“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.
“Lady Fogbottom.”
The butler lifted his brow curiously but did not crack a smile. Not even a little. Not even at all.
“Very well, Lady Fogbottom. Please wait here and I shall see if Lady Francesca is at home to callers.”
Meanwhile, in the drawing room
In spite of the early hour, Lady Francesca had other guests. Her faithful companions, Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague, were with her. The three ladies surrounded a decimated tea tray.
“Darcy! What a surprise.”
“Good morning. I hope I am not intruding.”
“Not at all. Do join us.” She gestured to the nearest chair for him and arranged herself prettily on the settee. “I have been so bereft of your company.”
“We did just see each other the other evening,” he pointed out. Stupidly.
“The less said about that the better, don’t you think?” She gave him a smile that he could only describe as foreboding.
“What happened the other evening?” Miss Mulberry asked.
“Nothing,” Darcy and Francesca said at the same time.
He could see now that all the reasons he’d thought Lady Francesca would make a perfect wife were all the reasons she was the last woman he needed. She was graceful, elegant, and so smooth. She knew how to control any situation. She gave no hints as to her thoughts or feelings.
She did not twist his insides up in knots, do strange and potentially dangerous things to his heart, or make him think deeply about what really made him happy. He wanted—no, needed—a woman who made him feel all those things, for better or for worse. Sometimes it felt like worse. But overall it was worth it.
“I was just telling my friends about the most sensational book I’ve been reading,” she began. He glanced around the room for said sensational book and didn’t see it lying about. “I cannot quite decide if the author means it to be a tragedy or a comedy.”
“What is the book?” he asked, carefully maintaining an expression of vaguely polite interest.
“Oh, a man like you would never have heard of a book like this,” she said with a little laugh. That laugh.
“Silly female stuff I suppose,” he said dryly.
“Exactly. You wouldn’t find it interesting at all . . . the trials and tribulations of a debutante during her first season. She is a bit plump and terribly awkward. It would be amusing if it weren’t so heartbreakingly pathetic. ”
So Bridget was right. Lady Francesca had stolen her diary. And was reading it. And talking about it with her vapid friends.
“I am, actually . . .” He coughed, choking on the words he had to say. “. . . interested. Very interested.”
She lifted one brow. Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague giggled.
“Is that so, Darcy?”
Of course she did not believe him for a minute. He did not believe it for a minute. Dying of embarrassment inside, he said in his haughtiest lord voice, “Yes. I would be very interested in, ah, seeing such a book.”
The things a man said and did for love. He would have to act interested. And he would have to provide a remotely plausible reason as to why a stuffy, self-important earl would be interested in the diary of a young woman.
“I cannot imagine why you have taken a sudden interest in the musings of an awkward, unmarried girl.”
“You see, I am endeavoring to better understand women. And reading a book such as this would be an excellent, uh, addition to my course of studies.”
Three incredulous females stared at him. And then they burst out laughing.
Meanwhile, upstairs
Bridget raced to the top of the stairs, only to be confronted with a lengthy corridor with dozens of doors to the left, dozens of doors to the right.
Oh Lord, how was she ever going to find Lady Francesca’s room? What if she never found her diary and had to live her life knowing that all the secrets of people she loved were Out There, waiting for the worst possible minute to be revealed?
Focus, she told herself. Then as quickly and quietly and methodically as possible, she started opening the doors, one after another, and peeking in.
Finally she spied one that seemed like it might be Lady Francesca’s. She recognized the pink gown lying on the bed as one she wore to Almack’s on Wednesday evenings.
Bridget closed the door softly behind her.
Then she began to snoop, quickly but thoroughly and without leaving any evidence of her activities. Having grown up with two sisters, she had acquired this skill at a young age.