Lady Bridget's Diary(73)
“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.
“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.”