The Winthrop Musicale was an event whispered about in the corners of Mayfair with a mixture of dread and dark amusement. It was a rite of passage for the ton, an evening where the ears of the aristocracy were systematically assaulted by the well-meaning but tone-deaf relatives of the Earl of Winthrop. To be invited was a sign of social standing; to attend was a testament to one's physical endurance.
Helena Beaumont stepped into the Winthrop drawing room, her sensible grey skirts brushing against the plush carpet. She had spent the journey there in the rattling contraption of a hackney coach, mentally bracing herself for the "military campaign" of their first week in London. Beside her, Catherine looked like a Diamond in a setting of cut glass—radiant, yet clearly wishing she were anywhere else.
"Remember, Cat," Helena whispered, her eyes scanning the room like a general studying enemy terrain. "If the singing becomes too unbearable, focus on the moldings. They are exceptionally well-crafted and do not hit off-key notes."
"I shall try, Lena," Catherine murmured, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her shawl.
Across the room, Nicholas Hale stood with his brothers, looking every bit the Great Northern Oak. He was a man carved from flinty limestone, and tonight, his mission was clear: he was a buyer inspecting the ledger, and his target was the Diamond. He watched the Beaumonts arrive, his assessing gaze immediately zeroing in on Catherine. He needed a wife who was polished, well-bred, and unlikely to demand his soul in exchange for her hand.
As the guests began to take their seats, Nicholas made his move. He maneuvered through the crowd with fluid, economical movements, intending to secure the chair directly to Catherine's right. He wanted to begin the process of "social consensus," to mark his territory in the most sensible way possible.
However, the whims of fate had other plans.
Just as Nicholas reached the row of chairs, a flurry of silk and frantic apologies from a late-arriving matron cut him off. By the time the path cleared, Ruth Beaumont had already ushered Catherine into a seat guarded on one side by a pillar and on the other by Helena. Nicholas stiffened, his jaw tightening. He had no choice but to take the only remaining seat—the one directly next to Helena Beaumont.
He sat down, the charcoal superfine of his coat sleeve briefly brushing against her grey wool. He didn't look at her, but he felt the static in the air, a physical weight that reminded him of the atmosphere just before the "Old King" oak had fallen in the grove.
"Lord Ashbourne," Helena said, her voice a low, steady cadence that carried no warmth. "I see you've found a seat that allows you to 'observe and filter' the room with your usual efficiency."
"Miss Beaumont," Nicholas replied, his voice cold and hard. "I find that a central vantage point is best for avoiding random whims of nature."
"Indeed," Helena murmured, turning her attention to the stage. "Let us hope the music is as predictable as your blockade."
The recital began with a young woman engaged in a desperate, losing wrestling match with a cello. The sounds emanating from the stage were less like music and more like the rhythmic groaning of a ship's hull during a North Sea gale. Nicholas sat perfectly still, his flinty gaze fixed forward. He was determined to focus on the Diamond to his right. However, every time the cellist hit a particularly jarring flat note, he felt Helena stiffen beside him.
"I believe the cello is winning, although I much rather prefer reading a book on the nature of human understanding." Helena whispered, her voice so low it was barely a breath against the dissonant screeching.
Nicholas didn't turn his head. "It is a matter of economical effort, Miss Beaumont. The instrument is clearly trying to end its own misery."
A small, surprised huff of air escaped Helena. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it was the first crack Nicholas had seen in her stone foundation.
The cello was followed by a trio of cousins who sang a madrigal with such varying interpretations of tempo that it felt like watching three carriages attempting to navigate a narrow alleyway at different speeds.
"If they continue at this pace," Helena murmured, leaning slightly toward him, "the song will finish somewhere in the middle of next Tuesday. I hope the Winthrops have provided breakfast."
"They have provided lemonade," Nicholas replied, his own voice dropping into a dry, conspiratorial rumble. "Though I suspect it is as sour as the second soprano's expression."
Helena glanced at him then, her piercing gaze catching the phantom trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You have a very specific set of criteria for lemonade, My Lord?"
"I have criteria for everything, Miss Beaumont. Efficiency, quality, and an absence of Gothic hysterics—musical or otherwise."
The evening reached its crescendo when the Honorable Miss Letitia Winthrop took the stage. She was a soprano of great confidence and remarkably little pitch. As she began a particularly demanding Italian aria, the room seemed to hold its breath out of a collective instinct for self-preservation. Letitia wound up for a high note, her face turning a shade of pink that matched the peacock-bright silks of the front row. She opened her mouth, and a sound emerged that was so sharp it felt like a physical blow to the eardrums.
At that exact moment, a delicate Venetian glass vase sitting on a pedestal near the stage let out a clear, musical ping. A hairline fracture raced through the crystal, spider-webbing across its surface until the glass gave way, collapsing into a heap of glittering shards.
The room fell into a stunned, horrified silence. Miss Letitia, unaware of the structural damage she had caused, beamed at the audience. Beside Nicholas, Helena let out a sudden, sharp snort that she tried—and failed—to disguise as a cough.
Nicholas, caught in the static of the moment, felt a rumble of genuine amusement break through his composure. A low, dry chuckle escaped him, echoing softly in the quiet room. He turned to look at Helena. Her eyes were bright with suppressed mirth, her face flushed with the effort of not howling. For the first time, he didn't see a "fortress commander." He saw a woman who found the world just as absurd as he did.
The remainder of the musicale passed in a blur of shared endurance and whispered treason.
"Do you think the pianist is aware that the sheet music is upside down?" Helena whispered as a middle-aged man began a frantic polonaise.
"He is 'filtering' the notes, Miss Beaumont," Nicholas replied, leaning his shoulder closer to hers. "It is a very economical way to play. One doesn't have to worry about the composer's intent if one simply ignores the composer entirely."
Helena bit her lip. "You are remarkably cynical for a man who claims to value stability and duty."
"Cynicism is merely a stone foundation for the truth," Nicholas said, looking at her. The cold quality of his eyes had shifted into something warmer. "And the truth is, this musicale is an abyss of talent."
"And yet here you are," Helena noted, her voice softening. "Observing. Filtering. Sitting in the rain with the rest of us."
"I find the company in the rain is... surprisingly tolerable," Nicholas admitted.
As the final applause broke out, Ruth Beaumont turned toward them, her eyes darting between Nicholas and Helena with dawning hope.
"Lord Ashbourne," Ruth said, her voice high-strung. "I hope you weren't too... distracted by the performances."
"On the contrary, Mrs. Beaumont," Nicholas said, standing and offering his hand to help Helena rise. He felt the heat radiating from her hand, a solid, grounding presence. "I found the evening quite illuminating. I've learned a great deal about structural integrity and the importance of a well-placed variable."
Helena looked up at him, her protective energy tempered by a new, reluctant understanding. "Until the next storm, My Lord?"
"I shall bring my umbrella, Miss Beaumont," Nicholas replied, bowing with a grace that was no longer icy.
As the Beaumonts moved toward the exit, Noah grinned at his brother. "Well. You certainly seemed to be observing the wrong sister, Nick. I thought you said laughter led to comfort?"
Nicholas reached into his pocket and felt the cracked glass of the watch. The frozen hands still stood at the moment of his father's death, but for the first time, he didn't feel like a ghost in his own house.
"Laughter," Nicholas said, his gaze following the woman in grey, "is a very powerful variable. And I believe I have just met the most memorable catastrophe in England."
Nathaniel clapped him on the shoulder. "The Great Northern Oak is swaying, brother. And I think it's about time."