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If Miss Featherington’s gathering weren’t enough gossip, not three hours later, a woman was accosted right in front of the town house by the Countess ofPenwood, who lives three doors down. It seems the woman, who  This Author suspects was working in the Bridgerton household, used to work for Lady Penwood. Lady Penwood alleges that the unidentified woman stole from her two years ago and immediately had the poor thing carted off to jail.
This Author is not certain what the punishment is these days for theft, but one has to suspect that if one has the audacity to steal from a countess, the punishment is quite strict. The poor girl in question is likely to be hanged, or at the very least, find herself transported.
The previous housemaid wars (reported last month in This Column) seem rather trivial now.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 13 JUNE 1817
Benedict’s first inclination the following morning was to pour himself a good, stiff drink. Or maybe three. It might have been scandalously early in the day for spirits, but alcoholic oblivion sounded rather appealing after the emotional skewering he’d received the previous evening at the hands of Sophie Beckett.
But then he remembered that he’d made a date that morning for a fencing match with his brother Colin. Suddenly, skewering  his brother sounded rather appealing, no matter that he’d had nothing to do with Benedict’s wretched mood.
That, Benedict thought with a grim smile as he pulled on his gear, was what brothers were for.
“I’ve only an hour,” Colin said as he attached the safety tip to his foil. “I have an appointment this afternoon.”
“No matter,” Benedict replied, lunging forward a few times to loosen up the muscles in his leg. He hadn’t fenced in some time; the sword felt good in his hand. He drew back and touched the tip to the floor, letting the blade bend slightly. “It won’t take more than an hour to best you.”
Colin rolled his eyes before he drew down his mask.
Benedict walked to the center of the room. “Are you ready?”
“Not quite,” Colin replied, following him.
Benedict lunged again.
“I said I wasn’t ready!” Colin hollered as he jumped out of the way.
“You’re too slow,” Benedict snapped.
Colin cursed under his breath, then added a louder, “Bloody hell,” for good measure. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” Benedict nearly snarled. “Why would you say so?”
Colin took a step backward until they were a suitable distance apart to start the match. “Oh, I don’t know,” he intoned, sarcasm evident. “I suppose it could be because you nearly took my head off.”
“I’ve a tip on my blade.”
“And you were slashing like you were using a sabre,” Colin shot back.
Benedict gave a hard smile. “It’s more fun that way.”
“Not for my neck.” Colin passed his sword from hand to hand as he flexed and stretched his fingers. He paused and frowned. “You sure you have a foil there?”
Benedict scowled. “For the love of God, Colin, I would never use a real weapon.”
“Just making sure,” Colin muttered, touching his neck lightly. “Are you ready?”
Benedict nodded and bent his knees.
“Regular rules,” Colin said, assuming a fencer’s crouch. ‘Wo slashing.”
Benedict gave him a curt nod.
“En garde!”
Both men raised their right arms, twisting their wrists until their palms were up, foils gripped in their fingers.
“Is that new?” Colin suddenly asked, eyeing the handle of Benedict’s foil with interest.
Benedict cursed at the loss of his concentration. “Yes, it’s new,” he bit off. “I prefer an Italian grip.”
Colin stepped back, completely losing his fencing posture as he looked at his own foil, with a less elaborate French grip.  “Might I borrow it some time? I wouldn’t mind seeing if—”
“Yes!” Benedict snapped, barely resisting the urge to advance and lunge that very second. “Will you get back en garde.”
Colin gave him a lopsided smile, and Benedict just knew that he had asked about his grip simply to annoy him. “As you wish,” Colin murmured, assuming position again.
They held still for one moment, and then Colin said, “Fence!”
Benedict advanced immediately, lunging and attacking, but Colin had always been particularly fleet of foot, and he retreated carefully, meeting Benedict’s attack with an expert parry.
“You’re in a bloody bad mood today,” Colin said, lunging forward and just nearly catching Benedict on the shoulder.
Benedict stepped out of his way, lifting his blade to block the attack. “Yes, well, I had a bad”—he advanced again, his foil stretched straight forward—”day.”
Colin sidestepped his attack neatly. “Nice riposte,” he said, touching his forehead with the handle of his foil in a mock salute.
“Shut up and fence,” Benedict snapped.
Colin chuckled and advanced, swishing his blade this way and that, keeping Benedict on the retreat. “It must be a woman,”  he said.
Benedict blocked Colin’s attack and quickly began his own advance. “None of your damned business.”
“It’s a woman,” Colin said, smirking.
Benedict lunged forward, the tip of his foil catching Colin on the collarbone. “Point,” he grunted.
Colin gave a curt nod. “Touch for you.” They walked back to the center of the room. “Are you ready?” he asked.