An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (29 page)

As the warden had spanked her on the bottom while shoving her into her cell, Sophie really couldn't help but smile.

“What is going on here?” the magistrate demanded.

“This woman,” Benedict said, his loud, deep voice effectively blotting out all other attempts at an answer, “has accused my fiancée of theft.”

Fiancée?

Sophie just managed to snap her mouth closed, but even so, she had to clutch tightly on to the bars of her cell, because her legs had turned to instant water.

“Fiancée?” Araminta gasped.

The magistrate straightened. “And precisely who are you, sir?” he asked, clearly aware that Benedict was someone important, even if he wasn't positive who.

Benedict crossed his arms as he said his name.

The magistrate paled. “Er, any relation to the viscount?”

“He's my brother.”

“And she's”—he gulped as he pointed to Sophie—“your fiancée?”

Sophie waited for some sort of supernatural sign to stir the air, branding Benedict as a liar, but to her surprise, nothing happened. Lady Bridgerton was even nodding.

“You can't marry her,” Araminta insisted.

Benedict turned to his mother. “Is there any reason I need to consult Lady Penwood about this?”

“None that I can think of,” Lady Bridgerton replied.

“She is nothing but a whore,” Araminta hissed. “Her mother was a whore, and blood runs—urp!”

Benedict had her by the throat before anyone was even aware that he had moved. “Don't,” he warned, “make me hit you.”

The magistrate tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “You really ought to let her go.”

“Might I muzzle her?”

The magistrate looked torn, but eventually he shook his head.

With obvious reluctance, Benedict released Araminta.

“If you marry her,” Araminta said, rubbing her throat, “I shall make sure everyone knows
exactly
what she is—the bastard daughter of a whore.”

The magistrate turned to Araminta with a stern expression. “I don't think we need that sort of language.”

“I can assure you I am not in the habit of speaking in such a manner,” she replied, sniffing disdainfully, “but the occasion warrants strong speech.”

Sophie actually bit her knuckle as she stared at Benedict, who was flexing and unflexing his fingers in a most menacing manner. Clearly
he
felt the occasion warranted strong fists.

The magistrate cleared his throat. “You accuse her of a very serious crime.” He gulped. “And she's going to be married to a Bridgerton.”

“I am the Countess of Penwood,” she shrilled. “Countess!”

The magistrate looked back and forth between the occupants of the room. As a countess, Araminta outranked everyone, but at the same time, she was only one Penwood against two Bridgertons, one of whom was very large, visibly angry, and had already planted his fist in the warden's eye.

“She stole from me!”

“No, you stole from her!” Benedict roared.

The room fell into instant silence.

“You stole her very childhood,” Benedict said, his body shaking with rage. There were huge gaps in his knowledge of Sophie's life, but somehow he knew that this woman had caused much of the pain that lurked behind her green eyes. And he'd have been willing to bet that her dear, departed papa was responsible for the rest.

Benedict turned to the magistrate and said, “My fiancée is the bastard daughter of the late Earl of Penwood. And that is why the dowager countess has falsely accused her of theft. It is revenge and hate, pure and simple.”

The magistrate looked from Benedict to Araminta and
then finally to Sophie. “Is this true?” he asked her. “Have you been falsely accused?”

“She took the shoe clips!” Araminta shrieked. “I swear on my husband's grave, she took the shoe clips!”

“Oh, for the love of God, Mother,
I
took the shoe clips.”

Sophie's mouth fell open. “Posy?”

Benedict looked at the newcomer, a short, slightly pudgy young woman who was obviously the countess's daughter, then glanced back to Sophie, who had gone white as a sheet.

“Get out of here,” Araminta hissed. “You have no place in these proceedings.”

“Obviously she does,” the magistrate said, turning to Araminta, “if she took the shoe clips. Do you want to have her charged?”

“She's my daughter!”

“Put me in the cell with Sophie!” Posy said dramatically, clasping one of her hands to her breast with great effect. “If she is transported for theft, then I must be as well.”

