She’d planned to stroll the street, the footman in tow, along with Mrs. Dressel, who awaited her in the carriage, again not feeling well. She chewed her lip as she contemplated if she dared to do so and perhaps run into more disapproval.
Yes. She would not cower for these people. She’d done nothing wrong—well, nothing wrong with Davenport, anyway—and the burden of the scandal should fall on his shoulders, not hers.
You know that’s not the way things work. Women always take the brunt of scandal.
Nevertheless, she would not hide. Determined, she stepped into the carriage and asked the footman to have the driver take her to her favorite tea shop, Gunter’s. During the short ride, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, she chatted merrily with Mrs. Dressel, aware that her rambling edged toward hysteria.
She took a deep breath and refused to glance around as they entered the famous tea shop and settled into a seat. With the Season well over and only a few peers still in town, the shop was not crowded. However, the eyes of the ladies at the two occupied tables widened as she entered the shop.
Heads bent, whispers began, and sharp, disapproving glances came her way. A flush began in her middle and made its way up to her face. Confusion, anger, and a bit of shame warred for her thoughts. How dare they judge her? Oh, how she hated Society and its stupid rules.
Mrs. Dressel—as always—studied the menu on the wall and seemed oblivious to their reception.
Two ladies at one of the tables stood. Bridget recognized them as Lady Stanford and Lady Prentiss. “I will not sit in the same room with that harlot.” Lady Stanford pulled her skirts closer to her body and sneered as she passed Bridget. Raising her chin, she marched across the room, Lady Prentiss in her wake. The slamming of the door as they left echoed like a cannon blast.
“What sort of tea would you like today?” A completely unaware Mrs. Dressel looked from the menu to Bridget.
The other table of ladies rose in unison and left the shop, aristocratic noses in the air.
Aw shite!
…
Cam left White’s so angry and so determined he walked two blocks before he remembered Nettles stabled in the mews behind the club. Turning on his heel, he stomped back, collected his horse, and threw himself into the saddle.
Bridget was completely ruined. During the last two hours at White’s he’d spent the time dodging questions and avoiding the betting book where he knew Bridget’s name would appear. If he looked at the evidence of her ruin he would have put his fist through someone’s mouth and not stopped until one of them was unconscious.
The worst point in the visit was when Templeton and Hawk had arrived at the club. Since they’d already heard about Bridget’s kidnapping, he knew something had to be done.
His honor was being called into question. Either he’d been derelict in his duty by not protecting Bridget from Davenport, or he was remiss for not forcing a marriage between them, or alternatively, not marrying her himself.
Anyone who believed women were the only ones who enjoyed gossip needed to spend time at the various men’s clubs around town. Her disgrace had spread as quickly as the Great Fire of London. The leering and gleeful expressions tossed his way at the club had raised his ire as very little had in his life.
He had to slow down his ride to Dunmore Townhouse because poor Nettles was throwing him looks that said things he imagined a horse would say when thoroughly annoyed with its rider. He cursed the traffic that held him up, waved his fist at a few drivers, and arrived at his destination even angrier than when he’d left the club.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he dropped the knocker on the front door and was greeted by Fenton. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Cam stepped into the entrance hall. “Good day to you as well. I would like to see Lady Bridget.”
Fenton dipped his head. “If you will retire to the library, I shall inform her of your arrival.”
With a tight nod, Cam strode the corridor to the library. The house seemed overly quiet with Constance, Lord Dunmore, and the children off to the country. That was precisely where he wanted to be himself, at his own country estate, but until he got this matter with Bridget taken care of and finished up what was necessary to authorize the start of the renovations needed to set up the women’s safe house, he was stuck in London.
He paced the room, slapping his gloves against his thigh. Where the devil was she?
The thought no sooner passed through his mind than the door opened, and Bridget walked in. It was obvious she’d been crying; her nose was red, her eyelashes still showing clumps of tears. She chewed her lower lip as she came closer to him.
He took her hand and led her to the settee near the fireplace, where it was a bit warmer. “What is the matter, sweetheart?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmm. When a woman says ‘nothing’ to that question, it is usually something of a momentous nature.”
She waved her hand in the air. “All is well. Would you like me to send for tea?”
“Tea?” He grinned. “I thought whisky was your drink of choice.”
Bridget smiled for the first time. “I do that to annoy you. I generally prefer tea before the sun goes down.”