On The Way To The Wedding

“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 wrinkled 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?”