An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (27 page)

Sophie's shoulders rose and fell in a tiny shrug. “It's the truth.”

“Let me give you some money before you go, Sophie,” Lady Bridgerton blurted out.

Sophie shook her head. “I couldn't. I've already taken two of the dresses you gave me. I didn't want to, but—”

“It's all right,” Lady Bridgerton assured her. “What else could you do? The ones you came with are gone.” She cleared her throat. “But please, let me give you some money.” She saw Sophie open her mouth to protest and said, “
Please.
It would make me feel better.”

Lady Bridgerton had a way of looking at a person that truly made one want to do as she asked, and besides that, Sophie really did need the money. Lady Bridgerton was a generous lady; she might even give Sophie enough to book third-class passage across the ocean. Sophie found herself saying, “Thank you,” before her conscience had a chance to grapple with the offer.

Lady Bridgerton gave her a brief nod and disappeared down the hall.

Sophie took a long, shaky breath, then picked up her bag and walked slowly down the stairs. She waited in the foyer for a moment, then decided she might as well wait outside. It was a fine spring day, and Sophie thought that a bit of sun on her nose might be just the thing to make her feel better. Well, at least a little bit better. Besides, she'd be less likely to run into one of the Bridgerton daughters, and much as she was going to miss them, she just didn't want to have to say good-bye.

Still clutching her bag in one hand, she pushed open the front door and descended the steps.

It shouldn't take too long for the coach to be brought around. Five minutes, maybe ten, maybe—

“Sophie Beckett!”

Sophie's stomach dropped right down to her ankles. Araminta. How could she have forgotten?

Frozen into inaction, she looked around and up the stairs, trying to figure out which way to flee. If she ran back into
the Bridgerton house, Araminta would know where to find her, and if she took off on foot—

“Constable!” Araminta shrieked. “I want a constable!”

Sophie dropped her bag and took off running.

“Someone stop her!” Araminta screamed. “Stop thief! Stop thief!”

Sophie kept running, even though she knew it would make her look guilty. She ran with every last fiber in her muscles, with every gulp of air she could force into her lungs. She ran and she ran and she ran . . .

Until someone tackled her, thumping into her back and knocking her to the ground.

“I got her!” the man yelled. “I got her for you!”

Sophie blinked and gasped at the pain. Her head had hit the pavement with a stunning blow, and the man who had caught her was practically sitting on her abdomen.

“There you are!” Araminta crowed as she hurried over. “Sophie Beckett. The nerve!”

Sophie glared at her. Words didn't exist to express the loathing in her heart. Not to mention that she was in too much pain to speak.

“I've been looking for you,” Araminta said, smiling evilly. “Posy told me she'd seen you.”

Sophie closed her eyes for a longer than the usual blink.
Oh, Posy
. She doubted that she'd meant to give her away, but Posy's tongue had a way of getting ahead of her mind.

Araminta planted her foot very close to Sophie's hand—the one that was being held immobile by her captor's fingers around her wrist—then smiled as she moved her foot
onto
Sophie's hand. “You shouldn't have stolen from me,” Araminta said, her blue eyes glinting.

Sophie just grunted. It was all she could manage.

“You see,” Araminta continued gleefully, “now I can have you thrown in jail. I suppose I could have done so before, but now I have the truth on my side.”

Just then, a man ran up, skidding to a halt before Araminta.
“The authorities are on the way, milady. We'll have this thief taken away in no time.”

Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth, torn between praying that the authorities would be delayed until Lady Bridgerton came outside, and praying that they'd come right away, so that the Bridgertons would never see her shame.

And in the end, she got her wish. The latter one, that was. Not two minutes later the authorities arrived, threw her into a wagon, and carted her off to jail.

And all Sophie could think of as she rode away was that the Bridgertons would never know what had happened to her, and maybe that was for the best.

La, but such excitement yesterday on the front steps of Lady Bridgerton's residence on Bruton Street!

First, Penelope Featherington was seen in the company of not one, not two, but THREE Bridgerton brothers, surely a heretofore impossible feat for the poor girl, who is rather infamous for her wallflower ways. Sadly (but perhaps predictably) for Miss Featherington, when she finally departed, it was on the arm of the viscount, the only married man in the bunch.

If Miss Featherington were to somehow manage to drag a Bridgerton brother to the altar, it would surely mean the end of the world as we know it, and This Author, who freely admits she would not know heads from tails in such a world, would be forced to resign her post on the spot.

If Miss Featherington's gathering weren't enough gossip, not three hours later, a woman was accosted right in front of the town house by the Countess of Penwood, who lives three doors down. It seems the woman, who This Author suspects was working in the Bridgerton household, used to work for Lady Penwood. Lady Penwood alleges that the unidentified woman stole from her two years ago and immediately had the poor thing carted off to jail.

This Author is not certain what the punishment is these days for theft, but one has to suspect that if one has the audacity
to steal from a countess, the punishment is quite strict. The poor girl in question is likely to be hanged, or at the very least, find herself transported.

