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“I would be shocked if she hadn’t been,” Benedict replied.
Wickham nodded toward Sophie with an expression that hovered somewhere between curiosity and disdain.  “Might I inform her of your guest’s arrival?”
“Please do.”
“Might I inform her of your guest’s identity?”
Sophie looked over at Benedict with great interest, wondering what he’d say.
“Her name is Miss Beckett,” Benedict replied. “She is here to seek employment.”
One of Wickham’s brows rose. Sophie was surprised. She didn’t think that butlers were supposed to show any expression whatsoever.
“As a maid?” Wickham inquired.
“As whatever,” Benedict said, his tone beginning to show the first traces of impatience.
“Very good, Mr. Bridgerton,” Wickham said, and then he disappeared up the staircase.
“I don’t think he thought it was very good at all,” Sophie whispered to Benedict, careful to hide her smile.
“Wickham is not in charge here.”
Sophie let out a little whatever-you-say sort of sigh. “I imagine Wickham would disagree.”
He looked at her with disbelief. “He’s the butler.”
“And I’m a housemaid. I know all about butlers. More, I daresay, than you do.”
His eyes narrowed. “You act less like a housemaid than any woman of my acquaintance.”
She shrugged and pretended to inspect a still life painting on the wall. “You bring out the worst in me, Mr. Bridgerton.”
“Benedict,” he hissed. “You’ve called me by my given name before. Use it now.”
“Your mother is about to descend the stairs,” she reminded him, “and you are insisting that she hire me as a housemaid.  Do many of your servants call you by your given name?”
He glared at her, and she knew he knew she was right. “You can’t have it both ways, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, allowing herself a tiny smile.
“I only wanted it one way,” he growled.
“Benedict!”
Sophie looked up to see an elegant, petite woman descending the stairs. Her coloring was fairer than Benedict’s, but her features marked her clearly as his mother.
“Mother,” he said, striding to meet her at the bottom of the stairs. “It is good to see you.”
“It would be better to see you,” she said pertly, “had I known where you were this past week. The last I’d heard you’d gone  off to the Cavender party, and then everyone returned without you.”
“I left the party early,” he replied, “then went off to My Cottage.”
His mother sighed. “I suppose I can’t expect you to notify me of your every movement now that you’re thirty years of age.”
Benedict gave her an indulgent smile.
She turned to Sophie. “This must be your Miss Beckett.”
“Indeed,” Benedict replied. “She saved my life while I was at My Cottage.”
Sophie started. “I didn’t—”
“She did,” Benedict cut in smoothly. “I took ill from driving in the rain, and she nursed me to health.”
“You would have recuperated without me,” she insisted.
“But not,” Benedict said, directing his words at his mother, “with such speed or in such comfort.”
“Weren’t the Crabtrees at home?” Violet asked.
“Not when we arrived,” Benedict replied.
Violet looked at Sophie with such obvious curiosity that Benedict was finally forced to explain, “Miss Beckett had  been employed by the Cavenders, but certain circumstances made it impossible for her to stay.”
“I... see,” Violet said unconvincingly.
“Your son saved me from a most unpleasant fate,” Sophie said quietly. “I owe him a great deal of thanks.”
Benedict looked to her in surprise. Given the level of her hostility toward him, he hadn’t expected her to volunteer complimentary information. But he supposed he should have done; Sophie was highly principled, not the sort to let  anger interfere with honesty.
It was one of the things he liked best about her.
“I see,” Violet said again, this time with considerably more feeling.
“I was hoping you might find her a position in your household,” Benedict said.
“But not if it’s too much trouble,” Sophie hastened to add.
“No,” Violet said slowly, her eyes settling on Sophie’s face with a curious expression. “No, it wouldn’t be any trouble at  all, but...”
Both Benedict and Sophie leaned forward, awaiting the rest of the sentence.
“Have we met?” Violet suddenly asked.
“I don’t think so,” Sophie said, stammering slightly. How could Lady Bridgerton think she knew her? She was positive their paths had not crossed at the masquerade. “I can’t imagine how we could have done.”
“I’m certain you’re right,” Lady Bridgerton said with a wave of her hand. “There is something vaguely familiar about you.  But I’m sure it’s just that I’ve met someone with similar features. It happens all the time.”
“Especially to me,” Benedict said with a crooked smile. Lady Bridgerton looked to her son with obvious affection.
“It’s not my fault all my children ended up looking remarkably alike.”
“If the blame can’t be placed with you,” Benedict asked, “then where may we place it?”