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In which the ladies descend upon Mayfair

(March, 1815)

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Hermione went to London in a handsome chaise-and-four — with footmen to carry her belongings for her, stowing them in a carriage that followed behind, along with Miss McKinnon's lady's maid.

Hermione had never had a lady's maid, so despite her protestations Miss McKinnon insisted that one of her London housemaids must serve the purpose. Just as Miss McKinnon had insisted that Hermione travel with her in the comfort of her private chaise, not a hired coach or mail coach.

So whilst it was rainy and dreary almost the entire way to London, Hermione found herself hardly wanting for amusement. And the journey was undertaken in such comfort that Hermione almost didn't mind that she was also sharing the carriage with Miss McKinnon's rather large dog — whose name, for reasons Hermione could hardly begin to imagine — was Cerberus.

"He's a good fellow, most of the time. And if ever he is a bit much, a little Mozart puts him right to sleep." Miss McKinnon scratched the coal grey dog under the chin as he tried his best to look innocent.

"Make no mistake," she added, for the moment speaking to the dog, "you are quite spoilt. But he's an excellent companion, and a rather good judge of character, I think. A little mistrustful of gentlemen at times, but that suits me just fine, doesn't it?"

"I believe that sounds like good common sense," offered Hermione with a little smile, causing Miss McKinnon to favour her with a significant look, her brows lifting in concurrence above bright blue eyes.

"Lupin said I had no need to worry about you," she remarked in a tone of approval.

"What— Whatever do you mean?"

Miss McKinnon sat back against the cushions as Cerberus draped himself across her feet.

"Young women of your age usually aren't clamouring to be my companion. I believe they fear it may impede their prospects — the taint of association with a lady who is a spinster and happy to be one." She smirked. "Terribly short-sighted, really, considering I am very rich and have very many friends."

Hermione turned this over in her mind for a second. "Well, I'm certainly not concerned about my prospects."

"That's the spirit."

"No, I mean… that's not why I wanted to go to London. Though I suppose I can see why it might look that way, considering that seems to be the only thing people ever want to talk about."

"It doesn't look any sort of way. There are a great many diversions in London that have nothing to do with the marriage mart."

"Yes!" Hermione sat up at attention. "The Royal Academy, the Philosophical Society, Bullock's Museum — and circulating libraries! We haven't any close to home. Oh, and Gresham College gives free lectures every day — !"

Hermione stopped short then, unable to read Miss McKinnon's expression, and amended: "Whenever I'm able, of course — if ever you have no need of my company."

Then she did recognise Miss McKinnon's expression: amusement.

"I shall always be glad of your company, my dear, but I've no expectation that you'll be stuck to my side every moment. I'm hardly in need of a nursemaid, and I've no intention of treating you as a governess might."

Hermione's querying look prompted her to continue: "In the country, I have no live-in companion at all; I'm quite happy on my own. But the rules, you know, are different in town, and if I sleep in my own bed in Mayfair simply minding my own business with no one in the next room to vouch for my good behaviour, society don't look kindly upon it."

She gave Hermione's arm a sportive nudge. "I may have no use for gentlemen outside of a dance or two, but I do love a party! But enough of that now: You must tell me all about the time you've spent with Lupin!"

It was late when they arrived in town, hours and hours later — too dark, to Hermione's disappointment, to allow her to make out anything properly. The streets were quiet, mostly still except for a carriage here or there, standing ready or driving home early from parties. But as they drew closer to St James's Square — near as it was to the assembly rooms and gentlemen's clubs — the streets betrayed more signs of life. The rain had let up, and here and there were pedestrians in twos and threes — gentlemen mainly, the ladies being conducted by carriage or sedan — and windows were aglow with candlelight and the faint sounds of music within.

"It's quiet," remarked Miss McKinnon as though she'd read Hermione's thoughts. She gave a dainty stretch to bring herself out of a nap and stroked Cerberus's one head as it lay on her lap. "It'll be much livelier in a month, you'll see."

Then she craned her neck as they turned into St James's Square, peering out the window. At the far side of the garden the lamps burning outside one house illuminated a gaggle of partygoers on the steps.

"I wonder if that's Lady Porpington's party," she mused. "Horrid woman; it's just as well that we've missed it." She said it quite cheerfully.

