White's, Late Afternoon
The gentlemen's club buzzed with the usual low hum—dice rolling, newspapers rustling, older lords muttering about Parliament. Benedict sat with Andrew, Adrian, Ian, Jeremy, and Earnest in their usual corner, nursing a glass of brandy as they debated trivial matters of the Season.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Kurt Darlington entered briskly, shrugging off his coat as he scanned the room. His expression—usually composed and mild—was tightened with the faintest tension.
He made straight for them.
"Ben," Kurt greeted with a nod, dropping into the empty chair beside him. "I have news."
Jeremy perked up instantly. "Ah. The magpie returns."
Ian shot him a glare. "Jeremy. Please. We're in public. You cannot call a titled lady a magpie in a club full of her father's acquaintances."
Jeremy shrugged, unfazed. "She acts like a magpie. I merely observe nature."
"Stop observing nature," Ian hissed.
Benedict sighed, rubbing at his temple. "Kurt, what happened?"
Kurt exhaled sharply, folding his gloves on the table. "Lady Margaret approached me earlier."
The entire group froze.
Andrew muttered, "Oh Lord."
Adrian groaned into his drink.
Earnest whispered, "Why is it always you?"
Kurt rolled his eyes. "She complimented my riding. Repeatedly."
Jeremy choked on air.
"No. Not… flattery?"
Kurt nodded grimly. "I attempted to be polite. She attempted to be… whatever that was."
Andrew leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "And what was that?"
Kurt hesitated. "I believe she was trying to use charm."
Jeremy gasped theatrically. "Did it work?"
"No," Kurt said firmly.
Jeremy tapped the table triumphantly. "As I suspected. Even her charm is feathered."
"Jeremy," Ian snapped again, "I am begging you—stop calling her a bird."
Jeremy raised both hands. "Fine. She is… flighty."
Ian slapped a hand over his eyes.
Benedict leaned back in his chair. "And why did she approach you, Kurt? Do you think it had anything to do with Sophia?"
Kurt's jaw tightened. "Yes," he said simply. "She kept steering the conversation toward Sophia. Asking about her. Mentioning my friendship with her. There was… intent."
Jeremy nodded with sage-like arrogance. "Of course. A magpie always goes for the shiny things closest to the jewel."
Ian whipped his head around. "Jeremy!"
"What?" Jeremy blinked. "Sophia is the jewel."
Earnest added timidly, "Well… she is."
Ian deflated. "Not the point."
Before any of them could attempt to steer the conversation toward sanity, a shadow fell across the table.
Someone cleared his throat.
The group looked up—and collectively paled.
Baron Seymour stood before them—broad-shouldered, stern, formidable, his expression carved from stone.
Beside him stood Lord James Seymour, Margaret's older brother—taller, equally imposing, with the same hazel eyes hardened into warning.
The entire club seemed to fall silent around them.
Jeremy muttered under his breath, "Oh. Wonderful. The magpie's keepers."
Ian elbowed him so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.
Baron Seymour's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Gentlemen," he said coldly, "may I have a word?"
Every man at the table went rigid.
Benedict set down his brandy with slow precision. "Of course, my lord."
Lord James stepped forward, gaze sweeping across the group until it landed directly on Jeremy—his eyes narrowing.
Jeremy coughed lightly. "Oh dear."
Baron Seymour folded his hands behind his back.
"I could not help overhearing," he said, "that certain… comments… have been made regarding my daughter."
Jeremy attempted to look innocent. He failed instantly.
Ian tried to jump in. "My lord, I assure you—Jeremy was merely—"
Jeremy muttered, "—stating ornithological facts."
Ian nearly strangled him on the spot.
Lord James stepped closer. "Is it true," he asked slowly, "that you have been calling my sister… a magpie?"
Every man at the table turned to Jeremy with identical expressions of: If you say yes, we will bury you in St. James Square.
Jeremy cleared his throat. "Well," he said delicately, "it is more a metaphor—"
"Jeremy," Benedict warned under his breath.
Lord Seymour's eyes sharpened. "A metaphor."
Jeremy continued bravely— the fool "A harmless one, of course. Entirely… poetic."
Lord James's jaw ticked. Baron Seymour's nostrils flared.
Andrew whispered to Benedict, "We are going to die."
Benedict straightened, assuming the role of diplomat before the entire room imploded.
"Lord Seymour," he said calmly, "no insult was intended. We regret any misunderstanding involving Lady Margaret."
"Truly," Ian added desperately.
Kurt nodded stiffly. "Entirely."
Jeremy opened his mouth.
