Almack's, King Street, St. James's. A Week Later.
Wednesday night at Almack's was the crown jewel of the social calendar—and the terror of every debutante.
The lamps of King Street glowed brightly as elegant carriages rolled past, depositing the highest circles of London in swift succession. No dukes nor fortunes could enter without permission; no beauty nor charm could save a reputation once ruined by the Patronesses. Almack's was the great equalizer and the great executioner, all in one gilded hall.
Tonight, the ton flowed inside like a river of satin and polished boots.
At the entrance, Duchess Arabella Huntington of Suffolk stepped out of her carriage with regal composure, her presence enough to make the footmen stand straighter.
Behind her descended her granddaughters:
Lady Beatrice Campbell, serene, poised, her blue-green eyes sweeping the sparkling interior with quiet curiosity—
and
Lady Sophia Fiennes, in a gown of deep winter blue trimmed in silver, her sapphire eyes intense even in candlelight. Her expression was composed, but the small glint in her gaze suggested she was already strategizing how to escape.
A week had passed since the incident at White's, and Sophia had endured three separate lectures, one philosophical intervention from Beatrice, and an uncomfortably long stare-down with her grandmother.
She had emerged with a vow to behave.
Or, at the very least, to appear to behave until the lecture fatigue faded.
Arabella swept inside in full duchess glory, her manner calm yet commanding.
Heads turned.
Fans fluttered.
Whispers swirled.
"It's the Huntingtons—"
"—Lady Sophia, the outspoken one—"
"—her cousin, Lady Beatrice—"
"—the Duchess herself has brought them—!"
Arabella acknowledged none of it.
She led the girls toward the heart of Almack's: the grand assembly room where chandeliers hovered like constellations and the music of the orchestra beckoned the dancers to order.
"Well then," Arabella said, stopping before the threshold and fixing each granddaughter with a look sharp enough to cut glass. "Beatrice, you have your task."
Beatrice inclined her head gracefully. "Of course, Grandmama."
Sophia frowned. "Task?"
Arabella smiled gently, which was infinitely more dangerous than a scowl.
"To mingle, my dear."
"Mingle?" Sophia echoed, as though the word were in Ancient Greek.
"Yes," Arabella said. "With the other young ladies. With courtesy. With effort."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"And without quoting Rousseau."
Sophia sighed. "Grandmama, that was one time."
Arabella's eyebrow rose.
"Fine," Sophia muttered.
Beatrice placed a reassuring hand on her cousin's arm.
"We will do it together," she said softly. "Think of it as observing society. A study."
That, at least, sparked interest in Sophia's eyes.
"A study, you say?"
"Indeed."
"Very well," Sophia said, straightening. "Let us… study."
Arabella hid a smile.
"Good girls."
As the duchess swept away to join her fellow Patronesses—Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Lady Castlereagh, and Lady Sefton—their reunion was met with elegant greetings and knowing glances. Lady Jersey clasped Arabella's hands warmly.
"My dear Arabella," Lady Jersey laughed, "you have brought reinforcements."
Arabella nodded serenely.
"I shall need them."
Meanwhile, across the room, familiar faces gathered:
Viscount Ian Beaumont stood stiffly with Earnest and Jeremy, scanning the entrance as though awaiting a philosopher's ambush.
Marquess Andrew Russell chatted with Lady Elizabeth Talbot, the pair looking like a painting waiting to happen.
Viscount Kurt Darlington and Earl Adrian Routledge drank punch while discreetly judging the quality of music.
And near the refreshments, newly arrived—
Lord Benedict Montgomery, in a finely cut black tailcoat, accompanied by his mother, Duchess Eleanor, and his elder brother, Lord Edward.
When Benedict's gaze fell upon Sophia entering the room—
he froze.
His breath caught.
His thoughts blanked.
His heartbeat tripped.
Because Sophia, under the glow of chandeliers, looked—
Not militant.
Not rebellious.
Not disguised as a man plotting to topple Napoleon.
But breathtaking.
And entirely unaware of the stir she caused.
Beatrice nudged Sophia lightly.
"Do not scowl. Everyone is watching."
"I am not scowling," Sophia insisted.
"You are," Beatrice said calmly. "Very much."
Sophia huffed and attempted a smile. It terrified a passing debutante.
Beatrice sighed.
She glided through the crowd with effortless grace, conversing with debutantes as though she had been born for these gatherings. Her gentle smile and fluent small talk drew admiration rather than envy—a rare feat in Almack's.
Sophia watched her for approximately six seconds.
Then, when Beatrice was suitably distracted discussing the merits of Italian composers, Sophia slid away with the quiet efficiency of a spy slipping past enemy lines.
