Fiennes Estate, Drawing Room— Late Morning
The tea tray rattled.
The poor servant—an older man who had survived three Seasons, and every eccentricity Sophia had displayed since the age of ten—was visibly paling by the second. His hand trembled ever so slightly as he poured the next cup.
And it was entirely Sophia's fault.
"Locke argues," she said with perfect, scholarly calm, "that if a government fails to protect the natural rights of life, liberty, and property, then—quite reasonably—its citizens have a duty to rebel."
"Duty?" Benedict echoed, blinking. He was holding his teacup but had momentarily forgotten what tea was.
"Yes," Sophia continued, utterly unfazed by her mother hovering in the hallway like a hawk. "A government derives its legitimacy from the consent of the governed. If it breaks that contract, then the governed are free to withdraw their consent. By force, if necessary."
The servant froze mid-pour.
His hand jerked.
