And thus ends episode one! Rounding off the ball is a bit hectic because there's so many perspectives to account for. Pen and Eloise are still on the outs, but I've had Eloise stand up for Penelope a bit more, not a scorched earth defense, but a bit more than what the show gave us. I also tried to paint a little more motivation into Cressida, because I refuse to believe she was ever cruel for cruelty's sake. The Featheringtons are unsteady, Eloise is torn between worlds, Colin is angrier at Whistledown than ever, and the Queen isn't so charmed by the gossip as the show would paint her. As I said in an earlier chapter, the Kanthony plot-line is going to be mostly unchanged, because I feel like they were handled pretty well and they're a b plot at best, more like a c plot. As much as I would to go as in depth into each plot-line as possible, I feel like one of the major issues of S3 was how many directions the plot was pulled. I'm going to be keeping and elaborating on most of the plots, but that's because I have plans to tie in several points together.
As per usual, footnotes will be included in the bottom.

Mid-February 1815

Featherington House, Mayfair

Portia sat and looked over the ledgers. It was a fine morning, and while the sitting room may not have been the conventional place for accounting, Portia had not been able to bring herself to the office. Between Jack and her late husband, there were too many bad memories associated with the place. As temporary Lady of the house, she would conduct her business wherever she pleased, and it was in the sitting room that she felt most comfortable.

Mrs. Varley rushed in, without the cream and sugar Portia had requested for her tea; the housekeeper looked frightfully anxious, "There is, um, a gentleman here to see you, ma'am."

A smartly dressed gentleman entered the room, and bowed politely to the still sitting Portia, "Lady Featherington, I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Good day, mister?" Portia did not know what to expect from this stranger. It was too early for calling hours, and he did not look like a man of the ton.

"Walter Dundas, Esquire. I work for the crown, responsible for ensuring that the lines of succession run smoothly within our great families."

"I see." Portia stood up and clasped her hands together tightly, an estate lawyer was not the kind of man she wanted to see in her home. Especially not with the looming threat of the forged inheritance document. "And to what do we owe the visit?"

"I have been made aware that your cousin, Jack Featherington, recently left town with your entire fortune." Dundas feigned sympathy as he spoke.

"Yes sir, my cousin Jack, the swindler. That man was a terrible liar."

"I have in my possession, a document he signed granting the estate to one of your daughters once she produces a male heir." He set down the document on Portia's table.

She peered over it as if the paper was unfamiliar to her. It wasn't, she had overseen Varley's forgery and as such knew the paper very well. "Ah, yes. That document. That document is valid. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, is it not?"

Dundas chuckled politely, "It is an unusual situation you have found yourself in. Are any of your daughters with child?"

"Oh, I do hope to receive the news any day now. With two married daughters, I am sure an heir is not long off." So, no. None of her daughters were with child.

"Well, currently the crown is unaware of another living male heir." He wandered around the sitting room and inspected the art pieces. "It would be quite the task, transferring the estate to another family. A great deal of upheaval for the Featherington tenants, and society, and, frankly, me. But should I find that this rather convenient document is, in fact, forged before one of your girls has an heir, the upheaval may indeed be necessary."

Portia knew a threat when she heard one but was sure to give no indication that he had rattled her, "Well then, it is a good thing the document is not forged, and that my girls do so love their husbands."

"A very good thing, indeed. I expect to have news on the matter shortly; I shall pay you another visit very soon." He paused to look around the house, "Such a beautiful home. Good day."

Portia's smile fell as he left the room, this was not good. Varley was an excellent forger, but the Royal Courts would be far more scrutinising than Miss Thompson had been. She did not know if the document would hold up. The only silver lining was that the legislature took ages to get anything done, and so her daughters should have ample time to cook up and birth a baby. Nine months, that was all that they needed. Assuming that her girls were performing their duties as wives, anyway. The Featheringtons needed an heir; Portia would not lose her family's honour to that smarmy lawyer.

Mrs. Varley skittered in through the doors once Mr. Dundas had left the building. She looked to Portia, who had sat back down and buried her face in her hands, "Ma'am?"

Portia sighed, "We are living on borrowed time, Varley. The court is examining the document, if my girls don't produce an heir before we are found out, you shall be out of a job."

Varley shifted uneasily, "I assure you, ma'am, they will find no fault with my work. I learned the art of forgery to secure this family's prospects, it will hold."

