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The bedroom at My Cottage was quiet, save for the sound of Benedict Bridgerton trying to negotiate a treaty with his nurse.
"I am simply saying," Benedict argued, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh that rattled his bruised chest, "that if I were to sit by the window, I would heal faster. The view of the garden is restorative. The view of this canopy is... depressing."
"The doctor said strict bed rest, sir," Sophie said, not looking up from the shirt she was mending in the corner. "And considering you turned the color of old parchment when you tried to stand up an hour ago, I am inclined to agree with him."
"It was a momentary lapse in equilibrium," Benedict grumbled. "I am perfectly—"
The door didn't open so much as it was conquered.
There was no knock, no announcement—just the heavy oak swinging inward to reveal Anthony Bridgerton.
He stopped dead on the threshold. His cravat was undone, his riding coat splashed with mud, and his chest was heaving as if he had run the last mile himself. But it was his face that silenced the room.
He didn't look angry. He looked terrified.
Upon establishing visual contact with Benedict—who was upright, conscious, and evidently in the midst of a complaint—the tension that had rigidly maintained Anthony’s composure appeared to dissipate instantaneously. His posture relaxed visibly as he released a tremulous exhalation, while his hand grasped the doorframe with such intensity that the wood audibly creaked. He momentarily closed his eyes, and as his complexion returned to a normal hue, the overwhelming burden of anticipated bereavement appeared to evaporate.
Then, he opened them. The relief vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, hard fury of a man who had been scared out of his wits.
"You," Anthony said, pointing a gloved finger at Benedict. "Do not speak. I am currently deciding whether to strangle you or hire a private army to guard your door."
Colin followed him a moment later, looking slightly more windblown and carrying a travel bag that appeared suspiciously heavy.
"He’s alive," Colin announced, mostly to himself, his own breath of relief escaping in. He then stepped inside and kicked the door shut. He looked at Benedict, wincing as he took in the bruising on his brother's jaw. "Oof. You look like a prize-fighter who lost. Badly."
"What are you doing here?" Benedict asked, his voice rough. He looked from Anthony to Colin, genuinely bewildered. "I didn't send for you."
"No," Anthony snapped, peeling off his riding coat and tossing it onto a chair that Sophie had just tidied. "But Crabtree did. He sent a rider three days ago saying the master had 'returned in a state of severe distress' and was 'unlikely to last the week' if the fever didn't break."
"Crabtree is a dramatist," Benedict muttered, sinking lower into the pillows. "And a traitor."
"He’s a loyal servant who didn't want to be responsible for burying a Bridgerton," Anthony countered. He marched to the side of the bed, his eyes scanning Benedict with terrifying, laser-focused intensity. "Sit up. Let me see."
"I am fine, Anthony."
"Sit. Up."
It wasn't a shout. It was the Voice. The Viscount Voice. Sophie, instinctively, stood up straight in her corner. Benedict, despite his annoyance, shifted painfully to prop himself up.
Anthony didn't hug him. He didn't weep. He checked him like a horse trader checking a thoroughbred. He pulled back the collar of Benedict’s nightshirt to check the bruising on his neck; he pressed the back of his hand against Benedict’s forehead to check for heat; he gripped Benedict’s wrist to check his pulse. It was clinical, invasive, and aggressively loving.
"Fever is down," Anthony muttered to himself. "Pulse is thready. You’re dehydrated." He turned on his heel, finally acknowledging the other person in the room. "Water. Now."
Sophie jumped. "Yes, My Lord."
She hurried to the pitcher, pouring a glass with trembling hands. As she brought it to the bedside, Anthony watched her—not with suspicion of a crime, but with the calculation of a general assessing a new lieutenant.
"Leave us," Anthony said abruptly, taking the glass from her.
Sophie hesitated, her eyes darting to Benedict.
"Go," Anthony repeated, not unkindly, but with absolute finality. "Check on... whatever it is you check on. We will handle him."
Sophie bobbed a curtsy. "Yes, My Lord."
As the door clicked shut behind her, the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The air grew heavier, stripped of the polite fiction of guests and staff.
