Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(69)

As Bridget started to walk home, she foresaw a day of sitting in the drawing room, in a state of anxiety, eating loads of biscuits and pastries, and regretting everything. She wouldn’t even have her diary to write in, to help soothe her. That was the thing about men dashing off to save the day: it left one little to do other than sit home and fret. This was hardly appealing, especially when one was in an advanced state of emotional agitation.

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.