“But your room is upstairs,” Hyacinth said.
Sophie could have killed her. “That’s what I said,” she ground out.
“No,” Hyacinth said in a matter-of-fact tone, “you didn’t.”
“Yes,” Lady Bridgerton said, “she did. I heard her.”
Sophie twisted her head sharply to look at Lady Bridgerton and knew in an instant that the older woman had lied. “I have to get that thimble,” she said, for what seemed like the thirtieth time. She hurried toward the doorway, gulping as she grew close to Benedict.
“Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” he said, stepping aside to allow her through the doorway. But as she brushed past him, he leaned forward, whispering, “Coward.”
Sophie’s cheeks burned, and she was halfway down the stairs before she realized that she’d meant to go back to her room. Dash it all, she didn’t want to march back up the stairs and have to walk past Benedict again. He was probably still standing in the doorway, and his lips would tilt upward as she passed—one of those faintly mocking, faintly seductive smiles that never failed to leave her breathless.
This was a disaster. There was no way she was going to be able to stay here. How could she remain with Lady Bridgerton, when every glimpse of Benedict turned her knees to water? She just wasn’t strong enough. He was going to wear her down, make her forget all of her principles, all of her vows. She was going to have to leave. There was no other option.
And that was really too bad, because she liked working for the Bridgerton sisters. They treated her like a human being, not like some barely paid workhorse. They asked her questions and seemed to care about her answers.
Sophie knew she wasn’t one of them, would never be one of them, but they made it so easy to pretend. And in all truth, all that Sophie had ever really wanted out of life was a family.
With the Bridgertons, she could almost pretend that she had one.
“Lost your way?”
Sophie looked up to see Benedict at the top of the stairs, leaning lazily against the wall. She looked down and realized that she was still standing on the stairs. “I’m going out,” she said.
“To buy a thimble?”
“Yes,” she said defiantly.
“Don’t you need money?”
She could lie, and say that she had money in her pocket, or she could tell the truth, and show herself for the pathetic fool she was. Or she could just run down the stairs and out of the house. It was the cowardly thing to do, but . . .
“I have to go,” she muttered, and dashed away so quickly that she completely forgot she ought to be using the servants’ entrance. She skidded across the foyer and pushed open the heavy door, stumbling her way down the front steps. When her feet hit the pavement, she turned north, not for any particular reason, just because she had to go somewhere, and then she heard a voice.
An awful, horrible, terrible voice.
Dear God, it was Araminta.
Sophie’s heart stopped, and she quickly pressed herself back against the wall. Araminta was facing the street, and unless she turned around, she’d never notice Sophie.
At least it was easy to remain silent when one couldn’t even breathe.
What was she doing here? Penwood House was at least eight blocks away, closer to—
Then Sophie remembered. She’d read it in Whistledown last year, one of the few copies she’d been able to get her hands on while she was working for the Cavenders. The new Earl of Penwood had finally decided to take up residence in London. Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy had been forced to find new accommodations.
Next door to the Bridgertons? Sophie couldn’t have imagined a worse nightmare if she tried.
“Where is that insufferable girl?” she heard Araminta said.
Sophie immediately felt sorry for the girl in question. As Araminta’s former “insufferable girl,” she knew that the position came with few benefits.
“Posy!” Araminta yelled, then marched into a waiting carriage.
Sophie chewed on her lip, her heart sinking. In that moment, she knew exactly what must have happened when she left. Araminta would have hired a new maid, and she was probably just beastly to the poor girl, but she wouldn’t have been able to degrade and demean her in quite the same fashion she’d done with Sophie. You had to know a person, really hate them, to be so cruel. Any old servant wouldn’t do.
And since Araminta had to put someone down—she didn’t know how to feel good about herself without making someone else feel bad—she’d obviously chosen Posy as her whipping boy—or girl, as the case might be.