"If it does not, we shall all be out on the streets. If my girls cannot produce an heir in time, the Crown will give our title to someone else." There was no one but the two women in the room, and as such, Portia made no attempt to hide her despair. "Phillipa and Prudence will survive; even without the Featherington title, their husbands have enough money to keep them in comfort. But Penelope, oh my poor youngest. I have told her she need not marry because, up until these past few years, I truly thought our family could support her. The world is unkind to unmarried women, Varley, but a destitute spinster and her widowed mother? We shall not last a week."

Varley pursed her lips, "I will search far and wide, ma'am, for ways to guarantee your girls will produce heirs. My mother had a few tricks to ensure she had boys, and so do many other ladies in my area. One of your girls shall have a son in her womb before the season's end, do not fret."

Mid-February 1815

Hyde Park1, London

Cressida and Eloise walked together on the gravel paved paths of Hyde Park. The weather had warmed to a tolerable 40° Fahrenheit2 but Eloise had still donned a sensible willow green overcoat. A beaver3 muff warmed her hands, which were perpetually cold in a way that gloves could not rectify. Cressida walked beside her in her fox fur cloak and had been delighted to find that their dresses for the stroll had been the same pastel shade of pink. Their lady's maids followed some distance behind the two and seemed rather content to do so. The women had grown to be friends as their mistresses spent more time together.

Cressida chattered away, but Eloise could not maintain focus. Her friend's stunt at the four seasons ball a few days prior still confounded Eloise. There was simply no reason to do such a thing. Why deliberately tear Penelope's dress? It had been deliberate, Eloise was not blind, she knew the difference between accident and intent. Cressida had been so otherwise pleasant during the ball. Sure, she had made the occasional cutting remark, but so had Eloise, no one was perfect. It was usual, it seemed, for the ladies to trade barbs during the downtime between dances. When they were not discussing their dreadfully boring hobbies – though Eloise had been made to begrudgingly accept that being boring did not make such hobbyists a lesser breed – the ladies gossiped. As far as she had observed, the banter between two gossiping ladies was just that, banter. Things did not seem to be mean spirited until the women started talking about each other behind the victim's back. So why the deliberate attack to Penelope? She had been talking to a man, but it did not seem that the conversation had been headed anywhere productive, and Cressida had not swooped in to try and steal the gentleman from Penelope. Even if she had legitimate reason, that did not make it acceptable to ruin a fellow woman's night.

"Thankfully, I do not have much competition this season." Cressida had been talking about her prospects in finding a match for almost a half hour, "Aside from Francesca, who stirred up a good bit of interest, I suppose. Though, I do not expect us to have much overlap in suitors. But I do believe my handling of Penelope sent a clear message, do you not agree?"

"I believe the message was received by all with that particular trick." Eloise replied, her tone positively caustic.

"You disapprove? I thought we did not like Penelope." Cressida seemed genuinely upset that she had offended Eloise. She had only wanted to stand up for her friend, and while Eloise had not explained the reason for their fallout, Cressida could only assume the ginger had done something truly heinous to lose the loyalty of a woman such as Eloise.

"What you did was cruel and unnecessary." Eloise huffed, "Penelope is no threat to you, there is no reason to try and ruin her every day. Even if she was in competition with you, that was not how it ought to have been handled. Do you truly treat all women besides myself with such vitriol? What if Francesca had her eye on the same man as you, would you meet her with equal cruelty?"

Cressida looked down, properly chastised.

"You often talk of how difficult it has been for you to find a husband. But do you not think it might be easier if you displayed a bit less… frankness?" The pair strolled along a path lined with Cornelian cherries4, their leaf-bare branches adorned with vibrant yellow blossoms. "Sisters do talk to their brothers, you know. Brothers who may have otherwise been happy suitors of yours. I fear you largely have yourself to blame for your marriage difficulties."

Cressida sighed, "It has been difficult to find a husband. It has been more difficult still to find a friend. I have not had many since my debut. Not real ones. Perhaps you are right in saying that the fault is mine." Her eyes had the shine of unshed tears, tears that Eloise knew Cressida would never let fall, "I had friends as a girl. A few, at least. But the season has a way of coming between young ladies and pitting us against one another. I might have fallen prey to it… once or twice"

"Or thrice?" Eloise chuckled, before sobering the mood once more, "But you are right. I too have noticed how divided and isolated us ladies become once we debut. Sometimes even before. You are not alone in your loneliness, I do not think any of my sisters have many friends outside the house, save for Pen whom I had to drag in myself. Society does not seek to forge affections amongst us, it seems uncommon, indeed, for any lady to have a true confidant that is not her husband. It is just another way to keep us shackled to men, for if we do not talk with our fellow women, our lives continue to revolve solely around them. Truthfully, I thought I was the only one who noticed such a thing."

