Lady Bridget's Diary (9 page)

Chapter 9

Breakfast: toast, dry

Luncheon: broth and more dry toast

Tea: yes, but no sugar. Ugh.

Supper: minuscule portions.

Desserts: none!

Times I have thought about Lady Francesca's humiliating scheme to compare our figures: 187

Lady Bridget's Diary

A
t breakfast the next morning, Bridget nibbled on toast, wondering why she bothered eating at all. Her reducing diet had been a moderate ­success—­if one did not count all her midnight forays to the kitchen to assuage her starvation. She eyed the heap of food on her brother's plate. Men never had the slightest concern about their figures.

Amelia, who was always the first down to breakfast, was on her second serving and as slender as ever. It just wasn't fair.

The only thing keeping her from lunging at the sideboard and helping herself to enough food to feed an army was the memory of calling hours yesterday. Particularly when Lady Francesca insisted on displaying how slender she was and how slender Bridget wasn't. In front of Lord Darcy. How mortifying.

“Tonight we shall dine at home as a family, as we will have a very important guest with us,” the duchess announced from her place at the head of the table.

“Don't keep us in suspense, Josie,” James drawled from the other end.

She scowled, as she always did when they addressed her as Josie. But she had at least stopped correcting them.

“It is your heir, Your Grace.”

“My heir?” James was alarmed. Bridget giggled as James paled.

“Your cousin, Mr. Peter Collins. It's very important that you meet him and perhaps take him under your wing.” The duchess took a sip of her tea and said, very pointedly, “Just in case something should happen to you.”

“Is my life in danger?” James inquired. “Did this duke business suddenly become life threatening and thus, interesting?”

“I most certainly hope not,” the duchess said passionately. And when Bridget met Mr. Collins, she knew exactly why.

Upon meeting Mr. Collins that evening Bridget realized quite clearly that any wishes for James's continued good health might have had as much to do with affection for him as with despair at the prospect of Mr. Collins inheriting Durham.

“It is such a great pleasure to meet my esteemed cousins who have journeyed from such a faraway land,” he declared.

“Are we cousins?” Amelia inquired.

“Actually, I consulted
Debrett's
,” Bridget said, and the duchess beamed. “And we are more like second cousins.”

“Then I use the term affectionately,” Mr. Collins said grandly.

“I think it's fortunate that you are all not so closely related,” Josephine said. “A match between you, Mr. Collins, and one of the sisters is quite possible.”

Josephine promptly received horrified glances from her nieces. Collins was short, portly, and hardly the stuff of any girl's dreams.

“Perhaps if he were the last man on earth,” Amelia whispered.

“Not even then,” Claire murmured.

“Shh, you don't want him to hear you,” James said quietly.

“Or do we?” Bridget murmured.

But Mr. Collins obviously appraised each of the sisters in turn. Bridget found it revolting having his eyes—­pale, watery eyes—­appraise her, and it put into perspective the way Darcy's dark gaze made her feel, whether he was scowling at her from across a ballroom or staring at her breasts in her wet dress.

“A splendid prospect,” Mr. Collins said.

Claire paled and Amelia burst out laughing. Bridget cursed Darcy for interrupting her would-­be proposal from Rupert.

“We would want to keep the dukedom in the family,” the duchess said in response to the girls' looks.

“I'm still here,” James drawled from his spot at the end of the table.

James clenched his jaw. Josephine smiled like a queen.

“I see what you did there,” Bridget whispered.

“Mmm.” Josephine murmured, refusing to confirm, deny, or engage in a private conversation at the dinner table.

“I say, is this the good silver or the everyday silver?” Mr. Collins inquired, selecting a fork and holding it up to the light of the chandelier.

“Only the best for the duke and his heir,” Josephine replied. She gave the tight smile Bridget was coming to recognize as The One Where I Am Too Ladylike to Point Out How Ghastly Your Behavior Is.

“Lady Bridget, I understand you are on a regimen of self-­improvement,” Mr. Collins said.

“Why and how have you come to understand that?” Bridget asked. Surely this could not be proper dinner table conversation.

“I spoke with Lady Amelia about all of your lessons.”

