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Chapter Text

Author’s Note

This story is a canon-divergent Bridgerton AU where Penelope Hartwell (originally Featherington) is raised by the Bridgertons as their beloved ward after the tragic loss of her parents. I’ve reimagined her identity, backstory, and powers while staying true to the heart of her character: clever, observant, fiercely loyal, and underestimated far too often.

Expect secret identities, premonitions, scandalous pamphlets, and the chaos of growing up in the Bridgerton household. The tone blends mystery, romance, found family, and a touch of the supernatural—because wouldn’t the ton be even more fun with a little magic?

Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, and theories are always welcome—I’d love to hear what you think. 💌

- DuchessOfDesire

Prologue

Aubrey Hall, Kent – Spring of 1799

The morning arrived shrouded in an unnatural stillness. Sunlight streamed through the drawing room windows, painting stripes across the dewy lawn. Bees, oblivious to the impending storm, lazily danced among the lilacs. But inside, Edmund Bridgerton's hands trembled as he clutched a letter. The world, as he knew it, was about to shatter.

Penelope Hartwell was a mere three years old when her world crumbled to dust.

Her mother, the radiant and gentle Evelyn, perished during childbirth. Her father, Thomas Hartwell – Edmund's dearest friend since their days at Eton – died the very same day in a carriage accident, rushing to a London physician who would arrive too late. In a heartbeat, joy and future dreams evaporated, leaving behind only a deafening silence and a little girl with wide, solemn eyes and hair the color of autumn leaves.

Edmund didn't hesitate. "She's coming to us," he declared to Violet, his voice thick with sorrow. "She is ours now."

And so, Penelope found a home at Aubrey Hall – not as a guest, or a burden, but as a Bridgerton in every way but name. She blossomed amidst the laughter and chaos of eight siblings, learning to dance alongside Daphne, hiding under tables with Eloise, and pilfering biscuits with Colin. Yet, she was always different.

She possessed a unique gift. Fleeting, shimmering visions – glimpses of futures yet to unfold. A broken teacup before its fall. An unspoken word. A storm brewing long before the clouds gathered. The first time she confided in someone, she was five. Violet simply embraced her, whispering, "Then we will believe you, my darling, even if the world chooses not to."

Only the Bridgertons knew her secret. And they guarded it fiercely, protecting her as they would protect their own.

Years later, when Lady Whistledown's scandalous writings first graced the drawing rooms of Mayfair, no one suspected that the sharpest pen in London belonged to the same quiet girl who rarely danced, who preferred the shadows, who saw too much. But it was always Penelope. Watching. Knowing. Writing.

She had been forged in the crucible of silence and loss. She had lost everything and been granted a new beginning.

But every secret demands its price. And some are about to be paid.

Chapter One

She fled through the fog-choked alleys of Bloomsbury, her slippers heavy with blood that wasn't hers. The hem of her elegant gown snagged on unseen things, ripped by shadows that possessed no shape, only a ravenous hunger. A scream echoed, not from her own throat, but from somewhere ahead – a scream she terrifyingly recognized as male.

She rounded a corner.

The man lay broken beneath a flickering gas lamp, his eyes wide and fixed, his mouth frozen in a silent gasp. A strange symbol, drawn in a substance darker than any ink, marred his chest, pulsing with a faint, unholy light. She reached for him, her fingers trembling like frightened birds.

And then, he whispered her name.

She jolted awake, gasping for air, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped animal. Her throat burned as if she'd screamed, though she hadn't uttered a sound. The bedsheets were a tangled mess around her legs, the air in her room heavy with a chilling stillness.

Yet, her hands... they were streaked with blood. And lingering in the silence, like the lingering scent of smoke, was a man’s voice – calling her name.

The following evening, Rae, her loyal maid, worked in quiet concentration, carefully dusting concealing powder beneath Penelope's eyes. The shadows there were new, unwelcome guests.

"You didn't sleep," she stated softly, not as a question, but as a knowing observation.

Penelope met Rae's gaze in the mirror and offered a weak smile. "Just a dream. Nothing more." She attempted a light tone, but it rang hollow. Rae pressed her lips together, saying nothing further, though the worry in her fingers was clear.

Rae could only recall Penelope's childhood night terrors – horrific visions of the late Viscount that left her sobbing uncontrollably. But those had vanished years ago. Rae had no way of understanding that this was not a return of old memories, but something entirely different. A glimpse of a future yet to come. A stranger, dying. A gift... or a curse, depending on one's perspective on such matters.

Finally dressed in deep emerald silk, her bodice fitting snugly and her auburn hair artfully twisted and pinned, Penelope descended to the drawing room. Violet looked up immediately, her eyes sharp and concerned.

"You look pale," she said, already moving forward.

"I'm well," Penelope replied smoothly. "Only a dream, I assure you."

Not a complete lie. Just... not the whole truth.

At the Danbury ball, she accepted a dance card from a passing footman, hesitating only for a brief moment before tying it to her wrist. She knew it would remain blank, but appearing without one would invite unwanted attention – and tonight, she couldn't bear it.

She remained on the fringes, her skirts brushing against the wall as she moved, content to remain unnoticed. From her secluded position, she observed the glittering crowd, wary of Violet's watchful eyes. If Violet caught sight of her, she would undoubtedly be steered toward some well-meaning but uninteresting gentleman. Fortunately, Violet's attention was primarily focused on Daphne – her daughter, after all.

Penelope's gaze drifted across the ballroom until it landed on Colin, dancing with a fair-haired debutante. His smile – polished and pleasant – wasn't entirely false, but it lacked true sincerity. A sharp, uninvited pang tightened in her chest at the sight.

She quickly looked away and navigated through the smaller groups of guests – those who were not dancing, but engaging in hushed conversations in the corners. She listened as she moved, carefully tucking away whispers and stolen glances, collecting the evening's secrets like precious pins. She would write them up later at Bridgerton House, then hire a hackney to Bloomsbury to deliver her notes to the printers.

"Penelope," Benedict's voice startled her from her thoughts. He appeared at her side, tall and with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I suspected you were hiding."

"I thought the same of you," she replied, a faint smile gracing her lips.

"Well, one of us is far less conspicuous," he said with a glance at his own elegant attire. She chuckled softly.

"How much longer must we endure this?" she asked. The air felt heavy, too loud, too bright. Something about the night felt... off-kilter.

"Four hours," he said, grinning as she groaned aloud.

"But," he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I'm escaping in one. Fake a headache. Meet me out front."

"You're my favorite Bridgerton," she said solemnly.

A blatant lie. Eloise held that title without question – but Benedict looked pleased enough not to question it.

When Colin rejoined them after the dance, his cheeks slightly flushed and his hair charmingly tousled, he leaned in with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye.

"I've something to tell you," he said, lowering his voice just enough to pique their interest. "But it must wait until Anthony and Daphne are present."

Penelope's gaze met Benedict's, a question dancing in her eyes. Colin was usually an open book, so this newfound secrecy was definitely making her curious.

They found Anthony deep in conversation and Daphne catching her breath after a waltz. Colin, bursting with excitement, wasted no time.

"I'm off on a grand adventure!" he announced, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "A tour of Europe, starting in Greece this June and just winging it from there. I'll be back by April, just in time for the Season."

A moment of stunned silence hung in the air before erupting into a flurry of laughter, excited chatter, and warm embraces.

Penelope smiled, genuinely happy for him. He'd been talking about traveling for ages, always with a wistful look in his eyes. Now, it was actually happening.

And it suited him. He was practically glowing.

Of course, she'd miss him, but no more than she had when he was away at Eton or Cambridge. They'd still write, just like they always did. At least that wouldn't change.

Across the ballroom, Anthony's eyes locked onto Agatha, and he froze. A silent warning rippled through his brothers as they followed his gaze.

It wasn't that they disliked Agatha – quite the opposite, they respected her. But that respect came with a healthy dose of apprehension. After all, when it came to influence in the ton, she was second only to the Queen herself.

Without a word, the brothers instinctively turned, as if they could still make a clean escape.

But Agatha, naturally, had already spotted them.

"Too late," she declared, her voice sharp but laced with a hint of amusement. "I've already marked you down."

The Bridgerton brothers, caught in their tracks, stopped and offered simultaneous bows.

"Lady Danbury," they greeted her in unison.

Daphne and Penelope curtsied gracefully.

Agatha's sharp eyes turned to Penelope, softening slightly. "That gown is stunning on you, my dear," she said, tapping her cane once on the floor. "Emerald green – your mother wore a similar shade at her first ball. Goodness, that must have been... eighteen years ago now."

Penelope inclined her head with a polite smile. "You're very kind, Lady Danbury. Thank you."

The mention of her mother brought neither pain nor warmth. She barely remembered her. Her mother had died giving birth to Penelope's younger brother, who hadn't survived either. Her father had been lost in a carriage accident soon after, leaving her an orphan before she even turned four.

Still, she smiled, as she always did when people mentioned them – a soft, courteous, practiced smile.

It was simply what one did.

Agatha turned to Daphne, offering a keen-eyed smile and a warm compliment on her earlier dance with Lord Hartley. Daphne thanked her with grace, and with a nod and a swish of her cane, Agatha was gone, melting back into the crowd as quickly as she'd appeared.

"I'm going to grab some lemonade," Daphne announced, glancing at her siblings and Penelope before heading towards the refreshment table.

Anthony, ever the watchful brother, waited a moment before casually following, just to make sure she didn't get cornered by any unwanted admirers.

Penelope stayed behind with Benedict and Colin, who were deep in conversation about… well, probably nothing important. She wasn't really listening.

Her mind wandered. Had it been an hour already? She hoped so. She couldn't wait to get back to Bridgerton House, kick off her shoes, and finally breathe without a corset squeezing the life out of her.

Suddenly, Colin gasped. His gaze had locked onto someone across the ballroom, and both Benedict and Penelope instinctively turned to see what had caught his attention.

A young woman was standing near the refreshment table, chatting quietly with Araminta Cowper. Her skin was the warm color of cappuccino, her dark eyes striking beneath elegantly arched brows, and her black hair was pulled back in a simple but elegant knot. A small mole graced her left cheek, barely noticeable but somehow unforgettable. She was, in a word, stunning – and completely new to Penelope.

"Who is that?" Colin asked, his voice hushed with surprise, his eyes glued to the girl.

Benedict tilted his head, thoughtfully. "No idea."

But Penelope knew. "I believe that's Miss Marina Thompson."

Colin turned to her, surprised. "Marina Thompson?"

She nodded. "Lord Featherington's niece, from Somerset. Lady Featherington wasn't thrilled about having her, as I recall – she grumbled for days about having to chaperone a third young lady this season."

Archibald Featherington was Penelope's first cousin once removed, though they weren't close. Her mother – long gone now – had once explained, somewhat tersely, that Archibald was not to be trusted. Penelope had never fully understood the extent of that distrust. The Featheringtons were hardly warm, but they weren't monsters either.

Still, her father's will was clear: if anything happened to her parents, Penelope was to become the Bridgertons' ward – not the Featheringtons'. She had long suspected that stipulation had been her mother's doing.

A wise decision, in hindsight.

An idea seemed to spark in Colin's mind. He held out his wrist to her with a playful smile.

"I've decided I'm going to start calling on her,” he declared. “But tell me – would you mind giving me a sneak peek and letting me know how it all turns out?"

Penelope exhaled slowly, the sound closer to a sigh than she intended.

The Bridgertons had discovered her gift when she was just five years old – completely by accident. A scraped knee, a touch to Daphne's hand, and a warning whispered in a child's voice moments before it came true. Since then, they'd protected her fiercely. No one outside the family knew what she could do – least of all the ton. She had never learned to control the visions, nor had she met anyone else who shared her strange burden. They came as they pleased: fleeting images, flashes, dreams she could barely recall when she woke.

