Late Afternoon, St. James's Street → Grosvenor Square.
Benedict had never moved so quickly in his life.
Within minutes, he had flagged down a hired carriage—plain, discreet, and desperately needed. Ian ushered Sophia inside with the grim determination of a commander escorting a volatile diplomat.
Behind them, the other young men offered tight, pained nods of solidarity as though sending off a doomed expedition.
"Good luck, Montgomery," Andrew murmured, clapping his shoulder.
"May the gods go with you," Adrian added.
Jeremy winked. "Tell Sophia's grandmother nothing. Tell God even less."
Earnest managed a weak smile. "Do write if she decides to invade Prussia next."
Sophia gave them a regal nod. "Farewell, gentlemen. Fear not—I shall return with victory."
Benedict physically shoved her into the carriage before she elaborated on which nation she intended to conquer next.
Once inside, Sophia adjusted her pale blue muslin gown with clear disdain.
"This fabric is flimsy," she muttered. "I prefer my riding coat. And why must I wear a bonnet? It looks like a straw one, and I do not like straws."
"It was," Benedict said.
Sophia gasped. "Then I refuse it even more."
Ian gently pushed the bonnet onto her head. "Too bad."
She huffed.
Outside the carriage window, her stallion, Coriolanus, stood tethered beside her attendant—proud, tall, gleaming white, looking every inch the war general Sophia believed him to be.
"Coriolanus is right there," Sophia pointed out. "I can ride home on my own. It is entirely unnecessary to—"
"No," Ian said flatly.
Sophia frowned. "Beaumont, I have been riding since before I could speak."
"Yes. Precisely the problem," he said.
Benedict leaned out to speak to her attendant. "We'll take Lady Sophia home. You bring the stallion and follow."
Her attendant bowed. "Yes, my lord."
Sophia's jaw fell open.
"Follow? Handle? Handle? Coriolanus is not being handled, he commands his attendants."
Ian groaned into both hands.
Benedict closed his eyes in prayer.
"Sophia," Ian said wearily, "he is a horse."
"He is a general," she corrected, offended.
"Sophia," Benedict tried, calmer. "You cannot ride in front of half of St. James's in a ball gown and bonnet."
"I see no issue with that."
"Every issue exists with that!"
Sophia fixed him with an imperious glare. "Lord Benedict, if you believe I cannot command both a gown and a stallion simultaneously—"
"That is exactly what I believe," he said, slamming the carriage door shut.
She gasped. "How dare you."
Ian slumped into the opposite seat. "Because it is true."
Sophia sat stiffly, offended on behalf of herself, the horse, and possibly the entire Enlightenment movement.
The carriage lurched forward.
Benedict pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lady Sophia… why did you believe riding home would be wise?"
She replied, utterly unaffected, "Because I am an excellent rider, I dislike these garments, and Coriolanus respects me."
"He is a horse," Ian repeated helplessly.
"He is a leader," Sophia insisted.
Benedict exhaled a laugh—short, strained, helplessly fond.
Of course this was her logic.
Sophia crossed her arms. "All of you underestimate him."
"We underestimate you," Ian muttered.
Sophia blinked. "What do you mean?"
Benedict met her eyes.
"You do not need to defeat Napoleon to prove anything," he said quietly.
Sophia stared at him.
For the first time that day, she fell silent.
The carriage rattled through London's streets—sun filtering through the curtains, horses clattering on stone, and Sophia, slumped back in the plush seat, looking strangely… young.
Benedict softened.
"Let us get you home before your grandparents call for a search party."
Sophia sighed dramatically.
"Very well. But you have ruined my invasion of France."
Ian groaned. "Good."
Sophia added, "Coriolanus will be disappointed."
Benedict said nothing.
Not because he disagreed—but because he realized he was beginning to envy the horse.
The carriage had barely rolled to a stop before the front doors of the Fiennes Estate burst open as if anticipating disaster.
Sophia stepped out first, bonnet askew, gown slightly rumpled, dignity intact only because she refused to admit any had been lost.
Benedict and Ian trailed behind like two men escorting a ticking explosive.
A butler rushed forward.
