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She’d just come ‘round the house and had stepped onto the front drive, however, when she heard a raucous shout.
She looked up. Oh, blast. Phillip Cavender, looking even drunker and meaner than usual.
Sophie broke into a run, praying that alcohol had impaired Phillip’s coordination because she knew she could not match him  for speed.
But her flight must have only served to excite him, because she heard him yell out with glee, then felt his footsteps rumbling on the ground, growing closer and closer until she felt his hand close round the back collar of her coat, jerking her to a halt.
Phillip laughed triumphantly, and Sophie had never been so terrified in her entire life.
“Look what I have here,” he cackled. “Little Miss Sophie. I shall have to introduce you to my friends.”
Sophie’s mouth went dry, and she wasn’t sure whether her heart started to beat double time or stopped altogether.  “Let me go, Mr. Cavender,” she said in her sternest voice. She knew that he liked her helpless and pleading, and she  refused to cater to his wishes.
“I don’t think so,” he said, turning her around so that she was forced to watch his lips stretch into a slippery smile. He turned  his head to the side and called out, “Heasley! Fletcher! Look what I have here!”
Sophie watched with horror as two more men emerged from the shadows. From the looks of them, they were just as drunk,  or maybe even more so, than Phillip.
“You always host the best parties,” one of them said in an oily voice.
Phillip puffed out with pride. “Let me go!” Sophie said again.
Phillip grinned. “What do you think, boys? Should I do as the lady asks?”
“Hell, no!” came the reply from the younger of the two men.
“ ‘Lady,’ “ said the other—the same one who had told Phillip that he hosted the best parties, “might be a bit of a misnomer, don’t you think?”
“Quite right!” Phillip replied. “This one’s a housemaid, and as we all know, that breed is born to serve.” He gave Sophie a shove, pushing her toward one of his friends. “Here. Have a look at the goods.”
Sophie cried out as she was propelled forward, and she clutched tightly to her small bag. She was about to be raped; that  much was clear. But her panicked mind wanted to hold on to some last shred of dignity, and she refused to allow these men  to spill her every last belonging onto the cold ground.
The man who caught her fondled her roughly, then shoved her toward the third one. He’d just snaked his hand around her waist, when she heard someone yell out, “Cavender!”
Sophie shut her eyes in agony. A fourth man. Dear God, weren’t three enough?
“Bridgerton!” Phillip called out. “Come join us!”
Sophie’s eyes snapped open. Bridgerton?
A tall, powerfully built man emerged from the shadows, moving forward with easy, confident grace.
“What have we here?”
Dear God, she’d recognize that voice anywhere. She heard it often enough in her dreams.
It was Benedict Bridgerton. Her Prince Charming.
The night air was chilly, but Benedict found it refreshing after being forced to breathe the alcohol and tobacco fumes inside.  The moon was nearly full, glowing round and fat, and a gentle breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees. All in all, it was an  excellent night to leave a boring party and ride home.
But first things first. He had to find his host, go through the motions of thanking him for his hospitality, and inform him of his departure. As he reached the bottom step, he called out, “Cavender!”
“Over here!” came the reply, and Benedict turned his head to the right. Cavender was standing under a stately old elm with  two other gentlemen. They appeared to be having a bit of fun with a housemaid, pushing her back and forth between them.
Benedict groaned. He was too far away to determine whether the housemaid was enjoying their attentions, and if she was not, then he was going to have to save her, which was not how he’d planned to spend his evening. He’d never been particularly enamored of playing the hero, but he had far too many younger sisters—four, to be precise—to ignore any female in distress.
“Ho there!” he called out as he ambled over, keeping his posture purposefully casual. It was always better to move slowly  and assess the situation than it was to charge in blindly.
“Bridgerton!” Cavender called out. “Come join us!” Benedict drew close just as one of the men snaked an arm around the young woman’s waist and pinned her to him, her back to his front. His other hand was on her bottom, squeezing and kneading.
Benedict brought his gaze to the maid’s eyes. They were huge and filled with terror, and she was looking at him as if he’d just dropped fully formed from the sky. “What have we here?” he asked. “Just a bit of sport,” Cavender chortled. “My parents  were kind enough to hire this prime morsel as the upstairs maid.”
“She doesn’t appear to be enjoying your attentions,” Benedict said quietly.
“She likes it just fine,” Cavender replied with a grin. “Fine enough for me, anyway.”
“But not,” Benedict said, stepping forward, “for me.”
“You can have your turn with her,” Cavender said, ever jovial. “Just as soon as we’re through,”
“You misunderstand.”
There was a hard edge to Benedict’s voice, and the three men all froze, looking over at him with wary curiosity. “Release the girl,” he said.