Still, she gave a small nod and gently closed her fingers around Colin's wrist. Benedict stood beside them, watching in silence.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Colin shifted, about to pull back, when her grip tightened.

Her eyes glazed over.

A garden unfolded before her – bathed in sunlight, familiar in that hazy way that dreams often are. Colin and Marina stood side by side, champagne flutes in their hands, smiling as if the world had always been kind to them. Colin tapped his glass with a fork, the sound echoing and silencing the crowd. Their families were there, surrounding them. Laughter and birdsong filled the air.

"I've asked for her hand," he announced to the gathering, "and she has graciously accepted."

The vision faded.

Penelope blinked, returning to the ballroom. Her expression was unreadable for a moment, before she smiled – a gentle, guarded smile.

"You will propose," she said. "And she will say yes."

Colin beamed, just as she knew he would.

But beneath her smile, a knot remained in her chest. Something about the vision felt off, though she couldn't quite put her finger on what.

As Colin excused himself to ask Marina for a dance, Benedict glanced at Penelope and offered his arm, raising his eyebrow slightly. "It has been an hour," he murmured.

Relief softened her features. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm with quiet gratitude, and together, they quietly left the crowded ballroom.

Back in Bridgerton House, a single candle illuminated Penelope as she hunched over her latest column, the tip of her quill scratching furiously against the parchment. A smudge of ink stained the edge of her wrist, evidence of her hurried work. Ideas flowed freely – snippets of overheard conversations, fleeting glances, each observation meticulously crafted into biting prose. Satisfied with her work, she carefully sanded the page, folded it with practiced precision, and slipped it into the hidden pocket within her cloak.

Discarding her own plain attire, she slipped into one of Rae's more unassuming gowns – a simple muslin, pilfered the week before and, thankfully, still unnoticed. A borrowed blue cloak concealed the dress, the hood pulled low to obscure her face. The house was enveloped in silence as she slipped out the side door, her steps quick and cautious, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The streets were shadowy and deserted, the air thick with dampness and the grime of the city. A hackney carriage stood at the end of the lane, its driver slumped forward, dozing beneath his thick coat. Penelope approached and gave a light rap on the carriage wheel.

The driver startled awake, his eyes bleary, but recognition quickly dawned. "Miss Hartwell?" he mumbled.

She pressed a folded note into his hand – a sum far exceeding the usual fare. "To Bloomsbury," she said simply, her voice firm. "And no questions, please."

The driver hesitated for only a moment, his eyes lingering on the generous payment. He tipped his hat in silent agreement and wordlessly opened the carriage door. Money, it seemed, spoke a universal language. Penelope, thanks to the considerable dowry left by her late father, possessed more of it than most people realized.

The journey to Bloomsbury stretched on for what felt like an eternity – perhaps an hour, perhaps two. Penelope had long since lost track of time. A low rumble of thunder echoed across the sky as she peered anxiously through the carriage window. The air was heavy with the promise of rain, a sensation she could practically feel in her bones.

Reaching the printers, she leaned forward and instructed the driver to wait. He scoffed, making a move to abandon his post, until Penelope sighed and pressed an extra shilling into his hand. His attitude shifted instantly.

Inside, the print shop was dimly lit and filled with the cloying scent of ink and paper. The boy behind the counter didn't even bother to look up. He never did. They all assumed she was Lady Whistledown's maid – a harmless errand girl in a plain cloak, with a soft Irish lilt to her voice.

"Late one tonight," the boy muttered, barely glancing at her as she slid the folded sheet across the counter.

"Aye," she replied simply, dipping her head in acknowledgement. "The mistress worked long."

With the transaction complete, she retreated back into the street. The air was thick and suffocating, heavy with the impending storm. She started towards the waiting carriage, but abruptly stopped.

A sound. A low, muffled noise, close by. Something between a cough and a groan.

She knew better than to investigate. A lone woman had no business wandering down dark alleys in London at night. And yet... something compelled her. It was as if she already knew what she would find.

She followed the sound.

And there he was.

The man from her dreams. Crumpled against a grimy wall, a dark stain rapidly spreading beneath him. Blood – far too much. He was dying. Just as she had foreseen.

He raised a trembling hand towards her. Penelope froze, her breath catching in her throat.

She had always known the dreams would come to pass, but never imagined she would be a silent observer as they unfolded.

Rain began to fall, soft at first, then with increasing intensity, soaking through her cloak.

She remained rooted to the spot, unable to move.

The man's lips parted, forming a single word. He spoke her name – a quiet, broken whisper – and then he was gone.

Penelope remained motionless in the downpour, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide with disbelief. Not even the biting cold could persuade her to leave. Not yet.

But as the rain intensified, drumming against the cobblestones in a relentless rhythm, Penelope gathered her skirts and hurried back to the waiting carriage. The driver, sensing her mood, offered no words as he turned the horses towards Mayfair, and she was grateful for the silence.

She sat rigidly, chilled more by the thoughts swirling in her mind than the dampness of her clothes. The man – now dead – would be discovered by morning, though she doubted anyone would recognize him. She certainly hadn't. And yet, somehow, he had known her name.

A tight, creeping dread began to unfurl in her chest, constricting her breath.

These deaths – one after another, each so quiet and inexplicable – were no longer mere accidents. She knew it with a chilling certainty. They were murders.

But why Bloomsbury? And who could possibly want such bloodshed on this ordinary, unassuming ground?

She hadn't the faintest idea. And truthfully, she wasn't sure she wanted to.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

The morning sun, a pale imitation of spring's warmth, filtered into the Bridgerton drawing room, already occupied with the gentle rhythms of a calling day.

Violet, a picture of composed grace, sat near the window, her embroidery hoop a steady circle in her hands. Beside her, Daphne fidgeted, her needle forgotten, her eyes darting towards the door—clearly watching for the early arrival of a hopeful suitor.

Eloise, lost in the world of literature, was slumped in an armchair, her nose buried in a tome. Near the hearth, Francesca and Hyacinth shared a quiet breakfast of tea and toast, their whispers punctuated by bites of food.

"Good morning, dear Penelope," Violet greeted, her smile a beacon of warmth.

"Good morning," Penelope replied, settling onto the settee opposite.

A brief moment of quiet, and then Violet observed, "Colin was in a rather lively mood earlier. He was striding off towards the Featherington house, or so I believe."

Penelope blinked, offering a nod. "Indeed. He's gone to call on Miss Thompson."

"Miss Thompson?" Violet echoed, eyebrows raising slightly.

"Miss Marina Thompson," Penelope clarified, "Lord Featherington's niece, recently arrived from Somerset for the Season. She's staying with them."

"Ah," Violet said slowly, seemingly a little taken aback. "I did see him dance with her at Danbury's ball, but...well, he dances with everyone, doesn't he? I didn't give it a second thought."

Penelope, before she could stop herself, admitted, "He is only pursuing her at all because I told him that he will propose, and she will accept."

A hush fell over the room. Even Eloise lowered her book.

"I beg your pardon?" Violet asked, her voice laced with a touch of surprise.

"What?!" Hyacinth exclaimed, eyes wide. "Colin's going to marry someone?!"

Penelope winced. So much for keeping that a secret.

"Not before me, surely?" Daphne exclaimed, alarm coloring her words.

Penelope sighed softly, glancing away. "I can't say for certain. I almost wish I hadn't spoken about it."

"Your insights are not always set in stone, my dear," Violet reminded gently, folding her hands in her lap. "They can change. They often do."

Penelope offered a quiet nod just as the double doors swung open, and a liveried footman announced, "Mr. Thomas Weatherby, to call upon Miss Daphne Bridgerton."

Daphne promptly put aside her embroidery and rose. Violet stood as well, discreetly moving towards a nearby table to give them privacy.

Before Daphne was even seated, the footman returned. "Mr. Edward Langley, to call upon Miss Penelope Hartwell."

Penelope took a steadying breath, straightened her shoulders, and allowed the fall of her gown to return to its original form as the two gentlemen entered. Mr. Weatherby approached Daphne with a respectful bow; Mr. Langley crossed the room to Penelope and seated himself beside her, his expression politely neutral.

She returned his greeting with practiced poise, while her mind was far away.

Mr. Langley, despite his courteous air, had the unfortunate habit of making conversation feel like an interrogation. He began with the usual questions—how Penelope spent her days, what she read, whether she played a musical instrument.

Penelope answered each question with honesty and restraint. She read often, mostly novels. She preferred walking to embroidery. She played the pianoforte, though without exceptional talent. With each reply, Mr. Langley's smile seemed to lessen its warmth, until he finally abandoned all pretense of charm.

"And you do not sing?" he asked, as if it were a serious flaw.

"Not well enough to inflict it upon others," she replied, tilting her head politely.

He offered a thin smile. "Well, not every young lady is a nightingale, I suppose."

A pause. Then, without warning:

"Your figure... have you always been so... generously proportioned?"

Penelope stiffened, her teacup stopping mid-air.

"My apologies," he added quickly, though with no sign of remorse. "Only, such curves will serve you well once you have children. You do hope for a large family, do you not?"

The conversation had morphed into something unpleasant. A chill crept beneath her skin.

"I imagine it depends on the husband," she responded coolly.

Mr. Langley chuckled. "Indeed. But of course, one hopes his wife will be up to the task—strong hips, good sense, a docile temperament. The rest can be... learned."

Penelope placed her teacup down, carefully, and rose.

"I find I suddenly need some fresh air," she said, her voice steady. "If you'll excuse me."

And, without waiting for his answer, she left.

Penelope slipped into the garden, drawing in deep breaths of the cool morning air. She'd almost expected those questions—they always came, eventually—but not with such thinly veiled hunger.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, as if to quell the sudden feeling that had come up.

Sometimes, she wished she had been born a man—anything to be spared the quiet horror of being judged solely on her ability to bear children.

"Miss Hartwell?"

Penelope turned, already bracing herself. Rae stood a few paces away, her brows creased with unspoken concern. Of course, Rae had followed her.

"I am quite alright," Penelope said, forcing a steadiness into her voice.

Rae hesitated. "Truly, miss?"

Penelope offered a faint smile. "Truly. A sudden headache, that's all. Please let the dowager viscountess know I have retreated upstairs to rest."

Rae, still watching her carefully, gave a small nod. Penelope turned without waiting and returned inside, her skirts whispering against the marble as she climbed the stairs—each step heavy with the weight of the morning.

That evening, Penelope sat curled against the headboard of her bed, a book open in her lap, her eyes unfocused. A soft knock sounded at the door before it opened. Violet entered without waiting for permission, her expression gentle.

Penelope closed the book at once and sat up taller. Violet crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Without a word, Penelope shifted, tucking her legs beneath her in a cross-legged position, as she had as a child.

"I understand from Rae that you were feeling poorly this morning," Violet began, smoothing her skirts. "A headache, she said."

Penelope nodded once, but Violet's gaze remained steady. Kind, but expectant.

"My dear," she said softly, "I know that is not the truth. What truly happened?"

Penelope hesitated, then looked away. Her voice was quiet and low. "Mr. Langley was perfectly charming—until he wasn't. He made a comment about my figure. How broad I am. Then he followed it with something about bearing plenty of children, as though that were the only thing I was good for." She drew in a breath, unsettled even now. "It was crude. Degrading. I felt... repulsed. I just needed to get away."

Violet's expression softened. Not surprised, but disappointed—not in Penelope, but in the world.

"I'm sorry, my dear," she said at last. "Truly. No woman should be spoken to that way, and certainly not by a guest in her own home." A pause. "But you must understand—such careless comments, distasteful as they are, are not uncommon. You cannot simply rise and flee mid-conversation. It is not done. I know I have raised you with better sense than that."

Penelope lowered her eyes.

"I do not believe Mr. Langley will return," Violet continued. "But should he call again—and he may—you must offer an apology. Polite, restrained, nothing more. Do you understand?"

"I don't want to," Penelope murmured, then sighed. "But I understand."

