Summary:

Really, Eloise huffs aloud as their hastily-ordered carriage sets off for home, they wouldn't have had to go through with this ridiculous plan if not for Lady Featherington.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

29 March 1814

London, England

"Really," Eloise huffs aloud as their hastily-ordered carriage sets off for home, "they wouldn't have had to go through with this ridiculous plan if not for Lady Featherington."

"Eloise…" Lady Bridgerton warns with a quick glance at their coachman, but Eloise has never paid attention to subtle reprimands before and refuses to start now.

"Mama, if only it had been you standing there when Anthony came around the corner of the riverbank, and not that odious woman. Surely you would have found a way to save the situation."

"And how was I to do that, pray?" her mother sighs, resigning herself to this conversation being added to the wild tale soon to be spreading among their servants. "With the two of them returning soaking wet, Penelope's gown fully plastered to her skin? It would have been bad enough had he not been carrying her, but to have touched an unmarried woman so intimately – it would never stand, Eloise. You know that."

"But she'd twisted her ankle when she fell!" Eloise protests. "Was Anthony supposed to leave her there in the freezing water to go find her chaperone? As if Penelope's maid could have helped a jot with that!"

"Which brings me back to the point you have yet to answer, Eloise. Why was Penelope all alone by that shrub? I gave you specific instructions to stay by her side for the whole of Lady Danbury's garden party. Usually she is the one keeping you out of trouble."

As Eloise can hardly explain that that particular shrub – when the ground was not slick with mud after recent rain – was the perfect cover for some hidden Lady Whistledown eavesdropping on loose-lipped ladies not given to rhapsodize over the river views, she sidesteps the question.

"You must admit that it was handsome of Anthony to rescue her so, Mama. Like…like something in a novel."

Lady Bridgerton raises a delicate eyebrow. "I had not thought you a fan of novels, dearest. Too much faff about silly romance, you always say."

"We-ell, yes. I do prefer Astell and Wollstonecraft to any of those swooning Marias and Juliannas and their scowling rogues. The real Marys are concerned with important things. But if anyone deserves a romantic moment, it's Penelope. If only her mother hadn't screeched so, and ruined it!"

"While I own Lady Featherington's reaction was not the most…discreet," Lady Bridgerton says carefully, stretching the euphemism to the fullest limits of its strength, "I can hardly condemn her for caring for her daughter's reputation. Of course she would insist – would insist – well, it is understandable, that is all. Marriage is unquestionably the right thing to do. Anthony knows this, and no doubt does Penelope."

"You know what Cressida Cowper and those harpies will say," Eloise grumbles, folding her arms against her chest and slouching against the carriage seat. "They will say Penelope slipped on purpose to snare him away from Miss Edwina Sharma, that Pen was angling for him this whole time. Angling for Anthony? Who would bother?"

Lady Bridgerton raps her sharply on the arm with a closed fan. "How many times must I tell you not to refer to your peers as harpies? A civil tongue in your mouth, please. And I am afraid that a great many eager young ladies might set their cap at the wealthy bachelor Viscount Bridgerton. Happily we have all known Penelope since your schooldays, and that she would never dream of such a thing. Not even if her mother…" But she stops that uncharitable thought abruptly. Not even Lady Featherington at her most desperate would have risked her daughter catching influenza to land a Bridgerton.

"They might wish to marry the viscount," Eloise scoffs. "But they would realize soon enough that they are also getting Anthony. Poor Penelope!"

"I am surprised at you, sister," Benedict says to Eloise from his careless sprawl on the grass, reaching up to take the cigarillo from her. "I have heard you say a dozen times this month alone that you wished Penelope could have been born a Bridgerton instead. Surely this solves that problem?"

Eloise kicks at the ground beneath her swing angrily. "Yes, but – but not this way! When she's being forced into marriage because of a stupid accident! I don't see why women should have to marry at all."

"Ah, this again."

"Yes, again, brother! A woman's lot is so unfair! If she were a Peter instead of a Penelope those busybody old ladies would never have insisted on a wedding!"

Benedict chokes on his inhale. "Indeed. A Peter marrying an Anthony would be quite a different scandal."

Eloise snatches the cigarillo back. "Don't make fun! What are we going to do?"

"I was thinking of painting a wedding portrait. I have been debating between full-size for the library or half-size for their private chambers. Which classic image do you think Anthony would prefer of his bride, the insipid virgin hugging a lamb, or the dismal damsel posing precariously against rocky ruins?"

She laughs despite herself. "Benedict, you are never serious!"

"Why should I be? I thank God every day I am the second son and not the viscount."

"So we must leave Penelope to her fate as the viscountess? How awful! I wish you had been the one to compromise her!"

"Me?" Benedict looks up at her, startled. "How would I have helped in this situation? I am hardly prepared to be a doting husband – I have many years of study ahead before I can stand on my own feet as a painter."

"Yes, exactly, you would understand –" but Eloise cuts herself off hastily, for not even to her favorite brother can she explain Penelope's secret work as an anonymous publisher of Society scandals. That Penelope has her own talents and ambitions that would be better appreciated by a fellow artist! Instead she will be stuck with their selfish, condescending ass of an eldest brother, who could never appreciate the potential of Lady Whistledown. Eloise scowls.

"Come, sister, don't borrow trouble. It may yet turn out alright. Most of the Ton does not marry for love, and you know Anthony had already begun seeking a wife."

"His stupid duty again. At least this stopped him offering for Miss Edwina Sharma! That was the only reason he was at Lady Danbury's silly party this morning, you know. To fuss over this year's Diamond."

"And what do you have against Miss Edwina? I have met her but the once, and only in a crowd. She seems a lovely little thing."

"Just so – she is much too sweet and innocent for him. Even that grumpy older sister of hers would have been a better choice, she wouldn't shrink from Anthony when he's up on his high horse again."

They both turn to look at the back of their London townhouse, where their brother's silhouette is visible against the curtains in Father's study. (Although Anthony has been conducting the family's affairs in it for a decade now, everyone was rather relieved he chose not to reclaim its name too.) He'd returned home by horseback and stormed inside the study immediately after changing from his wet clothes, conversing privately with their mother and, ominously, his man of business. Though Mr. Portwinder had left Father's study after an hour and their mother soon after, Anthony is still there.

Benedict sighs and sits up, brushing the dirt from his knees. "I should go to him. Second sons have only one duty, you know."

"Oh? What's that?"

"To be the best man at the heir's wedding. Which means I must now go get him blindingly drunk in private, avoiding the on-dits at our club. We will do some noticeable damage to the liquor cabinet tonight, El. You won't be able to pinch any port or Scotch for a while."

"I never!" She blusters.

"Mm, of course not." He winks at her, then sobers unexpectedly. "Eloise…I wouldn't have served as the answer. Unless I miss my guess, it's neither Anthony nor me she wanted."

Eloise stares at him in surprise. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I'll say no more – I hope I'm wrong on that account. But if you truly love Penelope like a sister–"

"Obviously!"

"Then support her in this as best you can. Don't say anything to her about marriage being a prison – they're both trapped in it now, and the least we can do is help make the prisoners comfortable."

"Imprisoned with Awful Anthony!" Eloise shudders again.

But Benedict has finished listening to her and is heading back indoors, whistling softly.

Eloise flops down on the flattened grass of his spot with a sigh. So easy for Benedict to say! Of course she wants Penelope to be loved as a member of their family, of course she'll do everything in her power to make her happy. Since Anthony won't have the slightest idea of what Penelope would want.

Eloise scowls again. She still blames Penelope's mother for this mess. If only Lady Featherington hadn't screamed so loudly that everyone at the party had turned to look!

Notes:

So I totally forgot that Eloise doesn't discover the truth of Lady Whistledown's identity until the end of s2. Whoops - let's just go with it.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Thank you so much for all the enthusiasm so far -- great motivation for me to continue!

I am less concerned with fidelity to canon details than with having fun, so please consider any discrepancies moving forward to be aesthetic choices. ;)

Chapter Text

Anthony raises his head gingerly from the carpet, regretting the motion instantly. At Oxford he would have scoffed to let a hangover debilitate him so, but he is a curst full decade older now and extensive whiskey-based actions at age 30 have cruel consequences.

"Damn you, Benedict," he groans. "Even Hastings in our salad days never forced so many spirits down my throat in one night."

"I – ow – find that hard to believe," comes a mumble from under the sofa to his right. Anthony can hear Benedict shifting around but daren't turn his face to look. "Ow – why is the light of the dawn so painful, brother?"

"Because it is in fact the light of midday," snaps a voice from the doorway. "Get up, the pair of you. Disgraceful."

Wincing with every movement, Anthony and Benedict sit up to peer blearily at Lady Bridgerton as she strides furiously into Father's study.

"We – ow – we were toasting Anthony's engagement, Mother. Surely you do not begrudge us our celebration." Benedict attempts a dimpled smile but he is too green around the gills for success.

"Time enough for drowning your livers when this is all over, but it has barely begun. You both have much work to do today."

"What work?" Benedict asks, astonished, but Anthony fears he knows exactly what she means –

"The Viscount has quite a few visits to make this afternoon," the Dowager Viscountess says, glaring down at them. "First, to Lady Danbury's to apologize for making a cake of yourself at her party and to apologize to her wards the Sharmas –"

"Yes, understood, Mother," Anthony interrupts, cradling his pounding forehead in his hands. "I will go at once, if you would please speak more quietly?"

"To her wards the Sharmas for entangling Miss Edwina in this mess," Lady Violet continues, ignoring him. "We will be fortunate indeed if Whistledown only limits her quips to your sodden breeches and leaves Miss Edwina's name out of it. She wrote only last week that you danced with Miss Edwina three times at Lady Trowbridge's ball, Anthony. I warned you against being so public in your preference!"

"I had not thought it a problem to show favor to a Diamond. Is that not what the Season is for?" he mutters to the carpet.

"After the Sharmas, you will head immediately to the Featheringtons and do what is proper. Surely this step I do not need to spell out for you. You have the ring?"

"Yes, it is on Father's desk."

As one, they all turn to look at the desk, where a teasing ray of sunlight has descended to perfectly frame the little box in question. As if to emphasize all of Anthony's wasted plans for finding the right viscountess. 30 seconds of thoughtless gallantry, and now he must be engaged to a Featherington!

"And you, Benedict," their mother snaps. "You are also to dress and head out immediately. Daphne is having an at-home this afternoon, and I would not have her learn Anthony's news from some gleeful gossip, eager to see her distress. You must arrive beforehand and warn her."

"But Mother, surely we can simply send her and Hastings a note. Why must I go in person?" Benedict protests.

"Because I have said so! Understand, the family must agree on our story before the Fife musicale this evening. We were all to meet Daphne and Simon there, but it is out of the question for Anthony to attend now while Penelope remains indisposed. You and Colin must represent the Bridgertons tonight and be visibly unperturbed by all the fuss. I would send Eloise as well, but I cannot trust her to playact the naïve."

"She is excellently naïve by nature but abysmal in an assigned rôle," Benedict agrees. "Her Ophelia monologue last Christmas was truly unfortunate."

"Mother…" Anthony hesitates. "Mother, how do you expect to wrap this in clean linen? It is a disaster. Will you say the youngest Featherington and I had a secret tendre all these years? No one will believe that – I was away to Eton before she was barely off leading-strings."

Lady Bridgerton's lips tighten. "We will emphasize our delight in forging permanent ties with our closest neighbors of excellent lineage. Should anyone be so indelicate as to mention it to our faces, we will hint that we are glad indeed that at least Anthony did not dive into the Thames for a penniless nobody from nowhere."

Anthony remembers with a pang a certain penniless nobody of an opera singer with beautiful curves and an even more beautiful voice, then wrenches his thoughts back to the present in time to hear Benedict ask:

"Isn't she, though? Penniless? I thought the late Baron Featherington left his daughters in a… delicate situation."

"That is only hearsay, as far as we know," Lady Bridgerton sighs. "But your brother can confirm their fortune soon enough, when he begins to fulfill his duty. Timothy is waiting to valet you in your chambers."

"Enough, I am going." Anthony runs his hands through his hair, standing it on end. "You need not fear whether I will do what is right, Mother. As soon as this headache surceases."

He heads out into the hallway and up the stairs, trying not to notice how even their own footmen are repressing smiles as he passes. Just as he rounds the landing to his chambers, Eloise plants herself at the head of the staircase, glaring daggers at him.

"Hello, sis–"

Eloise thwacks him into silence with a dog-eared copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. "Penelope is worth six of you," she hisses. "Never forget that." And just as she used to do in their arguments as a child, she kicks him in the shin and stomps away.

Anthony hopes he acquits himself reasonably well with the Sharmas in the afternoon. Mother and daughter are both polite but reserved as he offers his careful, sincere apologies, wishing he didn't have to couch his words in in meaningless flowery phrases and could say openly: "I am often impulsive and swift to regret my decisions after. I would have done my best to treat you as you deserve but perhaps you are better off with a husband of calmer temperament, less prone to idiotic gestures."

Fortunately for all of them, Lady Danbury thinks the whole thing a tremendous joke. "Really, Bridgerton, enough of your self-flagellation. So you have caught another debutante by mistake, what of it? She is not a patch on our Diamond's beauty, but no one is. Miss Edwina is bored by your casting this as a Grecian tragedy."

"Oh no, Lady Danbury!" Edwina protests, a blush rising to her dusky cheeks. "Miss Penelope is very pretty! Don't you think so, Lord Bridgerton?"

Anthony cannot honestly say he has thought about Penelope's looks at all – until yesterday she was just Eloise's quiet bosom friend – but he manages to murmur that all ladies of the Ton have their own unique charms and is rewarded with a tiny, appreciative smile from his former intended.

"Come, kiss and cry friends, my dears. Besides, you paid us in excellent coin for any betrayal with the sight of that wet torso of yours, hey?" Lady Danbury cackles, poking him in the stomach with her cane. "Yes, indeed, solid as the Rock of Gibraltar."

Edwina squeaks and claps her hands over her mouth, mortified.

Anthony bows to Lady Danbury in silent response, and takes his leave hastily.

Once in the hallway he is again confronted with another glaring sister – this time it is the elder Miss Sharma (Caroline? Catherine?), unimpressed and unamused. "At least we are spared any further nonsense from you," she sniffs. "May you and your little English rose be very happy together."

Anthony gives her the half-bow he would a male peer. "Thank you, my lady. I wish both the Misses Sharma the same happiness in your marital efforts."

She snorts. "Better a spinster than wed to one such as you."

And if Anthony feels any small frisson from Miss Sharma's haughty disdain, it is quickly extinguished by the thought of the next batch of sisters he must face today.

If Prudence Featherington threatens me as well, Anthony thinks as he climbs into his carriage, even Mother must admit I will have truly been punished for my mistakes.

Alas, Anthony's welcome from the Featherington women is as dreadful as he'd feared. Lady Portia is by turns cunning and triumphant, taking care to assure him that all that necessary fiddle-faddle about a dowry will be settled "just as soon our cousin Featherington – the late Baron's heir, you know – arrives from the Americas this month." Philippa and Prudence seem to believe their stilted, atrocious attempts at flirting are how one treats a prospective brother-in-law, and their servants are even less circumspect in their smirks than the Bridgerton staff. Anthony fears all London may be laughing at him today. Even the dizzying rainbow décor of the Featherington home seems to mock him with its opulent garishness. The Biblical Joseph's coat of many colors, famous throughout Canaan, would have been no match for Lady Portia's drawing room.

Curled up on a maroon-and-emerald striped loveseat (with gold buttons and crocodile legs!) by the fireplace – bundled in a pile of yellow blankets and nervously clutching an offensively gilded teacup – is Penelope. His soon-to-be fiancée.

Anthony bows low to her, trying in vain to ignore the giggles of her sisters in the doorway. "How are you feeling today, my lady?"

"Oh, much better, Lord Bridgerton," Penelope whispers hoarsely. "I cannot thank you enough for your help yesterday." She sneezes.

"Of course I was happy to aid a friend of the family," Anthony says. "Any friend of Eloise's – but how is your ankle?"

They look down to where her slippered, slightly puffy foot is stretched out on a stool, and Penelope hastily twitches a corner of her blanket over it. "Fine, thank you. At least, soon enough I shall be good as new."

"Just a few more days of rest and elevation, Lord Bridgerton," Lady Portia calls from the door. "And then you two can re-enter society arm-in-arm as an engaged –"

"Mama, please!" Penelope hisses, flushing.

Anthony wonders how best to intervene here, but luckily Lady Featherington recalls some semblance of tact at last and ushers her elder daughters out, all but winking at them as she closes the door.

Alone with Penelope for the first time ever, Anthony finds himself at a total loss for words.

"What a farce we have made," Penelope says finally. "Molière himself would call it too obvious, too trite: the gallant viscount and his little wallflower neighbor. I am truly sorry you could not have rescued Miss Edwina Sharma instead."

"You are a devotee of the theatre, my lady?" Anthony asks, veering away from the open wound of that statement. He knows so little about her. "Do you prefer tragedies to comedies?"

"I enjoy any playwright who treats his characters like intelligent humans rather than pawns for amusement," Penelope says. "I am not opposed to tumblers turning tricks or an exchange of puns, but now that I am part of a spectacle I can say I like it no better onstage than in the audience."

"I also have little taste for clowning," Anthony admits. "My siblings call me humorless often, but while I am not much of a critic, I think Hamlet a better use of any stage talent than Twelfth Night."

"Sit, please," Penelope gestures to the cream-and-salmon settee opposite her. "You will have me strain my neck as well as my foot if you stay standing."

Anthony bows in apology and sits, careful not to jostle her leg as he does. "And do you have a favorite Shakespeare play?"

"I have always been partial to King Lear," she says softly. "I suppose it comes of being the youngest of three girls…"

"I am less familiar with that one, my lady. Perhaps you might read it to me sometime?"

"Why Lord Bridgerton, are you offering to court me?" Penelope widens her eyes in delight, the happiest she's looked so far. "Surely you know that is not necessary at this point. Like or lump it, our futures are intertwined."

"Not if you do not wish it, Miss Penelope. Of course I am happy to offer you my name and my protection, but perhaps if – if you would prefer another man –"

Penelope looks away. "No – no one else. And if you were to cast me off, who else could want the dowdy youngest Featherington? All frippery and no funds, they already say of us, and now me with no reputation either."

Anthony is shocked at how bitter she sounds. Perhaps that sore foot combined with the indignity of their situation is causing her pain? "I would never cast you off. I simply do not wish to see you forced into an unwanted alliance to please our mothers –"

"My mother, you mean." Penelope smiles ruefully. "I do not pretend to believe your mother is thrilled with this match. You must have had much higher hopes for a viscountess than me. We Featheringtons are Ton, but only just."

Anthony sits back stiffly. "I do not like to hear you disparage yourself so, madam. We neither of us chose this, that is true, but I hope I am not so ill-bred as to let you insult my future wife to soothe my wounded ego."

Penelope considers him for a moment, then nods. "If you wish to call me your future wife, Lord Bridgerton, I believe there is something you must ask me."

Anthony holds her gaze firmly, as serious as he's ever been. "If you are sure."

"I am."

With that, he stands up from the settee and immediately lowers himself to one knee on the crimson Turkish carpet, pulling the box from his waistcoat pocket.

"Miss Penelope, if you would do me the honor…"

Chapter 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The newly affianced couple manages to preserve only a few minutes of privacy together before the greater world intrudes. All too soon, the Featherington household bursts back into their drawing room to confirm that the proper words have been exchanged, that the die is cast. Lady Portia flings her arms wide with joy, nearly whacking Philippa in the nose, and calls for a toast to celebrate.

As Mrs. Varley smugly offers Anthony a flute of champagne, Penelope examines his face from the corner of her eye. She supposes she might now be permitted to ogle her fiancé openly, but natural timidity combined with Whistledown surreptition have long trained her out of the direct gaze.

He is quite handsome, she must admit. Anthony shares the same coloring and cheekbones as Col – as all the Bridgerton brothers, though there is something sharper, more severe about his looks. She has known Benedict and Col – Colin and Gregory to laugh and tease one another, to freely bestow kind smiles on their siblings and friends, even on their sister's most bashful friend. While Penelope has spent less time with Anthony than with the younger Bridgertons, she cannot remember ever having seen the 9th Viscount laugh for true. Perhaps the pressures of his title combined with family responsibilities weigh too heavily on him. Silently carrying burdens – Penelope empathizes.

"Champagne, my lady?" The man in question has returned to her seat by the fireplace with a second glass in hand, no doubt glad to step away from Prudence and Philippa's cloying giggles.

"Thank you, my lord," she stresses, accepting the glass. At his raised eyebrow, she clarifies, "Surely we may now address each other without using titles? It is the most immediately available benefit of a betrothal."

Anthony bows. "A benefit and an honor, to be invited into your circle of intimates. Penelope."

Despite having suggested it, Penelope shivers slightly. She has never been courted before – the familiarity of only her Christian name combined with his formal demeanour feels surprisingly charged, a little thrilling.

He notices the shiver but luckily misconstrues. "Still feeling the effects of yesterday? Shall I have your maid bring another blanket or stoke the fire?"

"No, thank you. If you would offer the toast, you could take your leave without giving offense. I would not want to keep you here when you must have so many important things to do."

"Seeing to my fiancée's comfort must be my first priority at all times, my lady." Nevertheless, Anthony turns to face the room and leads the Featherington family and staff in raising a glass to her:

"To the future Viscountess Bridgerton –" her mother looks likely to burst her corset stays in glee – "May she be chiefly known among the Ton for her grace under pressure, and may she find diversion in any Shakespearian tragedy she chooses. To Penelope."

"Penelope," they all echo after a beat. Penelope sees her sisters exchanging confused glances as they drink.

Well. That was not the stuff of high romance, nor was it delivered with particular affection, Penelope thinks. But for once she felt rather seen.

The next morning finds Penelope still sore of foot and of throat, though less prone to shivers and sneezes. She awakens as soon as her maid Alice draws back the curtains and requests her writing lapdesk immediately. She must compose the perfect column as soon as possible.

Not half an hour after Penelope sends a message with their sole remaining footman across the street, Eloise bursts into her bedchamber with excitement.

"At last!" Eloise exclaims. "Mama insisted that I could not force myself on you while you were still recovering and must wait for your invitation to call. I have been in agonies waiting to discuss everything with you! I still cannot believe it! Of all people, Anth –"

"Will you be able to take these to the printer's shop before noon?" Penelope interrupts, holding out her final draft. "The column must circulate before the week's end, or people will begin to wonder."

Eloise stares at her, making no move to accept the papers. "Even now, you think of nothing but Lady Whistledown? Penelope! You are engaged to my brother –"

"Which is exactly why I must publish, Eloise," Penelope says briskly. "An on-dit this absurd ought to be commented on at once, as the whole of London must know it already. I only regret that I was too indisposed yesterday to begin writing."

"What? You want to write about your OWN scandal, for all those vile twits to pick and sneer at you?"

"Of course I do not want to do so. But to ignore it would be too conspicuous, too unusual. It would signal that Whistledown is inordinately protective of your family or of mine. I might as well declare myself openly in front of the Queen – it would have the same effect."

Eloise sits down on the corner of the bed, dislodging several rejected drafts. "Did you only ask me here to deliver the papers to your printer because you are indisposed? Am I your friend or your maidservant?"

Penelope smooths the feathers of her quill, turning them to face the same direction. "Alice cannot leave the house while I am still recovering. And the printer told me last time he will not accept another 'rush job' without tripling his bill. Please, Eloise. You asked to be let in on the Whistledown scheme. Well, this is the inglorious reality of the scheme: strict deadlines and stricter fees. Please do this for me?"

(If Eloise had been of a different constitution, Penelope will think to herself later, she might have pointed out that the future Viscountess Bridgerton – soon to be the mistress of four thousand acres in Kent and 150,000 invested in the Funds – need not worry over a few shillings extra. But Eloise has never given thought to practicalities, only emotions.)

"And when I have done your scut work, madam, shall I be permitted to return to your side? Or will you be too busy preparing for the next edition?"

Penelope sighs, and reaches for Eloise's nearest hand. "You are my first friend, dearest in my heart – who else would I want by my side when I am the subject of scandal?"

"Not Awful Anthony, I can tell you that," Eloise mutters. "He's as like to read you a sermon on propriety and expect thanks for pointing out your flaws to you!"

"And here I thought I was marrying a viscount, not a vicar," Penelope says, trying to smile. She is so tired. "Will you deliver the column, El? If not, I suppose I can disguise the papers as dress bills and send them to Madame Delacroix. Perhaps she will have time to visit the printer this evening. She does live closer to the tradesmen's neighborhoods."

"No, no need. I will do it. You know, I should like to see something of the working man's London. Mama never permits us to go anywhere interesting."

"Thank you. And – you will be discreet? A lady of the Ton ought not be seen in that quarter. When I go, I borrow clothing from Alice." Penelope tilts her head at her maid sitting unobtrusively in the corner, the sole member of the Featherington household to know her secret.

Eloise's eyes light up. "In disguise, you say? Then I will definitely do it."

Penelope is dubious of the wisdom of whatever she might be planning but lets it pass – after all, Eloise is doing her a favor.

"I'll leave at once, Pen, and return back here as quickly as I may. Do not pretend to be asleep when I arrive, I know that trick. You will not shirk out of discussing your engagement with me!"

Penelope smiles for true this time. "I promise."

Eloise begins to exit Penelope's chambers, skimming the text as she straightens the papers into a neat stack. She stops suddenly in the doorway. "Penelope!"

"Yes?"

"Good heavens, is this really what you wish to publish about yourself?"

"Absolutely," Penelope says stiffly. "It is Whistledown's approach to foolish scandal exactly."

"But – but Penelope – hear how harsh it sounds!"

Eloise begins to read aloud, and Penelope closes her eyes. As if she had not spent two hours this morning obsessing over each clause!

Fickleheart and the Frump

2 April 1814

Much ado about ankles this week, dearest reader. No doubt the tale has spread all the way to Bath by now, where the goutiest of the Ton are taking the waters on behalf of their aches and pains. The newest London invalid is the youngest Miss Frump – Featherington, that is – who was witnessed tumbling into the less healing waters of the River Thames on Tuesday at Lady Danbury's annual garden fête.

Fortunately for the Frump, a Galahad leapt from the riverbank in time to save her from a soggy end. Fortunately for other ladies present, the chivalrous deed provided ample opportunity to admire how his soaked silks enhanced that fit figure. Unfortunately, that Sir Galahad might be better termed Sir Fickleheart, for this rescuer was none other than Lord Anthony Bridgerton, spotted not an hour earlier offering up pretty phrases to this year's Diamond. Miss Edwina Sharma has had many admirers in her first Season but none so devoted as the Viscount Bridgerton, who was rarely known to grace a ballroom or a fête with his presence until he began his quest for a bride this year.

So what, dearest reader, are we meant to make of Lord Bridgerton's swift transfer of attention from a Diamond to a lesser gem? Perhaps he has a heretofore unknown appreciation for weak ankles.

As Sir Fickleheart emerged dripping from the river with Miss Penelope Featherington clutching shamelessly to his upper half, your correspondent expects that any day now St. George's Hanover Square church will post their wedding banns. While other young ladies may mourn the retreat of the most eligible bachelor in the Ton, Mama Frump is no doubt rejoicing at having turned off another of her spinster daughters. Only one to go, Lady F.

It remains to be seen whether weak ankles and tasteless gowns can suffice to keep a gentleman satisfied, or whether in a few Seasons' time, the gallant Fickleheart will return to the riverbank in search of the next delicate jewel to catch.

After a moment of excruciating silence, Penelope opens her eyes to see Eloise white-faced with dismay.

"Should I include any additional details? I usually comment more on the fashions but thought this might be running overlong. I must have room in the column for observations from Almack's earlier this week."

"Additional details – Penelope! How can you talk that way about yourself? About Anthony? Bad enough to hear such rot from Cressida Cowper, but from you!"

Penelope looks away, twisting her fingers in her chemise. "I only said what everyone must be thinking. We are a joke of a pair, he and I. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise."

"Ill-matched you may be, but Frump? Fickleheart? You imply that Anthony is – is – that he will stray from you! He would never!"

"I am not what he wanted, Eloise. I would not begrudge him for wishing for a prettier bride. All London will say he is marrying beneath him."

Eloise throws her reticule at Penelope, who only just manages to duck it. "All London my eye! Tosh! We both know it is you who are marrying below your potential. Stop belittling yourself! When you insult my dearest friend, you insult me also!"

Penelope blinks away a few tears. "Thank you. I am sorry."

"You had better be! Penelope, I will not let you publish this. Forget Anthony's ego – it is yours I worry about. Do not make yourself so easy a target for others to mock!"

"I must publish something, Eloise. And I do not have time or energy to rewrite it in a manner that befits Lady Whistledown's style."

They meet each other's gazes in determined silence for another long moment, then Eloise sighs in defeat.

"Well...I do not want you exposed as Whistledown yet, not before I'm able to do something useful with it." She scratches her nose in thought. "Will you at least rewrite that dreadful final paragraph? If anyone wishes to speculate on Anthony being unfaithful, they can do it without encouragement from you!"

"Yes, I suppose. What shall I say?"

"You are the wordsmith, not me! Something…softer."

"Hmm...perhaps? Give it here." Quickly, Penelope scribbles the following:

At the thought of a Bridgerton-Featherington union, one question springs to mind. Which family tradition will reign? When comes the hour to christen the children, will they choose a single letter to share or stick to the pattern alphabetical?

"Better," Eloise says upon reading it. She hesitates, then adds, "Pen, I know I am forever complaining that Anthony is an ass, but he would do anything for his family. And you are about to become part of our family, so you needn't – you needn't be afraid he would abandon you."

Regrettably, Penelope finds herself tearing up again. "I should hope not."

"And if he so much as hurts your tiniest feeling, I'll kill him." Eloise makes a fist and threatens it at the window facing the Bridgerton townhouse across the square. She has the strength of a dormouse, but Penelope appreciates it all the same. My first friend, dearest in my heart.

Notes:

With thanks to DB, Julia Quinn connoisseur and my own first & dearest friend, for suggestions on Whistledown's style.

Chapter 4

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

As he crosses Grosvenor Square to approach the Featherington home for the second time in a week – twice more than he has ever visited before – Anthony feels unmanfully reluctant once again. He has never felt easy paying morning calls to young ladies, and a three-day-old betrothal to a near-stranger will hardly help him enjoy this more. Weak tea and insipid conversation in an ugly room, surrounded by Penelope's twittering sisters and her encroaching mother! He would rather pull ticks from his horse.

"Chin up, dearest. We need only stay the usual thirty minutes," Lady Bridgerton says in a low voice as they ascend the Featheringtons' front steps. "Once Penelope's ankle is fully healed, they will not expect you two to meet indoors much longer. Certainly not when springtime in London offers more pleasurable sights than Portia Featherington's abominable taste in curtains."

Anthony turns to her, a little embarrassed that he should be so obvious. "You think me diffident enough that I need bucking up like a green lad?" And then he notices that his own trepidation is mirrored on his mother's face. "Ah. You do not wish to visit them either."

"Penelope is a lovely young woman and I mean to demonstrate my approval of this match," Lady Violet states, lifting the knocker. "I will do my duty by my eldest son and his intended, no matter how trying her relations might be."

The front door creaks open, deftly maneuvered by the daunting female servant who poured Anthony's engagement toast the other day. She smirks at the pair of them, calling behind her "'Tis the Bridgertons, my lady!"

Lady Violet straightens her spine and sails past her son, whispering, "Once more unto the breach, hey?"

Anthony grins and follows, answering in turn: "'Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George'!"

While the Featherington décor does not improve on second impression, Penelope herself certainly does. The yellow muslin gown she is wearing does her no favors, but Anthony is pleased to see her nose less pink and her cheeks less pale. After a few minutes of desultory talk of the weather while the tea is being poured, he is able to sit with her a bit removed from the others, steering conversation to theatrical productions they have both seen.

"I thought Kean's portrayal of Othello more conceited than admirable," Penelope informs him. "It is difficult to root for a character so sure of himself and yet so mistaken. I am left to pity Desdemona twice over, no less for the bad match than for the tragic end."

Anthony chuckles. "You felt no sympathy for Othello whatever? A war hero lost among civilian mores, to have been so misled by his compatriot, his trusted friend? The betrayal from Iago almost worse than that alleged of his wife."

"A leader who takes his underlings for granted earns his just deserts." She sips her tea primly. "If he wished different results, 'twere better he paid closer attention to matters at home."

"How can you say something so controversial yet so brave?" Anthony marvels at her. "No wonder Eloise enjoys your company so. I hardly know what opinion you will have next. Now you will tell me you think Hamlet is a farce!"

"Well…." Penelope drawls, eyes twinkling.

"No!" he says, delighted. "What an original you are, my lady. It is a pleasure to debate a topic with a woman properly, instead of the typical aimless coquetry of morning calls."

Penelope pinks a little, then pursues the change of subject. "You are not overly fond of Society, sir."

Anthony snorts. "What gave me away, pray tell?"

"Your noted absence from nearly every social gathering until the year your mother declared openly that you wished to marry," she answers him seriously. "It has long been considered the coup of the Season for you to agree to attend an event, even if you would not stay above fifteen minutes on the dance floor."

"You are only two Seasons out yourself. How do you know all this?"

"People talk."

"Oh, well. Gossip." Anthony dismisses. "Has the Ton nothing better to do than speculate about my private business?"

"Courting is public business, is it not?" Penelope's cheeks have pinked again.

He peers at her, surprised. "Did I overstep somehow?"

"N – no. That is, I can understand you would mislike discussion of your affairs, it injures one's pride to be so poked at before things are settled." She looks down. "Still, how would one know who is available to court if people did not talk? Or who is to be avoided as a gamester, or a libertine? Gossip is a means of sharing information. It is not all mal-intentioned."

"I suppose…" Anthony answers slowly. "I had not thought of that. But even when Society does not whisper about one, you must admit that those evenings do drag on endlessly. Consider dances at Almack's! Stuffy rooms, terrible refreshments, and the same music played weekly since the 1790s. The conversation seems not to have changed either."

"I hesitate to contradict you, my lord –"

"But you will, won't you?" he smirks. "And I thought you the one who said we were to use Christian names now. Call me Anthony, please."

Penelope juts her chin out. "Very well. I hesitate to contradict you, An – Anthony –"

"Very good!"

Penelope scowls at him, for a moment looking remarkably like Eloise. But then her face softens and she says something the very opposite of his sister's opinion: "I do enjoy Almack's, and the balls, and the fêtes, and even the Fife musicale, though I own none of their daughters have an ear for music."

Anthony shudders. "That they have not." (Luckily their scandal this week had been the perfect excuse to skip that annual night of insult to Mozart and Bach.) "So what is it about those gatherings you enjoy? You are too good a conversationalist for it to be that."

"Thank you. I like the people, Anthony. They are so interesting, you see. Everyone is the protagonist of their own story, conducting their tiny comedies and tragedies in a crowd of others doing the same. I like to watch the dramas intersect, whether the results be happy or no."

He cocks his head to the side. "I would not have guessed. With all your careful observation, I suppose you are a – a scientist of Society."

"I suppose I am." Penelope smiles faintly. "I like the sound of a Society scientist. It is so much nicer than voyeur."

Anthony laughs out loud. From the corner of his eye, he sees their mothers turn to him in curiosity, but he cannot bring himself to care. "An original, truly. I have not met the like."

"You might have," she teases. "Had you ever attended a ball before this year."

'I very much doubt it. You say I am notorious for leaving early – I admit I am not home in a crowd, Penelope." He sets his teacup down to better explain. "Should I linger overlong at an event, all of London comes up to ask things of me. Political opinions, invitations to join them at cards or gambling, offering wagers on horses and trivialities, attempting to entrap me on the marriage mart – it is all I can do to survive that for fifteen minutes at a time. They all want something from me that I do not wish to give."

"Ah," Penelope says softly. "I had forgotten that a handsome heir can never be a scientist, cannot develop a talent for observation. Unlike me."

Handsome, hey? Anthony means to tease her a little for that, then pulls up short at her final statement. "What do you mean, unlike you?"

She looks up at him with an odd twist to her smile that he cannot like. "Well, you see. It is easy to observe when that is the only option at hand. Society has never wanted anything from me."

Anthony sits back in his seat, unsure how to respond. Before their silence can curdle, Prudence twits over with another gilded plate of petit fours. He had not thought he could ever be thankful for Prudence's simpering, but her artless inanities give the couple time to collect themselves.

By the time Lady Bridgerton rises and comes to join them, Anthony is almost convinced they will forget that last exchange.

"I regret to interrupt, dearest, but I believe we must take our leave. My grandson is to visit this afternoon with his mother," Lady Violet explains to the rest of the room. This is the convenient excuse to end their call she had arranged the day before, should the visit to the Featheringtons prove too painful.

"Oh! Of course you cannot miss a visit from the Duchess of Hastings," Lady Featherington says. "Only think, Penelope darling, soon she will be your sister-in-law! A duchess!"

This is unsubtle even for Lady Portia, and both Anthony and Penelope wince in response. She sees the reaction and interprets it in her own insinuating way: "Well, Lord Bridgerton, there is no need for you to leave so early. I daresay you are less interested in a squalling infant nephew than in your bride-to-be!"

Which has the surprising ring of being true, actually. Anthony has never wanted to prolong a morning call before, but he is not quite ready to exit Penelope's company yet. Not when she looked so sad just now.

Lady Violet, however, has heard nothing of their conversation and no reason to believe he would wish to stay a minute longer in this house. "Unfortunately I must disappoint, Lady Featherington, as my son is needed elsewhere this afternoon. Come, Anthony."

Seeing no way to politely contradict her, Anthony stands and bows to Penelope, then to her relatives.

Lady Featherington protests, "But we have not set the date for the wedding! Or even the engagement party!"

"You wished to do that today?" Anthony finds his voice again at last. "At the least, we must discuss the finances first. Shall I summon my man of business here to review them?"

"Oh, well." Lady Featherington's prodigious bosom deflates somewhat. She looks a little shifty, even. "Yes, er. Perhaps we should wait a while after all. When the new Lord Featherington arrives, he will want to have his say."

"Why?" Anthony asks, even more confused. "Aren't the dowries a matter for the father, not the cousin? I understand your estate is entailed to the male heir, but surely your daughters' dowries were set aside years ago."

An awkward pause develops and Anthony feels an unpleasant suspicion dawning. Then Penelope limps over to join her mother, and slips an arm in hers.

"I was to have 700 a year," she says quietly. "But Papa's gambling left us in a dismal state, you see."

"Penelope!" Lady Portia hisses, and is ignored.

Penelope raises her chin, all dignity. "We have inherited more debts than dowries, Lord Bridgerton, and many of them. It requires my cousin's signature to sell out from the Funds and clear the receipts, then hope any remaining money may fulfill a dowry's promise. So I cannot marry you until then. Else Philippa would have married her Finch long ago."

"And we are so tired of waiting," Philippa sighs plaintively, then recoils at her mother's glare.

Anthony, astounded, foregoes glancing at his own mother. "I…it is prodigious brave of you to share this openly, my lady."

"Is it?" she responds. "In my own home, to my fiancé and his mother? If I cannot be truthful here, then where?"

Without thinking, Anthony strides across the room and takes her hand. "I hope you can always be truthful with me, Penelope. Thank you for telling me. I am content to wait upon your cousin's arrival."

"Not going to cry off, then?" Are her eyes wet, or is that a trick of the light?

"I told you on Wednesday I would never cast you off. I am a man of my word." Anthony bends forward to kiss her hand, and has the satisfaction of seeing her turn pink once more. "Until our next visit, my lady."

And with that, Bridgerton mère and Bridgerton fils take their leave. They are silent all the way across the square and into their own home where, after divesting herself of her hat and gloves, Lady Bridgerton turns to her son. "Well, Anthony!"

"Yes, Mother?" He is prepared for her to cross-examine his conversation, for her concern about Penelope's dowry never materializing, for a judgment on the late Baron's disgraceful behavior. But he receives none of those responses.

"Well, Anthony." His mother leans over to arrange his cravat as if he were a boy of ten. "Today exceeded my expectations, dearest. I do think that young woman might be the making of you."

And what she means by that, he is not sure he is ready to know.

"Daphne, won't you stay for dinner?" Lady Violet asks, chucking the future Duke of Hastings under his infant chin. "We dine en famille tonight. If Simon is still busy with Parliament matters, surely you can be spared for a quiet meal with just us."

"That sounds lovely, Mama," Daphne says. "I shall send him a note directly, if I may borrow some of your stationery." She gets up from the chaise longue and makes her way to the corner of the family sitting room, where Anthony is doing his best to block out the noise of his siblings and concentrate on his correspondence. "Hallo, brother. I haven't seen you for an age. I hear I am to felicitate you and our neighbor."

"Sister." Anthony acknowledges, stepping aside to make space for her. "The ink is just here –"

"Thank you," she laughs at him. "As if I have never used this desk before! I have not forgotten the arrangements of my childhood home!"

Anthony surveys his family with a sigh. He can feel a headache starting to form. Between his mother's cooing over Daphne's baby, Eloise's sermonizing, Hyacinth and Gregory's bickering, Francesca's incessant practicing of scales – he has not known a minute's peace since returning from the Featherington home this morning. He cannot remain here a moment more and keep his temper.

"I am for White's," he announces abruptly to the room.

Colin looks up from the game of Cat's Cradle that Hyacinth has stretched over his hands. "It is early hours for the club, is it not? No other gentlemen will be there yet."

"I am counting on it," Anthony says through gritted teeth.

"I'll join," Benedict says, closing his sketchbook. "You come too, Colin. A quiet brotherly bonding."

Anthony opens his mouth to protest but Lady Violet responds first: "Very well. As long as you return home by the first course. And I will not have you all soused again, even for a family meal."

"Do not fret, Mother." Benedict slings an arm around Colin's shoulder. "I'll bring your sons home safe and sober."

Anthony admits defeat.

"I hardly need a minder, brother," he chastises Benedict, taking his hat from his valet on their way out the door. "Thank you, Timothy."

"Don't you? What if another handsome young thing threatens to trip on the threshold of our club and fall into your arms? You could not handle two sudden betrothals."

"But there are no women permitted at White's," Colin laughs. "Unless you think he'd catch a man."

"A male debutante would be a sight indeed," Anthony says as their carriage pulls up. "If you two must insist on joining me, leave the nonsense at home."

White's, that most elite of private gentleman's clubs, is indeed nearly empty in the mid-afternoon. As the brothers settle into an upstairs room, Anthony signals to the concierge for a round of ale; after Tuesday night's misadventure, he will not be ready to face scotch again for some time. He unclenches his shoulders in the familiar comfort of the dark mahogany paneling, the air faintly scented with cigar smoke and cologne. The décor at White's is a balm to eyes still sore from the visual assault of the Featherington home.

Father first brought him here the summer before Anthony was to leave for Oxford, proud to show off his son and heir to fellow peers of the realm. How equally proud Anthony had been to be welcomed and known as Edmund's son! That one precious summer together without younger siblings tugging at their sleeves, before Father passed away.

Anthony has done his best to provide a similar introduction for his younger brothers, awkwardly aware he has never matched his father's easy grace. He is aided by the fact that White's has not changed at all in twelve years: the blends of snuff and cigars the same, the spirits on offer the same, and the ancient concierge greets each new male Bridgerton with the same amiable condescension. Anthony feels Father's loss here as much as everywhere, the grief by now forming the rhythm of his heartbeat.

"So you braved the Hôtel Featherington again," Benedict says once they have drinks in hand. "And how did you find your blushing bride?"

"Bearing up remarkably well under strain," Anthony answers with more honesty than he planned.

"Her foot still that sore?"

"No, she says she will be ready to walk again by church on Sunday. It is the constant encroaching of her family relations that palls. I don't know how she can bear to live in it every day, surrounded by awful taste and worse wit."

"That's why Penelope has spent so much time at our house since childhood," Colin says. "To visit with Eloise, yes, but also to escape her family. Her mother would not complain, since the connection with us was to the Featheringtons' benefit."

"Has she spent so much time with us?" Anthony wonders. "I don't recall seeing her that often."

"Truly? Eloise and Penelope were always ensconced in some corner of a room reading novels, or playing at tin soldiers with Gregory and Hyacinth. You could not help but trip over the two of them when we were younger."

"I suppose…I suppose I am so much older than most of you that I was not around to notice," Anthony says. "Surely I would have remembered her presence."

Benedict scoffs. "Ah yes, the heir apparent was always too important for the daily minutia of family life. So concerned with your duty to your siblings as viscount that you would not stick around to spend time with us."

"I am here with you now, aren't I? You sound like Mother."

"In many things Mother is correct. You could stand to listen to her more."

"Penelope is a good listener," Colin says, returning to the theme. "She was always the fastest to respond to my letters when I was in Greece."

Anthony looks at him in surprise. "You wrote Penelope letters directly on your Grand Tour? And she responded?"

"Yes, and did so better than the rest of the family. She actually paid attention to what I was saying."

Benedict waves a languid hand. "I am an artist, not a reader, Colin. I prefer to look at a landscape myself rather than read three pages of you prattling on about it."

"Rather inappropriate of you, brother," Anthony says stiffly. "To correspond privately with an unmarried young lady…"

"That is a ridiculous rule. We have grown up together! She is as good as another sister to me."

Benedict cocks his head at his younger brother. "So you have never thought of Penelope romantically, then? Merely as a friend?" He kicks Anthony under the table, who frowns back at him. What is he on about?

Colin furrows his brow. "No, never. It did not occur to me. I suppose she is not my type."

"Indeed? Then what, pray tell, is your type?"

"Oh, I don't know. Someone taller, I expect. I would prefer a woman one needn't bend so far down to reach. Naturally neither of you would understand that."

"You are a mere two inches taller than me!" Benedict protests.

"And that makes all the difference," Colin says.

Benedict flicks some cigar ash from a nearby tray at him. "Your only requirement in a lover is height, hey?"

Colin shrugs. "Height, kind eyes, perhaps a dainty waist. I am flexible if she be pretty."

"And how about your requirements, Lord Anthony, shortest of us all? Presumably someone more pocket-sized?"

Anthony thinks back to dark flashing eyes and a gently wicked smile, curled up in the bed of his bachelor lodgings. "Mmm. You are misled with regard to the small waist, Colin. A man likes to have curves worth holding onto."

"Ah, like your actress," Colin says knowingly. "The petite brunette. What was her name again?"

"Opera singer, I believe," Benedict contradicts with a smirk. "Last year's duty of the flesh."

"Siena," Anthony says. "Siena Rosso. And she was never a duty, Benedict. At least, she would not let me make her so."

"Do explain yourself."

Anthony looks away. "Siena rejected my suit. I…behaved shabbily to her, and she would not take me back. Not even when I offered her my hand."

"You wanted to marry your mistress? How did I not know about this?" Colin asks, incredulous.

"It is a rare woman unimpressed by the viscounty," Benedict says. "Holding out for an earl, was she?"

"No! No, she...she said I didn't understand. That she would never be welcome in our midst, forever lonely among all the ladies of the Ton."

Colin exhales. "I thought true love conquered all. What does Society's opinion matter if you are two united against the world?"

Anthony gives him a rueful smile. "I made this same argument and for some reason neither she nor Mother were convinced."

"Women are a mystery." Colin shakes his head. "You needn't worry about La Rosso, Anthony. I did not realize she was formerly yours, but I saw her in Don Giovanni in Milan in the fall. Her career continues well and she had a bevy of suitors at the stage door."

"That's – that's good to know."

Siena, you would have been lonely with me and yet I have been lonely without you, Anthony thinks. Lonely and foolish, to think that any random debutante fulfilling a checklist could take your place in my affections and in my bed.

"Well then," Benedict says. "We must look to Marlowe for the formula: 'Thou hast committed Fornication: but that was in another country, And besides, the wench'–"

"Has moved on," Anthony interrupts. "Enough." He downs the rest of his glass in one swallow.

The brothers revert to the silence Anthony had so wished for earlier. Regrettably, it does not comfort.

Eventually the White's concierge returns to check on them. "There you are, Edwards. Another round for us, please." Anthony holds out his glass.

"Very good, Lord Bridgerton." Edwards bows, then holds out a folded broadsheet. "Forgive me, my lord, but you might wish to read this latest column before the other gentlemen begin arriving. I took the liberty of claiming it from a footman belowstairs."

Anthony raises an eyebrow, taking and unfolding the paper handed him. "Is that so? And why should I be interested in the chatter of Lady Whistledown? I – oh."

"What is it?" Benedict and Colin come to stand behind him as he stares down at the page. Together they silently read the forked tongue of that unknown gossip, presuming to pass judgement on his affairs.

"Fickleheart and the Frump…" Anthony breathes out slowly, trying to maintain a steady heart rate. Benedict is gripping his shoulder tightly.

"Well, brother?" Colin finally asks.

"She is unfair, and insinuatingly sly," Anthony says. "But…it could have been worse."

"Indeed? Oh, indeed!" This from his brothers, hastily.

"I do not like to be shown for a fool."

("We know," Benedict murmurs.)

"But I suppose the scene would be rather droll to the outside observer. And" – Anthony remembers suddenly what Penelope had said this morning – "and it is news that I am no longer available for courting. Gossip is about sharing information, is it not?"

Benedict lets go of him in surprise. "It is, though I would not predict you would see it that way."

"I owe that insight to Penelope, yes. I wish this anonymous wit would not mock her so. I suspect it is her mother who chooses the gowns."

"It absolutely is," Colin says. "Eloise mentions it whenever they return from the dressmaker's. If you're not going to rage about the column, Anthony, may I read the rest? I am curious what else she has to say. The younger Hallewell was boasting about his horses the other day, and I am sure Whistledown is full of clever puns about his racing losses."

"Take it." Anthony thrusts the broadsheet at him with a sigh.

Colin salutes him with his newly full glass, then returns to his seat to read.

"Anthony…are you truly all right with this?" Benedict asks softly.

"No," he admits. "But what is to be done about it? If I protest publicly, I will look even more foolish."

"Society's game is cruel that way."

Anthony runs a harassed hand through his hair. "Whistledown calls me fickle, as if I have a trail of broken hearts behind me. But I am no Lord Byron, to fling a woman aside at a whim! I treated Siena poorly, I admit, but I did care for her. And I had only honorable attentions for Miss Edwina."

"It's mere chatter," Benedict says. "Those who know you for true, we know that your affections are not so capricious. But it is useful to learn how you are seen by others, hey?"

"Damned unpleasant to be teased like this. And – oh God – Penelope will have read it too, won't she? All the ladies read this nonsense."

Benedict inclines his head in a nod.

Anthony groans. "If this is what Society thinks of me, I'll have to prove how wrong they are."

"And how will you do that?"

Anthony thinks back to his first conversation with Penelope: "Lord Bridgerton, are you offering to court me?" she'd asked with a smile. Trust that clever girl to have the answer!

"Benedict, I must show that idiot Whistledown and the rest of the Ton I can treat a lady properly. I must court my fiancée in public."

They'll all see, Anthony vows to himself. I know my duty to she who will soon be my wife.

Notes:

A few citations:

Once more unto the breach/…England, and Saint George!: King Henry rallying the English army to battle, William Shakespeare's Henry V Act III Scene I

Something so controversial and yet so brave: Eric Andre to Amber Rose on The Eric Andre Show s4e7

Thou hast committed Fornication: Christopher Marlowe's The Jew of Malta Act IV Scene I. Anthony interrupts Benedict in order to change the ending of the quote.

White's, a real institution with a notorious reputation, still does not admit women in the 21st century.

Chapter 5

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"It is tremendously hot for April, is it not?" asks Daphne, fanning herself gently.

"Yes," Penelope murmurs, gazing about herself in wonder. She still cannot quite believe she is promenading in Hyde Park with Daphne, of all people; Anthony and Daphne's husband Lord Simon – the Duke of Hastings! – are following a little ways behind them.

Of all the unforeseen results of Penelope's sudden, ridiculous engagement, spending time with Daphne Basset, née Bridgerton is the least expected. Penelope thinks it perfectly natural that Daphne is now a duchess: after all, she has always been the most beautiful and accomplished young lady of Penelope's acquaintance. If anyone could catch the eye of a rakish confirmed bachelor of a duke, of course it would be Daphne. Penelope has been bashful around her since they were children and she the shy neighbor coming over to play with Eloise.

Thus the discovery that Anthony plans to court his fiancée even though they are already betrothed had made Penelope laugh. But the discovery that courting means socializing with Anthony's oldest friend and his wife has made her very tongue-tied. Daphne has been doing her best this morning, but their conversation still founders often. Penelope cannot help wishing she were arm-in-arm with Anthony instead.

"Penelope…" Daphne lowers her voice as a boisterous crowd of young men passes by. "Forgive me, but are you – quite happy?"

"Why, what do you mean?"

"With Anthony, that is. I know…I know he can be rather top-lofty and dragonish, especially if he does not get his way. I would hate to see him behave that way to his bride. Especially since you did not choose him."

Penelope is touched. "Thank you, you are very kind. But Anthony has been nothing but polite to me."

"Truly? He always treats you with respect? I mean, as of course he should," Daphne adds hastily.

It is something indeed to see last year's Diamond flustered, Penelope thinks. "Eloise has often mentioned his boorish behavior, but I have not experienced anything uncouth myself these past few weeks. Perhaps it is different with little sisters than with fiancées."

"I should hope so!" Daphne squeezes her arm. "Anthony was not his best self with me last year when Simon and I were courting, though I see in retrospect that he did mean to be helpful. It is just that he does not always realize how he sounds. He…misjudges his tone sometimes."

Penelope shrugs. "Not with me. He says I make him laugh."

Her companion's pretty eyes widen. "He laughs with you? Anthony? You – you really enjoy conversing with him?"

"I do. He is a good listener, you know. When we discuss plays or literature, he always remembers my opinions from the previous visit."

Daphne looks rather like she has been hit over the head. "Well! That is…that is wonderful. I am so pleased for you, Penelope."

Penelope relaxes. Perhaps it is her turn to offer a conversational cue. "Tell me, how is your son doing?"

Discussion of wetnurses and naptimes lasts them another half-circuit around the public path. Penelope is just beginning to actually be comfortable in Daphne's presence when Daphne lowers her voice again:

"Quickly, while the men are distracted by Lord Hallewell's chestnut roans – " Penelope looks behind them to see Anthony and Simon stopping to admire a fine pair of horses –" I must ask another indelicate question. Penelope, have you been instructed?"

"Instructed? Instructed in what?"