"I did try to befriend you on your first season out. But you rejected my suit." Cressida shook her head and laughed, "I actually do not blame you, seeing how loyal you are, I understand why. I have not always been kind."

The two moved to sit on a tastefully lichen-covered stone bench by the serpentine lake. "And," Cressida started, "I do not think you and I are the only ones to notice how alone the world likes to keep us. I think, perhaps, that you are simply the only one brave enough to voice your thoughts on such a matter, and the only one with a family that allows you to keep such opinions."

"Well, they do not allow it anymore." Eloise idly kicked a rock into the water, "My opinions, and the pursuit of them, nearly destroyed my entire family last year. They will not hear of it."

Cressida bumped shoulders with Eloise gently, and huffed a little laugh, "Well then that is their loss. I will still hear them, although you cannot expect me to understand it all. Perhaps I will learn something from it. Others seem so much more open to starting friendships with you than me, maybe your philosophies make you more amiable to other ladies."

No other lady of the ton had ever wanted to hear Eloise's thoughts before. Not even Penelope, who merely tolerated them. Truthfully, most of her family simply tolerated her as well. Before Cressida, the only person who wanted to truly hear her thoughts had been Theo. While Eloise did not expect to maintain such thrilling debates with Cressida as she had Theo, she still revelled in the knowledge that some one else cared for her mind. "And in turn, you must teach me how to manage all the droll bits of society. If I can make myself palatable, perhaps someday I can formulate my thoughts in a way that will better resonate with my peers."

Cressida laughed, "You have a deal, Eloise. I have no frame for reference, but I am finding it rather pleasing to have a friend whom I can learn from."

"I am quite inclined to agree with you."

Mid-February 1815

Bridgerton House, Mayfair

Kate sat at the desk in her study and sighed. Her eyes swam with the names and numbers on the papers before her. She had wanted to look over the employment ledger of the house staff, truly she did, but her mind wished desperately to be anywhere but at the desk. London was dull much of the time, but especially in the month that could not make up its mind between spring and winter. Back in her childhood home of Bombay5, the weather was nothing less than ideal. The days were warm, the nights were pleasantly cool, and it scarcely rained. Nothing like the constant sprinkling that England resided under. With Edwina and Lady Mary returned to India, Kate found herself wanting for someone with which to share her culture. Anthony was a dear, and listened reverently to her tales from India, but he understood only as much as an English man who had never been to the country could. Mostly, though, she missed the peace and quiet that had been their honeymoon.

As if on cue, Anthony entered Kate's study and approached the back of her desk chair. Kate welcomed the distraction for once and turned to him instantly. "You are back. How were your meetings?"

"Not nearly as pleasant as our bed. Shall we return to it?" Anthony had been insatiable since their wedding day.

"There is a matter I must discuss with you first. Your mother." Kate needed to share her thoughts before she was too thoroughly distracted by Anthony's skilled hands and mouth.

The Viscount leaned against the desk and ran his hand through his hair, "I know, she is doing all that she can to put off her move."

"What if she does not?" She looked at the piles of paper on her desk, "Your mother enjoys being Viscountess so much, while I have already spent so many of my good years managing Edwina and the Sharma household. You were so carefree whilst on our honeymoon, and the world did not fall apart while we were gone."

Anthony opened his mouth as if to protest, so Kate forged forward, "Our family is competent, Anthony. Your mother is well and in her element, and Benedict can be efficient when he chooses. So why not put ourselves first for once, and extend the honeymoon?"

Anthony grinned, he had never heard such a magnificent idea, "You, my love, are brilliant. But are you sure?"

Kate stood from her chair and sidled up next to Anthony. She held his face in her hands, and pressed her body up close to him, she relished in his warmth, "We have our whole lives to be Viscount and Viscountess." She pressed even closer against him, "For now, the only duty that interests me is making an heir or two."