Violet raised an eyebrow.

"Very well," Penelope added, a faint smile playing on her lips, "I will apologize."

That earned a small, approving nod. Violet leaned in, embracing her with one arm and pressing a kiss to her hair.

"I love you, Penelope."

Penelope closed her eyes for a beat. "I love you too."

Violet was not her mother—not by blood. But she had been there through every scrape, every sorrow. She was stern when she needed to be, always fair, and endlessly warm. Penelope couldn’t imagine growing up without her. And in moments like this, she was quietly grateful she hadn’t had to.

Another week had drifted by, carrying whispers on its breeze. This time, the scent was of dread, carried from the center of London.

The latest murder in Bloomsbury, the very act Penelope had witnessed, had everyone in a flutter across Mayfair. The talk was as common as the afternoon tea, buzzing from drawing rooms to the more raucous taverns, veiled behind delicate fans and hushed voices.

Violet, bless her heart, had been in a constant state of worry. This new crime had occurred a stone's throw from Benedict's bachelor digs in Bloomsbury. Naturally, she hadn't slept a wink, plagued by worry. Benedict, ever the headstrong one, insisted on his safety, but to appease his mother's anxieties (and those of the rest of the family), he finally agreed to move into one of the family's London townhouses. They had two to choose from, of course: Bridgerton House and the other one. It seemed to soothe Violet’s nerves, at least a little.

As for Penelope, she hadn't seen Mr. Langley, and she was eternally grateful for his absence. The man had been an utter trial, and his non-appearance gave her the chance to sidestep both his presence and any need for an apology. A rare and pleasant double victory.

Visitors continued to come and go, though not for her. Daphne, it seemed, was the belle of the ball, as her suitors were in the majority. But Penelope couldn't help but notice their lack of true enthusiasm. Their conversations felt fleeting, their eyes darting to the clocks, offering only fleeting glances towards Daphne. It stirred up a strange curiosity within Penelope.

Could they not truly admire her? Did they not see her, Daphne Bridgerton, as a woman worth pursuing? The thought lingered in Penelope's mind. Despite her beauty and lineage, was Daphne, almost unbelievably, seen as undesirable?

The thought sat heavy in Penelope’s chest. Not because she was pleased, but because it made her wonder what men truly desired. And whether any man had ever looked at her—Penelope—and seen enough.

"So," Penelope announced, lifting her spoon with a mischievous grin, "tell me about Miss Thompson."

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and the streets of Mayfair were quiet, basking in the calm of the Sabbath. With no callers expected, Penelope and Colin had chosen to escape the house and take a stroll. Now, they sat opposite each other in Gunter's, sharing a dish of chilled lemon ice.

Colin flushed, his gaze dropping to his spoon. "She's… lovely," he managed, his voice a bit softer than usual.

Penelope's grin widened. "You're blushing," she teased. "Come on, Colin. Don't stop there."

And, bless him, he didn't. With a somewhat awkward but sweet earnestness, Colin described how Marina had made him laugh, how easy she was to talk to. She wore jasmine water, he believed, or something similar. She'd told him about her childhood in Somerset, growing up on a farm under her father's care. And how, in hushed tones, her mother had died shortly after her birth, a fever, he thought. That Marina barely remembered her.

"She's Lord Featherington's niece," he added. "Daughter of his sister, you see."

Penelope stirred her own spoon through the melting ice. "She's lost someone too?" she asked gently, eyebrows furrowed. After a beat of a pause, she brightened, "Well. She sounds rather delightful."

Leaning forward slightly, her eyes sparkling, she added, "I'm happy for you, truly. This all sounds like a romantic novel. You’ll propose eventually, she'll say yes, and then you'll be married with a whole houseful of little Colin Juniors."

Colin laughed, shaking his head. "You do get ahead of yourself."

"Someone has to," Penelope said with a wink. "You're terribly slow, you know."

"So, you have no idea when I’ll propose?" Colin asked, studying her with mock seriousness.

Penelope gave a helpless little shrug, her eyebrows lifting. "Not precisely. Only that it shall be in the spring, I believe."

"That's hardly helpful."

"It's not meant to be," she replied cheerfully. "Could be next week, or perhaps the one after. Maybe not until May. But the moment someone mentions a garden party, you'll know you’re close."

He considered this, then gave a slow nod, as if she’d just revealed some great mystery.

"Well," he said at last, "I suppose I ought to purchase new gloves, then."

Penelope grinned. "You absolutely must."

A shadow of unease flickered in Penelope’s chest. She glanced down at her hands and asked, "When you two are wed… we shall still remain in each other’s lives, shan't we?"

Colin looked at her, startled. "Penelope, of course we must."

She let out a soft sigh. "It's only—she may not look kindly upon our friendship, once she's your wife."

His expression softened instantly. “Then she will simply have to get used to it. I couldn't very well be getting rid of you now.”

Penelope smiled, visibly relieved by Colin’s words. But then, her expression shifted. Her gaze went a little blank, her posture stiffening ever so slightly.

Colin recognized the signs at once. A vision.

He remained silent, simply waiting as she blinked back to the present. She groaned softly, then began to rise.

At the next table, Rae—her spoon halfway to her mouth—stood, her eyes alert.

"What is it?" Colin asked, rising too. "What did you see?"

Penelope steadied herself. "Not what. Who. Cressida. She is nearly here."

Colin winced. That explained her urgency.

Cressida Cowper, Penelope's long-standing rival, was a master of venom wrapped in silk. Their every exchange dripped with civility but concealed a carefully crafted insult.

Penelope had no desire for a confrontation, especially not today. She turned towards the exit at once. Colin nodded, and Rae moved to follow.

But before they could reach the door, it opened.

Cressida swept in with her usual theatrical grace, her maid trailing behind her.

Penelope's jaw tightened. Colin sighed under his breath.

Too late.

"Penelope Hartwell," Cressida purred, her smile far too bright to be sincere. "What a surprise to find you here. I thought Gunter's only served the fashionable."

Penelope returned the smile with equal sweetness. “Miss Cowper. How lovely to see you too. I was under the impression this place had standards, but I appear to have been mistaken."

Cressida let out a brittle little laugh. "Oh, how witty you've become. A sharp tongue is so useful... when one lacks other charms."

"Indeed," Penelope said serenely. "I always admire a woman who can wield wit in place of true talent."

Colin, ever the supportive friend, subtly positioned himself a pace behind Penelope, and with a courteous nod, greeted Cressida. "Miss Cowper."

Cressida responded with a deliberately exaggerated curtsey. "Mr. Bridgerton. How delightful to see you both." Her gaze darted possessively between them. "I trust I'm not intruding on a private moment?"

Penelope maintained her composure, her smile unwavering. "Not at all. We were just about to leave. Enjoy your treat—though one wouldn't have thought you the indulgent type."

Cressida's eyes narrowed for a fleeting instant, then she addressed the counter, signaling her maid with a flick of her wrist.

Penelope turned sharply, skirts swirling as she moved towards the exit, with Colin and Rae close behind.

"Well played," Colin murmured as they stepped onto the street.

Penelope exhaled, still tense. "If she’d arrived two minutes earlier, I might have tossed my spoon at her."

"I would have cheered you on," he offered, extending his arm.

Penelope accepted it with a grateful nod, still half-smiling, a distant look in her eyes.

Night descended, lanterns providing gentle light through the trees. Music drifted through the air. Couples danced under the moonlight.

A vision surfaced in Penelope's mind.

Daphne, arm in arm with a dashing man—tall, with dark skin, handsome, and completely smitten with his partner. They danced in the center of a garden ball, laughter on their lips, their movements in perfect sync. Around them, the crowd swirled, a sea of silks and candlelight. Then came the fireworks—bursting gold and crimson overhead—and the gentleman, bold and graceful, swept Daphne into his arms for a dramatic dip.

The vision dissolved abruptly.

Penelope stumbled, halting in her tracks. Colin and Rae stopped, noticing her state immediately.

"Another vision?" Colin asked, concern etched on his brow. Rae watched her mistress with quiet alarm.

Penelope nodded, then glanced quickly back at Rae before drawing Colin aside, her voice hushed and urgent.

"I saw Daphne," she breathed. "She was at a ball—a magnificent affair in a garden—dancing with a man. A stranger, I think. Tall, striking, dark-skinned. And Colin, they were truly drawn to each other. It wasn’t mere courtesy or pretense. It was genuine."

Colin’s eyes widened slightly.

"She's been so dejected this week," Penelope continued. "The gentlemen who've called have been polite, yet utterly uninterested. But this man—whoever he is—he saw her."

Her gaze met Colin's, her eyes sparkling.

"Something's coming for her, Colin. Something wonderful."

Tuesday morning arrived, and the Bridgerton drawing room was unusually full. Penelope sat on a settee, a novel in her lap though her gaze kept straying toward the door. Across from her, Daphne waited with similar anticipation, pretending interest in her embroidery.

Beside Daphne, Eloise chattered animatedly about Lady Whistledown’s latest gossip sheet, her voice vibrant with speculation. "It must be someone in society," she declared. "No one else could possibly know so much —do you think it’s Cressida? I rather think she’s catty enough."

Daphne's jaw tightened. She pressed her lips together and focused on her needlework, clearly focused on restraining herself from snapping at her sibling.

On Penelope’s settee, Francesca and Hyacinth huddled close, half-listening, half lost in their own thoughts. Violet stood near the mantelpiece, composed, yet her eyes flicked to the door each time footsteps approached.

Finally, a footman entered and bowed. "Lord Berbrooke to call upon Miss Bridgerton."

A beat of silence. Then, as Nigel Berbrooke ambled into the room with his awkward smile and ill-fitting coat, Daphne's hand shot out and gripped Eloise’s with sudden urgency.

Violet’s face faltered for an honest second. Berbrooke, at least twenty years Daphne’s senior and possessing little charm, had long ago exhausted her patience. Nevertheless, decorum demanded civility.

"Lord Berbrooke," she said with a tight smile. "May I offer you a biscuit? Freshly baked, not ten minutes past."

"No, thank you," he replied with a sniff and a hasty bow.

With practiced poise, Violet turned to her daughters and Penelope. "Girls, if you please. His lordship requires a seat."

Penelope stood hesitantly. “Where am I to sit, Violet? Should any of my callers arrive?”

"At one of the tables," Violet replied briskly. "If and when they arrive, we’ll have Hyacinth make herself scarce."

Hyacinth pouted, but said nothing. Francesca rose obediently. Penelope followed with a resigned sigh.

Eloise, however, remained firmly planted beside Daphne, whose grip had only tightened.

"Eloise,” Violet said sharply. “Make room for his lordship."

Eloise tilted her head, then began to softly whistle as if she hadn’t heard a word.

Violet cleared her throat—loudly.

“Eloise?”

“I believe,” Eloise said with exaggerated thought, “I should like to remain right here.”

Violet narrowed her eyes. “I believe you should like to stand and sit somewhere else.”

With an exasperated sigh, Eloise gave Daphne an apologetic look and retreated to one of the small writing tables near the window.

Daphne stared at her lap, jaw clenched as Berbrooke settled uncomfortably close.

“Do forgive me for not calling sooner,” Berbrooke declared, puffing himself up with misplaced confidence. “I had assumed your affections were already engaged. But now I see clearly—you and I were destined for each other.”

A short, muffled laugh escaped Hyacinth before she could stop it.

Violet turned to her youngest with a sharp look and a small shake of the head. Hyacinth lowered her gaze at once, lips pressed together in contrition.

Penelope, seated now near the tea service, winced in quiet sympathy. Poor Daphne. There she sat, trapped beside Berbrooke with no escape. Her expression was polite - just - but her knuckles had gone white where they clutched her handkerchief.

Still, Penelope took comfort in what she knew—and what Daphne didn’t. A vision still vivid in her mind: her friend whirling beneath moonlight in the arms of a tall, striking gentleman, the air filled with music and fireworks. A man worthy of her. A moment Daphne had not yet lived, but surely would.

