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Sophie gulped. “We’re alone?”
He nodded. “Completely.”
She edged toward the stairs. “I’d better find the servants’ quarters.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” he growled, grabbing hold of her arm.
He shook his head. “You, dear girl, aren’t going anywhere.”
Chapter 8
It seems one cannot take two steps at a London ball these days without stumbling across a society matron lamenting the difficulties of finding good help. Indeed, This Author thought that Mrs. Featherington and  Lady Penwood were going to come to blows at last week’s Smythe-Smith musicale. It seems that Lady  Penwood stole Mrs. Featherington’s lady’s maid right out from under her nose one month ago, promising  higher wages and free cast-off clothing. (It should be noted that Mrs. Featherington also gave the poor girl cast-off clothing, but anyone who has ever observed the attire of the Featherington girls would understand  why the lady’s maid would not view this as a benefit.)
The plot thickened, however, when the lady’s maid in question fled back to Mrs. Featherington, begging to be rehired. It seemed that Lady Penwood’s idea of a lady’s maid included duties more accurately ascribed to the scullery maid, upstairs maid, and cook.
Someone ought to tell the woman that one girl cannot do the work of three.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817
“We’re going to build a fire,” Benedict said, “and get warm before either of us goes off to bed. I didn’t save you from  Cavender just so you could die of influenza.”
Sophie watched him cough anew, the spasms wracking his body and forcing him to bend over at the waist. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton,” she could not help commenting, “but of the two of us, I should think you’re more in danger of contracting influenza.”
“Just so,” he gasped, “and I assure you I have no desire to be so afflicted, either. So—” He bent over again as he was once again engulfed by coughs. “Mr. Bridgerton?” Sophie asked, concern in her voice. He swallowed convulsively and barely managed to say, “Just help me get a fire blazing before I cough myself into oblivion.”
Sophie’s brow knit with worry. His coughing fits were coming closer and closer together, and each time they were deeper, more rumbly, as if they were coming from the very pit of his chest.
She made easy work of the fire; she’d certainly had enough experience setting them as a housemaid, and soon they were  both holding their hands as close to the flames as they dared.
“I don’t suppose your change of clothing remained dry,” Benedict said, nodding toward Sophie’s sodden satchel.
“I doubt it,” she said ruefully. “But it’s no matter. If I stand here long enough, I’ll dry out.”
“Don’t be silly,” he scoffed, turning around so that the fire might heat his back. “I’m sure I can find you a change of clothing.”
“You have women’s clothing here?” she asked doubtfully.
“You’re not so fussy that you can’t wear breeches and a shirt for one evening, are you?” ‘
Until that very moment, Sophie had probably been exactly that fussy, but put that way, it did seem a little silly.  “I suppose not,” she said. Dry clothing certainly sounded appealing.
“Good,” he said briskly. “Why don’t you light the furnaces in two bedrooms, and I’ll find us both some clothing?”
“I can stay in the servants’ quarters,” Sophie said quickly.
“Not necessary,” he said, striding out of the room and motioning for her to follow. “I’ve extra rooms, and you are not a  servant here.”
“But I am a servant,” she pointed out, hurrying after him.
“Do whatever you please then.” He started to march up the stairs, but had to stop halfway up to cough. “You can find a tiny little room in the servants’ quarters with a hard little pallet, or you can avail yourself of a guest bedroom, all of which I assure you come equipped with feather mattresses and goosedown coverlets.”
Sophie knew that she should remember her place in the world and march right up the next flight of stairs to the attic, but by God above, a feather mattress and down coverlet sounded like heaven on earth. She hadn’t slept in such comfort in years.  “I’ll just find a small guest bedroom,” she acceded. “The, er, smallest you have.”
Half of Benedict’s mouth quirked up in a dry, I-told-you-so sort of smile. “Pick whichever room you like. But not that one,”  he said, pointing to the second door on the left. “That’s mine.”
“I’ll get the furnace started in there immediately,” she said. He needed the warmth more than she did, and besides, she found herself inordinately curious to see what the inside of his bedroom looked like. One could tell a lot about a person by the decor of his bedchamber. Provided, of course, she thought with a grimace, that one possessed enough funds to decorate in the manner one preferred. Sophie sincerely doubted that anyone could have told anything about her from her little attic turret at the Cavenders’—except for the fact that she had not a penny to her name.
Sophie left her satchel in the hall and scurried into Benedict’s bedchamber. It was a lovely room, warm and masculine and  very comfortable. Despite the fact that Benedict had said he was rarely in residence, there were all sorts of personal items on the desk and tables—miniatures of what had to be his brothers and sisters, leather-bound books, and even a small glass bowl filled with ... Rocks?