The morning light slanted through the tall windows of the Fiennes breakfast room, soft and golden, catching on porcelain teacups and the polished silverware.
Sophia sat primly—well, as primly as Sophia ever managed—her navy morning gown crisp and proper, though her expression betrayed the slightest flicker of mischief.
"Sophia," she began, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and prayer, "why did you enter White's for the second time yesterday? You didn't learn from the last incident? The one involving men's garments, a stolen cravat, and a declaration that you would personally defeat Napoleon?"
Sophia bit delicately into her toast, as if she'd simply been asked about the weather. "Mama, I simply wished to express my appreciation to Their Graces of Manchester," she said with perfect sincerity. "Lord Edward said they liked vodka, and Russia is known for its distillation methods. It seemed logical." She paused thoughtfully. "Besides, we have potatoes in Kent."
