Romancing Mister Bridgerton (17 page)

“I know,” he replied, a strange, new pride brimming within him.

“Most people don't notice it,” Lady Danbury said, twisting so that her words were directed to—and probably only heard by—Colin.

“I know,” he murmured, “but I do.” He had to smile at Lady Danbury's behavior, which he was certain was chosen in part to annoy the devil out of Cressida, who did
not
like to be ignored.

“I will not be insulted by that…by that
nothing
!” Cressida fumed. She turned to Penelope with a seething glare and hissed, “I demand an apology.”

Penelope just nodded slowly and said, “That is your prerogative.”

And then she said nothing more.

Colin had to physically wipe the smile from his face.

Cressida clearly wanted to say more (and perhaps commit an act of violence while she was at it), but she held back, presumably because it was obvious that Penelope was among friends. She had always been renowned for her poise, however, and thus Colin was not surprised when she composed herself, turned to Lady Danbury, and said, “What do you plan to do about the thousand pounds?”

Lady Danbury looked at her for the longest second Colin had ever endured, then she turned to
him
—dear God, the last thing he wanted to do was get involved in this disaster—and asked, “And what do you think, Mr. Bridgerton? Is our Lady Twombley telling the truth?”

Colin gave her a practiced smile. “You must be mad if you think I'm going to offer an opinion.”

“You're a surprisingly wise man, Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury said approvingly.

He nodded modestly, then ruined the effect by saying, “I pride myself on it.” But what the hell—it wasn't every day a man was called wise by Lady Danbury.

Most of her adjectives, after all, were of the decidedly negative variety.

Cressida didn't even bother to bat her eyelashes at him; as Colin had already reflected, she wasn't stupid, just mean, and after a dozen years out in society, she had to know that he didn't much like her and certainly wasn't about to fall prey to her charms. Instead, she looked squarely at Lady Danbury and kept her voice evenly modulated as she asked, “What shall we do now, my lady?”

Lady Danbury's lips pursed together until she almost appeared mouthless, then she said, “I need proof.”

Cressida blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Proof!” Lady Danbury's cane slammed against the floor with remarkable force. “Which letter of the word did you not understand? I'm not handing over a king's ransom without proof.”

“One thousand pounds is hardly a king's ransom,” Cressida said, her expression growing petulant.

Lady Danbury's eyes narrowed. “Then why are you so keen to get it?”

Cressida was silent for a moment, but there was a tightness in everything about her—her stance, her posture, the line of her jaw. Everyone knew that her husband had left her in bad financial straits, but this was the first time anyone had hinted as such to her face.

“Get me proof,” Lady Danbury said, “and I'll give you the money.”

“Are you saying,” Cressida said (and even as he despised her, Colin was forced to admire her ability to keep her voice even), “that my word is not good enough?”

“That's precisely what I'm saying,” Lady Danbury barked. “Good God, girl, you don't get to be my age without being allowed to insult anyone you please.”

Colin thought he heard Penelope choking, but when he stole a glance at her, there she was at his side, avidly watching
the exchange. Her brown eyes were huge and luminous in her face, and she'd regained most of the color she'd lost when Cressida had made her unexpected announcement. In fact, now Penelope looked positively intrigued by the goings-on.

“Fine,” Cressida said, her voice low and deadly. “I will bring you proof in a fortnight's time.”

“What sort of proof?” Colin asked, then mentally kicked himself. The last thing he wanted to do was embroil himself in this mess, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Cressida turned to him, her face remarkably placid considering the insult she'd just been dealt by Lady Danbury—before countless witnesses. “You shall know it when I deliver it,” she told him archly. And then she held out her arm, waiting for one of her minions to take it and lead her away.

Which was really quite amazing, because a young man (a besotted fool, from all appearances) materialized at her side as if she'd conjured him by the mere tilt of her arm. A moment later they were gone.

“Well,” Lady Danbury said, after everyone had stood in reflective—or maybe stunned—silence for nearly a minute. “That was unpleasant.”

“I've never liked her,” Colin said, to no one in particular. A small crowd had gathered around them, so his words were heard by more than Penelope and Lady Danbury, but he didn't much care.

“Colin!”

He turned to see Hyacinth skidding through the crowd, dragging along Felicity Featherington as she barreled to his side.

“What did she say?” Hyacinth asked breathlessly. “We tried to get here sooner, but it's been such a crush.”

“She said exactly what you would have expected her to say,” he replied.

Hyacinth pulled a face. “Men are never good for gossip. I want exact words.”

“It's very interesting,” Penelope said suddenly.

Something about the thoughtful tone of her voice demanded attention, and in seconds the entire crowd had quieted.