For the first time in several days, Benedict found himself smiling.

The warden took out his keys. “Sir?” he said hesitantly, nudging the magistrate.

“Put those away,” the magistrate snapped. “We're not incarcerating the countess's daughter.”

“Do not put those away,” Lady Bridgerton cut in. “I want my future daughter-in-law released immediately.”

The warden looked helplessly at the magistrate.

“Oh, very well,” the magistrate said, jabbing his finger in Sophie's direction. “Let that one free. But no one is going anywhere until I have this sorted out.”

Araminta bristled in protest, but Sophie was duly released. She started to run to Benedict, but the magistrate held out a restraining arm. “Not so fast,” he warned. “We'll be having no lovey-dovey reunions until I figure out who is to be arrested.”

“No one is to be arrested,” Benedict growled.

“She is going to Australia!” Araminta cried out, pointing toward Sophie.

“Put me in the cell!” Posy sighed, placing the back of her hand against her brow. “I did it!”

“Posy, will you be quiet?” Sophie whispered. “Trust me, you do not want to be in that cell. It's dreadful. And there are rats.”

Posy started inching away from the cell.

“You will never see another invitation again in this town,” Lady Bridgerton said to Araminta.

“I am a countess!” Araminta hissed.

“And I am more popular,” Lady Bridgerton returned, the snide words so out of character that both Benedict's and Sophie's mouths dropped open.

“Enough!” the magistrate said. He turned to Posy, pointing to Araminta as he said, “Is she your mother?”

Posy nodded.

“And you said you stole the shoe clips?”

Posy nodded again. “And no one stole her wedding ring. It's in her jewelry box at home.”

No one gasped, because no one was terribly surprised. But Araminta said, nonetheless, “It is not!”

“Your other jewelry box,” Posy clarified. “The one you keep in the third drawer from the left.”

Araminta paled.

The magistrate said, “You don't seem to have a very good case against Miss Beckett, Lady Penwood.”

Araminta began to shake with rage, her outstretched arm quivering as she pointed one long finger at Sophie. “She stole from me,” she said in a deadly low voice before turning furious eyes on Posy. “My daughter is lying. I do not know why, and I certainly do not know what she hopes to gain, but she is lying.”

Something very uncomfortable began to churn in Sophie's stomach. Posy was going to be in horrible trouble when she went home. There was no telling what Araminta
would do in retaliation for such public humiliation. She couldn't let Posy take the blame for her. She had to—

“Posy didn't—” The words burst forth from her mouth before she had a chance to think, but she didn't manage to finish her sentence because Posy elbowed her in the belly.

Hard.

“Did you say something?” the magistrate inquired.

Sophie shook her head, completely unable to speak. Posy had knocked her breath clear to Scotland.

The magistrate let out a weary sigh and raked his hand through his thinning blond hair. He looked at Posy, then at Sophie, then Araminta, then Benedict. Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat, forcing him to look at her, too.

“Clearly,” the magistrate said, looking very much as if he'd rather be anywhere other than where he was, “this is about a great deal more than a stolen shoe clip.”

“Shoe
clips
,” Araminta sniffed. “There were two of them.”

“Regardless,” the magistrate ground out, “you all obviously detest one another, and I would like to know why before I go ahead and charge anyone.”

For a second, no one spoke. Then everyone spoke.

“Silence!” the magistrate roared. “You,” he said, pointing at Sophie, “start.”

“Uhhhh . . .” Now that Sophie actually had the floor, she felt terribly self-conscious.

The magistrate cleared his throat. Loudly.

“What he said was correct,” Sophie said quickly, pointing to Benedict. “I am the daughter of the Earl of Penwood, although I was never acknowledged as such.”

Araminta opened her mouth to say something, but the magistrate sent her such a withering glare that she kept quiet.

“I lived at Penwood Park for seven years before she married the earl,” she continued, motioning to Araminta. “The earl said that he was my guardian, but everyone knew the
truth.” She paused, remembering her father's face, and thinking that she ought not be so surprised that she couldn't picture him with a smile. “I look a great deal like him,” she said.