Daphne flushes a little. "Your wedding night, I mean. Are you aware of what is to happen between man and wife?"

Now they are both embarrassed. "I…somewhat. I have read a bit, that is. Nothing very informative."

"But your mother has not…?"

"No. I suppose she will do so before the ceremony."

"Oh! Well, I do not wish to infringe on Lady Featherington's prerogative. But Penelope, if you have any questions – please do not hesitate to ask. I was in your situation only twelve months ago."

Penelope would rather die than ask Daphne the Diamond a single thing about marital relations. She is back to being tongue-tied again. "I…yes. All right."

"Good! Oh, here they come." Daphne turns to face the men, her face clearing with welcome as she greets her husband. "Hello, darling. Do you plan to buy those chestnuts, then?"

"Ha!" The duke barks a laugh, tucking Daphne's arm in his. "Jasper Hallewell wishes! He wants twice what they're worth. We will have to look to a different man for your son's first pony, my dear."

"Mmm, good thing little August is not even crawling yet." Daphne smiles up at him. "We have plenty of time."

"Penelope?"

Penelope startles, then turns to see Anthony holding out his own hand to her. "Are you alright?"

"Yes!" Penelope answers, turning even more pink as she averts her gaze from his handsome face. "Yes, I am fine. It is just the heat, you know."

"In that case, would you prefer to stop in the shade for a moment?" Anthony moves to rest a hand on her back in support and she shivers at his sudden touch.

"No! I – thank you, but we may continue." Penelope steps to the side and slips her hand through his elbow. Still touching, but less…intimate. Less reminiscent of what lies ahead of them.

"As you wish." Anthony looks unconvinced but changes the subject readily enough. "I believe that yesterday afternoon we were speaking of The Tempest? You wished to explain what I misunderstood about the monster Caliban and his mother."

"Right, yes. Clearly you have not considered a comparison with Grendel and his mother…"

"Grendel, from the epic Beowulf?"

"Just so."

"It is many years since we read it at Eton, my lady. Will you recall the plot to me?" His tone is soft, courteous.

Penelope does so, releasing the tension from her spine as they begin walking again. And Daphne feared he would be a brute to me!

Penelope cannot help but laugh to herself at the riot of colors her family displays as they arrive at Almack's: Lady Featherington in ostentatiously beaded lavender half-mourning, Prudence in befrilled butter yellow and crimson, Philippa in multiple shades of orange, herself in mint green with mauve ribbons (alas), and Anthony in the comparatively austere black tailcoat and satin breeches of men's evening dress, carefully handing each lady down from the carriage.

Though Beau Brummell and his fellow dandies might sniff at the simplicity of Anthony's cravat and lack of accessorial flair, they cannot fault him on his execution of the niceties. Besides, what need has Penelope for a peacock fiancé when her wardrobe is too loud by half? Not for the first or even the fiftieth time, she anticipates marriage as a chance for sartorial freedom, the opportunity to make her own choices.

Naturally, the only part of her outfit that Penelope likes is the part her mother had no say in at all. Carefully tucked into her reticule is an ivory brisé fan, a gift from Anthony hand-delivered from the fanmaker earlier that day. It is a delicate object, deceptively simple in its lack of color or added ornamentation. Penelope had gasped upon opening the box.

"No gilding? No painted scenes?" Prudence had sniffed over her shoulder. Like their mother, Prudence favors vivid colors at all times, her own fans gaudy and encumbered with embellishment.

"Now, Pru, this is Lord Bridgerton's first attempt," Lady Portia had chided. "We cannot expect he will hit his mark every time, especially when he is still learning Penelope's tastes."

But Anthony had the right of it immediately, Penelope had thought. The fan's only decoration comes from the carving of the ivory sticks with a lace-like pattern, the work of a master craftsman that rewards prolonged study. Possibly even more precious than her gift is the note that had been sent with it:

Daphne argued for the rose-patterned silk fan or the tortoiseshell, which she tells me is quite the thing in Paris of late. Do tell me if I mistake, but I thought a more subtle design would best suit a subtle lady. – A.

The fan and her dress do not quite complement each other, but Penelope could not care less.

She tucks her arm in Anthony's, looking up at him as they make their way to the entrance behind her mother and sisters. His face is grim, though perhaps that is the result of a prolonged carriage ride sitting across from Prudence – she can hardly blame him.

"If you like, we might slip away while Mama is condescending to the master of ceremonies," she suggests. "We could be gone before anyone notices."

Anthony's stony demeanor thaws somewhat. "And where do you suggest we go instead?"

"It is early in the Season for Vauxhall Gardens, but perhaps the lack of familiar faces will be a point in its favor?"

"I promised you Almack's, Penelope. I thought we had agreed on the importance of being seen in Society as a blissfully united pair."

"Hardly blissful if you continue to look as if you have had pins placed under each fingernail," Penelope insists. "Really, I do not wish you to suffer. Even to satisfy the expectations of the Ton."

"I apologize for my expression, my lady. I, in turn, do not wish to ruin your pleasure. I can bear a few tedious hours in an overheated room for you."

"I appreciate the sacrifice," she says with a straight face. "You put Iphigeneia at Aulis to shame."

His lips twitch in his first smile of the evening. "Thank you for acknowledging it."

"Well, sir, should the crowds make you feel faint, I have with me a beautiful fan you might borrow. A gift from a suitor of mine who…who has been so kind in his attentions. When kindness was neither expected nor required."

Anthony's smile holds, turning to address the footman holding open the door for them: "Does Miss Featherington not deserve beautiful things?"

"My – my lord?" the young man stammers, confused.

"I am quite fortunate to accompany a lady so considerate of my tender feelings," Anthony tells him. "But I am a man of my word, and I have said we are for Almack's tonight."

"Y – yes, my lord. You are standing in the doorway of Almack's now."

"Well, what do you know? Since we are already here, shall we enter?" Anthony looks back to her, one eyebrow raised. "It would be an honor to escort you, Penelope."

"Then it would be an honor to accept, Anthony."

And thus in they go.

Almack's might not be the most exciting dance hall of the Season but it is the most elite: the six Society matrons who oversee the weekly invitations are nearly as influential as the Queen in determining which members of the Ton are in and which are out. Penelope knows that the tacky Featheringtons are fortunate to have remained on the list as long as they have. She suspects that Lady Jersey, the merriest of the Almack's patronesses, finds her mother's antics amusing.

As a veteran of the venue, Penelope had assumed tonight would be similar to all the others: a dance or two – this time with Anthony instead of her typical partner, some stammering younger son unable to land a more impressive lady – some bland desserts, many opportunities to collect Whistledown gossip from the sidelines. She had forgotten the difference it makes to a wallflower's status to be publicly betrothed. For the first time ever, Penelope's dance card is more than halfway full.

"And I am not even single," Penelope mutters under her breath, staring at Lord Fife's signature on the second line. He had never so much as glanced at her before! "How gracious of them to pursue me now."

"Therein lies the attraction," Anthony informs her as they head out to dance. "Many eligible bachelors avoid dancing with debutantes so as to avoid any messy displays of emotion or mistaken impressions of their interest. An engaged lady is safe to flirt with, a married one even better."

"I am well aware," Penelope sighs. "Oh, how aware I am of the unfairness of this system. The men can opt out but the young ladies cannot, nor are they permitted to pursue a gentleman directly. If I had not fallen in the Thames, I should have had no hope of finding a husband this Season either."

"I suppose we must both give thanks to that patch of mud," Anthony says. "Else I too would have taken refuge in the card rooms with the other bachelors and not have met you."

"You met me years ago, good sir. I was just turned four the first time I visited your home."

"Yes, but…well, I did not see you before. You know what I mean!"

Penelope laughs up at him. "I do. I did not see you either. My attentions were elsewhere." She winces internally at that. She had not meant to say it aloud, but somehow Anthony elicits confidences from her without trying.

"Indeed?" Anthony says in surprise.

Thankfully, Penelope is saved from a response by the sound of the violins. Their first dance, a quadrille, requires four pairs of dancers moving in tandem and does not allow for intimate conversations. By the time the music ends, he seems to have forgotten her incautious comment.

After Anthony, Penelope dances with Lord Fife, Philippa's fiancé Mr. Finch, Sir Frederick Standen, and Benedict Bridgerton, who whirls her through a Scotch reel lightly teasing her all the while. "Anthony is scowling at me," he says as the musicians cease playing at last. "I salute you, Penelope. I have never known him to wish he was with a lady in my place."

"Any lady would be lucky to have you as a dance partner," Penelope replies, a bit breathless from so much spinning. "You have yet to step on my toes or my hem, to paw me with sweaty hands, or refuse to engage in inanities about the weather."

"It does continue very hot for April," Benedict says. "How could anyone find a spouse without dissection of that fact?"

"That is much of what Anthony and I discuss, yes. We are agreed that rain is less preferable to sun, but the clean smell of the air after a storm is worth the wet."

"Then I see many years of wedded bliss ahead for you two. May we all be fortunate to find the person with whom we can be so open in our opinions." Benedict steers her back to the edge of the room, where Anthony is waiting for them by a pair of padded chairs.

Anthony comes forward to take her hand. "You had promised me the next dance, but would you prefer to rest instead, Penelope? You are looking a trifle hot."

"Any excuse to avoid the dance floor, hey?" Benedict smirks at them.

Anthony cuffs his brother on the shoulder without looking back. "Would you like some lemonade, my lady?"

"Please," Penelope says. "It would be good to catch my breath. Perhaps we can resume with that new waltz later. I should rather try it with you than with a stranger."

Anthony bows and leaves to procure the refreshments. Benedict winks at her and heads towards the nearest card room.

Penelope takes out her fan, admiring its design again instead of cooling herself. Such a beautiful gift. Such a lovely night. Of course, that is when someone comes up to spoil it.

"You'll never keep him, you know."

Penelope startles and turns to see Cressida Cowper sneering at her, in a towering feather headdress that would make her sister Prudence green with envy.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Enjoy your little romance while it lasts, Miss Featherington. Lord Bridgerton will tire of your novelty soon enough. You haven't the looks or the charm to make him remain by your side. A mouse maiden."

"I thank you for your insight," Penelope says stiffly. "How silly of me to think a man might prefer my company for other reasons."

Cressida's mouth twists in ugly triumph. "So you admit you caught him with sluttish wiles, then? I knew that little Thames maneuver was a trick. Clever of you, I suppose. You have no fortune, no accomplishments, no beauty, no taste. You might as well use what's beneath your skirts."

Penelope exhales. "Why on earth would you say such a thing to me?"

"Lady Whistledown was too easy on you. In truth all men are fickle at heart. You should bear that in mind as you plan your wedding, Miss Frump."

And what a blessing that Cressida has evoked Whistledown – it slows Penelope's pulse and clears her head enough to answer in kind:

"Tell me, Miss Cowper: are you more concerned that I may have entrapped Lord Bridgerton or jealous that you did not think of such a plan yourself? Afraid that if you tried to seduce him, he would not have agreed to marry you afterwards?"

Cressida reddens. "So full of yourself now there is a ring on your finger. Beware, Penelope Featherington. Your family is an embarrassment – breeding will out." She sweeps off.

Penelope slumps back in her seat and sighs. Thank God Anthony had not returned in time to hear any of that. There must be quite a crush at the refreshments table. Please, let him be occupied there until I am fully recovered from that unprovoked attack. She closes her eyes in exhaustion.

Penelope hears a rustle of skirts as someone sits next to her, the air suddenly perfumed with a blend of sandalwood and jasmine.

"Miss Cowper misjudges entirely, you know."

Penelope opens her eyes to see Miss Edwina Sharma looking back earnestly at her. "You think so?"

"Yes, definitely. It has not taken me a full Season to learn when a gentleman really is interested in a young lady…and when another woman has become filled with spite and envy."

"Cressida Cowper has always been spiteful. I think she came out of the womb begrudging any attention not paid to her."

Edwina leans forward. "You are deserving of happiness, Miss Penelope. Don't let her ruin a good match."

Penelope's stomach twists in guilt. "I am sorry for having taken him away from you. Truly, it was not a trick: I had never thought of Lord Bridgerton as a suitor before that day." Oh dear, is that worse? Perhaps that is rubbing salt in the wound of her loss.

But Edwina does not seem upset. On the contrary: "I ought to thank you, actually. You saved me from an uncomfortable situation too. I would have married him if he had asked."

"And you did not wish his courtship?" Penelope thinks suddenly of Daphne's concerns about Anthony's past behavior. "Was he…unkind to you?"

"Oh no! Not in the least. But once Lord Bridgerton withdrew from my side, it became clear that he had pursued me as a status symbol, rather than on my own merit," Edwina explains. "I was dazzled by him, and my family was pushing me to make a prestigious match in my first Season. And I have realized I do not wish to be married yet."

"I see…I can understand that."

"I told Mama that I plan to refuse any other offers this year. It is too early for me to decide on my future when I am still new to England and to the business of courting."

"That is very sensible of you," Penelope says slowly. "Not what one might expect from a Diamond."

Edwina looks down, straightening her skirts. "I did not choose that title for myself, any more than I could choose my looks."

Penelope is rather ashamed to realize how wrongly she had characterized this young lady. "And what title would you choose for yourself, if you could?"

"I don't know yet! I hope another Season or two will allow me to find out."

Impulsively, Penelope reaches over to touch her gloved hand. "Miss Edwina…while you figure it out, I should like to know you better. I hope we can be friends."

"I would like that," Edwina says softly. "I have not made many friends in this country yet. If you think Lord Bridgerton would not be uncomfortable."

Penelope scoffs. "Nonsense! Let him fidget a little while we go for walks or for tea. He must learn to make peace with a wife who chooses her own friends." Besides, she thinks a bit selfishly, it might allow me to test if Anthony was never truly interested in her. If Cressida really was wrong about him preferring beauties, I might stand a chance after all.

Edwina smiles. "If you are sure. Please find me at home with Lady Danbury at any time."

Penelope smiles back, squeezing her hand.

"Apologies, but I see Mama beckoning me. I must go." Edwina stands up to leave, then turns back to add: "Miss Penelope…please do not take Miss Cowper's words to heart. Lord Bridgerton never looked at me as he does you."

"What do you mean?" Penelope feels herself turn pink, curious and suddenly hopeful.

Edwina inclines her head to one side. "He never looked so…relaxed."

"What do you mean, you collected only two items for Lady Whistledown last night?" Eloise exclaims. "You were at Almack's for hours – our butler said Anthony did not return home until two thirty in the morning!"

She is perched on Madame Delacroix's sewing table in the modiste's back room, Whistledown drafts and dress patterns mixed freely on the surface beside her.

Penelope winces, trying not to move and thereby dislodge any of the pins Madame Delacroix is currently placing in her bodice. "I did not mean to be so negligent in my task. But I was kept so busy by the dancing and by Anthony's attentions, I could not easily slip away to eavesdrop. He would have noticed."

Eloise snorts. "I cannot believe anyone would prefer my brother's company to a chance for investigation. He is such a bore."

"But Eloise, you do not care for tawdry gossip, do you? How unlike you to be advocating for me to gather more of it."

"I merely think you are wasting your talents on stupid topics when you could be pursuing important issues instead. Pen, you were surrounded last night by a dozen Members of Parliament! Imagine if you had asked any of them about their upcoming votes, rather than their gambling and their flirtations!"

"I have never asked any of the Ton for opinions to include in Lady Whistledown," Penelope frowns. "It is strictly my observations, not hearsay. And what MP would ever share his plans directly with a woman?"

"The more fool them. The female sex could be a political force to be reckoned with, if only they permitted us ladies to have our say!"

"I suppose you would have them grant us the right to vote as well?"

"But of course!"

"What a dreamer you are."

"Someone's got to dream," Eloise grumbles. "Lest we all remain complacent like you with the foolishness of dances and wedding planning and becoming a viscountess."

Penelope stiffens with displeasure, but before she can say something she will regret, Madame Delacroix interrupts.

"A viscountess may have much influence on her husband, Mademoiselle Eloise," their dressmaker says, straightening up and examining her handiwork. "Does not Lord Bridgerton also have a seat in the House of Lords? Mademoiselle Penelope might effect more change by discussing with him at the dinner table than by storming the gates of Westminster."

"Hmph." Eloise subsides. "It still feels to me like second best."

"I am lucky even to have second best," Penelope says. "You know I was afraid I would never be married at all. And Anthony does listen to me. Though we have not spoken of politics much yet."

"Well, anyway, what will you put in the column? Isn't it due tomorrow?"

"I don't know," Penelope sighs. "Perhaps I can squeeze out a few more lines about the fashions last night. The Hallewell sisters were boasting that their new shawl designs are all the rage in Paris, though I cannot confirm that."

"I might be of assistance to you there, mademoiselle," Madame Delacroix offers. "I do not dress the Hallewells, but if you describe the patterns, I might compare avec mes sources."

"Thank you," Penelope says gratefully. "That would be a huge help. A new direction for discussion, even… a standing space for fashion critique, perhaps?"

"I suppose clothes are a little better than gossip, if still tedious," Eloise says. "Pen, what if I have something to contribute to Lady Whistledown?"

"A monologue on women's suffrage? I am not sure my readers will care for it."

"No, I know. But I have an idea…if you will permit me to explore something for next week."

"Hmm." Penelope peers at her, unsure. But a busy Eloise is less worrisome than a bored Eloise, and Penelope does feel guilty that she has been spending less time with her best friend than with her best friend's brother. "Nothing false or in danger of getting us arrested, yes?"

"Yes, yes, I promise."

"Fine, then I await what you will show me with bated breath."

"Good! You will not be disappointed!" Eloise hops off of the table. "I am sorry I cannot stay longer, Pen. But I promised Mama I would be home for tea, and I must still return these books to the lending library."

"Go on, then. Madame Delacroix and I still have to discuss dress trimmings, and I know you have no opinions on that score."

"Au revoir, Mademoiselle Eloise."

Eloise waves at the two of them as she leaves.

Penelope turns back to the modiste to see her holding out two samples of trim.

"Which shall it be, Penelope, the Brussels lace or the Huguenot?"

Penelope considers the options in front of her for a while, relishing the rare opportunity to decide for herself. "The Brussels," she says at last. "My mother would want me to cover the gown with it, and add beading to each of the flowers. But perhaps just the flounce at the hem would suffice?"

"Wise choice, trés a la mode. You will be a very elegant bride."

"It's not too expensive, I hope."

"Bah, and so what if it is?" Madame Delacroix's eyes are twinkling in mischief. "What use is a man's fortune if not to adorn his lady? I doubt Lord Bridgerton would complain, for he is used to the dress bills of his mother and sisters. I should know, I am the one to send them."

Penelope twists her fingers in the skirts of the muslin sample she has on. "It is all so overwhelming, Genevieve. A month ago, I was ashamed to even visit you, with our own dress bills piling up and no sign of my cousin to help settle them. And now I am to marry a man who takes no notice of prices!"

"It is true that I make this gown on the trust of Bridgerton credit, not Featherington," Madame Delacroix says briskly, beginning to unpin her. "But I have never once faulted you for the late payments, my dear. Besides, should things become truly dire, you still have your Whistledown earnings to fall back on, oui?"

"They aren't enough to afford yards of imported lace!" Penelope laughs. "Lady Whistledown is quite popular, but each column is only eight pence apiece!"

"No one knows better than I do how pence may turn into pounds. How do you think I funded my own shop? We all must begin somewhere…I was not born into a family of tailors."

"Nor of Frenchmen, I have begun to suspect."

Madame Delacroix's face clouds over. "As you say."

Penelope bites her lip. "Forgive me – I would not announce that openly – it is none of my business."

"And what is your business, Miss Featherington?" the modiste snaps. "Authoress and viscountess both? I cannot imagine the newly courteous and dignified Lord Bridgerton will appreciate a secret gossip for a wife." She turns her back to Penelope, folding the sample gown neatly.

Penelope stares at her in surprise. "Newly courteous? What do you mean by that?"

"Only that not so long ago that man cared more for his own desires than a woman's security!"

Penelope slumps to the floor, face paling. "What? What are you implying?"

"Come, Lady Whistledown, do not be so naïve. Surely you have heard talk of his former mistress? Siena Rosso?"

"The singer? She was the toast of London's opera houses until – until she left abruptly for Italy last summer."

"Yes, she did." Madame Delacroix raises an elegant eyebrow.

"I knew he had had someone…and no one expects a bachelor to be celibate…" Penelope mumbles. "But I swear I did not hear any details. What did he do that caused her to leave the country?"

"If you are to marry the man, I think it best you ask him."

Penelope feels dizzy. "Yes. I suppose I must. Thank you for telling me." She pulls her gloves on. "I must – I must go."

Madame Delacroix sighs. "Wait, please. I did not mean to frighten you. Siena stayed with me for a few weeks when they…disagreed, so I am less inclined than most to give Lord Bridgerton any grace. But she never claimed that he hit her, or deceived her, or that their time together was unpleasant in any way until the end."

"Oh. That's…that's good."

"Men can be very selfish, Penelope. It is a wise woman who does not rely on their words." The dressmaker reaches for Penelope's nearest hand and pats it gently. "Let Lord Bridgerton spend all his money on fine gifts for you – keep your Whistledown savings for a rainy day. And let us hope for your sake that it never storms."

Penelope is so quiet on their journey home from her dress fitting that her maid Alice ventures to inquire after her wellbeing. "My lady? Was aught amiss with the gown?"

"No, no. It was fine." Penelope does her best to smile. "Thank you for waiting for me out front for so long. Just Whistledown stress, you know. The column is almost due."

"My lady works very hard," Alice murmurs. "I hope you will have time to rest after your wedding."

What a shame that such a kindly-meant comment cannot ease her mind, Penelope thinks. Instead, it only fixates her even more on Madame Delacroix's bitter insinuations. Which is the real Anthony, then? The one who ordered his sisters about and wronged his mistress, or the one paying such gentle court to me?

Penelope might have continued ruminating forever in such a state, but she is interrupted from her troubled thoughts when their hired carriage stops abruptly at the corner of Grosvenor Square, nowhere near their front door.

"Sorry, mum," the coachman calls down from his seat above. "'Tis a right mess ahead, so 'tis. If ye dinnae wish to sit until it clears, ye'd do well to get out and walk."

Alice begins to scold their driver for slacking in his duties but Penelope pays no heed to either of them and lets herself out of the vehicle, eager to distract herself by investigating the snarled traffic up ahead.

As Penelope gets closer, she realizes the obstruction is in front of her own home – there are three carriages standing out front, each being unloaded by a pair of unfamiliar servants. The Featherington House walkway is littered with trunks and parcels and mysterious objects, the most startling of which is the head of a large animal with giant antlers, mounted on a mahogany plaque. That is a strange-looking deer. I have never seen the like in England. Penelope is more confused than before.

Philippa bursts out of their front door just as Penelope arrives at the gate. "Oh good, you're back!" her sister says, beaming with excitement. "Can you believe it? Cousin Jack has arrived at last!"

Notes:

Prudence's fan and Penelope's fan. Both beautiful, just very different styles.

Iphigeneia at Aulis: In Euripedes's play of the same name, Iphigeneia, the daughter of Agamemnon, willingly agrees to be sacrificed to the goddess Artemis to aid her father in the Trojan War.

Lady Jersey, the merriest of the Almack's patronesses: No Regency romance worth its salt should reference Almack's without namedropping the Countess of Jersey!

Finally, here's a sample of Brussels lace.

Chapter 6

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"Come in, Bridgerton, come in. Fancy a drink?" the new Baron Featherington offers, beckoning Anthony into his study.

Anthony has not been inside this room before, but he suspects that any traces of its previous owner have been fully erased in the three days since the new heir set foot in London. Lord Archibald was a gambler but not a hunter, and the study is now full-to-bursting with all manner of animal trophies and sundry weapons.

"It is good of you to see me so soon after your arrival," Anthony says, trying not to make eye contact with the eagle mounted on the wall to his left. "I am sure you must have much to do, sorting out the estate."

Lord Jack Featherington dismisses the thought: "Not too busy to meet a viscount of a neighbor! No need to stand on such ceremony with me, man. I've spent too much time with the Yanks of late for that. Have a cigar!" He holds open a slim silver case.

Anthony is less fond of smoking than either of his brothers – he prefers snuff – but does not wish to be impolite. As he reaches forward to take a cigar, he notices the ruby signet glittering on Lord Featherington's smallest finger. "That is a very fine gem. From your own mines, perhaps?"

"Why, yes it is. I see word of my business endeavors have preceded me! I suppose they are betting on my successes at White's already?"

"If they are, I would not know," Anthony says, drawing his spine erect. "I would not be so crass as to place a wager on my fiancée's guardian."

"Fiancée? Oh right, Portia – Lady Portia, excuse me – did mention that two of her chits are spoken for." Featherington leans back in his seat with a slight smirk. "The middle one will not stop talking my ear off about some country squire, so she cannot be yours. Have you offered for the older one or the youngest?"

"The youngest. Miss Penelope."

"She is a quiet one and no mistake. A taste for blushing schoolgirls, have you? Well, she'll give you no trouble, I'm sure."

It would be a mistake to antagonize this man but Anthony sorely wishes he could punch Featherington in the jaw. What discourtesy! As if that's all that a gentleman would ask of his wife!

But whatever else he is, the new Lord Featherington is not stupid and quickly notices Anthony's eye twitch. "Forgive me, it's those damn Americans rubbing off on me again – have to shift my tongue back to English manners. I suppose you're here about her dowry?"

"I came to make your acquaintance, as we are to be family eventually. I would not pressure you on the settlements before you are ready to do so. Miss Penelope would be distressed to think I insisted."

(In fact, when they went for a walk yesterday Penelope had evinced no interest in the subject of dowries whatsoever. She had kept her conversation strictly to literature and platitudes, ignoring every hint that Anthony could contrive. Perhaps her financial fate in the hands of a stranger makes her nervous. He can understand that.)

"Would she, by Jove? That makes one of them! The other will not stop pressing me to meet with the Finch lad right away. And Portia would have me calling for their wedding banns this very week."

Anthony unbends a little at this relatable disclosure. "My sympathies, sir. My mother was the same last year on behalf of my sister and her intended."

"Female relations can be so very persistent, hey?" Lord Featherington raises a rueful glass.

"I'll drink to that."

The excellent brandy helps soothe Anthony's spirit and induces him to more sympathy. What gentleman would not be sarcastic in the face of a full house of Featherington women and their debts? A fine welcome to England indeed, to be handed the burden of a dead man's failing estate as well as his three unwed daughters.

"Featherington, have you your own man of business here? My man Portwinder might produce a reference, should you need assistance to untangle any of your affairs. It is – er – well known that Lord Archibald left matters rather troubled when he passed away."

"Thank you, but I prefer to handle such things myself. If it takes me a year, I mean to track down every cent available and put it to use."

Anthony nods. "Sensible. I suppose that is how you ran your mines? Somewhere in the Southern part of the United States, Penelope mentioned."

"Indeed." Lord Featherington studies him over his brandy. "Have you been to the Americas, Bridgerton?"

"Not I. I have scarcely left England – my father died when I was 19 and assuming the viscounty with seven younger siblings to look after left me little opportunity for travel." He had once hoped for his own Grand Tour (to visit the antiquities! Athens and Rome!) but had to settle for offering it to Colin instead.

"A pity. Yes, my ruby mines are in the South. Not for nothing do they call them the Red Hills of Georgia! What a fortune lies beneath that soil for any man bold enough to pursue it!"

"So that is why it took so long for you to return and claim your title? You were too busy underground to see to your business here?" Anthony asks, then checks himself hastily. "Apologies – that was meddlesome of me."

Featherington laughs. "I like you the better for it! In truth it took a while for the urgency of the matter to make itself clear. I was not raised with expectations to the barony, you know; I am only third cousins with your betrothed. Thus I assumed the first two messages were a joke of some sort. Only after…well, eventually I realized the potential of a title and made my way back to England. And I mean to do much with it now I am a lord!"

"Oh?"

"You are no gambler yourself, I take it. I am not one for dice or faro either. But do you ever speculate in business?"

"Invest in new ventures, you mean?"

"Aye."

"Only a little. I have been more focused on land stewardship and managing the family accounts. I leave it to Portwinder to advise me how best to invest, in the Funds or otherwise."

Featherington bends over his desk and removes a polished mahogany box from a drawer. "Then I advise you to consider…the opportunity of a lifetime."

He unlocks the box and throws its lid open. The oil-lamp on his desk pours a wave of light onto a larger pile of rubies than Anthony has ever seen in one place. Even the Prince Regent does not possess such jewels as these. The box glows red, seemingly aflame.

Anthony catches his breath. "All this, from your mines? How long did it take you to retrieve them from the earth? What can possibly be left to extract?"

"Come, Bridgerton. Seven younger siblings, you said? Not to mention your own future offspring. Think how you could provide for them as the co-owner of a Georgian ruby mine! And I have not even mentioned the rumors of the Alabama sapphires!"

No more worrying about Eloise making a good match, let alone Francesca or Hyacinth, Anthony thinks. Benedict could spend a decade at the Royal Academy of the Arts without ever thinking of a tuition bill. Colin could make it all the way to Asia for his next adventure. Gregory could have any horse he wants, and Mother could retire to the Dower House in Kent in the comfort she deserves. Penelope could have a library to rival Alexandria, and all the presents I could buy her. And I…I could relax.

"Well, man?" Featherington is smiling at him, the reflected red light on his chin giving his face a slightly fiendish cast.

Anthony swallows the dream reluctantly for the moment. "It is very tempting. Perhaps once Penelope and I are wed, I may have the leisure to review the opportunity with Portwinder."

"Fair enough. It comes back to those dowry settlements after all, hey? I will keep my precious offer safe until you are ready to discuss it." Featherington locks the box, then the desk drawer, and slips the keys back into his waistcoat pocket. His study seems diminished in the removal of all that glory.

"I still do not mean to rush you," Anthony says. "Even now that I see you need not be worried about the family debts. We have only been engaged these three weeks – Phillippa and her fiancé have been waiting almost a year. It seems right for you to establish them first."

"Ever the gentleman! Perhaps there is sense in what you say. At least it will give me peace from Portia. What a tigress she is!"

Anthony smirks, inclining his head toward the wall of hunting trophies. "Come, man. If you can face down a full-grown bear, what can you fear from a mere woman?"

"And I thought you said you had sisters!"

They laugh together, and Featherington offers him another cigar to take home. Anthony must admit they are superior to any he has tried before. Cuban, Featherington explains, and deserving to be better known on the British Isles. Another investment potential for the future!

As the curtain falls on Act III of Coriolanus, announcing the intermission, Anthony turns in his seat toward Penelope in satisfaction. "I challenge you to tell me now you are still no fan of Edmund Kean! When you see what he does with his leading men!"

"He is vibrant in the role, to be sure," Penelope answers, toying with the fringe of her lilac shawl. "Though I could want a little more delicacy in his performance."

"Delicacy, for Caius Martius Coriolanus, the unjustly maligned consul of Rome? Madam, have you no sensibility at all?" Anthony teases.

Penelope looks up sharply at that, and Anthony is startled by the intensity of her blue gaze. "I might and I might not," she says after a moment. "It depends on what I am being asked to bear."

Anthony, confused, leans forward to better understand her but is interrupted by the sound of someone entering their private box.

"Bridgerton!" halloes a familiar voice, and Anthony whips around to see one of his oldest friends greeting him with a long-missed smirk.

"Dorset!" Anthony exclaims and stands up to clap the newcomer on the back happily. "I thought you were in Portugal?"

"Belgium," he corrects. "And I only just landed ashore this morning. Wellington's given me six weeks' leave for good behavior!"

"Just in time to join the Season, hey? More fool you!"

"Surely there are some benefits to a presence among the Ton," Lord Dorset says, inclining his head towards the other resident of the box. "Introduce me, Bridgerton."

Sheepishly, Anthony turns back to Penelope and holds out his hand. She rises to take it, a polite smile on her face. "Penelope, this is Lord Thomas Dorset, second son of the Earl of Carlisle and the Duke of Wellington's most trusted attaché. Dorset, I have the honor to introduce you to Miss Penelope Featherington, my fiancée."

"Charmed, my lady." Dorset bows crisply and places a kiss to the back of her glove. "I have had the dubious pleasure of knowing your betrothed since our first term at Merton College, when he discovered that whiskey and gin should not mix at the expense of my bed linens."

"A fellow Oxford man," Penelope murmurs, her eyes twinkling. "I daresay you will find he holds his liquor better now."

"One can only hope. I felicitate you, my lady. When word of your engagement reached us across the Channel, I rushed home immediately should Bridgerton have need of me as best man."

"The list goes Benedict, then Colin, then Hastings, then you," Anthony rolls his eyes. "Wait a minute, do not tell me Whistledown has reached the Continent? Worse and worse!"

"What the devil – pardon me, my lady – what on earth is Whistledown? My sister Sophy clipped and mailed me your announcement in The Morning Post."

"Oh. Well, good." Anthony settles down. "Never mind about Lady Whistledown. Just some useless gossip with nothing better to do than make light of our affairs." He sees Penelope wince from the corner of his eye. Indelicate of him to mention Whistledown in her hearing – of course that rag upsets her too.

"Sounds exactly the thing Sophy would love. I will make sure never to ask her about it." Dorset turns to Penelope and bows again. "Miss Featherington, I may only be in town a few short weeks, but I look forward to growing our acquaintance. I confess I am curious about a lady willing to accompany her fiancé to pompous prose by the tired old Bard when Lover's Vows is playing only two doors down!"

"What a picture of my character you are drawing for her," Anthony complains, laughing. "As if I were forcing Shakespeare upon Miss Featherington, when it is she who told me about this production!"

"Indeed?" Dorset asks in surprise. "Perhaps you've made an even better match than I hoped. My lady, did you know Lord Bridgerton took a first in classics at university? Forever droning on about Socrates this and Seneca that. Hastings and I nearly took to drowning him in gin several times, just so we wouldn't have to hear any more about the Gauls and the Visigoths."

"How gauche of him," Penelope says, shaking her head. "One would expect a gentleman to lecture only to an audience already intrigued by antiquity."

"We will all owe you quite a debt, Miss Featherington, for agreeing to be that audience."

"I am ever content to be the observer, not the leading lady."

And sometimes not even the observer, Anthony will discover shortly. For after only a few minutes of reminiscing with Dorset, Anthony turns back to Penelope for her thoughts on Wellington's rumored plan to run for Prime Minister to see that she has disappeared. In fact, Penelope does not return to their box until the start of Act IV, just as Sarah Siddons sails onstage as the intimidating Volumnia, mother of the titular Roman general.

In their carriage home from the Drury Lane theatre, Penelope is still unaccountably quiet. After three failed attempts to begin a discussion of the play, Anthony is nearly at his wit's end.

"Penelope, did I err in choosing tonight's entertainment? I thought you wanted to see Coriolanus, but if you would prefer melodrama, I could secure a box for Lover's Vows later this week."

"So kind of you," she murmurs. "Who could resist the story of the redemption of an evil lord who seduces helpless women?"

Anthony rubs his forehead in frustration. "Will you tell me what is wrong? If not melodrama, perhaps the ballet? I only wish to see you enjoy yourself."

"Perhaps I have discovered a taste for something more musical," Penelope says, looking out the window as the carriage passes through the streets of Mayfair. "Così fan tutte might suit both of us. I understand you are a fan of…opera."

He feels his stomach drop. "Someone has been poisoning my past to you, I see. What have they said of me?"

"What have you done?" she counters, lifting her chin.

"Nothing! At least, nothing lately," Anthony concedes. "I have been loyal to you, my lady. Siena – the Rosso is long gone from my life."

"Of course she is," Penelope sniffs. "Therein lies my concern. How do I know you will not leave me for the next lovely pair of curves that crosses your path?"

"Surely you do not compare a bachelor's affair with an opera singer to my marriage vows to my wife? Penelope, you cannot honestly imagine that I have reached the age of 30 remaining an innocent."

"Hardly, but if you claim to be a man of your word, I might expect you to keep it! It does not appear you acted the gentleman with her at all."

"It cannot be Siena who told you this," Anthony says, his mind racing. "She has not been in England for nine months and she would never confide in a lady of the Ton, let alone my intended. So I have made another enemy somehow – might I know who they are?"

"Have you so many that you cannot figure it out?" Penelope folds her arms across her chest, glaring at him.

Anthony's concern is rapidly being overtaken by exasperation. Women! "Penelope, please. This is all a dreadful misunderstanding. Tell me what you have heard, and I promise I will clear it up. I am no longer holding onto Siena in my heart and I do not seek to stray from you."

"More promises and pretty speeches, as if that may answer it," Penelope says. "Fine, then. Explain if you can, how in the short span of last year's Season you went from dallying in a performer's bed to pursuing a Diamond to wife. Leave no detail unturned."

"It is a common enough story, madam. Are you truly sure you want a catalogue of every occasion and every position that the Rosso and I –" he sees her eyes widen and remembers guiltily that Penelope is only 19 and a sheltered debutante – "Never mind. I will give you the essentials, and surely they will acquit me in the jury of your opinion."

So, reluctantly but in the best faith he can offer her, Anthony shares the expurgated saga of his two years with Siena Rosso, from their first meeting at the stagedoor of The Magic Flute to their messy end when she closed her door in his face, telling him: What I know is that you are lost. And I cannot allow you to set me adrift as well.

It is a painful memory still, though he has come to realize that Siena was right about their lack of future together. Anthony knows now that any wife of his needs more than beauty to uphold her responsibility among the Ton. A viscountess needs – needs the social training and the quiet courage of the young woman sitting in front of him.

Anthony finishes his retelling and holds a hopeful hand out to her. "Well, my lady? I can say it no better than that. I did love her, and I did mourn her, and I have moved on, I swear."

Penelope considers him for a long, tense moment then slowly nods. "I believe you."

He exhales in relief. "Thank you. I promise you I –"

But Penelope cuts him off, eyes flashing. "I am not finished. I believe you – because you would have to be a fool indeed to try to lie to me with that self-justifying drivel. You think this tale exonerates you? That I should be mollified by the claim that you really loved the person you dropped like a hot coal as soon as she became inconvenient?"

He has somehow made things worse, Anthony realizes, shrinking back from the heat of her whispered rage.

"By your own admission, you kicked your mistress out of the lodgings you were paying for, leaving her homeless," Penelope hisses. "And you expect me to believe that this time your promises to a woman will matter more because you speak them fully clothed, inside of a church?"

Once again Anthony's fiancée has rendered him speechless with unexpected insight. This time, however, the barbs are aimed at him and not herself. He feels them hook into his skin and pull. There is no possible counter to her attack – it is all true. He had never considered his actions toward Siena from that perspective.

The carriage continues rattling over the cobblestones of Grosvenor Square in deathly silence. When the driver pulls up in front of Penelope's home, Anthony exits first to assist her as always. She refuses to look at him as she descends, an icy little gloved hand fixed firmly in his.

Anthony in turn refuses to relinquish her as they approach her front steps. "My lady, please – please tell me what I am to do next. I am sorry, very much so, and foolish many times over. How shall we proceed?"

Penelope sighs. "I do not know about 'we', my lord. I am going inside to have a headache. As for you – if you can find some way to prove your reliability, which I sincerely doubt, then you may call on me again. But not before."

Naturally, Penelope keeps her own promise. For two days, she will not receive Anthony, no matter what time of day or with what amount of flowers he calls. By his third attempt, even the Featherington's smirking housekeeper is looking on him with pity.

"Give it a rest for a while, my lord," Mrs. Varley advises conspiratorially. "Let her miss you for a bit, she'll regret her airs and graces soon enough. You are too good of a catch for her to let slip."

But I am not, Anthony thinks as he heads miserably to White's instead. She was right to name me an idiot, a sapskull. I am an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality and I did not even know it. I might have even wronged Miss Edwina Sharma with my relentless, coldblooded pursuit of her! No wonder my family calls me Awful Anthony behind my back.

Drinking alone at White's is little comfort. Anthony sighs into his glass, thinking longingly of the excellent brandy in Penelope's cousin's study. This does not help clear his head – he cannot stop seeing both Siena and Penelope glaring at him in his mind's eye. So different from each other, except in their self-possession and their disdain for his thoughtlessness. And in their figures, he must admit. Christ, he is a fool for curvaceous women. Anthony lowers his head to the table in front of him and groans.

He is still in this pathetic position some minutes later when Lord Dorset enters their club, dropping noisily into the neighboring armchair.

"Bridgerton, you sorry sod, what's all this?" Dorset says heartily, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "It is too early in the day for you to be run so far aground. Have you been mixing your spirits again?" He signals to the concierge. "Edwards, bring Scotch for me but put this man onto water moving forward!"

"Very good, my lord."

"It's not the alcohol," Anthony mumbles to the tabletop. It is the only part of his life not currently judging him. "I am an idiot, Dorset. I ruin every good thing I touch."

"Well, we all knew that," his friend says, ever Job's comforter. "Stop sniveling, I need your assistance."

Anthony raises his head. "I am in poor shape to render aid at the moment. But what might I do for you?"

"Find me a wife," Dorset says bluntly. "I've got less than two months to do it before I must report back to Wellington. Mother and Sophy say you considered nearly every eligible young lady this Season before landing on your Miss Featherington. Surely one of your cast-offs must be suitable for me instead. After all, I do not need a large fortune or someone who is the leader of the Ton. But she must be of Society, Mother insists, and I have been away so long I do not know half the latest crop of ladies."

"Trust me, you do not want my advice on this. It has been impressed forcefully upon me this week that my approach to courting is sorely misguided."

"Trouble in Paradise, hey? What's amiss with Miss Featherington?"

"She is flawless, it is I who erred. I used to value all the wrong things in a partner, Dorset, but now I see that a moral conscience and standing firm in your principles is worth more than social success."

"That, and a taste for Shakespeare? Verily, your lady is a paragon. Any chance she has an available sister?"

The thought of Dorset courting Prudence Featherington is so absurd that it lifts Anthony out of his misery somewhat. "She does, but I don't think you would suit. I, er, wouldn't guess that Penelope's sister has a taste for adventure."

"What a shame. A diplomat's wife needs to be game for muddy tents and lice-ridden inns far from city comforts. Wellington is threatening to send me to Russia next. Damn it, where will I find a lady who suits both Mother and my career?"

"Try the Thames," Anthony says. "An accident in the river worked wonders for me. Or it did, until now."

"Enough of your maudlin insinuations. What the devil did you do?"

So Anthony explains and for once Dorset doesn't laugh at him. Instead he signals for another round for them both.

"No wonder you are a mess. It is a tall order, to undo your past."

"You see? I am mortified, and hopeless with it."

Dorset scoffs gently. "Bridgerton, you've overcome worse than this. What would your father say?"

Anthony straightens his posture unconsciously as he considers the question. "Father would say…Father would tell me to stop drowning my sorrows and do what is right. That a man's worth is his word, and I must prove my word reliable once more. I must allay Penelope's fears and make her comfortable."

"Simple enough, then. So what is she afraid of, in true?"

"Afraid that…that I would abandon her, I suppose. That damned Whistledown, calling me Fickleheart and putting that thought in her head."

Dorset bites back a laugh. "Fickleheart you aren't, though impulsive and intense you certainly are. She worries of being suddenly bereft of your attentions?"

"Not of my attentions…" Anthony says slowly, reasoning out loud. "Of my protection. Oh, I am twice the ass not to realize it! Her family hasn't much money, and she must worry that if my tastes move on, my financial support will too. Even though I would never do such a thing to my wife!"

"That's not unheard of among the Ton, to be fair. You must remember the late Lord Fife establishing his final mistress in a palatial flat in Russell Square some years back, while the Countess struggled to pay their debts. My mother said Lady Fife essentially disappeared from London for years for the shame of it."

"I remember. Lord Fife was the one who should have been ashamed, not her." Anthony huffs. "The disgrace of it all! Unbecoming of any man, let alone a gentleman."

"Society didn't see it that way, though."

"True. Dorset, how do I prove that I will always provide for Penelope? I cannot bear the thought of being considered a Fife."

"Look, if I knew the secret to wooing women, would I be standing in front of you a hopeless bachelor right now?"

"Hopeless? You?" Anthony snorts. "Like I said, throw yourself into the Thames and you might come back with a prize worth more than you deserve."

"And you – maybe show your Featherington that she is worth more than regretful words?" Dorset stands. "I'm off to dress for dinner, alas. Mother says we are for Almack's tonight afterwards, in search of a stout-hearted debutante."

"My sympathies."

"Be of good cheer, Bridgerton. This gloom solves nothing and threatens to make you miserable company to boot."

Anthony salutes him absently. Show her that she's worth more than words, eh? That's it! He calls to White's elderly concierge.

"Edwards, no more liquor. Fetch me ink and paper instead – I have a message to send."

Anthony runs home from the club in his haste to set things right, heedless of his dignity or the side-glances of his neighbors as he pelts past them. "Timothy, tell Mother I will not join the family for dinner tonight," he informs his valet en route to Father's study. "I have much work to do."

Anthony ensconces himself among the account books, slowly working out the figures. He loses track of time before the study door opens to admit his potential savior.

"Ah, Portwinder, good. Come in, come in."

Anthony's man of business, a rail-thin, conscientious advisor who had served the previous viscount before him, hesitates on the threshold. "You said it was a matter of urgency, my lord? I have heard no troubling reports from your tenants on the Kent estate or any whispers of a downturn in the Funds."

"I know, I know. It is not about that. It is about my marriage. See here, man, what do you know of alimony?"

Notes:

they call them the Red Hills of Georgia: for the record, those hills actually get their name from the color of the soil.

still no fan of Edmund Kean / Sarah Siddons sails onstage: Edmund Kean was an English actor whose fiery performances of Shakespearian leading men took 1814 London by storm. The actress Sarah Siddons had retired from the stage years before, but she reportedly did play Volumnia once, so her presence here is artistic license. Coriolanus is my favorite of Shakespeare's tragedies.

when Lover's Vows is playing two doors down: Lover's Vows by Elizabeth Inchbald is a real play best known for causing much heartache among the amateur actors in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park.

took a first in classics at university: for fellow Americans unfamiliar with the British undergraduate degree grading system, this is similar to a 4.0 GPA. A much better academic performance than a wealthy heir needed to achieve.

an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality: See William Shakespeare's All's Well that Ends Well, Act III Scene VI.

Job's comforter: in the Bible, Job's friends give him unhelpful advice in his misery, making things worse. Apparently this expression originated with the 18th century author Jonathan Swift. We should bring it back.

Chapter 7

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

By the fourth time Anthony attempts to call on her, Penelope's determination to ignore him has weakened substantially. Anthony has not tried again since Wednesday and the headache he gave her from admitting his past sins has long since been replaced by a headache from her mother's scolds:

"Enough of your mopes, madam! As if you have a rich, handsome viscount waiting for you behind every door? Whatever fool thing he said the other night, let him buy you an expensive bracelet to make amends and move on."

And if the bracelet is fancy enough, I could sell it one day if I need to, Penelope sighs to herself.

"Anthony does have excellent taste in gifts," she reminds her reflection in her vanity on Friday morning.

"And in flowers," her maid Alice adds from behind her. "Mrs. Varley told me that the last bouquet had two kinds of roses, both damask and China! Those must have pinched his purse quite a bit."

"Very well," Penelope gives up, resigned to the inevitable stilted conversation. "On his next attempt, I'll agree to hear him out."

"Yes, my lady. Which of your day dresses shall you wear for him today?"

"It doesn't matter – I am weary of them all. The olive jaconet muslin is better for this hot weather, I suppose."

Thus she is waiting impatiently in her bedchamber when the knock finally comes, attempting to edit Eloise's latest draft for a new Whistledown feature. Atrocious penmanship but her ideas at least are sound.

"Miss Penelope?"

"Yes, Varley, I am coming." Penelope quickly folds her Whistledown papers and slides them over to Alice to hide.

"No, my lady – Lord Bridgerton did not ask to speak with you today," Mrs. Varley says from the doorway. "Only to request that I give you this."

Penelope takes the thin package from her, baffled. Anthony couldn't possibly have slipped jewelry inside, could he? It feels paper through and through.

She sits back down at her vanity and breaks the seal. It is just paper: what looks like a formal financial document, with a note to her on top. As with his previous messages (all carefully saved beneath the lining of her jewelry box), this note dispenses with flowery greetings and cuts straight to the heart of the matter:

My lady – you are rightly skeptical of empty promises. A man of his word should put his fortune behind it; thus I have attempted to do so in the following pages. I offer you this arrangement and my loyalty as well, though I suspect I know which of them you will value more.

If you will still have me, you have only to say the word and I will present this to your cousin to approve. Whatever your answer might be, I await you across the street to receive it. - A.

Slowly, Penelope unfolds the other document. It appears to be the entirety of their marriage settlements, including a peculiar section titled "alimony," a word she has not heard before.

"Alice…" she breathes out in surprise as she reads. "He even includes a provision for our separation!"

"Separation? Do you mean divorce?" Alice frowns. "That's a sin, my lady, and you two not even married yet!"

"No, no…you do not understand!" Penelope's heart beats faster as she begins to absorb the significance of Anthony's offer. "This says… 'alimony' must mean his promise for my financial security, come what may. That if he should – should stray from me, abandon me –"

"God forbid!" her maid protests.

"Then this is his pledge to me and to my family of what he will owe me in return. Here Anthony promises – oh Alice! – he promises not just to provide monetary support but to sell his hunting-box cabin in Sussex, so I might purchase a separate home of my own if needed!" Penelope cradles her head in her hands, feeling the relief sweep through her. "Alice, I am protected for true!"

Alice shakes her head. "He would have done better to stick to the bracelet, my lady. 'Tis bad luck to speak of things ending before they begin."

But Penelope is no longer listening, rummaging desperately among her things. "Oh, I must go to him, must thank him. Where are my gloves? And my straw bonnet?"

"Here they are, my lady."

Penelope happens to glance out her window as she moves towards Alice to receive her hat and receives another shock. When Anthony said I await you across the street, he had not meant he would be inside the Bridgerton home. He is literally standing across the street, leaning against his family's front gate, and looking up at her house. Anthony is too far away for Penelope to read the expression on his face, but she fancies he can tell she is at the window.

"Alice! Please keep these papers safe too!" Penelope thrusts them at her maid and runs down the stairs and out the front door, ignoring cries of alarm from servants and siblings alike.

Penelope manages to slow her pace before crossing Grosvenor Square – it would not be seemly for a young lady to race in public and of course she wants to catch her breath before speaking to him.

At ten feet away, she sees that Anthony is smoking a cigar, seemingly unaware of her approach. At five feet away, he turns to greet her, face as stony-solemn as when he first came to her home to propose, posture rigid as a lamppost.

"My lady, good morning," he says carefully. "And what is my verdict in the eyes of the jury?"

Penelope ventures a smile. "Still guilty, I am afraid. But a sentence to deter future offenses has been suggested and approved in turn."

Anthony's shoulders relax an inch or two. "Indeed? It is acceptable to you?"

"Anthony, it is more than acceptable – it is more than I hoped for. Especially that you brought it to me directly, before going to my cousin. Will you explain part of your reasoning to me?"

"Of course."

"The section about alimony – I did not think the Church of England would allow one to dissolve a marriage."

"In general no, not without a petition to Parliament. Regarding cases of infidelity, the church courts might permit separation while preserving the wedding vows, and they would still require a man to support his wife. I cannot discharge my obligation to you on a whim, Penelope."

"But if the Church could command you to pay regardless, why define the amount in our settlements now?"

"Well…I thought it might be uncomfortable for you to compel me to court. The Ton would talk of nothing else for months, and I know you would loathe being the subject of such unpleasant attention. Many unhappy Society couples make such arrangements quietly, if there is a powerful father behind the wronged wife." And Penelope's family has no such power, he does not need to add. The Bridgertons outrank the Featheringtons in title and fortune both, and her father is dead.

"You even state you would sell your hunting box! Is it not restricted by the Bridgerton estate's entail?"

"No – the hunting box is the only property that belongs to me, not to my family line. It is my right to sell it, and I believe it my duty to forego it if I cause you injury. Penelope, I swear I will not leave you, but I would have you content alone rather than miserable by my side."

She cannot speak for a moment, blinking back tears.

"Will your cousin be pleased with this offer, do you think?"

"Now you are fishing for compliments! Cousin Jack will be well satisfied and you know it. You have negotiated against yourself on his behalf," Penelope marvels. "But Anthony, do not think I have not noticed you have set my pin-money at an outrageous amount! Why, that nearly is equal to my dowry!"

"You are ever eagle-eyed, my lady. I had hoped you might use your dowry for your own consequence," Anthony says, his face growing softer. "For your wardrobe and for…for any little things our children might require, while I am busy with the estate."

"700 a year for clothing and trinkets, what a spendthrift you must think me," Penelope says. Our children! "I do not think I could use up that much each year if I tried, even if we have another eight Bridgertons of our own."

Anthony chuckles. "I appreciate your fiscal caution, Penelope, but I hope you will be able to afford all the outfits your heart desires. I know you hate the dress you have on, though that color is quite becoming with your hair."

Penelope flushes. "You are too kind, my lord."

"Hardly. The green flatters you all the more when you turn that shade of pink."

Now she cannot even look at him. "We are in public, Anthony!"

"Excellent point, my lady." He stubs his cigar out on the cobblestones and opens his front gate. "Won't you enter?"

Penelope follows him curiously.

Anthony closes the gate behind her with a flourish. "You see? Now we are on my private property instead of public, and as the Viscount Bridgerton I can say whatever I want on my own land. And I think you look lovely in green."

"You are too much – too much," she gasps. How her world has overturned again in less than an hour! "Anthony, how can I thank you? For the compliment, for the settlements, for all of it."

He takes her hand again in his, serious once more. "I have been an ass many times in my life, Penelope. I suspect it will happen again, unfortunately, so I will not promise differently and become an oath-breaker once again. But I hope you will discover that I will always do my best to atone for my sins, and to treat you as you deserve."

Penelope smiles. "Would that all young ladies could be so fortunate, to twist an ankle into a river and meet one such as you."

"I count myself the fortunate one," Anthony says. "You were a hidden gem among the ladies of the Ton, and I was too focused on Diamonds."

Hidden gems… that puts Penelope in mind of Alice's preference for a bracelet. And of who else might still need to benefit from his current generosity of spirit. "Anthony, could I beg a gift of you?"

"Anything."

"A bracelet, then? Maybe gold, studded with diamonds and rubies around the rim?"

Anthony raises an eyebrow. "For rubies you had best turn to your cousin Featherington. This sounds more like your mother's taste than yours. Am I to mollify Lady Featherington for my past sins as well?"

