White's, St. James's Street. Late Afternoon.
The gentlemen of London liked to insist that gossip was a woman's sport.They were wrong.
White's Club, that hallowed sanctuary of brandy and bravado, buzzed with as much rumor as any drawing room in Mayfair—only its players hid their intrigue behind cigars and the Times.
When Lord Benedict Montgomery entered the club that afternoon, a wave of cigar smoke and laughter greeted him. The familiar clink of glasses, the shuffle of cards, the drone of debate—all the soothing sounds of masculine hypocrisy.
He spotted them immediately.
At a corner table near the window sat Earl Adrian Routledge, Marquess Andrew Russell of Cheshire, Earl Jeremy Eden, and Viscount Ian Beaumont—four of society's most eligible bachelors, all appearing terribly serious while leaning in close and whispering like scandalized governesses.
Benedict arched an eyebrow, approaching with the easy swagger of a man who'd already guessed the subject of their conversation.
"Gentlemen," he greeted, sliding into the vacant chair beside Andrew. "You look as though you've just plotted a coup."
Jeremy grinned. "Close enough. We were merely discussing the coup that already occurred last night—led by none other than Lady Sophia Fiennes."
Ian groaned softly, rubbing his temples. "Do not remind me. My mother summoned me to a tribunal this morning to ask whether I had encouraged her. I had to swear upon the Beaumont name that I did not."
Andrew snorted. "A lost cause, my friend. Society has already decided the four of you are conspirators."
Adrian, ever the diplomat, sipped his drink. "To be fair, Sophia's argument was… eloquent."
Jeremy leaned forward eagerly. "Eloquent? It was revolutionary! The way she stood there, defying the entire ballroom—if she were a man, they'd call her a visionary."
"And since she's not?" Benedict asked, amused.
"They call her difficult," Jeremy said cheerfully. "Which, naturally, only makes her more interesting."
Andrew smirked. "Ah, so the great philosopher has found her champion."
Jeremy raised his glass. "To Lady Sophia—patron saint of scandal and sleep deprivation. I've had three invitations to morning calls already, all from mamas desperate for my opinion on whether she's lost her senses."
Ian muttered, "Perhaps you should've fainted too. It would've spared you the questions."
Andrew laughed. "Arundel's collapse will be legend before week's end."
Adrian looked toward Benedict, studying him. "You were watching her, were you not?"
Benedict met his gaze without flinching. "I was listening."
"Same thing," Andrew said under his breath.
"She was remarkable," Benedict admitted, his voice low but certain. "Terrifyingly composed. I've never seen anyone so at ease under fire."
Jeremy's eyes gleamed. "You're intrigued."
Benedict gave a wry half-smile. "Curiosity, Jeremy. Not intrigue."
Andrew grinned. "That's precisely what men say before falling in love."
"Then I'll speak carefully," Benedict said dryly. "I've no intention of joining the next romantic tragedy to amuse the ton."
Ian leaned back with a quiet sigh. "You may not have a choice. My mother says that your mother, the Duchess of Manchester, is already scheming."
Benedict groaned softly. "Of course she is."
Jeremy chuckled. "You can't truly be surprised. You Montgomerys are a prize family—and Sophia's declaration made her a challenge. Society loves a challenge. It's the only thing that makes conversation bearable."
Andrew leaned forward conspiratorially. "Speaking of conversation, rumor has it that her grandparents—the Huntingtons of Suffolk—are returning to London earlier than planned."
Adrian nodded. "Likely to supervise her next public statement."
Jeremy grinned wickedly. "Or to hire philosophers as chaperones."
That earned a round of laughter. Even Benedict couldn't suppress his smile.
He lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. "To Lady Sophia Fiennes," he said softly, voice threaded with irony and intrigue. "May she survive London's gossip unscathed."
Jeremy clinked his glass against Benedict's. "And may we survive her."
The table erupted in laughter once more — but beneath the easy camaraderie, Benedict's thoughts strayed elsewhere.
He could still hear her voice—calm, assured, utterly fearless—and it tugged at his mind like a question yet unanswered.
The gentlemen's laughter was just beginning to fade when a discreet cough broke through the hum of conversation.
A footman in crisp livery bowed deeply beside their table, holding out a folded letter sealed with blue wax, the impression glinting faintly under the club's lamplight.
"Pardon me, my lords," the man said. "A message delivered by express from Grosvenor Square—for Viscount Beaumont."
Ian blinked. "For me?"
The footman bowed again, placed the letter in his hand, and departed as silently as he had arrived.
Andrew leaned back, smirking. "From a lady, no doubt."