"Who is she?" Anthony demanded, turning back to the bed. He held the glass to Benedict’s lips with a look that dared him to spill a drop. Benedict didn’t find it wise in the moment to insist he could hold his own glass. In all honesty, he wasn’t 100% confident he could, and Anthony’s whole posture screamed that he was not to be argued with at the moment.
"She’s... staff," Benedict breathed after drinking, closing his eyes to avoid Anthony’s stare. "She’s helping."
"She’s not staff," Anthony corrected instantly. "I know the staff. I pay the staff. I have never seen her before in my life."
"She is a new hire," Benedict lied without opening his eyes. "Mrs. Crabtree took her on."
"Liar," Colin said cheerfully from the foot of the bed. He had bypassed the drama and found a tin of biscuits on the nightstand. "Mrs. Crabtree hasn't hired anyone since 1810. She says new maids steal the silver. This one looks like she’s afraid to touch the furniture."
Anthony sat down heavily in the chair next to the bed, the one Sophie had vacated. He rubbed his face with his hands, dragging the skin down, looking suddenly less like a Viscount and more like a terrified older brother who had just ridden fifty miles in a panic.
"I don't care about the maid," Anthony said quietly into his hands, the fight draining out of him. "I care that you vanished."
"I’m here, Ant," Benedict said softly. "I’m not going anywhere."
Anthony dropped his hands and looked at him. There were no tears, but his eyes were hard and bright. "You cannot just... vanish. And then come back broken. I can manage the estates. I can manage Mother. I can manage the precipitous drop in the price of wool. I cannot manage this." He gestured vaguely at Benedict’s bruised form.
"It’s too much," Anthony whispered. "It is simply... too much. To wonder if I am going to have to tell Eloise that her favorite brother isn't coming home."
Benedict swallowed. The room went very quiet.
"It was just a bad night," Benedict murmured. "A bad storm."
"A bad fight," Colin corrected gently. He walked over and put a hand on Anthony’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "But he won, evidently. Since he’s still breathing."
Anthony took a deep breath, straightening his spine. He brushed Colin’s hand away—not unkindly—and stood up. The moment of vulnerability was over. The Viscount was back.
"Right," Anthony said, clapping his hands together once. "We are staying. Colin, go tell the carriage driver to bring in the trunks. We’ll take the rooms down the hall."
"Trunks?" Benedict groaned. "Plural?"
"I’m not leaving until you can walk to the stables and back without looking like you’re going to faint," Anthony declared. He walked to the door and pulled it open. “Now sleep. If you aren't asleep in ten minutes, I’m reading the estate ledgers out loud."
Benedict’s eyes widened in genuine horror. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
A few hours later, the bedroom had been transformed into a makeshift dining room. Mrs. Crabtree had sent up Sophie with a tray large enough to feed a small regiment.
Benedict was propped up with fresh pillows, his eyes now glassy from the dose of laudanum Sophie had administered. He looked floaty. He looked peaceful. He looked incredibly stubborn.
"Sophie," Benedict said. His voice was soft, but it had that specific, unwavering quality of a drunk man insisting on buying the next round. "Sit."
Anthony paused, a serving spoon hovering over the roast chicken. He looked at Sophie, who was standing by the door, holding the tray and looking as though she would very much like to melt through the wood.
"She can eat in the kitchen, Ben," Anthony said reasonably. "Mrs. Crabtree has likely prepared a plate."
"No," Benedict said. He didn't shout. He just closed his eyes and let his head loll back against the pillows. "If she leaves, I’m not eating. I’ll go on a hunger strike. I’ll wither away. You’ll have to explain to Mother why I’m a skeleton."
Anthony stared at him. "You are being ridiculous. You are thirty years old."
"I am an invalid," Benedict corrected, slurring slightly. "I have rights. Sophie, sit in the chair. The blue one."
Sophie looked at Anthony, her eyes wide with apology. Anthony let out a breath that hissed through his teeth. He looked at the chicken. He looked at his brother.
"Fine," Anthony snapped. He pointed the serving spoon at the blue velvet armchair. "Sit. Miss Sophie. Please."
