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But whatever Araminta had been about to say was cut off (thankfully — because Sophie feared she might be moved to attempt murder if she had to listen to another word) by a commotion erupting around the corner.
“What the devil . . . ?” Araminta said, taking a few steps back and craning her neck for a better view.
And then Sophie heard a very familiar voice.
“Benedict?” she whispered.
“What did you say?” Araminta demanded.
But Sophie had already jumped to her feet and had her face pressed up against the bars of her cell.
“I said,” Benedict boomed, “let us pass!”
“Benedict!” Sophie yelled. She forgot that she didn’t particularly want the Bridgertons to see her in such demeaning surroundings. She forgot that she had no future with him. All she could think was that he had come for her, and he was here.
If Sophie could have fit her head through the bars, she would have.
A rather sickening smack, obviously that of flesh against bone, echoed through the air, followed by a duller thud, most  probably that of body against floor.
Running steps, and then ...
“Benedict!”
“Sophie! My God, are you well?” His hands reached through the bars, cupping her cheeks. His lips found hers; the kiss  was not one of passion but of terror and relief.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” Araminta squeaked.
Sophie somehow managed to pull her eyes off of Benedict and onto Araminta’s shocked face. In the flurry of excitement,  she’d quite forgotten that Araminta was still unaware of her ties to the Bridgerton family.
It was one of life’s most perfect moments. Maybe it meant she was a shallow person. Maybe it meant that she didn’t have  her priorities in the proper order. But Sophie just loved that Araminta, for whom position and power were everything,  had just witnessed Sophie being kissed by one of London’s most eligible bachelors.
Of course, Sophie was also rather glad to see Benedict.
Benedict pulled away, his reluctant hands trailing lightly across Sophie’s face as he drew back out of her cell. As he  crossed his arms, he gave Araminta a glare that Sophie was convinced would scorch earth.
“What are your charges against her?” Benedict demanded.
Sophie’s feelings for Araminta could best be categorized as “extreme dislike,” but even so, she never would have described  the older woman as stupid. She was now, however, prepared to reassess that judgment because Araminta, instead of quaking and cowering as any sane person might do under such fire, instead planted her hands on her hips and belted out, “Theft!”
At that very moment, Lady Bridgerton came scurrying around the corner. “I can’t believe Sophie would do any such thing,”  she said, rushing to her son’s side. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Araminta. “And,” she added rather peevishly,  “I never liked you, Lady Penwood.”
Araminta drew back and planted an affronted hand on her chest. “This is not about me,” she huffed.  “It is about that girl”—(said with a scathing glance toward Sophie)—”who had the audacity to steal my wedding band!”
“I never stole your wedding band, and you know it!” Sophie protested. “The last thing I would want of yours—”
“You stole my shoe clips!”
Sophie’s mouth shut into a belligerent line.
“Ha! See!” Araminta looked about, trying to gauge how many people had seen. “A clear admission of guilt.”
“She is your stepdaughter,” Benedict ground out. “She should never have been in a position where she felt she had to—”
Araminta’s face twisted and grew red. “Don’t you ever” she warned, “call her my stepdaughter. She is nothing to me. Nothing!”
“I beg your pardon,” Lady Bridgerton said in a remarkably polite voice, “but if she truly meant nothing to you, you’d hardly be here in this filthy jail, attempting to have her hanged for theft.”
Araminta was saved from having to reply by the arrival of the magistrate, who was followed by an extremely grumpy-looking warden, who also happened to be sporting a rather stunning black eye.
As the warden had spanked her on the bottom while shoving her into her cell, Sophie really couldn’t help but smile.
“What is going on here?” the magistrate demanded.
“This woman,” Benedict said, his loud, deep voice effectively blotting out all other attempts at an answer, “has accused my fiancee of theft.”
Fiancee?
Sophie just managed to snap her mouth closed, but even so, she had to clutch tightly on to the bars of her cell, because her  legs had turned to instant water.
“Fiancee?” Araminta gasped.
The magistrate straightened. “And precisely who are you, sir?” he asked, clearly aware that Benedict was someone important, even if he wasn’t positive who.
Benedict crossed his arms as he said his name.
The magistrate paled. “Er, any relation to the viscount?”
“He’s my brother.”
“And she’s”—he gulped as he pointed to Sophie—”your fiancee?”
Sophie waited for some sort of supernatural sign to stir the air, branding Benedict as a liar, but to her surprise, nothing happened. Lady Bridgerton was even nodding.
“You can’t marry her,” Araminta insisted.
Benedict turned to his mother. “Is there any reason I need to consult Lady Penwood about this?”
“None that I can think of,” Lady Bridgerton replied.