An Offer From a Gentleman: The 2nd Epilogue

by Julia Quinn

  “Please do,” Rosamund said. “Did you enjoy the ball, Mr. Bridgerton?”

  Benedict stared at her for a moment before answering. She had a hard look in her eyes, as if she was searching for a specific piece of information. “I did indeed,” he finally said.

  “I noticed you spent a great deal of time with one lady in particular,” Rosamund persisted.

  Lady Penwood twisted her head sharply to look at him, but she did not say anything.

  “Did you?” Benedict murmured.

  “She was wearing silver,” Rosamund said. “Who was she?”

  “A mystery woman,” he said with an enigmatic smile. No need for them to know that she was a mystery to him as well.

  “Surely you can share her name with us,” Lady Penwood said.

  Benedict just smiled and stood. He wasn’t going to get any more information here. “I’m afraid I must be going, ladies,” he said affably, offering them a smooth bow.

  “You never did see the spoons,” Lady Penwood reminded him.

  “I’ll have to save them for another time,” Benedict said. It was unlikely that his mother would have incorrectly identified the Penwood crest, and besides, if he spent much more time in the company of the hard and brittle Countess of Penwood, he might retch.

  “It has been lovely,” he lied.

  “Indeed,” Lady Penwood said, rising to walk him to the door. “Brief, but lovely.”

  Benedict didn’t bother to smile again.

  “What,” Araminta said as she heard the front door close behind Benedict Bridgerton, “do you suppose that was about?”

  “Well,” Posy said, “he might—”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Araminta bit off.

  “Well, then, who did you ask?” Posy returned with uncharacteristic gumption.

  “Perhaps he saw me from afar,” Rosamund said, “and—”

  “He didn’t see you from afar,” Araminta snapped as she strode across the room.

  Rosamund lurched backward in surprise. Her mother rarely spoke to her in such impatient tones.

  Araminta continued, “You yourself said he was besotted with some woman in a silver dress.”

  “I didn’t say ‘besotted’ precisely . . .”

  “Don’t argue with me over such trivialities. Besotted or not, he didn’t come here looking for either of you,” Araminta said with a fair amount of derision. “I don’t know what he was up to. He . . .”

  Her words trailed off as she reached the window. Pulling the sheer curtain back, she saw Mr. Bridgerton standing on the pavement, pulling something from his pocket. “What is he doing?” she whispered.

  “I think he’s holding a glove,” Posy said helpfully.

  “It’s not a—” Araminta said automatically, too used to contradicting everything Posy had to say. “Why, it is a glove.”

  “I should think I know a glove when I see one,” Posy muttered.

  “What is he looking at?” Rosamund asked, nudging her sister out of the way.

  “There’s something on the glove,” Posy said. “Perhaps it’s a piece of embroidery. We’ve some gloves with the Penwood crest embroidered on the hem. Maybe that glove has the same.”

  Araminta went white.

  “Are you feeling all right, Mother?” Posy asked. “You look rather pale.”

  “He came here looking for her,” Araminta whispered.

  “Who?” Rosamund asked.

  “The woman in silver.”

  “Well, he isn’t going to find her here,” Posy replied, “as I was a mermaid and Rosamund was Marie Antoinette. And you, of course, were Queen Elizabeth.”

  “The shoes,” Araminta gasped. “The shoes.”

  “What shoes?” Rosamund asked irritably.

  “They were scuffed. Someone wore my shoes.” Araminta’s face, already impossibly pale, blanched even more. “It was her. How did she do it? It had to be her.”

  “Who?” Rosamund demanded.

  “Mother, are you certain you’re all right?” Posy asked again. “You’re not at all yourself.”

  But Araminta had already run out of the room.

  “Stupid, stupid shoe,” Sophie grumbled, scrubbing at the heel of one of Araminta’s older pieces of footwear. “She hasn’t even worn this one for years.”

  She finished polishing the toe and put it back in its place in the neatly ordered row of shoes. But before she could reach for another pair, the door to the closet burst open, slamming against the wall with such force that Sophie nearly screamed with surprise.

