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“Unfortunately, no. You are my gaoler. I am forever grateful to have you watch my every move.”
“I do not—”
“Good evening, Cam, Bridget.” Constance stood at the doorway, a smirk on her face. “Are you coming into the house, or do you prefer to continue your tête-à-tête in front of my neighbors? Since you are so loud, am I to assume you wish to have all of London comment on your discussion?”
Cam took Bridget’s elbow, and they started up the stairs. Constance stood back as they entered the house, glancing between them, her grin growing wider. “Would you care for a brandy?”
“A brandy would be welcome,” Cam snapped.
Stubborn chit that she was, instead of heading for her bedchamber to collapse into a bundle of tears, as most young ladies of gentle upbringing would have done, Bridget said, “I would enjoy a whisky myself.”
Cam ground his teeth as they entered the drawing room, where Dunmore sat, reading a book. “Ah, returned from your soiree.” He placed the book on a table alongside him. “Was it a pleasant evening?”
“Yes. Quite nice.” Cam released his hold on Bridget and strode to the sideboard, where he poured a whisky for Bridget and a brandy for himself. He turned to his sister and brother-in-law. “Anyone care to join us?”
“I think I would enjoy a brandy,” Dunmore said.
Constance added, “A sherry for me, if you please.”
Whether it was the drinks or the presence of other people, the atmosphere grew less tense, and Cam actually found himself joining Bridget in regaling stories of the evening. A couple of times when they both started to tell the same story, they grinned at each other, and all the tension of the carriage ride eased away.
That seemed to be the solution to the problem. He needed to put other people or distance between him and his ward. This attraction, he admitted to himself, was not proper. He was her guardian. It was his duty to arrange a suitable match for her and let her husband deal with the aid-for-abused-women project so near and dear to Bridget’s heart.
A husband who would give her children to keep her company in her old age.
Unlike him, who was more than happy to continue his easy, unencumbered life. He studied the brandy in his glass as he swirled the liquid, the words from the song replaying in his mind, leaving him wondering if they could apply to him as well.
A lesson learned, ye ladies fair,
From Laura’s wretched fate;
Lest you, like her, should in despair
Repent alas! Back too late.
Chapter Seven
“Minerva, what happened?” Bridget’s mouth hung open in shock as she closed the door to her friend’s bedchamber and studied her. The girl was resting in bed, propped up on pillows. Both of her eyes were blackened, her lip was split open, and her neck bore ugly red marks resembling fingers.
“Why are you here, Bridget? I told Davidson to turn away anyone who came to the door.” Minerva turned her face to the side and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
Bridget moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “Minerva, this is the third day I’ve called, and I refused to be turned away again. I’m afraid I was quite rude to your doorman, but I had to see you.”
“Please go away.” Her soft, shaky voice twisted Bridget’s heart. She’d suspected for some time that all was not well between Minerva and her husband. But this?
Bridget reached out and covered her friend’s hand. “Please tell me how I can help.”
“You can’t.” Minerva wiped the tears dripping from her eyes. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have asked Davenport for a larger allowance.”
“He did this to you because you asked for more money?”
“Just forget it, Bridget. Please. Just…” She yanked the covers over her head, her soft sobs shaking the blanket.
Not wishing to upset her friend further, Bridget rose and left the room, swearing she would do something to make sure Davenport couldn’t do this to his wife again.
…
Bridget tossed aside the book she was pretending to read, her ugly memories of Minerva crowding out any attempt to enjoy the new story by Miss Austen. That visit to Minerva had been one of many like it during the two years she and Davenport had been married.
