White's Gentlemen's Club, St. James's Street. The Next Afternoon.
The air inside White's was thick with cigar smoke, murmured wagers, and the faint clatter of faro counters. It was the sort of ordered male chaos that soothed the nerves of any gentleman—except today, when Benedict Montgomery found even the familiar stillness lacking.
He sat beside his elder brother Edward, nursing a glass of brandy as he observed the room's occupants: Adrian lounged with easy indifference, Andrew skimmed a newspaper with one brow raised, Kurt inspected a betting book with the seriousness of a diplomat, and—at the far end of the table—the trio of young lords Sophia called her "quartet" assembled in varying states of distress.
Ian Beaumont looked as though he'd had no sleep.
Jeremy Eden appeared calm in the way only a schemer could.
Earnest Arundel sipped tea, pale but very much alive.
Benedict cleared his throat. "Has anyone seen Lady Sophia today?"
Ian let out a sigh that belonged on the battlefield.
"No. She sent word through her servant. She is… upset. Her grandmother and Aunt Catherine reprimanded her for speaking too freely at the ball and again in the drawing room."
Jeremy snorted. "That was not reprimanding. That was a siege."
Earnest winced. "She told me I fainted loudly."
"You did," Andrew confirmed.
Benedict frowned. "What exactly did they say to her?"
Ian rubbed his forehead. "That she must moderate her opinions, behave more 'appropriately,' and cease frightening the debutantes."
Edward choked on his drink. "She frightens the debutantes?"
Ian nodded grimly. "Apparently her intelligence is… intimidating."
Jeremy grinned. "And delightful."
Benedict leaned forward. "But that cannot be the only reason she refuses marriage. She is the daughter of a loving couple. She clearly values affection. So why, truly, will she not wed?"
Adrian looked up, intrigued. "A fair question."
Ian stared into his teacup as though it might offer divine guidance.
"It is not entirely philosophical," he admitted.
The table went silent.
Andrew lowered his paper. Kurt set aside the betting book.
Jeremy's eyes gleamed like a man awaiting scandal.
Benedict leaned in. "Ian. What do you know?"
Ian sighed. "When Sophia was a child—eight, perhaps nine—she and her mother were out in Whitechapel. A woman on the street read her palm."
Benedict blinked. "A fortune-teller?"
Ian nodded miserably. "Yes. She told Sophia she was destined for spinsterhood."
Silence fell. A long, heavy, reverent silence.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three—
The table exploded.
Andrew slammed his hand on the table. "That is the reason?"
Adrian nearly spilled his brandy. "She is avoiding marriage because of a street oracle?"
Earnest choked on his tea. "I knew something fateful influenced her but—not that!"
Jeremy burst out laughing. "By God, I love her more."
Kurt dragged a hand over his face. "Unbelievable."
Edward leaned back, wiping tears of suppressed mirth. "The daughter of a Marquess, the granddaughter and niece of two Dukes, the brilliant Lady Sophia—governed by a palm reader."
Benedict sat utterly still.
It was not mockery freezing him.
It was realization.
He murmured, almost to himself, "She believed it."
Ian nodded. "She did. She does. Sophia keeps her word, not only to others—but to fate itself, apparently."
Jeremy smirked. "And to Kurt for that matter. She's been determined to remain unmarried since the day she declared it at fourteen."
Earnest added softly, "She did not want her heart bound to a destiny promised by someone else."
Andrew shook his head in disbelief. "Of all the reasons in the world…"
Edward laughed. "Palmistry."
Kurt muttered, "We are doomed."
Chaos swelled again.
Jeremy waved a hand. "This is why, Benedict, you do not challenge the Oracle of St. James's Street."
Andrew groaned. "Do not call it that!"
Benedict, however, was not laughing.
Something in him settled—not in resignation, but in conviction.
He leaned back, voice low and thoughtful.
"So she clings to a prophecy given to her as a child. Something she took to heart because she feared losing herself in a world that never listens to women."
The others stared.
