Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(72)

Darcy might have felt a flare of panic, not that anyone would ever know because he always took care to appeal inscrutable. He did not wish to discuss any Americans with her, but he was at a loss for what to discuss with Lady Francesca during the most awkward social call in the history of social calls. He had a hunch that he needed to distract her for a little longer while Bridget finished up whatever trouble she was currently engaged in.

“No, nothing like that,” he lied. Then, inspiration struck. “I am very focused on my work in Parliament. Allow me to tell you about it.”

Meanwhile, in the library

Bridget had lingered at the top of the stairs while Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague eavesdropped shamelessly outside the doors to the drawing room.

“Oh, he’s not proposing,” Miss Mulberry said with unconcealed boredom.

“How dreadful. Let us take our leave. We can go buy that cunning little hat we saw on Bond Street yesterday.”

“Let’s! I’ll wear it Tuesdays and Thursdays . . .”

They chattered away, determining a schedule for the sharing of the most cunning little hat while donning their bonnets and gloves. Finally, they left. The butler returned to his pantry, the very same one where she had done wicked things with Darcy. The foyer was empty.

Bridget had managed to dash downstairs undetected. She had sought refuge in the library, with doors just opposite those to the drawing room, but now she was trapped. Trapped! The butler was in the foyer, near the door, doing -butler--y things, and blocking her exit. Further complicating matters, the drawing room doors were open and she could see Darcy and Francesca in there. She could hear them. He was droning on about Parliament. She listened for a moment before dismissing it as the dullest thing she’d ever heard.

She examined her options and found a second set of double doors that led to another room, which also opened into the foyer.

Perhaps she could create a distraction that would draw the butler’s attention. Then she could sneak out and resume her place in the carriage and act as if she’d been there all along. It was the perfect plan.

Bridget glanced around and looked for something breakable. She passed over the porcelain figurines on the mantel, or the full decanter of brandy, or the lovely china teacup left out, suggesting that someone would be back soon. Oh my Lord, someone would be here soon!

Bridget looked around wildly and her attention settled on a rather unremarkable and plain vase of flowers. She picked it up and crept into the adjacent room. Then she softly opened the doors to the foyer. Then, after raising the vase high above her head, she brought it crashing down on the marble floor.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room

Francesca managed to appear vaguely interested in his deliberately tedious description of his current reform projects in Parliament. This was why she would make an excellent political wife. But he had since reprioritized.

“Darcy, darling,” she interrupted after a good ten minutes. “If we are being honest with each other, you should know that I haven’t the slightest interest in your work in Parliament.”

Oh thank God. He was beginning to bore himself and he actually enjoyed his work.

“I do apologize, Lady Francesca.”

“I know why you are here.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

The awkward silence that ensued was abruptly halted by the sound of glass shattering in the foyer. Wordlessly they both ventured to see what the commotion was.

Darcy stepped into the hall only to find a broken vase of flowers at one end, with the butler staring down at it, puzzled. Darcy just happened to look at the opposite end of the foyer—-at the front door. He just happened to see Bridget dramatically creeping out. She made a show of shaking her head: I’m not here. She lifted her finger to her lips: Silence. Say nothing.

Lady Bridget would be the death of him.

He turned back to the scene of the crime.

“How odd,” he murmured, pretending to be fascinated by the shards of glass, spill of water, and stems of roses in a mess on the floor.

“Hardly,” Francesca scoffed. “Lady Bridget, I can see you.”

Francesca, Darcy, and the butler all turned to see Bridget right by the door with her hand on the knob. Caught.

“Oh, hello! I was just arriving. I saw Lord Darcy’s carriage outside and thought I’d pop in to say hello.” She paused and, turning to him, said, “Hello.”

“Spare us all the tall tales,” Francesca said with a wave of her hand. “I’ve had enough ridiculous stories for one morning. I know why you are here.”

“Oh?”

“You’re right, Bridget. I do have your diary,” Francesca said smugly.

“Oh! Funny that,” Bridget said. “I wondered if it got misplaced. Into your possession. Though it doesn’t belong to you. How careless of me.”

Francesca just shrugged.

“Actually I’d like to have it back, if you don’t mind,” Bridget said. “That is, if you’re finished reading it.”

What Francesca said next surprised them all.

“Of course. Come with me.”

They followed her into the drawing room and she pulled the book from under a chair cushion. In fact, it was the chair he’d been sitting in. No wonder it was so deuced uncomfortable.

“You need only to have asked,” Francesca said, making them feel foolish for the lengths they went to in order to retrieve it.