“Ah. Did Lady Amelia tell you her fondest wish is to live simply as a vicar's wife?” Bridget inquired, in spite of her sister's glare.

“She did not,” Mr. Collins said. “I think it's so important for a lady to strive to better herself and to become accomplished in the ladylike arts.”

“And which ones do you think are most important?” Bridget asked. “Needlework? The pianoforte? Simpering?”

“Smiling demurely at idiotic comments?” Claire asked innocently.

“Well, a woman's duty is to support a man in all things and be a respite at home for a gentleman made weary from his dealings with the greater world,” Mr. Collins replied.

“How fortunate for you,” Claire said. “And gentlemen everywhere.”

“Indeed. It's only fitting, as men are the stronger and more intelligent sex.”

“Is that so?” Claire inquired coolly. Claire, who was certainly more intelligent than at least half the men they met.

Mr. Collins then carried on the conversation for the rest of the meal entirely by himself. He elucidated, at length, upon what he believed were the most important of the feminine arts: tending to one's husband, bearing children, maintaining a good reputation, and singing sweetly whilst playing the harp after supper.

If that was all a woman could aspire to with marriage, then Bridget began to wonder . . . was it really worth suffering through a reducing diet for? Or biting her tongue or cultivating friendships with influential but despicable ladies? Spinsterhood began to sound appealing. She could have a cottage by the sea and eat cake for breakfast.

As he rambled on about the Perfect Lady, Bridget pushed food around on her plate, took small sips of wine, and wondered why she bothered. Why was she trying to shrink herself, anyway? She had no desire to impress Mr. Collins or men like him. She did not want to starve herself or restrain her speech, learn to play the harp or keep her spine straight all the time just so an arse like Mr. Collins might think favorably of her. It wasn't just Mr. Collins. It was the whole haute ton. She'd been trying and trying to earn their favor but she never stopped to wonder
why.

Was it because she wished to marry well? Did she want their stamp of approval so badly?

She realized, with some alarm, that the one she really wanted to impress was Lord Darcy. Not the likes of Lord Darcy, as she had been supposing all along, but the man himself. He was the one she saw in her mind's eye, judging her.

The man who didn't wish to speak to her because they hadn't been introduced. The man who did not dance but then reprimanded her for refusing his grudging invitation. The man who told her to remember her reputation. The man whose dark eyes had looked at her, really looked at her, that day in the lake. And in that one moment, she hadn't felt wanting . . . she had felt wanted.

I daresay we have made the acquaintance of someone worse than Dreadful Darcy. In fact, he's not so dreadful at all in comparison to Mr. Collins.

Lady Bridget's Diary

Later that night, the Cavendish sisters found their way to Claire's bedchamber one by one. They had not planned on it, not even in hushed whispers or secret signals. It was simply understood that the events of the evening needed to be discussed and that the place to do it was in Claire's bed.

“Well, that was ghastly,” Claire said, falling back against the pillows.

“Though in its own way, it was sort of amusing,” Amelia said, pulling the covers up around her.

“Which part was so funny, Amelia? When he questioned whether women needed to learn how to read or when he droned on and on and on about his patroness at the vicarage?” Claire asked.

“Just . . . all of it,” Amelia said, waving her hand. “He's a ridiculous man.”

“You have a twisted sense of humor,” Bridget replied.

“But you have to love me anyway.” Amelia grinned. “Because we are
family
.”

The obvious reply to that was to hit her in the face with a pillow, which made Amelia laugh. There was a time and place to be a true lady, and it was not when little sisters were being vexing.

“Why did you have to mention my improving regimen?” Bridget demanded.

“What does it matter?” Amelia shrugged. Then, with a sly glance, she added, “Unless you are trying to impress Mr. Collins?”

“Obviously not.” Bridget made a face of disgust. “He is the worst gentleman we have met thus far.”

“Worse than Looord Darcy?” Claire teased. Bridget did not want to think about him now. Or, oddly, discuss him with her sisters. So the obvious reply to that was to hit her in the face with a pillow, which made Claire laugh. There was a time and place to be true lady and it was not when one's older sister was being vexing.

