Lady Bridget's Diary (22 page)

Besides, perhaps he would need help. Two heads were better than one, weren't they? They had a history of searching for lost things together. First her sister, now her diary.

Oh, whom was she kidding? Bridget just wanted to be with him. So she turned and dashed back, where Darcy was waiting for his carriage to be brought around.

“Darcy, wait!”

He turned. If he was surprised that she would dash after him in public, hollering his name, he did not show it. He was probably not surprised in the slightest. He didn't even seem embarrassed by her display.

“I'll go with you,” she said, slightly out of breath from having run. Corsets were not helpful in such endeavors (running or breathing).

“Where?”

“Wherever you are going.”

“I am planning to visit Lady Francesca. If what you said is true, do you really think it will help your cause if you were to call on her with me?”

“I'll just wait in the carriage whilst you go in to see her,” she said, preparing to climb into the carriage.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” he said. He offered his hand anyway. She placed her hand in his. Their gazes locked. She felt sparks. And shivers.

He then joined her in the open carriage.

“What is your plan for when you call on Lady Francesca at this early hour? It is too early for calling hours.”

“I thought I might clarify our relationship,” he said. And before Bridget could whip herself into an emotional frenzy, he continued, looking straight ahead, “She should feel at liberty to accept one of her other suitors.”

“Oh,” she said softly. It wasn't a proposal of marriage to her, but it was an indication that one was forthcoming. “
Oh
.”

They rode on in silence for a moment.

“Do you think she will just hand over the diary?” Bridget asked. She was under no illusions about whether Lady Francesca would read it. If the situation were reversed, Bridget would absolutely ring for a pot of tea and a slice of cake, and settle in for a long, thorough read. If she were a more motivated person, she would perhaps take notes.

“I'm hoping that she will have carelessly left it lying about somewhere so I could just take it,” Darcy said.

“That would be theft,” Bridget said, relishing the thought of Darcy committing a crime on her behalf. “Darcy, you would be breaking the law.”

“Laws do not apply to men such as myself,” he said. And honestly, it was probably true.

“It is small volume, bound in blue leather,” she said. “I wrote
Lady Bridget's Diary
on the front page and the rest is full of my ‘hideous scrawl' in the words of Amelia, who still manages to read it.”

“Family,” Darcy lamented, shaking his head. But he also cracked a smile.

It was a very short drive to the stately home that Lady Francesca shared with her brother, Lord Fox, and her chaperone, Lady Wych Cross. As the carriage rolled to a stop, Bridget's heart lurched into her throat. The den of vipers, she had called it in her diary, as Lady Francesca was now undoubtedly aware.

“Wait here,” he said in that I-­am-­a-­lord-­and-­I-­will-­be-­obeyed voice of his. And truly, she did wait. For a moment. A long moment, even. She had every intention of staying right there in the carriage until he returned.

But as she waited, she got to thinking. What if Darcy was shown into the dining room and invited to join Lady Francesca for breakfast? She probably wouldn't have the diary with her for meals. No, it was probably in the drawing room, or on her bedside table. If it were in the drawing room, how was Darcy to discreetly take it? How on earth was he supposed to get it, should it be in her bedchamber? If he were caught, it would be an immediate marriage and . . .

. . . she wanted him for herself.

Besides, a lady probably oughtn't be alone in an open carriage on the road, even if said carriage was parked outside the home of a woman of her acquaintance and a bevy of footmen were standing round. That settled it. Bridget could not remain in this carriage. She would have to enter the den of vipers and assist Darcy in locating and absconding with the diary.

She immediately formulated a plan.

It was one that struck terror into her heart, but she could see no other choice. It would be risky and downright embarrassing if she were caught. But she could not sit in this carriage for another minute, waiting on her fate and future happiness. She would have to take matters into her own hands. She would even rescue Darcy for a change.

Bridget exited the carriage and rang the bell.

The butler opened the door and stared at her in that stony way that butlers did. She had been there just the other night and yet he gave no indication that he'd ever laid eyes on her before. That suited her purposes just fine.

“I am here to see Lady Francesca,” she said in her best English accent, which was terrible.

“Who may I say is calling?”

Oh hell and damnation.
She couldn't very well give her real name and she hadn't planned on a pseudonym. She blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Lady Fogbottom.”

The butler lifted his brow curiously but did not crack a smile. Not even a little. Not even at all.

“Very well, Lady Fogbottom. Please wait here and I shall see if Lady Francesca is at home to callers.”

Meanwhile, in the drawing room

In spite of the early hour, Lady Francesca had other guests. Her faithful companions, Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague, were with her. The three ladies surrounded a decimated tea tray.

“Darcy! What a surprise.”

“Good morning. I hope I am not intruding.”

“Not at all. Do join us.” She gestured to the nearest chair for him and arranged herself prettily on the settee. “I have been so bereft of your company.”

“We did just see each other the other evening,” he pointed out. Stupidly.

“The less said about that the better, don't you think?” She gave him a smile that he could only describe as foreboding.

“What happened the other evening?” Miss Mulberry asked.

“Nothing,” Darcy and Francesca said at the same time.

He could see now that all the reasons he'd thought Lady Francesca would make a perfect wife were all the reasons she was the last woman he needed. She was graceful, elegant, and so smooth. She knew how to control any situation. She gave no hints as to her thoughts or feelings.

She did not twist his insides up in knots, do strange and potentially dangerous things to his heart, or make him think deeply about what really made him happy. He wanted—­no, needed—­a woman who made him feel all those things, for better or for worse. Sometimes it felt like worse. But overall it was worth it.

“I was just telling my friends about the most sensational book I've been reading,” she began. He glanced around the room for said sensational book and didn't see it lying about. “I cannot quite decide if the author means it to be a tragedy or a comedy.”