Penelope laughs. "No, I did not tell anyone what you shared with me. Not even Eloise or my maid. My mother called me a stubborn brat for refusing to see you the last few times. And the bracelet wouldn't be for me either, it would be for your opera singer. Miss Rosso."

It seems she has stupefied her fiancé for the second time this week. "You…want to send a gift to my former mistress? Penelope, why on earth…?"

Penelope tsks at him. "So she might have the same security as I, of course. Naturally you cannot give Miss Rosso any more properties, but a working woman who falls on hard times could sell such a bracelet and live peacefully for many years. I would wish peace for her, even though …I own I am a little glad she is no longer around for comparison."

Anthony takes her hand and kisses it. "You are truly an original among women, my lady. 'Her worth is far above rubies and the heart of her husband safely trusts in her.' If you wish it, I will send Siena the bracelet, though I cannot guarantee she will accept the gift."

"Whyever not?"

"I doubt she would enjoy hearing from me after many months of silence. And…I am afraid it might send the wrong message, no matter what I write in the note. Both Siena and her current protector might think I wish to resume the relationship, when that is the opposite of what I want."

"Oh." Penelope wrinkles her nose. "I had not thought of that. I suppose you had better not contact her, then. It is good to hear that she is secure."

She has found another man? The hideous image that has kept Penelope fearful company all week – a miserable, destitute female shivering in a dirty garret – fades behind the image of a sparkling, confident performer in a tasteful Italian salon, a swooning foreign gentleman on his knees before her. She may have more options than I do…

"I was also glad to hear she is protected, though it will never again be with me." Anthony raises a hand to her cheek. "There is another woman who has all my attention now."

Penelope catches her breath. "Anthony…"

"ANTHONY!" A shout from the front door makes them both start. "Anthony, Mama wants to know if you mean to stand outside all day – oh! Hello, Penelope."

"Good morning, Hyacinth," Penelope says faintly, wishing that Anthony had not removed his hand upon hearing the noise.

Anthony's youngest sister bounds down the front steps towards them. "Penelope, you haven't come over to visit us in ages! I have a new wooden menagerie, and Gregory has only spoiled two of the animals so far. Do you want to see them? You are much better at games than he is. You never make me want to put worms in your shoes."

"Hyacinth, do not pester her," Anthony frowns.

Hyacinth sticks her tongue out at him. "Brother, it's unfair of you to keep Penelope from the rest of us just because you are going to marry her! Penelope, Cook has just made gooseberry tarts. If we hurry, we might take the plate before the rest of my brothers hear about it."

"Well, I –"

"I wanted baked apple pudding but Cook says it is the wrong season. Do you prefer apples or gooseberries? Francesca says –"

"Enough, sister. Go inside and let us finish speaking in peace. We were in the middle of an important discussion, you know."

"You make courting too complicated," Hyacinth huffs. "Just kiss her and have done with your argument already."

Penelope flushes again. How she regrets being so pale, where every emotion shows so visibly in her face!

"Hyacinth…" Anthony growls.

"Fine! I am going, I am going. Should I save you any tarts, Penelope?"

"Thank you, that is very kind."

"Indeed, I am making a big sacrifice for you." Hyacinth slams the door behind her.

Anthony sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I tell myself she will become less melodramatic with time, but then Eloise has not…"

"It is the Bridgerton way," Penelope says, nodding solemnly.

"My lady, you are truly satisfied with the settlements? Would you permit me to approach your cousin? We might set a date for the ceremony once they are signed."

"Yes, please speak to him. And – thank you again for asking me first."

Anthony bows. "You do not have to come in for the tarts, you know. Hyacinth can stand to learn a little patience."

"I admit I am not yet ready to return indoors. It is a very fine day…might we go for a walk together this morning? I have missed our conversations."

His smile warms her as much as the spring sun. "I too. How about the Botanical Gardens? We'd need to take a carriage there first, but it is a beautiful setting for a promenade."

"Oh please, I would like to see some pretty flowers. A persistent suitor apparently sent me many bouquets over the past few days, but unaccountably I received none."

"Oh aye? You ought to have a word with your servants. Sloppy of them."

"Yes, quite."

The next edition of Lady Whistledown marks an exciting turn for the anonymous publication – exciting for its secret publishers, at least. Eloise has finally produced a short political report that they can both agree on: her focus is on upcoming legislation and eavesdropped conversations about which Members of Parliament plan to vote and how. (Penelope does not want to know how Eloise is "overhearing" this but her friend swears it is pure observation and that she is being careful.) Penelope adds a line or two at the end of it from information about the Duke of Wellington that she's gleaned from Anthony's friend Lord Dorset.

Combined with Madame Delacroix's now weekly commentary on upcoming fashions – signed "A Critic" and suggesting without ever quite stating that they are the opinions of an exiled French aristocrat – Penelope now spends more time editing Whistledown than writing it. And to her surprise, Penelope finds she enjoys this new role just as much. The work is different but still rewarding, and she can retain control over the style and message of the publication without having to do all the investigation on her own.

Still, it wouldn't be a proper Whistledown broadsheet without at least some traditional gossip, so Penelope herself composes the final paragraph:

Dearest reader, all London and Paris are abuzz this week with the news that the Marquis of Vidal has landed himself in his worst scrape yet. No sooner did he duel and injure a gentleman while intoxicated than he fled the country not with his newest flirt, Miss Sophia Challoner, but with her elder sister Miss Mary! We wish you safe travels and a cool head, Miss Mary Challoner; as well as good fortune for both you and your Marquis. You will certainly need it when his father, the Duke of Avon, locates you both in France.

Enjoying lemon ices at Gunter's Tea Shop with Edwina Sharma on a sunny May afternoon inspires an obvious topic for new friends to discuss together: that of favorite desserts.

"I have not tasted cardamom," Penelope says. "My family has never been adventurous eaters and Papa was especially skeptical of spices."

"Oh Penelope, you must try jalebi," Edwina tells her. "The next time you come to tea with Lady Danbury and me, I will make sure Cook has prepared some for you. They are so comforting when I am homesick for Bombay."

The young ladies have just agreed that trifles are superior to rum cakes and marzipan better than flummery when Penelope's fiancé startles them both by suddenly appearing at their table.

"Anthony, my goodness," Penelope exclaims, nearly dropping her spoon. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," he says. "Your mother told me you'd be here with a friend – oh, I see. Good day, Miss Sharma."

"Good day, Lord Bridgerton," Edwina says. Penelope is glad to see that she refuses to avert her gaze or blush at the sight of her former suitor.

Anthony himself looks a tad embarrassed but executes a capable bow. "I own I expected Penelope's companion to be my sister Eloise, or I might have given you more warning. I had some news to share but it may wait. I know you are for the Buxted musicale tonight – may I call on you first thing tomorrow, my lady?"

"Of course," Penelope says, wiping her sticky fingers with a handkerchief. "I do not plan to stay out late tonight, Lady Buxted always runs out of food before she does amateur performers."

"No need for that," Edwina says, rising from her chair. "I had just about finished, Lord Bridgerton. Please take my seat and share your news with Penelope."

They both protest but Edwina stands firm. "Nonsense, it is a beautiful day and I fancy a walk home with Newton. Besides, I will be at the musicale this evening also and we can continue our conversation then."

"I thank you, my lady." Anthony bows once more.

"Yes, thank you very much, Edwina."

Edwina smiles at them and wraps her corgi's leash around her wrist, gently tugging at him to rise from his lazy pose beneath their table. "Come, Newton! Allons-y!"

Penelope cannot help watching her leave with a twinge of envy. "Miss Edwina looks so lovely today, doesn't she? Her complexion is perfect, she can wear so many vibrant colors."

"Mmm?" But Anthony is paying no attention to the vision of ethereal beauty that Edwina the Diamond presents to all of Berkeley Square, too busy ordering himself an ice.

"So tell me, what is the news so important it must invade my afternoon plans?"

Anthony leans forward to take her hand. "Penelope…I hate to disappoint you." This bodes ill. "I know you were excited to attend the Queen's Hearts and Flowers Ball this Saturday. But I am afraid I can no longer accompany you, as I have just received word from my steward at Aubrey Hall that the cherry crops have come in. Each May I must return to our estate to oversee the harvest and lend the tenant farmers my labor should they need it."

"If that's all! You made it sound like an emergency." Penelope pulls her hand back. "Of course if the estate needs you…it is only a dance. There will be others."

"Are you sure? You need not miss it on account of me. Benedict is escorting Eloise – do not ask me why – but I can ask Colin to escort you, if you like. He told me he is not courting anyone at the moment."

Penelope shakes her head hastily. Worse than going alone! "No – no thank you. I do not mind, truly. I can save the dress for another occasion. Aubrey Hall must be so beautiful in spring."

Anthony's eyes light up. "It is! Have you never been?"

"No, our country estates are in Somerset, quite the opposite direction. It was never convenient for me to visit Eloise in Kent."

"Penelope, now is the perfect time to visit. The weather, the orchards and gardens all blooming. There is never a bad season in Kent, to be sure, but I would not miss it in May for anything."

Penelope purses her lips in response. "There are many harvests in the farmer's calendar, are there not? Tell me…have you always assisted with this particular harvest, or was it a convenient excuse to absent yourself from the Queen's parties each Season?"

Anthony grins at her, caught. "And why not both? They do not always line up, but yes, I much prefer to be out of doors in my shirtsleeves rather than suffocating in layers of formal dress, just to please a monarch's whims."

"You can only get away with saying that now you are already betrothed," Penelope says primly, taking another bite of her melting ice.

"Penelope…do you wish to come with me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Come with me to Kent on Friday! It is a mere half day's travel from London, and I plan to stay only a few nights. You'd return in time for any social engagements next week. Let me show you your future home, my lady."

Penelope is torn, half unimpressed and half fancying the idea. "You did warn me you were impulsive," she says, stalling for time. "Do you expect me to help with the harvest too?"

"Oh, if you like. Or rather, our housekeeper can show you Aubrey Hall while I work, and I can show you the grounds when I am done for the day. Wouldn't you like to see the place before I carry you across its threshold in July?"

Penelope flushes a little at the thought of his arms around her. "The country air would be much cooler than London. And I would certainly rather not go to the ball without you. But Anthony, do you mean for just the two of us to travel together? Surely we'd need a chaperone."

He shrugs. "Bring your maid if you like. Or Eloise, if she wants."

If I skip the Hearts and Flowers Ball, then Eloise must attend, or Whistledown cannot cover it and the Queen will be furious. "Not Eloise, but…perhaps my own sister?"

Anthony looks up in surprise. "Philippa? Isn't her wedding in two weeks? I would have thought she would be too busy preparing."

"She is. I meant Prudence."

Now Anthony's eyebrows have shot up clear to his hairline. "You want to bring Prudence with us to Kent? Good God, why?"

Penelope sighs. "Because I am afraid to leave her alone with Cousin Jack, that's why."

His face grows grim. "What has he done?"

"Nothing at all. It is not him I'm concerned about, but my mother. Mama is very keen to have them wed so she and Prudence may stay in our home, but Cousin Jack is not interested. I worry that Mama will resort to some underhanded trick to force him into marrying her."

"Would that be so bad? Social pressure worked for the two of us, hey?"

Penelope kicks him under the table. "That was different and you know it. He is not cruel but he also does not…care about us. Women are less important to him than his investments. I do not wish that kind of marriage for Prudence, even at her most trying."

"Forgive me, my lady. I do understand wishing to protect your siblings." Anthony accepts his fate: "Invite her, then. If nothing else her presence will certainly deter me from importuning you in the carriage."

Penelope flushes again, which he gallantly ignores, continuing to eat his ice.

The journey to Aubrey Hall, the Bridgertons' country estate, begins with the best travel weather one could ask for: sunny with a light breeze. By herself, Penelope could spend the hours leaning dreamily out the carriage windows to watch the clouds drifting by. Instead (though she is hardly complaining about this), she sits with her sister and across from Anthony, listening to him reading aloud from Richard III.

"I brought Much Ado About Nothing, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Richard III, and a selection of the Sonnets, my ladies," he'd said to them as they left Grosvenor Square. "Which would you prefer?"

Prudence had refused to answer – in a sulk, for some reason – so Penelope chose the tragedy of the Duke of Gloucester. She's never cared for Shakespeare's comedies and his sonnets feel too intimate to be listened to with a chaperone present. Even a chaperone who seems to be ignoring them both in favor of a perpetual scowl.

Midway through the journey, Anthony orders their driver to stop at an inn to change their horses. "I expect we will rest here for half an hour or so. Would you care to step inside for refreshment?"

Penelope wouldn't mind but Prudence declines, and Penelope does not feel she can leave her sister alone in their carriage, even with Anthony's groom standing by.

"Very well, I will see if the landlord will allow me to bring out some lemonade for you both." Anthony bows and heads inside.

Penelope turns to her sister once he is out of earshot. "Prudence, whatever is the matter? Your long face casts Richard the Third's humpback into the shade."

Prudence sniffs. "You always think you're better than the rest of us for liking complicated, classical books instead of good stories where people actually do interesting things."

"I like novels too," Penelope protests. "It's just that Shakespeare is an interest that Anthony and I share. I thought it was sweet of him to suggest it for the journey instead of endless games of chess. And he offered you the choice of titles first!"

"As if he cares a jot for what I think. No man ever does. At least yours pretends to be polite, even though he looks like he's smelling something nasty whenever he speaks to me." Prudence had begun that sentence angrily enough but trails off sounding forlorn.

Penelope sighs. Her sister is difficult to love, but it must be hard for Prudence to see both her younger sisters wed in a year. Prudence has been out for five Seasons now without a single offer of marriage. It would not help to remind her that Penelope landed her proposal by accident, to save face in front of the Ton.

"Come, Pru. What would you like to do instead? Anthony hasn't the best poker face and I am sorry for it, but he will listen to you if I ask."

"Oh, go have your little flirtation over boring history, Penelope. I do not care. I brought my own amusements with me." Prudence reaches into her valise and pulls out an embroidery hoop, needle, and several skeins of silk thread.

Curious, Penelope leans over to look. "May I see what you're making?"

"Stop crowding me," Prudence grumbles but reluctantly turns the hoop towards her sister.

Penelope sucks in a breath. "Why Prudence, it is lovely. When did you become so talented at this?"

In the circle of Prudence's hoop is a complex repeating pattern, a lion and a unicorn chasing each other above and below a wide blue ribbon. Prudence has not stinted on clashing shades in her work anymore than she does in her fans, but here the riot of color is more bearable. Beautiful, even. Penelope is decent at basic embroidery but could never achieve the fine details her sister has put into the animals' variegated pelts.

Prudence doesn't quite manage to smile at the praise, but she thaws a little. "I always loved drawing with thread," she says softly. "More than with charcoal or watercolors. But Mama told me I was wasting too much time with fancy work when no gentleman wants a tapestry-maker for a wife. Once I was presented for my first Season, she wanted me to focus on simpler patterns for handkerchiefs and linens, like any other debutante."

"What is this pattern for? It looks like trimming for a hem, fit for a queen."

"It is. It will go on one of the petticoats for my next ballgown."

Penelope looks at her in surprise. "All that, for a petticoat? Is it…for your trousseau?"

Prudence snorts. "Please. Let us dispense with the fiction that I will marry, Penelope. We both know that will not happen for me. I make these designs to please myself. And Mama has stopped protesting, as it keeps me busy when no suitor comes to call."

"Pru…your work is gorgeous and you deserve to find a man who would appreciate your art. For it is truly an art."

But her sister furrows her brow, rejecting the compliment. "What use is a man's praise for my sewing? Pen, I do this for me. I have no looks, no confirmed dowry, no prospects. What I do have is my own taste and my ability to make my dreams real, even if they are only within the frame of this hoop."

Penelope rests her head on her sister's shoulder. "I understand, I do. I am sorry I didn't pay attention to you earlier. I hope you'll show me more of your work sometime."

"If you insist."

"I do! Even if the art is just for you, I know how good it feels to receive praise for it."

Prudence nods. "Don't tell Mama how much silk thread I use, or she'll have a fit about the cost. Mrs. Varley seeks out discounts for me from spoiled skeins that I can unpick for these patterns."

Guiltily, Penelope thinks of her mounting Lady Whistledown savings hidden below her floorboards. If their cousin had not appeared, she might have told the family about her work by now, offering to pay down some of their debts. Now that Cousin Jack has things in hand, perhaps she can spend a little of the money on luxuries. Prudence deserves only the best materials for work of such quality.

Penelope has never told her family about Whistledown for practical reasons but also nerves. Unlike the Bridgertons, the Featherington sisters did not grow up in a home encouraging trust and shared confidences. Penelope was always too afraid of the consequences of being caught. Prudence has been open with her, so maybe trading truths is only fair?

But before Penelope can steel herself to begin explaining, they hear the horses whinny as Anthony approaches.

"Your lemonade, my ladies," he says, passing two tankards in through the window. He smells faintly of cigar smoke, the kind that Cousin Jack prefers. "We should be on our way again in just a few minutes. Is that your design, Miss Featherington? Very fine."

Prudence doesn't smile or say thank you to Anthony, but she doesn't scowl at him either, so Penelope counts that as progress.

When the carriage is moving again, Penelope asks Anthony if he would mind switching to read A Midsummer Night's Dream instead.

"I find I am in the mood for something lighter," she says. "Something that better suits our adventure into the country, and matches Prudence's work."

"As you wish, my lady." Anthony opens the new volume and begins to read aloud:

Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour

Draws on apace. Four happy days bring in

Another moon…

Notes:

the entirety of their marriage settlements: in Regency-era England, a married woman had almost no financial rights at all. Marriage settlements were prenuptial agreements designed by wealthy families to preserve a daughter's access to her inheritance, especially property. If "pin money" (i.e. her allowance from her husband) were not spelled out in the settlements in advance, she would have to accept whatever he felt like giving her, if anything.

not without a petition to Parliament: As Anthony explains, annual alimony payments could be mandated by the ecclesiastical [church] courts in cases of adultery or abandonment but that would be an expensive and extreme path to pursue. From 1800-1829, there were only 75 full divorces granted by Parliament, at a time when England had a population of roughly 10 million people. (Also, only one of those cases was brought by a woman.) The Anglican Church maintained authority to rule on the validity of a divorce claim until the passing of the Matrimonial Causes Act in 1857.

Her worth is above rubies and the heart of her husband safely trusts in her: See Proverbs 31:10-11.

The Marquis of Vidal has landed himself in his worst scrape yet: What better gossip could Lady Whistledown report than the plot of a classic Georgette Heyer novel? If you also love Devil's Cub, let me know in the comments below!

Now, fair Hippolyta: William Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream Act I Scene I, clearly.

Chapter 8

Notes:

These chapters just get longer and longer, don't they?

I haven't added a chapter count yet because I'm still working out the pacing towards the end, but if you're curious, at this point we should be roughly 2/3 of the way through the fic.

Also, I've been blown away by the amount of attention/appreciation this story has received! Thank you all for joining me as I turn this goofy premise that I came up with on a whim into a full-length romance.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The travelers make good time to Aubrey Hall, arriving at the Bridgerton country seat with plenty of opportunity for the ladies to rest before dinner. Anthony has the honor to introduce his fiancée – and Prudence – to Mrs. Wilson, the estate housekeeper, and see them whisked upstairs to their guest chambers. He himself spends the next hour meeting with his steward Coombs to review the itinerary for his visit.

"We'll have to begin with the western pastures tomorrow, my lord," Coombs tells him gravely. "I meant you for the cherry harvest, but the Suffolk flocks are ill again. It's foot scald this time."

"Hell and the devil," Anthony groans. "Why do we even bother with sheep? I swear they catch more diseases than Gregory catches scoldings for his pranks."

"Sir, if you would consider switching to the Romney Marsh breed, as we discussed in January –"

"Yes, yes, I know, your rival's flocks over by Maidstone over are the envy of all County Kent. I suppose you might as well look into it for next year. Send me the numbers and I'll review them with Portwinder."

"At once, my lord," his servant says, well pleased.

They conclude their business with just enough time for Anthony to dress himself for dinner (having determined his valet unnecessary for such a short trip) and escort both ladies into the dining room at promptly six o'clock. Much too early for London appetites but only a little late for the countryside, they sit three to table in the massive room.

Anthony marvels to himself at the difference of dining with only his fiancée – and Prudence – instead of an entire army of Bridgertons and their guests. When the whole family is in residence, the room feels boisterously full, the table overflowing with dishes and jostling elbows and laughter. When Anthony stays here alone for estate matters, he eats distractedly on a tray in Father's library, or quickly in the field with Coombs and the tenant farmers. With three of twenty seats filled, the table feels unbalanced but the peace and the calm pace of the conversation make for a pleasant change. They have only three courses tonight, quite plain compared to Town fare, but Anthony differs from his mother in preferring simplicity over splendor with regard to menu.

"I hope your chambers are to your liking, Miss Featherington?" he asks as the soup is served.

Prudence inclines her head and begins eating.

Penelope, perhaps wishing to smooth over the shortness of that reply, hastens to add: "They are lovely, Anthony. We especially admire the view of the gardens."

"I am pleased to hear it – pardon, 'we'?" he asks. "Did Mrs. Wilson arrange for the two of you to share a bedchamber?"

"Yes, in the Bluebell Suite. Is that not what you wanted?"

"For Prudence, certainly. It is one of our best guest suites. But my lady, I had thought that you would be elsewhere."

"Why?" Prudence wrinkles her nose. "Did you plan to slip into her room tonight, Lord Bridgerton?"

"Prudence!" Penelope hisses, turning pink.

"No, of course not," Anthony frowns. "But I will speak to Wilson after dinner. You are my betrothed, Penelope. You should have the viscountess's chambers."

"But I am not the viscountess yet."

Anthony waves a dismissive hand. "A matter of formality. Our housekeeper should be treating you with the respect due your station as the lady of the estate."

Penelope sets down her spoon to stare at him. "Anthony, your mother is the lady of the estate. Her belongings are still in those chambers! Lady Violet is wonderful to me, but no woman would take kindly to being displaced by a mere fiancée! I am perfectly content to share a room with Prudence for this visit."

"…I had not thought of that."

Prudence rolls her eyes. "Such brains. And you claim he took a first at Oxford?" she mutters at her sister.

Do not engage, Anthony tells himself. Be the mature one for once, as befits a host. "My lady, I believe you told me earlier this week that your family's estates are in Somerset?"

"Yes, Rosewood Abbey," Penelope says, seizing gratefully upon the change of topic. "It has been quite a while since we have been there, however. The house was let to a retired Admiral and his wife several years ago to…to assist with some debts."

"And what about the lands? What is your family's industry?"

"Mostly sheep farming."

"Indeed? We have sheep here at Aubrey Hall as well. Less significant than the cherry orchards or the hops fields, to be sure. Are you fond of sheep, my lady?"

"I cannot say for sure, as I have spent so little time around them. The lands have been heavily mortgaged as well. I am told our estate was thriving once, but I have no memory of this," Penelope says.

"Because you were only three when Grandfather died," her elder sister interjects, rejoining the conversation. "Papa never cared about the estate at all, and he much preferred to stay in Town to spend its profits."

"I thought Grandfather Featherington died before our parents married," Penelope responds in surprise.

"He did. I meant Grandfather Buccleuch, Mama's father. He lived with us for several years and made it his business to see to the flocks. That's why he agreed to the match, Mama told me once," Prudence explains. "Even though Papa was only a baron and she the daughter of the third son of a Scottish earl and an English heiress. Because the Baron Featherington had a sheep farm, and it made him less homesick for Scotland."

"I had forgotten you are part Scottish," Anthony says. "That explains all the ginger."

Prudence sniffs at him. "Red is a noble hair color."

"I think so as well, my lady," he responds. "It flatters the complexion that you both share."

She purses her lips in an approximation of a smile and turns away slightly to drink her wine.

"I wish I could remember Grandfather Buccleuch," Penelope says softly. "Mama never speaks of him. I should have liked to see our estate healthy, instead of run-down and let to strangers."

"It makes her too sad, I think. She misses that time. Papa's gaming was not so strong when we were young, and Mama preferred living in the country. A less cut-throat atmosphere than London."

A melancholy mood settles over the table. Anthony casts around in an attempt to lift it.

"Well, perhaps I should ask your mother for advice on sheep rearing," he jokes. "Our flocks give me nothing but trouble. Always developing some sort of infection."

"Perhaps you should. The Buccleuch line is famous for our way with animals. Though I prefer mine embroidered to living."

"And your skill with those is prodigious," Penelope says. "Anthony, what of your plans for us this visit?"

"Tomorrow I fear I will be with Coombs most of the day, so I have asked Mrs. Wilson to show you around Aubrey Hall. At a minimum I will join you for dinner, of course, if we do not finish earlier. And for Sunday services, my uncle the Reverend Ledger presides over the parish church, and he and my aunt Ledger look forward to hosting us for luncheon."

"Your mother's brother?"

"Yes, the younger one. My uncle assumed the Aubrey Hall pulpit after Father passed away, that we might have more family closer to home to assist Mother while I finished my studies at Oxford."

"That was kind of him," Penelope says softly.

"Indeed, Uncle Henry gave up a much more prestigious position in Manchester to do so. I am greatly indebted to him for those extra two years of study," Anthony says, looking down. "It was an indulgence of mine to playact the scholar when the viscounty was waiting for me."

Penelope reaches over to squeeze his hand. "I am glad for your learning, sir, that you might be able to discuss the classics with me. I should be less pleased with a less educated spouse."

"Huh!" Prudence scoffs. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things, you know."

"Oh indeed?" Penelope whips around to face her sister. "Embroidery, I suppose. Hemming and basting and the like."

"Why not? At least such skills are useful. What good can intelligence do for a lady?"

Anthony, never sure of how to best intervene among bickering women, is grateful for the interruption caused by the serving of the second course.

Were this visit a formal house party with many guests, after dinner the gentlemen and ladies would divide into separate rooms for amusement. Here by himself with only two women, Anthony might have been at a loss for providing entertainment, had his future bride not been a fellow enthusiast of literature:

"Mrs. Wilson will offer a tour of all the rest tomorrow, my lady, but I thought that perhaps tonight I might show you Father's library."

"Oh!" Penelope looks up at him, beaming. "I would like that very much. Better from you than from your servants."

Anthony turns next to Prudence, having anticipated her frown: "Miss Featherington, since the classics hold no fascination for you, while we were finishing dessert, I asked that Francesca's last copy of La Belle Assemblée be brought from her room. I regret the edition is from before we left Kent for the Season, but I hope the fashion plates may still prove of interest."

Prudence nods once in thanks, which he accepts as a small victory. (Still better, of course, is Penelope's obvious pleasure at his forethought.)

When they enter Father's library, Prudence decamps immediately for an armchair by the fireplace, conspicuously ignoring the others in favor of the magazine and a cup of tea.

Anthony escorts Penelope through a tour of the shelves, stopping often to point out any particularly beloved tomes. Sharing memories of youthful reading in conversation is bittersweet, for he cannot help but think of how Father would have liked Penelope's quick wit and appreciation of his collection. A Renaissance woman!

At last they come to the Shakespeare section, these editions more worn with use than any other. Penelope, endearingly short, hops a few rungs up the nearest library ladder to get a closer look.

"Hmm," she says playfully. "I would have thought a man so dedicated to study would hold Shakespeare's history plays in highest regard, but the binding on this Romeo and Juliet is near to shreds! What a romantic Lord Edmund must have been."

Anthony comes to stand behind her. "Oh, very much so. He and Mother always spoke of how they found love at first sight."

"Across a crowded ballroom?"

"At the Red Lion Inn on the road to Kent, in fact. He was heading home and she passing through. Though if anyone outside the family asks, it was absolutely at Lady Danbury's Michaelmas house party a week later."

Penelope laughs, turning back to the shelves. "But there on the end is a book even more worn than Romeo! Oh, let me see." Her hand must extend beyond the edge of the ladder to grab it, so naturally Anthony places his own hand on the small of her back to steady her.

"Thank you! Ah, it is the Sonnets." Penelope flips through the pages of the pocket-sized edition. "And nearly every page annotated by him too, how precious! But I thought you brought the sonnets with you from London?"

"And what true admirer of the Bard does not have two complete sets of his works?" Anthony teases her. "Of course we have a copy in London and a copy in the country! This way one may never feel the lack of his words, should one be in the mood for romance."

Penelope raises her gaze to his, and Anthony realizes suddenly that they are mere inches from each other.

"And are you?" she asks. "In the mood for romance?"

"My lady..." Anthony reaches to touch a curl of her hair, falling so charmingly in front of her face, but before he can decide how to finish the sentence, Prudence coughs loudly.

They both turn, startled, to see their reluctant chaperone glaring meaningfully at them.

Anthony steps back from the ladder hastily and offers Penelope a hand to climb down. Face bright pink but on her dignity, she ignores him and her sister both, descending by herself and marching over to a chair by the window. After a minute, he follows.

"Tell me," Penelope says once he has taken the seat next to her. "Is it in here your family would rehearse for the Viscount's Men?"

Anthony looks at her in surprise. "Ah, you know about that tradition? From Eloise, I suppose."

"Yes, she never fails to write me letters each year about your family performances the day after Christmas. The details are sometimes muddled in her telling but it sounds such a lot of fun. Is it always a Shakespeare play you choose?"

"Nearly always. It started when I was a schoolboy, memorizing speeches for my lessons. Dialogues were easier, of course, and Father suggested I act them out with a partner to aid my recollection. And as they kept having more children, eventually we had a whole acting troupe."

"And do all your neighbors and tenants come to see you perform?"

"No, no. It is just for us, just for fun. In fact, I think Mother fixed the performance for Boxing Day so we might be occupied while half our household staff leaves to visit their families. Mrs. Wilson and some of our older retainers stay to applaud, of course. And to answer your earlier question, the Viscount's Men exclusively rehearse and perform in the ballroom."

"Of course," Penelope nods. "Such talent must have a grander stage."

"I am glad you understand."

"I look forward to seeing it this year! Who chooses the play? And who directs?"

"Usually we cast lots for the director. Mother chooses the play, to keep the peace. Luckily there are enough options to rotate evenly between tragedy, comedy, and history over the years."

"How different from Christmas at home," Penelope says a little wistfully. "I wish we had had such enjoyable traditions. Mostly Papa would be sitting around grumbling that the gaming-hells were closed and Mama would be scolding him for spoiling the holiday mood, therefore ensuring the mood was spoiled."

This time it is Anthony's turn to squeeze her hand as comfort.

After a moment, she looks up at him with a smile back in place. "The obvious question looms. Have you performed Antony and Cleopatra yet?"

Anthony drops her hand with a groan. "My lady, the sorest of subjects!"

"Oh dear, I didn't mean –"

"No, how could you know? It is a black mark in our troupe's history. A curséd day."

"That terrible?"

"The performance was strong as ever – it was my own behavior that horrified. I am embarrassed even now, Penelope."

"And now I must know!" She sits up happily, all too eager to hear the tale of his past misdeeds.

Anthony sighs. "I suppose it is only right for you to know your husband in all his flaws. One of my least fine hours, and even I know that is saying something. I made a special request for it the year I was 18, my last production at home before heading to university." His mouth twists ruefully. "Only, my sisters were all too young to play Cleopatra properly. Francesca could barely manage bit parts even with us prompting every line. Mother suggested we switch to something simpler, but I insisted. I wanted to have played the titular role before beginning at Oxford."

"Naturally."

"Benedict offered to take Cleopatra and I was... impolite. You see, he was such a jokester on stage back then, always playing the fools and clowns. I said he would turn a tragedy into a farce, that men in Shakespeare's time only played women because women weren't yet allowed to act, that it was inappropriate and a mockery of our family tradition. And then I stormed out in the middle of Christmas Eve dinner."

"Oh, Anthony." Penelope covers her mouth but cannot hide the grin.

"Father found me here in the library afterwards. He pointed out that as the eldest, I would sometimes need to forego my personal preferences for the larger family good. And that no doubt there had been worse portrayals of the Queen of the Nile than a spotty 16-year-old in an old sheet."

She laughs out loud.

Anthony continues, "Father reminded me that now I was the one keeping the family back from our tradition. He asked if I was willing to set aside my pride to rejoin the production or if he should play Marc Antony instead."

"So you gave in?"

"How well you think of me, my lady!" Anthony heaves a larger sigh. "No, I didn't. I told Father he was welcome to the role, that I couldn't wait to leave for Oxford in the fall, surrounded by fellow scholars who would treat the Bard with proper respect. And so on Boxing Day, I sat in the back of the ballroom with arms folded, glaring at everyone the entire time."

Penelope pats his shoulder sympathetically.

"I truly regret my behavior but I am glad the younger ones got to see him perform one last time," Anthony says softly. "He did not live to see the following Christmas."

"Lord Edmund was a very special person."

Anthony looks up at his father's portrait, hanging above the fireplace. "Penelope, never a day passes where I do not feel his lack. If only I had inherited his patience along with his love of the classics! He was twice the viscount I will ever be."

They sit quietly for a moment, Anthony grateful for her understanding company. Then a thought occurs to him:

"My lady, you lost your own father this past year. Does it distress you to hear of my long-familiar grief? I do not wish to hold my mourning above yours. I should have asked you about him before."

"Oh...our childhoods were very different," Penelope says, trailing a finger across the armrest of her seat. "Perhaps if Papa had had sons, he might have been present more often. Or perhaps he would have merely taken them to the gaming-hells with him and run through all our inheritance even faster. When Mama was at her most overbearing, he would avoid challenging her behavior in favor of simply leaving the house, often for a few days at a time."

Anthony tsks.

"When he was home, he was amiable but disinterested in us. Papa rarely used his library so I would hide there from my mother and sisters when I could not visit Eloise. It is how I learned the classics so well, from Grandfather Featherington's collection…" Penelope sighs. "I miss Papa sometimes, but in truth I think we are better off with Cousin Jack as our guardian. At least our cousin and Mama never argue."

"I would that you had had some of my happiness as a child," Anthony says. "I have not always appreciated how rare my family situation was."

"I am content to make my own adult happiness. My expectations for marriage were so low...I did not dare to hope that I would enjoy my husband's company."

Anthony reaches for her hand and kisses it. Reluctant to let go of her, they sit holding hands in comfortable silence for a spell, watching the fire.

Eventually Prudence yawns loudly and stands, dropping the magazine on her chair. "I am for bed, Penelope," she says. "Let us go."

Penelope nods and stands up herself, settling her skirts around her. "Thank you for showing me the library," she says. "It was a lovely evening."

Anthony bows in response and escorts her to the door.

Prudence is halfway up the stairs already when Penelope turns back to look at him.

"Anthony...I must ask one final question."

"Yes?"

"How was Benedict as Cleopatra?" she asks, eyes twinkling. "I can well picture him posing with an asp at his breast."

Anthony grins back at his clever fiancée. "You know something? He was magnificent."

Saturday morning dawns on Aubrey Hall with crisp, cool air and only mildly cloudy skies. Anthony would perhaps enjoy the weather more were he not spending the day knee-deep in anxious, injured, smelly sheep and their messy droppings.

When I invited Penelope to visit with me, I pictured us strolling through the cherry orchards, he sighs to himself, firmly holding a hoof up for the animal surgeon to inspect. Not her inside the house all day and me in the fields with my boots covered in shit. Quelle romance, Anthony.

"You may release the ewe, my lord," the surgeon tells him. "I believe that is the last of them."

Anthony lowers the sheep's leg gently to the ground with relief, then stretches his back. "Now may we attend to the orchards, Coombs? Surely this has been enough time spent with these wretched creatures."

The ewe bleats at him as if in reproach.

"Sorry, madam," he says to her. "It is not personal."

Coombs is smirking at him. "I am afraid we are not finished in this pasture, my lord. It is May, after all, and you know what that means for the lambs."

Anthony groans. He would place his head in his hands in despair were it not for the dirt on his gloves. "Oh no. Castration season, isn't it? I had forgotten."

"Yes, my lord. And your tenants do so appreciate how you lead by example in caring for your flocks."

(The less said about that task, the better.)

After a hurried farmhand's luncheon and an inspection of the pasture's fencing – adequate for now, only mild repairs needed – it is nearing three o'clock in the afternoon by his pocket watch when Anthony finally has hope of a cessation in the list of tasks. Perhaps in just an hour, he might be able to return to Aubrey Hall, to wash and talk with Penelope briefly before dinner with her and Prudence.

He is leaning on a fencepost, watching the gathering clouds, when Coombs taps him on the shoulder.

"Lord Bridgerton, I believe you have a visitor."

Anthony turns to see a petite figure approaching, gamely braving the dirt path to the pasture.

"Penelope? What–" He breaks off, then passes his gloves to Coombs and heads quickly towards her.

As his fiancée gets nearer, he sees that her pale pink skirts and matching half-boots are spattered with dust, only emphasizing by contrast the brilliancy which exercise has given to her complexion.

"You are a sight for sore eyes indeed, my lady," he tells her. "But did you walk all this way from the house?"

"Certainly. What better way to see the grounds?"

"Why, on horseback, of course. Or at least accompanied by a maid with a parasol! It must have taken you nearly half an hour to walk it."

"I do not mind. It was good to have a chance to stretch my muscles after a day indoors with only Prudence for company."

Anthony glances around involuntarily. "Is your sister on her way as well?"

Penelope laughs at him. "Never fear, she would not agree to such strenuous activity. Besides, you have an ally in your housekeeper: when I left, Mrs. Wilson was showing Prudence the tapestries in the Long Gallery. They were sewn by an ancestor of yours, I am told. One who was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth?"

"Oh yes, Lady Anne, wife of the first Viscount Bridgerton. It was her husband Lord James who was given these lands by Good Queen Bess in thanks for their years of loyal service. And the charter for the cherry orchards too."

"I confess I prefer the history lesson to the examination of the stitches," Penelope says. "If you wouldn't mind telling me more?"

"Anything you wish, my lady. Won't you sit for a while in the shade and rest?" Anthony turns to his steward. "Coombs, have we any water left?"

Coombs passes him a jug. "I will just see to the fencing in the next field, my lord. John Junior will remain in earshot should you two need anything." He indicates the young tenant farmer's son in question, who is cleaning his dirty nails with a pocket knife.

"Thank you," Anthony says gratefully. "For your discretion –"

"What discretion? I am merely respecting the viscount's need to refresh himself. After all, my lord is not so hardened a laborer as his employees. He might even need to return home earlier than expected for a rest." Coombs walks away, whistling.

Anthony stifles a laugh and goes to sit with his intended.

When the skies have dimmed ominously grey enough that Anthony can no longer pretend not to notice, he stands and holds a hand out to Penelope.

"I would give you longer to rest, my lady, but I fear the oncoming rain. I think we ought to return to the house."

"Don't be silly, I am plenty rested," Penelope said. "I am ready to walk back."

"No need for that, I have Lightning with me." Anthony signals to John Junior, who unties the stallion from his spot at the edge of the pasture's fencing and walks him over to them.

"Lightning is a curiously common choice of name for a fan of antiquity such as you," Penelope says. "Not Bucephalus, after Alexander the Great's beloved steed?"

"As ever you stun me with your insight into my character, Penelope." Anthony chuckles, smoothing Lightning's mane and checking the straps on his saddle. "When I was 14 and allowed to choose my own horse for the first time, I did name that animal Bucephalus. That did not last very long, though. Soon enough he became Shadow."

"Oh, why the change? I like the allusion."

"I wish you had been around back then to defend it! Unfortunately, Benedict and Colin called me Anthony the Great in every conversation for two full weeks, until I could not stand it any longer."

Penelope smiles at him. "What checks to our pride are our siblings!"

"They regularly inform me I would be absolutely unbearable without them," he sighs. "In any event, you shall soon see why this beast is called Lightning. May I help you up?"

"What? In this outfit? I am fine to walk, Anthony."

"What does your dress have to do with anything? It suits you fine."

"I thank you, but I was not angling for praise," she tuts. "I mean that you do not have a side saddle for him. How would I sit?"

He keeps his expression open and innocent. "Why, leaning against me, if needed."

She flushes. "Let us begin walking, the rain will be here soon."

"As you wish. If you change your mind, Lightning and I will be ready."

Despite the enduring threat of storm clouds, Anthony enjoys returning home with Penelope in one hand, his horse's reins in the other. He had wanted to show her the grounds anyway, and the slow pace of walking creates better opportunities to look around than if they were riding home. As ever, his fiancée is a keen observer of detail, asking many thoughtful questions about the property and management of the estate.

"You will make an excellent viscountess," he tells her gladly. "I thank you for your interest in all of it. At the start of the Season I merely hoped to find a wife who would not begrudge my time spent away from her in the fields. Little did I think to find a woman who might seek to join me there."

"I thank you for taking me seriously," Penelope responds. "I am not used to being encouraged in my curiosity about the world beyond my drawing room. Of course I am no farmer yet, but I would hope to help rather than hinder our lands to prosper."

"I cannot see how you could ever be a hindrance to me."

As soon as Anthony finishes speaking, the skies open and it begins to pour.

Penelope gasps in shock and amusement as they are immediately drenched. "Alas for the future of this dress," she says. "Good thing I hated it."

Anthony shrugs off his riding coat and hands it to her. "Here, my lady. The boiled wool will keep at least some of the rain off of you."

Penelope slings the coat around her shoulders and smiles up at him from within her wilting bonnet. "You are too kind."

"Not at all," he says. "That coat will become incredibly heavy when it is fully soaked. This way I am making you carry the weight. What do you think, shall we run for it?"

"Yes," she says, her eyes flashing with glee. "Let's."

They are, after all, not so far from Aubrey Hall by this point – the stables are already visible in the distance as they begin to race through the quickly-forming mud. Lightning whinnies next to them as he keeps gentle pace, no doubt perturbed by these silly humans' refusal to use him to their advantage.

They burst into the stables laughing, and Penelope takes a seat on one of the hay bales in an empty stall. Anthony brings Lightning to his stall at the far end of the structure, where his unimpressed groom is waiting to take over.

"Do we have any spare blankets here, Tom?" Anthony asks. "I would help the future viscountess get dry."

"Aye, your lordship, but they smell strongly of horse," Tom says skeptically.

"Better than smelling of sheep manure," Anthony tells him cheerfully, ignoring the groom's confused cough.

Anthony returns to the stall where Penelope is sitting, carrying the cleanest blanket Tom had to offer. She has removed her bonnet and is attempting to wring the water out of it, his coat still around her shoulders.

"In lieu of a towel, my lady, might I offer you this blanket, only slightly used by our carriage horses?"

Penelope raises her head with the beginning of a smile, then chokes slightly as she looks up.

"What's the matter?" Anthony asks, puzzled.

"Oh," she breathes out, still staring at him. "How very unfair. You…all of you."

Anthony looks down at himself. His white linen shirt is so thoroughly soaked that it is nearly see-through, his buckskin breeches similarly plastered against him. And his valet may never forgive him for the wreck of his boots.

"I suppose I should be the one wearing the blanket," he says. "To preserve my modesty."

"The last time we were both this wet I did not get to enjoy it," Penelope murmurs, then claps an embarrassed hand over her mouth.

Anthony raises an eyebrow, gratified by this sudden turn in the conversation. "Is that so? And do you enjoy it now, my lady?"

Penelope winces adorably. "Please, as if you do not know how well you look, wet or dry. All the Ton speaks of the Viscount Bridgerton's attractive form."

"I have heard compliments before, but not from you," Anthony says, approaching her. "It does a man good to hear it from his intended. How do you find my form?"

Penelope, trembling slightly, takes refuge in quotation: "Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit is poorly imitated after you…"

"Is that right?" Anthony asks, taking her hand and pulling her up to stand in front of him. "I believe it is my turn to think you a sonnet's muse."

"I suppose now you will say 'my eyes are nothing like the sun'," Penelope whispers.

"Indeed not, they are a brilliant blue."

"Anthony…."

"I grant I never saw a goddess go," he tells Penelope, placing a finger under her chin and tilting her face up to his. "And yet, by heaven–!"

For their first kiss, he is careful to be gentle, conscious of the newness of the experience for her. And yet for him it is no less significant – his last first kiss, hey? With his soon-to-be wife!

Anthony pulls back after a minute – shorter than he'd prefer, longer than was probably wise – to look down at Penelope. Her eyes are shining bright with wonder, and just as he thinks one more kiss could not hurt, she sneezes in his arms.

"Oh no, I am so sorry," Penelope gasps in dismay. "I ruined the moment!"

Anthony laughs, smoothing a hand down the side of her wet hair. "Not at all, my dear. You are too charming for that. But perhaps we should go inside and get properly dry. If you catch cold a second time because of me, your mother will never trust me to take you anywhere again."

"Soon enough she will have no say over what I do," Penelope says, leaning over to pick up her ruined hat. "I look forward to that for…many reasons."

Anthony cannot help gazing at her in delight as they head to the stable door. O thou fairest of women!

All too soon, Monday arrives, and with it the realization that not only will Anthony's lovely fiancée – and Prudence – be returning to London today, but that Anthony ought not to be returning with them.

"My sincerest apologies," he tells the Featherington sisters at the breakfast-table. "I mislike that you would journey without me, but I do not want to keep you here longer when you have social engagements awaiting you in Town. And unfortunately, due to the flocks' foot scald and the rain, I still have not had a chance to look over the cherry harvest. I must remain a few more days at the estate, to do the work I came for."

Penelope smiles contentedly at him as she butters her toast. "I do not mind, Anthony. It has been a most enjoyable visit, and you needn't fret over us. Prudence and I will keep each other company."

"Yes, however could we survive in that carriage without you?" Prudence grumbles, but her heart is not in the complaint. Mrs. Wilson has made her a present of a basket of silk threads and a section of worn tapestry to try her hand at repairing, so she is equally pleased with her visit.

"Even so, I've instructed my groom Tom to escort you," Anthony says. "Two ladies traveling alone would not be right, even for a short journey."

Their conversation easily turns to church yesterday – Reverend and Mrs. Ledger were most amiable, Penelope says again, and she hopes they might visit London soon – and to their plans for the upcoming week.

"It is rather unlikely I should make it back in time for Vauxhall Gardens on Wednesday," Anthony admits. "Please tell me you will not stay at home for my sake."

"Certainly not! I will miss you, but Miss Edwina has also expressed interest in attending that evening. She and Eloise and I will have a grand adventure under the lanterns."

Within the hour, the ladies' trunks have been placed atop the carriage and they are ready to begin the journey.

Prudence ascends quickly into the carriage and makes herself comfortable with her sewing. Penelope lingers in front of it, thanking Mrs. Wilson and her staff again very sweetly, then turns to Anthony.

He takes her hands in his. "I did not know I had been so lonely each May harvest, until you joined me for this trip. It was a pleasure to have you here."

Penelope turns that lovely shade of pink again. "I feel the same. 'Thank you' feels insufficient for the occasion, but…thank you."

Anthony wishes he might kiss her goodbye, but they are in public with the estate staff arrayed all around them, waiting for the sisters to depart. Prudence can no doubt read his mind, as she once again coughs loudly.

Penelope gives him one last wry grin and steps inside the carriage.

Anthony watches the road long after they have disappeared into the distance, wishing there were some way he could monitor his lands from London, that he could stay by his fiancée's side.

Eventually, he hears a polite clearing of a throat from behind and turns around to see his steward Coombs waiting for him.

"Time to return to my duties, hey?" Anthony says. "Well, let's at it. How are the cherries looking this morning?"

"Quite well, I am told," Coombs answers. "I regret that we must make a stop at the eastern pastures first, however…"

Anthony groans again. Those damned sheep!

Notes:

My uncle assumed the Aubrey Hall pulpit: while Uncle Henry clearly took a step backward in terms of his clergy career to do this, it was very common for the landed elite to offer their estate's pulpit to a family member. Bestowing a "church living", which came with both an income and a house near the parish church, was a way of making sure younger sons (who frequently studied for religious ordination since they could not inherit) were financially supported and able to stay close to home. Church nepo babies!

Books! And cleverness! There are more important things: See Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone, Chapter 16.

Where your family would rehearse for the Viscount's Men: The acting troupe Shakespeare belonged to was called the King's Men, so naturally the Bridgertons have named their own family troupe in tribute to his.

the brilliancy which exercise has given to her complexion: Mr. Darcy thinks the same of Elizabeth Bennet in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 7.

Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit is poorly imitated after you: William Shakespeare's "Sonnet 53".

Nothing like the sun/I grant I never saw a goddess go/and yet by heaven: assorted lines from William Shakespeare's "Sonnet 130". Listen to Alan Rickman read it aloud here.

O thou fairest of women!: See Song of Solomon 1:8.

Chapter 9

Notes:

Hello! If you're a subscriber who received multiple notifications today, please know that I was very silly - I deleted chapter 1 by accident and had to reupload it...alas for all your unrecoverable comments!

Now with chapter 9 properly posted, we are back on track.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The morning after their return from the Bridgerton country estate, Penelope wakes up in a state of nervous determination. Hurriedly, she dresses and heads out to Bond Street with her maid Alice before the rest of the house is awake. The rest of the Ton must be similarly abed, for the famed shopping street is empty of all but a few proprietors sweeping the pavement in front of their businesses.

When Penelope knocks on the door of Madame Delacroix's establishment, it is a full five minutes before the modiste arrives to answer it, hair pulled back severely and a working apron covering her black dress.

"Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Featherington," she says in surprise. "I was not expecting anyone at this hour. Even the silks delivery is not scheduled until noon."

Penelope had not considered she might be interrupting the dressmaker at work. "I might return later if it is a bother," she says, hoping Madame Delacroix will say she may remain. "I would not wish to be disruptive."

"Not at all," Madame Delacroix says, ushering her in. "It is merely that I am not yet prepared for Society customers." And indeed her front room is still dark, with covers on the delicate furniture.

Penelope sighs in relief, pushing her bonnet back from her face. "That is no issue, I am not here on fashion matters."

"Good, for you are not due for a fitting until next week, as you know. I hope all is well with Lady Whistledown. Do we remain safe from the Queen's aspersions?"

"Oh! Yes, all is well. Circulation continues strong, and the Queen appears a bit bored by the increasing political coverage. The continued antics of the Prince Regent are no doubt keeping her quite occupied at the moment."

Madame Delacroix nods. "My neighbors the jewelers Rundell & Bridge say that the Prince Regent owes nearly 90,000 for their latest creation. Not to mention his drunken display at the Hearts and Flowers Ball. Will you mention that in your column this week?"

"I think not. The Queen would be displeased and I am uninterested in receiving rancor for reporting such a familiar occurrence. Especially when I could focus on the new and noteworthy instead."

"Then if you are not here for Whistledown, might I continue working while we speak, mademoiselle? Miss Cowper's pelisse is nearly complete and she will be in to try it on this afternoon."

"Yes, of course." Penelope follows the dressmaker to her back room and tries not to fidget as Madame Delacroix returns to hemming a sky-blue coat trimmed in swansdown and several rows of silver braid.

"If not dress or business matters, what brings you to me this morning?"

Penelope takes a deep breath. "I would seek your advice on something. On…on courting."

Madame Delacroix's needle slows. "I am a businesswoman, not a member of the Ton. Your system of etiquette does not apply to females such as I. What wisdom could I possibly offer you?"

"I know – it is why I sought you out. Ladies do not speak of such things, you see."

"Did something happen with Lord Bridgerton, Penelope?" the modiste asks carefully.

"He – he kissed me!" Penelope admits.

"Ah." Madame Delacroix relaxes. "And did you enjoy it?"

"Yes!" she wails. "I did, very much!"

"Then what is your concern? Surely that is good news for a courting couple."

"Genevieve, I mislike being uninformed," Penelope says. She feels herself flushing with embarrassment but marshals her courage to continue. "I wish to be prepared for my wedding night, and the books I have found… their descriptions are anatomical or vague. The marital act remains obscure to me."

"And for this, you come to a dressmaker instead of your mother?"

"You know my mother. Do you think she would tell me what I wish to know?"

"Perhaps not," Madame Delacroix acknowledges with a smile. "Very well, Penelope. What is it you wish to know?"

Penelope puts a hand to her burning forehead. "I do not understand what comes next. We kiss, and we wed, and then…eventually the babies come? There must be some steps in between."

"Oh, there are quite a few. Many pleasurable steps, indeed."

"Will you tell me what they are? How do I know what to do the next time he kisses me?"

Madame Delacroix quirks an eyebrow at her. "If Lord Bridgerton is any kind of gentleman–"

"He is! Anthony is everything considerate and obliging!"

"—then he will treat you in this with the same courtesy as with escorting you to dances or conversing with your family. He will respect you and never push you to discomfort."

Penelope scoffs. "Genevieve, I am not worried about that. I mean what am I to do? With my hands? With…my body."

"I cannot give you an itemized list of instructions, ma petite. There are many ways to enjoy yourself with a man, and you will discover together what feels best for you." Madame Delacroix smirks. "I will say that Siena never had any complaints of Lord Bridgerton in that regard."

Penelope sits forward eagerly. "Please, will you tell me of some of those ways?"

Madame Delacroix sets the pelisse down on her worktable. "Since you insist. For this conversation, I think we could use some refreshment. If you will allow me to first make some tea…"

An evening of both friendship and investigation at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens calls for a flexible ensemble, so Penelope carefully selects a navy-blue dress and matching pelisse with no embellishments other than two rows of bronze buttons down the front and a thin bronze braid at the hem.

(Lady Featherington had sighed when she saw her daughter preparing to exit the house: "What a drab you look, daughter! No fur, no feathers, not even ribbons? You will be nearly invisible in the darkness!"

Of course, Penelope could not explain that that would be necessary this evening – to be so mild of mode that she will be able to disappear for the sake of Whistledown. So she said nothing in response, merely pulling on her evening gloves and firmly affixing her hat with pins.)

Now comfortably seated with Eloise, Edwina, and Alice in the boat that will bring them to the entrance of Vauxhall, Penelope takes a moment to note her companions' attire. Eloise has opted for her most comfortable apricot muslin walking dress and a brown cotton shawl while Edwina is radiant in rose pink and purple sarsnet with a thick gold embroidered border that Penelope knows Prudence would love to examine and copy.

"Here's one for England over India," Edwina says, smiling as she slips her gold Kashmiri shawl over her shoulders. "Back home these shawls were reserved for men only."

Eloise scoffs. "Anything men can wear, we can wear better."

"How funny to hear you opine on fashions, El," Penelope teases. "Now tell us what you think of Cressida Cowper's outfit."