Because suddenly, it made sense.
Ian nodded slowly. "Yes. That is exactly it. You understand her."
Benedict exhaled. "I intend to."
The table fell quiet again, but this time with weight, not shock.
And as the hum of the club resumed around them, Lord Benedict Montgomery realized he had just stepped—willingly, foolishly, impossibly—into a battle against philosophy, prophecy, and Sophia Fiennes' own stubborn spine.
He didn't stand a chance. He also didn't care.
They had barely recovered from the revelation of Sophia's palm-reading prophecy when the doors of White's opened again—quietly, but with a presence that rippled through the room like a sudden wind.
Conversation died. Cards stilled mid-play. Even the cigar smoke seemed to pause.
A young lord stepped inside.
Tall. Self-assured. Dressed in a navy riding coat tailored so sharply it could cut glass.
A top hat obscured the upper half of his face, leaving only a sculpted jawline and well-formed lips visible—both entirely too beautiful, too symmetrical, too… distracting.
Several older gentlemen blinked. One dropped his cigar.
Benedict and Edward exchanged startled glances as the figure crossed the room with unhurried confidence and slid into the empty seat beside Ian.
Ian stared. "Who are you?"
The "lord" removed one glove with measured grace.
When he spoke, his voice was low—unnecessarily, suspiciously low—and it made two nearby lords blush.
"You know," the stranger intoned gravely, "that I have always loved the tale of Hua Mulan. A woman disguised as a man to escape an arranged marriage and defend her nation against the Rourans."
Jeremy choked.
Earnest's teacup trembled.
The "lord" continued, voice deepening dramatically:
"I shall do the same. I will continue what I should have done at fourteen. I will defeat Napoleon myself. Thus I shall bring honor to the Crown and to my family—without having to marry."
Ian stared at the figure. Stared harder. Slowly deflated.
"Soph—"
A gloved hand slammed gently—politely—over his mouth.
"Hush, Beaumont," the disguised "lord" commanded. "You men will tell no such thing to the Crown or to any watchful eyes. I command it."
Adrian was frozen.
Andrew was biting his fist to keep from laughing.
Kurt's soul visibly left his body.
Benedict, schooling his expression, leaned forward very slowly.
"You are aware," he said quietly, "that my family owns the ports at Dover and the Channel… correct?"
The "lord" turned his perfect jawline toward him.
"Yes," came the deep-voiced reply.
"That is precisely why you shall not speak of this."
Silence.
A silence so profound even the portraits seemed offended.
Then—
Chaos.
Jeremy fell out of his chair wheezing.
Earnest dropped his teaspoon with a clatter.
Andrew slammed the table with both hands.
Adrian muttered, "I need a drink."
Edward pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting laughter he would swear he did not feel later.
Kurt whispered, broken, "Sophia… why the voice?"
The "lord" sighed heavily and adjusted the top hat.
The effect was ruined when the deep voice cracked slightly.
"It adds gravity," the not-lord muttered.
Ian groaned into his hands. "Do you have any idea how illegal this is?"
Sophia whipped off the top hat.
Her raven hair tumbled free, pins scattering like sparks. Her almond-shaped sapphire eyes blazed with determination and utter mischief.
"No," she declared.
"But I know how necessary it is."
Benedict stared at her.
Struck.
Awed.
And—dear God—enchanted.
"Lady Sophia," he said softly, "you cannot invade France."
Sophia crossed her arms. "I am perfectly capable of—"
"No," the entire table chorused.
Sophia exhaled dramatically, collapsing back into the chair like a soldier defeated in her own campaign.
"Very well," she muttered. "But I still intend to bring honor to my family without entering matrimony."
Jeremy snorted. "By cross-dressing at White's?"
Sophia flicked him a glare. "It seemed a viable plan."
Adrian gestured weakly at her riding boots. "How did you even get past the staff?"
Sophia lifted her chin. "Confidence."
Kurt whispered, "And beauty."
Edward coughed violently. "Yes, well, that too."