Jeremy grinned. "If it's scented, it's not your mother."
Ian shot them both a glare, but his eyes had already caught the mark on the seal — a sapphire-colored crest, an eagle with wings outstretched.
"The Fiennes crest," he murmured.
At that, the table fell instantly quiet.
"Open it," said Benedict, curiosity lighting his gaze.
Ian hesitated only long enough to glance around the room—several nearby gentlemen were already pretending to read newspapers while leaning conspicuously in their direction—then broke the seal.
The paper unfolded neatly, the handwriting elegant and firm.
Ian cleared his throat. "It's from Lady Sophia Fiennes."
Jeremy smirked. "Of course it is. She's already mobilizing."
"Quiet," said Ian, and began to read aloud.
My dearest friends,
By now, you are likely aware that my grandparents—the Duke and Duchess Huntington of Suffolk—have chosen to cut their country respite short. The cause, I am told, is not the weather nor the war, but rather the storm we collectively brewed at Her Majesty's birthdayball.
The Huntingtons shall remain at their London estate for the rest of the Season, that they might oversee what they call "my recovery." They have made it their singular mission to ensure I am suitably matched, as if matrimony were an ailment to be cured with enough suitors.
Worse still, they are not coming alone. My aunt, the Duchess Catherine Campbell of Sutherland, and my uncle, Duke Alexander Campbell, will also take up residence in the city. Their motives are threefold:
Firstly, to find a husband for my cousin, Lady Beatrice Campbell, who is two and twenty, a polyglot, a prodigy at the pianoforte, and the paragon of patience.
Secondly, to introduce my younger cousin, the heir apparent, Lord Victor Campbell—now four and ten—to the ways of society. You may recall, dear Ian, that Victor regards you and Prince Felix as the only men of reason in London. His education continues under my direction, with the occasional guidance of Jeremy's Machiavelli and my own dear Rousseau and Wollstonecraft. (For this, I expect you both to be held accountable.)
And thirdly, to "refine" my circle, as they so gently put it—which I assume means scaring half my acquaintances into submission and dissuading the rest from visiting.
Pray for me, gentlemen. And for yourselves, should they decide you are in need of refinement as well.
Yours in mild panic,
— Sophia F.
The room was silent for a long, incredulous moment.
Then Jeremy exhaled, muttering, "Well. We're doomed."
Andrew groaned. "Not one but two dukes returning to London, and both on the Privy Council? The city will implode."
Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is what happens when philosophy meets politics."
Ian folded the letter with a weary sigh. "I told her not to speak of Rousseau in public. I told her."
Jeremy leaned over, eyes sparkling. "You also told her about Machiavelli, which is arguably worse."
"Don't remind me," Ian said flatly.
Andrew smirked. "Ah yes, the triumvirate of terror — Huntington, Campbell, and Fiennes. Half the Lords tremble when those names appear in the same sentence."
"Be grateful her maternal side is only half diplomatic," Adrian remarked. "The Campbells' idea of refinement involves interrogation."
Jeremy grinned. "I once met the Duke of Sutherland. Charming fellow. Terrifying. Could probably negotiate peace treaties while polishing a dueling pistol."
"Victor's the heir, isn't he?" Andrew asked. "Fourteen now?"
"Four and ten," corrected Ian. "And frighteningly clever. Sophia treats him as her pupil, not a child."
Jeremy sighed dramatically. "At least one man in that household respects me. Even if he's fourteen."
Adrian looked heavenward. "He respects your Machiavelli, not you."
Jeremy shrugged. "Semantics."
As their laughter subsided, Benedict sat back, thoughtful. "So," he said slowly, "the Fiennes household will soon be joined by the Huntingtons and the Campbells. Three titles under one roof."
Andrew gave a low whistle. "London won't know whether to curtsey or flee."
Benedict's mouth curved in a faint smile. "Then it seems the Season has only just begun."
Jeremy groaned. "You sound pleased."
"Not pleased," Benedict corrected, eyes gleaming. "Prepared."
Andrew raised his glass. "To survival, then."
"Better," Benedict said, clinking his against Andrew's, "to strategy."
White's spilled its usual tide of perfumed smoke and laughter as the gentlemen stepped out into the pale London light, blinking like schoolboys released from a lesson.
Jeremy was mid-sentence—something about strategies involving tea parties and apologies—when a sharp whinny sliced through the din of carriages and chatter.
They all turned at once.
Across the street, a white Arabian stallion gleamed like marble come to life. Upon his reins stood an attendant, and beside him—poised, composed, and altogether too aware of the picture she made—stood Lady Sophia Fiennes.