Adrian clamped a hand over it.
The Baron studied them, eyes cold and assessing.
After a long, painful pause, he spoke.
"My daughter is a lady of breeding and dignity. I trust," he said slowly, "that she will not be subjected to further… commentary."
Lord James's stare could have burned holes through stone.
Benedict bowed his head in acknowledgment. "You have our word, my lord."
After a tense beat, Baron Seymour nodded curtly. "See that you keep it."
He turned, his monocle hitting the sunlight, and strode away. Lord James lingered a moment longer, eyes on Jeremy like a hawk eyeing prey.
Then he, too, left.
Silence clung to the table for several beats.
Finally, Jeremy spoke through Adrian's hand: "Worth it."
Adrian shoved him.
Ian groaned. "My life expectancy diminishes every time you speak."
Kurt crossed his arms. "Be careful, Jeremy. The Seymours protect their own."
Benedict exhaled, leaning back. "The Season," he muttered, "has officially begun."
The tension from Baron Seymour's confrontation had barely dispersed when the doors of White's opened again.
The club fell into an immediate hush—
a ripple of confusion, curiosity, and mild horror sweeping through the room.
Because in walked…
Victor Campbell. Age fourteen. Wearing an impeccable young-lord ensemble complete with a perfectly tied cravat, polished boots, a miniature cane, and the self-possession of a man twice his age.
He paused in the doorway, surveying the club like a general entering a captured fortress.
Every patron turned. Footmen blinked.
One elderly viscount muttered, "Good Lord, they're getting younger every year."
Victor spotted the young men instantly and marched toward them.
"Milords," he said with crisp politeness, bowing slightly, "may I join you?"
Without waiting for a reply, he pulled up a chair beside Kurt—of all people—and settled in, folding his hands over his miniature cane like a seasoned statesman.
Kurt blinked. "Oh dear."
Ian stared. "Victor… where is your governess, Miss Sinclair?"
Victor replied cheerfully, "Oh, she is occupied."
"How occupied?" Ian asked warily.
Victor waved a dismissive hand. "I gave her milk and she fell asleep. Peacefully.
So—occupied she is."
Every young man at the table groaned.
Jeremy whispered, "This child is going to start a revolution."
Earnest muttered, "She fell asleep? At noon? Dear heavens."
Ian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Victor, you cannot—simply drug—your governess."
"It was warm milk," Victor corrected primly. "It is not my fault she cannot hold her dairy."
Benedict coughed to hide a laugh.
Ian leaned closer, voice dangerously low. "Why are you here?"
Victor blinked innocently. "Because I am not in my London townhouse?"
Ian facepalmed.
Jeremy muttered, "Sophia's influence is strong in this one."
Victor straightened, tapping his cane lightly against the carpet.
"I came," he announced grandly, "because certain matters must be addressed."
The table tensed. "And what matters are those?" Andrew asked carefully.
Victor glanced around the circle, eyes sharp and thoughtful—not unlike Sophia's when she quoted Rousseau before causing chaos.
"You and Viscount Darlington," Victor said, gesturing to Ian and Kurt, "are good matches for my cousin Sophia."
Kurt nearly choked.
Ian's jaw unhinged.
"My cousin," Victor went on calmly, "deserves men of good breeding, good sense, and impeccable loyalty. You two qualify."
Kurt whispered to Benedict, "Why is he matchmaking at fourteen?"
Benedict whispered back, "Because he is Sophia's cousin."
Victor continued, as if giving a parliamentary briefing:
"You are both titled, though merely Viscounts, but still—titled." He nodded approvingly. "I would far prefer my cousin to marry a Viscount than…"
His gaze slid—slowly, deliberately—toward Benedict. "…a second son."
Silence.
Complete.
Utter.
Bone-shattering silence.
Benedict froze mid-breath.
Andrew let out a strangled noise.
Adrian coughed violently into his glove.
Jeremy slapped the table in delight.
"Oh I LIKE this boy."
Ian groaned, "Victor, no—"
But Victor was not done.
"A second son," he continued, tone matter-of-fact, "is frivolous. Unreliable. Often charming, yes, but ultimately—disappointing."
He tilted his head at Benedict.
"No offense, Lord Benedict."
Benedict stared at him. "…Quite a bit of offense, actually."
Victor nodded gravely. "Understandable."
Jeremy laughed so loudly a footman dropped a tray.
Kurt patted Benedict's shoulder. "There, there."
Victor folded his hands. "In conclusion, Lady Sophia requires a match of dignity."
