Something to whisper in the night, when he was staring out the window, wondering where in hell she was.

Benedict was saved from further reflection by the sounds of stumbling and bumbling in the hallway. Mr. Crabtree was the  first to return, staggering under the weight of the breakfast tray.

“What happened to the rest?” Benedict asked suspiciously, eyeing the door.

“Mrs. Crabtree went off to find Sophie some proper clothing,” Mr. Crabtree replied, setting the tray down on Benedict’s desk. “Ham or bacon?”

“Both. I’m famished. And what the devil does she mean by ‘proper clothing’?”

“A dress, Mr. Bridgerton. That’s what women wear.”

Benedict seriously considered lobbing a candle stump at him. “I meant,” he said with what he considered saintly patience, “where is she going to find a dress?”

Mr. Crabtree walked over with a plate of food on a footed tray that would fit over Benedict’s lap. “Mrs. Crabtree has several extras. She’s always happy to share.”

Benedict choked on the bite of egg he’d shoveled into his mouth. “Mrs. Crabtree and Sophie are hardly the same size.”

“Neither are you,” Mr. Crabtree pointed out, “and she wore your clothes just fine.”

“I thought you said the breeches fell off in the hall.”

“Well, we don’t have to worry about that with the dress, do we? I hardly think her shoulders are going to slip through the  neck hole.”

Benedict decided it was safer for his sanity to mind his own business, and he turned his full attention to his breakfast. He  was on his third plate when Mrs. Crabtree bustled in.

“Here we are!” she announced.

Sophie slunk in, practically drowning in Mrs. Crabtree’s voluminous dress. Except, of course, at her ankles. Mrs. Crabtree  was a good five inches shorter than Sophie.

Mrs. Crabtree beamed. “Doesn’t she look smashing?”

“Oh, yes,” Benedict replied, lips twitching.

Sophie glared at him.

“You’ll have plenty of room for breakfast,” he said gamely.

“It’s only until I get her clothing cleaned up,” Mrs. Crab-tree explained. “But at least it’s decent.” She waddled over to Benedict. “How is your breakfast, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Delicious,” he replied. “I haven’t eaten so well in months.”

Mrs. Bridgerton leaned forward and whispered, “I like your Sophie. May we keep her?”

Benedict choked. On what, he didn’t know, but he choked nonetheless. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Crabtree and I aren’t as young as we used to be. We could use another set of hands around here.”

“I, ah, well...” He cleared his throat. “I’ll think about it.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Crabtree crossed back to the other side of the room and grabbed Sophie’s arm. “You come with me. Your stomach has been growling all morning. When was the last time you ate?”

“Er, sometime yesterday, I should think.”

“When yesterday?” Mrs. Crabtree persisted.

Benedict hid a smile under his napkin. Sophie looked utterly overwhelmed. Mrs. Crabtree tended to do that to a person.

“Er, well, actually—”

Mrs. Crabtree planted her hands on her hips. Benedict grinned. Sophie was in for it now.

“Are you going to tell me that you didn’t eat yesterday?” Mrs. Crabtree boomed.

Sophie shot a desperate look at Benedict. He replied with a don’t-look-to-me-for-help shrug. Besides, he rather enjoyed watching Mrs. Crabtree fuss over her. He’d be willing to bet that the poor girl hadn’t been fussed over in years.

“I was very busy yesterday,” Sophie hedged.

Benedict frowned. She’d probably been busy running from Phillip Cavender and the pack of idiots he called friends.

Mrs. Crabtree shoved Sophie into the seat behind the desk. “Eat,” she ordered.

Benedict watched as Sophie tucked into the food. It was obvious that she was trying to put on her best manners, but  eventually hunger must have gotten the best of her, because after a minute she was practically shoveling the food into  her mouth.

It was only when Benedict noticed that his jaw was clamped together like a vise that he realized he was absolutely furious.  At whom, he wasn’t precisely certain. But he did not like seeing Sophie so hungry.

They had an odd little bond, he and the housemaid. He’d saved her and she’d saved him. Oh, he doubted his fever from the night before would have killed him; if it had been truly serious, he’d still be battling it now. But she had cared for him and  made him comfortable and probably hastened his road to recovery.

“Will you make certain she eats at least another plateful?” Mrs. Crabtree asked Benedict. “I’m going to make up a room  for her.”

“In the servants’ quarters,” Sophie said quickly.

“Don’t be a silly. Until we hire you on, you’re not a servant here.”

“But—”

“Nothing more about it,” Mrs. Crabtree interrupted.

“Would you like my help, dearie?” Mr. Crabtree asked.

Mrs. Crabtree nodded, and in a moment the couple was gone.

Sophie paused in her quest to consume as much food as humanly possible to stare at the door through which they’d just disappeared. She supposed they considered her one of their own, because if she’d been anything but a servant, they’d never have left her alone with Benedict. Reputations could be ruined on far less.