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.
Chapter 21
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.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 13 JUNE 1817
Benedict’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.”
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“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.”