“
Sisters
,” Bridget lamented, looking heavenward, much in the way James had done at least thrice a day for as long as she could remember.

“If anyone is to lament about sisters, it is I,” James said, having just joined the group. He pulled up a chair next to the bed, sat down, and stretched out his legs.

“We thought you might be having drinks in the library with your heir,” Claire said. James just grinned.

“There was a pressing estate matter that required my immediate attention,” he said, and they all knew there was no such thing. “And then I had to deliver a stern lecture to my sisters about . . . something.”

“Well, do go on. We are all here.” Bridget gave him an attentive smile.

“I am sorry you all had to endure that man,” James said, pulling a face. He was genuinely sorry.

“It's not your fault, James,” Bridget said softly.

“But it is. The duchess is trying to impress upon me how much I am needed here. And how I am able to be duke,” he said, with a pause, revealing that he'd doubted it. “I have refused to recognize it. Mr. Collins was a way to show me that I could do it, that I must do it.”

The sisters fell silent. Bridget knew that the only way Mr. Collins would inherit was if James
died
. Even if he boarded the next ship to America, there was no relinquishing the title. But there was the not-­small matter of him deciding to accept all the responsibility and trying to succeed at it.

“And she is trying to make our other suitors seem more . . . suitable,” Claire said thoughtfully. “So that we marry, and stay here.”

“And keep me here,” James said, glancing up at them.

“She is so devious,” Bridget murmured.

“Is it wrong that I am quite in awe of her?” Amelia asked.

“Lord help us all,” Claire muttered. And then she tossed a pillow at her.

Chapter 10

If only Rupert would propose! I have no idea why he hasn't. He always seeks me out for a dance (or two!) and we have the best time together. I swear he was about to kiss me at the garden party, if Dreadful Darcy hadn't interrupted.

Lady Bridget's Diary

T
he following evening, while Lady Bridget was wearing pink and trailing after Lady Francesca, Miss Mulberry, and Miss Montague at Almack's, Darcy was at a far more exclusive haunt: White's, an aristocratic men's haven from women, society, and anything that wasn't friends, a game of cards, and an endless supply of food, drink, and cigars. Cravats were loosened and inevitably lost, jackets hung sloppily on the backs of chairs, no valets present to despair over the state of their attire.

The group that evening included Darcy and Rupert, who probably shouldn't be joining the game of cards given his recent propensity for racking up gaming debts, as well as Mr. Alistair Finlay-­Jones, their longtime friend, who had recently and unexpectedly returned from a six-­year tour of the Continent.

“Ah, so this is where the party is,” Fox said as he strolled in, late, and pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “I was at Almack's earlier, dying of boredom. And sobriety.”

“Were you expecting otherwise?” Darcy inquired.

“Touché. I had promised Francesca I would escort her.” He turned to Darcy. “I noticed you weren't there.”

“I had an urgent matter to attend to,” he murmured. The urgent matter was playing cards, having a stiff drink, and doing his best to forget about matters of Parliament, estate management, and certain American women. Or rather, a woman.

“Still drying off from your spill in the lake?” Fox asked.

“What did I miss?” Alistair asked.

“You won't believe it,” Rupert said, and he proceeded to explain. There was little detail given to the rowboats, the race, and the collision, and far too much information regarding the aftermath.

“Fancied a swim, did you?” Alistair quipped.

“If that's what we're calling it these days,” Rupert replied.

“I overheard Fran and her friends gossiping about it,” Fox said. Only an older brother could get away with calling the Lady Francesca something as plain as Fran. “They were going on and on about Darcy here, in his wet shirt. Giggling like schoolgirls. It was horrifying.”

“It has been said by some that Lady Bridget swooned right into Darcy's waiting arms,” Rupert said, laughing. Darcy merely lifted one brow. Should his brother, who had essentially declared his intentions to wed her, be laughing about this? Or did that just prove how ludicrous it was that Lady Bridget should swoon. Over him.

“She wasn't swooning. She was thrashing about in the water, attempting to swim.” Darcy did his best to sound bored.

“And then you clutched her to your chest . . .” Fox said dramatically, mockingly.