Posy came dashing out the door, her face pinched and drawn. She looked unhappy, and perhaps a bit heavier than she had been two years earlier. Araminta wouldn’t like that, Sophie thought glumly. She’d never been able to accept that Posy wasn’t petite and blond and beautiful like Rosamund and herself. If Sophie had been Araminta’s nemesis, then Posy had always been her disappointment.
Sophie watched as Posy stopped at the top of the steps, then reached down to fiddle with the laces of her short boots. Rosamund poked her head out of the carriage, yelling, “Posy!” in what Sophie thought was a rather unattractively shrill voice.
Sophie ducked back, turning her head away. She was right in Rosamund’s line of sight.
“I’m coming!” Posy called out.
“Hurry up!” Rosamund snapped.
Posy finished tying her laces, then hurried forward, but her foot slipped on the final step, and a moment later she was sprawled on the pavement. Sophie lurched forward, instinctively moving to help Posy, but she jammed herself back against the wall. Posy was unhurt, and there was nothing in life Sophie wanted less than for Araminta to know that she was in London, practically right next door.
Posy picked herself off the pavement, stopping to stretch her neck, first to the right, then to the left, then . . .
Then she saw her. Sophie was sure of it. Posy’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open slightly. Then her lips came together, pursed to make the “S” to begin “Sophie?”
Sophie shook her head frantically.
“Posy!” came Araminta’s irate cry.
Sophie shook her head again, her eyes begging, pleading with Posy not to give her away.
“I’m coming, Mother!” Posy called. She gave Sophie a single short nod, then climbed up into the carriage, which thankfully rolled off in the opposite direction.
Sophie sagged against the building. She didn’t move for a full minute.
And then she didn’t move for another five.
Benedict didn’t mean to take anything away from his mother and sisters, but once Sophie ran out of the upstairs sitting room, he lost his interest in tea and scones.
“I was just wondering where you’d been,” Eloise was saying.
“Hmmm?” He craned his head slightly to the right, wondering how much of the streetscape he could see through the window from this angle.
“I said,” Eloise practically hollered, “I was just wondering—”
“Eloise, lower your voice,” Lady Bridgerton interjected.
“But he’s not listening.”
“If he’s not listening,” Lady Bridgerton said, “then shouting isn’t going to get his attention.”
“Throwing a scone might work,” Hyacinth suggested.
“Hyacinth, don’t you da—”
But Hyacinth had already lobbed the scone. Benedict ducked out of the way, barely a second before it would have bounced off the side of his head. He looked first to the wall, which now bore a slight smudge where the scone had hit, then to the floor, where it had landed, remarkably in one piece.
“I believe that is my cue to leave,” he said smoothly, shooting a cheeky smile at his youngest sister. Her airborne scone had given him just the excuse he needed to duck out of the room and see if he couldn’t trail Sophie to wherever it was she thought she was going.
“But you just got here,” his mother pointed out.
Benedict immediately regarded her
with suspicion. Unlike her usual moans of “But you just got here,” she didn’t sound the least bit upset at his leaving.
Which meant she was up to something.
“I could stay,” he said, just to test her.
“Oh, no,” she said, lifting her teacup to her lips even though he was fairly certain it was empty. “Don’t let us keep you if you’re busy.”
Benedict fought to school his features into an impassive expression, or at least to hide his shock. The last time he’d informed his mother that he was “busy,” she’d answered with, “Too busy for your mother?”
His first urge was to declare, “I’ll stay,” and park himself in a chair, but he had just enough presence of mind to realize that staying to thwart his mother was rather ridiculous when what he really wanted to do was leave. “I’ll go, then,” he said slowly, backing toward the door.
“Go,” she said, shooing him away. “Enjoy yourself.”
Benedict decided to leave the room before she managed to befuddle him any further. He reached down and scooped up the scone, gently tossing it to Hyacinth, who caught it with a grin. He then nodded at his mother and sisters and headed out into the hall, reaching the stairs just as he heard his mother say, “I thought he’d never leave.”
Very odd, indeed.