But what exactly was so horrid about Lady Porpington, Hermione was not to learn that night, for shortly thereafter they arrived at Miss McKinnon's handsome townhouse. At Miss McKinnon's insistence — and really, too tired to protest or think too much of it — Hermione retired to her room, where a maid called Janet brought in her things and helped Hermione dress for bed even though Hermione was entirely capable of doing that herself. The last thought Hermione had before succumbing to sleep under a soft, luxurious blanket, was that perhaps in the future she could persuade Janet to spend that time doing something more useful, like reading.

(Judging by Janet's reaction the following morning, upon finding that Hermione had dressed herself instead of ringing for Janet when she awoke, that was going to take some time.)

"Tea, my dear?" asked Miss McKinnon when Hermione joined her for breakfast. She wore a blue silk dressing gown, and her dark, almost black hair was unbound and spilling over her shoulders with little curls at the very ends. Her face was bare, and whilst fine lines around her eyes and mouth gave away her forty-some years, she had a youthful smattering of freckles across her nose.

"Or shall I order some coffee?" she offered.

"Tea is lovely, thank you." Hermione sat and poured out a cup for herself, adding a splash of milk and passing over the sugar entirely.

"The sky's a little grey," said Miss McKinnon, "but I think the rain is past for now. What do you say: shall we risk a walk to the shops? New Bond Street isn't far at all."

But after dressing and heading out for the morning, before they made for the fashionable shopping district, they went for a promenade about the square — Miss McKinnon pointing out the homes of her various acquaintances, or stopping every now and then to introduce Hermione to other ladies out for a stroll.

About fifteen minutes into this endeavour, Miss McKinnon's face lit up at the sight of a pretty lady with copper hair who was accompanied by a thin young gentleman wearing spectacles.

"Lady Buckston, Lord Potter! What a good morning, indeed!"

They hailed Miss McKinnon in return as they approached, enquiring as to when she'd arrived in town.

"Only just last night. And you must allow me to introduce my young friend who shall keep my company for the season: Miss Hermione Granger."

Though they'd never met, Hermione knew Lady Buckston to be some sort of cousin of her mother's.

"I know you by name, of course," Lady Buckston gave voice to Hermione's thoughts. "I'm so sorry we've never met. But even though I've not seen her for some time, I can tell you're the picture of Nora! Please do tell me she's well — and your father, of course."

"Very well, thank you."

"I had no idea of your connection!" said Miss McKinnon. "Lupin was responsible for my acquaintance with Miss Granger — she's been one of his pupils."

At Lady Buckston's Ah! of recognition, Hermione asked eagerly: "Oh, do you know Mr Lupin?"

"Do we know Mr Lupin?" echoed Lady Buckston, exchanging a significant smile with her son. "He's one of Lord Buckston's dearest friends."

"Is he here? In London?"

"Oh, yes. He's a guest of the Duke of Padford, just down the way there. We must have you to dinner so we can visit properly, and introduce you to everyone. How does Thursday — Oh, but perhaps when your friend arrives, Harry?"

"Ron won't be here for another fortnight," her son informed her.

"Oh, that'll never do. Well, there is always more than one party, after all. We're to host one of Harry's Oxford friends for the season," she explained.

"Oxford!" exclaimed Hermione — a little too loudly, perhaps, drawing curious glances from a couple of elegant passersby. "Did you study under Professor Thornfield?"

Lord Potter made a curious face like a startled deer, recovering a few seconds later. "I did. Do you know him?"

"Only from his book. And by reputation, of course."

"Of course," he said dryly. Hermione wasn't sure whether he was actually trying to hide his bemusement at her academic interest — but if so, he wasn't doing it very well.

"What's he like?" she pressed. "Was it just wonderful to learn from him?"

"I'm sorry to say I never was much of a scientist," he hedged.

"Which are your favourite subjects?"

He flashed a sheepish smile. "Do you consider fencing a subject? Though I suppose history is also tolerable."

Miss McKinnon laughed gaily. "I dare say education is wasted on young gentlemen when they'd rather be playing at boxing and cards — as they should!"

Hermione silently agreed with the first part of that statement.