“What is the book?” he asked, carefully maintaining an expression of vaguely polite interest.

“Oh, a man like you would never have heard of a book like this,” she said with a little laugh. That laugh.

“Silly female stuff I suppose,” he said dryly.

“Exactly. You wouldn't find it interesting at all . . . the trials and tribulations of a debutante during her first season. She is a bit plump and terribly awkward. It would be amusing if it weren't so heartbreakingly pathetic. ”

So Bridget was right. Lady Francesca had stolen her diary. And was reading it. And talking about it with her vapid friends.

“I am, actually . . .” He coughed, choking on the words he had to say. “. . . interested. Very interested.”

She lifted one brow. Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague giggled.

“Is that so, Darcy?”

Of course she did not believe him for a minute. He did not believe it for a minute. Dying of embarrassment inside, he said in his haughtiest lord voice, “Yes. I would be very interested in, ah, seeing such a book.”

The things a man said and did for love. He would have to act interested. And he would have to provide a remotely plausible reason as to why a stuffy, self-­important earl would be interested in the diary of a young woman.

“I cannot imagine why you have taken a sudden interest in the musings of an awkward, unmarried girl.”

“You see, I am endeavoring to better understand women. And reading a book such as this would be an excellent, uh, addition to my course of studies.”

Three incredulous females stared at him. And then they burst out laughing.

Meanwhile, upstairs

Bridget raced to the top of the stairs, only to be confronted with a lengthy corridor with dozens of doors to the left, dozens of doors to the right.

Oh Lord, how was she ever going to find Lady Francesca's room? What if she
never
found her diary and had to live her life knowing that all the secrets of people she loved were Out There, waiting for the worst possible minute to be revealed?

Focus
, she told herself. Then as quickly and quietly and methodically as possible, she started opening the doors, one after another, and peeking in.

Finally she spied one that seemed like it might be Lady Francesca's. She recognized the pink gown lying on the bed as one she wore to Almack's on Wednesday evenings.

Bridget closed the door softly behind her.

Then she began to snoop, quickly but thoroughly and without leaving any evidence of her activities. Having grown up with two sisters, she had acquired this skill at a young age.

On Francesca's bedside table she found a stack of issues of
La Belle Assemblée
with pages folded down, presumably on the pages of beautiful dresses she wished to have and would have. There was a small vase of pink tea roses. There were a few conduct books and collections of sermons; Bridget had a few of the same titles. She found a sheet of paper with names written and crossed out; it seemed to be the guest list from the dinner party the other night and the order in which everyone was to go in to supper. So even Lady Francesca didn't just know everything off the top of her head. She had to look it up and study ahead of time, just like Bridget.

In the drawer she found more books.

“Well, well, well,” Bridget murmured, picking up
The Dreadful Duke
and
The Mad Baron
, along with a few other gothic romances. Who would have thought she and Francesca shared a love of the same titles? If only she'd known; they might have had a real conversation or even a real friendship.

She did not find her diary.

It was not under the bed, under the pillows, or in the armoire. It was clearly not on the vanity table, though Bridget took a moment to note all the creams, potions, and face paints there. There was a pot of red rouge, suggesting that Francesca's lips weren't usually so red. There was kohl, suggesting that she darkened her lashes. There were creams to lighten spots and even an ointment for warts.

Even though she really ought to hurry, Bridget paused for a moment, looking down at all the evidence that Lady Francesca didn't wake up flawless. The perfection was carefully applied with lotions and potions.

That meant that perfection—­or something like it—­was attainable for Bridget after all. She could soothe away her imperfections with ointments and creams or disguise them with powders and paints. A little rose oil here, a tighter corset there . . . She could adhere strictly to her reducing diet.

She could improve her skin by staying inside, out of the sun, and applying goopy moisturizing and lightening creams. She could touch up her lashes, redden her lips, pinken her cheeks.

She could spend hours each day putting herself together, having her hair done just so and her face done just right, so she wouldn't feel bad about herself when she stood next to Lady Francesca.

Or she could enjoy herself, just as she was. She could eat. And feel the sun on her face. And redden her lips by passionately kissing Lord Darcy.

There was really only one choice.

Certain that the diary was not in the bedchamber, Bridget turned to go. Getting upstairs was one thing; now she had to get back outside.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room

The three women laughed heartily for a good long minute at his admission that he wished to read a young woman's diary for the purpose of improving his understanding of the fairer sex. Darcy died a thousand deaths knowing that these women were going to dine out on this scene for months—­along with all the revelations in Lady Bridget's diary.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

The butler interrupted just then, for which Darcy would be eternally grateful. That is, until he heard who was calling.

“A Lady Fogbottom is requesting an audience, Lady Francesca.”

Darcy stifled a groan.

“Who?” Lady Francesca was very perplexed. Naturally.

“Lady Fogbottom,” the butler repeated. That he maintained a straight face whilst saying the name twice was laudable indeed.

“Tell her to leave her card.”

The man nodded and returned to the hall, leaving the drawing room doors open.

Oh bloody hell. Darcy did not believe for a second that Lady Fogbottom was calling. He rather suspected that it was Lady Bridget Cavendish, of the American Cavendishes, up to some sort of scheme that could only go awry and create a bigger mess than the one she was already in.

“Now where were we?” Lady Francesca asked, resting her palm on his forearm and gazing into his eyes. “Ah yes, your educational reading material so that you might better understand the mind of a young woman. I cannot imagine why.”

Rather that meet her eye, he looked around the room, seeking a blue leather volume. Nothing.

“Darcy?”

Darcy looked her in the eye and weighed his words carefully. He would do best to just get this over with.