  “Oh, goodness, you gave me a fright,” she said to Araminta. “I didn’t hear you coming, and—”

  “Pack your things,” Araminta said in a low, cruel voice. “I want you out of this house by sunrise.”

  The rag Sophie had been using to polish the shoes fell from her hand. “What?” she gasped. “Why?”

  “Do I really need a reason? We both know I ceased receiving any funds for your care nearly a year ago. It’s enough that I don’t want you here any longer.”

  “But where will I go?”

  Araminta’s eyes narrowed to nasty slits. “That’s not my concern, now, is it?”

  “But—”

  “You’re twenty years of age. Certainly old enough to make your way in the world. There will be no more coddling from me.”

  “You never coddled me,” Sophie said in a low voice.

  “Don’t you dare talk back to me.”

  “Why not?” Sophie returned, her voice growing shrill. “What have I to lose? You’re booting me out of the house, anyway.”

  “You might treat me with a little respect,” Araminta hissed, planting her foot on Sophie’s skirt so that she was pinned in her kneeling position, “considering that I have clothed and sheltered you this past year out of the goodness of my heart.”

  “You do nothing out of the goodness of your heart.” Sophie tugged at her skirt, but it was firmly trapped under Araminta’s heel. “Why did you really keep me here?”

  Araminta cackled. “You’re cheaper than a regular maid, and I do enjoy ordering you about.”

  Sophie hated being Araminta’s virtual slave, but at least Penwood House was home. Mrs. Gibbons was her friend, and Posy was usually sympathetic, and the rest of the world was . . . well . . . rather scary. Where would she go? What would she do? How would she support herself?

  “Why now?” Sophie asked.

  Araminta shrugged. “You’re no longer useful to me.”

  Sophie looked at the long row of shoes she’d just polished. “I’m not?”

  Araminta ground the pointy heel of her shoe into Sophie’s skirt, tearing the fabric. “You went to the ball last night, didn’t you?”

  Sophie felt the blood drain from her face, and she knew that Araminta saw the truth in her eyes. “N-no,” she lied. “How would I—”

  “I don’t know how you did it, but I know you were there.” Araminta kicked a pair of shoes in Sophie’s direction. “Put these on.”

  Sophie just stared at the shoes in dismay. They were white satin, stitched in silver. They were the shoes she’d worn the night before.

  “Put them on!” Araminta screamed. “I know that Rosamund’s and Posy’s feet are too large. You’re the only one who could have worn my shoes last night.”

  “And from that you think I went to the ball?” Sophie asked, her voice breathy with panic.

  “Put on the shoes, Sophie.”

  Sophie did as she was told. They were, of course, a perfect fit.

  “You have overstepped your bounds,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I warned you years ago not to forget your place in this world. You are a bastard, a by-blow, the product of—”

  “I know what a bastard is,” Sophie snapped.

  Araminta raised one haughty brow, silently mocking Sophie’s outburst. “You are unfit to mingle with polite society,” she continued, “and yet you dared to pretend you are as good as the rest of us by attending the masquerade.”

  “Yes, I dar
ed,” Sophie cried out, well past caring that Araminta had somehow discovered her secret. “I dared, and I’d dare again. My blood is just as blue as yours, and my heart far kinder, and—”

  One minute Sophie was on her feet, screaming at Araminta, and the next she was on the floor, clutching her cheek, made red by Araminta’s palm.

  “Don’t you ever compare yourself to me,” Araminta warned.

  Sophie remained on the floor. How could her father have done this to her, leaving her in the care of a woman who so obviously detested her? Had he cared so little? Or had he simply been blind?

  “You will be gone by morning,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I don’t ever want to see your face again.”

  Sophie started to make her way to the door.

  “But not,” Araminta said, planting the heel of her hand against Sophie’s shoulder, “until you finish the job I have assigned you.”

  “It will take me until morning just to finish,” Sophie protested.

  “That is your problem, not mine.” And with that, Araminta slammed the door shut, turning the lock with a very loud click.

  Sophie stared down at the flickering candle she’d brought in to help illuminate the long, dark closet. There was no way the wick would last until morning.

  And there was no way—absolutely no way in hell—that she was going to polish the rest of Araminta’s shoes.