Anthony hummed agreeably and wasted no time in seizing Kate's mouth in a kiss. He kissed much like he did anything else, full of intent and single-minded focus. His mouth was hot against hers, his hands strong as they rested on her hips, and as he pinned her against the desk she felt as surrounded by him as she did in their bed. She resolutely kept her mouth closed at first, not from lack of interest but from teasing obstinance. It had become something of a challenge for the both of them; for Anthony to do all that was in his power to make her open up, and for Kate to hold out as long as she could bear. Like always, Kate gave in quickly, a moan coaxed out of her as Anthony bit at her bottom lip and lifted her onto the desk. Papers that were no doubt important scattered to the ground and skid across the varnished hardwood floor. Kate did not care; she widened her legs to make room for Anthony's hips as he rucked up her skirts. The only thing she was interested in was the very pleasurable, albeit inefficient, method Anthony had deigned to 'make an heir'. He lowered his face under her skirts, and she saw stars as he licked and kissed his way into her core. An extended honeymoon was a splendid idea, indeed.

Mid-February 1815

Drawing Room, Bridgerton House

Francesca and her mother sat together in the afternoon sun as they worked on their embroidery. Daphne had written her family to say that she had once again become with child and would not visit during the social season as a result. She had, of course, been forgiven entirely, and the two Bridgerton ladies had immediately began their work on gifts for the soon-to-come bundle of joy. Violet had begun some decorative piece to hang on the wall in the Basset nursery, while Francesca worked on a blanket. It was a soft blue cotton, durable and thick enough to be warm while light enough to not smother in the coming summer months. Francesca had just finished up the 'B' initial and had begun to decorate the borders of the blanket with a musical staff, when Violet stopped her work and began to speak.

"My dear," She put down her hoop and poured two cups of tea, black for Francesca and cream with two sugars for herself, "Tell me, how was your first ball, hmm? Did you enjoy yourself?"

Francesca set down her embroidery as she spoke, unlike Daphne, she could not split her attention between a conversation and task, "It was… satisfactory."

"Francesca," Violet handed the cup of tea to her daughter, "think of the balls as playing a duet. When you play with another person, there is a certain vulnerability which can be quite frightening, I would imagine. But it is worth it once you find that person with whom you make an unexpected harmony."

Francesca smiled at her mother. Violet was trying, but she was not especially good at musical metaphors. Francesca did not want a relationship with a man that made her frightened at her own emotions, and harmonies were not meant to be unexpected. Harmonies were carefully planned and built to match the melody line in a perfect compliment. "I'm not frightened of the balls, mama. Or of finding a match." She looked to the grand portrait of Violet and Edmund that still hung in the room, briefly she wondered if she would have been able to recall her father's face without the painting's help, "What you and father, and Daphne and Anthony all have is enviable, admirable, even, but it is also rare. And I am not certain I need to feel butterflies, or unexpected harmony, per your metaphor."

Violet looked at her daughter with worry, she wanted Francesca to be happy, and while she might be happy to settle for a tolerable relationship, Violet firmly believed that a woman should not have to settle for a husband. A husband ought to make a lady's heart sing, not make her mind accept reasonability. "But you will at least be open to love if it comes your way?"

Francesca rolled her eyes affectionately at the continued insistence, "We shall see what happens."

Violet got up as a maid informed her that Kate wanted to discuss something, and Francesca was left alone in the drawing room. She returned to her embroidery, the pull of the needle and thread ringing slate-grey in her ears.

Mid-February 1815

Featherington House, Mayfair

Penelope sat on the cushioned garden bench and tried her hardest not to mope. Her usual spot of the window seat in the drawing room would not suffice. For whatever reason, Portia had further dialled up her insistences that her two older daughters produce an heir, and soon, and Penelope could no longer stand to be in the same room as her mama when she began her rants. So, the garden would have to do. It was more private anyway, even if she had had to don an overcoat in order to not shiver.

Rae, her lady's maid, approached and fidgeted with her hands, "You have a visitor, miss."

Penelope looked up in hope. Perhaps, Eloise had come to visit her and smooth things over. Instead, Colin trailed in behind Rae, still dressed in the French fashions that suited him so well.

"I am sorry for intruding upon your afternoon." He said, and then intruded anyway. But Penelope did not send him away, and so he sat down on the bench next to her. Their placement would be scandalous to other members of the ton; Penelope had no gloves upon her hands, Rae had left the garden, and the bench was not especially long so Colin sat close. "And I am very sorry for my callous comment here last year. It pains me to see you upset."