Penelope permitted herself the faintest smile. She’ll dance again, she thought. And next time, it shall be with joy.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Penelope, still clad in her soft nightclothes, sat hunched over at her writing desk, a quill feather her only companion. She was carefully finishing her latest bit of gossip. A single candle cast a warm glow across her fingers. At the sudden rapping at her chamber door, she hastily blotted the page, then slipped it beneath a stack of old letters. Just as she finished, the door creaked open.

Eloise swept in without so much as a "by your leave," clutching a novel and a copy of the latest Society Papers in her hands. She dropped onto the bed with a dramatic thump and a sigh.

"Eloise," Penelope said, drawing herself up and folding her arms, a smile playing on her lips. She moved to sit beside her friend, letting her arms fall to her lap. "To what delight do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Eloise rolled her head, eyeing Penelope with a frown. "Why aren't you at the opera? Mama, Daphne, and Anthony are there."

"Because I didn't wish to go," Penelope said, with a shrug. "I have no fondness for the opera."

Eloise blinked. "You've never even been to the opera! This was your first invitation!"

"Quite so, but I detest the idea of it," Penelope insisted. "Three hours of wailing in Italian? I cannot envision a more tiresome way to spend an evening."

Eloise let out a most unladylike snort. "I can't say I disagree. I'm just grateful I'm not quite 'out' yet. But next Season..." She sighed dramatically. "I'll be dragged there, whether I like it or not. And Mama will know you were not truly ill this evening."

Penelope returned the smile, then nodded towards the pamphlet. "You seem to be rather fond of Whistledown."

At that, Eloise sat upright. "Can you blame me? She's a woman! A published woman! Half the ton awaits her every word. It's astounding. She might be hiding behind a pen name, but still—she's free in a way most of us can only dream of."

Penelope lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening on the coverlet. A wave of self-consciousness washed over her.

"So... it doesn't trouble you? That she writes of others?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Eloise shrugged, her tone frank. "Most of what she writes is the truth. Take the Earl of Grantham—everyone knows he mistreats his wife and daughters. The bruises they try to conceal with powder speak volumes. If no one else will say it, I’m glad she does."

Penelope was silent, unsure whether to feel relieved or disturbed. She nodded slightly, letting Eloise’s words sink in.

"I wonder who she is," Eloise mused, her gaze fixed on the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. "She has to be someone close to Mama's age—or perhaps younger, though certainly older than either of us. Do you suppose she resides here in Mayfair? Or perhaps in Bloomsbury among the poets and radicals?"

Penelope tilted her head, studying her friend with a slight arch of her brow. "I rather think the entire point of a pen name is that her identity remains a secret," she replied, her tone carefully casual. Then, almost without meaning to, she added, "And isn't that the most thrilling part? That she can write what she pleases, answer to no one, and keep her secret entirely her own? There's a kind of freedom in it, is there not? No fear of those closest to her discovering the truth."

Eloise turned toward her then, narrowing her eyes. "Hmm... I suppose you're right," she said slowly, her expression thoughtful as she examined Penelope's face more closely than before.

Penelope averted her gaze, busy with smoothing the folds of her nightdress.

The following evening, as Penelope entered the dining room, she found the Bridgertons already assembled, with a mild air of anticipation. Anthony, standing at the head of the table, turned to address them.

"We shall have a guest joining us this evening," he announced. "The Duke of Hastings."

Penelope stilled, her foot mid-step. She had, of course, heard of the Duke—who in Mayfair hadn't? His father had passed the year before, and the young Duke had spent a great deal of time abroad. Whispers said he had no intention of taking a wife—not this season, nor any season.

She took her place at the table, seated between Colin and Gregory, smoothing her skirts as she sat. The soup had not yet been served; they were evidently waiting for the Duke's arrival. A minute passed. Then another.

Growing impatient, Penelope leaned toward Colin and whispered, "I do wish he would hurry. I'm famished."

Colin stifled a laugh, giving her a sideways glance. "You'll live," he replied, his voice low.

Finally, the footman reappeared, and the dining room doors swung open. Penelope turned to look—and froze.

He was there. In the flesh.

The very man she'd glimpsed in a vision just days before: tall, dark-skinned, and exuding an effortless elegance that made the room seem to shrink. Her breath hitched, and her blue eyes widened in surprise. She barely registered the name as he announced his presence, though she knew it before he even spoke.

"Simon Basset," he announced, dipping his head first to Violet, then to the rest of the family. Only Anthony needed no introduction, the two being old friends.

Penelope couldn't tear her gaze away. It wasn't just that the Duke of Hastings was handsome—though he certainly was. No, it was because she’d seen him somewhere else. Not here, not like this. But under a moonlit sky, in a garden filled with music, with Daphne in his arms and fireworks overhead.

He sat between Daphne and Violet as dinner was served, a spoon in his hand.

Penelope blinked, trying to center herself. But the vision lingered, vivid and unsettling. If he was truly here... then it would be soon.

The dinner unfolded harmoniously, the food both rich and well-prepared. The Bridgertons, as ever, were a lively and jovial crowd. Laughter bounced along the table, the conversation skipping from the theatre to politics and finally, inevitably, to the topic of Lady Whistledown.

"For all we know," Anthony declared with a sardonic tilt of his brow, "Whistledown could be some busybody hiding somewhere in Bloomsbury, of all places."

Penelope paused her fork, and Benedict looked up from his plate, unimpressed.

"And what, pray tell, is so objectionable about Bloomsbury?" he asked, his voice dry. "The fact that people there deign to earn their keep instead of living off inheritances?"

Anthony simply huffed and raised an eyebrow, returning to his wine.

"She does seem to have remarkable access," Daphne observed thoughtfully, delicately slicing her roasted pheasant. "Intimate knowledge of all the right drawing rooms. Whoever she is, she moves among us."

"Perhaps she's a 'he'," Colin chimed in, only half-joking.

Penelope, seated beside him, promptly kicked him under the table. He yelped and cast her an exaggerated glare as he rubbed his leg, though the amusement in his eyes betrayed his true feelings.

"A valid point," Anthony conceded, nodding. "There's no proof the writer's a woman."

Penelope gave the viscount a look of dignified irritation.

"Oh, because only a gentleman could possess such insight and wit?" Eloise shot back archly, arms crossed with the righteous indignation of a young woman eager to defy society’s expectations.

Colin and Benedict both supported her, Colin with a frustratingly smug expression, and Benedict miming a grand, silent yawn in her direction.

Eloise simply lifted her chin. "Mock me all you like, but I daresay Whistledown is exactly the sort of woman this town needs—clever, bold, and entirely uninterested in their approval.”

Penelope hid a smile behind her glass.

"Well, I suppose it's rather obvious," Francesca announced, reaching for her wine. "The author must be Lady Danbury."

A wave of laughter swept the table, and Daphne shook her head with a small smile.

"Hardly," she replied. "Lady Danbury enjoys delivering her barbs face-to-face. She wouldn't bother wasting time writing them when she can simply announce them in a drawing room."

"Could it possibly be Lady Featherington?" Hyacinth chimed in innocently, glancing around the table.

The response was immediate and unanimous.

"No!" the entire company exclaimed, erupting into laughter.

Eloise leaned forward, smirking at her younger sister from across the table. "Clearly you haven't read what Whistledown has written about the Featheringtons."

"It is rather harsh," Penelope added, forcing a rueful smile. Privately, however, she thought that while the writings were harsh, they were not inaccurate. Her family's declining fortunes were a truth that was becoming increasingly difficult to disguise, and their preference for gaudy dresses—the yellows and oranges that clashed terribly with red hair—did them no favours in Mayfair.

Still, Penelope reached for her water glass and took a slow sip, trying her best to seem amused and unaffected. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to suspect just how well she knew the writer in question.

While the lively debate over Lady Whistledown continued, Violet turned toward the Duke of Hastings and spoke in a softer voice.

"Do forgive my children, Your Grace. Dinner conversation here tends to be rather spirited."

Simon offered a wry smile. "On the contrary, Lady Bridgerton, I am astonished—not by the noise, but that they all dine together at one table. Even the younger ones."

"Unconventional, I'll grant you," Violet replied, amusement dancing in her eyes. "But they are quite fond of one another, most of the time."

Just then, she noticed Gregory flicking peas across the table at Hyacinth, who was gleefully returning fire. Violet took a slow breath, mastering her expression with the grace of long maternal practice.

Simon's gaze wandered down the table and lingered on Penelope, who was whispering something to Colin, both of them trying not to laugh.

"How long has Miss Hartwell been your ward?" he asked.

"Since she was three," Violet replied warmly. "My late husband was a childhood friend of Lord Ashbourne, her father. When the marquess passed, we discovered he had named us guardians if anything should happen to him or his wife. They both died within hours of each other, poor souls."

Simon frowned. "I hadn't realised. My father had dealings with Lord Ashbourne on occasion. May I ask—what happened?"

"Penelope's mother died in childbirth," Violet said quietly. "The babe—Ashbourne's heir—survived for a mere few seconds. Her father was returning from White's when his carriage overturned on the way to the country. Penelope was left with no one."

A pause fell between them, heavy with the unspoken understanding of such tragedies.

"She has lived with us ever since," Violet added, her eyes following the girl's familiar figure. "And she will remain part of this family, no matter whom she marries."

Simon nodded slowly, his gaze drifting once more to Penelope, this time with something like respect. There was more to the young lady than he had initially assumed.

"You ought to join us more frequently, Your Grace," Violet said with practised ease, her tone light but not without a hint of purpose. Anthony, seated nearby, narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Indeed," she continued, "when we next retire to Aubrey Hall, you would be most welcome."

The Duke offered no verbal response but inclined his head gracefully and lifted his glass for the footman to refill it, his expression unreadable.

Suddenly, a high-pitched voice cut through the low hum of conversation.

"Gregory! Stop throwing peas at me!" Hyacinth cried, glaring across the table.

All heads turned towards the youngest Bridgertons.

"Those peas were already on your side," Gregory retorted with a mischievous grin. "And I'm older, so you can't boss me around."

"And I'm taller," Hyacinth countered, lifting her chin with a triumphant gleam.

"Enough, both of you," Violet said sharply, giving them each a warning look that instantly silenced any further protest.

Penelope, seated between Gregory and Colin, leaned over and began gently transferring the stray peas from Gregory's plate onto her own with a quiet, patient air. Gregory opened his mouth to object but paused as she murmured something beneath her breath—something only he could hear. Whatever it was, it had the desired effect. He sat back with a huff and said no more.

Simon, observing the proceedings, allowed himself a small, concealed smile. The game was afoot, that much was certain.

Francesca leaned towards Eloise, her voice hushed. "He does cut a striking figure, doesn't he?"

Eloise followed her sister’s gaze towards the Duke of Hastings, then offered a noncommittal shrug. "I suppose, if you favor that sort." She took another bite, considering. Lady Whistledown’s gossip sheet had mentioned the Duke’s… exploits more than once. Eloise wasn't entirely clear on the definition of a rake, but she suspected it involved a distinct lack of respect for women.

Across the table, Colin lowered his voice conspiratorially towards Benedict and Penelope. "I am to spar with Jackson himself!"

Penelope burst out laughing, shaking her head. She knew a thing or two about boxing, having devoured every report she could find. "You’ll be demolished!"

"It is true, I tell you," Colin insisted, puffing out his chest.

"You?" Benedict raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

"Is that jealousy, dear brother?"

"Mere observation," Benedict said with a smirk. "I shall need to witness this myself."

"As will I," Penelope added, grinning.

"Absolutely not," Violet interjected from the other end of the table, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"But, Violet—" Penelope began to protest.

"No, Penelope. A boxing ring is no place for a young lady, curiosity or no," Violet said firmly.