“Speak up,” Lady Danbury instructed. “We're all listening.”

Colin expected such a demand to make Penelope uncomfortable, but whatever silent infusion of confidence she'd experienced a few minutes earlier was still with her, because she stood straight and proud as she said, “Why would someone reveal herself as Lady Whistledown?”

“For the money, of course,” Hyacinth said.

Penelope shook her head. “Yes, but you'd think that Lady Whistledown would be quite wealthy by now. We've all been paying for her paper for years.”

“By God, she's right!” Lady Danbury exclaimed.

“Perhaps Cressida merely sought attention,” Colin suggested. It wasn't such an unbelievable hypothesis; Cressida had spent the bulk of her adult life trying to place herself at the center of attention.

“I'd thought of that,” Penelope allowed, “but does she really want
this
sort of attention? Lady Whistledown has insulted quite a few people over the years.”

“No one who means anything to me,” Colin joked. Then, when it became obvious that his companions required an explanation, he added, “Haven't you all noticed that Lady Whistledown only insults the people who need insulting?”

Penelope cleared her throat delicately. “I have been referred to as an overripe citrus fruit.”

He waved off her concern. “Except for the bits about fashion, of course.”

Penelope must have decided not to pursue the matter any further, because all she did was give Colin a long, assessing
stare before turning back to Lady Danbury and saying, “Lady Whistledown has no motive to reveal herself. Cressida obviously does.”

Lady Danbury beamed, then all at once her face scrunched into a frown. “I suppose I'll have to give her the fortnight to come up with her ‘proof.' Fair play and all that.”

“I, for one, will be very interested to see what she comes up with,” Hyacinth put in. She turned to Penelope and added, “I say, you're very clever, did you know that?”

Penelope blushed modestly, then she turned to her sister and said, “We must be going, Felicity.”

“So soon?” Felicity asked, and to his horror, Colin realized that he'd mouthed the very same words.

“Mother wanted us home early,” Penelope said.

Felicity looked truly perplexed. “She did?”

“She did,” Penelope said emphatically. “And besides that, I am not feeling well.”

Felicity nodded glumly. “I shall instruct a footman to see that our carriage is brought around.”

“No, you stay,” Penelope said, placing a hand on her sister's arm. “I will see to it.”

“I will see to it,” Colin announced. Really, what was the use of being a gentleman when ladies insisted upon doing things for themselves?

And then, before he even realized what he was doing, he'd facilitated Penelope's departure, and she left the scene without his ever having apologized to her.

He supposed he should have deemed the evening a failure for that reason alone, but in all truth, he couldn't quite bring himself to do so.

After all, he'd spent the better part of five minutes holding her hand.

I
t wasn't until Colin woke up the following morning that he realized he still hadn't apologized to Penelope. Strictly speaking, it probably was no longer necessary that he do so; even though they'd barely spoken at the Macclesfield ball the night before, they seemed to have forged an unspoken truce. Still, Colin didn't think he'd feel comfortable in his own skin until he spoke the words, “I'm sorry.”

It was the right thing to do.

He was a gentleman, after all.

And besides, he rather fancied seeing her that morning.

He'd gone to Number Five for breakfast with his family, but he wanted to head straight for home after seeing Penelope, so he hopped in his carriage for the trip to the Featherington home on Mount Street, even though the distance was short enough to make him feel utterly lazy for doing so.

He smiled contentedly and lay back against the squabs, watching the lovely springtime scene roll by his window. It was one of those perfect sorts of days when everything simply felt right. The sun was shining, he felt remarkably energized, he'd had an excellent morning meal…

Life really didn't get better than this.

And he was going over to see Penelope.

Colin chose not to analyze why he was so eager to see her;
that was the sort of thing an unmarried man of three-and-thirty didn't generally care to think about. Instead he simply enjoyed the day—the sun, the air, even the three neat town-houses he passed on Mount Street before spying Penelope's front door. There was nothing remotely different or original about any of them, but it was such a perfect morning that they seemed unusually charming butted up next to each other, tall and thin, and stately with their gray Portland stone.

It was a wonderful day, warm and serene, sunny and tranquil…

Except that just as he started to rise from his seat, a short flurry of movement across the street caught his eye.

Penelope.

She was standing on the corner of Mount and Penter streets—the far corner, the one that would be not be visible to anyone looking out a window in the Featherington home. And she was climbing into a hired hack.

Interesting.

Colin frowned, mentally smacking himself on the forehead. It wasn't
interesting
. What the hell was he thinking? It wasn't interesting at all. It might have been interesting, had she been, say, a
man
. Or it might have been interesting if the conveyance into which she'd just entered had been one from the Featherington mews and not some scruffy hired hack.