"Thank you, My Lord," she whispered, perching on the edge of the chair like a bird ready to take flight.
The room settled into a bizarre, heavy silence, broken only by the sound of silverware scraping against china and Colin humming happily as he demolished a thigh. Anthony ate mechanically, his eyes darting around the room. He watched Benedict. He watched the way Benedict wasn't eating, but was instead watching Sophie eat. It was a look of open, unguarded affection that made Anthony’s skin itch.
"Pass the salt," Colin said, breaking the silence.
Sophie reached for the small silver cellar.
"Not you," Anthony said sharply.
Sophie froze.
"I meant Colin," Anthony corrected, his voice tight. "You are... a guest. At this... table. Guests do not pass salt."
"You’re in a mood," Colin observed, leaning over to grab the salt himself.
"I like it," Benedict murmured. He had managed three bites of chicken and was now using his fork to draw patterns in the gravy. "It’s cozy. Just the four of us. Like a... like a family. But with better food."
"We are a family, you idiot," Anthony said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "Sophie is the only one who isn't family."
"She feels like family," Benedict said dreamily. "She knows where I keep my socks."
Sophie choked on a sip of water.
Anthony stopped chewing. He slowly turned his head to look at Benedict. "She knows... about your socks?"
"I mend them, My Lord," Sophie gasped, recovering quickly. "I mend the socks. That is all."
"She’s very good at mending," Benedict agreed, dropping his fork. It clattered loudly onto the plate. "She mends... everything."
Anthony looked at Colin. Colin looked back, his eyebrows raised high. Do you hear this? the look said. He’s practically writing a sonnet in the gravy.
"Right," Anthony said, standing up abruptly. He took Benedict’s plate away before it could slide off his lap. "That is enough laudanum for one evening. You are becoming poetic, and it is nauseating."
"I love you," Benedict blurted out. The words slurred together, but the sentiment was terrifyingly clear. He blinked slowly at Anthony, then drifted his gaze to Colin. "I love you both. Enormously. Like... a very large mountain."
Anthony froze, the plate halfway to the tray. He looked as though Benedict had just slapped him. "Good God. He’s gone mad."
"It’s the drugs, Ant," Colin said, grinning widely. "Just accept the affection."
"I mean it," Benedict insisted, his head lolling back against the pillows. He lifted a heavy hand to point at Colin. "And you, Col. You are... so vibrant. I want to paint you. Not a portrait. Just... colors. Yellow and blue. And crumbs. I want to capture the essence of your hunger. It's inspiring. 'The Boy with the Bread'."
Colin choked on his laugh. "High praise indeed. I've always wanted to be a muse."
"You came all this way," Benedict continued, looking back at Anthony, his eyes wet with chemical emotion. "Just to shout at me. It’s... it’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done."
"I am not shouting," Anthony whispered furiously, though his ears had turned a violent shade of pink. "I am managing a crisis."
"I love your crisis management," Benedict mumbled, his eyes finally drooping shut as the exhaustion overtook the hunger. "Even if you are... shouting inside your head."
"Go to sleep, Benedict," Anthony commanded softly.
He stood by the bed, tucking the blanket in with aggressive tenderness, watching until Benedict’s breathing evened out into the heavy rhythm of sleep. Only then did he turn back to the room.
Sophie had risen, holding her empty plate like a shield.
"My Lord," she said softly. "I should..."
"Yes," Anthony said, rubbing his temples. "Go. Thank you for... humoring him."
Sophie bobbed a curtsy and slipped out the door. As the latch clicked, the silence returned to the bedroom, heavy with unasked questions.
Colin leaned back in his chair, picking up the last roll. He turned it over in his hand, studying it.
"She holds her knife correctly," Colin said casually.
Anthony looked at him, pouring himself a glass of wine. "What?"
"The girl," Colin said, buttering the roll. "Sophie. She holds her fish knife correctly. Index finger on the spine, not the handle. And she eats like she’s terrified of making a sound."
Anthony stared at the closed door. He thought about the socks. He thought about the "mending." He thought about the way Benedict looked at her—like she was the only person in the room who made sense.