The previous housemaid wars (reported last month in This Column) seem rather trivial now.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN'S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
, 13 J
UNE
1817

B
enedict's first inclination the following morning was to pour himself a good, stiff drink. Or maybe three. It might have been scandalously early in the day for spirits, but alcoholic oblivion sounded rather appealing after the emotional skewering he'd received the previous evening at the hands of Sophie Beckett.

But then he remembered that he'd made a date that morning for a fencing match with his brother Colin. Suddenly, skewering his brother sounded rather appealing, no matter that he'd had nothing to do with Benedict's wretched mood.

That, Benedict thought with a grim smile as he pulled on his gear, was what brothers were for.

“I've only an hour,” Colin said as he attached the safety tip to his foil. “I have an appointment this afternoon.”

“No matter,” Benedict replied, lunging forward a few times to loosen up the muscles in his leg. He hadn't fenced in some time; the sword felt good in his hand. He drew back and touched the tip to the floor, letting the blade bend slightly. “It won't take more than an hour to best you.”

Colin rolled his eyes before he drew down his mask.

Benedict walked to the center of the room. “Are you ready?”

“Not quite,” Colin replied, following him.

Benedict lunged again.

“I said I wasn't ready!” Colin hollered as he jumped out of the way.

“You're too slow,” Benedict snapped.

Colin cursed under his breath, then added a louder, “Bloody hell,” for good measure. “What's gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Benedict nearly snarled. “Why would you say so?”

Colin took a step backward until they were a suitable distance apart to start the match. “Oh, I don't know,” he intoned, sarcasm evident. “I suppose it could be because you nearly took my head off.”

“I've a tip on my blade.”

“And you were slashing like you were using a sabre,” Colin shot back.

Benedict gave a hard smile. “It's more fun that way.”

“Not for my neck.” Colin passed his sword from hand to hand as he flexed and stretched his fingers. He paused and frowned. “You sure you have a foil there?”

Benedict scowled. “For the love of God, Colin, I would never use a real weapon.”

“Just making sure,” Colin muttered, touching his neck lightly. “Are you ready?”

Benedict nodded and bent his knees.

“Regular rules,” Colin said, assuming a fencer's crouch. “
No
slashing.”

Benedict gave him a curt nod.

“En garde!”

Both men raised their right arms, twisting their wrists until their palms were up, foils gripped in their fingers.

“Is that new?” Colin suddenly asked, eyeing the handle of Benedict's foil with interest.

Benedict cursed at the loss of his concentration. “Yes, it's new,” he bit off. “I prefer an Italian grip.”

Colin stepped back, completely losing his fencing posture as he looked at his own foil, with a less elaborate French grip. “Might I borrow it some time? I wouldn't mind seeing if—”

“Yes!” Benedict snapped, barely resisting the urge to advance
and lunge that very second. “Will you get back
en garde
?”

Colin gave him a lopsided smile, and Benedict just
knew
that he had asked about his grip simply to annoy him. “As you wish,” Colin murmured, assuming position again.

They held still for one moment, and then Colin said, “Fence!”

Benedict advanced immediately, lunging and attacking, but Colin had always been particularly fleet of foot, and he retreated carefully, meeting Benedict's attack with an expert parry.

“You're in a bloody bad mood today,” Colin said, lunging forward and just nearly catching Benedict on the shoulder.

Benedict stepped out of his way, lifting his blade to block the attack. “Yes, well, I had a bad”—he advanced again, his foil stretched straight forward—
“day.”

Colin sidestepped his attack neatly. “Nice riposte,” he said, touching his forehead with the handle of his foil in a mock salute.

“Shut up and fence,” Benedict snapped.

Colin chuckled and advanced, swishing his blade this way and that, keeping Benedict on the retreat. “It must be a woman,” he said.

Benedict blocked Colin's attack and quickly began his own advance. “None of your damned business.”

“It's a woman,” Colin said, smirking.

Benedict lunged forward, the tip of his foil catching Colin on the collarbone. “Point,” he grunted.

Colin gave a curt nod. “Touch for you.” They walked back to the center of the room. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Benedict nodded.

“
En garde
. Fence!”

This time Colin was the first to take the attack. “If you need some advice about women . . .” he said, driving Benedict back to the corner.

Benedict raised his foil, blocking Colin's attack with
enough force to send his younger brother stumbling backward. “If I need advice about women,” he returned, “the last person I'd go to would be
you
.”

“You wound me,” Colin said, regaining his balance.

“No,” Benedict drawled. “That's what the safety tip is for.”

“I certainly have a better record with women than
you
.”

“Oh really?” Benedict said sarcastically. He stuck his nose in the air, and in a fair imitation of Colin said, “‘I am certainly
not
going to marry Penelope Featherington!'”

Colin winced.

“You,” Benedict said, “shouldn't be giving advice to anyone.”

“I didn't know she was there.”

Benedict lunged forward, just barely missing Colin's shoulder. “That's no excuse. You were in public, in broad daylight. Even if she hadn't been there, someone would have heard and the bloody thing would have ended up in
Whistledown
.”

