetheless, you aided him when he needed help, and for that I am in your debt.”
“It was my pleasure,” Sophie replied. “It was the very least I owed him after what he did for me.”
Then, to her great surprise, Lady Bridgerton walked forward and sat down in the chair behind Sophie’s writing desk.
Writing desk! Sophie was still trying fathom that. What maid had ever been blessed with a writing desk?
“So tell me, Sophie,” Lady Bridgerton said with a winning smile—one that instantly reminded her of Benedict’s easy grin. “Where are you from?”
“East Anglia, originally,” Sophie replied, seeing no reason to lie. The Bridgertons were from Kent; it was unlikely that Lady Bridgerton would be familiar with Norfolk, where Sophie had grown up. “Not so very far from Sandringham, if you know where that is.”