"Victor," Ian sighed, "you are fourteen."
"Yes," Victor replied, "and yet I have better judgment than half the ton."
Jeremy clapped.
Ian groaned louder.
Earnest whispered, "I fear him."
Victor leaned back, utterly satisfied.
Benedict stared at his drink.
Of all the humiliations he had endured this Season—being called unworthy by a fourteen-year-old ranked highest.
Victor tapped his miniature cane against the carpet twice—like a judge calling a room to order.
"Moving on, milords," he announced gravely, "we have more important matters to discuss."
Every man at the table froze.
Kurt muttered, "…oh no."
Jeremy sat up straighter, eyes gleaming with the promise of chaos.
Ian buried his face in his hands.
Benedict braced himself for collateral damage.
Victor steepled his fingers—far too calmly for someone who had just insulted a future duke's entire lineage.
"We share," he declared, "one common enemy."
Six very privileged young men exchanged looks of stunned horror.
Victor continued confidently:
"I would say Baron and Baroness Seymour are rather foolish for severing ties with my Uncle and Aunt—the Marquess and Marchioness Fiennes of Kent. If they had allowed Margaret to remain friends with my cousin Sophia, their daughter's marriage prospects would have prospered. But they are insecure—so here we are."
Jeremy slapped the table. "KING. KING OF THE NORTH."
Ian hissed, "JEREMY—please—STOP."
Before anyone could intervene, a voice thundered behind them.
"Who is insulting my parents?"
Lord James Seymour—Margaret's older brother—towered over their table, expression furious enough to curdle milk.
The young men stiffened.
Everyone except Victor.
Victor turned his head slowly—like a cat acknowledging a lesser creature.
"Lord James," he said with the cold politeness of a bored aristocrat,
"it is Lord Victor Campbell to you."
James blinked."…what?"
Victor leaned back in his chair, adjusting his gloves.
"You must address your betters properly. It is basic etiquette."
Jeremy coughed out a laugh.
Ian kicked him under the table.
Victor went on, voice smooth as satin dipped in venom:
"You are the heir to a barony. I," he gestured elegantly to himself, "am heir to the Dukedom of Sutherland."
James's jaw tightened.
Victor added, lightly: "You must know that your father's rank is the lowest in the peerage."
Adrian whispered, "Oh sweet heavens—"
Kurt muttered, "We're going to witness a duel between a child and a grown man—"
Earnest squeaked, "Should someone… help?"
James surged forward. "You insolent little—!"
Pandemonium erupted.
Chairs scraped.
Cards spilled.
Footmen gasped.
Half the patrons stood at once.
Benedict leapt up. "Victor, enough—!"
Ian grabbed James by the arm. "Lord James, please—he's fourteen!"
Jeremy shouted, "HE STARTED IT!"
Andrew yelled, "JEREMY, YOU ARE NOT HELPING—"
And then—
The door of White's swung open with the force of divine intervention.
Every voice fell silent.
Because standing in the entrance—eyes blazing, cloak swirling, radiating the unspoken authority of the northern ducal line—was His Grace, Alexander Campbell, Duke of Sutherland.
Tall.
Imposing.
Displeased.
And very much the father of one Victor Campbell.
Silence smothered the entire club.
Victor looked up.
"Oh. Papa. Fancy seeing you here."
Alexander stared at his son.
"I have been searching every street in St. James," he said in a dangerously calm voice,
"because your governess awoke from her… milk-induced slumber and informed your mother you had vanished."
Victor cleared his throat. "She bore the milk poorly."
"Victor."
"Yes, Papa?"
"We are leaving."
Victor attempted dignity. "But Papa, I was discussing matters of political and familial importance—"
Alexander lifted one brow. "Now."
Victor stood, dusted off his coat, and turned to the stunned young men.
"My report shall continue tomorrow," he declared. "Prepare yourselves."
Jeremy saluted him.
Ian fainted internally.
Benedict pressed a hand to his forehead.
Duke Alexander placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder and guided him to the door with the resignation of a man who had accepted his household would never know peace.
As they exited, Victor called over his shoulder:
"Oh—and milords?"
The table braced.
"Do not let a magpie ruin your judgment."
Lord James nearly lunged again. Alexander physically dragged Victor out the door.
White's erupted into chaos, shouting, laughter, scandalized murmurs.
Benedict stared into his drink.
"This," he said slowly,
"has been the most exhausting week of my life."
Andrew clapped his shoulder. "Congratulations. You're in love."
Benedict groaned.
And thus ended the most catastrophic afternoon White's had seen in a decade.