But no, this was Penelope, who was certainly not a man, and she was entering a carriage by herself, presumably heading to some completely unsuitable location, because if she were doing anything proper and normal, she'd be in a Featherington conveyance. Or better yet, with one of her sisters or a maid, or anyone, just not, damn it, by herself.

This wasn't interesting, it was idiotic.

“Fool woman,” he muttered, hopping down from his carriage with every intention of dashing toward the hack, wrenching the door open, and dragging her out. But just as
his right foot left the confines of his carriage, he was struck by the same madness that led him to wander the world.

Curiosity.

Several choice curses were grumbled under his breath, all of them self-directed. He couldn't help it. It was so unlike Penelope to be taking off by herself in a hired hack; he
had
to know where she was going.

And so, instead of forcibly shaking some sense into her, he directed his driver to follow the hack, and they rolled north toward the busy thoroughfare of Oxford Street, where, Colin reflected, surely Penelope intended to do a bit of shopping. There could be any number of reasons she wasn't using the Featherington carriage. Perhaps it was damaged, or one of their horses had taken ill, or Penelope was buying someone a gift and wanted to keep it a secret.

No, that wasn't right. Penelope would never embark on a shopping expedition by herself. She would take a maid, or one of her sisters, or even one of
his
sisters. To stroll along Oxford Street by herself was to invite gossip. A woman alone was practically an advertisement for the next
Whistledown
column.

Or used to be, he supposed. It was hard to get used to a life without
Whistledown
. He hadn't realized how accustomed he'd been to seeing it at his breakfast table whenever he was in town.

And speaking of Lady Whistledown, he was even more certain than ever that she was none other than his sister Eloise. He'd gone over to Number Five for breakfast with the express purpose of questioning her, only to be informed that she was still feeling poorly and would not be joining the family that morning.

It had not escaped Colin's notice, however, that a rather hefty tray of food had been sent up to Eloise's room. Whatever ailed his sister, it had not affected her appetite.

He hadn't made any mention of his suspicions at the
breakfast table; truly, he saw no reason to upset his mother, who would surely be horrified at the thought. It was difficult to believe, however, that Eloise—whose love of discussing scandal was eclipsed only by her thrill at discovering it—would miss the opportunity to gossip about Cressida Twombley's revelation of the night before.

Unless
Eloise
was Lady Whistledown, in which case she'd be up in her room, plotting her next step.

The pieces all fit. It would have been depressing if Colin hadn't felt so oddly thrilled at having found her out.

After they rolled along for a few minutes, he poked his head outside to make sure his driver had not lost sight of Penelope's carriage. There she was, right in front of him. Or at least he thought it was her. Most hired hacks looked the same, so he was going to have to trust and hope that he was following the right one. But as he looked out, he realized that they'd traveled much farther east than he would have anticipated. In fact, they were just now passing Soho Street, which meant they were nearly to Tottenham Court Road, which meant—

Dear God, was Penelope taking the carriage to his house? Bedford Square was practically right around the corner.

A delicious thrill shot up his spine, because he couldn't imagine what she was doing in this part of town if not to see him; who else would a woman like Penelope know in Bloomsbury? He couldn't imagine that her mother allowed her to associate with people who actually worked for a living, and Colin's neighbors, though certainly well enough born, were not of the aristocracy and rarely even of the gentry. And they all plodded off to work each day, doctoring and lawyering, or—

Colin frowned. Hard. They'd just rolled past Tottenham Court Road. What the devil was she doing this far east? He supposed her driver might not know his way around town very well and thought to take Bloomsbury Street up to Bedford Square, even though it was a bit out of the way, but—

He heard something very strange and realized it was the sound of his teeth grinding together. They'd just passed Bloomsbury Street and were presently veering right onto High Holborn.

Devil take it, they were nearly in the City. What in God's name was Penelope planning to do in the City? It was no place for a woman. Hell, he hardly ever went there himself. The world of the
ton
was farther west, in the hallowed buildings of St. James's and Mayfair. Not here in the City, with its narrow, twisting, medieval roads and rather dangerous proximity to the tenements of the East End.

Colin's jaw dropped progressively lower as they rolled on…and on…and on…until he realized they were turning down Shoe Lane. He craned his head out the window. He'd only been here once before, at the age of nine when his tutor had dragged him and Benedict off to show them where the Great Fire of London had started in 1666. Colin remembered feeling vaguely disappointed when he'd learned that the culprit was a mere baker who'd not dampened the ashes in his oven properly. A fire like that should have had arson or intrigue in its origin.

A fire like that was nothing compared to the feelings coming to a boil in his chest. Penelope had better have a
damned
good reason for coming out here by herself. She shouldn't be going
anywhere
unaccompanied, much less the City.

