“She is nothing but a whore,” Araminta hissed. “Her mother was a whore, and blood runs—urp!”
Benedict had her by the throat before anyone was even aware that he had moved. “Don’t,” he warned, “make me hit you.”
The magistrate tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “You really ought to let her go.”
“Might I muzzle her?”
The magistrate looked torn, but eventually he shook his head.
With obvious reluctance, Benedict released Araminta.
“If you marry her,” Araminta said, rubbing her throat, “I shall make sure everyone knows exactly what she is—the bastard daughter of a whore.”
The magistrate turned to Araminta with a stern expression. “I don’t think we need that sort of language.”
“I can assure you I am not in the habit of speaking in such a manner,” she replied, sniffing disdainfully, “but the occassion warrants strong speech.”
Sophie actually bit her knuckle as she stared at Benedict, who was flexing and unflexing his fingers in a most menacing manner. Clearly he felt the occasion warranted strong I fists.
The magistrate cleared his throat. “You accuse her of a very serious crime.” He gulped. “And she’s going to be married to a Bridgerton.”
“I am the Countess of Penwood,” she shrilled. “Countess!”
The magistrate looked back and forth between the occupants of the room. As a countess, Araminta outranked everyone, but at the same time, she was only one Penwood against two Bridgertons, one of whom was very large, visibly angry, and had already planted his fist in the warden’s eye.
“She stole from me!”
“No, you stole from her!” Benedict roared.
The room fell into instant silence.
“You stole her very childhood,” Benedict said, his body shaking with rage. There were huge gaps in his knowledge of Sophie’s life, but somehow he knew that this woman had caused much of the pain that lurked behind her green eyes. And he’d have been willing to bet that her dear, departed papa was responsible for the rest.
Benedict turned to the magistrate and said, “My fiancee is the bastard daughter of the late Earl of Penwood. And that is why the dowager countess has falsely accused her of theft. It is revenge and hate, pure and simple.”
The magistrate looked from Benedict to Araminta and then finally to Sophie. “Is this true?” he asked her. “Have you been falsely accused?”
“She took the shoe clips’.” Araminta shrieked. “I swear on my husband’s grave, she took the shoe clips!”
“Oh, for the love of God, Mother, I took the shoe clips.”
Sophie’s mouth fell open. “Posy?”
Benedict looked at the newcomer, a short, slightly pudgy young woman who was obviously the countess’s daughter, then glanced back to Sophie, who had gone white as a sheet.
“Get out of here,” Araminta hissed. “You have no place in these proceedings.”
“Obviously she does,” the magistrate said, turning to Araminta, “if she took the shoe clips. Do you want to have her charged?”
“She’s my daughter!”
“Put me in the cell with Sophie!” Posy said dramatically, clasping one of her hands to her breast with great effect. “If she is transported for theft, then I must be as well.”
For the first time in several days, Benedict found himself smiling.
The warden took out his keys. “Sir?” he said hesitantly, nudging the magistrate.
“Put those away,” the magistrate snapped. “We’re not incarcerating the countess’s daughter.”
“Do not put those away,” Lady Bridgerton cut in. “I want my future daughter-in-law released immediately.”
The warden looked helplessly at the magistrate.
“Oh, very well,” the magistrate said, jabbing his finger in Sophie’s direction. “Let that one free. But no one is going anywhere until I have this sorted out.”
Araminta bristled in protest, but Sophie was duly released. She started to run to Benedict, but the magistrate held out a restraining arm. “Not so fast,” he warned. “We’ll be having no lovey-dovey reunions until I figure out who is to be arrested.”
“No one is to be arrested,” Benedict growled.
“She is going to Australia!” Araminta cried out, pointing toward Sophie.
“Put me in the cell!” Posy sighed, placing the back of her hand against her brow. “I did it!”
“Posy, will you be quiet?” Sophie whispered. ‘Trust me, you do not want to be in that cell. It’s dreadful. And there are rats.”
Posy started inching away from the cell.
“You will never see another invitation again in this town,” Lady Bridgerton said to Araminta.
“I am a countess!” Araminta hissed.
“And I am more popular,” Lady Bridgerton returned, the snide words so out of character that both Benedict’s and Sophie’s mouths dropped open.
“Enough!” the magistrate said. He turned to Posy, pointing to Araminta as he said, “Is she your mother?”
Posy nodded.
“And you said you stole the shoe clips?”
Posy nodded again. “And no one stole her wedding ring. It’s in her jewelry box at home.”
No one gasped, because no one was terribly surprised.
But Araminta said, nonetheless, “It is not!”
“Your other jewelry box,” Posy clarified. “The one you keep in the third drawer from the left.”