Miss Cowper, two boats down, is wearing the luxurious pelisse that Madame Delacroix had finished yesterday while flirting outrageously with Lord Hallewell at a volume designed to attract maximum attention from her peers. Penelope must admit the long coat flatters Cressida's willowy figure, as does the blue and silver beaded turban paired with it. The ensemble also has the showiness that Penelope's mother would approve.

"It's…blue," Eloise says after a long pause. "And…fancy?"

"Never change, Eloise."

When they arrive at the gardens, a hungry Eloise heads quickly to the supper boxes with Alice to secure a place for their group. Penelope and Edwina continue arm-in-arm more slowly down the Grand Walk, sharing confidences about their families.

"I do not think Mama and I will ever understand each other," Penelope sighs. "She would be so pleased for me to strut up and down this promenade dripping in multicolored frippery, showing off to all of London. There is little in the world I would like less."

"I must say I also do not understand your aversion to bright patterns," Edwina says. "In Bombay women dress in every color of the rainbow, and it brings joy to see."

"Do you miss India?"

"Oh, every day. Still, there are things I have grown to appreciate about England. The museums, the libraries…the friends." Edwina smiles contentedly at Penelope.

"I should like to visit your country someday," Penelope says. "I have never left England and your descriptions make it sound so welcoming and beautiful."

"I appreciate your genuine interest in learning. Some members of the Ton seem to view me as a curiosity, an exotic gem rather than a person with feelings. It rather discourages me from marrying at the moment."

"Has anyone said something amiss?" Penelope asks, frowning.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Edwina raises her chin. "Not all gentleman are as courteous in their speech as Lord Bridgerton, that is all."

Penelope slows, feeling guilty for her good fortune, and Edwina must see it, for she clucks her tongue in response. "Never mind! It was no one of importance and I do not wish to dwell on ugly thoughts when we are strolling through such a pretty scene."

"I suppose I am familiar with being unimpressed by men," Penelope says, not quite ready to let the subject go. "In fact I have come to realize that is part of why Prudence is often difficult."

"Oh?"

"She is so rude to Anth – to Lord Bridgerton sometimes. He tries so hard to be considerate of her, and Prudence still treats him like all the other useless men we've known."

"If she is a misandrist, I hope it is not for cause," Edwina worries.

"No, thank heaven. We have not had overly horrible experiences with men, just not many positive ones. The stronger sex has a penchant for ignoring Featherington women," Penelope sighs. "Something about us – probably the fashions – puts them off."

Edwina laughs lightly and squeezes her arm.

"I suppose avoiding us is better than the open condescension from other women. But few gentlemen have given us reason to rely on them, not least our own father. In fact, before I became betrothed to Anthony, the only man I trusted was Colin." Penelope literally bites her tongue, not having meant to confess that.

"Colin Bridgerton?" Edwina says. "I have seen him around, I think. He is closest in age to Daphne, is that right?"

"Yes," Penelope answers faintly. "Nearly two years older. He only recently came home from his Grand Tour."

"And what makes him so trustworthy?"

"Oh…he is very kind to his sister's friends."

"So Colin has seen something of the world and is courtly as well? How lovely. No wonder you approve of him."

Penelope is glad of the relative darkness, obscuring her blush. Luckily before she can think of how to respond, Eloise returns.

"You ladies are so slow! Supper awaits us up ahead," Eloise points, not caring that the gesture is unladylike. "What are you two discussing so seriously?"

"Penelope was telling me about your brother Colin," Edwina answers.

Eloise groans. "My brothers again? Honestly, Pen, can we not have just one night without conversations about men? Edwina, I believe you have a sister."

"Yes, Kathani. Kate. She is eight years older than me."

"And she isn't married?" Eloise asks.

"No, she is not."

"Good! Society needs more single women content in their station! I admire her."

"Kate would laugh to hear you say that," Edwina says with a smile. "She claims she is staying single to look after me. But in truth I think we would both be happier if our places were reversed! I hope to remain unattached for another year or two, and I think Kate has been a little lonely. Not that she would say so out loud."

"What is it about older siblings making a martyr of themselves?" Eloise muses out loud. "If they just did what made them happy, they wouldn't be so pushy about us."

The three ladies, younger sisters all, shake their heads in agreement on the insufferable nature of the eldest child.

Having fortified themselves with selections from the famed Vauxhall supper menu of wafer-thin ham, Shrewsbury cakes, and arrack punch, they are prepared to return to exploring the pleasures of the Pleasure Gardens. Alice taps Penelope on the shoulder to whisper her cue.

"My lady, the gothic orchestra will begin playing in the Rotunda soon. If you wish to see it, now would be the right moment…"

Penelope glances over at Eloise significantly, raising an eyebrow in the direction of Edwina, who is innocently finishing a last sip of punch.

"Edwina!" Eloise says, taking her new friend's arm. "I believe I heard you say earlier that you do not wish to be married yet? I am so glad to have a new friend who agrees with me. Have you read A Vindication of the Rights of Woman?"

"I have, in fact," Edwina delicately dabs her mouth with a handkerchief. "It was most enlightening."

"Capital! Come, tell me all your thoughts about it!" Eloise steers her away down the Grand South Walk toward the Triumphal Arches.

Seeing them sufficiently distracted, Penelope herself slips away in the opposite direction, the better to observe the Ton for Lady Whistledown.

Dearest reader, we conclude this week's edition with a reflection on the Hearts and Flowers Ball at the Palace this past Saturday. Undoubtedly the biggest sensation of the evening was the appearance of the alleged heiress Miss Arabella Tallant on the arm of none other than Mr. Robert Beaumais, the Nonpareil himself. Though all of London is eager to discover the origins of the mysterious Yorkshire beauty's fortune, your correspondent deals only in facts, not rumors, and her sources regret that they have yet to confirm any theories. Whether her wealth be from trade or travels, none can deny that the approval of the exacting Mr. Beaumais is the ideal mark of distinction for any new debutante. One looks forward to seeing her join the Almack's set soon. If Miss Tallant had arrived at the beginning of the Season, would the Queen have chosen a different Diamond? Miss Edwina Sharma – no longer seen so prominently courting – begins to be old news…

On Friday night, Penelope dresses for her first dinner en famille with the Bridgertons as a fiancée with extra care. It is a little silly to be nervous about it, she knows. Penelope has dined with the Bridgertons probably hundreds of times: before she and Daphne came out last year, it could be upwards of three times a week! But once Penelope became a debutante, she stopped eating with them as often. It felt less appropriate to be on such easy intimacy with her neighbors, and besides, her mother wanted her available for their own dinner engagements.

And schoolroom meals, even with many of the Bridgerton siblings present, still do not compare to a formal dinner invitation. Lady Bridgerton appears to have become even more of a stickler regarding etiquette since her eldest daughters have come out. Or perhaps it is different now that a family meal includes the Duke of Hastings as a son-in-law.

Thus Penelope dithers an unusual amount over her appearance tonight. The dress at least is satisfactory: silver-grey satin with short sleeves of lace, accented with pearl buttons and trimmed across the bodice and skirts in white silk frost work. Elegant without being attention-seeking, just as she likes.

Alice has just finished weaving the pearl bandeau into her hair when Lady Featherington enters her chambers.

"Goodness, Penelope, still not ready?" she tuts. "And once again so little color! Why you are so obsessed with fading into the background, I cannot figure out. This is so bland and boring."

"It is not a simple dress, Mama!" Penelope protests. "It is only…quiet in tone."

"Yes, and what reason have you to be so quiet? You are dining as the future viscountess in your future home. You ought to outshine even Lady Daphne the Duchess."

"Oh Mama, no!"

"At least add some Featherington rubies to your jewelry," her mother says. "Pearls are so insipid. Try for a little sparkle, Penelope."

Penelope scowls. How tacky it would be to do that, as if she were a walking advertisement for Cousin Jack's mines! At a family meal, no less.

Lady Portia rests a hand on her shoulder. "No need to frown so. It is only that I want my daughters to receive the attention you each deserve. Society may say whatever they like about us, but we Featheringtons keep our chins high and our silks bright and shining. Besides, with your wedding you are about to become the toast of the Ton."

"Oh Mama…"

"I know I have been so busy lately with Pippa's wedding and sorting out the estate with Jack. But I do not want you to think I have forgotten you, little one. With the Bridgerton fortune and our increasing security from the mines, we will make your own wedding breakfast the finest party London has seen in years! It will be good for you to shine so. You are too afraid of your own shadow."

Penelope winces internally. That sounds horrible, but it is kindly meant. "Thank you, Mama."

After a moment, her mother continues: "Lord Bridgerton seems very good to you. Attentive to your desires. And even your conversation, I have noticed."

"Yes, he is." Penelope smiles at her mother's reflection in the vanity mirror.

"Lucky girl," Lady Portia says softly. "Cherish that, my dear, as long as it lasts."

She turns to leave, looking wistful and proud at once.

"Mama…" Penelope suddenly does not wish this conversation to end. She has had so few tender moments with her mother.

"Yes?"

"Should you like to leave London?" she blurts out.

"What on earth? But we have two weddings to plan!"

"I mean, after this Season is over. Aren't you tired of the fuss? It has been a long year."

"…That it has."

"After I am married, why not come stay with us at Aubrey Hall for the off-season? Instead of our usual cheaper lodgings outside of Grosvenor Square. You could leave the city and join us in the fresh air."

"You think that within a month of marriage, your husband will agree to his mother-in-law living with him?" Lady Featherington asks, understandably skeptical.

"Well, maybe not right away," Penelope concedes. "But Kent is so beautiful, Mama. Prudence told me you miss the countryside. From when we were little."

"I do miss it, though I am not so homesick as I once was."

"This Season is about new beginnings for us! We do not have to be as we were."

"Yes…yes, I know." Lady Featherington purses her lips in a small, mysterious smile. "Penelope, I have a few reasons yet to remain in London. But when you are settled, I would be happy to come pay you a visit."

"Anthony has lots of sheep, Mama," Penelope offers. "If you want to see them."

Her mother laughs, reaching over to stroke her hair gently. "My thoughtful daughter wed happily to a wealthy lord with a sheep farm. What could be better than that?"

Dinner en famille with the Bridgertons turns out to be their signature blend of formal and intimate. As the family gathers to enter the dining room, Penelope learns that even the underage siblings, usually relegated to simple fare upstairs with their governess, will be joining the adults tonight, filling out the chairs among the formal seating arrangements and partaking in the full five-course menu.

At promptly eight o'clock, all members of the family have assembled minus one person: Anthony, unaccountably absent. In noticing this, everyone looks to Lady Bridgerton, who sighs.

"How like his old ways. Really, one would think that an engaged man would make an effort – well, never mind. Let us begin without him."

Lord Simon steps forward to offer his arm to her, and the family enters the dining room.

As befits a formal meal, their seating is arranged by order of social rank and rotating by gender. With Lady Violet regally composed at one end of the table and an empty chair for Anthony at the other, this results in Eloise being seated next to Simon – she looks thrilled at the chance to interrogate him on Parliament matters – and Penelope being placed between Benedict and Colin.

Penelope is painfully conscious that this is the first time she and Colin have been in close proximity since her engagement. That had been a deliberate choice on her part, a careful withdrawing to avoid any more heartache from a fantasy necessarily left behind. And if Colin has felt the lack of her company, he certainly has not expressed it to her, even in writing. How often he used to write to me…

The footmen have already begun serving the artichoke soup when Anthony enters the dining room and crosses over to Lady Bridgerton, looking deservedly penitent.

"Forgive me, Mother. I was discussing some business matters with my fellows at White's and lost track of time."

"Hmm. And your pocket watch was of no assistance in this regard?"

"Regrettably it appears to have been in my other waistcoat."

"Why, you are becoming as careless with possessions as Eloise," Benedict says.

"Hey!"

"Oh, do you mean to blame someone else for misplacing my cigarillo case again?" Benedict leans over to whisper so that only their seat neighbors can hear.

Eloise clearly means to kick him under the table but must miss her target, for Daphne quietly yelps in pain.

"Never mind, Anthony," Lady Violet is saying. "I take comfort in the notion that you are careless with my feelings simply because I rank below your gentlemen's club acquaintances in importance. After all, I am only your mother who gave birth to you, raised you, and carried out viscountess duties for you all the years you were single. Hardly sufficient motivation for you to be on time."

The whole table has turned to watch them now, several Bridgertons openly gleeful to see Anthony so chastised. Penelope would shrink under such public attention but he seems only accepting of his due.

Lady Violet concludes her scold with a flourish: "In any event, I look forward to Penelope heading this table very soon. Surely you will not be late to dinner when it is your wife who requires your presence, hm?"

Anthony looks down the table at Penelope, solemn-faced – but she knows him well enough now to recognize he is not truly upset. "Certainly not," he says, bowing to her. "I could never be late for my lady. Although I know her to be all compassion for my social blunders, the epitome of grace."

"Oooh!" his siblings jeer happily.

Penelope flushes, ducking her head down to stare at her soup.

Once Anthony takes his seat at the head of the table between Daphne and little Hyacinth, the Bridgertons break up into side conversations as they begin to eat. And now Penelope is more grateful to be seated next to Colin and listen to him speak at length about his travels, for it affords her time to recover from the family's teasing.

This whole evening continues quite an odd blend of the familiar and the new, she thinks. Once Penelope would have been quietly delirious with joy to be Colin's seatmate all evening, eagerly soaking up every detail he would share with her. A casual smile from him in response to a studied comment of hers could turn a simple occasion into a precious, tightly preserved memory. Tonight, however:

I will always be shy of the spotlight but that is not the same as having nothing of my own to say in conversation. And Colin has not asked me a question in nearly five minutes!

While she reflects, Colin has moved on to speak of the Elgin Marbles exhibition and how they compare to his own tour of the Parthenon in Athens last fall. Penelope smiles politely, waiting in vain for a moment to interject that she has actually seen the notorious statuary in person herself – Anthony took her to see them at the British Museum the morning before they left for Kent. Colin is correct that they are as impressive as they are controversial, but how she wishes he would give her the opportunity to respond!

Penelope glances down the table at her fiancé, who has bent his head to listen to Hyacinth speak. Penelope cannot hear what they are saying at this distance but she can certainly see that their conversation is just that – an exchange of words, not a monologue. Even if Anthony is merely humoring his youngest sister, he is courteous in doing so. Anthony must feel her eyes on him, for he looks up to meet her gaze and gives her a small smile.

He will be a better father than he fears, Penelope muses. That is, when he remembers to relax.

"I see you two have not yet exhausted the topic of weather," Benedict murmurs next to her.

Penelope turns to her other seatmate. "Pardon?"

"Oh, only noting that you and my brother seem to continue pleased with each other's company. I am glad of it," Benedict tells her, serious for once. "That you are paid the attention you deserve and that he has learned to how pay it."

Penelope smiles thankfully at him in return. (Colin, on her other side, is now regaling a patient Francesca with thoughts on the design of Roman aqueducts.)

"Benedict, do you seek the same object? I have never heard you speak of any Society lady with particular affection."

He toys with his fork. "Ah. Well…like my elder brother, I find the structure of the marriage mart not best designed to facilitate my happiness. I might prefer a more unconventional approach."

Penelope considers him for a moment. "Anthony tells me that for the Viscount's Men, you once played a marvelous Cleopatra as well as the jesters Feste and Trinculo," she says at last. "I hope you are able to find the woman who values you in all your complexity."

Benedict gives her the half-bow possible while seated. "From your lips to the Muse's ears."

After dinner, the ladies withdraw to the family sitting room for tea and light conversation, while the men continue drinking downstairs at the dining table. Penelope finds it difficult to focus on what the others are saying, trying to sort through her confused emotions. Eloise hisses in her ear some very interesting political on-dits about certain legislative matters that remain to be voted on before Parliament closes for the Season, and the most Penelope can do is nod absently in response. The Bridgerton family is so open and loving, and she is certainly glad to be joining them, but after a while she wishes for a respite from the cheerful noise.

Soon it appears that someone else had the same thought: when the Bridgerton men and Lord Simon rejoin their female family members in the sitting room, Anthony is not with them.

"He said something about attending to financial matters in your father's study," Simon says, sitting down next to his wife. "I confess I was not listening very closely."

"Who needs Anthony?" Eloise scoffs. "Colin, you should sing for us. You haven't done that in an age."

"Oh yes, please!" calls Hyacinth. "Sing 'Robin Adair' and Francesca will play with you!"

Soon enough Colin and Francesca arrange themselves at the piano and begin to perform for the rest of the Bridgertons. Ever the musical egalitarian, Colin makes sure to face and serenade a different family member for each verse.

A few months ago I would have been in exquisite agony every time Colin glanced at me, Penelope thinks. And now I wish I were across the hall with Anthony instead. I wonder what he is working on.

She sits up suddenly – what is to keep her from finding out? They are engaged, so surely she has license to be with him if she chooses. The rest of the family cannot mind, will not even notice. Not when Hyacinth has pulled Benedict and Daphne into the center of the sitting room to dance around in a circle with her.

Penelope picks her moment carefully – waiting until Daphne has pulled Simon into the circle too and the family is uproarious with laughter at his pained expression – and slips out of the room.

Intently focused, Anthony does not look up from his father's desk until Penelope closes the study door firmly behind her.

"Good evening, Anthony. Forgive me if I interrupt."

"No, no – please come in." He tosses his quill down with a sigh. "I seem to be getting nowhere."

"More estate matters?"

"In a manner of speaking. Your cousin offered a share in his ruby mines to me again today at White's, and I was attempting to calculate the figures for a return on investment. The numbers do not quite make sense to me…but then, I studied classics, not mathematics."

"Might I take a look?"

"Will you prove an economic genius as well, my lady?" Anthony smiles, beckoning her over to the desk. "I swear there is no end to your talents."

Penelope swallows guiltily as she crosses the room to him. Her most hidden talent looms over her conscience like the sword of Damocles. She must tell Anthony about Whistledown. She should have told him weeks ago. How to begin?

"What's wrong?" he asks, noticing her expression. "How might I help?"

Penelope hesitates, looking up to see a lock of Anthony's hair falling over his forehead just so, unintentionally à la Brutus. His constant running of his hands through his hair produces a more attractive dishevelment than if he tried for the popular style a-purpose. It is so becoming on him she finds it hard to focus on her confession.

"I…speaking of secrets…"

"Yes?"

Enthusiastic applause from across the hall indicates that his siblings have finished their impromptu performance.

"Oh…Colin!" Penelope blurts out.

"Colin…is your secret?" He frowns.

"Yes," Penelope says hastily, choosing the less damning of her secrets and cursing herself for a coward. "Yes, that is – well, he was –"

"What did Colin do? Something amiss with the traveler's letters he wrote you?" Anthony asks. "I would have expected him to remain the gentleman."

"He did! Oh, he always did. That was how it started, you see," Penelope explains, wringing her hands. "He has always been so courteous, so kind. I was very impressionable, and his smile..."

Anthony stiffens. "I see…so you fell in love with my brother."

"Yes, I did," she admits. "Several years ago, long before my first Season. I was barely fifteen when I first felt a tendre for him."

"Does Colin know?"

"I do not think so. I have never told anyone, not even Eloise. It did not seem likely we would ever…"

"And all unawares I caught you instead. We are truly in a farce after all." Anthony will not look at her. "I confess I do not see how we may proceed now, my lady. I do not wish you to be unhappy with me, regretting at every family gathering that you are tied to the wrong Bridgerton."

Penelope starts forward in dismay, but he continues: "I will release you from our arrangement if you wish. I ask only that you two wait until next Season to begin courting publicly, that I might hold my face up in front of the Ton. To be known to all Society as the jilted, second-choice sibling is a harsh fate."

"What? Oh no, you misunderstand!" Penelope gasps. "I do not want Colin, not now. Not when I might have you."

He freezes, still as a Grecian statue.

"Anthony…I am sorry, I explained it poorly. I liked him very much, yes, but it was a schoolgirl's fantasy. Now I know that for sure." She exhales. "You must understand, Colin's manners are so kind, so open. My home had none of the easy affection of your family's – he was just old enough to be the object of my childish dreams. He was exactly the picture of a handsome storybook knight, fetching a ball dropped into the pond, playing at games with us on holidays from Eton. I could not imagine anyone better."

Anthony does not respond.

"But you see…Colin's kindness was thrilling but it had little to do with me. He is equally kind to Hyacinth, to Cressida Cowper, and to the servants. I know he has dreams and anxieties – he would share them in his letters – but he wears them more lightly than you or I. Tonight I found myself especially disenchanted with his easiness. I have begun to prefer a man who knows something of struggle."

"Is that so?" he asks, voice a little raw.

"It is – I swear it. It is your intensity I admire, your commitment to your family even when it brings you heartache. You know what it is to make a sacrifice for your duty, and – and above all, you care for the details." Penelope comes to stand in front of her fiancé, as close as she dares.

"I am ever the observer, Anthony, and I thought that my lot in life. Had Colin ever deigned to look at me twice, I might have spent eternity at his side adoring him silently. But he does not look, and he does not listen. You do. Since the moment you proposed, you have seen me. And I have learned…I have learned I prefer to be seen."

At last, Anthony faces her again. "What a fool my brother is, to have been blind to you all this time. I confess I am not very sorry for it."

It is a moment for boldness, Penelope tells herself, and leans forward to kiss him.

Unfortunately her aim is inexpert, and she catches Anthony on the side of his jaw rather than his lips. But before Penelope can step back, embarrassed, he covers her mouth with his own. Anthony rests his hands on her waist and – so smoothly she barely has time to blink – lifts her up to sit on the desk, coming to stand between her skirts and set her aflame with his touch.

Oh! No wonder Society does not allow young ladies to be alone with men, Penelope realizes as she sighs up into him. Now that I know how this feels, how could I ever do anything else?

Anthony presses kisses down her neck and onto her collarbone, his hands burning a brand into her skin through her gown. Penelope shivers as his lips trace the border of her décolletage, remembering certain things Madame Delacroix had described to her the other day. Will he...?

"HYACINTH!" A shout from the hallway freezes them both in place. "Give me back my battledore!"

They hear the sound of thundering feet, a slap, a squeal, and then Lady Bridgerton, matching her youngest son in volume: "Hyacinth! Gregory! To bed, NOW!"

Anthony rests his head on her shoulder and laughs ruefully. "Never a moment's peace in this house."

"Better a rowdy home than a listless, moody one," Penelope tells him, trying to recover her breath. "It is the noise of family affection."

"Affection that causes ulcers. I fear we will get no privacy again until our honeymoon, my dear. Where shall I take you? Paris? Venice?"

"Anywhere. It does not matter, as long as I am with you."

Anthony kisses her again, soft and swift, and though she tries to reach up for more, he resists.

"You should go home, Penelope. Else I will do something to you on this desk that we will both regret."

"Why?" she says. "We will be married in a month. What difference does it make?"

"Sweetheart, do not tempt me. Please go." Anthony steps away from her, both hands in the air as if playacting the caught criminal.

Penelope sighs and lets herself down from the desk. She tries to pat her hair back into place, but without a maid or a mirror she fears it is a lost cause. At least it is already dark out, so no neighbors will see her dishevelment when she crosses Grosvenor Square.

"Am I passable, do you think?" she asks him, picking her shawl up from the floor.

"You are beautiful." The look in his eyes sends her shivering all over again.

"Good night, Anthony."

"Pleasant dreams, my dear."

And oh – her dreams!

Notes:

In the boat that will bring them to the entrance of Vauxhall: the internet truly has everything a canon-era fic writer could want: click here for an annotated map of the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens.

The alleged heiress Miss Arabella Tallant: to discover the truth behind Miss Tallant's fortune, you'll have to read Arabella by Georgette Heyer, another excellent Regency romp.

Their seating is arranged by order of social rank and rotating by gender: Regency-era seating etiquette required that couples never sit next to each other, alas. Eloise is next to Simon the duke because as the unwed daughter of a viscount, she outranks Penelope, the unwed daughter of a baron. And yes, I did literally draw out a seating chart on a napkin for this scene as I outlined it!

The Elgin Marbles exhibition: the statuary taken from the Parthenon was brought to England by Lord Elgin from 1810-1812, just a few years before this story begins. They belong in Greece!

Sing "Robin Adair": this song features in Jane Austen's Emma and in her surviving personal songbook. I couldn't find a recording I liked enough to share, but several exist on Youtube.

Give me back my battledore: 'battledore' is the old-fashioned name for a badminton racquet.

Chapter 10

Notes:

Less than a month until the s3 premiere...want to lay a gentleman's wager at White's whether I'll finish this in time? ;)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

As the anticipation of the crowd at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon swells around him, Anthony lights his cigar and settles back happily in his seat next to his two oldest friends. He can't remember the last time that that they were all free in London on the same day, and he says as much to them while the next two boxers step into the ring.

"For that you can blame Wellington, clearly," Lord Dorset responds. "He is forever sending me to far-flung diplomatic posts to serve Britannia. Bridgerton, I've been away long enough that you've taken up new vices! Since when do you prefer cigars to snuff?"

"For that you can blame my soon-to-be cousin Featherington. They're devilish addicting, these Cuban sticks of his. Try one?" Anthony suggests.

"With such encouragement, how could I refuse?" Dorset takes the proffered cigar from him and passes the case back.

"Speaking of Featherington, he approached me at White's yesterday," Simon says, selecting a cigar as well. "I'd just arrived from Parliament with Lord Alverstoke and he wanted to know if I was interested in his ruby mines. Featherington mentioned you two had been discussing a partnership and offered to make it a triumvirate."

Anthony winces. "Indelicate of him. I am sorry for it, Hastings, that he presumed upon our connection."

"As if I cared about that," Simon scoffs. "I did tell him no, but not for the presumption. When it comes to mining investments, I have my eye on coal. That new Gas Light and Coke Company looks quite promising."

"Yes, those gas lamps they installed at Ackerman's Repository of the Arts last year are rather impressive. You think such a system is the coming thing?"

"Absolutely. I'd stake my fortune on lighting over precious gems any day. Few enough Englishmen can afford rubies, but everyone wants to be able to see after the sun goes down."

Dorset looks up from his cigar. "Rubies, you said? Has your fiancée's cousin been that far east, Bridgerton?"

"East? Whatever do you mean?"

"Why, to the Orient, where rubies are found," Dorset says. "I am impressed, even envious. My own travels for work have taken me no farther than Bombay. I should like to see Siam and Burma."

"This must be a different vein of rubies," Anthony explains. "Jack Featherington's mines are in the southern United States."

Dorset furrows his brow. "I am no expert on gemstones, but I had not realized that territory had any to offer. Our intelligence says it is mostly rice, cotton, and tobacco."

"Is that so? Featherington certainly has the gems on hand to prove it," Anthony thinks aloud. "Perhaps it is a new discovery?"

"Perhaps," his friend shrugs. "I admit I have been more focused on Europe than the Americas recently. I might have missed the newest reports."

"Well, regardless of his encroaching manner or his business ventures, the man knows how to choose a damn fine cigar," says Simon, contentedly blowing a smoke ring.

A few rounds into the unevenly-matched fight – far less exciting than when Simon's now-retired friend Will Mondrich used to square off against all comers – Anthony notices Lord Hallewell seated with his cronies across the way and feels a sudden impulse.

"Say, should I buy Penelope a horse?"

"What brought that on?" Simon turns to him.

"Seeing Hallewell over there. He's still looking to sell those chestnut roans of his, I believe. Even with their fortune returning, the Featheringtons only have a few carriage horses, none suitable for a lady to ride."

"Do not tell me you think his chestnuts are fit for such a purpose," says Simon. "Hallewell thinks of himself as a champion sportsman but he's been running them ragged racing up and down St. James's Street, and that groom of his is a joke. They've become skittish, nervy creatures."

"Please, I am not such a sapskull. But perhaps I'll take a look in at Tattersalls' this week and see what breeds they have on offer. I owe Miss Featherington a better engagement gift than mere fans and trinkets. Something substantial."

"A lady's mare would do it," Dorset agrees. "Unless she'd be more comfortable on a pony. What kind of a rider is your fiancée?"

Anthony pauses. "I…don't know. We've never ridden together."

"Hmm, maybe you should find that out before you drop a few dozen guineas on the wrong fit? 'Twould be an expensive error if she prefers a docile little thing to the high steppers you favor."

"I can afford the bill, man." Anthony bristles.

"Of course you can, that was not my point."

At that moment, the smaller of the boxers unexpectedly lands a bruising blow to his gargantuan opponent's jaw and floors him. The subsequent noise of the crowd overwhelms their conversation, and the friends return their attention to the ring for another six suddenly-interesting rounds.

All too soon the fight ends and the legendary Jackson himself begins ushering his paying customers to the door.

"Have you time for a drink, gentlemen?" Simon asks, reaching for his cane as they stand to exit the venue. "It is early to end an evening, and who knows when we'll be together next."

Anthony checks his pocket watch. "Just one pint for me. I've to attend a wedding in the morning – Miss Philippa's."

Simon smirks. "Ah yes, that's right. Daphne has informed me that we have an unavoidable engagement outside London tomorrow evening. Regrettably we must leave Town early in the morning and shall miss the wedding breakfast."

"Lucky devil. I have no such convenient excuse – my intended will be standing next to her sister at the altar and expects to see me smiling in the pews."

"Is that so bad?" Dorset asks. "Surely you can consider it practice for your own event next month."

"It hardly takes practice to stand up straight and repeat after the priest!" Anthony protests. "And it's not the ceremony I dread, it's the company. Jack Featherington may presume beyond Society manners occasionally but he has nothing on the women of that family. I pity Penelope every day."

"I suppose she's just waiting for you to sweep her away from all their unpleasantness. That patient paragon of yours," Dorset says.

"She is an angel among termagants," Anthony sighs.

A brief pause, then both his friends roar in laughter. Anthony feels himself redden but refuses to lower his chin.

"Give over already, the both of you."

Simon wipes a tear from his eye, still chortling. "Incredible. You have outdone yourself, Bridgerton."

"We'll make a Byron of you yet," Dorset wheezes. "Who'd have guessed the viscount might have such poetic depths?"

"Penelope would have," Anthony mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are we for a drink or not?"

The next morning finds Anthony seated in the nave of St. George's Hanover Square church, nursing a mild hangover – very mild, thank you! – and trying to present a pleasant face to his fellow wedding guests. While Lady Featherington has adhered to tradition in keeping the ceremony limited only to family and intimate friends, she has shown no such restraint for their attire. Accordingly, Philippa floats down the aisle in blinding orange with a thin veil fluttering insipidly from a ruby tiara, matching ruby earrings and necklace, and carrying an enormous bouquet in orange, red, and white.

Though Anthony had expected some form of offensively bright display, he had not imagined a young lady would be gauche enough to wear all her jewelry at once to her wedding, let alone one marrying a man not even titled. It is even more unfortunate that rubies clash so much with the family coloring, he thinks. If only Jack Featherington had discovered sapphires or emeralds instead, stones that would better flatter their red hair.

For Philippa is not alone in wearing the family gemstone: Prudence and Penelope stand beside her with gleaming necklaces as well, and the stones on Lady Featherington's earrings are nearly the size of an olive each. At least Mr. Finch the younger does not seem to care, as he is looking nowhere but his bride's face. And his parents are beaming as well – as members of the lesser gentry, Anthony expects they prefer the proof of money in hand to any display of subtlety or grace. He is not eager for any future holidays spent in their extended family's company.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…" the St. George's rector solemnly begins, and Anthony stops paying attention.

Instead of a horse, perhaps I'll purchase Penelope an emerald parure. She deserves as many jewels as her sister and I trust she will know better than to wear the complete set of items at a morning affair! My lady is wise and elegant in her style.

"I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed…"

I ought to stop by Rundell & Bridge later this week and see what gems they recommend for pretty redheads. Would it be better to design something custom or to go with what they have on hand to offer Penelope immediately? If not emeralds, diamonds. I do not think I could go wrong with diamonds.

"Forasmuch as Albion Finch and Philippa Featherington have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company…"

The image of Penelope sparkling in diamonds and little else is an excellent if slightly sinful way to keep him entertained for the rest of the ceremony. Anthony continues daydreaming in this manner until Philippa and Finch take communion and they all are permitted to exit the church.

If the wedding ceremony was a typically quiet affair, the wedding breakfast at Featherington House is anything but. From a certain angle, Anthony can respect this: the Featheringtons' year of mourning for the late baron has finally come to a close and their financial health has dramatically improved. Any Society mother might wish to celebrate such positive changes in their circumstances with a large party, and thus seemingly the whole of Mayfair has been invited today.

Whether from a genuine desire to felicitate the bride and groom or from prurient curiosity regarding the Featherington ballroom décor (every possible surface wretchedly gilded, beaded, and dense with spangled fringe), nearly all of their neighbors are here, including Lady Bridgerton and all of Anthony's adult siblings but Daphne. No card room at a wedding means Anthony is at loose ends soon after his standard fifteen minutes of social patience have ended. He begins circling the ballroom restlessly in an attempt to keep his temper.

Greeting guests with Philippa at the entrance, Lady Featherington is preening with self-satisfaction at the discovery that both Lady Danbury and Lady Jersey have condescended to attend her party.

"You are made, Pippa," she says, squeezing her daughter's cheek. "Not one but two Society matrons present at your wedding! You will never lack an Almack's invite again!"

Ten feet away, the elder Mrs. Finch is gushing to a friend about wedding gifts. "The Duchess of Hastings sent a Sèvres tea service as an apology for her absence!" she exclaims. "So gracious, so thoughtful. We will have to upgrade our table linens to match it!"

"You could sell one of those rubies from the dowry," her companion giggles in response. "Certainly you should have enough now to part with one on behalf of your décor."

"Hmm, perhaps," Philippa's new mother-in-law gloats. "We waited so long for her family to come up to scratch, I might wish to preserve the gems in our pockets a while longer."

Penelope appears quite busy with hostess duties – every time Anthony looks for her, she has slipped away to welcome another cluster of guests or to rally the servants. How frustrating, since he would rather speak with her than with anyone else.

The Countess of Jersey is flirting shamelessly with Benedict under the amused eye of Lady Bridgerton, and Lady Danbury is hooting over something Prudence has shared with her. Lady Danbury and Prudence turn identical smirks on Anthony as he passes by. Now there's an image to keep him awake at night!

Colin is conversing with a circle of recent Oxford graduates and Eloise is happily gorging herself with food, neither option of which can appeal to a 30-year-old man with lingering queasiness and a growing headache.

Anthony laps the ballroom twice hoping in vain to find a quiet spot to take refuge from the assault on his senses. But the room continues to fill with fellow members of the Ton and their loud conversation, and no such corner can be found. He is not yet desperate enough to try hiding behind one of the lurid curtains but feels himself growing increasingly close to that state. Tobacco might calm his nerves, or better yet, alcohol might.

That's it! Featherington must still have some of that excellent brandy in his study. Anthony begins to move closer to the door. Surely he would not mind my resting there for a moment or two, even if I do not partake. I am almost family, after all.

It takes Anthony another fifteen minutes to exit the ballroom – he is trapped into three separate tedious conversations on his way out, just as he once complained of to Penelope in this very house – but eventually he manages to slip away and up the stairs, witnessed only by a harried footman carrying another ewer of hot chocolate for the guests.

In the upstairs hallway at last, Anthony leans his head against the wall next to the taxidermized head of a stag with a pained expression. "You and me both, sir," he sighs. "Confused as to how we ended up trapped here."

He continues down the corridor toward Featherington's study, noting the door is slightly ajar. Has Featherington come up here to escape the crowd as well? Anthony's spirits lift slightly at the thought of sharing a drink with a fellow sufferer under the whims of tasteless femininity. He draws closer but before he can venture a greeting, someone speaks from within the room.

"Then you admit I was right, Jack?" Lady Featherington's voice carries out to the hall clear as day. "How fine Pippa looks in her full ruby parure! A perfect demonstration of the turn of Featherington fortunes!"

"A brilliant stroke," Featherington agrees. "No one can doubt the wisdom of signing onto my venture any longer."

"Our venture, surely?" she asks coyly. Anthony need not see her face to picture the expression on it.

"Forgive me, Portia. Certainly it is ours now. I will need your connections to expand our reach across all of the Ton! Without your social insight I would be still at the fringes of everything, a Yankee-bred dreamer with nothing to show for my efforts."

"Oh, Jack!"

Their conversation ceases and though he knows it to be inappropriate, Anthony cannot resist peering around the edge of the door. The widowed baroness and the new heir are locked in a passionate embrace, oblivious to the outside world. Anthony hastily pulls his head back and retreats down the stairs. Farewell to an ally in the face of vulgarity!

When he returns to the ballroom, the crush has not abated – if anything, it is worse – but at least his angel, his paragon, has taken a gilded seat by a window. Anthony makes his way over to Penelope gladly. She sends him a wan smile as he sits next to her.

"You are bearing up remarkably well," he tells her. "Beautiful as always and a deft hostess to Society's teeming throng."

Penelope flushes tiredly. "Thank you, but I am not the hostess today, merely smoothing some rough edges here and there. We haven't held an event like this in years, you know."

"And you will not have to do so again," Anthony vows, taking her hand. "Let this be the last time they encroach on you so, my dear."

"You wish to have our wedding breakfast at Bridgerton House instead? A kind offer, but Mama would protest vehemently. We would deprive her of the treat to celebrate a titled daughter in front of all the Ton."

"Yes, exactly," he says eagerly. "Bridgerton House, or truly anywhere else. We could be married at Aubrey Hall under the offices of my Uncle Henry, at your estates in Somerset, even in Brighton – any place that takes you away from all this nonsense."

"Perhaps I misunderstand you, sir. I am a little fatigued. What are you offering me, exactly?"

"Why, merely the opportunity to avoid the fuss. I know you hate public attention and tacky displays, so let me protect you from all of it. We should not elope, but we needn't have the whole of Society gawking at us while we wed," Anthony says, warming to his theme. "After all, it only requires two witnesses and a priest for the rites, so we could even skip the wedding breakfast. You could wear whatever you prefer, unencumbered by your mother's taste. You might even leave off inviting some of your more difficult family members, you know!"

Fittingly, his suggestion is punctuated with the sound of Philippa's shrill laughter as her new husband poses proudly in front of her.

Penelope drops his hand. "I see. You find the Featheringtons to be vulgar and wish to disassociate yourself and your bride from them."

"Yes – that is –" Anthony struggles, a little confused at her flat tone. "I offer it for your sake, my lady. To spare you such a burden."

"So my family is a burden now." Penelope turns to him, her gaze hard. "'You said 'wear whatever you prefer', as if you think I required your support to select my own bridal gown. And as if I would rather cut my mother and sisters out of my wedding celebration than endure a few hours on display to please them!"

"I…what?"

"I suppose I should be grateful that you revealed your true feelings, Anthony," his fiancée says, standing up. "I regret that my family has proved such a trial to you. If you will excuse me, I believe Mrs. Varley would appreciate some guidance with the next course."

Anthony watches her gracefully stalk away, dismayed. What just happened?

He remains seated alone for several moments, trying to understand where he erred. Perhaps it was forward of him to imply criticism of Featherington conduct, but he'd meant it as a noble gesture.

As Anthony frets, Benedict falls cheerfully into the seat Penelope had vacated holding a glass of champagne. "Good morrow, brother. Still sulking in corners, then?"

"Brother," Anthony acknowledges. "I fear I have offended Penelope somehow."

"How unexpected of you," Benedict says with a smirk. "Your natural tendencies to imperiousness and assholery asserting themselves at last?"

"Please, I am serious. I think she is truly upset with me."

They look over to where Penelope is conversing with Lady Jersey and Lord Alverstoke's fiancée Miss Merriville, her expression bland and amiable.

"She certainly has an excellent poker face," Benedict murmurs. "You cannot hold a candle to her in that."

"I know," Anthony groans. "I do not know what to do."

"Apologize, surely. For whatever it is that you have already done."

"Now? But she is busy."

"Not now, idiot. After the breakfast is over, when she has the energy to listen to you grovel. And grovel you should."

"You do not even know what I said!"

"Do I need to know it? I know you."

"Punch a man when he is down, hey?" Anthony mutters. "Fine, I will wait."

Benedict claps an unconcerned hand on his shoulder. "Consider it a trial run for your marriage, Anthony. I expect you will have to do this again."

"Oh, go away, will you?"

Benedict raises his champagne flute to his brother in mock salute. "Your company is delightful as always, sir. I bid you adieu."

As Benedict lopes off to rejoin the crowd, Anthony is struck by his twin desires to throttle him and to be grateful for his advice, however unsympathetic it may be. Oh! Is that how Penelope feels about her family? His own siblings are continually irritating, but Anthony could not imagine life without them, let alone keeping them from his wedding. And it would be quite unfair to have all the Bridgertons present at their nuptials but not the Featheringtons. In fact, wanting that would make him the gauche one, beyond the bounds of etiquette. Damn!

Anthony wishes he could apologize immediately now he knows his error, but he recognizes his brother's wisdom in not accosting Penelope in this moment. Instead, he bides his time through the rest of the wedding breakfast, attempting to be an unobjectionable guest.

Anthony endures Lady Danbury's teases about his fine form in morning dress, distracts Eloise from a third serving of syllabub by picking a quiet argument about women's suffrage (absurd), and listens to Colin and his friends reminisce about their Grand Tour adventures. He keeps Penelope in the corner of his eyesight the entire time, but she is ever graceful: if she notices him watching, she gives no sign of it. A true Society lady, rising above her emotions to fulfill her duty to her sister. Anthony sighs out loud in appreciation.

"So you agree!" Colin tells him eagerly, mistaking his sigh for confirmation. "Cyprus is sorely overrated by Lord Byron and his fellows."

"Mm, likely so." Anthony responds. "Distinguishing hyperbole from clear-headed assessment of quality is difficult with that crowd."

"Excellent observation, brother."

Two hours later – Anthony has only checked his pocket watch five times, which he feels indicates great restraint on his part – the majority of the guests have finally begun to take their leave. Anthony returns to his prior post by the window, waiting for the opportune time to approach his fiancée. Before that moment can arrive, Lady Featherington comes up to him first.

"La, sir," she says flirtatiously. "I expect you are imagining yourself in Mr. Finch's shoes at the moment! Never fear, your turn will be here soon!"

Anthony looks over to where the newlyweds are curled up on a floral Rococo loveseat, sharing a piece of the wedding fruitcake. Philippa is laughing loudly again but this time Anthony views her with more charity. Why shouldn't she be lighthearted? He would want his own sisters to feel the same on their wedding – Philippa hasn't stopped smiling the whole day and neither has young Finch. It is rather sweet, in fact. His thoughts about them were unjust.

"I am all anticipation," he tells Lady Featherington in complete honesty. "That will be a very happy day."

"Oh, to be sure! You will have a viscountess by your side at last!"

"Yes, and more importantly I will have Miss Penelope by my side." Anthony bows. "Lady Featherington, you have raised a remarkable daughter in daunting circumstances. She is a credit to you in every way."

Lady Portia flushes, bestowing on him a softer smile than he's ever seen from her before. "I am pleased you recognize that, Lord Bridgerton. You honor us with your attentions."

"No more than she deserves, and you as well. Whatever you wish for our own wedding breakfast, it would be my privilege to arrange it. Please do not concern yourself with any bills for the event, no matter the expense."

"Oh!" Someone gasps softly from behind him, and Anthony looks over his shoulder. Penelope is standing there, surprised and gratifyingly pleased.

"My lady," Anthony holds out a hand to her. "Might I have a moment of your time? To continue our discussion from earlier?"

Lady Featherington chuckles. "If you will both excuse me, I will go and see if Philippa's maid is ready for her to depart. Rest yourself a while with your fiancé, little one. Thank you for your efforts today." She squeezes Penelope's shoulder as she goes.

"Well, my lord?" Penelope tilts her head to the side as she considers him.

"Penelope, I was wrong. No – more than that, I was an ass. There is no excuse for assuming you do not care for your family as much as I care for mine, or that they have any less right to celebrate you in their own fashion."

She nods that he may continue; encouraged, he adds: "I will work to better appreciate your family and not presume to contradict their choices."

"Not even in matters of style?"

"Certainly not. Setting the fashion is the bride's prerogative, and she does not need a groom's opinion for that."

Penelope presses her lips together as if to hold back a smile. "And if I wish you to wear a Featherington ruby pin in your cravat at the altar, that you might match me in full glitter?"

He bows again. "Your wish is my command. If it delights you, I will wear it."

"Hmm. I believe my delight might soon involve you wearing less, rather than more."

Anthony coughs in surprise, then checks that no one is in earshot before he replies. "How serendipitous. I have had similar thoughts about you, my dear."

"I should like to hear more about those thoughts..." And now her smile has a suggestive edge to it that fills him with anticipation.

Anthony wishes everyone else around them at Jericho, that he might take her in his arms properly. He leans forward, debating whether he dare it anyway.

"PENELOPE!" Prudence calls from across the ballroom. "Pippa and Albion's carriage will be leaving any minute. Mama says to come at once."

Penelope sighs. "Will you come too, Anthony?"

"I will follow you anywhere," he promises. "Even if only to your front gate for your sister's departure."

Her eyes are sparkling up at him again as they cross the ballroom. Not diamonds but aquamarines! Anthony realizes. She deserves an aquamarine parure to match her gaze of brilliant blue! My darling, I will die in thy lap and be buried in thy eyes.

Much later, Anthony will look back and reflect that the week after Philippa's wedding was the happiest of their entire courtship. He and his intended are in charity again, not only comfortable with but eager for each other's company. They now meet daily and contrive whenever possible to have a few minutes alone together at the close of each meeting. Though Anthony has only managed to kiss Penelope twice this week (their families and servants seemingly in league to foil him), his impatience is tempered by the knowledge that their own wedding is three weeks away. Once that final hurdle has been cleared, they will have a lifetime to enjoy each other physically. If he is nearly counting down the minutes, well – it is now almost a year to the day that Siena closed a door in his face. A healthy man can only be expected to bear so much.

Still, the allure of Penelope's company is not merely her fine eyes or shapely figure, lovely as those are. He equally enjoys riding with her in Hyde Park, where she proves a hesitant but game horsewoman, out of practice but equal to the challenge of relearning her seat. Anthony sends mental thanks to Dorset for checking his impulse (nothing currently at Tattersall's would suit his lady) and a written note to Rundell & Bridge to order the aquamarines.

They also attend Euripides's Medea at Drury Lane Theatre with Simon, Daphne and Eloise – who had insisted on joining an outing featuring a wronged woman wreaking violent revenge – and Anthony maneuvers to hold Penelope's hand the entire time. Simon catches him at it midway through the performance, shooting a sardonic look at him across their private box. Anthony answers the challenge by releasing Penelope's hand in order to drape his arm across the back of her seat. Without tearing her eyes away from the stage, Penelope leans up against him, soft and warm. Anthony smirks at his friend, who nods his head in acknowledgment of the victory and turns back to whisper with Daphne. A superlative evening, Anthony will tell Penelope afterwards, and she will agree very prettily while foregoing to press him for a detailed opinion on the second half of the play.

Even another long evening spent together at Almack's cannot depress his spirits. The Season is almost over – it will end for the year when Parliament closes in July – and he will never again have to face this venue as a cynical bachelor. Anthony feels magnanimous enough not to begrudge the attention paid to Penelope by other bachelors avoiding matchmaking mothers, knowing that but for the grace of God there goes he. Dorset in particular seems grateful for the respite from social pressure that dancing with Penelope provides him.

"Lord Dorset favors a particular lady but she did not attend tonight," Penelope tells Anthony as their carriage travels home under a moonlit sky. "I hope he fares well when he brings her – whoever she is – to meet his Mama later this week."

"Why, you are gaining more of Dorset's confidences than I," Anthony smiles at her. "The Society scientist at it again, hey? You could write a book with all that you know!"

She nods once, pressing her lips together and retying a ribbon knot on the edge of her skirt. "Anthony…."

"What is it, my dear?"

But whatever it is, it is lost with the hubbub of their arrival in Grosvenor Square. In between helping Penelope down and distracting his driver and groom so that he might kiss her goodnight in the shadow of her doorway, Anthony quite forgets until he is back in his own chambers that she had something on her mind. Oh well. He'll be seeing her tomorrow, thankfully, and they can discuss it then.

The next day, unfortunately, does not go according to plan. Anthony is on the verge of heading out to pay his now daily unscheduled-but-expected morning call to Penelope when a shout comes from the back gardens. Gregory has succeeded in avoiding his Latin tutor with the clever trick of climbing a tree and then falling out of it, breaking his arm.

Meanwhile in the Servant's Hall, Cook is having hysterics because the closed range (a new coal-fired kitchen appliance that Simon recommended) has been delivered. Cook declares tearfully that she will never give up the open hearth that she has used "all my life, my lord, twenty years in your family's service and never a complaint against my cooking yet! Not to mention the installation of this heathen thing will disrupt your meals for almost a week!"

By suggesting that if Cook would prefer to retire in the face of innovation, they might hire a French chef more suited to the new range, Anthony brings down ire upon himself from his mother, his butler, his housekeeper, and Hyacinth, who has been banned from Gregory's sickroom and thereby revenged herself by eating three mince pies that were intended for luncheon.

Anthony heads to Father's study for some peace, swerving to avoid Francesca's fear about the piano needing to be tuned and Colin's request for an advance on his quarterly allowance so he might go to Brighton with friends next week. On his desk in the study sits an ominous pile of letters, the top message from Coombs at Aubrey Hall bearing the news that the sheep are ill again, enough of them diseased this time that they might need to put down half the flock. Would my lord Bridgerton permit such a step?

(My lord Bridgerton would like those deuced sheep to go to the devil, which amounts to the same thing.)

In the end it is nearly three hours later than he'd hoped when Anthony makes it out his own front door, worrying that he has missed his window of opportunity. And indeed when he mounts the steps to Featherington House, he sees that the knocker has been removed: the signal that they are no longer receiving callers for the day.

But Anthony has a headache and he is almost a family member and he is feeling rather desperate to lie in his lady's lap and have her soothe his frustrations, so he pounds on the door with a closed fist in the hopes that someone will answer anyway.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Varley does so, unimpressed. "We are not at home, my lord. You ought to have come hours ago."

"My sincerest apologies," Anthony says. "Is no one of the family truly at home? Or do you still mean that as a figure of speech?"

"My lord Featherington has gone to visit Lord Hallewell's estate for a few days. My lady Featherington and Miss Prudence are shopping on Bond Street for bonnet trimmings for your wedding, my lord. And of course Mrs. Finch that was Miss Philippa has moved to her husband's lands in Reading."

Anthony waits impatiently through this recitation, as if the Featherington housekeeper doesn't know exactly who he's come to see!

"Miss Penelope is upstairs, but not receiving callers at the moment–"

"I am not a typical caller," Anthony points out. "Is she indisposed? Alone?"

"No, my lord, your sister Miss Eloise is with her."

"Capital, then there can be no objection to my joining them." He brushes past Mrs. Varley into the front hall, heedless of the etiquette disapproving of such an act. Seeing Penelope will make everything all right again.

Anthony heads up the stairs to the Featherington family sitting room, ignoring the faint sound of protest behind him. The door is slightly ajar and quiet voices can be heard from within. Though he has a faint sense of déjà vu from escaping Philippa's wedding breakfast, this time he feels confident of his welcome and waltzes right in.

"Why, Anthony!" Penelope gasps, looking up from the sofa where she and Eloise are perched, surrounded by several sheaves of paper.

"Ugh, what do you want?" Eloise asks, ungracious as ever.

"Only the pleasure of my fiancée's company and a respite from my siblings' demands," Anthony tells her, amused. "What else could I want by coming here?"

Penelope is quickly gathering up the papers into a tidy stack, no doubt to make room for him to join them.

"Penelope, we have not finished –" Eloise says plaintively.

"We can resume another time," she responds. "It will keep."

"What will keep?" asks Anthony, not particularly invested in the answer. "Are you writing another manifesto about women's suffrage? Kind of you to help her, Penelope."

"I – yes," Eloise says. "I – I am very interested in suffrage. In fact, did you know –"

"Eloise, will you please take your papers with you as you leave?" Penelope interrupts, pressing the stack into her friend's hands.

Eloise sighs. "Fine. But what a waste of an afternoon, for you to remain here flirting with him when we could be working on something important."

"Go away, Eloise," Anthony says, coming to sit by his intended. Penelope bites her lip on a smile and he is satisfied.

Eloise continues to complain as she leaves but she does close the door without slamming it, which Anthony must consider a mark of her approval.

"A thousand apologies for my lateness, my dear," he tells Penelope. "Bridgerton House was at sixes and sevens all day."

"Don't think I merely sit at home longing for you," Penelope teases. "I have plenty to keep me occupied in my own right."

"Ah, but I was at my home longing for you, wishing every minute I did not have to be the responsible heir and had no other claims on my time but to court you."

"It is the courtship of the heir that I prefer, you know. Nothing makes a lady swoon like adherence to duty."

And what response can he possibly give that but a kiss?

Penelope pulls back after just a moment, which confuses Anthony until she calls out – "Alice! Would you, ah, call for some tea?"

Anthony looks around in surprise to see Penelope's lady's maid rising from an unobtrusive corner and nodding agreement.

"She was there this whole time?" he whispers.

"Oh, I can never do without Alice," Penelope returns. "She is my right-hand woman."

Anthony can think of better uses at the moment for a right hand, and he tells his lady so, sotto voce. While she flushes becomingly, he increases his volume to add: "Alice, if you wouldn't mind – take a little extra time with the tea service. My lady would not want a hurried cup."

"Yes, my lord," the maid says, opening the door. "I might even lose my way to the kitchen for a few minutes as well." A worthy ally!

Once they are properly alone, Anthony returns to the task at hand: namely, ascertaining whether Penelope's skin remains as soft today as it was in his arms at the theatre. And unlike in the semi-public venue of a theatre box, alone with her he can explore new areas and sensations as well.

Penelope reacts charmingly to his explorations. Her white dress is made of a thin fabric that does little to obscure the feel of her as he runs his hands down the sides of her curves, his lips following his hands.

"Anthony," she sighs. "You are a marvel!"

"We are only just beginning, my dear," he tells her. "Do you – would you permit me to –"

"Yes!" Penelope interrupts him breathlessly. "Yes, please!"

"You do not even know what I was offering," Anthony laughs, his heart singing. "Are you so sure you would like it?"

"What could you do that I would mislike?" Penelope asks softly. "I already melt at your touch."

"In that case – but promise you will speak out if you want me to stop."

She nods eagerly, hair adorably mussed, face adorably flushed.