Truly, it did pain Colin to see Penelope in such a state. It seemed, as of late, all the women in his life were some degree of upset. Eloise, who had at least regained some spirit after her extended time with Cressida, was still unusually subdued, and anyone could see that she longed for something more than what Mayfair could offer her. Francesca seemed resigned to finding a match, rather than truly exited for it, and both girls' attitudes stressed their mother. Still, as he was no good with upset women, Colin had turned to Francesca for advice. Usually, he would be more inclined to ask Eloise on all matters Penelope, but he was not sure if the two were yet on speaking terms, so Francesca would have to do. Once he had explained his transgression to her, Francesca had given him quite the stern talking to. Stern for Fran, at least. He appreciated her lecture, though, as it had knocked some much-needed sense into him.

"Then perhaps you should not have come." Penelope was glad Colin had realised the err of his ways, but after what she had written, and already published, about Colin in Whistledown, she almost wanted to stay mad at him.

"I am not the man I was last season," Colin continued, "And I am most certainly not ashamed of you, Pen. The opposite is true, in fact! I seek you out at every social assembly because I know you will lift my spirits. You make me see the world in ways I could not have otherwise imagined, and I do not feel the pressure to act a certain way around you that I do when I am with others. It is around you that I can act my true self without fear of judgement or ridicule. You are clever, and warm, and I am proud to call you my very good friend."

Penelope wanted very much to reach out and clutch his hands in her own ungloved ones, but she did not, "It has been very vexing, watching you walk back into society with such ease. When every year I pray, I might finally feel that way amidst the marriage mart, and that comfort never materialises." She looked down at her lap, unable to meet Colin's eyes any longer.

"Well, if a husband is what you seek, then let me help you." It seemed a most reasonable suggestion to Colin, who had entirely missed the implications of such a statement.

"Help me how?" Penelope felt hope traitorously rise in her, was Colin…

"I was in seventeen cities these past six months, and what I have learned is that charm can be taught."

"Colin, I cannot have you with me, whispering into my ear in every ballroom. It would be entirely inappropriate for a number of reasons." Namely that he would have to spend every ball by her side. It would give both of their suitors the wrong idea, and if Penelope could not have Colin, she would not have him chase away all of her other prospects by making others think he was hers.

"You will not need that; we will have lessons. Lessons which you will quickly master, I am certain." Colin felt that his plan was very clever indeed, while most of his charm had been learned by milling around Europe's brothels, he was sure he could make a splendid teacher of himself without the need to expose Penelope's eyes to such things. "There is nothing more I want than to win back the favour of the one person who has always truly made me feel appreciated."

Colin stood from the bench and stuck out his hand, "What do you say?"

Penelope looked at him, half incredulous and half amused, "You want me to shake your hand?"

"It is perhaps unusual," and it was, ladies did not shake hands, and certainly not gloveless, with a man, "but we are friends, are we not?"

Penelope rose as well, and hesitantly shook his hand. He was warm, even against the February chill, and his hand dwarfed hers entirely. She felt on his middle finger, the beginnings of a writer's callus6, just as she had on herself. "Alright, friends."

Colin smiled, "Then I shall see you soon. Until then." He turned and left the garden with a spring in his step.

Penelope basked in the renewed hope Colin had instilled in her and made her way back into her house. If Colin could teach her charm and secure her a husband, then she could face her family without fear.

"Penelope, look!" Phillipa rushed her sister the second she entered the drawing room, "It is a new Whistledown!"

"You of all people should be quite interested in what she has to say this time," Prudence sneered, "She has a good deal many thoughts on your Bridgertons, Colin in fact."

Dread spread through Penelope's body, cold and slimy. She should not have written so soon, should not have pushed the printers to publish on a rushed schedule. Perhaps Eloise had been right to chastise her for writing while not clear-headed. Penelope had written the issue whilst clouded with emotion, resentment directed at Colin and everyone else in the ton. Colin did not deserve what she had written about him.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

When the tide of change turns, it can be sudden, fierce, and deadly. Especially for the unprepared. It seems to this author that our bon ton is moving with the changing tides, to be sure. No better indicator of this is the new Lord Kent. The late Lady Kent passed into heaven last week, and with no children of her own, bequeathed the title to the Mondriches eldest son, who I am told shares a distant relation to the Kent family. What a strange succession, indeed. This son of a former boxer, turned club-owner turned de facto man of the house until his on is of age, is sure to be quite the addition to the ton. We have seen men of questionable rank rise to take title before, but never have they been so thoroughly working class as Mr. and Mrs. Mondrich. Can they rise to meet their great new fortune, or are the lower classes truly not suited for life in high society? We shall have to wait and see.

