Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(65)

“I have ruined us all I am so, so sorry.”

And she was. It had nothing to do with all the embarrassing things she wrote about herself and everything to do with the way she had embarrassed her family. If the contents of her diary were known, it wouldn’t complicate things for just her.

“I’m sure it is not that bad,” Claire said consolingly, resting her hand on Bridget’s.

“It is that bad,” Bridget said glumly. “In fact, it is probably worse than you can even imagine.”

“Bridget is right,” Amelia agreed. “I have read it. She writes about my escapades. And how Darcy compromised her.”

“It was one kiss in a rainstorm,” Bridget retorted. Event though, gah, it was so much more than that.

“One devastatingly romantic kiss so perfect that Amelia will think I’m making it up,” her sister quoted, verbatim.

“Amelia!” Bridget lunged for her annoying, plaguing little sister, and Claire grabbed a handful of her nightgown, restraining her.

“Amelia,” James said in his I--am--the--head--of--this--family voice.

“We’ll be ruined if word of this gets out,” Bridget lamented.

“So we shall be spinsters together,” Amelia replied with a shrug. “We can get a cottage by the sea and a dozen cats and eat cake for breakfast. Besides, Claire and James won’t tell anyone. They’re family, Bridget. And if everyone is going to find out, they deserve to hear it from us.”

Bridget banged her head against the headboard. Thud. Thud. Thud. It was really the only thing to do in a crisis like this.

“I think what our dear sister means to say is that if we know what we’re dealing with, then we can figure out how to help,” James said. And she felt terrible because this wasn’t his fault, but he would do whatever it took to fix it. “And it sounds like we are dealing with two scandalous Cavendish sisters.”

“Which shall reflect on us, James,” Claire said softly, with a pointed look at her brother.

“I know.” His mouth settled into a grim line. He was thinking about something . . . or someone. Even if James and Claire weren’t mentioned explicitly, the scandal would still complicate their lives.

Worst of all, the family did not have the clout to weather this sort of scandal. Someone like, say, Darcy, with his unblemished reputation and the respect of his peers, could possibly withstand it. But the upstart, outsider family who had forged very few connections with the ton were not in the best position to emerge unscathed.

“I’m so sorry,” Bridget said for the thousandth time.

“We know you are. And it was your private diary, that you didn’t expect anyone other than Amelia to read,” Claire said. “And it’s not as if you were careless and left it somewhere public. It was stolen right out of our home.”

That was the other thing. It was very likely stolen. During calling hours. Bridget kept quiet about her suspicions of who had taken it.

“You mentioned Darcy was, er, implicated?” James asked, glancing at her.

“Yes,” she muttered. He was, along with his brother.

“So he stands to have his own reasons to find the diary and ensure its contents are kept confidential,” James said, and Bridget did not like where this was going but she was in no position to protest. “Do you think he might help?”

She thought of what she had written about him. No. But then she thought about what she’d written about Rupert. “Yes,” she said. “He would probably help.”

It would not be because of her. He might have loved her once, but certainly not anymore, and absolutely not after this. She hadn’t just lost her diary, she had lost the love of a good man and her hope for future happiness.

It is after midnight. The house has been searched. My diary has not been found. I do believe this is the correct time to panic.

Lady Bridget’s innermost thoughts

It was nearly midnight and the hour for making social calls and marriage proposals had long since passed when Rupert strolled into the library. Darcy was at his desk, a mountain of account books that required his attention today and correspondence that demanded responses immediately spread out before him. He hadn’t even begun to review the documents that would be discussed in Parliament on the morrow.

Just focus. But the truth was, he could not. And he didn’t need to. Accounts, correspondence, and Parliament could wait. What could not wait: the marriage proposal he was honor bound to issue Lady Bridget.

After the last one, he was in no hurry to repeat the experience.

And as for what came after, he imagined the worst. He would love her in his own restrained way. She would make herself miserable trying to conform to what she thought a countess ought to be.

It would be a disaster. He did not rush headlong into disaster. Not twice, anyway.

Rupert, being unfamiliar with crushing amounts of responsibility and work and a determination to avoid thinking about a woman, poured two brandies and set one down on Darcy’s desk.

“What do you think is going on at Durham House?” Rupert asked.

“I’m sure I do not know,” Darcy said, not even looking up from his work.

“I walked past and saw that the whole house is lit up. Upstairs. Downstairs. I can see people rushing about all over the place.”

Rupert seemed concerned, but Darcy wouldn’t allow himself that feeling. For all he knew, it was a bizarre American practice to light every candle and have an entire household rush about at a late hour. Perhaps it was one of their holidays.