“And she gazed into your eyes . . .” Rupert added.

“I couldn't very well let her drown,” Darcy said.

Alistair was laughing heartily. “Let me guess. She swooned in your arms once you rescued her from an untimely demise.”

“I daresay she swooned,” Rupert said. “I was there.”

“And they say ladies aren't much troubled by sexual feeling of any kind,” Fox remarked.

“My regards to the women in your life if you believe that,” Darcy replied.

“Sod off,” Fox retorted, and took a long swig of his drink. Matters with women were not going well in his life at the moment and everyone knew it.

“My, how the mighty have fallen,” Alistair murmured, glancing at his friends. “I go away for a mere six years . . . and come back to find Fox here in a snit over women and Darcy gallantly rescuing young women at garden parties.”

“I don't know about you gents, but I came here to win all your money at cards and drink obscene amounts of brandy. I have no intention of gossiping like schoolgirls,” Darcy said. And with that they began to play in earnest. A pot of money on the table grew then shrank as they changed hands over the course of the evening. An ancient waiter ensured their glasses were never empty. But even amidst the smoky air and alcohol haze and intense focus on the cards in his hands, something did not escape Darcy's notice: Rupert, of the ongoing and ever increasing gaming debts, kept winning.

It was long after midnight when the gents stumbled out of the club onto St. James's Street, where Darcy's carriage was waiting.

“Would you like a ride?” he offered to Alistair.

“No thanks, it's a nice evening. I think I'll walk.”

Shrugging, Darcy climbed into the carriage, and Rupert joined him.

“That evening was much more amusing than if we'd gone to another ball,” Rupert said, leaning back against the squabs and closing his eyes.

“Especially for you,” Darcy said, thinking now of all the rounds of cards. “You played well and have a fat purse from your winnings.”

At first he hadn't given much thought to it, but at some point in the evening when he'd drunk enough to stop thinking about stupid business matters or Bridget's breasts, he noted his brother was winning. A lot.

It was curious, that.

“My lucky night,” Rupert quipped.

“No, you played well. It seems that luck had little to do with it,” Darcy said, straightening in his seat. He had been drinking, but not so much that his brain had stopped working. And it was working now, putting two and two together.

“Well, I've had some practice.”

“I wonder, Rupert, about all your gaming debts over the past year. Given how well you played tonight.”

“I told you, it is just luck.” Rupert spoke sharply, revealingly, because he hadn't had the lessons and practice in modulating his tone and stripping all and any emotion from his voice that Darcy had.

“Are you sure it's not something else?”

“Of course not. It is nothing.”

It was probably something. But there was only one thing to say.

“You can always confide in me.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. A tense silence. But one that Darcy simply waited out because he had years of practice in waiting out silences. The trick was to just breathe and give in to it and to know that the other person was probably suffering through it more.

Upon their return home, Danvers was present to take their hats and gloves and to present a letter to Rupert. “An urgent letter.”

“Thank you, Danvers, that will be all for the evening.”

Darcy watched his brother closely. Rupert's face fell upon seeing the handwriting. Then he paled when he read the contents.

“Rupert.”

“It is nothing.”

It was obviously something. Letters that arrived in the dead of the night were never
nothing.
Letters that made his normally happy and carefree brother become as shuttered as . . . him . . . were not nothing.

“Join me for a drink,” Darcy said, even though they had had enough to drink that evening.

“I'm tired. I think I shall retire.”

“Join me for a drink.” He repeated himself in his I-­am-­the-­earl-­do-­as-­I-­say voice.

“Don't get all high and mighty with me now, Darcy. I'm not in the mood.”

But they stalked into the library and Darcy closed the door behind them. A fire still burned in the grate and from it, Darcy lit a few candles so they could see.

“I want to help you. But I cannot do so if you won't confide in me.”

Rupert laughed bitterly. “Help me? Not even
you
can help me. Not with
this
.”

He shook the paper in Darcy's face, and Darcy was sorely tempted to wrench it away and wrestle the truth out of him.

“So it is something.”

“Aye, it's something. Two thousand pounds of something.” Rupert crumpled the sheet of paper in his fist.

