Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,43

is sure to be hungry. He’s always hungry.”

The butler nodded again.

Penelope stood stock-still as Briarly disappeared out the door, then, completely unable to contain herself, danced from foot to foot, emitting a strange squealing sort of noise—one that she was convinced—or at least hoped—had never before crossed her lips.

Then again, she couldn’t remember the last time a gentleman had called upon her, much less the one with whom she’d been desperately in love for almost half of her life.

“Settle down,” she said, spreading her fingers and pressing her flattened palms out in much the same motion she might make if she were trying to placate a small, unruly crowd. “You must remain calm. Calm,” she repeated, as if that would actually do the trick. “Calm.”

But inside, her heart was dancing.

She took a few deep breaths, walked over to her dressing table, and picked up her hairbrush. It would only take a few minutes to repin her hair; surely Colin wasn’t going to flee if she kept him waiting for a short while. He’d expect her to take a bit of time to ready herself, wouldn’t he?

But still, she found herself fixing her hair in record time, and by the time she stepped through the sitting room door, a mere five minutes had passed since the butler’s announcement.

“That was quick,” Colin said with a quirky grin. He’d been standing by the window, peering out at Mount Street.

“Oh, was it?” Penelope said, hoping that the heat she felt on her skin wasn’t translating into a blush. A woman was supposed to keep a gentleman waiting, although not too long. Still, it made no sense to hold to such silly behavior with Colin, of all people. He would never be interested in her in a romantic fashion, and besides, they were friends.

Friends. It seemed like such an odd concept, and yet that was exactly what they were. They’d always been friendly acquaintances, but since his return from Cyprus, they’d become friends in truth.

It was magical.

Even if he never loved her—and she rather thought he never would—this was better than what they’d had before.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, taking a seat on her mother’s slightly faded yellow damask sofa.

Colin sat across from her in a rather uncomfortable straight-backed chair. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, and Penelope knew instantly that something was wrong. It simply wasn’t the pose a gentleman adopted for a regular social call. He looked too distraught, too intense.

“It’s rather serious,” he said, his face grim.

Penelope nearly rose to her feet. “Has something happened? Is someone ill?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” He paused, let out a long breath, then raked his hand through his already mussed-up hair. “It’s about Eloise.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to say this. I—Do you have anything to eat?”

Penelope was ready to wring his neck. “For heaven’s sake, Colin!”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“A first, I’m sure,” Penelope said impatiently. “I already told Briarly to fix a tray. Now, will you just tell me what is wrong, or do you plan to wait until I expire of impatience?”

“I think she’s Lady Whistledown,” he blurted out.

Penelope’s mouth fell open. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to say, but it wasn’t this.

“Penelope, did you hear me?”

“Eloise?” she asked, even though she knew exactly who he was talking about.

He nodded.

“She can’t be.”

He stood and began to pace, too full of nervous energy to sit still. “Why not?”

“Because . . . because . . .” Because why? “Because there is no way she could have done that for ten years without my knowing.”

His expression went from disturbed to disdainful in an instant. “I hardly think you’re privy to everything that Eloise does.”

“Of course not,” Penelope replied, giving him a rather irritated look, “but I can tell you with absolute certainty that there is no way Eloise could keep a secret of that magnitude from me for over ten years. She’s simply not capable of it.”

“Penelope, she’s the nosiest person I know.”

“Well, that much is true,” Penelope agreed. “Except for my mother, I suppose. But that’s hardly enough to convict her.”

Colin stopped his pacing and planted his hands on his hips. “She is always writing things down.”

“Why would you think that?”

He held up his hand, rubbing his thumb briskly against his fingertips. “Inkstains. Constantly.”

“Lots of people use pen and ink.” Penelope motioned broadly at Colin. “You write in journals. I am certain you’ve had your share of ink on your fingers.”

“Yes,