"Well, we won't detain you any longer," said Miss McKinnon to Lady Buckston, "but do come around for tea — tomorrow, if you can! You may be the only person I trust to tell me what's transpired before my arrival so I don't make a cake of myself. For now, Miss Granger and I are going shopping."

"Don't let her take you to Madame Girard!" Lady Buckston laid a hand lightly on Hermione's arm in the manner of an old friend. "Absolute robbery. I swear by Miss Turtledove."

Alas; when Hermione and Miss McKinnon arrived at the fashionable dressmaker's shop at the top of New Bond Street, they found it closed, Miss Turtledove having apparently stepped away for the moment.

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Rebecca Turtledove had, finally, gained a respectable foothold in the Mayfair market two years prior, when Lady Greengrass had taken notice of her designs and begun shopping there exclusively.

The ton, of course, took notice of Lady Greengrass — and subsequently, Miss Turtledove's fashions. And all the while, Rebecca Turtledove and Vivian Greengrass had been busy taking notice of one another.

In fact, when Hermione and Miss McKinnon found the dressmaker's shop closed midday, Rebecca and Vivian were at that very moment noticing one another in Rebecca's bed upstairs.

"Do you suppose you'll ever let me finish a proper fitting for you?" Rebecca teased, propping her head on her hand. "I'm quite proud of that gown; the least you can do is stand still for a few seconds together."

Vivian sighed, her eyes still closed. "Don't worry, from now on, I shall be on my best behaviour."

Rebecca hummed as she trailed her fingers down the centre of Vivian's breast and stomach, the movement displacing tiny pearls of sweat. "That's taking it a little too far."

"No, really!" Vivian looked up at her. "You know my sister is expected in town. From now on when I visit, I shall be here only as Lady Greengrass in search of a new dress."

"Stuff!" Rebecca's hand found a resting place at the top of Vivian's soft thigh. "Do you mean to tell me you intend to bring her everywhere with you?"

"I could hardly do otherwise."

"I had thought you'd said your sister was two and twenty."

"She is."

"Good Lord, she hardly needs a chaperone every minute of the day." Her tone was coy as her fingers began to roam again.

"You don't know Penny." Vivian shifted and ran a hand appreciatively over the curve of Rebecca's hip, the skin warm from the sunlight that had finally crept out and shone through the window, falling across the bed. "Everything must be done properly; you shan't find her out walking alone. She leaves no room for her — " She sighed under Rebecca's touch — "for her honour to be impugned."

"You can't be expected to play governess every day for the rest of the season. Lord Greengrass's sisters reside with you, don't they?"

Vivian scoffed. "Tempting, but I don't think Penny would appreciate being chaperoned by a girl Astoria's age, and I'm hardly willing to subject Daphne to that."

She pulled Rebecca in for a kiss, and Rebecca giggled against her lips, asking dubiously, "You do like your sister, don't you?"

With a pang of something like guilt, Vivian averted her eyes.

"I love my sister," was her response after a second's pause.

Then she heaved a great sigh, her fingertips rubbing at an oncoming headache in her brow, as she repeated it like a mantra.

"I love my sister."

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Penelope Clearwater could feel the eyes of every resident of Grosvenor Square upon her the moment she descended from the carriage in front of her sister's house — which was impressive, considering there were very few people walking about the square at the moment, and none of them were actually looking in her direction.

"Lord, Penny," muttered Vivian when they'd both been seated in the parlour, waiting for Daphne and Astoria to join them. "You're wound so tightly I can hear you ticking. People are only going to notice something's wrong if you act as though it is. And it's only Daphne and Astoria, for heaven's sake; it's hardly Almack's."

Penny released an exasperated sigh through her nose but had no opportunity respond before the other ladies joined them.

It had been some time since Penny had last met Lord Greengrass's sisters. 'Only Daphne' was now one of the wealthiest women in Hertfordshire, thanks to her late husband; but even before that, she'd had the distinct look of someone who knows her own consequence. 'Only Astoria' had still been in the schoolroom, the last Penny had seen her, and now here she sat looking at Penny with unmistakable, condescending pity.

Beauties, both of them, undeniably sisters, fair-haired and green-eyed. Each of them was a little slip of a thing, their slenderness dainty and graceful.

Penny was thin in a way that was all harsh lines and elbows; tall and dark-haired like Vivian, but with none of the magnetism she simply looked imposing.

