Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(64)
Where the devil is my diary?
Lady Bridget’s innermost
panicked thoughts
Later that evening, while waiting for her sisters to get ready for dinner, Bridget thought she’d take a few moments to write in her diary. But it wasn’t on her bedside table, or anywhere in her room. Sigh. Amelia. Again.
She crossed the hall to her sister’s bedchamber. Amelia was sitting before her vanity table, whilst her maid was trying to tame her curls. It was a losing battle.
“Amelia, what have you done with my diary?”
“Why do you always blame me when you cannot find it?”
“Because you have a habit of picking it up, taking it someplace to read, even though it is private, and leaving it somewhere else.”
“I hardly see how that signifies.”
“Are you daft? Amelia, where is my diary?”
“I told you. I don’t know,” Amelia ground out.
“Just tell me where it is and I won’t be mad that you’ve read it,” Bridget promised. It was a lie. She was already furious that her sister took it and read it and lost it.
“Fine, I shall admit to reading it in the past—-and being bored to tears by it—-but I have not removed it or read it recently.”
“Claire—-” Bridget called out to her sister, also getting ready for supper in her room.
“I haven’t seen it either,” she called back.
Bridget burst into James’s study. He and Miss Green jumped apart, which might have raised questions in her mind if she weren’t so focused on finding her diary. Oh God, the things she had written!
About Darcy. About Rupert. About Amelia. About everything.
“My diary,” she gasped.
“A riveting tale of a young woman’s entrance into high society,” James said. “In which two brothers vie for the hand of an exotic American—-”
“Does everyone read my bloody diary?” she cried out.
“Honestly, I have not, since I have neither the time nor interest in the inner workings of your mind. Sorry. I guessed that is what you wrote about and apparently I was right.”
“Have you seen it?”
“No,” James said, wincing. “Sorry.”
God, her stomach was beginning to ache now. It seemed well and truly lost. If it fell into the wrong hands . . . She closed her eyes and moaned. She would have to leave England and return to America and spend the rest of her life answering the question, “Why did you give up living with a duke to return to America as a tragic spinster?”
“I’ll help you look for it, Lady Bridget,” Miss Green offered kindly.
“Thank you, Miss Green. I appreciate your assistance as well as your understanding of my great distress.”
“Where did you see it last?”
Bridget took a deep breath and thought back.
“In the drawing room this morning. I was writing in it before calling hours.”
“Then let us begin our search there.”
It was not in the drawing room. It was not on any of the tables. It was not shoved under a chair cushion—-and she knew because she flung them all aside, onto the carpet. It was not under the carpet either. Nor was it under the settee. She was in the process of looking there when Josephine’s voice cut in.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Bridget froze on her hands and knees, with her bottom high up in the air. Well, this was an inelegant position to be in. As gracefully as she could, Bridget rose to her feet.
“I have lost my diary. It is a great tragedy and possibly an unprecedented disaster.”
“Is it really?” Josephine raised one brow.
“I have faithfully detailed my time in England, which means that I have written many compromising things about myself and members of this family. I have also written insulting things about at least half of the haute ton.”
Bridget watched the duchess carefully as her expression paled as she thought back over all the things that could possibly be recorded: Amelia’s unchaperoned journey to God only knew where, Bridget’s refusal of two eligible gentlemen.
And those were just the things Josephine knew about, to say nothing of Rupert’s secret or what she’d done with Darcy in the gazebo. And the butler’s pantry. Oh God.
If she held out any hope that she was overreacting or blowing things out of proportion, the duchess’s horrified expression confirmed that yes, this was a disaster of unprecedented proportions. Yes, she should go to her room and pack her bags and prepare a return voyage to America.
But even in this time of utter terror and certain ruination, the duchess was strong, determined, and ready to fight.
“Well then, let us call in the troops,” she declared. Then she dramatically pulled the bell cord once, twice, thrice, and a bevy of housemaids and footmen came running.
All the servants were enlisted in the search efforts for Lady Bridget’s diary. No pillow was unturned, no bookshelf left unexamined. Long after midnight they were forced to face the truth: the diary was gone. Missing. At large. Absent. Unaccounted for. Lost.
A very somber group of Cavendish siblings gathered in Claire’s bedroom. Amelia lounged at the foot of the bed, Claire and Bridget leaned against the headboard, and James sat in a chair next to the bed. It was a long moment of excruciating, heartbreaking silence before Bridget felt obligated to say something. And not just anything.