Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,66

her, slowing only when he reached the front door. He didn’t want to surprise her too quickly. Not before he found out what exactly she was doing there. His earlier words notwithstanding, he did not for one moment think that Penelope had suddenly developed a desire to extend her churchgoing habits to midweek visits.

He slipped quietly into the church, keeping his footsteps as soft as he could. Penelope was walking down the center aisle, her left hand tapping along each pew, almost as if she were . . .

Counting?

Colin frowned as she picked her pew, then scooted in until she was in the middle. She sat utterly still for a moment, then reached into her reticule and pulled out an envelope. Her head moved the teeniest bit to the left, then to the right, and Colin could easily picture her face, her dark eyes darting in either direction as she checked the room for other people. He was safe from her gaze at the back, so far in the shadows that he was practically pressed up against the wall. And besides, she seemed intent upon remaining still and quiet in her movements; she certainly hadn’t moved her head far enough to see him behind her.

Bibles and prayer books were tucked in little pockets on the backs of the pews, and Colin watched as Penelope surreptitiously slid the envelope behind one. Then she stood and edged her way out toward the center aisle.

And that was when Colin made his move.

Stepping out of the shadows, he strode purposefully toward her, taking grim satisfaction in the horror on her face when she saw him.

“Col—Col—” she gasped.

“That would be Colin,” he drawled, grasping her arm just above the elbow. His touch was light, but his grip was firm, and there was no way she could think that she might make an escape.

Smart girl that she was, she didn’t even try.

But smart girl that she was, she did attempt a play at innocence.

“Colin!” she finally managed to get out. “What a . . . what a . . .”

“Surprise?”

She gulped. “Yes.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Her eyes darted to the door, to the nave, everywhere but to the pew where she’d hidden her envelope. “I’ve—I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’ve never been.”

Penelope’s mouth moved several times before her next words emerged. “It’s quite appropriate, actually, that you’d be here, actually, because, actually . . . uh . . . do you know the story of St. Bride’s?”

He raised one brow. “Is that where we are?”

Penelope was clearly trying for a smile, but the result was more of the openmouthed idiot sort of look. Normally this would have amused him, but he was still angry with her for taking off on her own, not giving a care to her safety and welfare.

But most of all, he was furious that she had a secret.

Not so much that she’d kept a secret. Secrets were meant to be kept, and he couldn’t blame her for that. Irrational as it was, he absolutely could not tolerate the fact that she had a secret. She was Penelope. She was supposed to be an open book. He knew her. He’d always known her.

And now it seemed he’d never known her.

“Yes,” she finally replied, her voice squeaking on the word. “It’s one of Wren’s churches, actually, you know, the ones he did after the Great Fire, they’re all over the City, and actually it’s my favorite. I do so love the steeple. Don’t you think it looks like a wedding cake?”

She was babbling. It was never a good sign when someone babbled. It generally meant they were hiding something. It was already obvious that Penelope was making an attempt at concealment, but the uncharacteristic rapidity of her words told him that her secret was exceedingly large, indeed.

He stared at her for a very long time, drawn out over many seconds just to torture her, then finally asked, “Is that why you think it’s appropriate that I’m here?”

Her face went blank.

“The wedding cake . . .” he prompted.

“Oh!” she squealed, her skin flushing a deep, guilty red. “No! Not at all! It’s just that—What I meant to say was that this is the church for writers. And publishers. I think. About the publishers, that is.”

She was flailing and she knew she was flailing. He could see it in her eyes, on her face, in the very way her hands twisted as she spoke. But she kept trying, kept attempting to keep up the pretense, and so