She arrived at the corner where Ian, Earnest, and Jeremy stood with glasses of lemonade, attempting to look inconspicuous. They failed.
"Milords," she greeted.
Ian raised a brow. "Milady. It seems your grandmother discovered your… endeavor at White's."
Sophia sighed heavily. "She did. I am now under surveillance. Beatrice accompanies me everywhere."
Jeremy smirked. "And yet—you escaped."
"I always do," Sophia said primly.
Earnest, newly recovered from his last fainting episode, eyed her warily. "You are not planning another invasion, are you?"
"Not tonight," she said.
Ian groaned.
Before they could interrogate her further, Lady Elizabeth Talbot and Marquess Andrew Russell joined their circle. Elizabeth greeted Sophia warmly.
"Sophia, you look lovely this evening."
"And you as well, Lady Elizabeth," Sophia replied genuinely. "Has your pianoforte practice continued? I heard from Beatrice that you mastered that new Mozart variation."
Elizabeth lit up.
"Oh, yes—though Mama insists I play it too often. Andrew has heard it at least twenty times this week."
Andrew nodded with long-suffering fondness. "I can now hum it in my sleep."
Elizabeth laughed softly, and Sophia found herself easing, comforted by their gentle presence. They discussed music, promenades at Hyde Park, Elizabeth's younger siblings, and Andrew's latest correspondence with his steward in Cheshire.
It was almost peaceful.
Almost.
A shift in the atmosphere—a rustle of skirts—and a soft ripple of giggles announced the arrival of trouble.
Lady Margaret Seymour approached with two debutantes at her side, each adorned in pastel gowns and wearing expressions of petty delight.
Sophia closed her eyes briefly. "Oh dear."
Ian muttered, "Oh dear indeed."
Jeremy leaned toward Earnest. "Prepare yourself."
Sophia inhaled and faced the approaching trio.
The young ladies curtsied. The group returned the gesture politely.
Margaret's smile was sweet in the way spoiled fruit is sweet—cloying and concealing rot.
"Lady Sophia," she cooed, "what an unexpected pleasure to see you here at Almack's."
Sophia answered evenly, "Yes, Lady Seymour. I am accompanying my grandmother and cousin."
Margaret's eyebrows lifted, her companions tittering like trained sparrows.
Then she tilted her head and spoke in a tone dripping with faux concern:
"Allow me to speak plainly, Sophia. Yes, we played together as children. But the ton knows you have become… unbecoming of a lady of your station. And I cannot see why you have drawn Lord Benedict's attention. He deserves better."
A hush fell.
Sophia lifted her chin, her expression composed but edged in sapphire steel.
"Lady Margaret," she said calmly, "Lord Benedict and I are merely childhood acquaintances. His family knows mine, and our circles overlap. I appreciate your concern—but I also respect the bond we shared as children. For that reason, I advise you not to push the matter."
Margaret's eyes flashed. "How noble of you to cling to childhood bonds when clearly his attention is wandering. He will find someone suitable for him. Someone proper."
Her entourage dissolved into giggles again.
Sophia's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "Do you think you are suitable for him? " she asked softly.
Margaret blinked. "I—excuse me?"
"If you are so certain," Sophia continued in a voice the ton strained to hear, "why not ask him directly whether he fancies you?"
The color drained from Margaret's cheeks.
Sophia delivered the final blow with elegance, precision, and the mercy of a guillotine:
"Because, Lady Margaret… you remind me of a magpie.
Forever chasing titled men as though they were shiny trinkets."
The sound was immediate.
A collective gasp swept the ballroom.
Fans snapped open like volleys of gunfire.
Even the Patronesses—Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Lady Castlereagh, and Lady Sefton—paused mid-conversation, staring in stunned silence.
Duchess Arabella Huntington froze mid-step.
Lord Benedict Montgomery, watching from across the room, stiffened as though struck.
Margaret reeled back as if Sophia had physically nudged her.
Her companions sputtered in outrage.
Sophia stood perfectly calm, perfectly poised—like a woman who had simply made an observation about the weather.
The ballroom froze. Every whisper, every fluttering fan, every violin string trembled in the wake of Sophia's razor-edged sentence ringing through the air like a pistol shot.
Lady Margaret Seymour stood stunned, cheeks blazing crimson beneath the chandeliers. Her two companions stared with wide, horrified eyes—as if they had just witnessed a duel, and their champion had been disarmed in a single stroke.
And then—the Patronesses moved.
Like seasoned generals crossing a battlefield, Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Lady Castlereagh, and Lady Sefton glided toward the disturbance with deadly elegance.