Anthony helps his fiancée to sit upright on the sofa and gets to his knees in front of her. He pauses for a moment, leaning his forehead against her calf. He feels slightly giddy with the awareness that touching Penelope so intimately goes damnably far beyond propriety and with the realization that he doesn't care.

She fidgets under him, recalling him to the present, so he presses a kiss to her calf through her skirts and sits back on his heels.

"Shall you lift your skirts or shall I?" Anthony asks.

Penelope, eyes wide, gestures for him to do so.

Anthony nods and shifts slightly for a better angle, planning to set a hand on the carpet to brace himself and landing instead on a crumpled sheet of paper.

He pulls back in surprise to look at the item in his hand. "Ah…I think Eloise missed a page. Well, no matter." He is about to cast it aside and resume much more interesting activities when a phrase at the top catches his eye.

"Good lord, is this a copy of Lady Whistledown's latest on-dits?" Anthony chuckles. "What on earth is my sister doing with this? I thought she hated gossip."

He looks up, expecting to share the joke with Penelope. But her face has paled rapidly and she will not make eye contact.

Anthony scans the document again and frowns. "Wait a minute, this is not the broadsheet but a scrap of paper. As if…as if it were a draft. As if…Eloise somehow had a draft of the next Whistledown column before it was published." His mind reels. Whistledown's sharp tongue, her unimpressed views on Society's follies… "My lady! Do not tell me you are helping my sister to be Lady Whistledown?"

"I am not."

"Eh?" Anthony is startled by the flatness of her tone.

Penelope takes a deep breath, then looks at him with an expression he has never seen her wear before. "I am not helping Eloise to be Lady Whistledown. She is helping me."

He is too stunned to respond.

"I am Lady Whistledown, Anthony. I have been the secret author of the column for the past two and a half years. In the last few months, Eloise has joined me as co-investigator and writer, but the project began with me and I take full responsibility for it." Penelope is sitting ramrod-straight, gaze firm, very possibly holding her breath.

"You are the mysterious columnist…" But Anthony does not feel capable of saying anything more.

Flashes of their prior conversations surface from his memory: Gossip is a means of sharing information… Society scientist sounds so much better than 'voyeur'… her love of social events tied with her claimed discomfort for attention, her habit of slipping away during intermissions and between dances… Of all the secrets to have kept from him!

"Well, sir?" she asks carefully.

His head hurts. His heart hurts. Breathless with the enormity of her lie, he can find no words of his own and so reaches for the Bard's.

"She is cunning past man's thought," Anthony whispers, shaken. He hears her exhale audibly as he rests his head in his hands.

Notes:

The new Gas Light and Coke Company: founded in 1812, this company received the royal charter to bring coal gas lighting to London. I imagine investing in them would feel both exciting and risky for a society used to oil and candles!

Philippa floats down the aisle in blinding orange: the custom of brides wearing white was not formalized until after Queen Victoria's wedding in 1840; Regency ladies often chose their best dresses and continued to wear them at future events.

(As Anthony is unconcerned with fashion minutia, here are the details of Philippa's outfit for the curious: in addition to the rubies, she is wearing bright orange silk gauze overlaid on white satin, trimmed in several inches of matching orange fringe and with bodice/sleeves heavily beaded in a darker orange. Her bouquet contains orange-blossoms, marigolds, and red damask roses.)

perhaps I'll purchase Penelope an emerald parure: a parure is a matching set of jewelry: tiara, haircombs, earrings, necklaces, brooches, bracelets, etc. Parures are designed to be able to be worn together, but a lady could equally choose one or two pieces to accessorize a particular outfit. It would be quite the statement to wear a full set of rubies to a morning wedding as if it were the Queen's ball!

I will die in thy lap and be buried in thy eyes: See William Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, Act V Scene II.

She is cunning past man's thought: See William Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra, Act I Scene II.

Chapter 11

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It says something about the amount of melodrama in the 1813 London Season that the worst days of Penelope's life were all contained within it. From little embarrassments (Prudence fainting in front of the Queen, Cressida Cowper sneering about Featherington frumpiness in earshot of Colin and his friends, being passed over for dances at Almack's every week) to shocking discoveries (learning that her pregnant cousin Marina planned to entrap Colin in marriage, the sudden death of her father, the disappearance of her dowry and thus her matrimonial hopes) Penelope has almost no positive personal memories from last year at all.

In contrast, this year's Season has been full of moments both wonderful and easy. Penelope's life has flourished beyond her betrothal: she and her mother have come to an understanding, Edwina Sharma is excellent company at any social event Eloise avoids, Lady Whistledown has expanded in exciting ways, and she is even growing closer with Prudence. As a fiancée supported by friends and family, this has been the first time Penelope has felt secure in herself in front of the Ton. The initial humiliation of her rescue from the Thames was intense, but ten minutes ago Penelope would not have changed it for the world.

Now, however, Penelope looks down from her sitting room sofa at Anthony still silent on the floor and begins to wish that she had never fallen into the river. If only the ground had been less slippery or my ankles stronger, we would not be here today, tied together in misery. Penelope would stayed an anonymous spinster publisher and Anthony would have offered for some other young lady with no secrets to mortify him. Surely he would have preferred that.

She ought to begin explaining herself, Penelope knows, but… Perhaps he needs more time to process the revelation that I am Lady Whistledown. Or is that merely the thought of a coward, too scared of further vulnerability? Whether cowardly or patient, she remains silent and unmoving before him.

An endless agony later, Anthony finally lifts his head from his hands to face her. "Were you ever going to tell me?" he asks, voice raw.

Penelope swallows. "Yes. Not – not at the start of our courtship, when I was not sure of you, but this past week I have wanted to do little else. It is only that it was so hard to know how to introduce the topic."

"This past week…" he says bitterly. "This past week when all I could do was think of your beauty and grace, of our future happiness together, unaware of the viper in my midst. Unaware that the innocent in my arms was in fact the architect of Society's cruelest conversations."

"Anthony…" she whispers.

"I am unmanned, my lady. What else might you be keeping from me? Have I –" his voice breaks. "Have I ever known you at all?"

"More than anyone has, I swear. Not even Eloise knows my whole self. I have always been careful of my emotions and thoughts and would not share them, except with you–"

"Except with me and all of London, for eight pence a thought!"

"But those are not my own true thoughts," she tries to explain. "Lady Whistledown is an observer and a reporter of information that already exists. She is my creation but she is not me. She merely fulfills a Society need –"

Anthony scoffs. "Does she? Or is that what you tell yourself to justify ruining lives with each new edition? You claim that you mislike attention and yet every week your column is the talk of the Ton. Not quite the behavior of a shy little miss afraid of the spotlight." He rises to his feet, glaring at her. "Do you do it to puff up your own vanity, madam, or for the shillings you can rake in by exploiting the foibles of your neighbors?"

Penelope catches her breath. "You dare judge me for attempting to earn an income? When your own estates never bring in less than 15,000 a year? Recall that I have seen your accounts in our marriage settlements, sir. What can a Bridgerton know of needing to track each penny?"

"A gentleman with six siblings and a widowed mother under his roof has a duty to financial minutia," Anthony says, stiffening. "But I will not be distracted from the main thrust, Penelope, for I am not the one on trial this time. Were you compelled by greed or vanity?"

"If you think it greed then you understand nothing at all," Penelope says. "Greed, to suspect our family finances were dwindling long before Mama confirmed it? Greed, to turn an opportunity to good use?"

"Ah, so you scribble out of duty," he mocks. "How lucky I am to be betrothed to a fellow provider. Tell me then, how many servants' wages are paid by your snatches of gossip? Do your little broadsheets cover the window tax and the stabling of your horses?"

She flushes angrily. "Fine, our situations are not comparable. Whistledown profits are a paltry sum in comparison to your crops and investments, I admit. But I do not see my error in trying to do something productive. Are you upset that I did not disclose the income to you? All that I have becomes yours when we wed regardless," Penelope points out, feeling uncomfortably defensive. "Besides, I should think you would be glad I do not need to rely on you for pin-money, that I can take care of myself. I told you when you first showed me our settlements that so high an amount was unnecessary."

Anthony rears back as if she has struck him. "That was a gift," he protests. "I wrote those settlements as a gift to you, to demonstrate that you could trust me. Clearly you do not trust me, and I was wrong to trust you. First Colin, and then Lady Whistledown? What other secrets are you carrying in that opaque heart of yours?"

Penelope crosses her arms over her chest. "None. I have no way to prove that, of course, but you know the whole of it now. If you have additional questions I will answer them."

"How gracious of you to keep me informed at last," he sneers. "Then tell me – Eloise knows. Who else? Who else has been free to laugh at my ignorance of my fiancée's actions?"

"How vain you are to think others are always so focused on you!" Penelope snaps, then sighs. "My maid Alice knows. And – and Madame Delacroix. She helps compose some of the fashion commentary."

"Delacroix…the modiste?"

Penelope nods.

If anything, that seems to make Anthony more upset as he thinks it over. "The modiste on Bond Street who was close with Siena. Ah, I see now: she is the female who taught you to hate me for my past sins. And you have nourished that hate in your soul since, else you would have told me the truth."

"I do not hate you! You are unjust, sir. I wanted to tell you so much, but – but I have never told anyone before. I was not sure how to do it," she says. "Eloise figured it out only because she caught me eavesdrop–caught me observing the Ton in a careless moment in February, and Madame Delacroix picked up on a hint last year when I realized we could be allies. I was scared to confess to you, scared of how you would react…"

"Am I that much of an ogre?" he asks softly, his face falling further. "Even you, my lady, think me Awful Anthony?"

"No," she whispers. "I have never thought you awful. You have always attempted to show me courtesy and respect, I know it. I have been so privileged to have your attentions."

"Not only my attentions…my heart too was yours. And I am repaid thus." Anthony walks over to the window and stares out at Grosvenor Square.

Penelope crumples the leftover Whistledown draft in her fist. They have never spoken out loud of love before, and she has ruined it for them with her cowardice. If she had only told him herself first, it all might have turned out fine.

In the silence, the door opens to reveal Alice with a tea-tray. She surveys the scene – Anthony with his back to his intended, Penelope pale and bereft on the sofa – and with the quick insight that has made her essential to the Whistledown project, places the tray on a side table and quietly leaves.

"The tea is here," Penelope says, trying to keep her voice from quivering. "Shall I pour you a cup?"

Anthony turns around with a hollow laugh. "Little can tea leaves do for me at the moment, I am afraid."

"Would you…I can ask Varley to bring something stronger?"

His eyebrows fly up. "How crude you think me, that I would consume alcohol in front of a young lady? No, let us settle this and have done for the day. I will nurse my wounds at home."

"As you wish. What have we left to discuss? Do you have more questions about my investigative methods, my contract with the publisher?"

Anthony shakes his head. "No details, I do not wish to hear about Lady Whistledown ever again. I suppose the worst is over. We can hope the impropriety of your conduct will fade from my memory over time."

"Impropriety?" Penelope says, offended now. "You are lecturing me on proper behavior? You who only moments ago were about to debauch me on this sofa?"

He blanches, then gives a short nod. "You are correct, I lost my head earlier and it was very wrong of me. Do not worry, I will keep a safe distance from you until our wedding. That will leave you time to wind up your activities and better enable me to control my urges."

"Wind them up?"

"Yes, I do not know how long it takes," Anthony gestures impatiently. "Whatever you need to do to close Whistledown, announce your final edition, et cetera. If we need to postpone the ceremony because of that, please inform me and I will make the arrangements."

Penelope looks at him in dismay. "But…"

"But what?"

"But…but what if I do not wish to close down my work? If I do not wish to stop?"

"You wish to continue writing?" he says. "Continue to publish sordid nonsense as the Viscountess Bridgerton, drag our family name through the mud as a gossip-monger of the lowest order?"

"Why should anyone have to know Whistledown is the viscountess? They did not know who she was before!"

"I will know!" Anthony nearly shouts. "I will know that you are behind it."

"Ah…so is this about Society's opinion of Lady Whistledown or about yours?"

He scowls.

"I do not wish to announce myself as Whistledown but if it comes out, I am prepared for the consequences," Penelope says, hoping that she speaks truly. "I can live with Society notoriety, Anthony. I am a Featherington, that has always been my lot. But I cannot live with a husband who disrespects my craft."

"Craft!"

"Yes, craft. My labor. It is skilled labor to write, to edit, to produce on deadline. You may not value it, but –"

"You waste your skills on such nonsense!"

Strange how Eloise so often says the same, yet it hurts so much more coming from his mouth. "Whistledown has not shared only gossip for some time. There is fashion criticism, political analysis –"

"Aye, you are encouraging my sister in all her worst tendencies. Convincing Eloise to lie and sneak around with you, offering an outlet to promote her ridiculous agenda."

Now it is Penelope's turn to laugh bitterly. "If you think I had to convince Eloise to do any of that, you do not know your sister at all. How little you understand women, sir."

"Evidently." He runs his hands through his hair, looking harassed. Penelope hates how handsome she still finds him at the moment.

"If you insist that I stop publishing –"

"Of course I do. Can you imagine any gentleman that would permit this? To choose this – this labor over your responsibilities to our title and our future children? A lady does not work for good reason, Penelope."

"But..."

"Besides, what a laughingstock such a husband would be. Cuckolded by words!"

She considers him sadly. "I thought I had found the exception to the rule. I see I was mistaken in your character."

"We both were mistaken in each other, it seems."

Penelope takes a deep, pained breath. "Then, since we are at an impasse…" She removes her ring and holds it out to him.

Anthony's eyes widen. "Are you crying off from our engagement? You cannot be serious."

"Of course I am. Is it not the logical solution?"

"You would choose to be a jilt, to be an infamous spinster, over stopping your damned column? You would never receive another offer!" he says, incredulous.

"Society has always hated a Featherington," Penelope replies. "No blame will attach to you, my lord, rest assured."

"Penelope!"

"What other option is there? Clearly we do not suit, and better we discover it now than after the wedding. I would not want you to be forced to provide alimony to an untrustworthy viper," she spits, feeling a lump form in her throat.

"Please, calling you that was uncouth, I know it –"

"As a man of your word, you are trapped in our agreement, but do not fear. I am absolving you from the duty of me." She gestures with her hand a second time.

Anthony stares at her, stone-faced once again. And then, in an echo of his forced proposal two months ago, he says only, "if you are sure."

Penelope nods.

At last he reaches out for the ring and takes it from her, slipping it into his waistcoat pocket.

"Goodbye, Miss Featherington." Anthony bows and turns to walk out of her life.

Penelope lasts a full twenty seconds after his departure before bursting into tears.

Penelope spends the rest of the day and nearly all of the next in bed. The world outside might demand her presence at social engagements but she cannot muster the energy to care. She tells Alice to inform her family that she is experiencing her monthly troubles and refuses the meals her maid brings up on a tray. An excellent servant in all things, Alice neither asks questions nor ventures comments, leaving Penelope to wallow in her woes.

How different this misery feels from pining for Colin! When Marina informed Penelope of her plans to deceive and wed him, Penelope had flushed hot all over, immediately furious at Marina and ready to protect her friend, the hero of her dreams. All of her emotions surrounding Colin had been overwhelming, giddy and almost pleasurable in their intensity. Regarding Anthony, a man she did not expect to care for – a man she never even considered before this spring – her body seems to run cold instead. She feels limp, debilitated, a consumptive mess.

Penelope is also angry at both Anthony and herself, another difference from her first love. Colin never criticized her and with fantasy's veil over her eyes, she had seen no flaws in him either. Yesterday Anthony had said horrible, condescending things to her; he would not consider her perspective and he assumed her immediate obedience to his wishes, so she does not regret crying off from that. But…but Penelope cannot deny some of his points: that her own tongue as Whistledown has strayed beyond the boundaries of propriety many times, that she has caused others pain through her hard work. And it is understandable that Anthony feels hurt given that he has willingly shared his own inner self with her. Oh, she hates him and misses him and hates herself too.

It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon when a knock sounds at her bedchamber door. Penelope rolls onto her stomach and pulls a pillow over her head.

"My lady…"

"I am still queasy, Alice," she mutters into her sheets. "Pray tell Mrs. Varley I cannot receive any visitors today."

"I have, my lady. Only this visitor…."

Penelope sits up abruptly, half eager and half wary. "He has returned?"

Alice hesitates for a moment. "No, my lady. No word from Lord Bridgerton. It is Madame Delacroix with your bridal gown. Your final fitting was scheduled for this afternoon." Of course, high-end modistes make home visits for the most special occasions. It had been the same for Philippa's wedding as well.

Penelope groans. "Oh lord, I completely forgot. Alice…I cannot face her, or the gown, or any of it. You…you must know what happened."

The maid bites her lip. "I did not overhear the details of your conversation yesterday, madam. But I did note what was missing afterwards," she says, tilting her head at Penelope's denuded left hand.

"Alice, I cannot do this. I cannot have my mother and sister see me model the gown, pretending all is fine."

"If you would permit me to make a suggestion, my lady…"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps you should share your news now. You will have to do so sometime."

Penelope gulps. "They are all waiting for me in the sitting room?"

"Yes, my lady."

"I will have to tell them sometime…" she whispers. "I suppose so. And I do not imagine it will get any easier to say."

Alice inclines her head in response.

"Very well. Would you…would you help me to dress and go to them?"

"Yes, my lady. Which frock would you like?"

Penelope sighs, shuffling to the edge of her bed. "Whatever is nearest to hand."

Penelope makes her way slowly to her family's sitting room on Alice's arm, hastily bundled into a faded yellow cambric dress left over from her schoolroom years. Another reason to dread this conversation is that it will take place in the same location as yesterday's misery. Will she ever stop picturing Anthony's stricken face?

The room's inhabitants all look up as she enters. Lady Featherington and Prudence sit on the sofa with tea and a tray of petit fours, Mrs. Varley standing correctly behind them. Madame Delacroix has the dress package in front of her and her tools of the trade at hand as well. Even just the sight of the lace hem peeking out from a corner of the wrapping makes Penelope's throat hurt. Her own beautiful design, all for naught.

"Penelope, there you are," her mother says. "I am surprised you did not rush into the room for this! The most special moment for a bride, besides your wedding itself."

Penelope says nothing in response, and Lady Portia's eyes widen as she takes in her daughter's haggard looks.

"Why, whatever is the matter? Should we call for the physician?"

"I may return another time if you are ill, mademoiselle," Madame Delacroix murmurs.

Penelope takes a breath. "Thank you, but that will not be necessary. It – it will not be necessary to have this fitting at all."

"That's absurd, Madame Delacroix has finally finished the bodice. You must make sure that it fits you before wearing it to church," Prudence points out, eminently reasonable.

"No, I know. But –" Penelope struggles for a moment and feels Alice's hand tighten on her arm in support. She takes another breath. "I will not be needing the gown, because there will be no ceremony in two weeks. The engagement is off."

In the stunned silence, Penelope makes her way to the nearest ottoman and sits down. Her mother and sister's mouths gape like fishes, and Madame Delacroix has frozen still.

"Lord Bridgerton and I spoke yesterday, and –" Penelope holds out her empty hand as proof.

Looking at it, her mother gives a soft sigh and faints.

In the ensuing hubbub – Mrs. Varley loosening Lady Portia's stays, Alice running to fetch smelling salts, Prudence fanning her mother's head – Madame Delacroix takes the opportunity to slip over to Penelope.

"Ma petite, I am so sorry," she says quietly. "What a terrible thing."

Penelope ducks her head. "I am sorry you traveled here for no purpose."

"You had a disagreement, perhaps? I hope Lord Bridgerton did not cause you harm, Penelope."

"No, he – he merely made an unpleasant discovery." Even at a whisper, while her family is distracted, Penelope cannot bring herself to name her secret out loud. "You were right, Genevieve. He does not want a businesswoman for a wife."

Madame Delacroix sighs. "I take no comfort in being right about this. And you are sure that you two are at an end?"

Penelope nods, her eyes filling with tears again. What a watering-pot I have become! "I see no future for him and me together. I regret all your hard work on the gown. Please know that I will pay you for it from my savings – it might need to be in installments."

"Hush, do not trouble yourself with that today. The dress will keep, and so will I. And so will you." Madame Delacroix makes as if to rest a hand on her shoulder, then changes her mind. "I think it best I take my leave now, but please assure your mother for me that I will not share your news with other customers. And – if you should require any assistance, Mademoiselle Penelope, please do not hesitate to visit Bond Street. Or send a message, and I will come here at any time. For a friend in need."

Penelope sniffs and whispers her thanks.

By the time Madame Delacroix has collected her things and exited their home, Lady Featherington has recovered, sitting upright and clutching a reviving cup of tea. She turns to face at Penelope, grim and determined.

"We will sue him for breach of promise, Penelope. Not even a Bridgerton can make a mockery of my daughter so."

"No, Mama. We cannot."

"Fie on your timidity! I will fight this battle for you, little one. I will make Society shame him for his actions." Indeed, Lady Portia looks ready to eat Anthony's heart in the marketplace.

"Mama, no! Thank you, but that is not possible. I was the one to cry off."

Once again Penelope has shocked her household into silence, but though Lady Portia's face pales (Mrs. Varley steps forward with the smelling salts just in case), she does not swoon a second time.

"What on earth happened, sister?" Prudence asks after a moment. "When did you even speak with Lord Bridgerton? You did not go out yesterday at all."

"He paid a visit while you were shopping," Penelope explains. "We – we disagreed, and I realized we could not suit. It is best this way. Please – please believe me that we cannot reconcile. He is better off without me."

Lady Portia's lips tighten. "Is he? Are you better off without him?"

"Please, Mama!" To her shame, Penelope begins to cry again in front of everyone. Alice passes her a handkerchief.

Lady Featherington stands up and begins to pace around the room. Three circuits later, she pauses and says abruptly, "Measles."

"Measles?" Prudence asks after darting a look at Penelope, still crying. "What have measles to do with anything, Mama?"

"We will say one of our kitchen maids has the measles," Lady Featherington explains. "I will inform Jack he should extend his stay with Lord Hallewell a little longer, and decline our engagements for the rest of the month. Measles are a perfectly good reason to postpone your wedding until after the Season ends, since they are so contagious. Then when everyone has left London and has their minds on grouse shooting, we slip a little notice into The Morning Post."

Lady Featherington sets her hands on her hips, well satisfied with her idea: "After all, the Bridgertons will certainly not rush to announce that the viscount was jilted. If we can keep Lady Whistledown from hearing about this for a while, we might yet save your face in front of the Ton. We can only hope the Prince Regent will do something outrageous in the meantime."

At the mention of Whistledown, Penelope sobs harder. Her mother is being so thoughtful and she can do nothing but cry! How pathetic she must seem.

"An excellent solution, Mama," Prudence says. "I think my sister might have reached her limit for the day, however. Perhaps she might retire to her bedchamber while you and I plan?"

"Oh! Yes, of course." Lady Portia comes over to hug her youngest daughter. "Featheringtons never admit weakness, little one. We have survived much worse scandal; we will survive this too."

Penelope breathes in her mother's perfume, feeling like a helpless child. "Yes, Mama. I – I will be stronger soon. I will help."

Lady Featherington tuts. "To bed with you. After all, the measles take a lot out of any young lady."

As Penelope makes her way back to her room, she overhears her mother reasserting control. "Varley! Bring me my social diary, and then inform Cook we will not be having guests this evening after all. Prudence, you begin with an apology note to Lady Danbury and the Sharmas, I will send word to the Fifes…"

The following day, still miserable but taking some comfort in her household's determined support, Penelope manages to dress and eat at mealtimes. Though her attention and her conversation are poor, her family does not appear to hold it against her. Prudence certainly does not seem to mind having the opportunity to monologue about her latest sewing project at luncheon.

"Penelope, it's a good thing we have the measles this week. Your decision has been very useful to me," Prudence declares. "Without social engagements, I may finish another six inches of this design before the Season ends."

Penelope wishes she could bring herself to care about her sister's silly embroidery, but it only makes her think of the tapestries at Aubrey Hall and suddenly she is crying again.

Prudence rolls her eyes and calls a footman to bring a fresh handkerchief.

The impact of their fraudulent illness compounds quickly: Mrs. Varley removes their knocker, the postal well-wishes for their recovery pile up in the front hall, and the kitchen staff arranges for deliveries in lieu of market shopping. Penelope resigns herself to her new life indoors, a supposed invalid and a secret jilt.

On Friday, she is staring listlessly out the window of her bedchamber for the third unmoving hour in a row – all of the Bridgertons have come and gone through their front door today except for Anthony – when someone slams open the door behind her.

"Alice, have pity on my headache!" Penelope turns around in disapproval.

But it is Eloise and not Alice who has burst into her room, with a parcel of books under her arm and a worried expression on her face.

"Eloise! How did you get in here?"

"I climbed through the window in the scullery when your kitchen maid left to fetch more potatoes, obviously. You were the one who told me the latch is always broken," Eloise says, advancing on her friend. "What happened?"

"We – we have the measles," Penelope protests feebly. "It is not safe, you might catch them."

Eloise scoffs. "I had the measles when I was eleven, and so did you. I caught them from Uncle Henry at church and you caught them from me. I knew you could not be physically ill. What is wrong?"

"I…"

"I am not an idiot, Penelope. Something has happened between you and my brother. It is incredibly suspicious of you to have fake measles at the same time that Anthony has disappeared. We have not seen hide nor hair of him for two days!"

"Disappeared?" Penelope repeats in shock. Has he done something extreme in response to her rejection? Not – surely he would not… "He left no note, or –"

"He could not be bothered to write, but luckily Benedict did," Eloise waves a dismissive hand. At Penelope's confused look, she clarifies: "We know where he is, Pen. He is staying at Benedict's bachelor lodgings and uninterested in coming home, apparently. Probably that means he is still inebriated. Pathetic, honestly."

Penelope sighs and slumps forward into her lap in relief. "You frightened me, El. I thought you meant he had done something dreadful."

"Colin says that he is dreadful when drunk and I believe it. Even hungover, he is an insufferable martyr to melodrama," Anthony's sister says, the pot calling the kettle obsidian.

"Eloise…" Penelope whispers.

"Tell me, Penelope. What. Happened."

"He found out about Whistledown," Penelope admits to her lap. "We missed a page in our haste when he arrived the other day, and I was obliged to tell him the truth."

"Botheration," Eloise mutters, flopping on the edge of Penelope's bed. "He must have been such an ass about it."

"He was rather harsh, yes. Justified in his surprise, perhaps, but not his choice of words."

"Oh, I can just imagine it, that cretin. Shall I kill my brother for you, or just force him to apologize? I'll drag him here by his cravat if you prefer. If he's hungover he won't put up much resistance."

Penelope laughs weakly. "It would not serve, I am afraid. There is no need for an apology, he owes me nothing anymore."

"He owes you everything! What, will you marry him as if it doesn't matter what he said to you?"

"Please, Eloise."

"Anthony ought to grovel before he thinks of coming near you again," Eloise says, getting into the spirit of her revenge. "And not just giving you jewelry either, I want him prostrate on the floor in his guilt, wearing a hairshirt and weeping for so much as a kind glance from you –"

"Eloise!" Penelope cries. "Enough. I know you only mean to help, but I would not ask that of Anth – of Lord Bridgerton. I do not have the complete moral high ground either, and – and I do not have the right to ask anything of him anymore."

"You do not have the right?" Eloise repeats. "And you just called him Lord Bridgerton! Penelope!"

Penelope nods sadly. But before she can hold out her left hand once again, Eloise grabs it and turns it over.

"Hell and the devil!" Eloise says. "You gave the ring back?"

"Does Lady Violet know you swear like a man?" Penelope tries for jollity and fails.

"Confound my mother!" Eloise hisses. "I will – I will…" But she has no end to that sentence.

"Thank you for your righteous defense, Eloise," Penelope whispers. "My first and dearest friend. But the engagement is over and there is nothing you can do to fix it. Just…just be here with me."

"I can do that," Eloise says after a moment, squeezing her hand. "As long as you like."

They move to lie next to each other on Penelope's bed atop her quilts and Penelope lets her friend hold her in her arms. If she cries a little again, Eloise does not acknowledge it – which is its own kind of comfort.

Alice enters sometime later, bearing a tea-tray and evincing no surprise whatsoever at finding Eloise there. In fact, she pulls a second teacup and saucer out of her apron pocket and adds, "Should anyone in this room need to exit quietly through the scullery, I might drop a plate in the front hall at a signal."

"A raise," Penelope tells her maid, sitting up. "I will double your wages for this, Alice. You are the Diamond of lady's maids."

"You are an easy mistress, my lady," Alice replies. "It is good your friend is here for you."

"The Diamond!" Eloise sits up as well with a start. "Pen, what are we to do about Whistledown? The deadline is this evening!"

Penelope sucks in a breath. "Oh El, I do not think I can write my closing remarks just now. I have heard no on-dits since Monday and I cannot concentrate for the life of me. Perhaps we should skip this week."

"No, we must publish!" Eloise insists. "Do not let my brother ruin this for you as well. If Anthony is fool enough to lose you over it, that is his problem. But you must publish for me and for Madame Delacroix and for all your readers…and for yourself."

"But I have nothing to report," Penelope says. "You might be right –"

"I am always right!"

"But what on earth could I say?"

"Hmm…" Eloise furrows her brow. "Well, I suppose I could tell you what I have heard lately, and you tell me if it is worth including?"

"All right."

"I only went to the Smythe-Smith garden party this week, but Mama also received a curious letter from her friend Lady Rotherham."

"There is no Lady Rotherham," Penelope points out. "The Marquis of Rotherham is still unmarried, he has been ever single since Lady Serena Carlowe broke off – broke off their engagement."

Eloise looks like she regrets bringing up this particular bit of news but plows forward. "Yes, I meant the dowager Lady Rotherham, his mother. And there may be a new Lady Rotherham soon: he is engaged and the formal announcement will be printed any day now."

"Really! To whom?" Penelope asks, trying to keep her mind off her own situation.

"That is just it – Miss Laleham. Miss Emily Laleham."

Penelope is startled into a laugh. "An even more unlikely match than mine. The Marquis must be nearly twice her age!"

"Might you make something of that, or should I find out what Viscount Sheringham and Sir Montagu Revesby were arguing about outside of Almack's this week? No one seems to know for sure."

"Lord Rotherham's news should suffice," Penelope says. "Alice, would you bring me my writing lapdesk?"

"Yes, my lady."

Eloise looks over at her, satisfied. "You see! Your color is better already. What are men to a publishing career?"

"Thank you, El. I know you mislike focusing on gossip over politics. I am very touched."

"Anything for my best friend," Eloise shrugs. "Oh! Speaking of which, I picked up something at the lending library for you." She reaches over to her parcel of books and pulls one from the stack.

"What is it?" Penelope takes the volume from her hands.

"Waverley, it is only just published. A history and a novel, they say, about the Jacobite rebellion. No one knows who the author is, but I bet he's Scottish like your family! Maybe you can write a review of it for next week's edition?"

Penelope throws her arms around Eloise in response.

The bolstering effect of Eloise's unwavering love lasts until the next day, when Penelope begins to be frustrated about quarantining without actually being ill. (Ill of body, anyway; she is certainly ill of spirit.) Three days with only her family for company has begun to chafe her temper, especially since she cannot explain to Lady Portia or Prudence her reasoning for ending the engagement. Penelope thinks in desperation of sneaking out to Madame Delacroix but aside from the risk of being caught, she is not sure she is ready for another attack on Anthony's character. He was both wrong and right; she is aggrieved and regretful and most of all, alone.

Except, of course, that she is not alone. Prudence has been by her side in the family sitting room all morning, humming to herself while sewing, crinkling the pages of La Belle Assemblée, chomping loudly on scones, and generally being an irritant by merely breathing audibly ten feet away. Penelope would have fled to her own chambers for respite, but Alice had firmly barred the entrance: "The chimney sweep sent a boy who's had the measles to clean your fireplace, my lady, and more time in bed you don't need."

Now Penelope turns to her older sister grumpily. "Please, can you eat that somewhere else? In your bedchamber, maybe?"

"They're cleaning my fireplace as well as yours this morning," Prudence sniffs. "I have the right to sit here the same as you, Penelope."

Penelope huffs and slides further down the chaise longue, trying not to remember that the last time she was nearly prone on this sofa, Anthony was kissing his way up her skirts. In response to the sudden flash of unwanted desire flooding her veins, she slides all the way onto the floor and begins to plait the sofa's fringe trim.

"You are moving rapidly into brat territory," Prudence sighs but sets her plate aside, moving to the escritoire in the corner. "If I write a letter instead, will that be quiet enough for you?"

Penelope looks over. "I thought Mama said you finished all the cancellation correspondence yesterday."

"We did," Prudence says, dipping her quill in ink. "I trust I may be allowed to write on more than one topic per week."

Penelope scrunches her nose. "Who are you writing to, then?"

"A new friend in Bath."

"Since when do you know anyone in Bath?"

"Since when do you cry off an engagement with the man you're obsessed with?"

"Pru!" Penelope gasps, floored by the sudden attack.

Prudence swivels in her seat to narrow her eyes at her little sister. "We have been walking on eggshells with you for days, Pen. What could the viscount possibly have said that warranted so drastic a decision? At Almack's on Tuesday you two were sickeningly soppy as ever. Lord Bridgerton was making calf's-eyes at you all night and you were just as bad behind your fan. What you see in him I'll never understand, but clearly it wasn't his title or his wealth. You like his personality for some reason, the Lord help you."

"I do not wish to discuss this!"

"Too bad. I have had enough of waiting for you to trust us with the truth."

Penelope winces at that, a deeper cut than Prudence can know.

"Am I wrong?" Prudence presses. "Did you love Lord Bridgerton or not?"

Penelope squeezes her eyelids tightly, hoping not to start crying again. "Yes. I did, I do. I do love him, Pru!"

"Then why are you sulking under the sofa like a child instead of marrying him? And don't tell me some fustian nonsense about not suiting each other. Mama might swallow that, but she's not the one who's had to chaperone the pair of you gabbing for hours about the Trojans and the Visighouls. It was like being in the schoolroom all over again."

"Not the Visighouls, the Visigoths," Penelope whispers sadly.

Prudence throws a sealing wax stick at her, hitting the sofa instead. "My point is, you were happy. Your conversation bored me out of my mind, but I liked seeing you happy. I cannot comprehend why you would give that up."

Penelope exhales. "I didn't wish to cry off, but I couldn't see another path forward. Not when Anth – when Lord Bridgerton was so unwilling to listen. So patronizing, assuming I would just agree to stop –" she breaks off quickly.

"Stop what?"

"Ah…well, you see…"

"Penelope!"

Penelope takes a deep breath. "On Wednesday while you were out, Lord Bridgerton learned a secret of mine that displeased him. He was correct that I should not have kept it from him for so long, or from any of you…but he was not kind in his displeasure. He hurt my feelings, and my pride."

Prudence hums interestedly.

"Lord Bridgerton found out…he found out that I am Lady Whistledown."

In the silence that follows her confession, Penelope rolls on her side to face her sister. For once, Prudence isn't gaping vapidly in response to unexpected news. In fact, she looks rather thoughtful.

"Are you now," Prudence says slowly. "You've kept this from all of us all this time? Impressive."

"What?" Penelope sits up in surprise.

"You're really Lady Whistledown? I suppose you do have the brains for it. And you're always slipping away at balls and such." Prudence nods. "Good for you."

"Wait, you approve?" Penelope asks, confused. "You approve of me secretly writing a gossip column? I've been sneaking out to produce it for years now!"

"It's the most interesting thing you've ever done," Prudence smirks at her. "I didn't know you had the guts. And you might as well make some money off of all the hypocrites in the Ton."

Penelope would not have dreamed in a thousand years that her sister would react this way. Whistledown has never been sparing of their family – Penelope can see now that she often vented her spleen publicly instead of standing up for herself at home – and she was so worried that her sister might react the same as Anthony and thus hate her for it.

"But...but I have been lying to you!" Penelope says, unable to believe Prudence's cavalier response. "I wrote horrible things about our family, especially cousin Marina."

"Everyone lies about something, Pen. You were a bit cruel to Marina, true, but I always thought she was rather full of herself anyway. And besides, it all worked out for her, didn't it?"

"Rather in spite of me, though," Penelope declines to give herself any grace. "I was lashing out when I wrote that particular edition, it wasn't right."

"I'm not convinced right and wrong are truly important to Society. It matters more if you're á la mode, and good gossip always is."

"Why, you're cynical enough to be your own Whistledown," Penelope sighs. "I suppose it is a Featherington trait."

"I take it Lord Bridgerton was not so forgiving. Easy for those at the top of the Ton to look down on us lesser beings and our grubbier morals. As if his lordship's own shit doesn't –"

"Prudence!" Penelope interrupts quickly. "If Mama heard you!"

"Please, have you never heard how she speaks of our dreadfully departed Papa?" Prudence rolls her eyes. "Do not change the subject. Did Lord Bridgerton insult you for being Whistledown?"

"Yes, but I know that was mostly his hasty tongue," Penelope says. "Worse is what he said when he was calmer…he wanted me to stop publishing. Not only that, but he assumed I would give it up immediately upon marriage and was shocked that I didn't agree."

"Ah, I see your reasoning now. Good riddance, then. If he cannot recognize the worth of your talent, then you are better off without him indeed."

"That's what I told him," Penelope gulps, feeling the tears well up in her eyes again. Drat these tears! "That's why I gave him back the ring. He was so confused that I would not unthinkingly obey him!"

"Men are useless, sister."

Penelope covers her face with her hands, trying in vain to push the water back inside her tear ducts. "Pru, if I made the right choice, why does it hurt so much?"

Prudence comes to sit on the floor next to her. "I do not know. I have never been in love, I have no experience with this. Perhaps you ought to ask someone in a happy relationship what to do."

"Who?" Penelope asks, genuinely curious.

"Well…hmm. Our family has not been so fortunate in that regard, it's true. I suppose you could write to Philippa? She loves her Finch."

Penelope makes a face involuntarily.

Prudence snorts. "Fair enough. Even if you could get sense out of Pippa these days, I doubt it would help. If Albion Finch has a backbone I haven't seen it. Quite the opposite of your man, who was clearly born with a poker up his arse."

Penelope chokes back a laugh. "I am so mixed up, sister. I want to yell at Anthony and beg his forgiveness and shake him until he listens properly and then kiss him…and I can do none of those things, because I was the one to end it, and undoubtedly, he has no wish to hear from me now."

"Not to mention you have the measles."

"Not to mention the measles!" Penelope wails. "Prudence, I am so sorry for trapping us here in this ridiculous lie. If we were really sick, we wouldn't be able to notice the tedium."

"It's only you who's bored here at home, little miss," Prudence says, stroking her sister's hair. "I am rather bored of Society instead. I have had enough of balls and fêtes these past five years."

"Lady Whistledown cannot flourish under these conditions, you know. I will wither away to nothing, with nothing at all to write."

"Cheer up, Pen. Cousin Jack wrote to say he's coming home tomorrow, as he's had the measles and is tired of Lord Hallewell's awful cook."

"How does that cheer me up, exactly?"

"Well, if things persist disappointingly here, perhaps we could convince our cousin to take us to America with him after the Season ends. He probably needs to inspect those mines of his soon."

"Lady Whistledown, travel edition?" Penelope says, smiling for the first time all day. "A Grand Tour of gemstones."

"Why not? If Cousin Jack will take us, that makes one less useless man in the world."

"There are so very few."

"We Featheringtons never falter in the face of foolishness," Prudence says, imitating their mother. "United we may counter any indignity, you know."

"I know it now," Penelope says softly. "I know it now. Thank you, Prudence. Come what may, I can survive it with a sister like you."

Notes:

As a man of your word, you are trapped in our agreement: Reminder that marriage settlements are legal contracts: if Anthony were the one to "cry off" from their engagement, that could literally open him up to a lawsuit. (Which Lady Featherington threatens later in the chapter!) Penelope doesn't run the same risk because both legally and by social convention, a lady was entitled to change her mind before the wedding. She would definitely still face social stigma, however.

Lady Portia looks ready to eat Anthony's heart in the marketplace: As Beatrice would of Claudio in William Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, Act IV Scene I.

What are men to a publishing career?: Elizabeth Bennet said the same regarding rocks and mountains in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 27.

The Marquis of Rotherham is still unmarried/what Viscount Sheringham and Sir Montagu Revesby were arguing about: Rotherham's love life is explored in Bath Tangle by Georgette Heyer; the Sheringham-Revesby scene appears in Friday's Child by the same author. Naturally I recommend both.

Waverley, it is only just published: The first volume of Waverley was released anonymously in summer 1814. Considered by many to be the first historical novel in English, it was written by Sir Walter Scott, already an accomplished poet.

Chapter 12

Notes:

My update timeline has slowed down somewhat, but don't worry -- I am absolutely still working on this story at the pace my life will allow. In fact, I'm not going to start watching season 3 until I finish...

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Three days into his new life as a jilted man turning hermit in his younger brother's bachelor lodgings, the 9th Viscount Bridgerton has had several important realizations. The first realization is that one might reduce household staff expenses by dispensing with the service of a valet. Anthony knows he hardly looks the gentleman at the moment, face unshaven and clothes unpressed, but why bother presenting a polished image to Society? All that time and effort and a young lady may still throw you over.

The second realization is that romance is a mug's game, whether with mistresses or potential spouses. Courting ought to be restricted to practical consideration of the settlements, determining whether two members of the Ton should combine their finances to sustain their family lineages. Affections need never enter into the discussion, for they contribute nothing of value and plenty of harm. Previously Anthony had thought social engagements merely dull, not dangerous. But had he stuck to his druthers and offered only the bare minimum in conversations with Pen – with Miss Featherington, his heart might have remained unbruised.

The third realization is that Benedict is unaccountably and distressingly out of gin.

Anthony realizes the last on Saturday afternoon while alone in Benedict's lodgings, slumped in an armchair in the cluttered front room. For a man who is so fastidious about his clothes, Benedict's chambers are monstrous untidy. Canvases lean against every wall and in piles on the floor, odd collections of objects for still-lifes clutter every flat surface, and the combined smell of turpentine and oil paint lingers in the air. It is a sensory stressor nearly on par with a bespangled drawing room, and it would give Anthony a powerful headache if he hadn't one already.

Worst of all, however, is the liquor cabinet that mocks him with its empty shelves. Anthony could instruct Benedict's man to obtain more, but even summoning a servant would take effort. It feels vitally important for Anthony to reserve his energy for merely existing at the moment. He has no spare resources for anything else – and certainly not for the latest report of the Bridgerton financial accounts that Portwinder has so graciously forwarded here.

Anthony is still despairing at the lack of liquid comfort when Benedict returns from a session at the Royal Academy of the Arts, a sketchbook under one arm and a smile on his face. Said smile turns somewhat rueful at the sight of his elder brother.

"How naïve of me to hope you might have vacated the premises by now," Benedict says, moving a bouquet of faded flowers off of the armchair next to Anthony so that he might sit down. "Instead I see you have become a cod."

"A cod?" Perhaps Anthony has misheard.

"Indeed. You increasingly resemble a fish, brother, for fish and guests in three days become stale."

"Is this you throwing me out?"

"Oh, this is the gracious warning before the ejection," Benedict assures him. "But make no mistake, the ejection will be upon us shortly. I am expecting company soon, and we will have no use for a lump of a man sulking in the corner. You will ruin the mood."

"Hmph."

"Come, you will have to return to Grosvenor Square at some point. Unless you mean to lease a set of chambers on this block once again?"

"Why not?" Anthony mutters. "For despite my best efforts, I am once again a bachelor."

Benedict sighs. "So we are discussing your change in circumstances in depth at last. Are you sober enough for that?"

"No thanks to your supplies."

"One who wishes an unlimited supply of drink at short notice might find himself better supported at White's. Otherwise, perhaps next time send a note of warning to a fellow when heartbreak is imminent."

Anthony slumps forward, running his hands through his hair. "She must have thought me unspeakably awful, Ben. She did not trust me with her most important truth and preferred to end our commitment rather than discuss it."

Benedict hums softly in encouragement.

"I cannot believe any of it. On Wednesday my future was all happiness, and now…"

"And now?"

"Now I know she is unfeeling and I am betrayed, alone."

"You have mentioned a betrayal several times this week, yet never clarified in what sense."

"I do not know if I should share it," Anthony says to the carpet. "I do not wish you to think less of Miss Featherington for her foolish actions. She is very young, after all. And it will henceforth not be our concern if she prefers to spend her time on vulgar business instead of more genteel endeavours."

Benedict coughs. "Vulgar business? I take it you do not mean…"

Anthony looks up hastily. "Oh no! No, I have no reason to believe she has not been chaste. I meant – I meant that she conducts actual commerce. Unseemly and inappropriate, but not sinful."

"Sinful! What piety you have donned in your old age. It suits you no better than that tired waistcoat."

"Dandy."

"Prig," Benedict returns. "So your former intended is a mistress of commerce? Oh…oh, Anthony – is all this because of Lady Whistledown?"

"Et tu, Benedict?" Anthony's eyes widen in shock. Will the betrayals from his loved ones never cease?

"I suppose you forced Penelope to choose her writing over you?" his brother asks, as if the very premise of the question is not absurd.

"For Christ's sake, how long have you known of her reckless behavior? She did not mention you on her list of confidants!"

"I am not among them," Benedict says. "Penelope and I have a great respect for one another but we certainly do not share that degree of intimacy. I doubt she knows that I know – or rather, that I suspected."

"How the devil did you suspect such a thing?" Anthony asks, jealous of Benedict's intuition. "I had no idea, and I have spent the entire spring in her company!"

"I have been keeping an eye on Eloise recently. I noticed her conversation about Parliament affairs often preceded their appearance in the next Whistledown column. And as last year she was desperate to unmask the author and this Season hasn't mentioned it once...with a little more observation, I came to the natural conclusion."

Benedict leans back in his seat, stretching his hands behind his head. "While Eloise lacks the organizational prowess to manage the operation on her own, I will grant our sister credit that she has been more successful in infiltrating Westminster than I would have predicted."

"What?"

Benedict shrugs. "Eloise makes for a passable footman in disguise when she keeps her mouth shut."

Anthony cannot begin to process the degree of impropriety implied in that statement, so he moves back to more familiar if no less frustrating territory: "You do not seem concerned by Miss Featherington's actions in the slightest, brother. Do not tell me that you think it acceptable for a young lady to conduct herself so?"

"'Miss Featherington', 'Miss Featherington' – so wretchedly formal of you. Did you respond to her the same way when she told you? No wonder she reconsidered your future together."

"As if I were being the unreasonable one, to not want a working woman to wife! Let alone one who slanders her own peers!"

"Mmm, is it the act of writing or her choice of subject that concerns you most? Would you be this upset if she were composing scholarly treatises on the Greeks?"

Anthony exhales in frustration. "I mislike the frivolity, certainly – she has an excellent knowledge of the classics, yet she wastes her energy on nonsense. But she wanted to continue publishing as the viscountess. Surely you must see how that could not be possible. I could not permit her little pursuits to distract from her responsibilities as the lady of the estate."

"Her 'little pursuits', hey? For such a patron of the theatre, it is remarkable how poorly you esteem creative ambition."

"A gently-bred lady can have no need for creative ambition. That is for those without social position."

"Is that so?" Benedict says slowly, his smile fading. "I suppose it was a foolish dream of hers. Penelope is lucky she has one as wise as you to point that out to her."

"Come, man, I did not mean it like that," Anthony protests. "Of course your situation is different, you are not the viscount. You have no such responsibilities, you have the time for dreaming."

"Indeed."

"Brother, you know I esteem your talent. Would I pay your expenses at the Academy if I didn't?"

"Your commitment to ridding yourself of your allies is impressive, Anthony." Benedict stands up abruptly and exits the room for his bedchamber.

Damn, Anthony thinks. Why can I never explain myself without making things worse? I should apologize.

Benedict returns shortly thereafter with a lit cigarillo in hand. Before Anthony can beg forgiveness, Benedict resumes the previous topic of conversation, his face still hard: "You speak of the duty of a viscountess as if your wife's responsibilities were the labors of Hercules. But how many ladies of the Ton do we know who pass their days in idleness, leaving all to their servants?"

"I would never offer for a lady who was such a fribble," Anthony objects.

"You truly expect your wife to be so occupied that she cannot pursue a side vocation? Penelope is no farmer to be in the fields with you and Coombs all day, and I doubt you would allow her to host parties at Bridgerton House every week of the Season," Benedict points out. "Would you keep her so busy on her back she has no time to write?"

"Crude of you to speak of a young lady so," Anthony says, stiffening.

Benedict sighs. "Go home, Anthony. I tire of your company."

After a moment, Anthony nods once and stands up. He collects his packet of financial papers and searches for his hat and gloves – eventually located behind several volumes of reproductions from Renaissance masters – before taking his leave.

"God, man, at least borrow a new cravat before you go," Benedict exclaims, just as Anthony reaches the door.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You look a wrinkled disaster. At least if you tie the points of your collar high enough around your face it might obscure the beginnings of a truly terrible beard." Benedict leans over to his sideboard, shoving over a pile of charcoal sticks and pulling out a clean neckcloth from behind them.

Anthony cannot help a chuckle as he takes it. "I am truly sorry for being such an ass, brother. Thank you for your hospitality and your patience this week. I know I have been sorely trying your good will."

Benedict waves his apology off. "You were allotted some grace for heartbreak. But should you receive another opportunity to speak to your Miss Featherington –" he ignores Anthony's faint protest – "you would do better to talk less and listen more."

Anthony acknowledges the wisdom of this in silence and exits at last.

He is halfway down the block when a somewhat familiar face greets him: "Afternoon, Lord Bridgerton."

Anthony slows his pace, thinking desperately – ah! "Granville, yes? The artist. My brother's mentor."

"At your service," says Sir Henry Granville, offering a half-bow.

"Then you must be the visitor Benedict meant. Come to see his etchings, I suppose?"

"Oils, in fact. He has made great progress with chiaroscuro lately."

"Tell me," Anthony says. "I ask this as his brother, not his patron. Does Benedict truly have talent? That is, might he have a proper career in the arts someday?"

Granville considers him for a moment. "I will tell you what I told Mr. Bridgerton last week, and will likely tell him again tonight: he is still deficient in certain technical skills, but his eye is very fine. And craft can be improved with practice, but the eye is much harder to train. So yes, I would say your brother is some years away from mastery but the potential burns bright within him. He is fortunate to have the time to develop it."

"He will do our family much credit, then."

"Oh, certainly. And what's more – he will do his own potential the credit. It would be a waste otherwise, for himself and for Art."

"Thank you for encouraging him. And for enlightening me."

"But of course."

Arguably Anthony's first step upon returning to Bridgerton House ought to be apologizing to his mother for the prolonged, unexplained absence from duty. But although he now disdains the need for a valet, Anthony knows Lady Violet would be even less likely to forgive him in his current disheveled state. So instead he submits begrudgingly to Timothy's attentions, receiving the latest household news while half a week's stubble is removed from his face:

"The new closed range has been installed in the kitchens, my lord, and Cook has refused to provide more than simple fare because of it. You might wish to dine at White's tonight instead."

Anthony sighs. "Would that I could, but I have missed too many family meals already. Cold portions, I take it?"

"Yes, and mostly pies. Mince and pigeon and the like."

"No more than I deserve, I suppose. After all, it ought to be humble pie for me."

Timothy ignores this valiant attempt at wit, merely offering up a clean pair of Hessian boots.

Penelope would have laughed, Anthony grumbles to himself with a pang. Miss Featherington, I mean. Hell and the devil.

By the time he is presentable enough for mixed company, the family has already gathered for dinner. No guests tonight, thankfully – though none could be really expected when the kitchens remain in disorder – and the meal is informal enough that the epergne centerpiece has been stored away and the third-best table silver is in use. Anthony's five youngest siblings are still in day dress, but Lady Bridgerton's own elegant attire confirms that he was correct to opt for a shave and a freshly-pressed waistcoat.

Everyone looks up in surprise as Anthony enters the dining room.

"The prodigal at last," Lady Violet says, raising an eyebrow. "I had quite forsaken any hopes of seeing you again."

Anthony bows. "A thousand pardons, Mother. It was inexcusable for me to disappear so, and I will not abscond from responsibility again. At the least, I will communicate better."

"Anthony, look!" Hyacinth says, gesturing excitedly at the array of pies and cold meats. "We are having a picnic indoors for dinner! For the third night in a row, isn't it grand?"

No one else seems to think it quite so wonderful, but Anthony knows his brotherly duty:

"Grand, indeed. Tell me of your favorite meals this week." He takes a seat beside Hyacinth, drawing the focus of her enthusiasm to himself.

Somewhere amidst her recitation of recipes – Anthony becomes a little lost during a digression on the merits of Kent versus London for berry-picking – Gregory breaks into Hyacinth's monologue impatiently.

"Yes, all right, you are boring him to death! Can't we talk of something more interesting?"

"Blackberries are very interesting," Hyacinth insists.

"What should you like to discuss, Gregory?" Anthony asks, heading the argument off at the pass. "How does your arm fare?"

Gregory looks down at his splint in disgust. "It scarcely hurts anymore, yet Mother and the physician say I may not climb or ride for two whole months!"

"Sensible," Anthony nods. "Better to regain your full health than sustain a worse injury by rushing it."

"Like the measles, perhaps?" Eloise asks archly.

Anthony turns to meet her stern expression. "Measles, sister?"

"Oh, were you unaware of what has occurred while you were playing the bachelor with Benedict?" she hisses.

Eloise must know I have been jilted, then. Of course she would have found out. Anthony swallows, not eager to discuss this in front of the whole family – all of whom are paying attention now. Though he is unclear as to what measles have to do with the matter.

Lady Violet gently joins the conversation to explain: "I mentioned this in my note to you yesterday, dearest, but it seems Featherington House has succumbed to the measles. Now you have returned, you will have to make arrangements to postpone the wedding."

No time like the present. Courage, man. Anthony fortifies himself with a gulp of wine, then admits the painful truth: "I am afraid it will not be a postponement but a cancellation. Miss Featherington returned my ring on Wednesday. She no longer wishes to marry me."

Several forks clatter to the table surface, but Lady Violet foregoes chastising bad manners while she herself looks equally shocked. A sea of open mouths – and one angry frown – faces him. Anthony finishes his glass of wine in the silence and signals for another.

"Because of the measles?" Hyacinth finally asks. "Is Penelope worried about having spots on her wedding day?"

"Rather the other way around, I expect," Francesca says. "The measles came after the decision. Does that seem likely, Mama?"

