“Sorry,” Mr. Bridgerton grunted. “Carry on.” He shut the door. “Morley,” he announced, “and Whitmore’s wife.”
“Oh,” Lady Bridgerton said, her lips parting with surprise. “I had no idea.”
“Should we do something?” Lucy asked. Good heavens, there were people committing adultery not ten feet away from her.
“It’s Whitmore’s problem,” Mr. Bridgerton said grimly. “We have our own matters to attend to.”
Lucy’s feet remained rooted to the spot as he took off again, striding down the hallway. Lady Bridgerton glanced at the door, looking very much as if she wanted to open it and peek inside, but in the end she sighed and followed her brother-in-law.
Lucy just stared at the door, trying to figure out just what it was that was niggling at her mind. The couple on the table—on the table, for God’s sake—had been a shock, but something else was bothering her. Something about the scene wasn’t quite right. Out of place. Out of context.
Or maybe something was sparking a memory.
What was it?
“Are you coming?” Lady Bridgerton called.
“Yes,” Lucy replied. And then she took advantage of her innocence and youth, and added, “The shock, you know. I just need a moment.”
Lady Bridgerton gave her a sympathetic look and nodded, but she carried on her work, inspecting the rooms on the left side of the hall.
What had she seen? There was the man and the woman, of course, and the aforementioned table. Two chairs, pink. One sofa, striped. And one end table, with a vase of cut flowers . . .
Flowers.
That was it.
She knew where they were.
If she was wrong and everybody else was right, and her brother really was in love with Hermione, there was only one place he would have taken her to try to convince her to return the emotion.
The orangery. It was on the other side of the house, far from the ballroom. And it was filled, not just with orange trees, but with flowers. Gorgeous tropical plants that must have cost Lord Bridgerton a fortune to import. Elegant orchids. Rare roses. Even humble wildflowers, brought in and replanted with care and devotion.
There was no place more romantic in the moonlight, and no place her brother would feel more at ease. He loved flowers. He always had, and he possessed an astounding memory for their names, scientific and common. He was always picking something up, rattling off some sort of informational tidbit—this one only opened in the moonlight, that one was related to some such plant brought in from Asia. Lucy had always found it somewhat tedious, but she could see how it might seem romantic, if it weren’t one’s brother doing the talking.
She looked up the hall. The Bridgertons had stopped to speak to each other, and Lucy could see by their postures that the conversation was intensely felt.
Wouldn’t it be best if she were the one to find them? Without any of the Bridgertons?
If Lucy found them, she could warn them and avert disaster. If Hermione wanted to marry her brother . . . well, it could be her choice, not something she had to do because she’d been caught unawares.
Lucy knew how to get to the orangery. She could be there in minutes.
She took a cautious step back toward the ballroom. Neither Gregory nor Lady Bridgerton seemed to notice her.
She made her decision.
Six quiet steps, backing up carefully to the corner. And then—one last quick glance thrown down the hall—she stepped out of sight.
And ran.
She picked up her skirts and ran like the wind, or at the very least, as fast as she possibly could in her heavy velvet ball gown. She had no idea how long she would have before the Bridgertons noticed her absence, and while they would not know her destination, she had no doubt that they would find her. All Lucy had to do was find Hermione and Richard first. If she could get to them, warn them, she could push Hermione out the door and claim she’d come across Richard alone.
She would not have much time, but she could do it. She knew she could.
Lucy made it to the main hall, slowing her pace as much as she dared as she passed through. There were servants about, and probably a few late-arriving guests as well, and she couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion by running.
She slipped out and into the west hallway, skidding around a corner as she took off again at a run. Her lungs began to burn, and her skin grew damp with perspiration beneath her gown. But she did not slow down. It wasn’t far now. She could do it.
She knew she could.
She had to.
And then, amazingly, she was there, at the heavy double doors that led out to the orangery. Her hand landed heavily on one of the doorknobs, and she meant to turn it, but instead she found herself bent over, struggling to catch her breath.
Her eyes stung, and she tried to stand, but when she did she was hit with what felt like a wall of panic. It was physical, palpable, and it rushed at her so quickly that she had to grab on to the wall for support.
Dear God, she didn’t want to open that door. She didn’t want to see them. She didn’t want to know what they had been doing, didn’t want to know how or why. She didn’t want this, any of this. She wanted it all back as it was, just three days earlier.
Couldn’t she have that back? It was just three days. Three days, and Hermione would still be in love with Mr. Edmonds, which really wasn’t such a problem since nothing would come of it, and Lucy would still be—
She would still be herself, happy and confident, and only practically engaged.
Why did everything have to change? Lucy’s life had been perfectly acceptable the way it was. Everyone had his place, and all was in perfect order, and she hadn’t had to think so hard about everything. She hadn’t cared about what love meant or how it felt, and her brother wasn’t secretly pining for her best friend, and her wedding was a hazy plan for the future, and she had been happy. She had been happy.
And she wanted it all back.
She grasped the knob more tightly, tried to turn it, but her hand wouldn’t move. The panic was still there, freezing her muscles, pressing at her chest. She couldn’t focus. She couldn’t think.