Penelope grumbled under her breath. "It's hardly fair."

Meanwhile, the conversation between Daphne and Simon became increasingly tense.

"You seem displeased," Simon observed, his gaze fixed on Daphne.

"Do I?" she responded, barely turning her head.

"We are seated together, Miss Bridgerton. One might assume that pleases you."

"Perhaps, Your Grace, you'd best not trouble yourself with thoughts of me."

Simon smiled faintly. "That is interesting. Your answer is… unexpected."

"How else is a lady meant to behave in the presence of a duke?" Daphne asked with an affected sweetness. "Especially one of… your reputation."

"Ah, so you have heard the whispers."

"I am my brother’s sister, and I read. That's enough. Arrogant. Overbearing. A rake through and through. Prove me wrong."

As the footmen moved through the room, collecting plates, Simon leaned in a fraction.

"Who is it again that ought not to be thinking of the other?"

"Rest assured," Daphne said coolly, "I am quite uninterested."

"Excellent."

"Indeed."

Simon’s gaze sharpened. “And I, in turn, am indifferent to the virtuous elder sister of my dearest friend. A recent subject of that gossipy writer. Chaste. Proper. Desperate.”

Daphne stiffened. "I must take exception—"

"For a husband, of course," he added, his eyes glinting. "Tell me I misinterpret the situation."

Daphne’s glare could have curdled cream. Across the table, Eloise snorted, a laugh bubbling up before Violet silenced her with a single look. Eloise’s smile vanished, and she turned her attention to her plate with well-practiced obedience.

"Hastings," Anthony interjected quickly, sensing the building storm. "A delight to see you this evening. A most welcome surprise."

"Not at all," Simon replied, utterly unfazed. "Lady Danbury was kind enough to accept your mother’s invitation on my behalf—how could I refuse?"

Anthony glanced at Violet, who merely sipped her wine, pointedly ignoring him.

"You must stay for dessert, Your Grace," Violet said warmly. "Cook has made gooseberry pie."

Simon's face lit up. "Ah! A personal favourite."

Beside Colin, Penelope groaned just loud enough for him to hear. "Ugh. Gooseberry pie is simply awful."

Right then, after the last crumbs of dessert had vanished, the evening began dissolving gently. The Duke of Hastings was among the first to depart, his carriage waiting patiently under the gaslight to whisk him back to Hastings House. The rest of the company soon followed suit, melting away through the halls – Violet seeing her younger ones settled for the night, most heading towards their beds, and Benedict making his way towards his bachelor chambers in the city.

Penelope lingered a moment longer in the quiet corridor, meaning to retire herself, when a low, tight murmur reached her ears from behind the study door. It hadn't been properly closed, and the sound spilled out into the discreet silence of the landing. She froze. It was Lady Bridgerton and Anthony.

"I find myself quite concerned for her," Violet said, her voice soft but carrying a definite edge of worry. "She is well-liked, certainly. Charming, even. But... no one is truly pursuing her. Not a single serious caller has returned."

Anthony's reply was sharp, cutting through the quiet. "Because they simply don't view her in that light, Mother. She's pleasant, agreeable... utterly delightful, everyone says. But she doesn't... she doesn't seem to capture their interest in that way. They see a kind acquaintance, a friend. That is all."

Penelope felt a little catch of breath in her throat.

Anthony continued, a clear strain of frustration now in his tone. "And yet you invited him. Hastings. As if that would suddenly change anything for Daphne!"

"I merely extended an invitation," Violet said coolly, though it didn't quite mask the truth.

"Oh, Mother, I know your methods," he countered. "You were hoping he might... consider her. But the Duke has no intention of marrying. This Season, or any other, by the sound of it. Daphne must not waste her hopes – or her affections – on a man who will never offer."

A heavy silence settled, broken only by the faint clink of glass, perhaps a decanter being set down. Penelope, her lips pressed tight together, eased herself away from the door, her own heart squeezing with a pang of sympathy for Daphne.

She made her way softly up the grand staircase, the echo of their voices fading behind her like words she knew she wouldn't forget.

A light tap on Daphne's door, and Penelope let herself in. The eldest Bridgerton daughter was already in her nightgown, seated at her dressing table, dragging a silver-backed brush through her tangled, honey-coloured hair with rather more force than was strictly necessary.

"Well," Penelope offered lightly, closing the door behind her, "that was certainly an... eventful dinner."

Daphne sighed, not turning. "Penelope."

"You and the Duke seemed to have a most fascinating conversation," Penelope teased gently, crossing the room to perch on the edge of the bed.

Daphne spun around, a definite scowl marring her brow. "I cannot abide him."

"Oh, do not be ridiculous," Penelope said, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"I mean it! He's utterly insufferable. I cannot fathom why any woman would find him so appealing. Is it simply the title? The immense fortune? Because it certainly isn't his manners."

"Perhaps your mother invited him because... she sensed something," Penelope ventured, trying for an innocent air.

Daphne narrowed her eyes, suspicion clear in her face. "Sensed something? What precisely do you mean?"

Penelope let out a soft breath. "Mama knows what love looks like, Daphne. She may see the potential for it in others. And besides," she hesitated, searching for the right words, "I saw it."

Daphne blinked, clearly confused. "Saw what?"

"You and the Duke," Penelope said, meeting her eyes earnestly. "Dancing. At a ball. Outdoors, under the moonlight. It was... it felt very significant. Very intimate."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Daphne groaned, burying her face in her hands momentarily. "Not one of your... premonitions."

"You looked as though you truly cared for one another," Penelope insisted softly.

"Penelope, please," Daphne said firmly, leaning back. "Your visions are not always... reliable. And if I am to be perfectly honest, I would much rather marry someone who actually loves me. Someone kind. Gentle. Not a man who practically calls me desperate and wears that infuriatingly smug expression as if the world simply owes him adoration."

Penelope didn't press the point, watching as Daphne turned back to her mirror, the brush strokes through her hair softening, becoming a little slower now.

"Very well," Penelope began, her voice quiet and gentle, folding her hands in her lap. "Let us suppose for a moment that my vision does come true – though perhaps not quite in the way your mother hopes. Imagine you do marry the Duke, even if it is not a love match. Even then, Daphne, if he were to call on you seriously, or worse, propose... I rather fear you might not have much say in the matter."

Daphne turned fully to face her friend, a puzzled frown creasing her brow as Penelope continued.

"I... I overheard your mother and Anthony speaking earlier. They are worried, Daphne. Truly worried. Your callers... none of them seem inclined towards anything serious. Not one sees you... as a proper prospect for matrimony," she admitted, her voice dropping low, full of regret. "They don't find you... captivating enough. And I am SO very sorry to say that. I know how you dream of marrying for love – but that path... it may not be yours. I pray with all my heart I am mistaken. Truly, I do. But if I'm not..." Penelope gave a small, helpless shrug. "Then what other choice does that leave you? Unless, of course... you fancy joining Eloise and me in delightful spinsterhood?"

Daphne let out a short, dry, almost incredulous laugh. "Oh, absolutely not to that!"

Penelope offered a small smile in return and rose from the bed. "Good night, Daphne," she murmured, turning towards the door. But just as her hand rested on the handle, Daphne's voice stopped her.

"When is it meant to happen? The ball... from your vision?"

Penelope turned back, her expression thoughtful, faraway. "I don't know the precise date. Only that it must be soon. Seeing him tonight, here... it felt suddenly very, very close indeed."

And indeed, Penelope was precisely right. For at breakfast the following morning, Lady Bridgerton unfolded a letter with a radiant smile. "An invitation!" she declared, beaming around the table. "To the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens! A ball! It is to be held... this very evening! Outdoors!" Across the linen and silver, Penelope's eyes met Daphne's. And for a long moment, neither of them looked away.

The evening air held a crispness that whispered of autumn as the Bridgertons and Penelope drifted softly down the Thames on a richly decorated barge, destined for the much-anticipated Vauxhall ball. Lanterns bobbed gently above them, their golden light rippling across the dark water, while the faint strains of a string quartet floated on the breeze, lending the night an almost enchanted atmosphere.

When they reached the garden, the group quickly dispersed, each member swept away by the pull of acquaintances and social duties. Yet Penelope lingered close to Colin, who paused just a little longer than ought to be necessary at the edge of the assembly.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. "You’re looking for someone," she said, voice steady but curious.

Colin startled briefly, then offered her a crooked, somewhat sheepish smile. "Miss Thompson," he admitted.

Penelope blinked, memories of seeing Marina only once before—at Agatha’s ball, mere days prior—surfacing in her mind. With a small nod, she joined Colin in scanning the throng.

Soon enough, her gaze found her cousin Archibald, already deep in cheerful conversation with a cluster of young peers, a wine glass in hand and a laugh curling his lips. Nearby, her other cousins wandered restlessly at the crowd’s edge, offering dance cards with mounting desperation to indifferent gentlemen who barely paused in their steps.

"I can’t spot Marina either," Penelope remarked softly, her tone light but steady.

Before another word could be spoken, Cressida appeared as if summoned, flanked by two equally fine but less assured debutantes.

"Mr. Bridgerton," she said sweetly, performing a practiced curtsy without so much as a glance in Penelope’s direction. "How fortuitous. It seems I have one last opening on my dance card."

She extended her wrist with a delicate flourish, the ivory card fluttering slightly in the evening breeze.

"How convenient," Penelope murmured barely audibly.

But not quiet enough.

Almost instantly, a careless splash of champagne arced from Cressida’s glass, landing sparkling and cold over the front of Penelope’s gown.

"Oh dear," Cressida murmured with exaggerated innocence. "How dreadfully clumsy of me."

Colin’s expression hardened ever so slightly. "How unfortunate, Miss Cowper. I’m afraid I’m already committed—the honour is Miss Hartwell’s for the next dance."

Without hesitation, he turned smoothly and offered his arm to Penelope. She accepted with a small, amused smile, the damp silk forgotten as they moved toward the dance floor.

Cressida remained rooted in place, her face a mixture of mortification and simmering resentment. Behind her, the two debutantes exchanged glances, clearly entertained by the spectacle.

Their dance was lighthearted and bubbling with laughter, their cheeks flushed from shared enjoyment and ease. Just then, a herald’s voice rose above the murmur of gathering voices, commanding attention from all around.

With a flourish, he lifted a torch and touched its flame to the nearest lantern. Suddenly, a warm golden glow spread through the gardens as lantern after lantern flickered to life—hung in trees, lining winding paths, and suspended in delicate arches overhead.

The crowd gasped collectively, then fell silent, captivated by the transformation of the night into a shimmering tapestry of light.

But as the admiration for the lanterns began to soften into gentle whispers, a new quiet settled over the assembly. Silks rustled softly, and gentle music resumed its sway, drawing every eye toward the centre of the floor.

There, without fanfare or ceremony, Daphne and the Duke of Hastings stepped into place. Though couples milled about, it was they who quietly held the attention of all present.

Penelope gasped, her breath catching, and she playfully tapped Colin’s shoulder.

"Ow—Penelope!" he whispered sharply. "What are you—?"

She stopped her hand, but her eyes remained fixed. "My vision," she breathed. "It’s coming true."

As the music swelled around them, the dance unfolded exactly as she had foreseen: the soft glow of lanterns, the tender moonlight, and two souls sharing a moment so intimate it seemed neither noticed the crowd watching.

Penelope clutched Colin’s sleeve, too captivated to feel embarrassment. She didn’t know exactly what the season might bring for Daphne—only that something extraordinary had begun. Perhaps a union. Surely, a marriage.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

The chattering classes were still abuzz about the Vauxhall Gardens ball the morning after. Lady Whistledown's latest broadside had landed before dawn, and not a drop of ink was spared detailing Daphne and the Duke of Hastings' scandalous, yet somehow proper, moonlit dance. The sheer intimacy—respectable, mind you, but undeniably charged—had London society utterly captivated.