Meanwhile others cling firmly to that which they already know. None more so than our Queen, who has still yet to choose a diamond. This author wonders if her hesitancy is a symptom of fortitude or fear. Our lovely reagent has, as many a mama may have noted earlier this month, declined to attend all events as of yet, save for the recent Danbury four seasons ball. If the latter is her cause, pride in past achievements will not benefit her. Must I remind you all that it was I, not the Queen, who took initial notice of our most successful diamond, Daphne Basset, Duchess of Hastings? Miss Edwina had had the great success of becoming Lady Edwina, the Queen's choice diamond from last season has met success in the Earl of Auckland, but an Earl is no Duke 7. Our good debutantes of the season have not given up hope just yet and are ready to play for the great honour of the Diamond title. Your serve, your Majesty. Dare I say, this author is ready to play, as well. I do not fear change. I embrace it.

And then there are some who take the embrace of change a step too far, as with Mr. Colin Bridgerton, who seems to have embraced a new personality entirely. The third Bridgerton son has long been known by the ton as a kind, genteel man. And yet, to the titillation of many a good lady, he has returned from Europe as a rake of the highest order, just like his two older brothers. It took a marriage to put reigns upon the Viscount Bridgerton, must all men of that family run amok like beasts in heat, only to be tamed by a virtuous maiden? One must wonder, is this new character the real him or simply a ploy for attention? And does Mr. Bridgerton even know?

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

Mid-February 1815

Bridgerton House, Mayfair

Eloise's hands shook as she finished reading Penelope's newest print. Hyacinth had begged her to buy a copy, as the youngest wasn't technically allowed to read gossip sheets, and Eloise had easily agreed. She should have said no. How Penelope could write such things was beyond her, although she shouldn't have been as surprised as she was, Eloise figured. After all, it wasn't the first time Penelope had disparaged the Bridgertons in her gossip rag. Still, Colin seemed like a low blow; he hadn't even done anything wrong. Eloise did not love the stereotypical persona her brother donned when he went out into society, but even she had to admit it was not an unusual way for men to act. And still, Penelope heckled the queen, if she was not careful, Eloise feared her former friend would meet a disastrous demise. The Queen had almost caught her once, only thwarted by Eloise's quick thinking. Penelope did not have Eloise to run interference, this time.

Eloise winced as she heard the front doors swing open and close, it was Colin, back from wherever he had been. Calling on some lady, perhaps, as the gentlemen's clubs were not open before three.

"Brother! Good afternoon." She hid the pamphlet behind her back, "Where were you? Out for a promenade without the rest of us, mother will be cross; you usually never want to go out."

"I have been nowhere important." He easily spotted that Eloise was concealing something from him, a non-guilty Eloise would have ignored him entirely. She seemed to have some kind of paper, and Colin worried, please, do not let her have taken up liberalism again. "What have you got there, what are you reading?"

"Nothing." She sounded far to defensive, and Eloise knew it. Colin raised an eyebrow and held out his hand expectantly, and Eloise reluctantly gave the pamphlet to him. It was he who had been written poorly of it was only right for him to know. "Whistledown, you are mentioned."

Colin read the piece and set it down on the table. His face kept blank, and Eloise could not read him.

"How are you?" It was not a pleasant thing, to be written about by Penelope in such a public manner. It was not quite the life-ruining truth that had been written about Eloise, but at least that had been true. It was an attack on her actions, things she had done, not her character. Colin was resilient, but of the Brudgerton boys, he was the most sensitive to such things. Anthony had not cared one bit when Penelope called him a rake in her pamphlets last season, perhaps because she had actually been correct that time, but it just might get to Colin. Eloise did not wish for her brother to suffer alone.

"I do not care what Lady Whistledown writes about me." He sounded like he cared at least a little bit, for there was a tense edge to his voice, "But ruining Miss Thompson, I mean, Lady Crane, and then nearly ruining you last season… I will never forgive her."