"It’s the laudanum," Anthony said firmly, downing the wine in one swallow. "Benedict is confused. And the girl is... well-trained. That is all."
"If you say so, Ant," Colin said, taking a bite. "But I think we might want to stay a few extra days. The food here is excellent. And the company is... fascinating."
The sun was streaming through the curtains when Benedict woke up, but it wasn't the light that roused him. It was the sensation of being watched.
He cracked one eye open.
Anthony was sitting in the armchair to his left, reading a newspaper with aggressive snaps of the page. Colin was sitting on the windowsill to his right, tossing a walnut into the air and catching it.
"He lives," Colin announced, not looking away from the walnut. "And he’s stopped drooling. A marked improvement."
"I do not drool," Benedict croaked, pushing himself up. His ribs screamed in protest, but the sharp, stabbing pain had dulled to a heavy ache. He felt human again.
"You were practically a fountain," Anthony said, folding the paper and dropping it onto the floor. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fixing Benedict with a look that was half relieved brother, half terrifying prosecutor. "How is the head? Still writing poetry in the gravy?"
Benedict rubbed his face, groaning. "How much laudanum did she give me?"
"Enough that you confessed your undying devotion to a housemaid’s needlework," Colin supplied helpfully. "You told us she 'mends everything.' You made it sound like she stitched your soul back together. It was very moving. I almost cried. Anthony did cry, internally."
"I did not," Anthony snapped. "I was merely concerned about the level of intimacy implied by a servant managing your hosiery."
Benedict closed his eyes. "I hate you both. Go away. Send Sophie back."
"Sophie is currently hiding in the pantry," Anthony said. "I believe she is afraid I’m going to ask her to embroider the family crest onto my waistcoat. We are not leaving. We are... processing."
"Processing what?"
"The fact that you look happy," Colin said.
The room went quiet. The teasing evaporated, replaced by that rare, sharp intelligence that the Bridgerton brothers usually hid behind food and shouting.
Colin hopped off the windowsill and walked over to the bed. "We’ve seen you hungover. We’ve seen you sick. We’ve seen you after a bad critique. You are usually... prickly. Dark. A bit of a brooding artist cliché, really."
"Thank you," Benedict muttered.
"But this," Colin gestured to the room, to the water glass on the nightstand, to the chair where Sophie had sat. "You’ve got three broken ribs and a face like a bruised plum, but you look... settled. You look like you’re home."
Benedict looked down at his hands. He couldn't deny it. "It’s the country air," he lied weakly.
"It’s the girl," Anthony said softly.
Benedict’s head snapped up. He expected judgment. He expected a lecture on class boundaries and the duties of a spare. Instead, he saw Anthony looking at him with a weary, affectionate resignation.
"I don't know who she is, Ben," Anthony said, his voice low. "And I don't think I want to know. Not yet. Because if I know, I have to do something about it. I have to be the Viscount."
He stood up and walked to the bed, reaching out to grip Benedict’s shoulder. It wasn't a check for fever this time; it was an anchor.
"But," Anthony continued, squeezing tight. "If she makes you look less like you’re searching for a cliff to jump off... then she can stay. She can mend the damn socks."
Benedict felt a lump form in his throat. "Ant..."
"Don't," Anthony warned, pulling back his hand. "No emotions. We’ve reached our quota for the decade. I’m going to go find Mrs. Crabtree and demand a proper breakfast. This 'toast' situation is unacceptable."
"I’ll come with you," Colin said, grinning. "I think I saw a ham in the larder that had my name on it."
Colin paused at the door, looking back at Benedict. He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. "She speaks French, by the way."
Benedict froze. "What?"
"I heard her muttering at the cat in the hallway," Colin said, winking. "Perfect Parisian accent. Strange skill for a housemaid. But then again... we’re a strange family."
With that, the brothers swept out of the room, leaving a wake of chaos, affection, and terrifying perception behind them.
Benedict slumped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. He let out a long, shaky breath, and then, despite the pain in his ribs, he started to laugh.
They knew nothing. And they knew absolutely everything.