Promptly, and at her mother's urging, Daphne took her promenade in Hyde Park, her arm linked with the Duke's in a manner that spoke volumes. They weren't alone, of course. Other couples, ranging from the tentatively courting to the nearly engaged, strolled nearby, all under the watchful eyes of their chaperones. Violet Bridgerton, Daphne's mother, sat on a nearby bench, politely but deliberately close at hand.

Beside her perched the formidable Agatha. Violet had known Agatha since girlhood; her own mother had always made a show of inviting Agatha for Sunday tea, a rather transparent attempt to gain favor by association, as Agatha was a close confidante of the Queen.

Now, the two matriarchs observed the young couple with keen interest.

"If it comes to pass," Agatha declared, her gaze sharp from behind her walking cane, "your daughter won't merely be married, she'll be elevated. As Duchess of Hastings, she'll hold the second highest rank among the peerage. She wouldn't just participate in society, Violet—she would lead it."

Violet allowed a small, proud smile. "I've raised her to manage a household, certainly. But if she marries a duke…" She glanced at Daphne and Simon. "Well, it would be a rather grand one, I expect. Still—she is capable. More than capable."

Agatha gave a curt nod. "She will need to be. Simon is not an easy man."

"No," Violet agreed gently, "but he has found a worthy match. And I rather think he knows it."

What remained unsaid—though both women were acutely aware—was that Agatha had been as much a mother to Simon as anyone. She had witnessed his father's cold neglect, protected his childhood stammer like a lioness, and guided him into manhood with unwavering affection. If anyone knew what it would take to be the Duchess of Hastings, it was Agatha. And she, at least, appeared well-pleased with the possibility of Daphne filling that role.

Meanwhile, back at Bridgerton House, Penelope Featherington and Eloise Bridgerton swept down the grand staircase, bonnets in hand and chatter already flowing. They were just about to head out the door, set on a visit to the bookstall in Covent Garden, when Colin Bridgerton intercepted them in the hall, emerging from the dining room looking both satisfied and just a tad peckish.

"Penelope," he said, stepping into their path, "would you be so kind as to call upon Miss Thompson this morning? Just across the square."

Eloise rolled her eyes heavenward. "We're on our way to market," she sighed, exasperated. "You may visit your beloved yourself, brother. According to Penelope's 'vision,' she is to be your wife, after all."

Colin shot her an annoyed look. "I already tried. Lady Featherington refuses to grant me entry. She claims Miss Thompson is unwell and mustn't be disturbed."

"Perhaps she truly is," Eloise muttered, though without much conviction.

Colin turned back to Penelope, his expression softening. "Please. You're family—they'll admit you. I only wish to know that she is well."

Though a visit to her cousin hadn't been a part of her morning plans, Penelope nodded in agreement. "Of course. I'll go."

Eloise groaned and adopted a posture of theatrical defeat, but she followed her friend nonetheless, muttering about the tyranny of romance the whole way and how she'd much rather be choosing novels than mediating awkward courtships.

At Featherington House, the heavy front door was opened promptly by Varley, the housekeeper, who blinked in mild surprise before ushering Penelope and Eloise into the entrance hall. With a quick curtsy, she led the young ladies to the drawing room.

Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of burnt toast and unspoken tension. Prudence and Philippa Featherington were seated at a small table set for a meager breakfast, deep in an animated—if ill-informed—discussion about a most delicate subject: Marinas delicate condition. Their voices were kept low, but clearly not low enough to escape the notice of their mother, who sat rigidly on a settee, her lips pressed into a thin line of exasperation.

"But Mama always said you had to be married to have a babe," Prudence said, aghast.

"Well, clearly Marina did something," Philippa countered knowingly.

Portia Featherington closed her eyes in evident frustration just as Varley reappeared, ushering Penelope and Eloise into the room.

"Miss Hartwell," the baroness greeted at once, rising with a stiff formality and casting a sharp look at her housekeeper, who offered an apologetic dip of her head. "I wasn't aware you were planning a visit."

Her gaze flicked with faint dismay towards Eloise, who stood beside her friend with her arms crossed and an expression of marked indifference.

"Oh. And Miss Eloise. How pleasant."

Eloise offered a curt nod. "Lady Featherington."

"We simply came to check on Miss Thompson," Penelope said smoothly. "Colin has been calling on her for a week now, and he hoped to promenade with her in Hyde Park this morning, but he was turned away. He's concerned, naturally."

"Yes, well—she's terribly unwell," Portia quickly replied, adopting a tone of feigned concern.

"What ails her?" Eloise asked, arching a brow.

"Oh... it's just a severe cold," the baroness stumbled, faltering only slightly. "Quite dreadful, I'm afraid. Bedridden and quite unfit for visitors. But I shall certainly pass along your kind regards—and Mr. Bridgerton's, of course."

With a smile far too tight to be genuine, she began gently steering them toward the door. "Now, do enjoy the rest of your day. The market is quite lively this time of morning."

Penelope opened her mouth to speak again, but Eloise gave her a significant look and a small shake of the head. There would be no seeing Marina today.

The instant the imposing doors of Featherington House swung shut behind them, Eloise let out a theatrical sigh, linking her arm through Penelope's.

"Thank heavens that's over!" she exclaimed, guiding them down the street. "Now, to the market before every worthwhile book is snatched up by the wealthy and witless."

The two young women strolled towards the square, their maids following at a respectful distance. Eloise held forth with unbridled opinions delivered in her characteristic indignant tone, while Penelope offered the occasional gentle agreement, her mind clearly elsewhere.

Their literary acquisitions were made with haste. Now laden with fresh reading material, they began their return to Bridgerton House. Eloise, however, showed no sign of flagging in her commentary, her voice bubbling with frustration and disbelief.

"So, Daphne is in love," she said, almost with a sneer. "Does she consider this some grand achievement? What exactly has she done to warrant such praise? She didn't construct the man, nor bake him in a pastry. He simply appeared! He's likely drawn to the shape of her face or the shade of her hair. And that is worthy of admiration? Possessing agreeable features is hardly a skill. Do you know what is a skill? Attending university! That, Penelope, is a true accomplishment. But alas, if one is born a woman, one must settle for being admired and—oh, joy!—filled with children. And we are expected to smile through it all."

She paused, at last noticing the distant, thoughtful look on her friend's face.

"Oh, Penelope," Eloise groaned. "You haven't heard a word."

Penelope blinked, then sighed, glancing back at the maids, who were engaged in quiet gossip and paying them little attention. She grasped Eloise's arm more firmly, drawing her closer with surprising strength.

"I know someone... who is expecting," she whispered.

Eloise nearly stumbled.

"You what?"

"I overheard Prudence and Philippa earlier, chattering away in the drawing room," Penelope explained in a low voice. "I don't believe they intended to be overheard."

"Wait—" Eloise interrupted. "Is it Lady Featherington? Is she not a bit... past the age for such a surprise? Though I suppose she'd still be hoping for a boy—"

"No," Penelope said quickly. "Not her. A maid."

Eloise faltered again. "Which maid? Is she married?"

"She is not," Penelope replied gravely.

A moment of stunned silence hung in the air. Then Eloise whispered, eyes wide, "But how—how does that happen?"

"I don't know," Penelope admitted. "But I intend to find out."

"You must. Otherwise, how are we to prevent it happening to us?"

"I think," Penelope said slowly, "we should ask your mother."

Eloise groaned. "She'll never tell us."

"She might," Penelope insisted. "And if she doesn't… we shall find someone who will."

Eloise gave a solemn nod. "We must. For science! And survival."

The drawing-room at Bridgerton House was filled with the lilting notes from Daphne's pianoforte. Her fingers danced across the keys, yet her brow was furrowed with a discontent that no amount of music could soothe. Hyacinth and Gregory were seated at a little table, enjoying a light luncheon, while Colin and Benedict lounged on a settee, their eyes lazily following their sister's performance.

"Two dances?" Hyacinth exclaimed, turning to her mother, her eyes wide with astonishment. "With a duke, no less?"

Violet, who stood nearby with a slice of toast in hand, smiled fondly. "Indeed, my dear. The Duke of Hastings danced with Daphne not once, but twice. He seemed utterly charmed – and he was not the only one. All eyes were upon her last evening."

She approached Daphne, offering her the toast. "Do have a bite, dearest."

Daphne shook her head, her gaze fixed on the keys. "I have no appetite, Mama."

Colin chuckled. "Are we quite certain the attention wasn't due to a tear in her gown, perhaps?"

"Or a misstep during the waltz?" Benedict added with a grin.

Daphne, unperturbed by their jests, continued to play, a frown etched on her face, pointedly ignoring her brothers.

Violet, undeterred, mused aloud, "Do you suppose the Duke shall grace the Crawford ball with his presence?"

"Possibly," Daphne replied shortly, glancing up momentarily.

"And the Ramsay ball on Friday? Or the Montrose picnic next week?"

"We shall see, Mama," Daphne answered, her tone clipped.

Violet's excitement only seemed to deepen Daphne's discontent. Only Daphne and Simon knew the truth—their courtship was a carefully constructed façade, a mutually beneficial arrangement. For Daphne, it was a means to attract more suitors by appearing desired; for Simon, a shield to keep persistent debutantes at bay.

"How unfortunate for Francesca," Hyacinth remarked with a sigh. "To be stuck in Bath with Aunt Georgiana all season. She'll miss Daphne's impending engagement."

"Has she already departed, then?" Gregory inquired.

Before anyone could answer, the drawing room doors burst open, and Eloise and Penelope stormed in, both flushed and determined.

"How does a young lady find herself enceinte?" Eloise demanded, her voice echoing through the room.

Daphne's hands froze on the keys. Violet stiffened visibly.

"Eloise!" Violet hissed, her face paling. "What manner of question is that?"

"I thought one had to be wed," Penelope added, matter-of-factly.

"Whatever are you two babbling about?" Daphne asked, bewildered.

"Apparently, it's not even a requirement," Eloise declared gravely.

"That is quite enough," Violet snapped, her tone sharp and final. The room fell silent, save for the distant tick of the mantel clock and the lingering dissonance of Daphne's last chord.

Eloise collapsed onto the settee between her brothers, looking as though she'd just been sentenced to hard labor, while Penelope took the opposite seat, arms crossed, her expression dark. Neither looked thrilled with the way things were going.

Violet exhaled wearily and pressed her fingers to her temple. "Daphne, dearest, you were playing so beautifully. Do continue."

Daphne cast a quick glance towards her sister, then at Penelope, then at their mother. With a polite nod, she resumed her piece, though her gaze lingered a moment longer on the keys than was strictly necessary.

Eloise gave her brothers a pointed look. "So. You both know."

Benedict avoided her eyes altogether. "Don't look at me."

Colin grinned lopsidedly. "Have you ever visited a farm, El—ow!" His sentence ended abruptly with a yelp as Benedict cuffed him on the back of the head—perhaps a bit harder than intended, for Eloise got caught in the recoil and huffed indignantly.

Colin laughed, rubbing the back of his head. "A tragic casualty," he murmured, more amused than apologetic.

Penelope leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Farm? What farm? I don't understand—Colin!"

Violet's gaze sharpened. "I do hope neither of you is indulging in indecorous humor."

"Certainly not, Mother," Benedict replied, all innocence.

Colin rose, glancing briefly at Eloise—then more pointedly at Penelope. "In fact, we were just off to… take our sticks out."

"Colin Bridgerton!" Violet snapped.

He offered a winning smile. "For fencing, of course." He and Benedict exchanged a look and departed, their laughter echoing faintly behind them.

"Violet, might you please tell us?" Penelope asked, leaning forward with an urgency unbecoming a young lady, but entirely characteristic of her.

Violet folded her hands in her lap, her expression serene. "No, Penelope. I shall not."

Penelope huffed. "But that's perfectly absurd! Why should Colin and Benedict—and seemingly every gentleman alive—be permitted to know such things, while we are expected to remain in the dark?"