Lady Violet blinks. "Yes, I suppose so. Clever of Lady Portia to think of it. Good heavens, Anthony. This is very sudden."

"I regret the trouble you have been put to this Season, Mother," Anthony says softly. "I promise that next year I will do better. When – when I begin to search for a new viscountess."

"But Anthony!" Hyacinth protests. "Who could be a better viscountess than Penelope? Ouch!"

"Be quiet!" Gregory hisses at her, removing his elbow from her ribcage.

"Why would she change her mind?" Hyacinth persists. "You were so happy!"

"Enough, Hyacinth. Leave him alone," Colin adds.

"An excellent question, in fact," Eloise says loudly. "Why would Penelope change her mind, brother?"

Anthony looks to his mother for support, but she appears rather disinclined to provide it, merely signaling the footmen to withdraw. He tries to think of what he might share that would not betray Penelope's secret while meeting Eloise's obvious desire for his public humiliation.

"I very much regret Miss Featherington's decision," he says at last. "I would have been honored to make her my wife. But it turns out we – we disagreed on a personal matter, and it is a lady's prerogative to withdraw her acceptance. I must respect her choice."

"Disagreed, Anthony?" Lady Violet asks. "On something so significant it could not be resolved before the wedding?"

He fidgets in his seat. "I was…I was rather intemperate in my speech. I misliked one of her – her opinions, but I ought to have expressed myself better. More politely. I did not mean to, but I appear to have offended her irrevocably." He looks down at his plate, the cold savory pie growing more unappetizing by the second.

"Idiot," one of his siblings murmurs in response. He cannot bring himself to disagree.

"So instead you resign yourself to total defeat?" Eloise asks. "Your pride is more important than fighting for Penelope?"

"Did she ask you to champion her, sister?" Anthony asks, half agony, half hope. "Are you – are you bearing a message, perhaps?"

"No, I am no go-between. I am merely pointing out your folly, your ego, your worthlessness, your –"

"That is enough, Eloise," Lady Violet says firmly. "Castigate your brother in private later, if you must. Let us leave a tender subject for now, that Anthony might finish his dinner with some semblance of dignity. Who here has another topic they wish to discuss?"

"Tarts!" Hyacinth says, to general groans.

"The new Lady Whistledown should be published this evening," Francesca offers. (Anthony feels his blood run cold.) "I wonder what she thought of the Smythe-Smith fête."

"Whistledown always has something amusing to say," Colin agrees, and the conversation turns from there to entertaining Society scandals and clever puns.

Anthony carefully does not look up from his plate for the rest of the meal.

Sequestered at his desk in Father's study after dinner, Anthony has made decent headway at unraveling the wedding arrangements – a note to Gunter's regarding the catering, another to the rector at St. George's church, a bank draft for the string quartet's cancellation fee – when there is a knock on the door. He braces himself for his mother or a still-angry Eloise, but unexpectedly it is Colin.

"Come in," Anthony says. "What do you need? Another advance on your allowance?"

Colin shakes his head as he enters. "Nothing of the sort. In fact…in fact I wondered if you should like me to postpone my trip to Brighton this week."

"What on earth for?" Anthony asks, startled.

"In case you need me here to help. Given your news, that is. I know the estate puts a lot of pressure on you, and it must be even harder at the moment." Colin squares his shoulders. "You are not alone, brother. I too have experienced heartache from that family, and I do not wish the feeling on anyone."

To his discredit, Anthony had forgotten about Colin's calf-love for Marina Thompson entirely. But calling it calf-love is not quite fair, is it? The situation was painful enough that Colin fled Society because of it, for all that his Grand Tour provided a convenient opportunity to do so.

"A handsome offer, thank you," Anthony replies at last. "But you were quite looking forward to a holiday with your friends from university, weren't you? Please do not pass that up on my account – I would rather someone in this family has a good time this week. In fact…if you wish to extend your visit, there is no longer a need for you to return by next Monday. I can draw you an additional bank draft." He pulls a new sheet of paper towards himself.

"Anthony…" Colin places a hand on the page to pause his work. "You do not have to be a martyr, you know. I am sorry that the course of true love did not run –"

"Thank you, Colin!" Anthony interrupts hastily. "I appreciate it, I do. And I too am sorry – for how I treated you last year regarding Miss Thompson. I was not considerate enough of your feelings, concerned more with preventing scandal than supporting you."

Colin looks taken aback, then gratified. "If you wish to make it up to me, then perhaps I will accept an advance for Brighton after all," he jokes.

"Will twenty guineas do?" Anthony asks, penning the note as he speaks.

"Twenty – twenty guineas for a two-week trip?" Colin exclaims, laughing. "You might insult me any day for that!"

"Oh, I'm sure Anthony will find a way to do so soon," says a voice from the doorway.

The brothers look up to see Eloise leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and a broadsheet stuck in between them.

"Ah, I – I believe I hear Mother calling me," Colin says quickly. "Good night, brother. Thank you again for the advance." He beats a hasty retreat from the room, ducking away from Eloise's scoff.

"Have you come to vivisect my character some more, Eloise? I will not protest if so."

"Oh no? Nothing to say to defend yourself?" she asks, striding in like an avenging angel.

Anthony exhales. "Not to you. I am aware my conduct was ungentlemanly –"

"Ungentlemanly!"

"–But if any explanations are owed, I do not think they are for you, are they? Though I will hear you say your piece if you insist."

Eloise stares at him, the wind taken out of her sails. "I thought you would challenge me on this. Claim that the all-knowing viscount could never be in error for criticizing another's faults."

"If nothing else, this Season has proved how little I do know about anything," he sighs.

"Well – well at least you are aware of that now!" Eloise struggles to get back on track. "And you – you must realize you are making a huge mistake! You will not find another young lady like Penelope!"

"I was not the one who cried off, sister," Anthony says, striving to keep his temper. "I would have gladly gone through with the wedding, but she would not have me."

"And why is that, hm?"

Anthony meets her gaze straight-on for the first time. "Do you really not know why, Eloise? I cannot tell if you actually seek information or merely to draw blood."

She drops her eyes at that. "Can it not be both?" Eloise says to the carpet. "I would not have chosen you for my dearest friend, but she cared for you. And I cannot let your absence be the reason for her unhappiness."

"Is she so unhappy now?" he asks softly. "To hear that hurts me more than any blow you might attempt, you know."

"Then apologize and offer for her again, you mutton-head!"

"It is not that simple –"

"Yes, it is!"

"It is not that simple, because of the column under your arm," Anthony finishes. "I have no energy to chastise you at the moment, sister, but I am not pleased with either of you on account of Lady Whistledown. And regardless of how I – how I care for Miss Featherington, I cannot have a gossip columnist to wife."

Eloise draws a deep breath. "Have you read our work lately, Anthony?"

"What? No, of course not. Not since the column calling me Fickleheart and her Frump –" Anthony stops, realizing with dismay who must have behind such sarcasm about that fateful afternoon.

Eloise tosses the broadsheet onto his desk. "Read it, then. Before you lecture either of us further, you should know exactly what it is Penelope chose over marrying you."

And on that note, she exits the study.

In truth, Anthony cannot bring himself to read the newest Whistledown edition immediately, and certainly not while in Grosvenor Square – not when at any moment he might catch sight of Featherington House through the open window and feel his wounds sting anew.

Thus it is not until Monday that Anthony opens the pamphlet, and even then only because he receives a note from Lord Dorset asking if he is free to meet at White's that afternoon. As Anthony has made a substantial dent in his list of responsibilities over the past few days – including approving the hiring of a third kitchen maid to appease Cook's fragile nerves – he feels he has merited a brief respite from the estate.

"An hour only, I promise," he tells Lady Violet as he pulls on his gloves in the front hall. "Dorset's message seemed rather urgent."

His mother frowns. "And please return on time for dinner too, Anthony. Not –"

"Not smelling of spirits, I know." Anthony kisses her cheek in thanks. "Besides, I hear Cook might condescend to a roast tonight at last, and I could not miss that."

"Remember that we have seventeen postponement notices left to send to our guests," Lady Bridgerton calls after him.

He raises his hat in acknowledgement and heads out.

A private parlor at White's still remains the best place Anthony knows for silent reflection. Arriving before Dorset, he settles into an armchair with a cigar and reads the whole of his former fiancée's latest publication.

The column mentions nothing of their broken engagement, though that is to be expected if she wishes to stick to the measles story. Overall it is…not bad, Anthony must admit. The on-dits are now only a third of the column, jostling for attention among several more interesting topics. The review of that new historical novel is especially clever; now that he knows it is Penelope writing, he can hear her voice between the lines. If it were not for the final section tittering over Society misadventures, and if it were not for the impossibility of a working wife – well. In fact, he would be rather impressed.

Anthony has just thought to himself in surprise that adding Eloise to Lady Whistledown might have been a good influence on Penelope and vice versa, when Dorset enters the room.

"Bridgerton, you must felicitate me!"

Anthony looks up to see the White's concierge following behind his friend with a tray of champagne. "Felicitate you, Dorset? Have you offered for a lady at last?"

"I have!" Dorset says, grinning broadly. "And she accepted me only this morning!"

"A toast, then," Anthony says, raising a champagne flute and doing his best to squash any envy. "To the mysterious lady who thinks you worth the risk."

"No longer so mysterious, I am glad to announce. My lady is beauty and brain both: Miss Sharma!"

Anthony chokes on his champagne. "Miss – Miss Sharma? Miss Edwina Sharma?"

"Edwina?" Dorset furrows his brow. "Oh, the younger sister? No, of course not, she is practically an infant. I offered for Miss Kathani Sharma."

"Indeed?" Anthony thinks back to the surly guardian of Miss Edwina's virtue. She certainly was beautiful, if unwelcoming. "And you did not find her rather…intimidating?"

"Naturally I did. Is that not part of the appeal?" Dorset sits down across from Anthony. "With Miss Sharma I know I will never be bored! She relishes the idea of a traveling life and was pleased that I have visited Bombay. Actually, my lady told me she is thoroughly sick of England and would be glad to accompany me to Russia or anywhere else that Wellington might demand."

"Then I must congratulate you indeed," Anthony says. "Finding a partner for your career ambitions is no simple task. When will you be wed?"

"Ah, that's why I wished to speak to you right away. The ceremony is in two days, I have just obtained the special license."

"Special license? Why the rush?"

"Because I have been instructed to rejoin Wellington in Brussels next week," Dorset replies. "And though most of our marriage will involve underwhelming accommodations, I should like to give my bride a pleasant wedding night at least. A brief idyll before the storm."

Anthony nods, impressed. "Impulsivity framed as thoughtfulness, hey? Clever of you."

"I don't deny my eagerness to have her. But listen, Bridgerton, would you stand up with me at the church on Wednesday? I very much regret that I cannot remain in London for your own ceremony."

"You didn't hear about the measles?" Anthony sighs. "No, your note was probably one of the remaining seventeen."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind, I will explain later. I would be honored to be your best man, Dorset. But I suppose I should warn you, I briefly courted Miss Edwina earlier this year. If the family minds, perhaps you should ask Hastings instead."

"I see. Did you part with hard feelings?"

Anthony reflects on that. "No, and Miss Edwina greets me perfectly pleasantly when we meet in Society. I do not think her sister is my biggest fan, however."

"So few are," Dorset teases. "At least you have your own paragon, right?"

Anthony's face falls. He does not wish to darken Dorset's day with his inauspicious news, but he cannot quite keep himself from saying, "She is not truly a paragon, you know."

"Eh?"

"Miss Featherington, she is not perfect. She has flaws."

Dorset snorts. "Obviously. Did you expect otherwise?"

Anthony stares at him. "You were the one to refer to her as a paragon constantly, I was merely clarifying –"

"Slow-top!" his friend says. "I was making fun of you and your besotted behavior. Of course Miss Featherington is no paragon, no woman is a paragon. What could you want with a perfect little innocent, a porcelain doll that can only sit and look pretty?"

"Like a Diamond, you mean." Anthony feels both stung and foolish. "Beautiful and expensive, and meant for display only."

"Well, diamonds are quite strong, but never mind. Did you quarrel with your – your imperfect inamorata again?"

Anthony drains the rest of his champagne flute and signals to the concierge. "Another, Edwards?"

"Oh ho!" Dorset laughs. "That bad? Then shall I tell you of my Kate's charms instead?"

"Why not?" Anthony says. "Wherever did you meet her? I cannot imagine it was Almack's."

"No, indeed. I followed your lead, in fact. We met on the Thames."

"Is that right?"

"Miss Sharma was punting a boat by herself most admirably," Dorset sighs in happy reminiscence. "I had never seen so beautiful and athletic a lady before. I hired my own vessel to join her, but she outpaced me easily and teased me for failing to keep up."

"And your failure caught her attention?" Anthony asks in surprise. "I would have thought an athlete would prefer a champion."

"Ah, well. So would I have thought. But as I said, I took your example to heart. As luck would have it, my own boat overturned in the water and I fell in."

The next morning, Anthony comes down to breakfast early to find himself alone at the table with Eloise, who is viciously buttering a bread roll.

"In all things you are passionate," he says, accepting a plate from their footman. "Did that poor roll also wrong a friend of yours?"

"You dare joke about this?" she asks, pointing the knife at him.

"I am still distraught and unmanned, I assure you," Anthony tells her. "But I am glad it is only us here at the moment. I wished to ask you –"

"Yes?"

"If you have copies of the earlier Whistledown broadsheets. That I might borrow them."

Eloise sits back in her chair in surprise. "Do you mean that?"

"I do. I might have been hasty in some of my assumptions."

"Anthony!" Eloise gasps, then darts a glance at the footman. "Are you – are you reconsidering your opinion of the matter?"

"Let us say I am conducting an investigation," he replies. "Like a certain inquisitive sibling of mine, I find I cannot be content with the status quo. Said sibling impresses me with her determination to seek change."

"Oh!"

"I mislike your willingness to place yourself in harm's way or open us up to Society censure, Eloise. But…I must respect a talent even when I wish it put to safer use. And a talent it certainly is."

Eloise gulps audibly, then nods. "I will retrieve them for you this instant," she says, pushing back her chair. "Before I wake up and find I dreamed this conversation."

Anthony finishes his coffee as he waits for her, scanning the financial pages of The Times. He wonders whether any of their journalists are secretly members of Society using pseudonyms. Maintaining one's anonymity must be quite exhausting.

By the time Eloise returns, Gregory and Hyacinth have joined the breakfast table as well. Hyacinth is chattering about her wish to visit Astley's Amphitheatre before the family leaves for Kent at the end of the month. Gregory is doggedly feeding himself with his uninjured left hand, making rather a mess of his eggs.

"Here," Eloise says, passing Anthony a stuffed-to-bursting folio. "All in chronological order, too. Please be careful with them."

"I will," Anthony promises. "I owe it to the both of you."

"What's that?" Hyacinth pipes up.

"My lessons," Anthony tells her. "Some required reading."

"Ugh, I thought adults were supposed to have done with lessons after the schoolroom!" Hyacinth scrunches her nose. "Is it because you are the viscount that you must still be learning?"

Anthony leans over to ruffle her hair. "I am afraid it is my own personality flaw, sister. That I still make mistakes and must be learning all the time."

"Will I require lessons as an adult too?"

"I sincerely hope not. But if you need them, I think your older sister would be happy to assist. Eloise has all of our best interests at heart, you know."

"Anthony!" Eloise whispers, brushing a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. "I begin to understand what she meant by your charm."

He exhales. "Then there still might be hope for me, do you think?"

Eloise pauses. "Well –"

"Hyacinth, look what you made me do!" Gregory scolds. "Now my toast is covered in hot chocolate!"

"It is not my fault you are a one-armed clumsy!"

Anthony hastily rescues the Whistledown folio from the spreading stain on the tablecloth. "Perhaps we might continue this conversation another time, Eloise? In a quieter location?"

"Nowhere is quieter in this house," she grumbles.

"Now you see why I stayed with Benedict to lick my wounds," Anthony says, standing up from the table. "My viscounty for a little peace."

He is pleased to see Eloise smile at him, for the first time he can remember. It is more rewarding than her tears.

Once Anthony finishes reading through the entire Lady Whistledown oeuvre, he is more determined than ever to speak to its editor. Herein lie two frustrations, however: Featherington House, still under fraudulent quarantine, is not accepting visitors, and his former intended has expressed no wish to see him again. It would simply not be the thing for him to demand a moment of her time; Society etiquette is quite clear that he must leave her alone unless she reaches out.

Thus Anthony passes the next two days reviewing estate reports and seeking solace in Shakespeare. Rereading King Lear – which she told him was a favorite the day he proposed – is pressing on a bruise, but he cannot resist it.

Dorset's wedding ceremony Wednesday morning is quite simple: no formal breakfast, just a quick toast and then the bridal couple will be off, Dorset had explained, nervously adjusting his starched cuffs.

Anthony is quietly jealous of his friend for both his happiness and the lack of ostentation. It is exactly the degree of intimacy he would have preferred for himself: a small gathering of loved ones, no fuss, and no staggering stack of bills to pay.

"Do you ever think that second sons have all the luck?" he murmurs to Simon as they watch the newlyweds sign the church register. "They might place their own desires first, instead of the prestige of the estate."

"You know I am an only child, Bridgerton," his brother-in-law reminds him. "But I take your words to heart, and will make sure my own second son knows his privilege."

Anthony turns to him in surprise. "Your own second…Hastings!"

Simon inclines his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Daph didn't want her news to steal the spotlight from Miss Sharma – Lady Dorset, now. And we do need to inform your mother officially first. But yes, we expect a happy event this winter."

Anthony looks over to where Daphne is clasping hands with the new Lady Dorset and Miss Edwina. She shows no signs of pregnancy yet but is rosier than ever. "Marriage agrees with you both, it seems."

"Yes," Simon says simply. "Anthony, I was sorry to hear –"

Anthony stops him quickly: "Thank you, not today. Please, let us focus on the Dorsets for the moment."

"As you wish. You know I am here if you need me."

"I know it." Anthony grips his hand in gratitude, then faces their friend. "Dorset, a toast!"

After luncheon, Anthony is reviewing the latest cherry crop profits in Father's study when their butler enters and hands him a letter.

"A message, my lord."

"Post for me?" Anthony frowns. "It is early for the afternoon delivery, is it not?"

"This did not come through the Royal Mail, my lord. I found it under our knocker when I went to escort Lady Bridgerton and Miss Francesca to their carriage."

Anthony breaks the seal slowly, hoping against hope. The brief note is indeed from a Miss Featherington, but not the lady he most wishes to hear from:

Lord Bridgerton: if you also regret the outcome of last week's conversation with my sister and wish to rectify your future, I suggest you find a way to visit the Featherington House back garden tomorrow at four o'clock in the afternoon. A subtle way, if that is not beyond your capabilities. You need only bring humility with you. Sincerely, Miss Prudence Featherington.

Anthony exhales in relief, looking over to the oil miniature of Lord Edmund on his desk.

"Well, Father – I may be offered grace after all. I hope I might live up to it."

(His father's portrait keeps his own counsel on that regard.)

"Did you and Mother experience such trials and tribulations on your way to the altar? I wish I had the benefit of your wisdom now."

Anthony pauses to let the familiar wave of grief pass through him and closes his record books. He must ask Eloise about the best method of slipping into Featherington House tomorrow.

One week after one of the most fraught conversations of his life, Anthony returns to the scene of his heartbreak to face a truly formidable opponent: his beloved's eldest sister.

Prudence Featherington is standing with her arms crossed between two rose bushes in the Featherington House garden, demonstrably unimpressed.

"Good afternoon, Miss Featherington," he bows. "I am all gratitude for your message and this opportunity."

"Hmph," Prudence sniffs. "Courtly when it doesn't count, an idiot when it does."

"But this conversation does count," Anthony replies. "I know you are no admirer of mine, but that is no excuse for being uncivil. If I am given a second chance, I should like to improve your opinion of me."

"You will be working against the handicap of your sex, you know. And I am not one to be wooed by pretty phrases."

"I have learned this year that pretty phrases without conviction behind them are of no use to anyone."

"That is something, I suppose," Prudence acknowledges. "And I cannot bear to see her so miserable any longer. If you hurt her again –"

Anthony spreads his hands open in defense. "How can I promise not to do so? I cannot predict the future or claim I am now a reformed paragon of virtue. I can only tell you that being without your sister is agony, and I wish to work each day to deserve her."

She nods and points to a nearby bench. "Then sit here, and we shall see if she thinks you are worth it."

Anthony obeys Prudence's command, his heart beating wildly against his chest. The scent of the roses surrounding him does not aid his focus.

It is a few minutes before the sisters return. His position is slightly shielded from the view of the house – strategic of Prudence indeed – so Anthony hears his beloved before he sees her:

"Pru, I wish you would tell me what it is you need. I have three articles left to edit before my next deadline, I cannot waste time on – Oh!"

Anthony stands as Penelope turns the corner around a shrub and sees him. She is a vision in white and green. "My lady," he says hoarsely. "I will endeavor not to waste your time."

"Anthony..." she whispers in shock, then looks to her sister. "Prudence, I thought you didn't –"

"I will be sitting at the other end of the rose path," Prudence tells her. "You have twenty minutes before Mama will begin to wonder."

Penelope puts a hand to her cheek, enchantingly flushed. "Lord Bridgerton, this is quite unexpected."

"Please, my lady, would you care to sit?" He gestures to the bench. As Penelope settles her skirts, Anthony looks over to Prudence, who gives him a short nod and walks away.

Penelope gathers herself, straightening her spine. "Well, sir, what have you to say to me?"

"Very little," Anthony says, careful to sit an appropriate distance away, however much he wishes to take her in his arms. "Very little, my lady. I am here to listen, instead."

Notes:

fish and guests in three days become stale: A saying from John Lyly's Eupheus: The Anatomy of Wit, better known by way of Benjamin Franklin.

Et tu, Benedict?: See William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar Act III Scene I.

Anthony asks, half agony, half hope: As Captain Wentworth to Anne Elliot in Jane Austen's Persuasion, Chapter 23.

The course of true love never did run [smooth: See William Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act I Scene I. [Insert joke about Anthony as the donkey's head here.]

I have just obtained the special license: A very expensive way for a couple to marry quickly, and a favorite trope of Regency romances!

She is a vision in white and green: Penelope's wearing this dress from Emma (2020).

Chapter 13

Notes:

Season 3? I don't know her.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Penelope takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. When she opens her eyes, she finds to her faint surprise that her former fiancé is still sitting on the bench in front of her. While Penelope has always prided herself on her powers of observation, the sight of him in her back garden – sincere and attentive, surrounded by roses – is rather difficult to believe in. (It is much too similar to the fantasy that she has buried away each night so she may sleep.) Anth – Lord Bridg – Anthony is looking at her so tenderly that she is having trouble remembering everything she has wished to say to him.

"You did not fear catching the measles?" Penelope asks at last, aware it is hardly up to her usual standard of repartee.

"Had them at Eton when I was a schoolboy," Anthony answers, a smile tugging at his lips for a second before his face grows serious again.

An uncomfortable silence extends. It seems he truly meant that he would wait for her to speak but unfortunately, she has no cutting speeches prepared. I am a writer, not an extemporizer! I do my best work given time to draft and edit!

"Forgive my disorientation, sir. I did not expect to see you today."

"Please do not apologize, that much is clear to me now," Anthony says. "My lady – Miss Featherington, that is, I do not mean to distress you with my presence. I thought – hoped – that you had asked your sister to write the note I received."

"My sister?" Penelope turns to the other end of the rose path. Prudence is sitting on another bench with her embroidery hoop, apparently deaf to the world and equally impervious to glares from a sibling. "She said nothing to me of any correspondence with you."

"Then if you would prefer I leave –" Anthony half-rises from his seat.

"No!" Penelope says hastily. "No, please stay. It is only that – well, you said that you are here to listen. But I find myself at a loss at where to begin."

"Perhaps you might resolve a curiosity of mine? Something that I did not think to ask you when we last spoke."

Penelope inclines her head. "Very well."

"You see, Eloise was gracious enough to lend me the complete archive of Lady Whistledown this week," he says.

Penelope tenses, bracing for additional critiques of her morality, but –

"Yours is a potent voice, quite an accomplishment. I wonder if you might tell me how the project originated?"

She looks at him in surprise. "You mean that?"

"Certainly. Whistledown's confidence is both fascinating and intimidating. All the more impressive given that you must have been so young when you began writing…only seventeen?"

"Yes," Penelope says. "Well, I suppose the seed was planted the year prior, when I was sixteen and my sister Philippa was presented at Court for her first Season."

He leans forward encouragingly.

"Do you know, my lord? You are the first to ask me why I started writing. Even Eloise only cared what she could do next with my creation, not how I began it in the first place." Penelope smooths a stray flounce on one of her sleeves. "It may be a jumbled tale."

"I will accept whatever you wish to share."

She begins feeling her way into the explanation. "Prudence's debut had not been successful, you see. Two full Seasons without so much as a single offer of marriage, and none likely on the horizon. Some mothers might have delayed debuting a second daughter but Pippa is, er, a bit softer around the edges than Pru. Mama was hopeful she might achieve a happier result…but Philippa did not win admirers either."

Penelope sighs.

"I learned all over again from my middle sister's tears that the Featherington name may open Society doors but not hearts. Philippa was as much of a nonentity to the gentlemen of the Ton as Prudence, and she felt it more deeply because she was so much more eager to find love."

Anthony's gaze remains focused on her, listening intently.

"We have spoken of it a little, sir, but I am not sure I can fully convey how mortifying it is to wait week after week by the side of the dance floor, while gentlemen clamor around the latest Diamond and fight for a chance to catch a fallen handkerchief. If we lived in a small country parish where ladies outnumbered the gentlemen, there would be no shame in not being chosen. But there is no shortage of available men in Town, they simply have never wanted a Featherington." Penelope closes her eyes, feeling the familiar sting of unwantedness as if she were holding an empty dance card again now.

She continues with her eyes closed, finding it eases her speech. "Being a wallflower is all the more painful when it is not simply a judgment on one's looks or popularity: it places one's future in jeopardy. I – I have misliked many of Mama's unsubtle maneuvers, but she was right to be anxious if none of us married. What would we do when Papa died and the estate were passed on, if we remained all three unwed? Pippa found Albion Finch in her third Season, thankfully, but she almost lost him to the lack of dowry. And who could blame his family?

"But that came much later. When I was not yet 'out', I would wait up each night after Almack's or another dinner party to hear my sisters' stories of courting, only to find that they were disappointed yet again. The cruel jibes spoken by gentlemen and ladies alike, as if wearing loud colors will make a person both stupid and deaf, unaware that she is being mocked! I thought it outrageous of our neighbors to be so disdainful, given the real scandals that were happening all around my sisters. Scandals that of course no one wanted them to take part in."

"Did your sisters wish to be part of a Society scandal?" Anthony asks, taken aback.

Penelope opens her eyes to answer him. "They wished to have the opportunity to choose it," she says with the ghost of a laugh. "That is all any lady wishes, you know. To have a say in what happens to her."

"I see." And from the gentle expression on his face, she thinks he just might.

Penelope resumes her tale: "At the start of Philippa's second Season, when it was clear nothing would improve, I resolved to do something about it. One night she came home smarting from an especially unkind snub from Lady Trowbridge of all people, and it proved the catalyst for my voice. After she went to bed, I wrote a few lines excoriating the hypocrisy of Lady Trowbridge's disdain for innocent tackiness when her own son had – well, you remember."

Anthony nods grimly. (After a protracted and shockingly public affaire with a married Italian contessa involving accusations of treason, the younger Lord Trowbridge departed for Australia four years ago and has not been heard from since.)

"So I copied over my work a few times and the next evening I deposited the pages on an empty chair at the Fife musicale, which even schoolgirls were invited to attend. They were all gone within minutes, and the whole rest of the musicale was taken up by people discussing my writing. Lady Trowbridge left early, her face pale." Penelope gives him a rueful grin. "I could not believe that I had gotten away with it – surely someone would discover that it was me! I had attacked Lady Trowbridge for her behavior towards Mama and Philippa specifically!

"But it appeared that since no one took the Featheringtons seriously at all, they would not connect a sharp tongue to us. The following week I wrote another column with two paragraphs instead of one, widening my scope to general scandal. A month after that, I found a publisher willing to keep a secret and began charging for each edition. Once I debuted for my own Season last year, it became much easier to gather material, of course. By then I already had a small but loyal audience. The circulation grew exponentially once I commented on the Queen's choice of Diamond. Her disapproval raised my notoriety even higher – it was a great help with sales."

"A dangerous game, to capture a Royal's attention so," Anthony murmurs.

Penelope quirks an eyebrow at him. "At last your disapproval surfaces, sir?"

"One part disapproval, three parts awe," he replies. "You were prodigious brave to challenge the Queen, even under a pseudonym."

"It is a poor leader who can withstand no critique of their actions!" she retorts, then concedes the point. "But yes, in retrospect, it was reckless to be so direct with my wit. Always courting the risk of being discovered and shut down. I suppose it is the only aspect of my father in me – a touch of the gamester."

"You did eventually retreat from that angle, however."

"Yes, I did. In part that was because of Eloise's discovery and request to join the project, in part because I found I had other equally tempting targets to pursue. I did not start Whistledown to pique the Royal Family, but rather to…" She trails off.

"To...?" Anthony prompts after a moment.

"To hurt those who hurt me and my loved ones," Penelope says finally. "I am not proud of it, when I say it out loud. You accused me of vanity last week, but in truth my besetting sin was wrath. I was so angry with everyone. And I know that does not justify my harshest editions, but, well –"

"Anger hath a privilege?" Anthony offers.

Penelope exhales. "Exactly how I felt. I see you have revisited King Lear."

"Shakespeare would sympathize and so do I," he says softly. "I have made many of my own choices out of anger."

"My anger later became pride at the extent of my power," Penelope tells him. "I had not had any influence before in any regard, not even in choosing my own gowns. All of Society pays attention to Lady Whistledown! They hunger for her opinions! No one ever listened to Penelope Featherington like that, not even Eloise or Colin. Both of them cared for me as a friend, I know, but… Forgive me, but unless they concentrate, your siblings both tend to prefer an audience over a conversation."

Anthony chuckles. "You are incisive with your observations as ever."

Penelope leans toward him. "Nobody listened to me until you, my lord. You scoffed at popular Whistledown's observations but you were eager for those of the shy youngest Featherington. It was a novel experience entirely."

Anthony removes his hat, passing the brim through his hands. "I listened until last Wednesday, you mean. I was too bitter to hear you properly, my lady, and I ought not to have spoken so harshly. My tone and my insults were unacceptable."

"Thank you – I beg your pardon?" Penelope tilts her head, considering his final words. "You regret your insults, but not your disapproval? Have I not satisfied with my explanation?"

"Satisfied my desire for insight, yes," he says. "As much as I may be able to understand, I believe I now do. Your pen certainly had ample provocation from a cruel Society. And I marvel at your courage, your skill, your work ethic..."

"But?"

"But – my lady, in my fit of choler last week, I feel I failed to express myself clearly."

Penelope stiffens. "Indeed you were quite clear, my lord. No need to repeat yourself."

"I would not do so. I am ashamed of my prior approach, both for its boorishness and for its distraction from the real concern. Miss Featherington, if you would permit me to inquire –" Anthony hesitates. "You and I were yoked together this spring by pressure, not choice. All London knows I was searching for a viscountess, but were you seeking someone as well? Did you truly wish to find a husband this Season?"

"Of course. What lady would not wish to marry?"

"Eloise, for one."

As Penelope acknowledges the truth of this, she glances over at her own uninterested sister, busily sewing in the sunshine.

"No, nor Prudence either. Yes, I did wish for a husband, though I did not expect to find him. Love and companionship and my own family, they all seemed out of reach for me. Let alone financial stability."

"I was wrong to disdain your ability to become a provider, I have realized. A writer as successful as you need not marry to support herself."

"What are you angling at, my lord?" Nothing about this conversation has gone as expected, as if she could have expected anything at all.

Anthony reaches for her hand, and she permits him to take it. As they are both gloved, his touch is only a little distracting. Penelope does her best to focus on his words.

"My lady, I care for you very much. So I do not wish to distress you in revisiting the topic, but I feel it is of the utmost importance. I told you no gentleman would permit his wife to publish –"

"I remember."

"That is, upon reflection my concern is greater than a lady's primary duty as a wife and mother. Indeed it was not until I read all your previous editions that I realized the extent of the problem," Anthony says. "As a single woman, your choices as Lady Whistledown are wholly your own. But if Lady Whistledown were known to be married, and indeed married to a prominent gentleman of good fortune – then any parties injured by your writing might bring suit against him for libel. In the eyes of the law, he would be responsible for all your actions."

"Oh," Penelope murmurs, turning pale. "I had not considered that."

"The English courts take defamation very seriously, my lady," he tells her. "And while Eloise assures me you only report the truth, we both know your writing has caused harm through its impact. Even if a judge rules that a particular libel claim has no merit, there are enough examples in your archive to drain a gentleman's accounts dry in fighting those lawsuits. Others might offer to settle privately with Whistledown's husband in lieu of court, but purchasing their complaisance would be expensive as well. Even Croesus himself would not be rich enough to meet three years' worth of claims as well as provide for his family."

Penelope swallows miserably. "Then I have courted more danger than I even knew. If I had avoided mentioning any names, would it have been different…?"

Anthony nods. "It would have helped protect you, if your subjects could not prove to a certainty who you meant. But…"

"But that ship has long since left the harbor, you mean."

"I told you last week that a notorious viscountess would be unacceptable. While that arose partly from my pride and I regret expressing it so forcefully – I fear it would be difficult to find any gentleman of the Ton willing to risk a Whistledown for a wife."

"I have been a fool," Penelope whispers. She tries to pull her hand back from her former fiancé, but to her surprise, he does not release her.

"Miss Featherington – Penelope – I swear I do not ask this for my own suit alone, but I beg of you to reconsider your focus on gossip. If not for the impropriety than for the risk."

"All my hard work…" she sighs. "Born from anger, imperiled by naiveté. I suppose it is a miracle I have not been discovered yet. And here I thought you would chastise me for a forked tongue."

"I have too often said hurtful things myself to have any standing to criticize others in that regard," he replies. "My own past is littered with statements I regret."

"Well – I do not regret all my statements as Lady Whistledown," Penelope says, straightening her spine. "I certainly do not wish to be sued, but I will not accept silencing my voice entirely or losing my audience."

"I see." Anthony looks at her sadly. "It is of course your prerogative to decide so. You are quite talented, and I can see why you hesitated to share your secret. Had I listened more carefully, I could have avoided hurting you, which I certainly did not intend. I can never apologize enough for my uncouth speech."

"You are forgiven, my lord," she says, squeezing his hand. "Listening to me today has gone a long way to make amends."

"You are all grace, Miss Featherington, and I do not deserve it. I thank you, and I will not trouble you any further with my courtship."

Penelope bites her lip. "Is there no way forward for us, then? We remain at the same impasse as before?"

Anthony does not answer for a moment, then finally says, "I am not sure how to breach the gap. Asking you to cease work that you are proud of seems a recipe for hate to grow between us. As I told you when I wrote our settlements, I would rather you content alone than miserable by my side."

"And there is no possibility that you would change your mind about my work?"

"I must place my family's needs before my own wishes, my lady. I cannot afford the risk of lawsuits that might jeopardize my siblings' security."

Before she can respond, they hear the crackle of a twig. They look up to see Prudence coming towards them on the path.

"It has been twenty-five minutes," she says. "We must return inside before Mama notices our absence."

Anthony releases Penelope's hand and stands up. "Thank you for your time, my lady. I would not wish to distress your mother by keeping you outside any longer."

Penelope nods. "Lord Bridgerton, you have given me much food for thought. I– I might wish to continue our conversation after I have had time to consider your perspective."

"Your family's quarantine will continue for some time, I presume."

"Until next Wednesday at least," Prudence answers. "We might have a remarkable recovery from measles by then."

Anthony dons his hat and bows to them both. "If you wish to discuss anything further before that –" his face as solemn as the day he proposed – "you might ask your sister to send me a letter."

And with that, Anthony leaves, sidling through the back garden's gate into the alley.

"Pen?" Prudence asks. "Are you two not reconciled? I was expecting happy tears, you know."

Penelope avoids her gaze. "Not yet. We did not part angry, but –"

"But? Did I err in commanding him here?"

"No – thank you. It was very kind of you. It is just that the matter is not as simple as I thought."

Prudence peers at her skeptically. "Hmm. And will we have a more satisfactory result after your next conversation?"

He said he still cares for me yet accepting Whistledown remains a line he will not cross… "I do not know, sister. I truly do not know."

One week into self-imposed isolation, the Featheringtons have agreed that informal dress will suffice for daily dinner en famille. Thus each member of the family attends in whatever they find most personally pleasing. For Penelope, this usually means a soft muslin frock in cream or blue; for Prudence, this means floral petticoats; for Cousin Jack, this means a plain green waistcoat with a simple cravat; and for Lady Portia this means – good heavens!

Penelope blinks as she enters their dining room on Wednesday evening, immediately distracted from her own concerns. Tonight her mother apparently feels her best self in a gold and silver evening gown with an exceptionally low-cut bodice and the large ruby earrings that were a gift from Cousin Jack. Lady Portia is leaning over the table to smile coyly at their cousin and he is smirking back at her in return over his glass of wine.

"Mama?" Penelope asks hesitantly, feeling as if she is interrupting something.

"Good evening, little one. Jack was just sharing the most amusing story about hunting eagles with the 'Yanks'," Lady Portia says, not taking her eyes off of him. "Do tell it again, sir. I know my daughter would love to hear it."

Jack raises his glass in salute. "Ah, Portia, how you flatter me. But it would only produce diminishing returns to repeat myself. What if I tell you about how I shot that bear in the hallway instead?"

"Oh yes!" Lady Portia leans even further over the table.

Stunned, Penelope turns to her sister standing in the doorway behind her. "Are they…"

"Why yes," Prudence drawls quietly. "And yes, that is how you and Lord Bridgerton used to behave. Only in your case it was over dead Greeks and Romans, and with fewer of your assets on display."

"Pru!" She hisses, flushing. "How long has this been going on?"

Prudence shrugs. "You know I try to tune out soppiness, I cannot say. Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters if Mama and our cousin are – are courting!"

"I expect if he proposes it will be with a ruby," Prudence muses. "Good thing she loves them so much. Will you move out of the way so I may sit down? I am famished."

Penelope does so, wondering if quarantine has rattled all of their brains.

The next morning, Penelope comes to down to breakfast early, ruminating on Anthony's visit yesterday. She resents feeling grateful that he has pointed out the legal danger of publishing as Whistledown. At least this time he refrained from calling her any names! But nevertheless he still rated the strength of their courtship below his rigid sense of duty to his family. When Prudence instructed him to appear in their garden, had Anthony hoped that Penelope had changed her mind about publishing?

Could the Featherington finances afford even one lawsuit? Penelope wonders to herself as she sips her tea. I wish I had known of the defamation laws when I began writing. I was only seventeen and an innocent besides, but would that excuse pass muster in court? Daphne Bridgerton was equally an innocent when I gossiped about her so. I have been luckier than I could have guessed. If I stopped using real names in my column now, would that suffice to protect me? Or would my dearest readers all abandon me for my sudden cowardice?

"Unusual to see you alert at this hour, Penelope," her mother says, joining her at the table.

"I slept little, Mama."

Lady Portia pauses in the act of selecting a sausage. "Oh dear. Still feeling blue?"

Penelope offers her a wan smile. There is so much she cannot say to her mother! "Only mild troubles, do not worry."

"Mm. A mother may worry as much as she wishes, little one. It is her right."

"Mama, did you always wish to be a mother?"

"What do you mean? Of course!"

"That is…" Penelope stumbles over her words. "Did you never want something – something more than to be a gentleman's helpmeet? When you were little, did you have any dreams of your own?"

Lady Portia considers the question. "Hmm, I suppose I had two dreams as a girl. I was an only child, you know. I dreamed of having several children, so no child of mine would be lonely for company. At that I succeeded, of course. And…"

"And?"

"And I dreamed of my own sheep farm, to make my Papa proud. The Buccleuch line is famous in the Scottish Highlands for our success at raising them, and Papa regretted that as a younger son he did not inherit any property. You might say I achieved that dream as well, when I married your father and his lands."

"But our estates were brought to ruin through his neglect!"

"It's true. Archibald and I had only a few good years together, but they were happy enough." Lady Portia smiles faintly.

"Then you are satisfied? Despite everything?"

"Of course I am not satisfied, Penelope," her mother laughs. "But I have hopes for our future once again. We need not depend on your marrying our neighbor across the square for our security any longer."

Penelope hesitates. "Are – are your hopes in Cousin Jack, Mama?"

"Did I hear my name?" The man in question enters the room. "Is that coffee, Portia? Capital!"

"We were speaking of childhood dreams, Jack," her mother says swiftly, signaling for a footman to pour him a cup. "And what were yours? Do not tell me you always planned to invest in gemstones!"

"Oh, I certainly planned to be rich as Midas," he says dryly. "But I could not have predicted the mines, or that one day I might become a baron!"

"You see, little one?" Lady Portia includes her daughter in her smile. "Life's journey is complex. We all dream as children, and some of us do our best to improve our situations whatever it takes."

"Never waste an opportunity, eh?" Cousin Jack says.

"Featheringtons never do," Lady Portia replies.

"Your mother is a marvel, Penelope," Cousin Jack tells her. "Would you pass me that copy of The Times by your elbow?"

Their conversation reverts to less philosophical matters and Penelope returns to wondering how she might achieve her own satisfaction. If only I could have both Anthony and Whistledown!

That afternoon, Penelope curls up in an armchair by their sitting room window, taking advantage of the sunlight to edit her review of Patronage, Maria Edgeworth's latest novel. Last week's review of the anonymous Waverley received such acclaim that she is considering whether to continue reviewing literature even after their quarantine ends and she resumes attending Society affairs. Penelope finishes recopying the final sentence with a contented flourish as the door opens.

"Miss Eloise to see you, my lady," Alice says, ushering her friend in. "And a package was just delivered from Miss Sharma."

"Thank you, Alice." Penelope takes the box from her maid and unties the cord surrounding the lid, revealing a selection of unfamiliar pastries.

"What are those?" Eloise asks curiously, hoisting herself up on the window seat next to Penelope's chair.

"I think they must be jalebi. Edwina mentioned them to me once."

The attached card confirms this, adding in Edwina's cheerful script: Please enjoy them until you are well enough to join me at Gunter's again! Society events are less amusing without a friend by my side. Best wishes for your recovery.

Eloise has not waited to hear the card read aloud, already snacking happily by the time Penelope sets it aside. "Mmm, delicious. Why do people make such a fuss over French cookery? We should start a fashion for Indian chefs instead!"

"Clearly Edwina already has," Penelope laughs. "Did you come in through the scullery window again?"

Eloise nods through her second jalebi. "Mrs. Varley caught me this time, but she only rolled her eyes and said Alice would show me up."

"What a risk you are taking with your health," Penelope teases, taking a pastry for herself. They are indeed delicious.

Eloise ignores this to ask after the Whistledown drafts: "Should you like me to drop them off at the printer for you again today?"

"Thank you." Penelope passes her the latest sheaf of papers. "One more edition after this and then we will have done for the Season! Parliament has its final session next week also, yes?"

"It does. And Pen…" Eloise hesitates for a moment. "You should know Mama and Anthony are considering closing Bridgerton House early and removing to Aubrey Hall at the end of next week as well. Since – since –"

"Since without a wedding to host, your family has no need to remain in Town," Penelope finishes softly.

"Yes."

Neither friend speaks for a moment. Penelope swallows down the wish to be traveling to the country with them, as Eloise's sister and Anthony's wife. What use dwelling on what will not come to pass?

"Pen, I know my brother came to see you yesterday. Did he not grovel sufficiently? He told me he admired our work after all."

Penelope looks away. "He told me the same. And his apologies were very handsome, El. It is just – just that we realized that we still do not suit. Without accusations or insults, this time."

Eloise furrows her brow. "I do not understand. Do you both still care for each other?"

Penelope nods to her lap.

"Then why on earth is that not enough?"

"An excellent question, Miss Bridgerton," Prudence says from the doorway. "I hope you will have better luck than I at extracting the answer from her."

"Pru," Penelope acknowledges tiredly. "You are relentless."

"And you are obstinate as a mule," her sister replies. "What's that you're eating?"

"Jalebi, they are an Indian sweet sent us by Edwina Sharma. Try one?"

"If you insist." Prudence comes over to them eagerly.

Penelope turns to pass her the box and discovers in dismay it is nearly half empty. "Eloise!"

Eloise does not even bother looking sheepish. "Oops," she says carelessly.

"You are as bad as Hyacinth," Penelope scolds, then grows sad again at the thought that she will not be sharing meals with the youngest Bridgertons anytime soon.

Perhaps sensing this, Eloise changes the subject: "Do you think Edwina had the measles in Bombay? You might invite her over here if so. She could bring another box of sweets with her."

"What, and climb through the window like you? I do not think Edwina as athletic as her elder sister."

"Edwina has more spirit than you'd think! Besides, with her sister gone to the Continent after marrying that friend of Anthony's –"

"Lord Dorset," Penelope supplies.

"Then surely Edwina is bored at home and in need of company," Eloise finishes.

"She would be welcome here for her desserts as well as for her company as a single lady," Prudence says archly. "Since apparently we are all four of us destined to finish this Season unwed."

"Will you never stop?" Penelope sighs.

"Why should I? If Lord Bridgerton apologized well enough, then what is keeping you two from a lifetime of sickly-sweet bliss?"

"You make for a very condescending Cupid, Pru."

"Does he still have his head up his arse about Whistledown?" Eloise asks.

"In a manner of speaking," Penelope says, then hastens to explain more over the sound of their combined groans. "It is just that he shared some information I had not known, a perspective that explained part of his hesitance."

"Did he explain that he is afraid to have a wife who outshines him?" Prudence sniffs. (Eloise pats her on the shoulder approvingly.)

Penelope shakes her head and tells them about defamation: "…so you see, Lord Bridgerton believes that if I wish to continue publishing, our paths are better off unlinked."

"And do you believe that?" her sister asks.

"I…I mislike choosing between marriage and my work. I wish I could have both. But a fear of lawsuits is more reasonable than his prior objections, and I have no counter to it, not if it is about protecting his family rather than his ego." Penelope sighs. "I suppose you two will say I should choose the work, yes?"

"Obviously!" This from Eloise, immediately.

Prudence, however, does not respond right away. "Maybe you should choose marriage over Whistledown after all," she says at last.

The two younger ladies stare at her in surprise.

Eloise snatches the box of jalebi back from Prudence. "I thought you a like-minded ally against male tyranny, Miss Featherington," she scowls. "How can you push Pen into such an awful thing? Give up her magnum opus for a man?"

"Would you give up your embroidery if a gentleman asked you to, Pru?" Penelope asks, still startled.

"Of course not, but the question would never arise, as I do not wish for any suitors at all. You, however, have an eligible gentleman wishing to court you whose affections you absolutely return, and who has offered sound logic as to why continuing with the on-dit approach is ill-advised. Abandon Lady Whistledown, and you might easily move onto a new project to occupy your time. Abandon Lord Bridgerton – will you so easily find a new man?"

"I do not want a new man," Penelope says sadly. "I only want Anthony."

"You see? Is disseminating Society gossip so important to you that you would stay a spinster for it? I think you will regret it within six months, if not sooner. You have always wanted to marry, and you could do far worse than Lord Bridgerton."

"I did not know he had risen so high in your esteem, sister."

"He's not spineless, at least. And you say he puts his family first, and admits when he is wrong. That's quite the opposite from our own father, you know." Prudence shrugs. "If it has to be anybody, it might as well be him."

"Anthony knows you are too good for him," Eloise adds. "We can always tell when he's thinking about you because he starts wearing the most foolish expression and stops hearing what anyone's saying. Gregory realized weeks ago that if he suggested you would approve an idea, Anthony would agree immediately. That was how Gregory finally won permission to join our older brothers on the grouse shoot in Sussex this summer."

Eloise leans forward from her seat. "Pen, I know I have not been my brother's champion previously but he tries hard to be his best self for you. Our whole family has seen it."

"El, now you say I should marry him?" Penelope rests a hand to her cheek, feeling disoriented. "Were these pastries perhaps drizzled with spirits? I cannot make sense of the two of you. You encourage me to walk away from three years of work? What of all my readers?"

"I do not think you should stop publishing, but I have told you from the beginning that gossip is a waste of your talent. I agree with your sister that the trash of the Ton are hardly worth devoting yourself to."

"No one in the Ton is trash, Eloise!" Penelope protests. "People are not trash, they simply make unwise and unsavory choices. Choices that are entertaining in their hypocrisy."

Eloise snorts.

"Why not choose fictional gossip?" Prudence suggests. "If it's libel he's worried about, you could write a novel and fill it with scandal upon scandal to your heart's content. And no one could sue you if you say it is all made up."

Penelope wrinkles her nose. "I am an analyst, not a storyteller. I prefer to report than to invent." A Society scientist, Anthony once called me. He admired me so much back then!

Prudence throws up her hands. "Then report something else! You don't have to stop caring about on-dits, just stop writing about them."

"I feel a headache coming on," Penelope pleads. "Please, might we talk about something else?"

Eloise and Prudence look at each other and then back at her. "No," they say in unison, sharing a smirk.

"Aligning forces against me," Penelope mutters. "Thank you for visiting, Eloise, and for taking the drafts to the printer. I am going to lie down before dinner." She stands up resolutely and makes her way to the door.

"Coward," Prudence proclaims to her back. Penelope flushes at the direct hit as she heads up the stairs.

The delivery of the post on Friday afternoon makes three family members happy and Penelope pensive. Cousin Jack disappears into his study with what looks to be financial reports, Lady Portia is pleased as punch at greetings sent from her maiden Aunt Buccleuch in Edinburgh, and Prudence smiles – a real smile! – at another letter from her Bath correspondent.

Penelope idly wonders what the story is there as she opens the first of her own letters. Edwina has written that she has never had the measles but will not be leaving for Lady Danbury's country seat until August, so she hopes they may keep each other company once the Featherington quarantine is lifted. (Oh well. At least Penelope will have a friend in Town once the Bridgertons leave.)

The remaining letter is from Madame Delacroix, enclosing a fresh-from-the-presses edition of Lady Whistledown with a page of her own Society observations and thoughts:

…Finally, in answer to your first question, as a child I dreamed mostly of having control over my own life. Mine was a large family with few funds, and I watched how my mother struggled each day to please my father and keep all of us fed and clothed, with little rest even on Sundays. I resolved that when grown, I would be mistress of my own choices. Thus I aimed for my dressmaker's shop. Since I am not a lady, any men who seek my company may come and go strictly at my pleasure.

(Penelope pauses reading to marvel at that, her face turning pink.)

As to your second question, yes, I am quite satisfied. Every day is hard work but my labor results in profits that are mine alone, which makes it all the sweeter. Perhaps if I had found a reliable man, I might have chosen a different path. But I prefer to rely only on myself.

Come and visit when you are able. I shall have a cup of tea and many stories waiting for you. – Genevieve.

Penelope drops the letter to her lap with a sigh. Could she be as satisfied with a life like Madame Delacroix's? Perhaps set up as an anonymous publisher, living independently and answering to no one? In some ways it sounds ideal and in others, rather lonely. The thought of those visits from men friends suggests some intriguing images, and she squirms a little in envisioning them. But when Penelope is honest with herself, she knows that she does not want multiple men at her beck and call. There is only one gentleman who makes her swoon, and she would rather share a life with him than be on her own.

Well, that settles it, doesn't it? She knows what she wants, and it is to have both Anthony and a writing career. But would simply dropping the gossip angle be enough for him? He was skeptical of a viscountess working at all… There is nothing for it but to ask him directly and pray he continues to listen.

Penelope heads to the sitting room to write a note inviting her beloved into her garden once again. She is temporarily foiled in this endeavor by Prudence, who is at the escritoire composing her own letter furiously, crossing the lines on both sides of the page.

"We can afford a second sheet of paper these days, sister," Penelope says. "You know Cousin Jack will frank your letter for you, even if it must travel all the way to Bath." She hopes to repay some of the teasing she's received with that remark but Prudence frustratingly ignores the bait.

"Mind your business, Pen. Did you want something?"

"To write a letter when you are finished, that's all."

"I will be just one minute more."

Penelope sits on a nearby ottoman to wait and considers her eldest sister. If this Season's biggest surprise was her engagement, the second must be her growing amiability with Prudence. They may never see exactly eye-to-eye but – but it feels like they are now at least looking in the same direction.

Lady Portia said she had wanted her daughters to keep each other from being lonely. Unfortunately for many years Penelope had felt very lonely in their home, isolated by taste, interests, and age from Prudence and Philippa. Now she wonders if Prudence felt the same in reverse. She would not have thought – or cared – to ask before.

When Prudence sets down her quill pen, Penelope seizes the moment: "Pru?"

"Mmm?"

"What did you dream of, when you were a little girl?"

"Do you mean at night? Who remembers that?"

"No, I mean your wishes for the future. What did you hope for? Did you picture marriage?"

"Oh." Prudence scratches the nape of her neck idly as she thinks. "I did not dream of marriage so much as assume it would happen. Mama always talked of us making brilliant matches and I had no reason to doubt her confidence, so why focus on it? There were more interesting things to think about."

"Then what did you dream of?"

"Hmm…I suppose, once we left our Somerset estate permanently, I dreamed often of returning as a grown lady to set things right. And then I realized I wanted nothing to do with farming, really, and merely wished to escape the noise and dirt of London. So I dreamed of a happy, quiet life, filled with lovely, vibrant colors."

Penelope asks her second question hesitantly. "And…are you satisfied with your life now?"

"I am working on my happiness," Prudence says after a moment, then looks down at her primrose yellow petticoat with its embroidered red roses and orange lilies. She smiles at her handiwork proudly, smoothing her skirts. "The color I have certainly achieved."

Penelope looks anxiously at the cloudy sky on Saturday afternoon as she waits in their back garden for Anthony to arrive. Ominous weather for such an important conversation!

"My lady?" says a voice from behind her.

Penelope startles slightly as she turns to face Anthony. He is so very good-looking that it is almost frustrating. That hair, those cheekbones!

"Shall we sit by the roses again?" he asks.

Penelope shakes her head. "Too shady in this weather. The bench by the sundial will do."

They make their way to it, Anthony nodding politely at Prudence seated on the back steps, stitching another section of her lion-and-unicorn design.