Then, just when Colin was convinced that Penelope was going to travel all the way to the Dover coast, the carriages crossed Fleet Street and ground to a halt. Colin held still, waiting to see what Penelope was up to even though every fiber of his being was screaming to leap out of the carriage and tackle her right there on the pavement.

Call it intuition, call it madness, but somehow he knew that if he accosted Penelope right away, he would never learn of her true purpose here near Fleet Street.

Once she was far enough away so that he could alight unnoticed,
he jumped down from the carriage and followed her south toward some church that looked decidedly like a wedding cake.

“For God's sake,” Colin muttered, completely unaware of blasphemy or puns, “now is not the time to find religion, Penelope.”

She disappeared into the church, and his legs ate up the pavement after her, slowing only when he reached the front door. He didn't want to surprise her too quickly. Not before he found out what exactly she was doing there. His earlier words notwithstanding, he did not for one moment think that Penelope had suddenly developed a desire to extend her churchgoing habits to midweek visits.

He slipped quietly into the church, keeping his footsteps as soft as he could. Penelope was walking down the center aisle, her left hand tapping along each pew, almost as if she were…

Counting?

Colin frowned as she picked her pew, then scooted in until she was in the middle. She sat utterly still for a moment, then reached into her reticule and pulled out an envelope. Her head moved the teeniest bit to the left, then to the right, and Colin could easily picture her face, her dark eyes darting in either direction as she checked the room for other people. He was safe from her gaze at the back, so far in the shadows that he was practically pressed up against the wall. And besides, she seemed intent upon remaining still and quiet in her movements; she certainly hadn't moved her head far enough to see him behind her.

Bibles and prayer books were tucked in little pockets on the backs of the pews, and Colin watched as Penelope surreptitiously slid the envelope behind one. Then she stood and edged her way out toward the center aisle.

And that was when Colin made his move.

Stepping out of the shadows, he strode purposefully toward her, taking grim satisfaction in the horror on her face when she saw him.

“Col—Col—” she gasped.

“That would be Colin,” he drawled, grasping her arm just above the elbow. His touch was light, but his grip was firm, and there was no way she could think that she might make an escape.

Smart girl that she was, she didn't even try.

But smart girl that she was, she did attempt a play at innocence.

“Colin!” she finally managed to get out. “What a…whata…”

“Surprise?”

She gulped. “Yes.”

“I'm sure it is.”

Her eyes darted to the door, to the nave, everywhere but to the pew where she'd hidden her envelope. “I've—I've never seen you here before.”

“I've never been.”

Penelope's mouth moved several times before her next words emerged. “It's quite appropriate, actually, that you'd be here, actually, because, actually…uh…do you know the story of St. Bride's?”

He raised one brow. “Is that where we are?”

Penelope was clearly trying for a smile, but the result was more of the openmouthed idiot sort of look. Normally this would have amused him, but he was still angry with her for taking off on her own, not giving a care to her safety and welfare.

But most of all, he was furious that she had a secret.

Not so much that she'd
kept
a secret. Secrets were meant to be kept, and he couldn't blame her for that. Irrational as it was, he absolutely could not tolerate the fact that she
had
a
secret. She was Penelope. She was supposed to be an open book. He knew her. He'd always known her.

And now it seemed he'd never known her.

“Yes,” she finally replied, her voice squeaking on the word. “It's one of Wren's churches, actually, you know, the ones he did after the Great Fire, they're all over the City, and actually it's my favorite. I do so love the steeple. Don't you think it looks like a wedding cake?”

She was babbling. It was never a good sign when someone babbled. It generally meant they were hiding something. It was already obvious that Penelope was making an attempt at concealment, but the uncharacteristic rapidity of her words told him that her secret was exceedingly large, indeed.

He stared at her for a very long time, drawn out over many seconds just to torture her, then finally asked, “Is that why you think it's appropriate that I'm here?”

Her face went blank.

“The wedding cake…” he prompted.

“Oh!” she squealed, her skin flushing a deep, guilty red. “No! Not at all! It's just that—What I meant to say was that this is the church for writers. And publishers. I think. About the publishers, that is.”

She was flailing and she knew she was flailing. He could see it in her eyes, on her face, in the very way her hands twisted as she spoke. But she kept trying, kept attempting to keep up the pretense, and so he did nothing but give her a sardonic stare as she continued with, “But I'm sure about the writers.” And then, with a flourish that might have been triumphant if she hadn't ruined it with a nervous swallow, “And you're a writer!”

“So you're saying this is my church?”

“Er…” Her eyes darted to her left. “Yes.”

“Excellent.”

She gulped. “It is?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, with a smooth casualness to his words that was intended to terrify her.