Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,27

I really am Lady Whistledown, because Hyacinth suggested that that would be a cunning ruse.”

“I am utterly lost,” Colin said to no one in particular.

“Unless Colin were really Lady Whistledown . . .” Hyacinth said with a devilish gleam in her eye.

“Stop!” Lady Bridgerton said. “I beg you.”

By then everyone was laughing too hard for Hyacinth to continue, anyway.

“The possibilities are endless,” Hyacinth said, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Perhaps we should all simply look to the left,” Colin suggested as he sat back down. “Who knows, that person may very well be our infamous Lady Whistledown.”

Everyone looked left, with the exception of Eloise, who looked right . . . right to Colin. “Were you trying to tell me something,” she asked with an amused smile, “when you sat down to my right?”

“Not at all,” he murmured, reaching for the biscuit plate and then stopping when he remembered it was empty.

But he didn’t quite meet Eloise’s eyes when he said so.

If anyone other than Penelope had noticed his evasiveness, they were unable to question him on it, because that was when the sandwiches arrived, and he was useless for conversation after that.

Chapter 5

It has come to This Author’s attention that Lady Blackwood turned her ankle earlier this week whilst chasing down a delivery boy for This Humble Newssheet.

One thousand pounds is certainly a great deal of money, but Lady Blackwood is hardly in need of funds, and moreover, the situation is growing absurd. Surely Londoners have better things to do with their time than chase down poor, hapless delivery boys in a fruitless attempt to uncover the identity of This Author.

Or maybe not.

This Author has chronicled the activities of the ton for over a decade now and has found no evidence that they do indeed have anything better to do with their time.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 APRIL 1824

Two days later Penelope found herself once again cutting across Berkeley Square, on her way to Number Five to see Eloise. This time, however, it was late morning, and it was sunny, and she did not bump into Colin along the way.

Penelope wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or not.

She and Eloise had made plans the week before to go shopping, but they’d decided to meet at Number Five so that they could head out together and forgo the accompaniment of their maids. It was a perfect sort of day, far more like June than April, and Penelope was looking forward to the short walk up to Oxford Street.

But when she arrived at Eloise’s house, she was met with a puzzled expression on the butler’s face.

“Miss Featherington,” he said, blinking several times in rapid succession before locating a few more words. “I don’t believe Miss Eloise is here at present.”

Penelope’s lips parted in surprise. “Where did she go? We made our plans over a week ago.”

Wickham shook his head. “I do not know. But she departed with her mother and Miss Hyacinth two hours earlier.”

“I see.” Penelope frowned, trying to decide what to do. “May I wait, then? Perhaps she was merely delayed. It’s not like Eloise to forget an appointment.”

He nodded graciously and showed her upstairs to the informal drawing room, promising to bring a plate of refreshments and handing her the latest edition of Whistledown to read while she bided her time.

Penelope had already read it, of course; it was delivered quite early in the morning, and she made a habit of perusing the column at breakfast. With so little to occupy her mind, she wandered over to the window and peered out over the Mayfair streetscape. But there wasn’t much new to see; it was the same buildings she’d seen a thousand times before, even the same people walking along the street.

Maybe it was because she was pondering the sameness of her life that she noticed the one object new to her vista: a bound book lying open on the table. Even from several feet away she could see that it was filled not with the printed word, but rather with neat handwritten lines.

She inched toward it and glanced down without actually touching the pages. It appeared to be a journal of sorts, and in the middle of the right-hand side there was a heading that was set apart from the rest of the text by a bit of space above and below:

22 February 1824

Troodos Mountains, Cyprus

One of her hands flew to her mouth. Colin had written this! He’d said just the other day that he’d visited