Patronesses did not run.
They simply arrived—and the ton parted like the Red Sea.
Lady Jersey's eyes flicked over the group, her expression a masterclass in genteel disappointment.
Lady Cowper observed the scene with polite curiosity.
Lady Sefton hid a smirk behind her fan.
Lady Castlereagh's gaze lingered on Margaret with mild disdain.
"Ladies," Lady Jersey said, voice smooth yet carrying the weight of an imperial decree, "there appears to be… a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding" was Patroness-language for "scandal," which was Patroness-language for "fix this now or die."
Margaret immediately curtsied low.
"Lady Jersey, I—Lady Sophia has—"
"Said nothing untrue," Lady Sefton murmured sweetly.
Lady Cowper shot her a look. Lady Sefton did not care.
Sophia dipped a graceful curtsy.
"Lady Jersey. Forgive the disturbance."
Lady Jersey's sharp gray gaze appraised her. "Lady Sophia, you have created quite the ripple this evening."
Sophia opened her mouth.
Margaret loudly spoke over her.
"I was merely warning her that she is attracting the wrong sort of attention—"
"By insulting her?" Lady Castlereagh asked delicately.
Margaret choked.
Sophia maintained perfect calm. "I simply responded in kind."
Lady Jersey raised a brow.
"In kind. I see."
Her fan snapped shut.
"We shall speak to your grandmama shortly."
Sophia exhaled—deeply.
Because across the room, Duchess Arabella Huntington was already crossing the floor like a naval flagship aiming its cannons toward her granddaughter.
But she would not reach Sophia first.
Benedict Montgomery did.
He broke from his mother's side, crossing the ballroom with quick, deliberate strides, as whispered speculation trailed behind him like smoke:
"Is he going to her—?"
"Lord Benedict—oh my—"
"Does he mean to defend her?"
"They were childhood friends, were they not?"
"Is it a courtship? A scandal? A statement?"
By the time he reached her, half the assembly watched.
He stopped beside Sophia, bowing slightly, voice low but firm.
"Lady Sophia. Are you well?"
Margaret stiffened.
Her friends stared.
Sophia blinked—caught between irritation, mortification, and an unexpected flutter beneath her ribs.
"Yes, my lord," she said evenly. "Quite well."
"You were spoken to rudely," Benedict continued calmly, eyes flicking briefly—dangerously—toward Margaret.
But Margaret, trembling with indignation, shot him a glare.
"Lord Benedict, surely you do not condone—"
Benedict's gaze returned to Sophia, warm and unyielding.
"I condone fairness, Lady Seymour. And respect. Two things Lady Sophia has shown this evening."
The ton sank into a whispering frenzy—a storm of fans, a rustle of silk—a thousand speculations blooming at once.
Across the room, Beatrice Campbell, who had been politely discussing the Italian opera with two debutantes, suddenly paused.
Her companions followed her gaze.
There—on the far side of the ballroom—stood her cousin Sophia, not mingling, not studying society, but embroiled in a conflict that had drawn the attention of nearly half the hall.
Beatrice's expression shifted—from polite grace to startled awareness and to resigned horror.
"Oh no," one debutante breathed.
"Is that—?"
"Yes," Beatrice said softly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"That is my cousin."
"What happened?" the other girl whispered.
Beatrice exhaled like a woman who had spent a lifetime preparing for this moment.
"Sophia spoke."
The girls gasped.
"Sophia replied."
More gasps.
"And Sophia… is Sophia."
The two debutantes exchanged terrified, fascinated looks.
Beatrice straightened. "Excuse me. I should go—assist."
Before she could move, Lady Jersey caught her eye and gave a single, subtle shake of the head.
Not yet.
Let the dust settle.
Let the ton witness.
Let Benedict stand beside Sophia before the inevitable Huntington intervention.
The storm was only beginning.
Meanwhile Margaret, enraged and humiliated, hissed,
"You will regret embarrassing me, Sophia. The entire ton is watching."
Sophia's eyes gleamed, clear and unafraid.
"That," she said softly, "is precisely why I chose my words carefully."
A murmur rolled through the room.
Benedict's gaze flicked to her—equal parts astonished and impressed.
Arabella arrived at last, expression serene and terrifying.
"Lady Jersey," she said with a graceful nod, "May I reclaim my granddaughter?"
Lady Jersey smiled thinly. "Please do."
And the ballroom watched—breath held—as Sophia Fiennes, Benedict Montgomery at her side, and Duchess Arabella Huntington standing tall behind her—walked straight into whatever consequences the night had prepared.