And her legs began to tremble.
Oh, dear God, she was going to fall. Right there in the hallway, inches from her goal, she was going to crumple to the floor. And then—
“Lucy!”
It was Mr. Bridgerton, and he was running to her, and it occurred to her that she’d failed.
She’d failed.
She’d made it to the orangery. She’d made it in time, but then she’d just stood at the door. Like an idiot, she’d stood there, with her fingers on the bloody knob and—
“My God, Lucy, what were you thinking?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders, and Lucy leaned into his strength. She wanted to fall into him and forget. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
She did not know what she was sorry for, but she said it all the same.
“This is no place for a woman alone,” he said, and his voice sounded different. Hoarse. “Men have been drinking. They use the masks as a license to—”
He fell silent. And then— “People are not themselves.”
She nodded, and she finally looked up, pulling her eyes from the floor to his face. And then she saw him. Just saw him. His face, which had become so familiar to her. She seemed to know every feature, from the slight curl of his hair to the tiny scar near his left ear.
She swallowed. Breathed. Not quite the way she was meant to, but she breathed. More slowly, closer to normal.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, because she didn’t know what else to say.
“My God,” he swore, searching her face with urgent eyes, “what happened to you? Are you all right? Did someone—”
His grip loosened slightly as he looked frantically around. “Who did this?” he demanded. “Who made you—”
“No,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “It was no one. It was just me. I—I wanted to find them. I th
ought if I— Well, I didn’t want you to— And then I— And then I got here, and I—”
Gregory’s eyes moved quickly to the doors to the orangery. “Are they in there?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy admitted. “I think so. I couldn’t—” The panic was finally receding, almost gone, really, and it all seemed so silly now. She felt so stupid. She’d stood there at the door, and she’d done nothing. Nothing.
“I couldn’t open the door,” she finally whispered. Because she had to tell him. She couldn’t explain it—she didn’t even understand it—but she had to tell him what had happened.
Because he’d found her.
And that had made the difference.
“Gregory!” Lady Bridgerton burst on the scene, practically hurtling against them, quite clearly out of breath from having tried to keep up. “Lady Lucinda! Why did you— Are you all right?”
She sounded so concerned that Lucy wondered what she looked like. She felt pale. She felt small, actually, but what could possibly be in her face that would cause Lady Bridgerton to look upon her with such obvious worry.
“I’m fine,” Lucy said, relieved that she had not seen her as Mr. Bridgerton had. “Just a bit overset. I think I ran too quickly. It was foolish of me. I’m sorry.”
“When we turned around and you were gone—” Lady Bridgerton looked as if she were trying to be stern, but worry was creasing her brow, and her eyes were so very kind.
Lucy wanted to cry. No one had ever looked at her like that. Hermione loved her, and Lucy took great comfort in that, but this was different. Lady Bridgerton couldn’t have been that much older than she was—ten years, maybe fifteen—but the way she was looking at her . . .
It was almost as if she had a mother.
It was just for a moment. Just a few seconds, really, but she could pretend. And maybe wish, just a little.
Lady Bridgerton hurried closer and put an arm around Lucy’s shoulders, drawing her away from Gregory, who allowed his arms to return to his sides. “Are you certain you are all right?” she asked.
Lucy nodded. “I am. Now.”
Lady Bridgerton looked over to Gregory. He nodded. Once.
Lucy didn’t know what that meant.
“I think they might be in the orangery,” she said, and she wasn’t quite certain what had caught at her voice—resignation or regret.
“Very well,” Lady Bridgerton said, her shoulders pushing back as she went to the door. “There’s nothing for it, is there?”
Lucy shook her head. Gregory did nothing.
Lady Bridgerton took a deep breath and pulled open the door. Lucy and Gregory immediately moved forward to peer inside, but the orangery was dark, the only light the moon, shining through the expansive windows.
“Damn.”
Lucy’s chin drew back in surprise. She’d never heard a woman curse before.
For a moment the trio stood still, and then Lady Bridgerton stepped forward and called out, “Lord Fennsworth! Lord Fennsworth, please reply. Are you here?”
Lucy started to call out for Hermione, but Gregory clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t,” he whispered in her ear. “If someone else is here, we don’t want them to realize we’re looking for them both.”
Lucy nodded, feeling painfully green. She’d thought she’d known something of the world, but as each day passed, it seemed she understood less and less. Mr. Bridgerton stepped away, moving farther into the room. He stood with his hands on his hips, his stance wide as he scanned the orangery for occupants.
“Lord Fennsworth!” Lady Bridgerton called out again.
This time they heard a rustling. But soft. And slow. As if someone were trying to conceal his presence.
Lucy turned toward the sound, but no one came forward. She bit her lip. Maybe it was just an animal. There were several cats at Aubrey Hall. They slept in a little hutch near the door to the kitchen, but maybe one of them had lost its way and got locked in the orangery.
It had to be a cat. If it were Richard, he’d have come forward when he heard his name.
She looked at Lady Bridgerton, waiting to see what she would do next. The viscountess was looking intently at her brother-in-law, mouthing something and motioning with her hands and pointing in the direction of the noise.
