by Julia Quinn
Benedict nodded. “I thought so as well. It smelled a bit musty, as if it had been packed away for some time.”
“And the stitches show wear,” she commented. “I don’t know what the L is for, but the S could very well be for Sarah. The late earl’s mother, who has also passed on. Which would make sense, given the age of the glove.”
Benedict stared down at the glove in his mother’s hands for a moment before saying, “As I’m fairly certain I did not converse with a ghost last night, who do you think the glove might belong to?”
“I have no idea. Someone in the Gunningworth family, I imagine.”
“Do you know where they live?”
“At Penwood House, actually,” Violet replied. “The new earl hasn’t given them the boot yet. Don’t know why. Perhaps he’s afraid they’ll want to live with him once he takes up residence. I don’t think he’s even in town for the season. Never met him myself.”
“Do you happen to know—”
“Where Penwood House is?” Violet cut in. “Of course I do. It’s not far, only a few blocks away.” She gave him directions, and Benedict, in his haste to be on his way, was already on his feet and halfway out the door before she finished.
“Oh, Benedict!” Violet called out, her smile very amused.
He turned around. “Yes?”
“The countess’s daughters are named Rosamund and Posy. Just in case you’re interested.”
Rosamund and Posy. Neither seemed fitting, but what did he know? Perhaps he didn’t seem a proper Benedict to people he met. He turned on his heel and tried to exit once again, but his mother stopped him with yet another, “Oh, Benedict!”
He turned around. “Yes, Mother?” he asked, sounding purposefully beleaguered.
“You will tell me what happens, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mother.”
“You’re lying to me,” she said with a smile, “but I forgive you. It’s so nice to see you in love.”
“I’m not—”
“Whatever you say, dear,” she said with a wave.
Benedict decided there was little point in replying, so with nothing more than a roll of his eyes, he left the room and hurried out of the house.
“Sophieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Sophie’s chin snapped up. Araminta sounded even more irate than usual, if that were possible. Araminta was always upset with her.
“Sophie! Drat it, where is that infernal girl?”
“The infernal girl is right here,” Sophie muttered, setting down the silver spoon she’d been polishing. As lady’s maid to Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy, she shouldn’t have had to add the polishing to her list of chores, but Araminta positively reveled in working her to the bone.
“Right here,” she called out, rising to her feet and walking out into the hall. The Lord only knew what Araminta was upset about this time. She looked this way and that. “My lady?”
Araminta came storming around the corner. “What,” she snapped, holding something up in her right hand, “is the meaning of this?”
Sophie’s eyes fell to Araminta’s hand, and she only just managed to stifle a gasp. Araminta was holding the shoes that Sophie had borrowed the night before. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.
“These shoes are brand-new. Brand-new!”
Sophie stood quietly until she realized that Araminta required a reply. “Um, what is the problem?”
“Look at this!” Araminta screeched, jabbing her finger toward one of the heels. “It’s scuffed. Scuffed! How could something like this happen?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, my lady,” Sophie said. “Perhaps—”
“There is no perhaps about it,” Araminta huffed. “Someone has been wearing my shoes.”
“I assure you no one has been wearing your shoes,” Sophie replied, amazed that she was able to keep her voice even. “We all know how particular you are about your footwear.”
Araminta narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you being sarcastic?”
Sophie rather thought that if Araminta had to ask, then she was playing her sarcasm very well indeed, but she lied, and said, “No! Of course not. I merely meant that you take very good care of your shoes. They last longer that way.”
Araminta said nothing, so Sophie added, “Which means you don’t have to buy as many pairs.”
Which was, of course, utter ridiculousness, as Araminta already owned more pairs of shoes than any one person could hope to wear in a lifetime.
“This is your fault,” Araminta growled.
According to Araminta, everything was always Sophie’s fault, but this time she was actually correct, so Sophie just gulped and said, “What would you like me to do about it, my lady?”
“I want to know who wore my shoes.”
“Perhaps they were scuffed in your closet,” Sophie suggested. “Maybe you accidentally kicked them last time you walked by.”
“I never accidentally do anything,” Araminta snapped.
Sophie silently agreed. Araminta was deliberate in all things. “I can ask the maids,” Sophie said. “Perhaps one of them knows something.”
“The maids are a pack of idiots,” Araminta replied. “What they know could fit on my littlest fingernail.”
Sophie waited for Araminta to say, “Present company excluded,” but of course she did not. Finally, Sophie said, “I can try to polish the shoe. I’m sure we can do something about the scuff mark.”
“The heels are covered in satin,” Araminta sneered. “If you can find a way to polish that, then we should have you admitted to the Royal College of Fabric Scientists.”
Sophie badly wanted to ask if there even existed a Royal College of Fabric Scientists, but Araminta didn’t have much of a sense of humor even when she wasn’t in a complete snit. To poke fun now would be a clear invitation for disaster. “I could try to rub it out,” Sophie suggested. “Or brush it.”
“You do that,” Araminta said. “In fact, while you’re at it . . .”
Oh, blast. All bad things began with Araminta saying, “While you’re at it.”
“. . . you might as well polish all of my shoes.”
“All of them?” Sophie gulped. Araminta’s collection must have numbered at least eighty pair.
“All of them. And while you’re at it . . .”
Not again.
“Lady Penwood?”
Araminta blessedly stopped in mid-command to turn and see what the butler wanted.
“A gentleman is here to see you, my lady,” he said, handing her a crisp, white card.
Araminta took it from him and read the name. Her eyes widened, and she let out a little, “Oh!” before turning back to the butler, and barking out, “Tea! And biscuits! The best silver. At once.”
The butler hurried out, leaving Sophie staring at Araminta with unfeigned curiosity. “May I be of any help?” Sophie asked.
Araminta blinked twice, staring at Sophie as if she’d forgotten her presence. “No,” she snapped. “I’m far too busy to bother with you. Go upstairs at once.” She paused, then added, “What are you doing down here, anyway?”
Sophie motioned toward the dining room she’d recently exited. “You asked me to polish—”
“I asked you to see to my shoes,” Araminta fairly yelled.
“All—all right,” Sophie said slowly. Araminta was acting very odd, even for Araminta. “I’ll just put away—”
“Now!”
Sophie hurried to the stairs.
“Wait!”
Sophie turned around. “Yes?” she asked hesitantly.
Araminta’s lips tightened into an unattractive frown. “Make sure that Rosamund’s and Posy’s hair is properly dressed.”
“Of course.”
“Then you may instruct Rosamund to lock you in my closet.”
Sophie stared at her. She actually wanted Sophie to give the order to have herself locked in the closet?
“Do you understand me?”
Sophie couldn
’t quite bring herself to nod. Some things were simply too demeaning.
Araminta marched over until their faces were quite close. “You didn’t answer,” she hissed. “Do you understand me?”
Sophie nodded, but just barely. Every day, it seemed, brought more evidence of the depth of Araminta’s hatred for her. “Why do you keep me here?” she whispered before she had time to think better of it.
“Because I find you useful,” was Araminta’s low reply.
Sophie watched as Araminta stalked from the room, then hurried up the stairs. Rosamund’s and Posy’s hair looked quite acceptable, so she sighed, turned to Posy, and said, “Lock me in the closet, if you will.”
Posy blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was instructed to ask Rosamund, but I can’t quite bring myself to do so.”
Posy peered in the closet with great interest. “May I ask why?”
“I’m meant to polish your mother’s shoes.”
Posy swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Sophie said with a sigh. “So am I.”
Chapter 5
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.”
