Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,44

but I don’t disappear when I write in my journals.”

Penelope felt her pulse quicken. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice growing breathless.

“I mean that she locks herself in her room for hours on end, and it’s after those periods that her fingers are covered with ink.”

Penelope didn’t say anything for an agonizingly long moment. Colin’s “evidence” was damning, indeed, especially when combined with Eloise’s well-known and well-documented penchant for nosiness.

But she wasn’t Lady Whistledown. She couldn’t be. Penelope would bet her life on it.

Finally Penelope just crossed her arms and, in a tone of voice that probably would have been more at home on an exceedingly stubborn six-year-old, said, “It’s not her. It’s not.”

Colin sat back down, looking defeated. “I wish I could share your certainty.”

“Colin, you need to—”

“Where the hell is the food?” he grumbled.

She should have been shocked, but somehow his lack of manners amused her. “I’m sure Briarly will be here shortly.”

He sprawled into a chair. “I’m hungry.”

“Yes,” Penelope said, lips twitching, “I surmised as much.”

He sighed, weary and worried. “If she’s Lady Whistledown, it’ll be a disaster. A pure, unmitigated disaster.”

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” Penelope said carefully. “Not that I think she’s Lady Whistledown, because I don’t! But truly, if she were, would it be so very dreadful? I rather like Lady Whistledown myself.”

“Yes, Penelope,” Colin said rather sharply, “it would be so very dreadful. She’d be ruined.”

“I don’t think she’d be ruined. . . .”

“Of course she’d be ruined. Do you have any idea how many people that woman has insulted over the years?”

“I didn’t realize you hated Lady Whistledown so much,” Penelope said.

“I don’t hate her,” Colin said impatiently. “It doesn’t matter if I hate her. Everyone else hates her.”

“I don’t think that’s true. They all buy her paper.”

“Of course they buy her paper! Everyone buys her bloody paper.”

“Colin!”

“Sorry,” he muttered, but it didn’t really sound like he meant it.

Penelope nodded her acceptance of his apology.

“Whoever that Lady Whistledown is,” Colin said, shaking his finger at her with such vehemence that she actually lurched backward, “when she is unmasked, she will not be able to show her face in London.”

Penelope delicately cleared her throat. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about the opinions of society.”

“I don’t,” he retorted. “Well, not much, at least. Anyone who tells you they don’t care at all is a liar and a hypocrite.”

Penelope rather thought he was correct, but she was surprised he’d admitted it. It seemed men always liked to pretend that they were wholly self-contained, completely unaffected by the whims and opinions of society.

Colin leaned forward, his green eyes burning with intensity. “This isn’t about me, Penelope, it’s about Eloise. And if she is cast out of society, she will be crushed.” He sat back, but his entire body radiated tension. “Not to mention what it would do to my mother.”

Penelope let out a long breath. “I really think you’re getting upset over nothing,” she said.

“I hope you’re right,” he replied, closing his eyes. He wasn’t sure when he’d started to suspect that his sister might be Lady Whistledown. Probably after Lady Danbury had issued her now famous challenge. Unlike most of London, Colin had never been terribly interested in Lady Whistledown’s true identity. The column was entertaining, and he certainly read it along with everyone else, but to his mind, Lady Whistledown was simply . . . Lady Whistledown, and that was all she needed to be.

But Lady Danbury’s dare had started him thinking, and like the rest of the Bridgertons, once he got hold of an idea, he was fundamentally incapable of letting it go. Somehow it had occurred to him that Eloise had the perfect temperament and skills to write such a column, and then, before he could convince himself that he was crazy, he’d seen the ink spots on her fingers. Since then he’d gone nearly mad, unable to think about anything but the possibility that Eloise had a secret life.

He didn’t know which irritated him more—that Eloise might be Lady Whistledown, or that she had managed to hide it from him for over a decade.

How galling, to be hoodwinked by one’s sister. He liked to think himself smarter than that.

But he needed to focus on the present. Because if his suspicions were correct, how on earth were they going to deal with the scandal when she was discovered?

And she would be discovered. With all of London lusting after the thousand-pound prize, Lady Whistledown didn’t stand a chance.

“Colin! Colin!”

He