Almack's Assembly Rooms—later that evening.
The ballroom had not yet recovered from the explosion of tension left in Sophia's wake. The crowd swirled restlessly, gossip rippling through the assembly like wind through silk.
Near the punch table stood Ian, Jeremy, Earnest, Andrew, and Elizabeth, all still reeling—as if the chandelier above them might fall at any moment and they wouldn't even be surprised.
Jeremy finally exhaled. "Well," he muttered, "that was… impressive."
Earnest looked faint again. "I think she meant the magpie… kindly?"
Andrew patted Earnest's shoulder. "No, she did not."
Elizabeth hid a smile behind her fan. "Oh dear. Sophia has truly caused a sensation."
Ian rubbed his face. "I told her to keep her composure. I told her."
"You did," Jeremy said, "and she did not."
Elizabeth gasped softly as someone approached. "Beatrice."
Lady Beatrice Campbell swept toward them, composure flawless, gown shimmering under the candlelight. But her expression—gentle, polite—carried sharp concern.
"What," Beatrice asked, pausing before the group, "exactly happened?"
The five looked at one another, each silently nominating the others to speak.
Ian lost.
He sighed and gestured subtly behind Beatrice—toward Margaret, who stood stiffly with her two companions, cheeks blotched with humiliation.
"We were merely discussing trivial matters," Ian began, voice controlled but weary, "when Lady Margaret approached. She said Sophia is not acting like a lady of her station… and that Benedict deserves better."
Elizabeth inhaled sharply. "That is quite bold of her."
Jeremy nodded. "Bold is one word."
"And Sophia?" Beatrice asked.
Ian winced. "She told Margaret she resembles a… magpie."
Beatrice froze.
Then slowly—very slowly—turned to look at Lady Margaret Seymour.
The ton held its breath.
Margaret stiffened as Beatrice approached with the calm, measured grace of a duke's daughter.
"Lady Margaret," Beatrice said gently, "why would you say such things to my cousin? Sophia was your childhood friend."
Margaret swallowed, chin lifting. "Beatrice, I simply spoke the truth. Sophia behaves… strangely. And I did not wish Benedict to fall into an unsuitable attachment."
Beatrice blinked once. "Unsuitable," she repeated softly.
Margaret nodded. "She does not act as a proper lady should."
The atmosphere thickened.
A circle had quietly formed—debutantes, bachelors, matrons, gentlemen—all pretending not to watch while watching intently.
Then Beatrice smiled. Not sweetly. Not cruelly. Precisely.
"Margaret," she said quietly, "Sophia has never wronged you. You were friends once. Yet now you choose to belittle her—publicly—because you find her different."
Margaret flushed. "I only said what others think!"
Beatrice lowered her voice, and somehow the entire ballroom leaned in.
"Even so," she murmured, "you chose to speak cruelty where there was no necessity. Whatever Sophia's flaws… she does not delight in humiliating others."
Margaret's lips trembled as whispers swelled.
Jeremy muttered under his breath, "She's handling her better than Sophia did."
"By a landslide," Andrew murmured back.
.
Kurt Darlington and Adrian Routledge arrived then, drawn by the gravitational pull of the commotion. Both surveyed the scene with expressions of mingled horror and fascination.
"Is this still about the magpie comment?" Adrian whispered.
"Yes," Jeremy said. "We are in the second act."
Kurt folded his arms. "I give it five minutes before the Patronesses intervene again."
Indeed, the Patronesses—Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Lady Castlereagh, and Lady Sefton—stood nearby, watching the exchange like hawks evaluating prey.
Margaret faltered beneath their scrutiny.
Beatrice stepped back, her voice soft but clear: "I do not wish for enmity, Margaret. But I will not tolerate unkindness toward my family."
Margaret's mouth opened—then closed.
She curtsied stiffly. "I meant no offense."
Beatrice inclined her head. "And yet offense was given."
A murmur rippled through the ton.
Ian whispered, "She's handling her with diplomacy."
Jeremy whispered back, "Sophia handled her with artillery."
Earnest nodded. "Both effective."
Elizabeth sighed. "Almack's will never be the same."