"Because that is how it is," Violet replied, with the finality of a judge's gavel.

"Well, it's nonsensical," Penelope muttered, crossing her arms.

Violet turned to her with a sharp glance. "Penelope," she said, her voice cool and cautionary.

Her expression softened, just a touch. "I shall tell you on the morning of your wedding, I promise. That is when I was told—by my mother, on the very same day."

Eloise let out a dramatic sigh, her lower lip jutting out. "But that isn't fair in the slightest. You know I've no intention of ever marrying."

Violet rose, smoothing her skirts with efficient grace. "Well then, I suppose you shall never know." And with that, she dismissed the subject entirely, gliding toward the door with the air of a woman quite finished with the conversation.

Eloise followed her from the drawing room, arms crossed. "Now what?" she muttered to Penelope once they were alone in the corridor.

Penelope pursed her lips. "We ask someone else."

It didn't take much searching to find Rae in her small room in the servants' quarters. The young woman’s eyes flickered with caution when they made their request.

"If Lady Bridgerton were to find out…" Rae began, her voice a mere whisper. "Or Lord Bridgerton…"

"They won't," Penelope said firmly. "We promise. Cross our hearts, and—oh, and I'll compensate you."

Rae's eyebrows rose. "Compensate me?"

Penelope reached into her reticule and produced a few coins – discreetly pilfered from her dowry funds. (Anthony was still oblivious, and Penelope had no intention of changing that.) She pressed the money into Rae's palm, her expression resolute.

With a deep sigh and frequent glances toward the door, Rae began her explanation.

The ensuing lesson was more detailed than either of the young ladies had anticipated. Rae held nothing back, attempting to be both clear and factual. When it was over, Eloise looked as though she might faint, and Penelope’s cheeks were flushed.

"That's… utterly revolting," Eloise breathed.

Penelope nodded, her expression a mixture of horror and profound disappointment. "Unspeakably dreadful."

They sat in silence for a moment, stunned. Then Eloise added, "...No wonder everyone keeps it a secret."

They solemnly swore to Rae, yet again, that neither Violet nor Anthony would ever hear a word of this, then slipped away, their newly-acquired knowledge weighing heavily on both their minds.

As they made their way to the library, clutching new books and sharing a silent understanding, Penelope found her thoughts wandering. Though she walked beside Eloise, her mind was far away from the pages and plots of their chosen novels.

Now that the mystery of Marina’s situation was clarified, a new question had taken root: who was the father? It couldn't be Colin – if it were, surely he would have married Marina by now.

The realization gave her pause. If the child belonged to another man, then Marina's future with Colin, the one Penelope had so eagerly imagined, seemed utterly impossible. It didn’t feel right. The pieces no longer seemed to fit, and for the first time, Penelope wondered if her hopes had led her astray—or if Marina was hiding more than anyone knew.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

The day before the Crystal Ball, a missive adorned with the royal crest arrived at Bridgerton House. Violet, surrounded by her daughters and Penelope in Daphne’s boudoir, carefully broke the seal. A gasp escaped her lips—Her Majesty had requested her presence for tea in just two days! A flurry of excited chatter erupted, the young ladies quite breathless at the prospect of such an intimate royal audience.

The ball itself was a spectacle. Chandeliers shimmered above the ballroom floor, music filled the air, and laughter danced through the room like a delicate perfume. Penelope found herself enjoying the evening immensely—she shared a lively dance with Colin, indulged in perhaps a few too many lemon tarts, and even found herself in a surprisingly engaging conversation with Agatha, who always seemed to possess a knack for knowing more than she let on.

Meanwhile, the ever-persistent and equally unwelcome Berbrooke cornered Anthony, pushing for Daphne's hand in marriage. Anthony, ever the protective older brother, stood firm in his refusal. He knew his sister considered Berbrooke utterly intolerable and unsettling, and he would never allow her to be forced into a match she didn't desire. As Bridgertons, they had no need for a hasty wedding; their fortune was more than secure, viscountcy or not. Furious at the rejection, Berbrooke stormed out of the ballroom, his temper flaring.

Oblivious to the minor drama, Daphne and the Duke of Hastings shared their third dance of the season. They moved with effortless grace, their faces bright with smiles, their eyes alight. Despite being the subject of countless curious glances, they seemed lost in their own private world.

The following day brought the highly anticipated picnic at Hyde Park, an event attended by nearly everyone of consequence. Families relaxed beneath embroidered parasols, engaging in polite conversation, while footmen weaved through the crowd offering refreshments and baskets of delicious treats.

Penelope, flushed with sunshine and high spirits, found herself delightfully engaged in a game of hide-and-seek with young Hyacinth and Gregory. Their laughter echoed through the park as she gave chase through tall grass and shaded groves. Finally, she caught them both in a triumphant embrace, collapsing with them onto the soft lawn. She showered them with kisses, her laughter mingling with theirs as she tickled them mercilessly, utterly charmed by the innocent joy of the moment.

Afterwards, Penelope, still rosy-cheeked from play, joined Gregory and Hyacinth as they approached Anthony, who was deep in conversation with Colin nearby. Without much persuasion, the four soon began a spirited game of lawn toss, their laughter and playful teasing carrying through the park. Anthony, ever the competitive eldest, claimed victory time and again, much to the mock chagrin of his younger siblings and Penelope.

As the game wound down and the others wandered toward the refreshment tables, Colin gently drew Penelope aside, leading her to the shade of a blooming tree.

"Did you see Miss Thompson today?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Penelope shook her head. "Lady Featherington wouldn't allow it. She claimed Miss Thompson has come down with a dreadful cold."

Colin frowned, clearly disappointed but not entirely discouraged. "She'll recover. Your... visions told you so, didn't it? That she's meant to be my wife? We'll see each other again soon."

Penelope hesitated, clasping her hands together. "Perhaps I was mistaken," she said softly, avoiding his gaze. "Or... perhaps the future is more... fluid than I believed."

Colin studied her silently, the gentle breeze playing with the curls around her face.

Just then, a familiar, rather grating voice cut through the air: "Bridgerton!"

Penelope and Colin turned to see Berbrooke striding purposefully toward Anthony, who was speaking with Violet near one of the shaded picnic tables. Without a word, Berbrooke thrust a folded paper into Anthony’s chest with the dramatic flair of a man far too pleased with himself.

"I bring glad tidings!" he declared. "I have taken the liberty of procuring a special license for my forthcoming marriage to Miss Bridgerton."

All eyes turned to Daphne, who blinked in surprise. "There will be no marriage," she stated firmly.

"As I've told you before," Anthony said coolly, pushing the paper away, "I do not consent to any such arrangement."

Violet, visibly restraining herself, gave him a tight smile. "You seem rather agitated, my lord. Perhaps we should continue this conversation in a more private setting?"

Berbrooke waved her off dismissively. "I have no need for further discourse. Perhaps, at last, I shall address the true authority of this house," he sneered, turning back to Anthony. "Though one would think you'd have the good sense to caution your sister against inviting certain... attentions when alone with a gentleman in the Dark Walk at Vauxhall."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Daphne looked utterly scandalized. "That is a lie," she snapped.

Berbrooke smirked. "Oh, of course, merely hearsay. But one wonders what Lady Whistledown might make of such unsavory gossip."

Penelope's hands clenched into fists, hidden within the folds of her gown. She longed to cry out that Lady Whistledown publishes truth, not malicious rumors, but to do so would expose her secret. Her silence, however bitter, was necessary.

Anthony's expression darkened. "Is that a threat?"

"Certainly not," Berbrooke replied, his voice dripping with insincerity. "For in three days' time, I shall be wed. I have won the diamond of the season." He cast a lascivious glance at Daphne, who recoiled in disgust. "A Bridgerton bride. The finest society has to offer. And I shall save her—and your family—from the disgrace you all could not prevent."

Simon moved then, quick and furious, to intervene, but Benedict was faster and caught his arm, holding him back.

Berbrooke stumbled back, startled by Simon's near-assault. He straightened, attempting to regain his haughty composure. "I eagerly anticipate the union of our great families. Bridgerton. Hastings."

With that, he turned sharply and departed, leaving behind stunned silence and a crowd of onlookers now openly gawking.

Without a word, the Bridgertons—and Penelope—retreated to the two carriages waiting nearby. Violet ushered her children inside with a grace honed by years of practice, while Simon swung onto his horse and galloped away, his fury radiating from his back like a palpable heat.

In one of the Bridgerton carriages, heading homeward, a heavy silence descended, punctuated only by the rhythmic clatter of wheels on the road. Anthony and Violet sat stiffly on one side, while Daphne stared blankly out the window, her posture rigid, her expression a mixture of despair and fear. Penelope sat quietly between her and Eloise, whose brow was furrowed with concern.

"I must challenge Berbrooke without delay," Anthony said suddenly, his voice low but firm.

Violet's eyes snapped to him. "Anthony—"

"I am well-versed in the proper procedures," he continued briskly, ignoring her warning. "I've been trained. I know how to conduct the affair—"

"You will do no such thing," Violet interrupted, her tone sharper now. "You are not to duel Lord Berbrooke. Do you understand me? I don't care how many rules you know. It's illegal. And it's barbaric."

"What other recourse do I have?" Anthony retorted. "When a lady—my sister—is threatened with scandal, a gentleman has precious few options. And the consequences of inaction could be just as devastating."

"It solves nothing," Daphne said quietly, drawing everyone's attention. She finally turned from the window to face them, her features pale but composed. "If Berbrooke should speak before you manage to... dispatch him, what then? The damage would be done. He's already threatened our reputation. One whisper and I'm ruined. We are ruined."

She took a shaky breath and said, almost numbly, "I must marry him. There is no other way."

Violet looked on the verge of tears. She turned, grasping at one last hope. "Penelope," she said, her voice trembling, "look into Daphne's future. There must be something—some other path."

Penelope's eyes widened. "My... visions don't come on command," she said gently. "They're not something I can summon at will—"

"Please, Penelope," Violet pleaded, her desperation making the words sound like a prayer.

Penelope drew a breath, a nervous flutter in her chest. With a hesitant hand, she reached for Daphne’s wrist, her eyes closing tight as she sought the glimmer of a vision. Silence stretched, thick and heavy, the effort a visible strain etched on Penelope's brow. Just as Daphne began to gently withdraw, a sudden surge of energy tightened Penelope’s grasp.

Then, a world bloomed in her mind's eye.

There was Daphne, a vision of grace in a chapel, gliding down the aisle, her hand resting securely on Anthony’s arm. The gown she wore was exquisite, a whisper of ivory silk and delicate lace. The groom's face remained frustratingly obscured, but Daphne's shone, radiant with hope and a quiet, profound joy. Behind her stood the Bridgerton family, Agatha, and Penelope herself, along with a couple, their skin a warm, rich hue, their clothes simple yet dignified – clearly outsiders to the glittering world of the ton, yet undeniably cherished by someone present. Smiles graced every face, soft and genuine, a testament to a shared happiness.

The vision dissolved, the image fading like a dream upon waking. Penelope's hand loosened, and she gasped, her eyes fluttering open to the real world.

"Well?" Violet breathed, her voice laced with a nervous anticipation.

Anthony leaned forward, his gaze intense. "What did you see, Penelope?"

Penelope met Daphne's anxious eyes. "Her wedding day. She was happy, Daphne. We all were."

A soft exhalation escaped Violet's lips, her hands fluttering to her chest in a gesture of relief. But Daphne's expression remained clouded, a shadow of doubt lingering in her gaze.

"My visions are not infallible, you know," she reminded them softly, yet with a firm undertone.

Violet reached out, her hand covering Daphne’s. "We shall find a way, my darling," she vowed. "You need never forfeit your own happiness to uphold appearances. Not yet, and certainly not ever."