“I knew your father,” Lady Bridgerton said softly. “And your aunt. It explains why I've always thought you looked so familiar.”

Sophie flashed her a small, grateful smile. Something in Lady Bridgerton's tone was very reassuring, and it made her feel a little warmer inside, a little more secure.

“Please continue,” the magistrate said.

Sophie gave him a nod, then added, “When the earl married the countess, she didn't want me living there, but the earl insisted. I rarely saw him, and I don't think he thought very much of me, but he did see me as his responsibility, and he wouldn't allow her to boot me out. But when he died . . .”

Sophie stopped and swallowed, trying to get past the lump in her throat. She'd never actually told her story to anyone before; the words seemed strange and foreign coming from her mouth. “When he died,” she continued, “his will specified that Lady Penwood's portion would be trebled if she kept me in her household until I turned twenty. So she did. But my position changed dramatically. I became a servant. Well, not really a servant.” Sophie smiled wryly. “A servant is paid. So I was really more like a slave.”

Sophie looked over at Araminta. She was standing with her arms crossed and her nose tipped in the air. Her lips were pursed tightly, and it suddenly struck Sophie how very many times before she had seen that exact same expression on Araminta's face. More times than she could dare to count. Enough times to have broken her soul.

Yet here she was, dirty and penniless to be sure, but with her mind and spirit still strong.

“Sophie?” Benedict asked, gazing at her with a concerned expression. “Is everything all right?”

She nodded slowly, because she was just coming to realize
that everything
was
all right. The man she loved had (in a rather roundabout way) just asked her to marry him, Araminta was finally about to receive the drubbing she deserved—at the hands of the Bridgertons, no less, who would leave her in shreds by the time they were through, and Posy . . . now that might have been the loveliest of all. Posy, who had always wanted to be a sister to her, who had never quite had the courage to be herself, had stood up to her mother and quite possibly saved the day. Sophie was one hundred percent certain that if Benedict had not come and declared her his fiancée, Posy's testimony would have been the only thing to save her from transportation—or maybe even execution. And Sophie knew better than anyone that Posy would pay dearly for her courage. Araminta was probably already plotting how to make her life a living hell.

Yes, everything
was
all right, and Sophie suddenly found herself standing a little straighter as she said, “Allow me to finish my story. After the earl died, Lady Penwood kept me on as her unpaid lady's maid. Although in truth I was made to do the work of three maids.”

“You know, Lady Whistledown said that very thing just last month!” Posy said excitedly. “I told Mother that she—”

“Posy, shut
up
!” Araminta snapped.

“When I turned twenty,” Sophie continued, “she didn't turn me out. To this day I don't know why.”

“I think we've heard enough,” Araminta said.

“I don't think we've heard nearly enough,” Benedict snapped.

Sophie looked to the magistrate for guidance. At his nod she continued. “I can only deduce that she rather enjoyed having someone to order about. Or maybe she just liked having a maid she didn't have to pay. There was nothing left from his will.”

“That's not true,” Posy blurted out.

Sophie turned to her in shock.

“He did leave you money,” Posy insisted.

Sophie felt her jaw go slack. “That's not possible. I had nothing. My father saw to my welfare up to age twenty, but after that—”

“After that,” Posy said rather forcefully, “you had a dowry.”

“A dowry?” Sophie whispered.

“That's not true!” Araminta shrilled.

“It
is
true,” Posy insisted. “You ought not leave incriminating evidence about, Mother. I read a copy of the earl's will last year.” She turned to the rest of the room and said, “It was in the same box where she put her wedding band.”

“You stole my dowry?” Sophie said, her voice barely more than breath. All these years she'd thought her father had left her with nothing. She'd known that he'd never loved her, that he saw her as little more than his responsibility, but it had stung that he'd left dowries for Rosamund and Posy—who were not even his blood daughters—and not for her.

She'd never really thought that he'd ignored her on purpose; in all truth, she'd mostly felt . . . forgotten.