So there they sat: three elegant ladies and one looking for all the world like someone's spinster governess (albeit a well-dressed one), all talking affectedly of the season that lay ahead of them, all that Penny would see and do, whilst carefully avoiding the reason she was there in the first place.

For about twenty minutes, anyway.

An hour before dinner, a sound like stampeding cattle heralded the arrival of Vivian's children, Caroline and Christopher, followed closely by a harassed-looking nurse.

"Is it that time already?" Vivian cooed, lifting Christopher — Kit, she called him — onto her lap. Vivian insisted upon tucking her own children into bed if she were home at bedtime — something she'd have known was deemed peculiar but quaint, if she'd given a fig about what anyone thought of how she raised her children.

"Look, now didn't I tell you Aunt Penny was coming?" she added to Caroline, looking then to Penny and informing her, "They've been so excited for your visit."

Penny leant forward a little in her seat. "Hello, children."

Kit rubbed his eyes, and Caroline looked down at her feet before glancing at her mother in some sort of enquiry.

"What is it, my love?"

"Is Aunt Audrey coming?" asked Caroline.

Penny pursed her lips as she sat up straight again. Daphne looked amused, Astoria apprehensive.

Vivian gave her daughter an indulgent smile, reminding her, "Aunt Audrey lives in Scotland, my love. It's quite a long journey. Aunt Penny will be here all season!"

"Oh." Caroline turned to Astoria and began telling her about a picture she'd drawn of a horse; Penny made no further attempt to engage Kit or Caroline in conversation.

"'Audrey lives in Scotland?' " she echoed to Vivian later that night after the children had gone to bed.

"What of it?"

"You don't know that she's in Scotland."

"They don't know that. All they know is that she isn't here. What would you have me tell them? That she doesn't care to see them?"

"It would be closer to the truth. Why make it sound prettier than it is? She certainly doesn't deserve it."

Vivian threw her a withering look. "That's a horrid thing to say. It's been months; hasn't Audrey been slandered enough, you'd like her disparaged before children too? And to what purpose?"

"Slandered?! No. I have been slandered. Audrey made her choice, and neither she nor you have had to live in Birmingham for the past half a year and suffer the consequences for it."

"Well, you aren't in Birmingham now; you're in London, so I suggest you leave Birmingham in Birmingham and apply yourself to the task at hand, which is being a civil, pleasant person someone might want to marry."

Penny could do little in that moment but glare before taking her leave for the night and heading upstairs to her room, where she sat primly on the edge of the bed and stared unseeingly at the pattern of pink roses on a porcelain vase.

"Sugar plums," said a cool voice from the open doorway.

Penny turned to give Daphne a quizzical look.

Daphne's perennial look of haughty self-satisfaction was hardly helped by the enigmatic little smile she wore at that moment.

"The children," she said. "They like sugar plums. I thought perhaps you might find that helpful."

Penny stared. If a smile made a sound, Daphne's would have laughed as she turned to retire to her own room.

"Good night, Miss Clearwater."

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At the Parkinson ball, Penny danced with Mr Robert Ferrars and Mr William Elliot, and talked to Sir Waldo Hawkridge and Mr Augustus Fawnhope and Mr Henry Tilney. Penny found Mr Ferrars too foppish, Mr Elliot too short, Sir Waldo too old, and Mr Fawnhope too ignorant. She found no fault with Mr Tilney, but he — like the other four — found her painfully boring.

At the assembly rooms on a Thursday night, Penny danced with Lord Evelyn Fancot and Mr Benedict Bridgerton and talked to Mr Charles Rivenhall. They were all rich, handsome, and in no hurry to attach themselves to a plain, reputedly jilted woman of two and twenty years.

They were, on the other hand, falling all over themselves to fetch her sister some punch.

Vivian assured Penny that they were simply attempting to display their gallantry and respect for Penny's relatives — but it was a lie that neither of them actually believed.

"Is it me," asked Vivian, fanning herself as she sat next to Daphne and watched Penny dance with Mr Rivenhall, "or have gentlemen become even more tedious?"

"It's you; they've always been tedious."

This, Vivian had to admit to herself, was mostly true, even of those who captured her interest.