Across the ballroom, Benedict caught the tail end of the scene, eyes narrowing protectively.
The door of the private drawing room closed behind them with a soft click, shutting out the hum of the ballroom. The private drawing room was lit by only a few tall candles, their glow softening the ornate wallpaper and the gilded furniture.
Inside waited the Patronesses: Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Lady Sefton, and Lady Castlereagh—the arbiters of reputation, the gatekeepers of the Season—standing with Duchess Arabella Huntington and Lord Benedict Montgomery.
Sophia stood before them, fists clenched at her sides, her chin lifted but her eyes stormy.
She had not shed a tear. She would not. But her voice trembled with the weight of something old, something raw.
"Grandmama," she said quietly, "I do not understand."
Arabella regarded her with that unnervingly calm Huntington expression—one that held both judgment and immense affection.
Sophia continued, breathing shakily:
"Even if Margaret and I drifted apart when we were twelve, I never dishonored her with my words. I may not behave as the ton expects—I know that—but I have never sought to embarrass her. And tonight…" Her voice cracked. "…telling me that Benedict being friends with me is harmful to him is simply unkind."
Lady Cowper's eyes softened.
Sophia swallowed. "And when we were children, I remember Baroness Seymour telling me that Margaret could no longer play with me because I was a bad influence."
Her jaw tightened. "All I ever wanted was a friend."
A silence settled in the room—the kind that felt heavy with truth.
Arabella exhaled slowly and reached out, laying a gloved hand on Sophia's arm.
"My dear girl," she said gently, "the ton does not encourage friendship between women."
Sophia blinked. "Why?"
Lady Sefton answered first, fan tapping lightly against her wrist. "Because friendship breeds loyalty," she murmured.
Lady Castlereagh nodded. "And loyalty breeds unity."
Lady Jersey finished the thought with crisp precision: "And unity among women would dismantle the very structure upon which their marriages—and society—are built."
Sophia stared at them, bewildered and furious all at once.
Arabella squeezed her hand. "You must understand, child—in our world, women are set against one another from the start. They are taught to compete, to measure themselves by who secures a proposal first, by whose gown is admired, whose dowry is larger, and whose husband is titled."
Sophia whispered, "That is dreadful."
"It is," Arabella said simply.
Lady Cowper added softly, "But dreadful things persist when they benefit powerful men."
Benedict's jaw tightened at that.
Sophia looked between them all, her voice quieter and more vulnerable: "So Margaret was never allowed to be my friend."
Arabella shook her head. "She could have been if she had chosen courage. But she did not. Not many girls do."
Lady Sefton hummed. "In truth, Sophia, the very thing Margaret accuses you of—being unsuitable—is what frightens her. You do not conform. You are not predictable. And you are not easily controlled."
Lady Jersey stepped closer. "You are dangerous, my dear. Not because you are improper—but because you are free."
Sophia absorbed the words, her chest rising and falling as though she had been struck.
Benedict, standing near the mantelpiece, watched her with an expression that was part admiration, part protectiveness, and part helpless awe.
Arabella then turned to him. "Lord Benedict, you may speak freely as well. We have nothing to hide from you."
Benedict bowed his head slightly. "Lady Margaret's words were unkind. Cruel, even. Sophia deserves better."
Sophia blinked at him, stunned.
Arabella arched a brow knowingly. "Oh? And what, pray tell, does she deserve?"
Benedict met Sophia's eyes—unwavering, earnest.
"She deserves friends who value her. She deserves courtesy, respect, and honesty. And she deserves to choose what companionship she keeps—without interference from those who fear her."
Sophia inhaled sharply.
Lady Jersey glanced between them with an expression that said she understood exactly what currents were shifting in the room.
Arabella's gaze softened—imperceptibly—as she rested her hand on Sophia's shoulder.
"You see, my dear? Not all friendships are forbidden. Not all alliances are against you."
Sophia lowered her eyes. "I still do not like being told I am less."
Arabella lifted her chin. "Then prove them wrong."
The Patronesses nodded in collective agreement.
Sophia straightened, resolve strengthening her spine.
And Benedict? He looked at her as though he already knew she would.