"My lady—your family is waiting in the drawing room. They were… quite anxious."
"Wonderful," Sophia muttered.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, the voices arrived.
"Sophia!"
Josephine swept toward her in a flurry of lavender silk and maternal panic.
Her mother's eyes flicked instantly to the pale blue muslin gown—the gown that was not the one Sophia had left the house wearing.
"Oh heavens above," Josephine breathed. "Why are you in that? Where is your day gown? And why is your bonnet tied incorrectly? Sophia, what happened?"
Before Sophia could answer, Arabella Huntington entered like a queen entering her throne room.
She looked at her granddaughter once—ONE time—and her eyes narrowed with terrifying precision.
"That," Arabella said calmly, "is not the dress you wore today."
Sophia swallowed. "Yes, well—"
"And," Arabella continued, "that is not the bonnet you left in."
Sophia inhaled. "Grandmama, I can explain—"
"And," Arabella added, voice growing colder, "your hair is pinned by someone who does not live in this household."
Sophia blinked. "How do you know that?"
"Because your maid has skill," Arabella said.
"This bonnet is an act of violence."
Reginald stepped in then, looking more concerned than stern.
"My darling sapphire—are you hurt? Were you in trouble? Why were you brought home by Montgomery and Beaumont? Why were you riding in a hired carriage? And—my dear child—why are you wearing THAT?"
Sophia opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
Benedict and Ian stood behind her like two arrested accomplices trying very hard to appear inconspicuous.
Josephine pressed a hand over her heart.
"Sophia. What happened?"
Arabella folded her arms.
"Sophia. Start speaking."
Reginald frowned.
"Sophia. Take a breath."
Three tones, three demands, three parental forces converging upon one girl who had, in fact, infiltrated White's in male drag.
Sophia inhaled.
"All right," she said brightly, confidently, and absolutely lying.
"It is very simple. There was… an incident."
Arabella's eyebrow lifted. "An incident."
Josephine whispered, "Dear God."
Reginald closed his eyes. "Please continue."
Sophia clasped her hands behind her back.
"You see, I was riding Coriolanus—peacefully, beautifully, elegantly—when a sudden gust of wind threatened to dislodge my bonnet."
Arabella's eyes narrowed. "Your bonnet was secured."
Sophia nodded. "Yes. And then it was… further secured. Into the canal."
Josephine gasped. "You fell in the canal?!"
"No! Coriolanus almost fell in the canal."
Arabella sighed. "Horses do not fall in canals."
"Coriolanus is very dramatic," Sophia insisted.
Reginald rubbed his temples. "Sophia, what actually happened?"
Ian stepped forward, determined to rescue her.
"Lord Benedict and I found Lady Sophia—"
Arabella turned her gaze on him.
"Found her where, Beaumont?"
Ian froze.
Benedict stepped in, voice calm, steady—suave even.
"We found her on St. James's Street, Your Grace. Her attire had… become unsuitable due to the wind."
Arabella stared at him for a long, cold, slicing moment.
"You mean to tell me," she said slowly, "that my granddaughter's day dress was destroyed by weather?"
Benedict paused.
"…Yes?"
Sophia nodded vigorously.
"Yes, Grandmama. Terrible weather."
Arabella looked out the window.
"The sky is clear."
Sophia blinked. "…It was windy nearby."
Josephine groaned into her hand.
"Good Lord, she's lying."
Reginald sighed deeply.
"Very poorly, too."
Arabella exhaled through her nose.
"Sophia, we will not press this further tonight. But rest assured—"
Sophia straightened.
"—I will discover what happened," Arabella finished.
Sophia wilted.
Josephine wrapped an arm around her. "Come, darling. We will fix your hair. And your gown. And your bonnet. And your story."
Reginald placed a hand on her shoulder. "I am glad you are safe. Whatever mischief you were part of… we shall discuss it tomorrow."
Arabella nodded once. "And you two—Montgomery, Beaumont—may leave."
Ian practically sprinted.
Benedict bowed, gaze lingering on Sophia just long enough for her cheeks to warm.
Arabella noticed.
Arabella noticed EVERYTHING.