Benedict rubbed his temples. "Lady Sophia," he said gently, "if you wished to talk, you could have simply sent a message."
Sophia looked offended. "Where is the adventure in that?"
And truly, no one had an answer.
"I do not see why any of you object," she said in her normal voice now, which was somehow worse. "Once I defeat Napoleon—"
Every man present inhaled sharply.
"—I shall return to London," she continued, ticking off each point with fierce clarity. "I shall decline any titles, praise, or wifely offers heaped upon me. And then I shall allow the people of France to decide what to do with their country henceforth."
Silence fell.
A horrified, reverent silence.
Adrian dropped his cigar.
Andrew muttered, "I am going to perish."
Jeremy whispered, "This is the greatest day of my life."
Earnest looked faint. Again.
Benedict closed his eyes. "Sophia… you are not taller than Napoleon."
Sophia scoffed. "He is a short rake with an inferiority complex. I am a Marquess' daughter with access to flintlock pistols."
Ian rubbed both hands over his face. "Sophia, you cannot go to war."
Sophia blinked. "Why not? I am an excellent shot. Even Nathaniel Kensington says so."
"Because," Benedict said through clenched teeth, "you are a woman."
Sophia shrugged. "So was Mulan."
"That was a legend!" Ian hissed.
"So am I," Sophia countered.
Jeremy clapped softly. "She's not wrong."
"Jeremy," Andrew warned, "you are not helping."
The table erupted again, chaos blooming like fire in dry tinder. Several older lords stared in horrified fascination, as if witnessing the unraveling of society itself.
Finally—finally—Ian snapped.
"That is it," he said, rising to his feet with paternal authority he had no right to. "We are leaving."
Benedict stood as well. "Agreed."
Sophia frowned. "Leaving? Why? We have barely begun planning the French campaign."
"No campaign," Ian insisted. "No war. No invading the Continent. We are going home."
Sophia crossed her arms hotly. "You cannot command me, Ian Beaumont."
Ian stared at her. "Lady Sophia Fiennes, if your grandmother learns you snuck into White's disguised as a man to personally dethrone Napoleon, she will collapse—and then revive herself solely to end me."
Sophia paused.
"…That is fair."
Benedict exhaled in relief. "Thank God."
But then she added brightly, "But I would like to return tomorrow to continue—"
"NO," the men chorused.
Sophia rolled her eyes. "Very well. But you must help me escape before anyone alerts the Crown."
Adrian muttered, "I think the Crown already knows."
"No," Andrew corrected, "they are praying this is a hallucination."
Benedict seized Sophia's wrist. "Come. Now."
"But I look like a rogue," Sophia protested, adjusting her coat dramatically.
"That is the problem," Ian groaned.
They half-dragged, half-guided her toward the back exit—past stunned footmen, confused patrons, and one elderly lord who muttered, "What a charming young buck… pity about the voice."
Ian rounded on Sophia. "You see?! You are causing distress to pensioners!"
Sophia harrumphed.
Behind White's, Kurt appeared with a lady's day gown—pale blue muslin—his face the perfect mask of betrayal.
"I had this delivered," he said. "In case of emergencies."
He gestured helplessly. "This qualifies."
Sophia scowled. "Do you expect me to wear that?"
"Yes," Ian said.
"No," Sophia countered.
"Yes," Benedict repeated, firmly.
Sophia sighed dramatically. "Very well—but only because this is technically espionage."
They stood in awkward silence as she changed behind a screen of coats held by Andrew and Adrian, who regretted all life choices.
Finally, Sophia emerged—hair hidden again beneath her new bonnet, gown perfectly tied.
Benedict fixed the hat on her head.
"Let us go. Quietly."
Sophia nodded solemnly. "Very well. But I still intend—"
"No Napoleon," Ian warned.
"No campaigns," Benedict echoed.
"No dueling generals," Adrian added.
"No overthrowing France," Andrew concluded.
Sophia pouted. "You men ruin everything."