"She has become your advocate, you know," Penelope murmurs as they take their seat. "Pru does not think a gossip lawsuit worth the risk either."

Hope begins to warm Anthony's expression. "And you, my lady? Have you asked me here because you also have reconsidered the risk?"

Penelope takes a deep breath. "What would you say to a viscountess who would leave on-dits behind but continue to publish on other themes after the wedding? Perhaps under a different assumed name, that none might connect her to any previous endeavors composed in youthful anger and spite?"

"Continue to publish? On less…controversial matters."

"Yes. Would that interfere with the duty you feel she would owe to the estate?"

"Inevitably it must interfere, mustn't it?" he says slowly. "You are very talented, but…I know of no married ladies who choose such a path. Would you aspire to be as prolific as Maria Edgeworth? She is famously a spinster, and spinsters have more time on their hands, I would expect. No children to care for."

"Not a novelist like Miss Edgeworth, no." Penelope changes tack. "Your sister Daphne has a wet-nurse for her infant son, does she not? And a nanny to assist so that Daphne may attend Society affairs as the Duchess of Hastings?"

He nods.

"And Lord Simon still considers her a devoted mother?"

"Certainly. He sings her praises whenever the subject arises."

"Then might I not be one as well? What difference does it make if the nanny minds the children for the Hearts and Flowers Ball or for a publishing deadline?"

He looks thoughtful, considering her point.

Penelope presses her advantage: "Your own mother had eight children to raise. Would you tell me that as viscountess she never took time away from the labor of loving them? Some absence surely makes the heart grow fonder, as they say."

But this proves to be a tactical error, as Anthony stiffens immediately.

"My mother was a wonderfully present parent until Father passed away," he says tightly. "But then grief prostrated her for quite some time. I and our nanny did for my younger siblings what she would not, as she lay in bed for months mourning him. I would not wish such a mother's absence on my own children."

"Oh, Anthony…" Penelope reaches a hand to his shoulder gently. She knew nothing of this – Eloise mislikes speaking of that painful year, and she was only seven years old besides. Perhaps Eloise does not remember Lady Violet's grief.

He rests his other hand atop hers on his shoulder, not looking at her. "I am not so unreasonable to think that my wife could have no time whatever for her own interests, my lady. But I must trust that she would rank the estate her primary responsibility, as I do. It is what our family name deserves, what Father's memory deserves."

What a martyr to the viscounty you have become, Penelope thinks sadly. I doubt your father wanted that for you. In lieu of saying so, she opts to ask him the same question she has put to several of her loved ones this week:

"Anthony, when you were a schoolboy, what did you dream of?"

"Horses, mostly."

She chuckles. "And dreams of your future? To be a famous hunter?"

"Oh, I would not have said no." He smiles faintly. "In truth, I imagined becoming Plato's scholar-athlete, 'a man of thought and a man of action'. A capital rider, a clever wit, a master of the classics. Foolish things like that."

"Foolish?" Penelope asks in dismay. He is the only one to rate his own hopes so! "Why foolish? It is an admirable thing to seek strength in both mind and body."

"Perhaps, but pursuing it could only be a distraction for an heir. By the time I was old enough for Eton, I knew my focus ought to be land management. And my years at Oxford were meant for maintaining our connections among the Ton, not for learning. I needn't have studied so hard, in truth. The classics were a boy's dream, not a man's." Anthony tightens his hand on hers. "And when Father passed on and I became a man, I put away childish things."

Penelope catches her breath at the bleak matter-of-factness of his tone. She knows better than to ask Anthony if he is satisfied with his life, however much he loves his family.

They sit in silence for a while. Penelope catches Pru glancing meaningfully at them from the corner of her eye. Oh dear, we haven't much longer before Mama might notice. Must we linger in limbo at the end of every conversation?

"One last question and then we must part," she says at last. "What do you want in a wife?"

Anthony furrows his brow. "I have just told you, my lady. Someone who values duty…"

"That is what the estate wants, sir. But what do you want?"

"I do not follow."

Penelope longs to put her arms around him and settles for placing a hand on his cheek.

"You offered for me out of duty in March, as was proper. But don't you ever tire of putting your duty first, my dear? I wish to write because it brings me happiness as much as it does acclaim. I think – I think we must all have moments of joy in between our responsibilities, or we will break. I hope you might find that same joy in something."

Anthony leans into her hand and closes his eyes. "I certainly did not expect to find it in my wife," he whispers. "You unman me at every turn, my lady." For once, it sounds as if he means that as a compliment.

At that moment, the back door opens and Lady Featherington appears at the head of the steps, nearly tripping over her eldest daughter.

"There you are, girls. Prudence, why on earth are you sitting here instead of on a bench?" Lady Portia looks across the garden in time to catch Penelope snatching her hand back and Anthony standing up hastily.

There is a dreadful pause.

"Well, Lord Bridgerton," her mother says at last, hands on her hips and face forbidding. "Have I forced my family to isolate for no purpose? If you choose to compromise my daughter in my own garden regardless of my efforts to preserve her good name, you will be wed by the end of this week. And you will pay for the special license."

Anthony steps away from the bench and bows low as if to the Queen, hat over his chest.

"I asked him to come, Mama," Penelope says, her heartbeat racing. "He – he'd already had the measles…"

"Silence, Penelope Anne!" Lady Portia snaps. "You I will deal with later, once this gentleman assures me we are at an end of foolishness and indiscretion. Measles!" she mutters.

"I beg your forgiveness, Lady Featherington, though I have little right to expect it," Anthony says. "My desire to speak to your daughter again this afternoon overrode all my sense of propriety. I know it appears I treat her virtue casually by doing so but I assure you – her reputation is of utmost importance to me."

It truly is, Penelope thinks, a trifle hysterically. Have we entered a farce again after all?

Anthony crosses over to the stone path in front of Lady Featherington and bows to her a second time. "My lady, owing to your creative solution with the measles, our families are still linked in the eyes of Society. The Ton imagines only that the wedding has been postponed. Would – if you have any charity left for a thoughtless cad like myself, would you permit me to resume my courtship of your daughter next Season? I would wish to know her better before sealing our commitment. She is a lady of many virtues and I am fascinated by them."

"Virtues such as her false modesty and her deceiving of her mother?" Lady Featherington sniffs.

"Even those."

Lady Portia considers Penelope's hatless, earnest former fiancé, then nods at last. "You are forgiven, sir – conditionally. Should you determine to offer for her again next year, you will approach Jack and me first. No more clandestine garden liaisons!"

Anthony takes Lady Portia's hand and kisses it. "The Featheringtons are grace beyond measure," he says. "I am not worthy of a second chance but I hope to do justice to it."

Penelope notices her mother cannot help but turn a little pink herself. It is rather story-book of him, isn't it? Chivalrous to the last!

"Yes, well, enough of that," Lady Portia flusters. "You – you might release my hand."

Anthony begins to do so but somehow Lady Portia's ruby bracelet has snagged on the cuff of his coat sleeve. They bend their heads together to de-tangle it.

"Ah, the clasp just here has weakened," Anthony says. "If my lady would permit me…"

Exactly how it happens, Penelope cannot see, but suddenly they both start back with surprise as the bracelet falls from Lady Featherington's wrist. It clatters on the stone path with a smash: the gemstone has shattered.

Wait, shattered?

Penelope hurries over to the base of the steps, where the others have gathered in shock around the bracelet.

"Can rubies do that?" Prudence whispers.

Lady Portia's face has gone pale as she reaches for her eldest daughter's arm for support.

Anthony crouches down to inspect the broken shards. He sifts a gloved finger through the pieces and carefully lifts one up to the light.

"I am afraid it is glass," he says. "A very good paste imitation of a true gem."

"Why would Cousin Jack give you a paste bracelet, Mama?" Penelope asks, confused. "Has he run low on real rubies by sharing the larger ones with his investors?"

Her mother exhales. "Prudence – go retrieve your necklace and Penelope's and return here at once. Not a word to anyone, you understand? Not even Varley."

Prudence nods and hurries inside.

No one speaks while she is gone. Penelope feels a growing sense of dread creep over her. Anthony removes a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and begins to carefully place the glass shards in it.

"Leave that for now, sir," Lady Portia says at last. "I suspect I am about to make a bigger mess."

They look up at her startled, but just then Prudence returns with a scarf-wrapped bundle.

"Here, Mama."

Lady Portia takes it from her and draws a deep breath. Then all at once, she throws the entire bundle at the steps. None of them can mistake the sound of glass breaking. Lady Portia nods to herself, then removes both of her ruby earrings. With an eerie calm, she dashes them against the flagstones in turn, releasing more glittering shards upon impact.

"He gave us all paste jewelry?" Prudence asks. "But…whatever for?"

Lady Portia does not answer her daughter, choosing instead to step on the bundle and grind the pieces with the back of her heel.

Anthony clears his throat. "Forgive me, but – I am coming to suspect your cousin did not have any real gems to offer anyone."

Penelope's hand flies to her mouth. But that means… Lady Portia continues to attack the bundle as if she has not heard.

"How could that be?" Prudence insists. "What of the mines?"

Anthony hesitates. "I am not certain, but…one wonders if the mines were as successful as he claimed. Or – or even if there were any rubies to be found in them at all. A fellow of mine once warned me that the United States is not known for its gemstone exports. When he said it, I thought perhaps he was behind the times, but now…"

Penelope shivers. "All our debts were paid with funds from his investors!" It seems we have descended from farce to nightmare. And then an even more awful thought occurs to her: "Anth – Lord Bridgerton, tell me you have not yet invested in the mines?"

Her mother looks up at that, face now deathly white.

Anthony shakes his head. "I have not. Lord Featherington and I agreed to discuss it again after – after the wedding."

Lady Portia sighs loudly, then brings her heel down again on the crushed bundle. Penelope is shaky with relief.

"Lady Featherington, forgive me for the indelicacy of this question. Had the new baron misled you about this as well? Did he not confide in you in some regard?" Anthony asks softly.

Lady Portia pauses her destruction of the glass jewels and rests her head in her hands. "Jack promised me he knew what he was doing," she says, somewhat muffled. "I asked about discrepancies I saw in the numbers and he told me it would all resolve itself when the mines formally opened. I wondered sometimes if he was merely robbing Peter to pay Paul, but…"

Prudence reaches for her mother again and Penelope comes forward to add her arm also.

"All paste jewels!" Lady Featherington says bitterly. "All a lie? No, I had no idea. I would not have paraded myself in his rubies in front of the entire Ton for anything less than a true financial success. If I had even the smallest inkling that his efforts would endanger our Society standing or our future… And here I worried about Penelope's good name for a mere garden kiss!"

We did not even kiss today, Penelope thinks longingly, then brings herself back into the present moment. Her mother's shoulders are trembling, and Prudence is raising an eyebrow at her sister behind Lady Portia's back. For once they are in silent agreement, so Penelope lets go and turns to Anthony.

"Sir, I thank you for your visit today, but –"

"Of course," Anthony murmurs. "I will take my leave. I – I am so very sorry, my lady. If there is anything I might do –"

Penelope spreads her hands helplessly.

Lady Featherington speaks again from with the curl of Prudence's arm. "You will tell no one of this, my lord? Until – until we know how far the rot extends?"

Anthony bows to all three of them. "I will not, Lady Featherington, on my honor as a gentleman. And I shall not forget that in the eyes of the Ton, our family names remain linked. I would do nothing to harm your good standing or mine."

Penelope watches his handsome figure exit through their back gate once more. Behind her, she hears her mother succumb at last to the intensity of her emotions.

Prudence guides Lady Portia to a bench and takes out the smelling salts that she must have collected when she went for the jewels earlier.

Lady Portia waves the vial away. "I am not faint, Prudence, I am furious," she hisses, angry tears welling in her eyes. "I have sunk from a gambler to a fraud! I must have the worst luck in men in England!"

Penelope sits on her other side and squeezes her hand. "I am so sorry, Mama. But – what do we do now?"

"Extend the measles quarantine?" Prudence offers.

Lady Portia rubs her forehead in thought. "I suppose we must. Jack slipped out to his club an hour ago, assuring me that his fellows had all had measles as well. I will use his absence to search his study. If I confront him with this first – well, we must not allow him to destroy any evidence."

"Evidence!"

"Are we ruined again, Mama?"

Their mother closes her eyes. "It depends on how many members of the Ton have already bought into the venture. How many of them we will owe an answer to...and who we shall need to pay back."

Penelope looks over at the neat pile of red glass collected on Anthony's handkerchief. It glimmers and gleams even under overcast skies, taunting their destroyed hopes.

"I was a fool," her mother whispers. "I should have known better than to put my heart above my sense."

"Sigh no more, Mama," Prudence says. "Men were deceivers ever."

Penelope raises an eyebrow at her sister.

What? Prudence mouths. I have read Shakespeare too.

"True enough, dearest," Lady Portia says. Then she gets to her feet briskly. "Let us all three go to Jack's study, girls. We have had enough of financial secrets in this household. We will discover together what that bastard has done to our future."

Penelope resolves to tell her mother about Whistledown as soon as they learn the extent of the damage. Perhaps some of her savings can cushion some of the blow, even a little bit?

"Nothing to the servants, you hear me? Not Mrs. Varley, not even Alice, Penelope. Not yet."

Penelope nods, knotting the handkerchief of broken glass to carry inside and kicking the larger shawl bundle under a nearby shrub.

"And…and Pippa?" Prudence asks hesitantly. "When do we tell Philippa?"

"You worry we might need to request aid from the Finches?" Lady Portia aims for her usual confidence and fails. "I am sure it is not as bad as all that."

"No, Mama. Because…" Prudence bites her lip. "Because her dowry was paid in paste rubies too."

Lady Featherington shudders with the impact of that realization, then straightens her shoulders. "As soon as we know what true funds remain to us, I will write her. Come, girls. Inside, quickly."

Penelope trails behind her mother and sister, feeling an icy horror spread through her veins. For Philippa is not the only sister whose dowry has just proved a lie…

Notes:

Anger hath a privilege: See William Shakespeare's King Lear Act II Scene II.

a note inviting her beloved into her garden once again: See Song of Solomon 4:16.

Cousin Jack will frank your letter for you: "Crossing the lines" on a letter was a way to save paper and money, as mail was expensive. But all titled English gentlemen held a seat in Parliament and therefore had the privilege to send their correspondence for free by "franking" letters with their signature. They were permitted to do this for members of their household as well. This privilege was abolished in 1840.

a man of thought and a man of action: a common summary of a theme in Plato's Republic Book 3, 410b-e.

And when Father passed on and I became a man, I put away childish things: See I Corinthians 13:11.

Sigh no more/men were deceivers ever: See William Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing Act II Scene II.

Chapter 14

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

June to August 1814, in selected correspondence:

Penelope Featherington (Featherington House, London) to Anthony Bridgerton (Bridgerton House, London):

Dear Lord Bridgerton,

Please thank your man of business for the recommendation of his colleague Mr. Brown. Mama has come to rely greatly on Mr. Brown's financial wisdom as we begin to untangle this horrible mess. Cousin Jack left for America two nights ago, not to return. I do not know how my mother convinced him to go so quietly, but all are agreed that he leaves "to check on the mines" and will send word upon arrival in Georgia that they have failed and will produce no profits. I suspect Mama will contrive to create such a letter should he neglect to send one. As we know of no other male Featheringtons remaining, the barony's title will likely fall into abeyance.

You asked in your note introducing Mr. Brown how else you might support our family in this situation. Our household will continue under measles quarantine for another two weeks, until much of Society has left London and Mama and Mr. Brown may begin to notify the mine investors by post. Perhaps you might remain quiet on the subject until the news becomes public knowledge, then attest to the venture's failure if anyone should approach you about it?

Eloise snuck in through our window again this morning to inform me that the Bridgertons will depart for Aubrey Hall tomorrow. I wish all of you a safe journey to Kent and regret that I will be unable to send regards in person. The memory of your kind attentions this past spring are a balm to me during a difficult time. I thank you again and look forward to resuming our acquaintance next year.

Yours sincerely,

Miss Penelope Featherington

Anthony Bridgerton (Bridgerton House, London) to Penelope Featherington (Featherington House, London):

My lady,

I am relieved to hear that Mr. Brown has proved a valuable connection. Mr. Portwinder has never steered the Bridgertons wrong before and one would expect his colleagues to offer similarly sober advice. Nor am I the slightest bit surprised that Lady Featherington has vanquished your cousin. The ladies of your family are each quite formidable and woe betide the gentleman (though that bastard cad hardly deserves to be called one) who crosses any one of you. Your courage in the face of adversity is as impressive as ever.

Regarding the mines, I will do as you advise and say as little as possible about it, including to my own family. Please know I have not forgotten the final question you posed to me during our interrupted conversation and am considering it actively.

We are indeed leaving for Kent this morning – we will likely have left by the time you read this – but my brother Benedict has chosen to remain at his bachelor lodgings on Stratton Street for the time being. I have instructed Benedict to be conscious of your needs. Should you require any assistance in London this summer, please do not hesitate to ask him. And if I myself may be of use to you, I do hope you will send word to Aubrey Hall.

I shall miss your company. I am honored to have been any comfort to you this Season.

I remain your obedient servant,

– A.

A Changing of the Guard

9 July 1814

…from Drury Lane dramas to dance hall debacles, from private fêtes to Vauxhall fireworks, from musicales to measles, who among the Ton has not had a most exhilarating spring? As the 1814 Season comes to a close, one learns of two final courtship surprises:

Lord Jasper Hallewell has won the hand of Miss Cressida Cowper;

Sir Richard Wyndham has failed for the third Season in a row to offer for Miss Melissa Brandon;

Miss Cowper, your correspondent felicitates you and hopes your intended has proved a wiser judge of brides than he is of racehorses. Miss Brandon, perhaps you might begin to consider less still waters? Time is precious, and Beau Wyndham appears to be wasting yours.

With that, gentle readers, Lady Whistledown has a surprise of her own to impart. Though it has been a great satisfaction to serve as your correspondent lo these three years, this anonymous pen is being set down for good. Yes, next Season's eligibles and Incomparables must turn to other sources to see themselves immortalized in indignity, for this broadsheet will conclude forever with this week's edition. Lady Whistledown will soon be no more.

Thank you all for your patronage each week, inviting your correspondent to enliven conversations across London and supporting this Season's forays into political and fashion commentary. As on-dits remain powerful grist for Society's mill, we must expect a new voice to fill the vacancy soon enough. One generation goes and another comes, but the gossip of the Ton will remain forever.

(Can a new writer win your affections as Whistledown has, dearest readers? Or will you stay loyal to the memory of this particular critic?)

Whether remaining in London or returning to your country estates, may you each have the summer you deserve. And remember – though next year your correspondent may no longer be publishing, she will always be watching.

Genevieve Delacroix (Bond Street, London) to Penelope Featherington (Featherington House, London):

Mademoiselle Penelope,

Ma petite, that final edition was a master stroke! No one who remains in London gives a fig for any rumors about ruby mines, for they are all consumed with the sudden disappearance of Whistledown. Six ladies in the past two days who came to my shop to pay their outstanding dress bills spoke of nothing but gossip about the gossip columnist: she vanishes as elusive and mysterious as when she first appeared. If you must end the publication – and please know I respect your choice – then what a spectacular way to end it.

I have thoroughly enjoyed composing fashion plate criticism for you these last few months. Should your next publication have space for something similar, do let me know.

Is your family still considering leaving Grosvenor Square for more affordable accommodations? You might consider Upper Wimpole Street in the neighborhood of Marylebone. I am aware it is rather on the outskirts of Polite Society but perhaps that might be all the better for the time being.

Please do visit me when your quarantine is lifted at last. You needn't send a note, just come and knock – my door is always open for you.

– Genevieve

Benedict Bridgerton (Stratton Street, London) to Anthony Bridgerton (Aubrey Hall, Kent):

Anthony:

I stopped by White's this afternoon per your request. The club was mostly empty, only Hallewell's lot lounging about to play cards and they dealt me in readily enough. As you suspected, Hallewell was indeed fuming about some 2000 sunk in the ruby mines, but his fellows seemed uninterested in the topic. Fife even told him that business ventures fail all the time and if he hadn't the stomach for taking his investment losses like a man, best to stick to purchasing mediocre horseflesh. Goring added that at least it saved Hallewell from having to spend the blunt on that pinched fiancée of his. The gin was flowing steadily so by that point they were all rather foxed – I left before punches started being thrown. You owe me sixteen quid for the card game.

And yes, brother, I have seen Penelope recently. We both happened to attend a new exhibition at the British Museum on Tuesday. She seemed in reasonable spirits, if a trifle tired, and shared that her family has just relocated to Upper Wimpole Street. If you wish to know more about how she does, you might stop plaguing me and write to ask her directly.

Granville says my oil technique is improving steadily, and I have nearly mastered the trickiest part of painting realistic-looking hands. He thinks in a year or so I might be ready to attempt a full family portrait. Perhaps as a birthday present for Mother?

– Benedict

Edwina Sharma (Danbury House, London) to Kathani Dorset (Rue Belliard, Brussels):

Dearest Kate,

Didi, Mama and I laughed so much at your latest letter! We miss you terribly but we always rejoice in reading of your adventures in Belgium. They do sound so very dashing and romantic, if a bit uncomfortable at times. Lady Danbury continues to tease that you have not the patience for a diplomat's wife, but I am glad that your husband thinks your sharp tongue part of your charm. I have always thought that the gentleman who deserves you would want you to shine brightly like the Diamond you are.

Newton misses you too, still whimpering outside your old bedchamber every night as he heads to sleep (just as I do). I have placed his inked pawprint on a separate sheet of paper for you. Truly the only sad part of your new life is that you and Lord Dorset do not yet have time or space for your own dog! (Not that any creature could replace Newton in your heart, I know.) Even if he meant it as a joke, I think Lord Dorset's idea of a painting of Newton to keep by your bed is a lovely idea. I will absolutely attend to this for you.

Remember to address your next letter to the Royal Crescent in Bath, since we plan to visit Lady Danbury's niece Miss Amelia Danbury for a week before removing to Lady Danbury's country estate for the off-season. Do you remember Mama speaking of Miss Amelia when we first arrived in London? I had thought her story rather sad – invalidish since childhood and still unmarried at twenty-nine, but Lady Danbury says Miss Amelia is content with a quiet life and is an heiress besides, so she is quite comfortably settled. I am excited to try the Pump Room's famous waters with her!

I apologize for such a short letter today but I must end it here, as the Featherington sisters will be arriving soon for tea. They have had a challenging summer and I hope good conversation with chai and jalebi might distract them for a spell. Miss Penelope knows quite a lot about everyone in the Ton. I wonder if she might recommend an artist to paint Newton?

With love from Lady Danbury and Mama and Newton and me,

Your dearest Edwina

Prudence Featherington (Upper Wimpole Street, London) to Genevieve Delacroix (Bond Street, London):

Dear Madame Delacroix,

Thank you for the kind words about the embroidery samples that I sent you. I appreciate especially your thoughts about my crewel-work and your advice on how best to arrange samples on a card-board for display. It will be a great help to me for an upcoming endeavor.

By the by, if my sister tells you that she wishes to settle her bridal gown bill, please fob her off. Mama is still sorting through our finances to see what will remain to us, and besides I do not want Penelope burning through her Whistledown savings on a gown that a certain Kent-based gentleman might still wish to pay for one day. I trust you will come up with some suitable lie about why you cannot accept her money. Perhaps some lofty-sounding French aphorism?

Yours sincerely,

Miss Prudence Featherington

Portia Featherington (Upper Wimpole Street, London) to Mr. Brown (Fleet Street, London):

Dear Mr. Brown,

Please inform Admiral C. that his offer for Rosewood Abbey is most generous and I would be grateful to accept it. It relieves much anxiety to know that he would consider acquiring the mortgages on the estate lands as well as the house and gardens that he has been renting. If I have figured correctly, this means the sale of the country properties combined with withdrawing half the capital of my widow's jointure from the Funds ought to be sufficient to repay all of the mine investors. Or do we still come a bit short?

In response to your second question, I do wish to continue pursuing the sale of the Grosvenor Square property, including the furnishings if necessary. I should like to direct those profits towards restoring my daughters' dowries, first Philippa (Mrs. Albion Finch), and then what remains for my two unmarried girls.

You have seen the draperies and vases in the drawing room, for example, and the ballroom furniture – they are in excellent condition and I am sure they will fetch a good price. Might there be some up-and-coming merchant interested in outfitting his home with the most exquisite of Polite Society's taste? I trust your discretion in these matters.

Sincerely,

Lady Portia Featherington

Prudence Featherington (Upper Wimpole Street, London) to Amelia Danbury (Royal Crescent, Bath):

Dear Miss Danbury,

Yes, that sounds a most wonderful idea. It has been a pleasure these past few months to discover that a new acquaintance shares my perspective on so many topics. I will speak to Mama at once to present your suggestion.

Yours faithfully,

Miss Prudence Featherington

Eloise Bridgerton (Aubrey Hall, Kent) to Prudence Featherington (Upper Wimpole Street, London):

Pen,

YOUR SISTER WANTS TO MOVE TO BATH??? But Bath is so fussy and old-fashioned!

(Colin says everyone who is anyone goes to Brighton these days instead, ever since the Prince Regent began building his Pavilion there. It does sound marvelous. Let's visit Brighton together soon!)

Being stuck in stuffy old Bath as a companion to a sickly lady and commissioned to decorate her drawing room sounds terribly tedious to me. But I suppose your sister loves sewing, doesn't she? Which reminds me, our housekeeper Mrs. Wilson asked after Prudence. She remembers her fondly from your visit in May since apparently they discussed tapestries for ages. (Mrs. Wilson asked after you as well, of course. So did my Uncle Henry, after church yesterday. Shall I tell them both that you say hello?)

Anyway, while your sister's plan could never suit you or me, I must approve of any woman's scheme that avoids attaching herself to some mediocre gentleman for financial security. Tell her huzzah from Eloise Bridgerton. I hope your mother will agree to it.

Speaking of plans, have you figured out what your next publication might be? I have many ideas for you – see next page for a list of suggestions. Send it back to me with your favorites marked.

Anthony has just entered the sitting room and asked who I am writing to. I told him it was you and should he like to add a page or two of his own to the letter? He pulled that awful stone face of his and said he would not like to trouble you with his conversation, "not if Miss Featherington would not wish it." Then he walked right back out of the room again, claiming he heard Coombs calling him about the sheep. But that is nonsense, for he told Mama at breakfast that Coombs would be at the market in Maidstone all day!

What is all this about you not wishing Anthony to write to you? Aren't you writing to him? What are you worrying about now?

Write me back immediately and tell me what your mother decides about Prudence.

Love,

Eloise

Daphne Basset (Clyvedon Castle, Berkshire) to Francesca Bridgerton (Aubrey Hall, Kent):

Frannie,

Thank you very much for the adorable booties! I love the little ducks on each ankle especially. Augie is growing so rapidly lately that the booties are a bit snug for his feet, so I shall set them aside for his younger sibling upon their arrival this winter.

I am sorry to hear that Awful Anthony is back in full force. He was so much more pleasant when he was courting Penelope, don't you think? Do you think he is sulking about Important Estate Matters or about her?

I shall ask Simon if he can host the grouse shooting here next month instead of at Anthony's hunting box. Maybe our eldest brother simply needs a change of scene. (Plus I can interrogate his attitude and receive some proper answers.) I wouldn't mind having more company here at Clyvedon. It is so lonely in this gigantic house sometimes – I feel Simon and Augie and I quite rattle around in it. Si and I shall have to have an army of children to fill it up, and all my siblings come to stay in turns until then.

Send love to Mama and everyone,

Daphne

Colin Bridgerton (Aubrey Hall, Kent) to Benedict Bridgerton (Stratton Street, London):

Ben,

Do you have any suggestions on how to convince Anthony that I am responsible enough to have my own bachelor lodgings? I am positively green with jealousy that you live alone and make your own choices.

The thought of waiting two more years until I turn 25 and gain control of my trust fund is enough to make a fellow despair. It is not that I do not love our family, but how can a gentleman thrive with a mother and all these sisters constantly inquiring into one's comings and goings? Or worse, having to petition Anthony in one of his sour moods for funds or approval of plans. And he is always in a sour mood lately.

I know you will say to tease him out of it, but none of us are as good at that as you. PLEASE tell me you are coming with us to Clyvedon Castle for the grouse shoot. (Did you hear that we've changed locations to Daphne and Simon's estate instead? I am looking forward to it, I have not been there before.)

We desperately feel your absence here at home. You and Penelope are the only people who can make Awful Anthony laugh. And I suppose she is not an option anymore.

Hope to see you soon,

Colin

Portia Featherington (Upper Wimpole Street, London) to Amelia Danbury (Royal Crescent, Bath):

Dear Miss Danbury,

Thank you for your offer of a position as a lady's companion for my eldest daughter and for your gracious invitation for us to visit before accepting. I appreciate that you understand a mother's feelings – any kin of Lady Danbury must certainly be a lady of quality, but I would like to see for myself that Prudence would be comfortable in your home. Forgive my bluntness, but I wish to be sure that this is not merely Christian charity on your part but rather a good fit for both of you.

I also wish to inform you that if we accept, my daughter will not be arriving empty-handed. I shall be able to support her with 75 a year to affray any additional wants she might have beyond the salary and lodgings you would provide.

Next month would be most agreeable for a few days' visit, as London continues quite hot. I hope arriving just after Lady Danbury and the Sharmas depart would not cause you any inconvenience – please do not hesitate to tell me if we should defer until mid-August. It would be I with my two unmarried daughters coming to visit, and they might share a room without difficulty.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Portia Featherington

Eloise Bridgerton (Aubrey Hall, Kent) to Penelope Featherington (Upper Wimpole Street, London):

Pen,

Why travel to Bath for Prudence when you could come here instead? Shooting season opens on 12 August and all my brothers will be off to Simon and Daphne's for a week, so there could be nothing improper in your staying here. And you wouldn't need to worry about running into Anthony, though you know I think you are being ridiculous about that.

Even Gregory is going with them now that his arm has fully healed and Mama has run out of reasonable protests. (Anthony told her it's past time Gregory joined the adult men for sport and Greg practically levitated with joy. Anthony is always so much nicer to the little ones!)

Seriously, why should you also have to go to Bath? It's not as if your mother really needs your opinion to approve or disapprove of this Miss Danbury. Just stay for a few days, and you can leave before the men return. My life is so dull lately without you or Whistledown. Bring Alice with you as chaperone on your journey, she is quite clever. We can continue discussing your next project.

Please say you will come!

Love,

Eloise

Hyacinth Bridgerton (Aubrey Hall, third floor) to Cook (Aubrey Hall, kitchens):

Since Gregory will be gone all week, will you PLEASE bring blackberry tarts back for breakfast again?

-HYACINTH

Violet Bridgerton (Aubrey Hall, Kent) to Anthony Bridgerton (Clyvedon Castle, Berkshire):

Anthony,

I hope you have had a splendid first day's shooting. Not that I could ever doubt your success, as Edmund always said you had the eye of a true marksman.

But dearest, were you aware that Miss Penelope has come to stay with us this week? It seems Eloise arranged the visit on her own while you and I were busy with preparations for your journey to Berkshire. We are delighted to host her at Aubrey Hall, of course. She will be with us until Saturday. I just thought you might wish to know.

Sincerely,

Your loving mother

Notes:

the barony's title will likely fall into abeyance: that is, without any male heirs of the original Baron Featherington left to claim the title, it is now suspended from use. If one of the Featherington sisters has a son – say Philippa with Mr. Finch – they could petition the Queen to ask for it back and make their son the new baron, but that would be both expensive (of course) and at the monarch's discretion. And now there's no longer any land or money to go with the rank, would the petition be worth it for the status alone? What do you think?

Beau Wyndham appears to be wasting yours: Find out why Sir Wyndham is so reluctant to marry Miss Brandon in The Corinthian by Georgette Heyer.

One generation goes and another comes, but the gossip of the Ton will remain forever: See Ecclesiastes 1:4. Thank you to DB for suggesting the quote and for helping to organize this entire chapter.

ever since the Prince Regent began building his Pavilion there: the Royal Pavilion in Brighton is still standing today and is open to visitors as a Regency museum.

Clyvedon Castle (Berkshire): Canon doesn't tell us where Clyvedon Castle, Simon's country estate, is located. Netflix filmed his estate scenes at Castle Howard way up north in York, but there is another stately home (now a luxury hotel) called Cliveden in County Berkshire. Berkshire is clearly the better choice – much closer to Kent!

Finally, 15 points to any Austen nerds who recognize the tenant that agreed to buy Rosewood Abbey, the Featherington country estate.

Chapter 15

Notes:

You might have noticed I've finally added a chapter count! We're in the home stretch, friends.

Many thanks to my own beloved for all the insights into 19th-century land management.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The fourth day of the grouse shoot at Clyvedon Castle, the not-so-ancestral home of the 2nd Duke of Hastings and his wife, begins much like the three days before it. Lord Simon and his brothers-in-law head out with shotguns and pointer dogs around eight o'clock in the morning, planning for another full day of sighting and hunting wild red grouse across Simon's vast estate. If the weather and their enthusiasm hold, they will have luncheon outdoors and return to the house just in time to change for dinner with Daphne. The Bridgerton brothers are nearly as competitive at shooting as they are at Pall-mall, for boasting of one's superior numbers afterwards is more than half the fun. But even young Gregory's chances bode well today, despite the fact that he is still refining his technique. This is because Anthony, the most cut-throat of them all, is not there.

By ten-thirty according to his pocket watch, Anthony assumes that the others have ventured most enjoyably onto the grounds once again, walking together and taking turns aiming at the birds. He, on the other hand, is pulling his curricle up to the stables at Aubrey Hall nearly ninety miles away.

Upon arrival, Anthony jumps out of the curricle to soothe the weary pair of hired horses and hand the reins to his grumbling groom, who descends from his perch at the back of the sleek sporting carriage.

"Enough, Tom," Anthony says. "The Bridgertons are regular patrons of the Red Lion Inn, as well you know. Lightning and Nox are in good hands with the staff there."

Tom sniffs, his pride wounded at the thought of his master's prize thoroughbreds being cared for by a public inn's employees, however familiar. "I might have stayed behind to supervise, your lordship."

"I offered you that very option before we left the inn this morning," Anthony points out, annoyed. "But you insisted on riding with me all the way home."

"Aye, and leave you to race across the countryside at top speed alone? If your lordship were to overturn the carriage with this job-pair and break your neck, who would your mother blame for it?"

"Me, most certainly. And your lack of confidence in my horsemanship is quite unwarranted."

Tom mutters a few warm phrases that Anthony decides they are better off pretending he has not heard.

"When this team is rested, you may return them to the Red Lion yourself and retrieve my own horses."

"Yes, your lordship."

"And see to it that Cook gets that brace of grouse under the seat right away, will you?"

"Yes, your lordship."

Anthony brushes the worst of the travel dust off of himself – a driving cape can only protect so much – and heads to the house.

At the front door, he is greeted with notable surprise by Aubrey Hall's usually placid butler.

"My lord Bridgerton!" he exclaims. "We did not expect you back until Tuesday next."

"The ladies all still at home this morning?" Anthony asks, ignoring this.

"Yes, my lord. Lady Bridgerton is in the breakfast room, and your sisters and Miss Featherington upstairs." Their butler's face has reverted to his most carefully neutral expression.

Anthony stiffens in lieu of reply. Penelope is really here! Throughout the long, strenuous ride he'd half wondered if he'd dreamed his mother's message.

All summer I have stalked the mail delivery in hopes she would resume correspondence, my faith fading each day, he thinks as he continues down the hall. Yet the minute I leave home she arrives! As if she hoped to avoid me entirely, but why? Was I not everything careful and gracious in my reply to her only letter?

Anthony is hardly surprised to see his mother alone in the breakfast room at this hour. She is the sole member of the family to prefer London hours in the country, everyone else no doubt having eaten and scattered from the meal ages ago.

Lady Violet looks up as he enters and collapses into the nearest chair to hand.

"Good, I hoped you'd take the hint," she says, sounding pleased.

"Any coffee left, Mother?"

"Of course." Lady Violet signals for the footman. "Did you ride all night, dearest?"

"Split the journey in two," Anthony answers between swallows. "Five hours yesterday, three hours this morning. Changed horses at the Red Lion as usual."

"Who is watching Gregory and his gun while you are here?"

"Simon and Benedict both have an eye on him, and the Clyvedon gamekeeper is at hand. Gregory has done well for his first shoot, he shot two birds and winged a third yesterday. Benedict finished the last one off."

"Excellent. And Daphne and my grandson are both well?"

"They're all in good health, Mother. Daphne welcomes your visit at any time." Anthony sets his cup down. "Please, no more sibling questions, you know why I have returned. How is she?"

Lady Violet pauses. "Miss Penelope seems...a little fatigued, in fact. I did not wish to pry regarding her family situation, but you must be aware of some of their difficulties. Their retreat from Grosvenor Square, for example."

"Yes." Not to mention the fraudulent mines…and she concluded Lady Whistledown!

"While I did not expect to see Penelope again until next Season, we are happy for Aubrey Hall to be a place of respite for an old friend of the family. I believe she and Eloise are planning to take a walk in the cherry orchards shortly, and perhaps you might join them after you wash. Did you bring your valet back with you?"

Anthony shakes his head. "Speed was of the essence, so I travelled as lightly as possible. Timothy remains at Clyvedon to serve my brothers."

"At least change your waistcoat and cravat to remove the dust, dearest. You ought to look somewhat presentable for your young lady."

"In calling Miss Featherington my young lady you presume rather." He looks down. "I have not heard from her since the end of June."

"Am I presuming? I cannot help it, a mother wants to see her children in love. It is love, isn't it, Anthony?"

"You are swapping the role of Hestia for Aphrodite, I see."

"Anthony."

He slumps in his seat. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. When does love not matter?"

"Perhaps she no longer wishes to maintain the connection. Her only letter to me was…reserved in tone. And she did not respond to my reply."

"And you left it at the one letter? You did not try again?"

"I would not want to distress her. It would be improper of me to push."

"Dearest, there comes a time in courting where one must look past propriety and take decisive action."

"Daphne said the same."

(In fact, Daphne had said much more than that to Anthony this week, and he had been unable to explain himself while protecting Penelope's privacy. Anthony had been glad to return to Aubrey Hall early in part to avoid hearing any more from his sister on the subject.)

"If you did not plan to put yourself forward again, why did you return today?"

"I could not stay away," he admits. "To lose a chance to see her before next Season! It was not to be borne."

His mother smiles. "In that case, let us strategize. You last heard from her in June, you said. What did you two discuss in the Featherington House garden?"

Anthony coughs in surprise. "How did you know I met Miss Featherington in her garden? It was meant to be a secret."

"What secrets can you keep from your mother? I am omniscient in the ways of courting." Lady Violet looks smug. "Twice that week you came home smelling of roses, and they were the only family in Grosvenor Square to grow that particular variety. I may mislike her approach to socializing and décor, but I must admit no one can cultivate a rose garden like Portia Featherington."

"Each lady in that family is accomplished in her own way," he agrees.

"So, where did you leave off?"

Anthony thinks carefully of what he might share. "Well…Miss Featherington worried I thought too much of my duty to my title and not enough about my own desires."

"Did she, indeed."

"She is so sharp, Mother. When she asked what I sought in a wife – as Anthony, not the Viscount – I had no answer to that question. My previous checklists for a bride had proved faulty." He sighs. "After all, what is a Diamond but an overpriced rock?"

"And do you have an answer now?"

"I have thought of little else this summer," he says. "And while I have identified some additional criteria, I should still like an ally in managing the estate, for there is no Anthony without the viscounty. It is my life's work and I would have company in it, for good times and for ill. I had thought a steady partner more important than love, you know."

"I do know. It has long pained me that you let such cynicism calcify around your heart. A marriage without love is empty."

Anthony frowns. "A marriage with love may become empty as well. How could I prioritize such a thing after seeing how your grief over Father affected you so? It seemed too large a risk to love my wife when we might still lose each other suddenly. Aubrey Hall needs me to be reliably available, not despairing in my chambers."

Lady Violet reaches forward to touch his wrist. "Dearest, if I could have relieved some of the burden from your shoulders that year, I would have. I was not strong enough to leave my bed, let alone support you as you needed."

He looks away, exhaling slowly.

"I will always be sorry for it," she insists. "You were so young to step into your father's shoes."

"Sometimes I think they are still too big for me, Mother. I will never fill them as he did."

"No, my darling, you already do. You have grown into the role over the years and you are an excellent steward of the estate. I am very proud of you. You have lacked only the temperament to lead your siblings and navigate Society with grace."

Anthony chuckles, more gratified by his mother's praise than cowed by her familiar rebuke.

"We had not ever seen you so calm as when you were courting Penelope. She has been an excellent influence on you."

"Father would have approved of her as Viscountess."

"Very much. She brings you balance. Do you offer her the same in return?"

"I – I hope so."

"Hmm. You must do better than that when you speak with your young lady." Lady Violet looks over his shoulder. "Ah, I see you may not have time to smarten up after all. What a pity."

Anthony turns as well and sees through the doorway that Eloise and Penelope are descending the stairs to the ground floor, chatting quietly to each other. He stands abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair, and goes out to greet them.

"Good morning," he manages to offer and then pauses, unsure of his welcome.

The two young ladies halt mid-way down the steps.

"You're home early, brother." Eloise raises an eyebrow, though she does not seem altogether displeased.

Penelope says nothing. She is a touch paler than he remembered and just as beautiful. More, even, especially in blue. But is there any color that does not suit her?

"Miss Featherington, when I received word at Clyvedon of your visit, I could not stay away. I – you did not write to me. I hoped you'd write."

(She still says nothing.)

Anthony steps forward to the bottom of the staircase. They are nearly at eye level now. "Forgive me for the surprise, but I would not miss the opportunity to speak to you again. Are you and your family well?"

At last she responds to the direct inquiry: "As well as can be under the circumstances, my lord."

"Please tell me, how might I be of service?"

"You are too kind, but Mama has everything in hand."

"Too kind?" he replies, perturbed. "It is not an issue of kindness, my lady!"

"My situation has changed, Lord Bridgerton," Penelope says softly. "And as we are no longer betrothed, I have not wished to bother you with my concerns."

"All summer it is your silence that has bothered me, not knowing how you are doing. Worrying about your family." Anthony hesitates. "If you do not wish for my company, I will leave at once and return to Clyvedon. I shall not plague you with my attentions."

Penelope's expression brightens a little. "How foolish that would be, to turn around immediately. Have a pity's thought for your poor horses, sir."

He shrugs. "I have others. It is no hardship."

"Yes, of course. Your stables are quite well appointed." The spark of amusement has vanished as quickly as it appeared.

What has he said wrong now? "I have erred again somehow. Please, my lady. I beg you to have mercy on a clueless fellow and not leave me in agony. Will you not tell me –"

"Dearest!" A gentle hand on his shoulder arrests his train of thought.

"Anthony, I do hate to interrupt at such a moment," Lady Violet says. "But perhaps you might consider another location for your conversation? For Penelope's sake if not yours. I am not sure having an audience will help your case."

Anthony tears his gaze away from Penelope's face and looks around in surprise. He had quite forgotten they are in his front hall. Eloise has her hands on her hips, standing several steps above them. Their butler is so intently polishing the wall sconces that he must be secretly listening, whereas the two footmen staring from behind him are not even pretending otherwise. Francesca and Hyacinth are leaning over the railing of the first-floor landing, and a housemaid a few feet away from them has a full coal scuttle going slack in her hands as she looks down. And is that Penelope's maid Alice in the doorway of the family sitting room?

Penelope also notices the crowd suddenly, and her face flushes pink as – as a rose from her garden.

Anthony swallows sharply, losing a bit of his nerve. "Er, yes. Another location. Er. Perhaps Father's library?"

"No, the conservatory," Eloise calls to them. "With the glass walls, you can dispense with a chaperone but we shan't be able to hear anything."

"Capital," he says faintly, and offers Penelope his arm. "Shall we, my lady?"

Though she still looks unhappy, Penelope nods and accepts his arm. Anthony is relieved to know his sudden arrival and addressing of her in public – just what she hates most! – has not fully ruined his chances yet.

Aubrey Hall's conservatory, lush with tropical plants and late-summer greenery, might be considered by some a romantic setting for a tête-à-tête, but Anthony has little such hope at the moment. If she will not even tell me what is wrong…

When they are settled, Anthony waits to see if Penelope will begin the conversation. When it is clear she is opting to smooth her skirts and avoid his gaze instead, he ventures:

"I embarrassed you in the hallway. It was ungentlemanly of me to expect you to explain private matters in front of others. It seems I am ever apologizing for my conduct, my lady."

"It is not your behavior that embarrasses, sir," Penelope says, staring at the view out the eastern windows. "Indeed it has grown on me this year, the charm of your enthusiasm."

The charm! Only a lover might frame my impulsivity so! His heart lifts again. "Then why…"

"It is my family situation that shames me. You – you do not know all that has happened since we parted in June. I would not blame you for wishing to sever the connection."

"If I wished to sever the connection?" He reaches for her hand. "My lady, for God's sake. Please tell me what has happened since I referred Mr. Brown to your family."

Penelope allows him to take her hand, even if she will still not meet his eye. "Mr. Brown was our savior this summer, and we owe that to you. He and Mama devised a plan that will keep the Featherington name clean, if quite reduced."

"The mines as a failed business venture substituted for a fraudulent one," he remembers. "It was quite a clever solution. Failed investments need not be repaid, they are simply written off as a loss."

"Yes, but Mama chose to repay the nine investors anyway and discharge the very last of our debts. She has sold everything to do so: our country estate, our Grosvenor Square home, even its furnishings! A Mr. Chawleigh is to retrieve our entire collection of furniture and art at the end of the month. We are fortunate he was gracious enough not to haggle over the shillings and pence. That has helped restore Philippa's dowry nearly to the whole, as the Finches had been paid in paste gems of no value."

Anthony blinks. "I'd heard you'd moved to Upper Wimpole Street –" again she flushes – "but I'd thought it merely a retrenchment until your family gets back on your feet."

"No. We are left only a diminished percentage of Mama's jointure, the remainder of her marriage settlements. It took nearly everything we had to repay both Papa and Cousin Jack's colleagues. And with no other heir left to claim the title, we have no hope of restoration to our previous social heights. So you see, we are no longer eligible connections for the Bridgertons."

"But why the devil – why would your mother choose such a path and risk your stability? Many in the Ton perennially carry some amount of debt with them. You could repay it slowly over the years rather than all at once."

"Would you choose that, sir? Such a Sisyphean burden, to never have done with the financial sins of your relatives? Every month the interest would continue to mount with no end in sight!"

"I suppose not… it would be quite stressful," he thinks aloud. "I should want my account books balanced if I could manage it."

"As did Mama. And Mr. Brown advised that a repayment in full might avoid any potential accusations of fraud, for Cousin Jack's investors would no longer have any grounds for complaint."

"Ah. Very clever indeed."

"Besides, we are not destitute – we simply cannot afford Society standards anymore. Philippa is settled with her husband in Reading, and Prudence has obtained a role for herself in Bath as a lady's companion. It is only Mama and I remaining, and we might live together quietly on the income from her jointure."

"In Upper Wimpole Street?" Anthony asks, already calculating how he might court her next Season so far out of the way. It will be less convenient than living across the street in Grosvenor Square, certainly, but that can be overcome. The curricle will simply see more use, that's all. His groom will manage.

Penelope's hand tightens in his. "Likely not. It is possible but impractical for us to afford it, especially as I am no longer bringing in any income from Lady Whistledown. We will leave London, Lord Bridgerton. Perhaps in the fall, once Prudence has moved in with her Miss Danbury."

"Leave London! But if you've sold your country estate, where will you go?"

"Scotland. Mama's maiden Aunt Buccleuch has invited us to live with her in Edinburgh, and she has plenty of room in her apartments. Mama looks forward to reconnecting with her Scottish relatives and building a feminine household free of unreliable men."

Scotland! Anthony's stomach drops. "And…do you look forward to that too, my lady?"

Penelope hesitates. "Edinburgh is an intellectual town and Mama thinks I might enjoy the literary salon culture. Perhaps I will find new topics to comment and publish on, free of on-dits. We shall not be participating much in the scandalous side of Edinburgh Society."

"But you love attending such engagements," Anthony protests. "They make you an excellent Society scientist."

"You were thoughtful enough to show me the error of Lady Whistledown, and I took the lesson to heart. I have put away childish things too, sir."

"Now which of us is enacting the martyr?" he asks softly. "My lady, if I were convinced this plan would satisfy you, I would wish you joy of it. I have no doubt the Scots will benefit from your wit and insights, whatever you choose to publish."

"You are very good."

"But Miss Featherington – Penelope: I must return the question you asked of me in June. It is clear what your mother wants. What do you want? Not as a dutiful daughter, but for yourself?"

Once again she does not respond.

Mindful that Daphne and his mother would encourage him to persist, Anthony continues: "If it is no longer a husband you desire – if you would prefer a life free of men, free of my attentions, I would understand. I have been slow to appreciate your true worth, the complexity of your character –"

"Anthony!" Penelope interrupts. She turns to face him at last, tears welling in her eyes. "It is not your attentions I reject, how could I? You are not the problem, my lord. When you are everything I have ever – but I am no longer suitable for you as viscountess. Selling all our possessions was sufficient to make Philippa whole with the Finches, but no more than that. Prudence and I are back to where we began this Season: all frippery and no funds. Neither of us will have a dowry to speak of. Little wonder that Pru sought occupation in Bath."

"Ah."

"You must see it has turned out for the best that I jilted you this spring, as it means you and I are no longer formally tied. My family cannot meet our obligations in the settlements we signed." She exhales. "You are free to find another lady next Season."

Anthony struggles to put his thoughts in order. "So you are saying that – that you do not wish to be free of me, that my suit would still be welcome if it were not for the lack of dowry –"

"Oh, you cannot be serious! Or perhaps you misunderstand?" Penelope pulls her hand from his and wipes her eyes angrily. "We are living in three rooms on Wimpole Street, Anthony. Mama has let go all of our domestic staff except Mrs. Varley, Alice, and the cook, and we have been debating the wisdom of keeping Cook. We have kept Alice on only because I paid her wages from my Whistledown savings."

"Your loyalty to your maid is admirable. An excellent quality in a viscountess."

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" she asks, incredulous. "Think of what you said in the hall! That it did not matter if your horses were tired from a mad dash across the countryside. Of course not, not when your family keeps three carriages and ten horses in your stables!"

"What has that to do with our courting?"

"Anthony, Alice and I traveled here by the public stagecoach! I rode to Kent next to an inebriated fishmonger and a woman holding a basket of geese!" Penelope sighs. "We are a bad match, just as I said to you that first day."

"And just as I said that day, I do not like to hear you disparage my future wife so." He kneels in front of her.

"Penelope, sweetheart. I know I am going about it rather harum-scarum this time around, as I promised your mother I would seek her formal consent first. Not to mention I am still covered in dust and the ring is in Father's library instead of in my hands. But please: marry me. Marry me and you will never have to take the stagecoach again."

"Oh!" She rests her face in her hands.

Anthony gulps. "I might run upstairs and look for the ring –"

"As if that were my objection! You will regret this offer," Penelope says into her hands. "You know you are hasty, Anthony. When you take the time to think it over, you will see that I am right and that the estate deserves more than I can bring you."

He cannot speak for a moment, staring at his unhappy, unrelenting beloved.

At last he says, "You have suffered much this year, my lady. I would seek to ease your burdens –"

"If you truly wish to ease my suffering, you would not persist in this fantasy of our marriage," she insists. "Do not salt the wound, my lord. Leave me be so that I might one day forget you. I should like you to forget me."

And now he is becoming upset with her in return! "I see, so you avoided writing to me for my sake. I am to seek a new bride for her financial prospects alone and let our prior affections count for naught. You are ever so considerate of my feelings, my lady."

"Why are you making this so difficult?" Penelope whispers. "I released you from your obligation to me before we even knew about the rubies. You are being stubborn to no purpose."

"I am infamous for my stubbornness, Penelope. Ask any of my siblings and acquaintances." He leans forward. "Tell me, why did you come to Aubrey Hall this week? You must have known I would not be here."

"To…to say goodbye to Eloise. We will likely leave England before your family returns to London next Season, and I do not know when she and I might meet again."

"You planned to say goodbye to her and not to me," Anthony marvels. "Well, Miss Featherington, I think I have found your fundamental character flaw at last."

She glances at him nervously.

"You are a coward, my love. You would remove yourself from the playing field before I might have the chance to prove my loyalty to you."

Penelope flinches. "Please stop – you are being cruel."

"Not I."

"I have only 500 in total left to my name, Anthony. I was meant to bring you 700 a year! You must see that this cannot work."

Only 500! Anthony sits back on his heels in dismay, running his hands through his hair. How terrifying it must feel, to be reduced to so little.

"Now you understand," she says. "You ought not to risk the Bridgerton family stability in an alliance to Featherington irresponsibility. A shoddy bargain, best ended."

"If you would give me a moment to consider this news –"

"You might have all the time you wish, for I know you will come to agree." Penelope straightens her shoulders and stands up. "You are correct that I was scared to tell you and it was wrong of me. I apologize for my craven behavior, Lord Bridgerton. You deserved to know the truth earlier, so you could have reconciled with it on your own."

"And thus we are ended for good?"

"How many times must you make me say it?" She sighs. "It is not what I want, sir. But it is the right choice. Please excuse me." On that note, she exits the room.

Anthony remains motionless on the conservatory floor, his mind whirling. I have met my match in stubbornness! Twice now my love has rejected me on principle, but if I admire her pride I must deplore her firm conviction that she deserves unhappiness. But only 500!

Anthony runs his hands through his hair again, wishing he had convinced Penelope to reconsider, to stay by his side. Wishing he had taken her again in his arms and shaken her into sense – or rather that he had kissed his stubborn beauty senseless, had shown her just how much he still cares for her…

A cough awakens Anthony from his frustrated reverie. He looks over to see his steward standing in the doorway.

"What is it, Coombs?"

"Am I interrupting something, my lord?"

Anthony gestures to the empty conservatory. "Not anymore. What's amiss with the estate?"

"I would not have troubled you with these matters by letter to Clyvedon, but I happened to pass by the stables just now and saw that your curricle had returned," Coombs says. "Might you have a moment to meet, if you are finished with your holiday?"

