Later that night, in a town house in the very best part of London, a woman picked up her quill and wrote: Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers 12 April 1824 Ah, Gentle Reader, This Author has learned that the Bridgerton grandchildren will soon number eleven . . . But when she tried to write more, all she could do was close her eyes and sigh. She’d been doing this for so very long now. Could it have possibly been eleven years already? Maybe it was time to move on. She was tired of writing about everyone else. It was time to live her own life. And so Lady Whistledown set down her quill and walked
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