Elose watched as he turned to leave, his shoulders and jaw having taken a tense set that they did not have when he entered the building. If he found out it was Penelope behind the writings, Eloise did not want to think of what might happen, "Do you…" she faltered, unsure of what she intended to ask, "have any idea who she might be?"

Colin turned back to face Eloise, he had a fierce look in his eyes, "I do not. But trust me, if I ever find out, I will make sure it is her life that is ruined." He would not stand to see the coward of a woman disparage the names of every woman in a fifty-mile vicinity. She had already burned two of the dearest ladies in his life, who would be next, Francesca? Penelope? No, if he ever caught wind of who was behind such horrid writings, he would see to it that the woman was securely behind bars, at the very least.

Mid-February 1815

Buckingham House, London

Charlotte sat alone in one of her many rooms as she read the new Whistledown with her afternoon tea. Alone save for Brimsley, who had been with her for so long that he hardly counted as his own person. He was more like an extension of the Queen, an arm to carry out whatever tasks it was she wanted done. He was, however, the only person she had to talk to most days, and the only one who so readily encouraged her search for the gossip column author.

"It seems Lady Whistledown is playing games again." She picked up a strawberry from the crystal dish on the side table, examined it, deemed it unworthy, and placed it back down.

"Ah." If anyone but the Queen had heard him, they would have assumed the response to be politely impassive, but Charlotte heard the tinge of interest in Brimsley's voice. He enjoyed gossip just as much as she. "Are you going to play along, your Majesty?"

"I do love a game. Especially when I am so often the victor." She sipped her tea, only the highest quality, "Noblemen may have their foxhunts8, but my quandary is far more crafty. Her coat, then, shall be all the more valuable to display upon my mantelpiece."

Footnotes

1. This is the most likely place for them to promenade. It's a very big park, and has an artificial lake/river thing, which can be seen in several promenade scenes. It's right in front of Kensington palace and was a notably popular place for the aristocracy to mill about. It's close to Mayfair, 5 ish minutes by car, even shorter if you go by foot and just make a straight line. About 350 acres in total area.

2. Fahrenheit was the standard unit for temp in all anglophone countries until the 1960s when most (except for the US) switched to metric. At this point England and all colonies use Imperial measurements, thus the use of F instead of C. The actual temperature is taken from an average of the daily highs and lows of mid-February in Oxford. Oxford, apparently, kept better meteorological records than London, but the weather was probably pretty close. This temperature is usual for a UK February, even at the time. England has a pretty mild and temperate climate due to the ocean currents which bring warmer water from the south and equator up around the island.

3. Beaver was a wildly popular (and expensive) fur in the 1800s. Very durable, somewhat waterproof, and roasty toasty. All imported from the US where beaver hunting was huge and lucrative.

4. A member of the dogwood family, and native to central/south Europe and the Eurasian bridge. In the UK, they bloom in February. Once done flowering, they bear oblong red berry-ish fruits which are known for their tart flavour. These berries are made into various foodstuffs in Iran and surrounding areas. The plant was introduced to England as a botanical sometime in the mid 1500's.

5. Now Mumbai. Referred to as Bambai in Hindi and Mumbai/Mambai in various other languages native to India. The East India company, through Royal English sanctioning, ruled over the area and had an ongoing conflict with the local government that ended in 1817. These Anglo-Maratha Wars were likely the reason Kate's father moved the family to Bombay, as he was a low ranking military officer likely to be stationed there.

6. A callus on the middle finger caused by friction from holding a writing implement improperly, or for too long. Not harmful, just that most wealthy men of the ton would have soft hands as they are unused to manual labour of any kind. Any callus would thus be noticeable.

7. Dukes are massively high ranking, only below direct royal family in line for succession. So yeah, Simon was a fuckin big catch for Daph. Barons are relatively low on the aristocratic totem pole, only really above "untitled: positions like knights and esquires. For sure below Viscounts, which are sort of in the low-middle of titled people. Earls are above Viscounts and bang middle of the pecking order, but Lord Auckland wouldn't become an Earl until he became Governor General of India in 1836, so he's just a Baron for now.

8. Fox hunting is an exclusively upper-class sport, and always has been. Working class men would instead partake in Hare coursing, which was pretty much the same except hares were the prey and not foxes. Fox hunting was an extremely popular blood sport at the time, the Men would not cause the damage, and were usually unarmed, while the many hounds would be set upon a fox to chase and tear it apart. Brutal, man.