Colin met his lunge with a parry, then riposted with blinding speed, catching Benedict neatly in the belly. “My touch,” he grunted.

Benedict gave him a nod, acknowledging the point.

“I was foolish,” Colin said as they walked back to the center of the room. “You, on the other hand, are stupid.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Colin sighed as he pushed up his mask. “Why don't you just do us all a favor and marry the girl?”

Benedict just stared at him, his hand going limp around the handle of his sword. Was there any possibility that Colin didn't know who they were talking about?

He removed his mask and looked into his brother's dark green eyes and nearly groaned. Colin knew. He didn't know how Colin knew, but he definitely knew. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Colin always knew everything. In fact, the only person who ever seemed to know
more gossip than Colin was Eloise, and it never took her more than a few hours to impart all of her dubious wisdom to Colin.

“How did you know?” Benedict finally asked.

One corner of Colin's mouth tilted up into a crooked smile. “About Sophie? It's rather obvious.”

“Colin, she's—”

“A maid? Who cares? What is going to happen to you if you marry her?” Colin asked with a devil-may-care shrug of his shoulders. “People you couldn't care less about will ostracize you? Hell, I wouldn't mind being ostracized by some of the people with whom I'm forced to socialize.”

Benedict shrugged dismissively. “I'd already decided I didn't care about all that,” he said.

“Then what in bloody hell is the problem?” Colin demanded.

“It's complicated.”

“Nothing is ever as complicated as it is in one's mind.” Benedict mulled that over, planting the tip of his foil against the floor and allowing the flexible blade to wiggle back and forth. “Do you remember Mother's masquerade?” he asked.

Colin blinked at the unexpected question. “A few years ago? Right before she moved out of Bridgerton House?”

Benedict nodded. “That's the one. Do you remember meeting a woman dressed in silver? You came upon us in the hall.”

“Of course. You were rather taken with—” Colin's eyes suddenly bugged out. “That wasn't
Sophie
?”

“Remarkable, isn't it?” Benedict murmured, his every inflection screaming understatement.

“But . . . How . . .”

“I don't know how she got there, but she's not a maid.”

“She's not?”

“Well, she is a maid,” Benedict clarified, “but she's also the bastard daughter of the Earl of Penwood.”

“Not the current—”

“No, the one who died several years back.”

“And you knew all this?”

“No,” Benedict said, the word short and staccato on his tongue, “I did not.”

“Oh.” Colin caught his lower lip between his teeth as he digested the meaning of his brother's short sentence. “I see.” He stared at Benedict. “What are you going to do?”

Benedict's sword, whose blade had been wiggling back and forth as he pressed the tip against the floor, suddenly sprang straight and skittered out of his hand. He watched it dispassionately as it slid across the floor, and didn't look back up as he said, “That's a very good question.”

He was still furious with Sophie for her deception, but neither was he without blame. He shouldn't have demanded that Sophie be his mistress. It had certainly been his right to ask, but it had also been her right to refuse. And once she had done so, he should have let her be.

Benedict hadn't been brought up a bastard, and if her experience had been sufficiently wretched so that she refused to risk bearing a bastard herself—well, then, he should have respected that.

If he respected
her
, then he had to respect her beliefs.

He shouldn't have been so flip with her, insisting that anything was possible, that she was free to make any choice her heart desired. His mother was right; he
did
live a charmed life. He had wealth, family, happiness . . . and nothing was truly out of his reach. The only awful thing that had ever happened in his life was the sudden and untimely death of his father, and even then, he'd had his family to help him through. It was difficult for him to imagine certain pains and hurts because he'd never experienced them.

And unlike Sophie, he'd never been alone.

What now? He had already decided that he was prepared to brave social ostracism and marry her. The unrecognized
bastard daughter of an earl was a slightly more acceptable match than a servant, but only slightly. London society might accept her if he forced them to, but they wouldn't go out of their way to be kind. He and Sophie would most likely have to live quietly in the country, eschewing the London society that would almost certainly shun them.

But it took his heart less than a second to know that a quiet life with Sophie was by far preferable to a public life without her.

Did it matter that she was the woman from the masquerade? She'd lied to him about her identity, but he knew her soul. When they kissed, when they laughed, when they simply sat and talked—she had never feigned a moment.

The woman who could make his heart sing with a simple smile, the woman who could fill him with contentment just through the simple act of sitting by him while he sketched—that was the real Sophie.

And he loved her.

“You look as if you've reached a decision,” Colin said quietly.

Benedict eyed his brother thoughtfully. When had he grown so perceptive? Come to think of it, when had he grown up? Benedict had always thought of Colin as a youthful rascal, charming and debonair, but not one who had ever had to assume any sort of responsibility.

But when he regarded his brother now, he saw someone else. His shoulders were a little broader, his posture a little more steady and subdued. And his eyes looked wiser. That was the biggest change. If eyes truly were windows to the soul, then Colin's soul had gone and grown up on him when Benedict hadn't been paying attention.

“I owe her a few apologies,” Benedict said.

“I'm sure she'll forgive you.”

“She owes me several as well. More than several.”