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.
“I hope no one is ill,” Rupert said, worried.
“No one is ill.”
“Miss Comte came down with the tuberculosis just last week. And I saw her and Lady Claire speaking close together. What if she has contracted it?”
“Your imagination is running away with you.”
“What if all the sisters get it?” Rupert asked in a horrified whisper. Darcy didn’t miss his sidelong glance and emphasis on all. He might as well have just asked, What if Bridget is dying?
“I’m sure that in the unlikely event that one sister has contracted tuberculosis, they will take every precaution to prevent its spread,” he said in his calm, measured tone that did not belie his true feelings inside.
“Are you not worried about Lady Bridget at all?”
Yes. No. Yes. Darcy sighed. Set down his pen. He would have to do that Darcy thing, where he pretended to ignore his feelings to death.
“Why would I be worried about Lady Bridget?”
“Because you are in love with her,” Rupert said flatly. He raised his glass in cheers. Darcy only scowled at him. Then he downed the contents of his glass in one sip, setting the glass heavily on the desk.
“You do not deny it,” Rupert pointed out. Was that a note of glee is his voice? Was this torturous state of unrequited love somehow amusing to him?
“Lady Bridget has made it perfectly clear that she has a low opinion of me and is not interested in furthering our acquaintance.”
“Lady Bridget might have revised her opinion,” Rupert said cryptically.
Darcy was certain she had done no such thing. She was trying so hard to be a lady and he had not treated her thusly last night, in the butler’s pantry of all the places in the world. Good God, he had gone after her as if he were a panting schoolboy and she was a lovely milkmaid known to be generous with her favors. He hadn’t given the slightest care for her reputation; he had cared only for her soft sigh of pleasure when he kissed her.
And then today, he did not call on her. Did not speak to her brother about his intentions and marriage contracts. Did not even send a note saying, I shall take care of this situation. Yours, Darcy.