"It appears that I am," Anthony sighs. "Let us move to Father's library." Perhaps when we have finished, I might seek a solution for our courtship in Shakespeare…

The issues Coombs presents are not urgent but nonetheless Anthony treats each matter with careful consideration, following Father's example. Minor flooding in the western pastures from Sunday's rain will require rebuilding some stone retaining walls, a perennial problem already budgeted for though still irritating. Signs of mildew in the hops fields are more concerning – it could lower the harvest's yield – but at least the rot has not spread too far as of yet. Some creature (likely a fox) is threatening the chickens on the home farm and the Aubrey Hall groundskeeper plans to stake out the predator, with the viscount's permission.

"Granted, of course." Anthony agrees.

"The new Romney Marsh sheep are acclimating well, my lord," Coombs adds. "Only one case of foot scald, easily treated."

"Small blessings. What else, Coombs?"

Coombs smirks. "I am afraid two of your tenant farmers have submitted complaints, my lord."

Anthony groans. "Not Smith and Jones again? I was only away for five days...what the devil is wrong now?"

His steward consults his papers. "This time it is also a matter of sheep. John Jones seeks damages for another ewe injured on Martin Smith's lands, whereas Smith asserts Jones is not maintaining his fences adequately or else the animal could not have strayed. In addition, Mrs. Smith accuses John Junior of having stolen plums from her garden and a mince pie from her kitchen window."

"John Junior who assists with my horses? The lad is Gregory's age, isn't he? Rather old for scrumping."

Coombs refrains from comment.

Anthony rubs his temples, trying to stave off the impending headache. "All right. Tell Jones to fix that damn fence once and for all and keep his son in line, or John Junior will lose his position at our stables. I cannot keep a petty thief on staff. But have Smith pay for the ewe or I'll never hear the end of it from either of them."

"Sir." Coombs bows.

"If there's anything remaining, let us address it tomorrow. I need a drink. Or three."

"Only a reminder that you will need to hire day laborers from the parish for the hops harvest next month. I have prepared the usual list of candidates for you."

"Yes, yes, fine. Tomorrow. See yourself out, please."

As Coombs exits, Anthony pours himself some scotch from the library bar in the corner and looks up at his father's portrait. Even Lord Edmund, a font of patience and insight, never managed to broker a permanent peace between Smith and Jones: their two most hotheaded tenants have been feuding over every slight since Anthony was younger than John Junior. And as both men have forty-year leases for their farms, they will likely pass their feud down to their sons, bringing their quarrels to the next viscount as well.

That is, if I even have an heir at this rate! Anthony broods. At least Father had a loving wife to lift his spirits at the end of a tiring day. Yet Penelope thinks I would be better off finding some dainty heiress to double the family coffers, as if that would answer my needs. It was never a lady's fortune I sought. But to only have 500 for a dowry! Considering that Mother brought 30,000 with her when she married Father…

"What would we do for our own daughters' dowries, Father?" Anthony asks out loud. "If the funds cannot be set aside from the Featherington contribution as planned."

Lord Edmund's portrait smiles enigmatically down at him.

"If I divert the timber profits towards investment instead of farming, if I forego the luxury of purchasing new hunters every other Season, and if my wife does not seek to constantly redecorate Bridgerton House to match Society's every design whim…after all, Penelope does prefer a classic style…"

Anthony pulls his account ledger across the desk towards himself, and begins to figure.

A few hours later, the 9th Viscount Bridgerton has made considerable progress toward drafting a potential financial future, digressing with only two or three daydreams of Penelope on his arm in the fields and the lingering concern that she will refuse to hear him out. Anthony is just thinking of pausing his arithmetic to consult Plato and the ancients on persuasive rhetorical techniques when there is a knock at the library door.

"Coombs, I said tomorrow –" Anthony sighs.

But it is not his steward but one of their younger footmen, nervously peering into the room.

"My lord, I am instructed to valet you for dinner, if you please."

"What?" Anthony frowns. "No need for that, tell Cook I will take a tray here in the library. You can go."

The lad looks alarmed. "Please, my lord. Lady Bridgerton sent me."

"And do a viscount's orders not trump his mother's?" Anthony grumbles. "I have work to do."

While the footman stammers anxiously in response, their butler appears behind him, obviously having anticipated such resistance.

"My lord, Lady Bridgerton asked that you be informed that your family is having company this evening. Although she did not initially expect you to be here, your presence among the gentlemen will round out the numbers nicely," the butler explains. "It would also permit Miss Francesca to join the meal. Your mother said that surely you would not wish to deprive your sister of the opportunity to practice her social graces before coming out next Season."

Anthony slumps in defeat, outmaneuvered by his mother once again. "And which of our illustrious neighbors will be joining us tonight?"

"Your uncle the Reverend Ledger and your Aunt Ledger, my lord, and Dr. Flinders the county physician."

Dr. Flinders is a tedious old prattler, but it could have been worse… Anthony thinks longingly of another drink, but it would be unwise.

"Very well. I ought to rid myself of this travel dust at last anyway. Tell Mother I will be there."

"Yes, my lord."

By the time he is suitably dressed for dinner, Anthony is rather hungry, having unwittingly not eaten anything since setting out from the inn this morning. Perhaps I might play the stoic landlord and concentrate on my soup instead of conversation…at least these familiar faces will not expect much from me socially.

Anthony enters the hall just in time to greet his guests and take his mother's arm to escort her into the dining room. She raises an expectant eyebrow at him as they enter.

"Well?" Lady Violet murmurs. "I have not received an update from you all afternoon. Are we to have a happy announcement regarding your future at dinner tonight?"

"Not yet, I am afraid." At his mother's concerned look, he hastens to add: "I have not given up, Mother. It is under negotiation, I assure you."

"I have confidence in that, Anthony. But I had hoped for a quick resolution, and as we are joined by close friends tonight, I opted for a more relaxed seating arrangement..."

Anthony stiffens. "Do you mean –?"

Lady Violet nods as he pulls out her chair. "I placed Penelope next to you, dearest."

In the eleven years since Anthony inherited his title, he has certainly attended more uncomfortable dinners than this. The meal in June during which he informed his family of being jilted ranks quite highly, for one. Equally painful in hindsight are a number of occasions from when he was new to the viscounty and to being a Society leader – appointed by birth if not talent – and had notoriously upset several members of the peerage with his intemperate speech. (It took several Seasons for Lady Jersey to greet him amiably at Almack's, for example, after his overheard comment about her teeth.) By comparison, making polite conversation with both Penelope and his aunt through five courses ought to seem small beer.

Anthony is aided in the task by another display of Penelope's excellent Society manners. She evinces no visible dismay at the arrangements, quietly taking her seat with only a tinge of pink about her complexion. As she met the Ledgers on her previous visit to Aubrey Hall, she quite reasonably focuses her attention on her other seatmate, Dr. Flinders.

Lady Violet and Francesca send sympathetic glances their way as they chat with Uncle Henry at the other end of the table. Though Eloise is less obviously encouraging, at least she has the sense not to comment in front of Dr. Flinders, who appears not to have recognized Penelope as Anthony's former fiancée. Their physician is too focused on reciting a list of the latest ailments in the parish to notice any awkwardness. And no conversation can lull for long when he is part of it!

Penelope seems content to listen to Dr. Flinders' medical accomplishments, so Anthony turns to his Aunt Catherine instead, asking about his only cousin's progress at Oxford.

"Our son is enjoying himself thoroughly," his aunt informs him. "Only rusticated the once for youthful hijinks! James assures us he is now the image of sobriety and will be quite prepared for his ordination next spring."

"Then he is still set on a career in the Church?"

"With Henry as example, how could James desire a different path?" Aunt Catherine says proudly. "We have hopes of him securing a prestigious pulpit. James ought to be a credit to whichever congregation he receives, but the Dean of his college assures us he has quite the potential to rise over time. Imagine, the Archbishop James Ledger! How well that sounds!"

Anthony leans forward. "It sounds very well indeed. If I can be of any influence in securing a first position for James, please let me know. Uncle Henry sacrificed his own career for the Bridgertons a decade ago, so it is the least I can do. Your husband might have been the Bishop of Manchester by now, but instead his talents molder here, thoroughly wasted in sleepy Kent."

Aunt Catherine waves her soup spoon at him. "Nonsense, sir. Henry and I have been quite happy to settle at the Aubrey Hall vicarage, it is much cleaner and quieter than Manchester. Do try not be so very Gothic in your apologies."

"Visigothic, surely," a voice murmurs at his elbow.

Anthony glances in amused surprise at Penelope, but she is resolutely facing Dr. Flinders once more, by all appearances captivated by his discourses on balancing the humors.

He bites back a laugh and turns his own attention to the roast grouse being served.

"Are these birds from your shooting at Clyvedon Castle this week, nephew?" Aunt Catherine asks as she considers her plate.

Anthony nods, picking up his fork.

"I have heard that Clyvedon's park is spectacular," she continues. "Designed by Humphrey Repton himself! What did you think of it?"

While Anthony is not much of a botanist, he manages to dredge up enough polite nothings about landscape design to last them through the rest of the meal. Penelope even offers his aunt a thoughtful comment or two about growing roses when Dr. Flinders pauses his monologue to enjoy dessert. Anthony marvels that no bystander might sense that Penelope was anything but pleased to be sitting next to him. He wishes he had a modicum of her public composure.

As the final course is cleared away, Anthony thinks with reluctance of having to linger another hour with his uncle and Dr. Flinders in the dining room over port, but fortunately his mother has mercy on him at last.

"We are much too intimate a group to continue to stand on ceremony," she declares to the table. "Instead of separating the ladies and gentleman, let us have a cozy party in the family sitting room instead. Who might I call upon for a game of whist?"

"You must allow me to partner you, Lady Bridgerton," Dr. Flinders insists.

"And you, Henry? Surely you and Catherine make a competitive pair."

"My wife and I are in all things well matched," the vicar says, smiling. "We would be happy to join."

"Excellent, then we have a complete table," says Lady Violet. "The young people might amuse themselves in charades or conversation."

Anthony sits back in admiration of his mother's deft machinations. Unfortunately, even Lady Violet is no match for Penelope's disinclination to continue conversing with her former intended. By the time everyone has adjourned upstairs to the sitting room, Penelope has begged a headache and slipped away to retire early for the evening.

Anthony frets on the window seat in mild despair. Must I wait until tomorrow to catch her alone again? Need I pretend to care about playing charades with my sisters instead?

Eloise slips onto the seat next to him before he can sink further into gloom. "You might go after her, you know."

"And abandon our guests?" Anthony doubts.

Eloise scoffs quietly. "Uncle Henry and Aunt Catherine can be placated if it results in making Penelope a member of our family. They are quite fans of her, as they should be. And old Flinders will never notice as long as he has someone for an audience."

"So you are championing my suit at last, hey? Would that you had convinced her to trust me before I arrived."

"What do you think I have been trying to do all summer?" Eloise asks. "Why do you think I invited Penelope here in the first place? I figured I would have a better chance at persuasion in person than by letter. Did you offer for her again today? She would not discuss your conversation with me in detail."

"I did." Anthony sighs. "But she is as stubborn as a Bridgerton. I am unused to having my desires checked so strongly."

"All the more reason she should become a Bridgerton, to keep you humble."

"I agree, but she still does not."

"Brother…" Eloise's expression becomes uncharacteristically wary. "Is Penelope correct about the money? Does her lack of dowry pose an issue for the estate?"

"No, not an insurmountable one," he tells her. "I have spent the afternoon confirming it, in fact. I suppose I will try to convince her of that tomorrow. Perhaps if we are both early to breakfast."

"Ugh, wait until morning? Absolutely not." Eloise glances around the sitting room, noting that its other occupants are thoroughly engrossed in their activities. "Tell Mama you have further business with Coombs to address and act like you are heading to Father's library. Only go to the third-floor schoolroom instead, and I will trick Penelope into joining you."

"The schoolroom? Why there?"

"Because Hyacinth and her governess should be asleep by now, so you won't be disturbed. And my aim would be too obvious if I brought her to the library."

Anthony bows to her from his seat. "Thank you, Eloise. I am grateful for your creative planning."

"Please remember you said that the next time you wish to scold me for my schemes," she replies. "I would go much further to see my sister in spirit become my sister in truth. Leave now, and we will follow shortly. I promise."

Anthony has not visited the Aubrey Hall schoolroom in many years, but its whitewashed walls and worn furniture still feel as familiar as a private parlor at White's. The dog-eared primers and children's stories on the sagging shelves first belonged to him, after all. He heads to the faded globe on its mahogany stand and spins it idly, struck anew at how little of the world he has seen in three decades of living.

When the door opens behind him and he hears a familiar gasp of surprise, Anthony foregoes turning around immediately, opting to continue perusing the globe. "What would you say to Athens, my lady?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Athens, over Paris or Venice. I am quite envious of Colin for having seen the Parthenon in person. Could you be satisfied with the antiquities for our honeymoon?"

"Lord Bridgerton! I thought…I thought we had settled this in the conservatory."

"I do not admit defeat so easily, madam. Perhaps we might visit Ithaca instead, for your Grecian namesake. Like Odysseus's wife, you are superb under social pressure. Though I suspect your sister Prudence is better with a loom."

"So you still persist in fantasies," Penelope says.

Anthony looks over at her then, in time to see Eloise quietly stepping back and shutting the door behind her as she leaves.

"Hardly. Fantasies are fleeting, and my affection for you is a lasting, earthly thing. Shall I offer for you a third time, to prove it? I have the ring with me in my waistcoat pocket."

She sits on the nearest chair with a sigh. "Unnecessary, my lord. It is not your affection I doubt."

"It is my capacity for reason, I know." Anthony moves to take the empty chair next to her. "Perhaps I might propose to you with logic instead? It will take me some time to complete the new marriage settlements, but I might summarize the gist for you now."

"New settlements! But I have only –"

"Only 500, yes. You were quite clear on that point, sweetheart. I have accounted for that fully."

"How?" Penelope asks. "What are you seeing in the mathematics that I could not?"

"O ye of little faith, I am seeing you," he tells her fondly. "You are so afraid, my lady – rather ironic behavior for the risk-taker who started Lady Whistledown. Of the two of us, I am the cautious investor, so you must trust that I am betting on a sure thing."

"But – but what of our children? Our daughters' dowries, our younger sons' portions…where would that money come from?"

Anthony gestures meaningly at his property through the schoolroom window. "With four thousand acres at our disposal, I do believe we might find a way to distribute its income without threatening the estate. Not to mention my considerable accounts in the Funds, which can certainly supply your pin-money without assistance."

She presses her lips together, unready to concede.

"Penelope, I plan to follow my father's strategy in this regard. Every year he would set aside a portion of his income to add to his children's trusts, a practice I have continued for each of my siblings until they come of age and would do for my own children as well. Your contribution would merely be the start of their security, while the interest compounds over time. It would take only a few minor adjustments to our family's mode of living for the next generation of Bridgertons to be quite comfortable."

"Oh!"

"Of course, if you would prefer to apply your dowry to something else…" He cocks his head to the side, smiling gently. "I thought perhaps that 500 could also fund a new publishing venture for my talented viscountess. Assuming she avoids libelous subjects, her formidable pen might bring substantial profits to her family. The choice would be yours, my dear."

"Anthony…I must be dreaming!" She covers her face with her hands again.

Anthony pulls his chair closer to hers. "You asked me in June what I sought in a wife. I once had quite a long list of insipid qualities, but I never included 'being an heiress' on it. Riches might be useful, but what of the lady who brings them?" He leans forward. "What if that heiress turned out to be a spendthrift or a gambler? Far better to wed a less wealthy lady who demonstrates fiscal caution and tremendous good sense, except in assessing her own worth."

It is evident Penelope is crying softly behind her hands, so Anthony pushes his luck by placing an arm around her shoulders. When she leans into him, he takes it as encouragement to continue:

"I do have high standards for a viscountess, you know. Not simply a partner for the estate: I want much more than that. I want someone who eases my worries and whose worries I might ease in return. I want someone who knows all my faults but for some reason still cares for me. Someone who smooths over my rough edges on social occasions while calling me to task in private so that I might learn. Not a flawless gem, but a person alongside whom I might grow.

"I want someone with excellent taste in art and literature, a keen judge of character and a wit besides. Someone whose subtle style only enhances her natural beauty. And above all, I want someone who sees my siblings for who they are and loves them as I do. It is a tall order to expect so much of one woman, but I do think I have found her."

Penelope shudders slightly as she continues to cry.

"Well, my lady? I would get down on my knees once more, but I am reluctant to release you in order to do so. You might try to leave me again, and I could not bear it."

Penelope laughs rather wetly into his chest. "First Athens, then Venice," she says, slightly muffled. "If you could be parted from your estate duties for a full month, we might visit both."

Anthony exhales in relief. "Then – you will have me?"

"How could I say no to Greece?" She looks up at him, flushed pink with emotion. "I must learn from your courageous example: when I found the one my soul loves, I held him and would not let him go."

Anthony kisses her at last, all thoughts flying out of his head.

Much too soon, Penelope leans back from him (the happiest man on earth), clearly struck by another concern.

"What is it, my love?" Anthony smooths a lock of hair behind her ear.

"When do you wish to have the wedding?"

"As soon as you like."

"I would like it tomorrow," she admits – an eagerness for which he must reward her with another kiss.

"Anthony! Enough!" she eventually protests, catching her breath. "I meant that you must still write to Mama and compose the new settlements, but the thought of waiting until next Season is untenable. Nor does a grand Society affair seem fitting now."

"October, then? It is only two months away. We might ask my Uncle Henry to marry us here at Aubrey Hall once the autumn harvest concludes. After Michaelmas, the estate will not need me so diligently and I could concentrate fully on my bride."

"Are you not already concentrating?" Penelope raises an eyebrow. "You have set me aflame again, you know."

"I will do more than that soon," Anthony promises. "Only not here in the schoolroom. These tiny chairs are too confining for what I have in mind."

"Tease!" She swats him halfheartedly and he smirks. "October would be perfect. Mama could move to Edinburgh afterwards, before the winter cold sets in and makes travel miserable."

"Does your mother really wish to move to Scotland, or has she been making the best of a difficult situation? Would she prefer to live with us instead?"

Penelope goggles at him. "You mean that?"

"I want you to be happy. If inviting her here will please you, I will offer Lady Featherington shelter without hesitation."

"Thank you, but Mama is excited to settle among the Buccleuch clan. And I…well, I would not mind some distance from her as I begin my married life. Just as long as she might visit us when she likes."

"Also Prudence and the Finches as well. We shall have plenty of room, since Colin keeps making noise about obtaining his own bachelor lodgings, and Gregory is for Eton this fall."

"You'd offer Gregory's chambers to my sisters? But he will need them between school terms!" she laughs. "Besides, doesn't Aubrey Hall have nine guest suites? It would be quite the pointless sacrifice."

"Truly, you are the partner I need in a wife. Such attention to the details I so often miss in my haste."

Penelope leans back against his chest. "How did I become so lucky? At the start of the Season, I was sure I was destined for spinsterhood. I could not imagine I would find a reliable gentleman who cared naught for our family standing, or our lack of funds…"

"This again. When it is I who have had all the luck!" Anthony says. "I shall have to continue repeating myself until you believe it: love's not love when it is mingled with regards that stands aloof from the entire point."

"King Lear," she says, her bright eyes filling once more.

"Do not tell me you have forgotten the next line."

"Anthony, darling!"

"You know it," he presses. "What the King of France says of Cordelia."

"Yes," Penelope whispers, smiling through her tears. "Yes, of course I know it: she is herself a dowry."

Notes:

"Grouse Shooting", an undated watercolor drawing by Edmund Gill (1780-1868).

Anthony jumps out of the curricle: A curricle was an expensive two-seater carriage that required a lot of skill to drive: the sportscar of its time. The stagecoach that Penelope took, on the other hand, would accept up to fourteen paying passengers in total and stop every ten miles along the road to change horses. To put it in modern terms, Anthony sped home to Aubrey Hall in his Porsche and Penelope traveled there from London by Greyhound bus.

A Mr. Chawleigh is to retrieve our entire collection of furniture: Mr. Chawleigh is the father of the heroine in A Civil Contract by Georgette Heyer, whose own drawing room aesthetic might seem familiar...

O ye of little faith: See Matthew 8:16.

When I found the one my soul loves: See Song of Solomon 3:4.

Love's not love/she is herself a dowry: See William Shakespeare's King Lear Act I Scene I.

Chapter 16

Notes:

When ERNest first mentioned Penthony to me in February, I was barely in the Bridgerton fandom – I just thought it'd be fun to consider what kind of scenario might push such an unlikely pair into their Happy Ever After. We had no idea that my answer would take five months to complete and become the most popular story I've ever written...

Thank you to all the readers who have joined me on this journey, especially those of you who shared such amazing feedback in AO3 comments and elsewhere. The epilogue should be up next week.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

On the evening before her wedding, Penelope sits on the window seat in Aubrey Hall's Bluebell Suite, anxiously knotting the skirts of her nightdress and staring out onto the grounds of the estate that will soon be partly hers. Not that she can see much of it, of course, for the October sunset occurred a few hours ago and the candlelit window mostly reflects her own troubled expression back at her. Penelope has been fretting aimlessly ever since dinner concluded and she'd returned to her guest chambers. Although it would be wildly improper, she wishes Anthony were here tonight with her to calm her nerves.

Ridiculous! she tells herself. When he will be beside you every night after tomorrow! You ought to be made of sterner stuff, Penelope, or how will you manage marrying a viscount? Marrying Anthony will be wonderful, but sharing his title suddenly feels rather intimidating. Becoming a viscountess has expectations – four thousand acres of them – that even the most accomplished young lady might fear to meet.

I am much less shy in public than before, but to plan all my own formal dinners, to host a coming-out ball for Francesca next Season…oh dear. Penelope rests her head against the window and sighs. At this rate, her mind will never settle enough to let her fall asleep. If only there were something to distract her from her thoughts!

"My lady?" Alice says from behind her. "Your mother is here."

Penelope turns to see Lady Portia entering the room. In the spirit of her upcoming move to Edinburgh, her mother is wearing a tartan dressing gown over her nightdress.

"Couldn't sleep, little one?" Lady Portia asks softly. "I expected as much. Come sit on the bed with me."

Penelope joins her gratefully. "I am all nerves tonight, Mama. Silly of me, but I cannot seem to calm myself."

"You do hate being the center of attention. But you needn't fear making an imperfect impression on your guests, for everyone attending the wedding breakfast is an intimate friend of the families."

"I am not worried about the breakfast, more…what comes after."

"Ah." Lady Portia takes her hand and pats it. "Understandably so. That is what I wished to speak to you about this evening."

"Really?" Penelope straightens her shoulders eagerly. Perhaps her mother might offer advice about how to lead a Society household?

Lady Portia takes a deep breath. "Yes. The wedding night is a momentous event for any young lady, Penelope, but it need not frighten you…"

As her mother begins to explain the mechanics of the marital act, Penelope's mouth falls open, torn between mortification and amusement. Of all the topics! And she waited until the last possible second to educate me!

Penelope struggles to maintain her composure as Lady Portia continues speaking. Thank goodness she had the foresight to ask Madame Delacroix about the matter months ago, for Lady Portia's brisk approach is focused solely on anatomy and efficiency. These suggestions could only be of use to a lady who wished to endure her marital duties rather than enjoy them! Penelope feels a stab of sorrow for her mother, for what it reveals about her parents' marriage. She'd known they were not a love match but this explanation is discouraging, to say the least.

Penelope flushes pink as she considers her own soon-to-be husband, how little wary she is of Anthony in that regard. Why, he is just as concerned with my feelings as his own! In fact, only yesterday in the stables – after a pleasant morning's ride and the dismissal of his groom – Anthony had used both his hands and mouth to offer her a particularly delightful new feeling. Penelope presses her legs together and squirms a little at the thought of it.

Fortunately, Lady Portia reads her movements as discomfort rather than anticipation. "It is a lot to consider, I know. Do you have any questions for me, Penelope?"

Penelope shakes her head quickly. "No, none."

"If you're sure?"

"Yes, thank you, Mama. I – I shall have to think it over. All this new information, I mean."

"Quite. It becomes easier with time, I promise. And once your babies begin arriving, it will all be worth it." Lady Featherington smiles wistfully.

Penelope casts around desperately for a change of topic. "Sheep! What about the sheep, Mama?"

Her mother blinks. "What have sheep to do with this? Are you thinking of giving birth as similar to the lambing? I am sure Lord Bridgerton will have the very best accoucheur available for you, not at all comparable to some animal surgeon."

Penelope cannot help but laugh. "No, I meant – do you have any advice for raising sheep? As actual sheep, not as analogy. Anthony is forever grumbling about troubles with his flocks, you know. Perhaps he could benefit from the Buccleuch family wisdom."

Lady Portia's smile broadens. "Well! I would be happy to assist in that regard. Tell his steward to send me a list of the concerns and I will see what suggestions I can offer. It would make your grandfather proud to see Scots techniques flourishing in England once again."

"Will it make you proud, Mama?" Penelope exhales, then lets loose her worries all at once. "What if I cannot make you or anyone else proud? In truth, I am less afraid of – of the bedroom or of bearing children than of failing as viscountess. Anthony carries so much pressure from the estate and I wish to assist him, but what if I am not good enough? If I cannot live up to expectations? His mother is so poised, so self-assured."

"Why on earth would you not be good enough?" her mother snaps. "What does Violet Bridgerton possess that you do not, except years of experience?"

Penelope twists her skirts again. "I know – it is only –"

"Remove those thoughts from your head at once! The Bridgertons are a distinguished old family but they are not your betters. What do I always say?"

"Featheringtons never falter in the face of foolishness," Penelope repeats slowly. "But who is being foolish here?"

"You are, little one." Lady Portia reaches out to smooth her daughter's hair. "If you can secretly run a gossip broadsheet for three years under my nose, what can't you do?"

Not ten minutes after Lady Portia leaves, another knock sounds on the door.

"Your sister, my lady," Alice says, ushering Philippa in.

"Pippa?" Penelope asks in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

(Had she predicted any sororal visitors tonight, it would have been Prudence. Penelope had not achieved similar intimacy with her middle sister before she left home, for Philippa had focused all her attention on her fiancé. And Penelope had been too distracted by her own concerns to take interest in anything regarding Albion Finch, one of the blandest gentlemen in the Ton.)

"I came to rescue you, silly," Philippa laughs, sitting down next to Penelope on the bed and pulling her bright orange shawl more tightly around herself. "Brr! Even with a fire in every room, I am chilled to the bone! How funny that these grand old estate homes let in much more of the cold than does our newly-built Finch Park."

Penelope is still lost. "You came to rescue me? From what?"

"Mama just left, didn't she?"

"Yes…?"

"Well, do you have any questions?"

"Questions about – oh!" Penelope flushes again and flops backwards onto her bed, covering her face with a pillow.

Philippa pats her shoulder sympathetically. "I remember the talk she gave me before my wedding in the spring. Awful, wasn't it?"

Penelope lets out a muffled groan. "So depressing! And Mama thought she was being helpful!"

"Hence why I am here, in case you wished to clarify anything. If perhaps you might have had any concerns you did not wish to share with her."

Penelope lowers the pillow and looks over at her five-months-married sister, very touched. "How thoughtful of you, Philippa."

"Intercourse is really not as unpleasant as Mama makes it sound," Philippa tells her. "Especially with practice, and especially if you find him attractive. It can feel quite lovely, actually."

"Oh, I know."

"You do?"

"I mean – er –" Penelope stammers, now as red as her hair.

"And I thought Lord Bridgerton was so concerned with propriety! As stiff as a starched cravat!" Philippa exclaims gleefully.

"That is – we've gone a bit further than kissing, but not – not that. Not yet."

"I see. Good for you for exploring! Albion and I certainly didn't wait until the wedding."

"Pippa!" Penelope sits up, now shocked herself.

Philippa giggles. "We were engaged for a full year, Pen. A very long time! After the banns were announced in May, I suggested that we'd been patient enough and he agreed. It made our wedding night even more enjoyable, since we already knew what we liked."

"But – but weren't you worried about becoming pregnant? Look at cousin Marina!"

"Oh, we were careful! You can be careful and still have fun, you know."

"Yes." Penelope squirms again, remembering.

Her sister laughs again. "Clearly you do know! I suppose Lord Bridgerton is rather handsome, if you can get past that gloomy expression of his. Too sour-faced for me! Pen, the act might be a little awkward first but it will become wonderful. And if you think of some questions later, you might write to me at any time."

Penelope reaches over to take Philippa's hand in hers. "Thank you, truly. I promise I will write, and not only about that. I should like to keep in better touch with you in the future, that we might become closer than we were before."

Philippa squeezes their clasped hands in response.

Penelope takes a deep breath. "Pippa…I do have a question, actually."

"Is it about what to do with your teeth? That is also a matter of practice, of how you hold your lips."

"No, it is about being a hostess – what do you mean, with my teeth?" Penelope breaks off, confused.

"Write me when you return from your honeymoon, if you still have not figured it out," Philippa says with a smirk. "What about being a hostess?"

Penelope sets her confusion aside for the moment and returns to her main concern. "How large is your neighborhood in Reading? The Finches are well-respected in the area, I am sure."

"Yes, we dine with five-and-twenty families, and everybody says the Finches are quite the head of our little society."

"How did you become comfortable in the rôle? To always be in the public eye, observed in all your decisions as you host your social engagements and lead the neighborhood."

Philippa's smile dims a little. "Oh, well. I am not exactly the leader of the neighborhood, Pen."

"You aren't? Who could take precedence over Mrs. Finch?"

"The other Mrs. Finch could. Albion's Mama, that is." Philippa looks down. "We live with his parents, you see. My mother-in-law said that the idea of our own little cottage was nonsense when they had plenty of room at Finch Park. When any local dances or fêtes are held, I am always second in precedence to her, and she still oversees the arrangements for our household. So I have not had the opportunity to be critiqued for my decisions."

"Oh Pippa, how difficult. That must try your patience sorely."

"I do not love it, but what can one do?" Philippa shrugs, and perks up once more. "Besides, I never dreamed of being a grand Society lady, just being happy with my husband. And I am very happy with Albion. He is such a wit – we laugh together all the time!"

"Why, how lovely for you. What do you like to laugh about?"

"Would you believe it? He is a fan of Shakespeare, like you!"

Penelope blinks. And I'd thought him barely literate... "Shakespeare, really? Er – which is his favorite play?"

"Oh, I do not remember the names of any of them. Albion is the brain, not me. But he is always repeating such clever puns. I would have paid much more attention to our lessons if I'd known the classics had so many funny things to say about pricks!"

Penelope flushes again while her sister laughs.

A third knock on the door barely disturbs Philippa's mirth: "Your eldest sister," murmurs Alice, announcing Prudence.

Prudence enters the room, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Philippa sprawled on the bed, still giggling. "Isn't this cozy?"

"Pru!" Penelope says gratefully. At least Prudence will not wish to discuss…anatomy. "Come sit with us."

"Yes, Prudence, do tell us your thoughts on enjoying one's wedding night," Philippa says. "Though I suppose you'd prefer a needle's prick to a man's?"

Penelope rests her head in her hands.

"I came to check on Penelope, as I thought she might wish for company," Prudence replies. "But if you would prefer to be ridiculous, I shall leave you to it."

"No, please stay!" Penelope insists, looking up. "In fact, would you both mind sleeping here tonight? I should prefer to have you with me than be alone." Even Pippa at her most frivolous is better than anxiously fretting at the window.

"In the same bed with you? We never did that even as little girls."

"So why not do it the once now? Before we all head our separate ways."

"Oh yes!" Philippa says, sitting up. "Aren't you for Bath next week, Pru? I am so curious about this Miss Danbury! What is she like?"

"Go tell your husband you're leaving him to his own devices tonight and then I will consider your questions," their eldest sister orders.

"Aye aye, Captain Featherington!" Philippa salutes her and bounces out of the room cheerfully.

Penelope looks over at Prudence, thin and proud in her yellow chemise, decorated all along the neckline in pink roses and camellias. "Our old garden," Penelope says in surprise, recognizing the pattern. "You embroidered our Grosvenor Square garden onto your nightdress!"

Prudence quirks her mouth in an almost-smile. "Yes, practicing for my new rôle. Miss Danbury's apartments on the Royal Crescent do not include the grounds for a garden, and she is not strong enough to visit the parks in Bath herself. That is why she has hired me, Pen: I am to bring nature indoors for her."

"Pru, I am so happy for you! I hope Miss Danbury knows she found a prize – I am sure you will bring her so much joy through color."

Prudence tosses her head and the compliment aside. "I ought to bring Aubrey Hall some color as well. These chambers only layer blue upon blue, everywhere you look. No variety!"

"It is known as the Bluebell Suite," Penelope points out. "And the Bridgertons love blue."

"More's the pity."

"It's not a sin to prefer a simpler style! A single color can be quite restful on the eyes."

"I suppose their family appreciates the visual tedium to balance their constant noise. Are they always as loud as they were at dinner?"

"Often much louder, in fact." Penelope chuckles. "Lady Bridgerton threatened the siblings into good behavior to make a favorable impression on their new in-laws. Evidently they did not succeed!"

"I do not have to enjoy their company to be glad for my sister, that you are marrying a gentleman who has proved he knows your worth. You will be the new Lady Bridgerton in twelve hours' time."

Penelope nods, subdued again at the reminder.

"What's the matter? If you are having doubts about him again –"

"No! Merely…merely trying to do what Mama suggested, and worry less about taking on a viscountess's duties. About whether I can live up to the standard Anthony's mother has set. Mama said it was foolish to think I would fail."

Prudence shrugs. "You might fail at it the first time. Is that so awful?"

"Of course I do not want to fail!"

"Coward," her older sister says affectionately, slipping an arm around Penelope's waist. "We learn from failure, do we not? My first attempt at embroidery design was a terrible mess, and I am sure the first draft of Whistledown was dreadful too. All new endeavors are difficult at first."

Penelope rests her head on Prudence's shoulder. "Pru, aren't you nervous about your own new endeavor? What if you and Miss Danbury are not a good match?"

"And what if we are a perfect match? How will I know unless I try?"

"You are so wise, sister."

"Naturally, I am the eldest."

Penelope laughs. "Anthony is the eldest too, and he does not assert wisdom because of it. Not lately, anyway."

"Of course not," Prudence sniffs. "A man's insight is always inferior to a woman's."

"Still such a misandrist, Prudence?" Philippa asks as she reenters the room, joining them again on the bed. "The waters at Bath won't be able to cure that man-hatred for you – the city is nothing but old women these days."

"I am well aware, thank you. Why else would I have chosen it?"

"Does Miss Danbury feel the same?"

Prudence pauses. "We have rarely discussed men in our letters. But as she dislikes noise and fuss as much as I do, I must imagine so. We are like-minded in many tastes."

"You met her in August, did you not? Is she very pretty?" Philippa asks.

Prudence rolls her eyes. "You focus on such trivial things, Pip. Why not ask about my upcoming work?"

"That means yes," Philippa whispers loudly to Penelope.

"She is a Danbury, after all," Penelope whispers loudly back. "Lady Danbury has such an elegance to her – she must have been quite the Diamond in her day. Fitting that her niece would take after her in looks."

"Can we not talk about something else?" Prudence asks grumpily. "Penelope's unjustified lack of confidence, her bridal gown, the Bridgertons' dismal taste in décor. So many more interesting topics."

"Yes, it is so very odd that they center only one color in the furnishings here," Philippa agrees. "Nothing but blue! Pen, I did not have the chance to see your gown before I left London – please do not tell me it is all Bridgerton blue as well."

Prudence smirks.

"No, green and white," Penelope says, sidestepping the critique of a perfectly lovely shade. "A spring-green satin bodice and an ivory satin underdress overlaid with white crape muslin and Brussels lace at the hem."

"Green suits you, but that sounds so very plain, Penelope," Philippa laments.

"I like plain. I mean understated!"

"She refused any other details but silver trim on the neckline and sleeves, hardly even visible," Prudence says. "At least Madame Delacroix convinced her to add another frill of lace to the back at the last minute."

"Brussels lace is so very expensive to import, and as my veil is made of it also…"

"I would wrap myself in such lace head-to-toe if I could afford it," Philippa daydreams. "I hope your access to the Bridgerton fortune means you will not disappoint us in jewelry as well!"

"Only a pair of aquamarine earrings, from the parure Anthony gave me. The green bodice and blue gems do not exactly go together, but…" Penelope raises her chin. "But I like them together, and they will make me happy on my wedding day."

"Two strong shades must always go together, for they enhance each other in their vibrancy," Prudence declares.

"Just earrings?" Philippa sighs. "Then when shall we see you in your full glory as viscountess? And what use is a tiara if you don't wear it?"

"But I shall wear it, Pippa, just not to my wedding. I thought to save the tiara and necklace from the set for the first ball that Bridgerton House hosts next Season."

"I suppose I will read about that afterwards in the next version of Whistledown, whoever may write it."

Penelope frowns. "Read about it? Why wouldn't you be at the event?"

"Oh! But Albion and I…he is only an untitled country squire," Philippa says, unusually tentative. "Will the Bridgertons wish us to attend? We are not exactly high Ton."

"If I am to be Lady Bridgerton, I shall invite whomever I wish to my parties. Especially my family, Pippa!"

"Very good," Prudence says, giving her an approving nod. "Keep projecting that sense of superiority and you'll handle the viscounty with ease."

"Is that all it is?" Penelope wonders. "Confidence is acting as if you have the right of it even when you're unsure?"

"But you shall absolutely have the right as Viscountess Bridgerton to make such decisions for yourself. Who's going to challenge you, that man of yours who cares nothing for Society opinions? You ought to do exactly as you wish at all times, and let the naysayers in the Ton go hang," Prudence says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Wouldn't Lord Bridgerton's Mama object?" Philippa asks. "She has been the head of their family for so long, surely she will wish to have input on certain matters."

Penelope considers that for a moment. "I suppose I have quite the opposite challenge as you, Pippa. Anthony's mother says that she will remove to the Aubrey Hall Dower House once we return from our honeymoon next month. She is happy to leave me to the responsibility…though she did suggest I might turn to her for support if needed."

Prudence raises an eyebrow at her. "Ah, and with an estate as big as this one, I am sure the Dower House is practically in Wales. You will have to post her a letter by the Royal Mail to receive any advice."

"It is a mere fifteen-minute carriage ride from the main house," Penelope admits.

"There you have it."

"Pen, how lucky you are!" Philippa says. "To have her nearby but not living with you!"

"I suppose I am. But I think I am even more lucky to have both of you as family. Thank you for being here with me tonight, I am feeling so much calmer."

Philippa reaches over to hug Penelope tightly. "What are sisters for? How could we not support you on a most important occasion?"

Prudence leans over as well and sets her chin on Penelope's head. "And who but a Featherington could best support another Featherington? We are a very special breed."

"Three weird sisters, hand in hand," Penelope offers with a smile. "Together, we show the best of our delights."

"Is that from the Greeks?" Philippa wrinkles her nose.

"Macbeth," Penelope tells her, laughing. "Ask your husband about it. Though I am afraid that play has few witticisms about, er, anatomy."

"Huh! Where's the fun in that?"

"It's rather late, we ought to go to sleep," Prudence says, releasing her sisters. "Penelope, you will want to be well-rested for tomorrow morning."

"Indeed, for tomorrow evening you will surely be kept up all night!" Philippa leers.

In response, two pillows hit her in the face.

THE MORNING POST

5 October 1814

BIRTH – On Monday, at Legerwood House in Mount Street, the Lady of Lord C. Buckhaven, of the diplomatic corps, of a son and heir.

MARRIED – This morning at Aubrey Hall Parish Church by the Rev. Henry Ledger, Lord Anthony, Viscount Bridgerton of Aubrey Hall, Kent to Penelope Anne, youngest daughter of the late Lord Archibald, Baron Featherington, of Upper Wimpole Street, London.

DIED – On the 2nd inst, at Stanyon in Lincolnshire, Lord H. W. Frant, Earl of St Erth, in the 64th year of his age. He is succeeded in his title and estates by his eldest son, the Right Hon. Gervase Frant, now Earl of St Erth.

The autumn wind blusters strongly as the newlyweds set off from Aubrey Hall in Anthony's curricle, but Penelope takes little note of it. Between the wool blanket covering her lap, the fur at her pelisse collar and – most importantly – Anthony's arm around her, she feels deliciously warm.

"Guiding the horses does not require both hands?" Penelope asks curiously. She has not ridden in this carriage before and it is a rather highly-sprung frame…

Anthony snorts. "Some driver I would be, if I couldn't lead my own team one-handed down a path on my lands that they have taken hundreds of times. But if my arm is burdensome for you, I might remove it."

"Heaven forbid! It seems I have much more need of it than you." Penelope says, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Her husband presses a kiss to her bonnet in lieu of reply.

Penelope watches the fields as they pass by, wondering how long it will take her to know every corner of their estate as well as Anthony does. A year? Three years? She looks forward to finding out.

She has hardly had time to process that thought when they are pulling up in front of the Dower House, the stately little five-bedroom property where they are to spend the evening before setting sail for Greece on the morrow.

We could remain at Aubrey Hall instead if you'd prefer, Anthony had offered. But with the main house full of both our families, I thought somewhere more private might better suit us for our first night… Penelope had agreed immediately.

Once the horses have come to a halt, Anthony leaps down from his curricle, hands the reins to his waiting groom, and offers a hand to assist Penelope in turn.

"Oh dear, I am afraid it is so very steep. However will I manage to step down?" Penelope bats her eyelashes at him, for once in her life playing the coquette.

Anthony laughs and sweeps her into his arms and then over the threshold of the Dower House, where Alice is holding the front door open for them.

It is the work of mere moments to divest themselves of outer garments. Penelope looks around at the front hall in surprise as she removes her gloves.

"Why, the Dower House has hardly any Bridgerton blue in its décor at all!" I must remember to tell my sisters!

"Mmm?" Anthony looks over as he hands his driving cape to Alice. "I suppose it is rather dated in style, but I trust Mother will make the needed improvements when she takes up residence. This place has rarely been opened since my grandmother's passing the year Benedict was born."

"There is something to be said for preserving antiques in situ," Penelope says, pausing in front of an elegant Sheraton sideboard. "For the family history as well as for the saving of expense."

"My frugal bride, at all times considerate of our finances."

"I consider other things too, sir." Penelope drags her gaze down his athletic frame. "I am considering something significant right now."

"Is that so?" Anthony takes a step toward her and she catches her breath happily.

"My lord?" Alice coughs. "Forgive me, there was a note left in your cape pocket. It is marked important."

He raises an eyebrow and turns to take the folded paper from Penelope's maid.

"Thank you, Alice," Penelope says, watching Anthony's lips twitch in a smile as he reads. "You – you might leave us now."

"But my lady, won't you need assistance with undressing for the evening?" Alice asks.

Before Penelope can reply, Anthony refolds the note and beats her to it: "I shall handle that, Alice. You may go."

Penelope shivers in delight.

"Yes, my lord." Alice bobs a curtsy, winks at Penelope, and fades away.

"What was in the note?" Penelope asks.

"Not in the hallway," Anthony shakes his head. "Come, Penelope. Let us put another door between us and the outside world."

Thus they head upstairs together.

Once inside the largest bedchamber – also decorated in shades of green rather than blue – Anthony hands her the paper with a rueful grin. "From Benedict, reminding me of my prior arrogance."

In Benedict's lackadaisical scrawl, Penelope reads:

Anthony's Requirements For A Wife

As Lectured At His Younger Brothers And Recorded By Them For Posterity

15 February 1814

Tolerable

Dutiful

Pleasing face

Acceptable wit

Gentle manners to credit a viscountess

Suitable enough hips for childbearing

At least half a brain

(And in a different ink color which matches the check-marks): Do inform me when you wish her portrait painted. Felicitations, brother. – Ben

Penelope laughs. "What a comfort to know I receive passing marks from the both of you. Though I see that Benedict chose not to comment on my hips."

"I am glad of it," Anthony says, removing his cravat. "For I should hate to duel my brother for his impropriety, and thus delay our honeymoon for his funeral."

Penelope sets the paper on the nearest surface. "And are you satisfied with my hips, Anthony?"

Anthony steps up behind her and she leans back against his chest. He runs his hands down her sides, as if to inspect the body parts in question.

"I am very satisfied, indeed. Though I fear –" Anthony pauses to kiss the nape of her neck and pull her more tightly against himself – "my lady makes hungry where most she satisfies."

Penelope gasps at the feel of him hardening against her lower back. "Well – what a difficult situation to find yourself in, darling." Anthony's hands move back up again to circle her breasts through the delicate fabric of her bodice. "We – we must do something about th – that."

"As it happens, I have a few ideas…"

"Then you m-must tell me them. Oh!"

"I think I'll show you instead, my love."

And without further delay, he does.

Notes:

Penelope's wedding gown, from a fashion plate in the March 1814 edition of Ackermann's Repository of Arts. Wouldn't Nicola Coughlan look gorgeous in it?

The birth and death notices in my edition of The Morning Post (a real daily paper published from 1772-1937) refer to characters in the Georgette Heyer novels Cotillion and A Quiet Gentleman, respectively. Wedding announcements in the Regency era really were that concise - no wonder Society would love a gossip columnist who could fill in all the details!

Three weird sisters/we show the best of our delights: Penelope has combined two lines about the witches in William Shakespeare's Macbeth, Act I Scene III and Act VI Scene I.

My lady makes hungry where most she satisfies: See William Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra Act I Scene III.

Chapter 17: Epilogue

Notes:

We've reached the epilogue at last! Many, many people cheered on this project, but I would especially like to thank:

avocadomoon, ERNest, threemugs, and usuallyproperlyhydrated, delightful fandom friends and excellent writers all;

my own true love, always ready to discuss Regency economics (and sheep);

and of course DB, who spent almost half a year debating character motivation and embroidery; edited every Whistledown column; and constantly reminded me to ignore my outline and let the story dictate the pacing it needed. My first and dearest friend, what a joy it was to write this romance with you.

Chapter Text

23 December 1814

Kent, England

As Christmas draws ever nearer, the weather is showing remarkable coöperation with the spirit of the season. Snow has been falling gently across Southeast England for several hours, blanketing the countryside in layers of precipitation as clean and white as newly-spun lace. But if Mother Nature hoped her frigid bounty would ensure peace on earth and goodwill toward all of Kent, she has been thoroughly thwarted by the Bridgertons. A full household must always bode ill for serenity, and thus Aubrey Hall has echoed with chaos all week. In fact, the first dress rehearsal of Julius Caesar, this year's selection for the Viscount's Men, has just devolved into shouting and tears.

Outraged, Eloise storms into Father's library and slams the door behind her. She is atop the library ladder within seconds, retrieving the relevant volume of Plutarch's Lives from its place on the shelf.

"Ha!" she snarls to herself, staring down at the page. "I knew I was right about the Senate!" Unfortunately the vindication brings little comfort, for she still feels hurt by the lack of respect the family has shown her directorial decisions.

Eloise descends the ladder and throws herself into the nearest armchair, wishing for a cigarillo to calm her nerves. But Benedict has his case with him and he is not speaking to her at the moment, choosing to prioritize the nerves of their youngest siblings. "And I thought him my ally! Bah!"

Eloise is still brooding over the biography of the Roman dictator some minutes later when the library door swings open again. She catches her breath, startled.

For a moment, it seems as if Caesar himself has leapt from the pages to stand in the doorway, cast partly in shadow by the candle sconces in the hall. Then the shadowed figure steps forward – and it is only Anthony after all, clad in a bedsheet toga and with one of Daphne's gold circlets nestled in his hair.

"Come to lecture me, brother?" she accuses him, waving the book in his direction. "Then you should know that Plutarch will confirm all of my staging choices!"

Anthony smiles as he enters the room. "I do know. I have read him too, Eloise."

She squints at him suspiciously. "I suppose you have. Then why did you not correct Gregory when he challenged me? Only one term at Eton and he believes himself the new classics expert in the family!"

"You were doing a sufficient job of dismantling his ego all by yourself. I did not think you needed any assistance." He takes a seat next to her.

"You mean I was too harsh? But Gregory was both wrong and mocking my authority as director!"

"He is also only thirteen," Anthony points out. "And I can assure you that the Eton schoolmasters will provide him ample public humiliation for any errors over the next few years. It is a cherished part of their curriculum."

"Now you mock me by referring to the education that I am barred as a woman from receiving!"

"I am not here to mock you, Eloise. I merely came to see if you were all right."

Eloise pauses. "Really? Not to force me to apologize?"

He shrugs. "Speaking as a veteran hothead, a forced apology will accomplish little for either side. Look, you were in a ferocious mood even before rehearsal began. Would you tell me what this is really about? Somehow I doubt it stems from your passion for Plutarch."

"No." Eloise looks down. "But you would not understand."

Anthony does not argue, choosing instead to take out a cigar and light it, leaning back in his seat.

She huffs an exasperated breath. He blows a smoke ring and continues to wait.

Finally, she explains softly: "At breakfast, Mama and Francesca insisted on discussing spring fashions again. It is not even Christmas yet, and already they are jumping ahead to the London Season. I cannot bear the thought of another year of standing around like a stuffed pincushion, like a – a prize ewe headed to auction. If only Mama would focus on Frannie's debut and permit me to skip it entirely! I should like to be considered 'on the shelf' already!"

"Being on display in front of Society is a remarkably miserable experience."

"It is awful! I tried to explain my reasoning again, but Mama would not listen. And then at rehearsal no one would listen to me either. I am so tired of people not heeding what I say to them! Of dismissing all of my carefully considered ideas as if they were foolish whims!" Eloise sighs. "Sometimes I cannot stand this family, you know. Or the entire rest of the Ton. Their stupid rules are like a noose around my neck."

Anthony chuckles, undaunted by her glare.

"How is that amusing?"

"You thought I wouldn't understand hating Society functions and the marriage mart?" he asks. "It was only last Season that I was hiding in every card room I could find. I had hoped choosing the Diamond would hasten an end to the agony."

Eloise snorts. "That's true. But at least you were seeking a wife last year, so there was a point to your presence at those silly fêtes. I still do not wish to be married at all."

"What do you wish for instead?"

"I…I don't know," she admits. "Something other than endless parties or sitting at home all day with babies and tea cups and – and embroidery. Something in which my opinions are taken seriously by intelligent people and treated with respect."

"An admirable goal."

"It would be so much easier if I were a man!"

"Likely," he acknowledges. "At least in certain aspects. Though I do not think that would resolve your current challenges as director."

"What do you mean?"

"A position of authority does not guarantee a gentleman respect, I'm afraid," the viscount says. "Else I would not have been assigned to play Caesar, so all my siblings might get to stab me for my prior arrogance."

She grins despite herself.

"Eloise, when you do figure out what it is you want, come and talk to me about it instead of yelling at everyone else. And leave poor Gregory to his misguided conception of the Romans, it is not that important."

"Not that important! Who are you and what have you done with Anthony?"

"Not important enough to make the whole family miserable at Christmas," he clarifies.

"I suppose." Eloise drags a toe across the carpet. "If I wished to travel to Paris with Benedict in March, would you support me? Mama would surely relent if you approve."

"You flatter me, she listens to me a third of the time at best," Anthony says. "Hmm. Are you sure about Paris? I suspect Benedict will have little opportunity to accompany you about the city. He will be rather busy studying with that painter his mentor Granville recommended."

"Ugh. Perhaps you're right."

"I do not mean to depress your enthusiasms. See what Benedict thinks of the idea and then inform me if I must engage a new French tutor for you. If I remember correctly from your governess, your accent could stand to improve."

"Quelle condescendant!"

"Impétueuse." Anthony stubs his cigar on a nearby ashtray and places a hand on her shoulder. "Mother also wants to see you happy, you know. It is just that her happiness came from marriage, so she is trying to ensure you the same chance. Her heart is in the right place, even if her methods do not suit."

"I am not Mama or you, I will not find happiness that way. Penelope is quite singular, you know."

"That she is." His expression softens as he reflects on his own happiness.

"Anthony…thank you for coming to check on me. I am sorry I was such a beast to everyone this afternoon."

"I did think some of your ideas were intriguing. If you can keep your temper as you share them with us, we might yet have a splendid production on Boxing Day."

"I will apologize to Gregory for yelling at him," she sighs. "And to Hyacinth. And to Colin."

"A wise decision. Consider that listening to our siblings' contributions might inspire fresh insights for the play and even help inspire your future plans as well."

At a gentle knock on the door, they look up. The new Viscountess Bridgerton is at the threshold, sporting another bedsheet over a dark green dress.

"Madam Director, forgive the interruption," Penelope says. "Your cast wishes to know whether we have concluded with rehearsal for the afternoon and may change out of our costumes, or if you would prefer another attempt before dinner."

"The others are still willing to work with me today?" Eloise says, surprised and touched. She stands. "Then – yes, I would like to revisit Act IV again. I will be more patient this time."

"Perhaps you might leave Plutarch here?" Anthony suggests. "Instead of using the ancients as evidence, try an appeal to one's emotional instincts as a performer. We are a melodramatic clan, after all."

Eloise nods, placing the book on the armchair. She crosses over to her sister-in-law and apologizes to her in turn: "Please forgive me, Pen. Your first Viscount's Men production and it has been a miserable experience so far! I promise it will be better from now on."

"I have heard that many acting troupes are at their worst just before opening night," Penelope assures her. "I am content to watch the process unfold."

"And we are hardly at our theatrical nadir," Anthony adds, coming to stand behind his wife. "Remember Titus Andronicus three years ago? At one point, I worried it might really result in fratricide."

"Well, I can certainly do better than that. I suppose we should head back to the ballroom now," Eloise says.

She looks over at the couple and changes her mind, noting that Penelope has leaned back against Anthony as he sets a hand on her hip. "Actually, Caesar and Calpurnia are not needed for any of the remaining scenes. You two might remain upstairs if you would like some peace and quiet for a while."

"What an excellent idea," Penelope says, her eyes twinkling. "We shall heed your suggestion, for I believe Anthony wishes to show me something here in the library."

"I do?"

Penelope smirks up at him. "Yes, over on your desk. I am very interested in…country matters."

"Oh! Yes, I do!" her husband hurries to agree. "Much to show you, indeed."

Eloise rolls her eyes fondly and turns to leave.

"Eloise?" Anthony calls after a moment.

Already halfway down the hall, she turns around. "Yes?"

"Try not to fret too much about the spring in advance," Anthony says, now resting his chin on Penelope's head and wrapping both arms around her waist. "Something unexpected might occur at the most tedious party, you see. One can truly never predict what might happen next Season."