An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

“Please do,” Rosamund said. “Did you enjoy the ball, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Benedict stared at her for a moment before answering. She had a hard look in her eyes, as if she was searching for a specific piece of information. “I did indeed,” he finally said.

“I noticed you spent a great deal of time with one lady in particular,” Rosamund persisted.

Lady Penwood twisted her head sharply to look at him, but she did not say anything.

“Did you?” Benedict murmured.

“She was wearing silver,” Rosamund said. “Who was she?”

“A mystery woman,” he said with an enigmatic smile. No need for them to know that she was a mystery to him as well.

“Surely you can share her name with us,” Lady Penwood said.

Benedict just smiled and stood. He wasn’t going to get any more information here. “I’m afraid I must be going, ladies,” he said affably, offering them a smooth bow.

“You never did see the spoons,” Lady Penwood reminded him.

“I’ll have to save them for another time,” Benedict said. It was unlikely that his mother would have incorrectly identified the Penwood crest, and besides, if he spent much more time in the company of the hard and brittle Countess of Penwood, he might retch.

“It has been lovely,” he lied.

“Indeed,” Lady Penwood said, rising to walk him to the door. “Brief, but lovely.”

Benedict didn’t bother to smile again.

“What,” Araminta said as she heard the front door close behind Benedict Bridgerton, “do you suppose that was about?”

“Well,” Posy said, “he might—”

“I didn’t ask you,” Araminta bit off.

“Well, then, who did you ask?” Posy returned with uncharacteristic gumption.

“Perhaps he saw me from afar,” Rosamund said, “and—”

“He didn’t see you from afar,” Araminta snapped as she strode across the room.

Rosamund lurched backward in surprise. Her mother rarely spoke to her in such impatient tones.

Araminta continued, “You yourself said he was besotted with some woman in a silver dress.”

“I didn’t say ‘besotted’ precisely . . .”

“Don’t argue with me over such trivialities. Besotted or not, he didn’t come here looking for either of you,” Araminta said with a fair amount of derision. “I don’t know what he was up to. He . . .”

Her words trailed off as she reached the window. Pulling the sheer curtain back, she saw Mr. Bridgerton standing on the pavement, pulling something from his pocket. “What is he doing?” she whispered.

“I think he’s holding a glove,” Posy said helpfully.

“It’s not a—” Araminta said automatically, too used to contradicting everything Posy had to say. “Why, it is a glove.”

“I should think I know a glove when I see one,” Posy muttered.

“What is he looking at?” Rosamund asked, nudging her sister out of the way.

“There’s something on the glove,” Posy said. “Perhaps it’s a piece of embroidery. We’ve some gloves with the Penwood crest embroidered on the hem. Maybe that glove has the same.”

Araminta went white.

“Are you feeling all right, Mother?” Posy asked. “You look rather pale.”

“He came here looking for her,” Araminta whispered.

“Who?” Rosamund asked.

“The woman in silver.”

“Well, he isn’t going to find her here,” Posy replied, “as I was a mermaid and Rosamund was Marie Antoinette. And you, of course, were Queen Elizabeth.”

“The shoes,” Araminta gasped. “The shoes.”

“What shoes?” Rosamund asked irritably.

“They were scuffed. Someone wore my shoes.” Araminta’s face, already impossibly pale, blanched even more. “It was her. How did she do it? It had to be her.”

“Who?” Rosamund demanded.

“Mother, are you certain you’re all right?” Posy asked again. “You’re not at all yourself.”

But Araminta had already run out of the room.

“Stupid, stupid shoe,” Sophie grumbled, scrubbing at the heel of one of Araminta’s older pieces of footwear. “She hasn’t even worn this one for years.”

She finished polishing the toe and put it back in its place in the neatly ordered row of shoes. But before she could reach for another pair, the door to the closet burst open, slamming against the wall with such force that Sophie nearly screamed with surprise.

“Oh, goodness, you gave me a fright,” she said to Araminta. “I didn’t hear you coming, and—”

“Pack your things,” Araminta said in a low, cruel voice. “I want you out of this house by sunrise.”

The rag Sophie had been using to polish the shoes fell from her hand. “What?” she gasped. “Why?”

“Do I really need a reason? We both know I ceased receiving any funds for your care nearly a year ago. It’s enough that I don’t want you here any longer.”

“But where will I go?”

Araminta’s eyes narrowed to nasty slits. “That’s not my concern, now, is it?”

“But—”

“You’re twenty years of age. Certainly old enough to make your way in the world. There will be no more coddling from me.”

“You never coddled me,” Sophie said in a low voice.

“Don’t you dare talk back to me.”

“Why not?” Sophie returned, her voice growing shrill. “What have I to lose? You’re booting me out of the house, anyway.”

“You might treat me with a little respect,” Araminta hissed, planting her foot on Sophie’s skirt so that she was pinned in her kneeling position, “considering that I have clothed and sheltered you this past year out of the goodness of my heart.”

“You do nothing out of the goodness of your heart.” Sophie tugged at her skirt, but it was firmly trapped under Araminta’s heel. “Why did you really keep me here?”

Araminta cackled. “You’re cheaper than a regular maid, and I do enjoy ordering you about.”

Sophie hated being Araminta’s virtual slave, but at least Penwood House was home. Mrs. Gibbons was her friend, and Posy was usually sympathetic, and the rest of the world was . . . well . . . rather scary. Where would she go? What would she do? How would she support herself?

“Why now?” Sophie asked.

Araminta shrugged. “You’re no longer useful to me.”

Sophie looked at the long row of shoes she’d just polished. “I’m not?”

Araminta ground the pointy heel of her shoe into Sophie’s skirt, tearing the fabric. “You went to the ball last night, didn’t you?”

Sophie felt the blood drain from her face, and she knew that Araminta saw the truth in her eyes. “N-no,” she lied. “How would I—”

“I don’t know how you did it, but I know you were there.” Araminta kicked a pair of shoes in Sophie’s direction. “Put these on.”

Sophie just stared at the shoes in dismay. They were white satin, stitched in silver. They were the shoes she’d worn the night before.

“Put them on!” Araminta screamed. “I know that Rosamund’s and Posy’s feet are too large. You’re the only one who could have worn my shoes last night.”

“And from that you think I went to the ball?” Sophie asked, her voice breathy with panic.

“Put on the shoes, Sophie.”