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Chapter Text

Bedford Square, London. October 3rd 1833.

His home had become a dim reflection of its former self. The once proud townhouse now felt full of memories too stubborn to fade. The windows remained shuttered against the autumn sun, and a persistent layer of dust and cobwebs clung to the corners of every room. 

Colin Bridgerton rarely ventured out before noon. He had no reason to. He had long since stopped bothering with his correspondence, his travels, and the jovial company that once made him so beloved. His hair had greyed at the temples. Wrinkles had formed in the creases of his eyes, once bright with curiosity, now held a glassy dullness, made worse by too many late nights spent drinking in the company of men he neither trusted nor liked.

Those men were easier to socialise with, their conversation did not remind him of the things he had missed.

In the years since Penelope had vanished from his life, he had found family gatherings unbearable. The echoing laughter of his siblings, the easy affection between husbands and wives, the shrieks of children playing in the garden, all of it felt like a knife twisting in his chest, carving open his sternum and scraping the meat off his bones. It was simply too much to bear. So, he had stopped attending christenings and birthdays, and offered his regrets for Easters and Christmases. Even his mother, with all her gentle insistence and worry, had finally relented and stopped pressing him to join. He loved them all still, of course. But he could not stomach the happiness that surrounded them, not when it served only to remind him of everything he had lost.

Colin had once been the bright one, the easy going one, the wanderer with stories to tell. Now, he was simply the one who drank too much and stayed away. The black sheep.

The morning of October the 3rd, 1833 had begun like so many others, with a heavy hangover, the smell of stale coffee, and the dull ache of a life unspooling without purpose. He rose from bed, dressed hastily in his navy britches and linen shirt and made for his study. He sat slouched in the armchair of the dark-panelled room, cradling the half-empty glass he had left the night before. The fire had gone out hours earlier. A few unopened letters lay scattered on the side table beside him, which he had been ignoring for days. He did not wish to hear from his family right now. Eventually he would get to them he supposed, when one of his siblings took it upon themselves to make an unwelcome call.

It would probably be one of them who resided in London. He hoped it was Hyacinth, he didn’t wish for a bollocking from Anthony or his mother about missing his nieces birthday. Yes, he thought, Hyacinth would probably be the easiest on him.

A discreet knock at the door disturbed his train of thought.

“Come in,” Colin muttered, rubbing at his eyes.

Dunwoody, the faithful old butler, stepped in with his usual grave composure. The man had served him for years, and his expression never shifted, whether delivering bad news or a misplaced umbrella.

He eyed the glass in Colin’s hand, now full again with the clear, brown liquid. It was far too early to start on the whiskey, but he found he couldn’t care less anymore. Colin sometimes wondered if Dunwoody lingered out of loyalty or pity.

“A letter has come for you, Sir,” Dunwoody said. “By direct messenger. From Westminster.”

Colin, barely listening, reached for the envelope without much interest, prepared to flick it onto the table with the rest of his unanswered correspondence, until he saw the seal.

The House of Lords.

He blinked and sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “From the Lords?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes, Sir. Delivered not an hour ago.”

What on earth does the House of Lords want with me? Colin wasn't a Lord.

Apart from his ample funds, it was good to be a Bridgerton after all, Colin’s only asset was the house he stood in, and it was hardly managed as it was falling to ruin.

He had no estates to manage, no tenants in need of care, no need to produce a string of heirs to succeed him.

Colin sliced the seal open. “Probably the taxman.” He murmured, more to himself than to his company, and began to read.

Office of His Majesty’s Committee for the Consideration of Noble Privileges to the House of Lords

Palace of Westminster, London

The 1st Day of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1833

Dear Mr. Colin Bridgerton,

It is by direction of His Majesty’s Committee for the Consideration of Noble Privileges, convened under the auspices of the House of Lords, that I address you on a matter of hereditary consequence pertaining to your son, Thomas Bridgerton, styled the 13th Baron Featherington, having been born on the 17th day of January in the Year of Our Lord 1816 and according to our records, is currently residing at Buncrana Cottage, Rathnew, Co. Mayo, Ireland.

It hath come to the Committee’s attention that the noble Barony of Featherington, though duly inherited by your son upon the lamented absconsion of the late Lord Jack Featherington hath descended through the matrilineal line by virtue of your most estimable wife, Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton (née Featherington). As such, and owing to the unusual character of the inheritance thus received, the privileges appertaining to the said Barony, most notably a writ of summons to sit in the Upper House, cannot, by established custom and precedent, be conferred upon the young Lord without formal inquiry and presentation.

Therefore, and in keeping with the dignity of the peerage and the solemnity of the occasion, you are most respectfully requested to present yourself, together with your son Lord Featherington, before the assembled Lords of the Committee on the occasion of his eighteenth birthday. On that day, the Committee shall be prepared to initiate the formal cessation of your own temporary guardianship over the affairs of the Barony, and to oversee the legal and ceremonial accession of your son to the full rights and responsibilities appertaining to his station.

Should circumstances arise which prevent your attendance on the appointed date, or should you require further clarification or consultation on any matter herein described, you are encouraged to direct your correspondence to this office, situated at the above-mentioned address.

I remain, Sir,

Your most obedient and humble servant,

Walter Dundas, Esq.

On behalf of His Majesty’s Committee for the Consideration of Noble Privileges to the House of Lords.

Colin felt as though the earth had fell from beneath his feet.

He stared at the letter, rereading the words, your son, Thomas Bridgerton… born January 17th 1816… Co. Mayo, Ireland… Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton, until they stopped making sense. Until the neat lettering had jumbled so much together that he could no longer read it.

Penelope, his wife. Still carrying his name. And… his son.

He had a son. She had kept his child from him.

Thomas.

Seventeen years. Nearly eighteen.

And he had known nothing.

The glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the limestone hearth. Dunwoody flinched but said nothing, stepping forward quietly with a handkerchief.

Colin stood, unsteady, the letter crumpling in his grasp. “She has been in Ireland all this time…” he whispered, more to himself than the butler. “She had my child.”

Dunwoody cleared his throat softly. “Can I fetch anyone for you, Sir?”

Colin didn’t reply. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain and opened the window for the first time in weeks. The light was pale, cold, and blinding, but he didn’t look away. The light and noise from the street filled the room as much as it filled his soul.

“Send word to Anthony,” he said, voice hoarse but clear. “And Benedict. I need them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And Dunwoody?”

“Sir?”

“Have the maids air out the rooms. Pack my things. Prepare for travel.”