  Sophie sat down on the floor, arms crossed and legs crossed, and stared at the candle flame until her eyes crossed, too. When the sun rose tomorrow, her life would be forever altered. Penwood House might not have been terribly welcoming, but at least it was safe.

  She had almost no money. She hadn’t received so much as a farthing from Araminta in the past seven years. Luckily, she still had a bit of the pin money she’d received when her father had been alive and she’d been treated as his ward, not his wife’s slave. There had been many opportunities to spend it, but Sophie had always known that this day might come, and it had seemed prudent to hold on to what little funds she possessed.

  But her paltry few pounds wasn’t going to get her very far. She needed a ticket out of London, and that cost money. Probably well over half what she had saved. She supposed she could stay in town for a bit, but the London slums were dirty and dangerous, and Sophie knew that her budget would not place her in any of the better neighborhoods. Besides, if she were going to be on her own, she might as well return to the countryside she loved.

  Not to mention that Benedict Bridgerton was here. London was a large city, and Sophie had no doubt that she could successfully avoid him for years, but she was desperately afraid that she wouldn’t want to avoid him, that she’d find herself gazing at his house, hoping for the merest of glimpses as he came through the front door.

  And if he saw her . . . Well, Sophie didn’t know what would happen. He might be furious at her deception. He might want to make her his mistress. He might not recognize her at all.

  The only thing she was certain he would not do was to throw himself at her feet, declare his undying devotion, and demand her hand in marriage.

  Sons of viscounts did not marry baseborn nobodies. Not even in romantic novels.

  No, she’d have to leave London. Keep herself far from temptation. But she’d need more money, enough to keep her going until she found employment. Enough to—

  Sophie’s eyes fell on something sparkly—a pair of shoes tucked away in the corner. Except she’d cleaned those shoes just an hour earlier, and she knew that those sparklies weren’t the shoes but a pair of jeweled shoe clips, easily detachable and small enough to fit in her pocket.

  Did she dare?

  She thought about all the money that Araminta had received for her upkeep, money Araminta had never seen fit to share.

  She thought about all those years she’d toiled as a lady’s maid, without drawing a single wage.

  She thought about her conscience, then quickly squelched it. In times like these, she didn’t have room for a conscience.

  She took the shoe clips.

  And then, several hours later when Posy came (against her mother’s wishes) and let her out, she packed up all of her belongings and left.

  Much to her surprise, she didn’t look back.

  Part Two

  Chapter 6

  It has now been three years since any of the Bridgerton siblings have wed, and Lady Bridgerton has been heard to declare on several occasions that she is nearing her wit’s end. Benedict has not taken a bride (and it is the opinion of This Author that as he has attained the age of thirty, he is far past due), and neither has Colin, although he may be forgiven his tardiness, since he is, after all, merely six-and-twenty.

  The dowager viscountess also has two girls about which she must worry. Eloise is nearly one-and-twenty and although she has received several proposals, she has shown no inclination to marry. Francesca is nearly twenty (the girls quite coincidentally share a birthday), and she, too, seems more interested in the season than she does in marriage.

  This Author feels that Lady Bridgerton does not need to worry. It is inconceivable that any of the Bridgertons might not eventually make an acceptable match, and besides, her two married children have already given her a total of five grandchildren, and surely that is her heart’s desire.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 APRIL 1817

  Alcohol and cheroots. Card games and lots of hired women. It was just the sort of party Benedict Bridgerton would have enjoyed immensely when he was fresh out of university.

  Now he was just bored.

  He wasn’t even certain why he’d agreed to attend. More boredom, he supposed. The London season of 1817 had thus far been a repeat of the previous year, and he hadn’t found 1816 terribly scintillating to begin with. To do the whole thing over again was beyond banal.

  He didn’t even really know his host, one Phillip Cavender. It was one of those friend of a friend of a friend situations, and now Benedict was fervently wishing he’d remained in London. He’d just gotten over a blistering head cold, and he should have used that as an excuse to cry off, but his friend—whom he hadn’t even seen in the past four hours—had prodded and cajoled, and finally Benedict had given in.

  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.