“More gaming debts?”

There was a long silence. A silence so long and so dark that even Darcy grew anxious. This wasn't just something, it was
something.
It took all of Darcy's self-­control to stay still and not, say, cross the room and throttle his brother until he spoke the truth.

“More like blackmail,” Rupert said. Finally. Darcy exhaled. Blackmail he could handle. He asked the next logical question.

“Why are you being blackmailed?”

Rupert swallowed hard. He leaned against the mantel. And then he spoke, softly.

“Something that would ruin this family and see me hanged.”

Darcy wracked his brain for something Rupert might have done. But Rupert was not prone to trouble; not serious trouble, anyway. He kept decent company, he played cards well, he wasn't a liar or a cheat. Perhaps there was an accident that he was somehow involved in?

“Have you hurt someone?”

“Quite the opposite,” Rupert said, his voice hoarse, head down. And after a long, excruciating silence, he said quietly, “All I have done is love someone.”

Love someone? That didn't make sense. He thought first of Bridget—­but he couldn't imagine a blackmailable offense there. Perhaps there was another woman and an irate husband? A mistress deceiving her protector? Whom did Rupert love, anyway? He had never mentioned any one woman's name. He seemed fond of Bridget, but these “gaming debts” had been coming in long before she arrived on the scene.

Whom, then, did Rupert love? And why was he being blackmailed over it?

It was another long, aching moment before Rupert lifted his head. And when their eyes met, Darcy knew that Rupert didn't fear the blackmailer as much as he feared his own brother. But
why
?

It was another long, aching moment before he understood.

When they were young, perhaps thirteen or fourteen or so, Rupert's best friend was one of the stable boys. Their father discovered this and thrashed his younger son within an inch of life.
No son of mine
, he had roared. Darcy had assumed it was because of the social disparity between them. The late earl was a horrible snob.

But perhaps it hadn't been snobbery at all.

Darcy thought back over the years at Eton, then Oxford . . . Rupert had flirted with girls, but never spoke of anyone in particular. He had earned a reputation as a rake and did nothing to dissuade people of it. Meanwhile, he was always with his close friend, Frederick Croft.

Darcy thought of the night Rupert had rushed to be by his side, and all the stories that began “Frederick and I . . .” Slowly the puzzle pieces fit together, revealing a picture Darcy had never even considered.

Rupert loved someone he shouldn't. Rupert's love was a crime.

It
was
a crime. It was on the books, the law of the land. It went against the teachings in the Bible, the sermons in church, and the natural order of things. Darcy believed in order.

He paused, considering all these things. It was a long pause. An endless, agonizing pause. But the simple fact was that he loved his brother more.

His heart broke for Rupert. To keep this secret he had to suppress his natural desires and inclinations. He had to flirt with women, dance with young ladies, and constantly maintain the charade of perfect gentleman, the devil-­may-­care second son.

He must be exhausted. And frustrated. And Darcy understood.

Rupert was more like him than he realized.

“Why didn't you say something?” Darcy asked softly.

“This is not something one says. I have been paying hundreds and thousands of pounds to make sure this person doesn't say something. I have been putting it about that I'm interested in a wife so that in the event that this person does say something, it is unbelievable. I have even considered taking a wife, but I cannot drag her into this.”

Darcy sucked in his breath. Then he let it go.

“But why did you not tell me? I am your brother.”

“You are my perfect brother. You are a paragon of gentlemanly virtues. You were trained by our father to think only of the estate, the legacy, our reputations. Your first instinct is always the right, proper thing. How could you do anything but turn me out and cut me off? If news of this gets out, I will ruin this family's reputation and legacy. You have to put the estate and the family name first. I will have to go. I will go.”

Rupert was right about one thing; Darcy's first instinct was always to do the right, proper thing. This moment was no exception.

“You are my brother. I will protect you. And I will not turn you out.”

He meant every word.

Though the light was dim, he thought he saw Rupert's chin tremble.

He managed to elicit a promise that Rupert would tell him everything in the morning and they would take care of this once and for all.

But in the morning, Rupert was gone.