Fiennes Estate, Grosvenor Square—Late Afternoon
The carriage wheels had barely rolled to a stop before the front doors of Fiennes Estate swung open. A footman hurried down the steps, offering his hand as Lady Sophia Fiennes descended, her expression thoughtful and still touched with the tenderness of her conversation with Victor.
She had barely removed her gloves when her father appeared in the entrance hall.
Marquess Reginald Fiennes looked her over with that familiar mixture of affection and amusement—a father's quiet certainty that his daughter carried storms inside her head but would weather them all the same.
"There she is," he said, arms open, "my Sapphire."
Sophia's shoulders softened instantly. "Papa…"
He offered his arm, and she took it, letting him guide her toward the family drawing room.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Reginald gave her a sidelong glance—the kind that said he already knew everything Catherine had tried so hard to hide.
"You look troubled," he observed lightly. "And I suspect it is not because your riding habit failed to meet your expectations."
Sophia sighed, sinking into the nearest chair. "I spoke with Aunt Catherine. And Victor," she murmured. "They tried to keep the situation from me."
Reginald chuckled under his breath, settling opposite her. "Well, your cousin did infiltrate White's, insult a baron, provoke his heir, nearly start a duel at dawn, and then defend his actions as the duty of an 'honorable man.' I imagine they hoped to spare you the headache."
Sophia pressed her lips together, torn between exasperation and fondness.
"He is fourteen," she groaned. "Fourteen, Papa. And he declared war in a gentlemen's club."
Reginald's eyes twinkled. "Ah. Proud of him, are you?"
Sophia shot him a look. "Papa."
He lifted his hands in surrender, though his smile lingered. "He adores you, Sapphire. And while I do not condone his… methods," he said with a dry cough, "it is no mystery why he acted. You are the lodestar of that boy's world."
Sophia exhaled, gaze softening.
"I lectured him," she said quietly. "Gently. I told him I understood his intentions—even if I disapproved of his execution."
Reginald chuckled deep in his chest. "Execution is a fitting word. Catherine nearly executed the boy herself."
Sophia laughed despite herself.
Her father leaned forward, resting one broad hand atop hers. "All will be well," he said warmly. "The Seymour mess is smoothed over. Victor is safe. And you—my brilliant, stubborn Sapphire—handled yourself with grace."
Sophia looked down, cheeks warming. "I simply did what was necessary."
"You always do," he said. "That is the thing about you, Sophia. You think the world rests on your shoulders. It does not. But heaven knows you would try to carry it anyway."
The softness in his tone made her chest tighten.
Reginald squeezed her hand. "Everything will be all right. Let your mother and me worry sometimes, hm?"
Sophia blinked slowly, her tension easing for the first time since morning.
"Yes, Papa," she said, smiling faintly. "I'll try."
Reginald smiled back, all warmth and fatherly pride. "There's my Sapphire."
Just then, the door opened, and Marchioness Josephine Fiennes entered, her elegance unmarred by the slight haste in her step.
"Ah, you are here," she said softly, crossing over to them. She cupped Sophia's cheek. "My dear, you must not exhaust yourself with worry. Victor is safe, and he has his parents to guide him. As do you."
Sophia leaned into her mother's hand. "I only wish… to ensure he does not do anything reckless again."
Josephine smiled knowingly. "With a mind like his—and yours—you may be wishing for that until he's grown and married with children of his own."
Sophia let out a quiet huff of reluctant amusement.
Reginald added, "See? Even your mother agrees you cannot take on every burden alone."
Josephine then gave Sophia's hands a gentle squeeze. "You need rest. Remember, the social calls from suitors begin in two days."
Sophia groaned softly, and Josephine laughed.
A maid appeared by the door, bobbing a curtsy. "Milady, your chambers are prepared."
Josephine kissed her daughter's forehead. "Go on, darling. Rest."
With a final glance at her parents, Sophia allowed herself to be guided upstairs.
The door closed behind her, and silence settled over the drawing room for a brief, reflective moment.
Reginald exhaled and folded his arms. "She grows more perceptive each season," he murmured. "And more stubborn. She reminds me of my older sisters, set on becoming spinsters with well-trained pistols."
Josephine sank gracefully onto the settee. "Nothing is set in stone, Reginald," she replied lightly.
Her eyes glimmered with something amused. "Especially not when Lord Benedict Montgomery seems quite taken with our girl."
Reginald snorted. "That boy had better tread carefully."
Josephine's smile deepened. "He may not know it yet… but I believe he already is."
The moment the door clicked softly shut behind her, Sophia exhaled—long, weary, and utterly unlike her usual composed self. Her chambers, bathed in the muted glow of late afternoon, felt unusually still. Even Coriolanus's distant whinny from the stables could not penetrate the hush that wrapped around her like a shawl.
Her maid had already lit the lamps, their flickering amber casting soft shadows across sapphire-blue drapery and the pale muslin canopy of her bed. Sophia slipped off her gloves and sank onto the cushioned window seat, pulling her knees close and resting her chin atop them.
For a moment, she simply listened.
The faint ticking of the mantel clock.
The rustle of the London breeze against the glass.
Her own heartbeat settling—slowly, but not quite steadily.
"Victor…" she whispered into the stillness, half in fondness, half in exasperation.
Her cousin's face flashed in her mind—earnest, stubborn, devoted to a fault. A boy trying too hard to be a man, defending her honor with the subtlety of a cannon blast. The fact he had nearly gotten himself shot over her—
It made her stomach twist.
Partly with guilt.
Partly with something tenderer.
"He is only fourteen," she murmured. "And already ready to challenge half the peerage over one insult."
She pressed a hand to her forehead. "That is either loyalty or madness."
The truth, of course, was that it was both—Campbell blood and Huntington stubbornness, wrapped up in a child who had been raised on philosophies she herself had placed in his hands.
She traced the outline of her sapphire pendant absently.
"All this… because Margaret was unkind." Her brows knitted. "I never wished for anyone to fight on my behalf."
But then her mind shifted—inevitably—to Benedict.
The way he had watched her at Almack's.
The way he had approached her gently, respectfully, deliberately aligning himself with her before the entire ton.
The way he had looked at her yesterday morning—equal parts worry and something she dared not name.
Her pulse skipped embarrassingly."Comrade in spirit," she whispered to herself, as if reciting a mantra. "Yes. That is all."
But the memory of his hand guiding her down from Coriolanus earlier that week refused to fade.
She stood abruptly, pacing, arms crossed as though holding herself together.
"This is foolishness. Pure foolishness. I am not one of those girls plagued by romantic notions."
Yet romantic notions, persistent as an ink blot on parchment, crept in regardless.
She halted before her mirror.
A tall young woman stared back—blue eyes troubled, cheeks faintly flushed, sapphire pendant glinting in the lamplight.
"What am I becoming?" she whispered.
A debutante?
A future Lady Montgomery?
A political mind trapped in lace and propriety?
A girl who swore she would never marry… now affected—however slightly—by the idea of one man's gaze lingering too long?
She pressed a hand to her reflection, as if searching for clarity.
At length, she whispered:
"No matter what happens… I must remain myself."
Outside, London was settling into dusk. Inside, Lady Sophia Fiennes finally allowed herself to sit on the edge of her bed, loosen her breath, and shut her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would be composed again. Rational. Steady.
But tonight—just for a moment—she allowed uncertainty to rest beside her.