Gregory gave her a nod, then moved forward on silent feet, his long legs crossing the room with impressive speed, until—
Lucy gasped. Before she had time to blink, Gregory had charged forward, a strange, primal sound ripping from his throat. Then he positively leaped through the air, coming down with a thud and a grunt of “I have you!”
“Oh no.” Lucy’s hand rose to cover her mouth. Mr. Bridgerton had someone pinned to the floor, and his hands looked to be very close to his captive’s throat.
Lady Bridgerton rushed toward them, and Lucy, seeing her, finally remembered her own feet and ran to the scene. If it was Richard—oh, please don’t let it be Richard—she needed to reach him before Mr. Bridgerton killed him.
“Let . . . me . . . go!”
“Richard!” Lucy called out shrilly. It was his voice. There could be no mistaking it.
The figure on the floor of the orangery twisted, and then she could see his face.
“Lucy?” He looked stunned.
“Oh, Richard.” There was a world of disappointment in those two words.
“Where is she?” Gregory demanded.
“Where is who?”
Lucy felt sick. Richard was feigning ignorance. She knew him too well. He was lying.
“Miss Watson,” Gregory ground out.
“I don’t know what y—”
A horrible gurgling noise came from Richard’s throat.
“Gregory!” Lady Bridgerton grabbed his arm. “Stop!”
He loosened his hold. Barely.
“Maybe she’s not here,” Lucy said. She knew it wasn’t true, but somehow it seemed the best way to salvage the situation. “Richard loves flowers. He always has. And he doesn’t like parties.”
“It’s true,” Richard gasped.
“Gregory,” Lady Bridgerton said, “you must let him up.”
Lucy turned to face her as she spoke, and that was when she saw it. Behind Lady Bridgerton.
Pink. Just a flash. More of a strip, actually, just barely visible through the plants.
Hermione was wearing pink. That very shade.
Lucy’s eyes widened. Maybe it was just a flower. There were heaps of pink flowers. She turned back to Richard. Quickly.
Too quickly. Mr. Bridgerton saw her head snapping around.
“What did you see?” he demanded.
“Nothing.”
But he didn’t believe her. He let go of Richard and began to move in the direction Lucy was looking, but Richard rolled to the side and grabbed one of his ankles. Gregory went down with a yell, and he quickly retaliated, catching hold of Richard’s shirt and yanking with enough force to scrape his head along the floor.
“Don’t!” Lucy cried, rushing forward. Good God, they were going to kill each other. First Mr. Bridgerton was on top, then Richard, then Mr. Bridgerton, then she couldn’t tell who was winning, and the whole time they were just pummeling each other.
Lucy wanted desperately to separate them, but she didn’t see how without risking injury to herself. The two of them were beyond noticing anything so mundane as a human being.
Maybe Lady Bridgerton could stop them. It was her home, and the guests her responsibility. She could attack the situation with more authority than Lucy could hope to muster.
Lucy turned. “Lady Br—”
The words evaporated in her throat. Lady Bridgerton was not where she had been just moments earlier.
Oh no.
Lucy twisted frantically about. “Lady Bridgerton? Lady Bridgerton?”
And then there she was, moving back toward Lucy, making her way through the plants, her hand wrapped tightly around Hermione’s wrist. Hermione’s hair was mussed, and her dress was wrinkl
ed and dirty, and—dear God above—she looked as if she might cry.
“Hermione?” Lucy whispered. What had happened? What had Richard done?
For a moment Hermione did nothing. She just stood there like a guilty puppy, her arm stretched limply in front of her, almost as if she’d forgotten that Lady Bridgerton still had her by the wrist.
“Hermione, what happened?”
Lady Bridgerton let go, and it was almost as if Hermione were water, let loose from a dam. “Oh, Lucy,” she cried, her voice catching as she rushed forward. “I’m so sorry.”
Lucy stood in shock, embracing her . . . but not quite. Hermione was clutching her like a child, but Lucy didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Her arms felt foreign, not quite attached. She looked past Hermione’s shoulder, down to the floor. The men had finally stopped thrashing about, but she wasn’t sure she cared any longer.
“Hermione?” Lucy stepped back, far enough so that she could see her face. “What happened?”
“Oh, Lucy,” Hermione said. “I fluttered.”
An hour later, Hermione and Richard were engaged to be married. Lady Lucinda had been returned to the party, not that she would be able to concentrate on anything anyone was saying, but Kate had insisted.
Gregory was drunk. Or at the very least, doing his best to get there.
He supposed the night had brought a few small favors. He hadn’t actually come across Lord Fennsworth and Miss Watson in flagrante delicto. Whatever they’d been doing—and Gregory was expending a great deal of energy to not imagine it—they had stopped when Kate had bellowed Fennsworth’s name.
Even now, it all felt like a farce. Hermione had apologized, then Lucy had apologized, then Kate had apologized, which had seemed remarkably out of character until she finished her sentence with, “but you are, as of this moment, engaged to be married.”
Fennsworth had looked delighted, the annoying little sod, and then he’d had the gall to give Gregory a triumphant little smirk.
Gregory had kneed him in the balls.