As a rule, Vivian did not involve herself with married people, and when it came to gentlemen by and large this left her with young bucks or rakes. The former too often liked to fancy themselves in love once they'd become involved, and Vivian had no use for that, nor was she interested in breaking hearts. The latter claimed they wanted nothing to do with feelings of love, but what they really meant was that they wanted young women to develop an affection for them which they would then not return. As it turned out, when they realised that you, too, desired nothing more than their bed for a night or two, they were quite put out indeed.

Besides which, gentlemen talked; everybody knew that. Especially the rakes. The younger men at least had some honour. But if you bedded an inveterate bachelor, you could be certain every gentleman at White's would know of it before the next day was out.

Ladies were, invariably, so much more reasonable.

But one could not be reasonable all of the time, for where was the fun in that? If Vivian had been completely reasonable, she would have been Penny.

Vivian was not Penny, and for that reason she was eyeing a sturdy, ginger-haired man in naval uniform across the room. As she watched him laugh at something another officer was saying, Vivian decided he could be as unreasonable as he liked, in whatever way and however many times he liked.

"Shall I arrange an introduction?" asked Daphne, and Vivian could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

"Until Penny is married, the answer to that question will always be yes. And on that score, make sure he brings his friend."

The dance had ended, and Penny returned to Vivian, by the time Daphne returned and informed them that Lady Parkinson's brother, Admiral Nott, would be able to make the introductions.

"Whom?" enquired Penny, and Vivian nodded in the direction of the red-haired officer and his tall, dark acquaintance, who were at that very moment speaking with Admiral Nott and glancing over at the ladies.

"Sailors?" Penny hissed, leaning in closer. "Really, Vivian — "

"Don't be quite so condescending." Vivian smiled at the gentlemen as they approached, keeping her voice low. "They are officers; they have a greater claim to the title of gentleman than even Father does. And you don't have the luxury of turning up your nose at any man who can claim the title."

"And whose fault is that — " Penny was cut short when Vivian shushed her and elbowed her in the ribs.

"Ladies!" Admiral Nott bowed. "May I introduce to you Captain Clark and Captain Weasley. Lady Greengrass, Mrs Warrington, and Miss Clearwater."

"Now, Captains," said Vivian once the greetings had been exchanged and Admiral Nott had excused himself. "I know all too well that soldiers can dance. But I hear sailors can be quite unsteady on dry land."

She locked eyes with Captain Weasley, who seemed entertained by the challenge. Everything about him shouted mischief and adventure: his face so freckled it would take a lifetime to count them all; a curious look in his blue eyes as though part of him were always a little bit elsewhere, gazing at a horizon no one else could see.

"Well, we must make a good showing, mustn't we?" he said to Captain Clark, who agreed and glanced between the ladies.

Vivian's eyes were resolutely fixed on Captain Weasley, and Daphne protested that she'd had quite enough dancing for the evening, communicating to Captain Clark in no uncertain terms that he ought to ask Penny to dance.

And with a look that told Vivian he knew precisely what she was about, Captain Weasley extended his hand.

"Have you any other concerns regarding the fitness of His Majesty's Navy?" he asked in a tone of irony as they took their places.

"Oh, I have such interests in the vigour of the Navy as to keep me up at night."

His eyebrows flew up as he bowed, his lips parted in a silent laugh, and there was a sort of jest in the insubordinate way he met her eyes while they danced and talked of his travels.

Captain Weasley had no intention of dangling obsequiously at the end of anybody's hook.

And that was precisely the sort of fish Vivian liked.

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Notes:

I'm sorry this update is late! I also need to tell you that in all likelihood I will not be able to update this coming Sunday the 15th. Unfortunately I'm in crisis mode at work after having to absorb the workload of a colleague who left the office abruptly. :(

You probably recognise some or all of the names of Penny's dance partners. Yep, I totally went there. Also, I do know that I'm fudging the dates as regards the Austen characters, since most of her books are set around 1795-1805. Fight me. XD

Also I want to thank the guest commenter who gave me some feedback on Fred and Lee's conversation a few chapters back about their regiments! I'm definitely trying to be fairly historically accurate as to things like that (while admittedly sacrificing sometimes where necessary for accessibility or entertainment value) - and I figured I'd stumble somewhere or other. XD

Thank you for reading! 3