She was dressed in a riding habit of deep sapphire blue, the hue mirroring the eyes that regarded them with faint, amused resignation. A feathered hat shaded her face, though nothing could soften the unmistakable impression that she had come here with intent.
Jeremy groaned. "Oh no."
Andrew winced. "Oh yes."
Ian looked skyward as though summoning divine intervention. "She's going to scold us, isn't she?"
Adrian deadpanned, "We deserve it."
And then she began to cross the street.
Pedestrians paused, coachmen craned their necks, and a murmur spread like a current through St. James's. The quartet and their companions straightened at once, every man abruptly remembering his manners.
"Gentlemen," she greeted evenly as she approached, her gloved hands resting lightly atop her riding crop. "I know Ian won't keep a secret—and that he read my letter aloud at White's."
Ian, cornered by fate, stammered, "Benedict insisted."
Sophia arched a brow. "Did he now?"
Benedict coughed delicately, finding himself the sudden target of sapphire scrutiny. "In my defense, milady, it was a compelling letter."
Sophia exhaled, almost laughing despite herself. "Well, it is a good thing you insisted. The entire city must know they are coming anyway. To be perfectly honest—" She paused, surprising them all with the slightest tremor in her voice. "—I am scared."
The men froze.
Jeremy blinked. "You?"
"Terrified," she said simply.
Jeremy had the audacity to grin. "Why?"
Her eyes flashed. "Because they are my kin, and I must spend the rest of my life being connected to them! You, Jeremy Eden, are meant to be the strategist among us, yet it appears you did not think this time."
Jeremy spluttered. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything," Sophia shot back. "We three—no, we four—have a motto: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. If I am your comrade in spirit, then you must embody the third. That means brotherhood, even when your comrade is in peril of being paraded before every eligible bachelor in London!"
Andrew snorted quietly. "You mean to say you fear matchmaking more than monarchy?"
"Precisely," she replied without hesitation.
Adrian muttered to Benedict, "She'd rather face Napoleon."
Benedict's mouth curved. "Who wouldn't?"
Sophia heard him. "Do not jest, Lord Benedict. Napoleon only wishes to conquer Europe. My grandmother wishes to conquer me."
That earned a laugh from Jeremy, quickly stifled when Sophia's glare returned.
Ian rubbed the back of his neck. "We'll stand by you, Sophia. You know that."
She softened at that, her expression gentling. "I know, Ian. That is why I trust you more than half the House of Lords."
Before any of them could respond, the steady clatter of hooves grew louder. A polished carriage, black with gold detailing, turned the corner and came to a halt directly before them.
The sight was enough to hush the entire street.
The crest emblazoned upon the carriage door—a golden lion encircled by laurels — left no doubt.
"The Huntingtons," Andrew murmured.
The footman descended, opening the carriage door with crisp precision.
Out stepped Duke Theodore Huntington of Suffolk, tall and commanding despite his years, his bearing that of a man accustomed to rooms falling silent. Beside him, Duchess Arabella Huntington emerged, her expression the perfect blend of affection and formidable judgment.
Every gentleman instinctively bowed. Even Jeremy looked chastened.
Arabella's eyes found Sophia at once. "Sophia Fiennes," she said, her tone calm but heavy with meaning. "I see London has wasted no time in making a spectacle of you."
Sophia managed a smile that trembled between pride and apology. "Grandmama, you taught me that London always needs a spectacle."
The Duchess's lips curved slightly. "I do believe I meant other people, dear."
The Duke cleared his throat. "We have come directly from Suffolk. Your mother awaits us at home." His gaze shifted to the cluster of young men. "And your… companions?"
Sophia inhaled deeply. "My friends, Grandpapa."
The Duke's brow arched. "I see."
A pause that could have spanned centuries.
Arabella inclined her head to the assembled gentlemen. "We shall expect Lady Sophia at home within the hour."
Sophia nodded. "Of course, Grandmama."
The Duchess turned gracefully, reentering the carriage. The Duke followed, though not before casting Benedict a curious, assessing glance — one the young lord returned with polite composure.
As the door closed and the carriage rolled away, the street seemed to exhale.
Jeremy groaned. "We're all going to die, aren't we?"
Andrew chuckled. "Not all of us. Just whoever they deem a bad influence."
Ian muttered, "That would be you."
Sophia sighed. "Pray for me, gentlemen."
Benedict smiled faintly. "Always."
And with that, Lady Sophia Fiennes gathered her reins, mounted her gleaming stallion, and rode off through the murmuring street—the sapphire of her habit flashing like defiance itself beneath the London sun.