An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

Benedict nodded. “I thought so as well. It smelled a bit musty, as if it had been packed away for some time.”

“And the stitches show wear,” she commented. “I don’t know what the L is for, but the S could very well be for Sarah. The late earl’s mother, who has also passed on. Which would make sense, given the age of the glove.”

Benedict stared down at the glove in his mother’s hands for a moment before saying, “As I’m fairly certain I did not converse with a ghost last night, who do you think the glove might belong to?”

“I have no idea. Someone in the Gunningworth family, I imagine.”

“Do you know where they live?”

“At Penwood House, actually,” Violet replied. “The new earl hasn’t given them the boot yet. Don’t know why. Perhaps he’s afraid they’ll want to live with him once he takes up residence. I don’t think he’s even in town for the season. Never met him myself.”

“Do you happen to know—”

“Where Penwood House is?” Violet cut in. “Of course I do. It’s not far, only a few blocks away.” She gave him directions, and Benedict, in his haste to be on his way, was already on his feet and halfway out the door before she finished.

“Oh, Benedict!” Violet called out, her smile very amused.

He turned around. “Yes?”

“The countess’s daughters are named Rosamund and Posy. Just in case you’re interested.”

Rosamund and Posy. Neither seemed fitting, but what did he know? Perhaps he didn’t seem a proper Benedict to people he met. He turned on his heel and tried to exit once again, but his mother stopped him with yet another, “Oh, Benedict!”

He turned around. “Yes, Mother?” he asked, sounding purposefully beleaguered.

“You will tell me what happens, won’t you?”

“Of course, Mother.”

“You’re lying to me,” she said with a smile, “but I forgive you. It’s so nice to see you in love.”

“I’m not—”

“Whatever you say, dear,” she said with a wave.

Benedict decided there was little point in replying, so with nothing more than a roll of his eyes, he left the room and hurried out of the house.

“Sophieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Sophie’s chin snapped up. Araminta sounded even more irate than usual, if that were possible. Araminta was always upset with her.

“Sophie! Drat it, where is that infernal girl?”

“The infernal girl is right here,” Sophie muttered, setting down the silver spoon she’d been polishing. As lady’s maid to Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy, she shouldn’t have had to add the polishing to her list of chores, but Araminta positively reveled in working her to the bone.

“Right here,” she called out, rising to her feet and walking out into the hall. The Lord only knew what Araminta was upset about this time. She looked this way and that. “My lady?”

Araminta came storming around the corner. “What,” she snapped, holding something up in her right hand, “is the meaning of this?”

Sophie’s eyes fell to Araminta’s hand, and she only just managed to stifle a gasp. Araminta was holding the shoes that Sophie had borrowed the night before. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.

“These shoes are brand-new. Brand-new!”

Sophie stood quietly until she realized that Araminta required a reply. “Um, what is the problem?”

“Look at this!” Araminta screeched, jabbing her finger toward one of the heels. “It’s scuffed. Scuffed! How could something like this happen?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, my lady,” Sophie said. “Perhaps—”

“There is no perhaps about it,” Araminta huffed. “Someone has been wearing my shoes.”

“I assure you no one has been wearing your shoes,” Sophie replied, amazed that she was able to keep her voice even. “We all know how particular you are about your footwear.”

Araminta narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you being sarcastic?”

Sophie rather thought that if Araminta had to ask, then she was playing her sarcasm very well indeed, but she lied, and said, “No! Of course not. I merely meant that you take very good care of your shoes. They last longer that way.”

Araminta said nothing, so Sophie added, “Which means you don’t have to buy as many pairs.”

Which was, of course, utter ridiculousness, as Araminta already owned more pairs of shoes than any one person could hope to wear in a lifetime.

“This is your fault,” Araminta growled.

According to Araminta, everything was always Sophie’s fault, but this time she was actually correct, so Sophie just gulped and said, “What would you like me to do about it, my lady?”

“I want to know who wore my shoes.”

“Perhaps they were scuffed in your closet,” Sophie suggested. “Maybe you accidentally kicked them last time you walked by.”

“I never accidentally do anything,” Araminta snapped.

Sophie silently agreed. Araminta was deliberate in all things. “I can ask the maids,” Sophie said. “Perhaps one of them knows something.”

“The maids are a pack of idiots,” Araminta replied. “What they know could fit on my littlest fingernail.”

Sophie waited for Araminta to say, “Present company excluded,” but of course she did not. Finally, Sophie said, “I can try to polish the shoe. I’m sure we can do something about the scuff mark.”

“The heels are covered in satin,” Araminta sneered. “If you can find a way to polish that, then we should have you admitted to the Royal College of Fabric Scientists.”

Sophie badly wanted to ask if there even existed a Royal College of Fabric Scientists, but Araminta didn’t have much of a sense of humor even when she wasn’t in a complete snit. To poke fun now would be a clear invitation for disaster. “I could try to rub it out,” Sophie suggested. “Or brush it.”

“You do that,” Araminta said. “In fact, while you’re at it . . .”

Oh, blast. All bad things began with Araminta saying, “While you’re at it.”

“. . . you might as well polish all of my shoes.”

“All of them?” Sophie gulped. Araminta’s collection must have numbered at least eighty pair.

“All of them. And while you’re at it . . .”

Not again.

“Lady Penwood?”

Araminta blessedly stopped in mid-command to turn and see what the butler wanted.

“A gentleman is here to see you, my lady,” he said, handing her a crisp, white card.

Araminta took it from him and read the name. Her eyes widened, and she let out a little, “Oh!” before turning back to the butler, and barking out, “Tea! And biscuits! The best silver. At once.”

The butler hurried out, leaving Sophie staring at Araminta with unfeigned curiosity. “May I be of any help?” Sophie asked.

Araminta blinked twice, staring at Sophie as if she’d forgotten her presence. “No,” she snapped. “I’m far too busy to bother with you. Go upstairs at once.” She paused, then added, “What are you doing down here, anyway?”

Sophie motioned toward the dining room she’d recently exited. “You asked me to polish—”

“I asked you to see to my shoes,” Araminta fairly yelled.

“All—all right,” Sophie said slowly. Araminta was acting very odd, even for Araminta. “I’ll just put away—”

“Now!”

Sophie hurried to the stairs.

“Wait!”

Sophie turned around. “Yes?” she asked hesitantly.

Araminta’s lips tightened into an unattractive frown. “Make sure that Rosamund’s and Posy’s hair is properly dressed.”

“Of course.”

“Then you may instruct Rosamund to lock you in my closet.”

Sophie stared at her. She actually wanted Sophie to give the order to have herself locked in the closet?

“Do you understand me?”