As the morning sun cast its gentle glow over the bustling streets of London, Violet set out for Buckingham House, accompanied by the indefatigable Mrs. Wilson. The rare honor of taking tea with Her Majesty had sent a thrill of excitement through the entire household, and Violet was determined to make a lasting impression. With Mrs. Wilson by her side, she knew that every detail of etiquette and decorum would be meticulously observed.

Meanwhile, back at Bridgerton House, Penelope had retreated to the serene oasis of the garden, where she sat cross-legged beneath the wisteria arbor, her eyes closed in rapt concentration. The warm sunlight filtering through the branches above seemed to dance across her face, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in thought.

"I had truly hoped it would happen again," she murmured, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice.

Eloise, lounging nearby with a book that had long since lost her interest, glanced up at her friend with a curious expression. "You mean the vision, Penelope? You've been gazing at the roses for what feels like an eternity."

Penelope's sigh was barely audible, but the disappointment that lingered in her eyes was palpable. "I've tried everything: quiet contemplation, focus, even prayer. But nothing seems to be working."

Eloise's response was characteristically flippant, but laced with a hint of wisdom. "Perhaps, my dear Penelope, visions are rather like gentlemen – they only arrive when one is least expecting them."

Penelope's smile was faint, but the warmth of her friend's words was a balm to her frazzled nerves. As she leaned her head against Eloise's shoulder, something shifted, like the subtle turning of a key in a lock. The garden around her began to fade, and she felt herself being drawn into a vision of the future.

In this fleeting glimpse, Eloise appeared older, yet still unmistakably herself – her features sharper, her hair styled with a casual elegance that belied a deeper sophistication. She sat at her writing desk, surrounded by the quiet of her bedchamber, the sunlight spilling through the windows like a benediction. Her expression was inscrutable, a complex tapestry of emotions that Penelope couldn't quite decipher.

As the vision shifted, Penelope's gaze fell upon the page in Eloise's hands. The words danced across the paper, but one phrase leapt out at her: "From Sir Philip, with love."

The vision vanished, leaving Penelope feeling breathless and bewildered.

Eloise's voice cut through the silence, tinged with concern. "Penelope, what's wrong? Did you have a vision? Was it about me? Tell me I didn't meet a tragic end."

Penelope's words tumbled out in a rush, barely coherent. "You were reading a letter... you looked older... it was from a man named Philip. And at the bottom, it said... 'From Sir Philip, with love'."

Eloise's laughter was like a burst of sunlight, illuminating the somber mood that had settled over Penelope. "Sir Philip? Oh, really, Penelope! You can't be serious. I'm to be a tragic romantic, writing swooning letters to titled strangers? That's Daphne's domain, not mine."

But Penelope's gaze remained fixed on her friend, her eyes burning with an inner intensity. She knew that the vision had been real, that it had spoken to her on a deep, unspoken level. And though she said nothing, a small, secret part of her wondered if the future might hold more than she could ever have imagined.

Later that afternoon, as Penelope wandered past the open door to the kitchen, she was drawn into a hushed conversation between the cook and two housemaids. Their words were like a whispered secret, a hidden truth that only they were privy to.

"...a son, can you imagine?" one maid whispered, her voice barely audible.

The cook's response was laced with a deep-seated anger. "Lord Berbrooke ought to be whipped. He never looked back, never acknowledged the boy as his own. Paid the poor girl nothing, and then pretended she didn't exist."

Penelope's blood ran cold as she listened, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew that she had stumbled upon a dark secret, one that could have far-reaching consequences. And as she backed away from the door, her mind was already racing with the implications of what she had heard.

Days later, the scandal broke like a storm over London. Lady Whistledown's Society Papers had delivered the blow with precision, exposing Berbrooke's disgraceful secret to the world. The ton was abuzz with the news, and the Bridgerton household was jubilant. Daphne was free, the threat of a vile marriage dissolved, and Violet's relief was palpable.

As they sat in the drawing room, sipping tea and discussing the scandal, Violet's words were laced with a deep-seated gratitude. "I never thought I'd say this, but thank heavens for Lady Whistledown. Without her, justice might have been a long time coming."

Penelope's smile was enigmatic, a small, secret smile that only she understood. She knew that she had played a part in bringing Berbrooke's downfall, that her whispered words had helped to fuel the flames of scandal. And as she raised her teacup to her lips, she felt a sense of satisfaction, knowing that justice had been served.

The Roses Ball was in full swing, all soft light and floral elegance. Penelope found herself partnered with Colin for a dance. They were soon giggling, slightly off-step, whirling about with a touch more abandon than the more seasoned ladies approved of. When the music faded, Penelope, cheeks flushed, excused herself for some lemonade, leaving Colin to the eager clutches of a debutante who'd been eyeing him like a prize.

Across the room, Daphne and Simon moved as one. Unlike the brisk dances favored by the younger set, they flowed at a leisurely pace, their focus more on each other than the music. They spoke in hushed tones, their words weaving a private world.

Daphne seemed lighter, somehow. The specter of Lord Berbrooke had vanished, taking with it the dreadful fear of a loveless, obligatory marriage. Thanks to their little charade, her future, her choices, felt possible again.

Simon readily agreed. Ever since their outing at Vauxhall, he'd enjoyed a blessed reprieve from matchmaking mothers and simpering misses. The air was decidedly clearer.

Their steps brought them closer. Daphne’s hand rested on his shoulder a fraction longer than was strictly proper. His gaze met hers, held.

"I daresay," Simon murmured, his voice a low rumble only for her ears, "if we're to keep up this charade until you land a suitable offer, it's only sensible that you call me Simon."

A smile played on Daphne's lips. "Only if you shall call me Daphne," she countered softly.

The air between them crackled, like the lingering note after a beautiful melody.

Though the dance ended, the magic lingered. As Daphne was pulled into a laughing circle of dancers, Simon stood back, watching. He turned toward Agatha at the edge of the room, her expression sharp and knowing, her cane held firm.

"You look as though you've been strangled by your own neckcloth," she observed drily.

Simon barely acknowledged her. His gaze remained fixed on Daphne, glowing beneath the chandeliers. "On the contrary, Lady Danbury," he murmured, almost to himself. "I believe things are precisely as they ought to be."

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

It had been a fortnight since the scandalous departure of Berbrooke and his mother from the city, and the atmosphere in Mayfair had undergone a palpable transformation. The weight that had once hung over Bridgerton House like a specter had lifted, and the drawing room, once a hub of tension, now hummed with the gentle warmth of a summer breeze. Penelope, seated beside Eloise on the plush chaise, felt a sense of liberation wash over her. Her dear friend Daphne, now unencumbered by the shackles of obligation to the baron, had blossomed into the belle of the season, with suitors flocking to her doorstep like bees to honey. Though three had already proffered their hearts and hands, she had rejected them with the poise of a queen, simply because she could.

As for Penelope, she had received a modest coterie of callers, a far cry from the throngs that besieged Daphne, but she wore her quiet contentment like a badge of honor. Her mind, however, remained a maelstrom of thoughts, her attention consumed by the disquieting news that had shaken her to her core the previous evening.

Anthony, ensconced in a high-backed armchair, his eyes scanning the pages of The London Chronicle, read aloud in a measured tone, his voice laced with a hint of foreboding. "Another brutal murder in Bloomsbury, a young woman found with her throat slit in a deserted alley." His words hung in the air like a challenge, a stark reminder of the darkness that lurked in the shadows of their rarefied world.

Penelope shifted uncomfortably, her hands clasped in her lap, as a pang of guilt pierced her conscience. She had not foreseen this tragedy, had not been gifted with a vision or a warning, and the weight of her failure settled upon her like a shroud.

Across the room, Colin stood at the sideboard, his deft fingers arranging an assortment of biscuits and fruit onto a delicate porcelain plate. Penelope rose from her seat, her movements economical, and made her way to his side, her voice barely above a whisper as she engaged him in conversation. Though her words were lighthearted and pleasant, her thoughts wandered, lost in the labyrinth of her own mind. Colin, however, listened with rapt attention, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, his presence a balm to her frazzled nerves.

Meanwhile, Violet turned her gaze upon her eldest daughter, who paced near the hearth, her fingers clasped before her like a supplicant in prayer. "Daphne, have you given any thought to whom you might wish to favor with a dance this evening?" she inquired, her tone a gentle blend of hope and curiosity.

The room fell silent, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the rustle of newspaper pages. Daphne paused, her expression inscrutable, before responding in a measured tone, "I have a few notions, Mama." She glided across the room, her skirts rustling softly, and settled beside Benedict on the settee, her fingers brushing against his leg as she prompted him to shift. "Lord Weaver dances with a certain... je ne sais quoi."

Anthony, his newspaper folded with a crisp rustle, offered, "Lord Hardy was inquiring after you at White's just last evening."

Violet's brow arched, a delicate, inquiring curve. "And what of the Duke, dear? Has he made any overtures?"

Daphne's gaze remained fixed on the pages of her novel, her voice a study in nonchalance. "The Duke has yet to propose, Mama."

In the midst of this tranquil scene, Gregory made a daring grab for a biscuit from Anthony's plate, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Anthony, his face a mask of mock severity, swatted at him with his folded newspaper, but Gregory dodged the blow with ease, his triumphant grin flashing like a ray of sunlight as he darted back to his seat beside Hyacinth, who giggled at her brother's antics.

"I am still weighing my options," Daphne added, her eyes never leaving the page. "A wise girl must consider all her choices carefully."

Anthony nodded, his expression a picture of approval. "Indeed, a prudent course is always the best."

Daphne's gaze remained fixed on her book, her voice a low, thoughtful murmur. "And Lord Hardy may yet prove a sensible choice... though he does have a tendency to speak of himself at length."

As Colin and Penelope rejoined the group, their quiet conversation a gentle hum in the background, Penelope settled herself on Colin's lap with the ease of long familiarity. The arrangement was one that had become second nature to the siblings, and none of them batted an eyelash at the informal pose. Violet, however, shot them a glance, her eyes sparkling with a hint of meaning.

"My dear," she said, turning to Daphne, "you complicate things unnecessarily. Sometimes, the simplest choice is the best. Marry the gentleman who feels like your dearest friend, and you shall never go wrong."

As she spoke, her gaze flicked to Colin and Penelope, who sat together, lost in their own little world, their laughter a soft, golden sound that filled the room. Daphne's tone was dry as dust as she replied, "Oh? Is that the answer, Mama? How delightfully simple."

Violet, undeterred, nodded, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "Yes, quite."

Daphne exchanged a look with Benedict, her brow arched in amusement, and he responded with a smirk, his eyes twinkling like stars in the night sky.

The evening of the Bird Ball finally arrived, and the air was alive with the soft glow of candelabras and the gentle hum of conversation. Penelope, a vision in a gown of pale blush silk, danced the night away with a carefree abandon, her feet moving in perfect harmony with Colin's as they twirled across the dance floor. Later, she was swept up by a trio of charming young gentlemen, each vying for her attention, though their faces blurred together in her memory like watercolors in the rain.

Meanwhile, Daphne remained steadfastly by Simon's side, their banter and laughter intertwining like the tender shoots of a vine. The unexpected arrival of Her Majesty Queen Charlotte, accompanied by the dashing Prince Friedrich of Prussia, sent a ripple of excitement through the assembly. As Daphne was presented to the prince, she curtsied with the elegance of a swan, but when he offered a witty remark, her laughter burst forth like a sunrise, a touch too enthusiastic. The Queen's eyebrows arched in gentle reproof, and with a subtle nod, she guided her nephew away, murmuring something about the importance of decorum.

Simon, ever the observant one, leaned in to whisper a teasing comment about Daphne's unbridled enthusiasm, and she dissolved into a fit of giggles, her eyes sparkling like diamonds in the firelight. The evening, despite the minor faux pas, was a resounding success, filled with the sweet strains of music, the gentle rustle of silks, and the soft glow of enchantment.

Later that night, Penelope returned from a visit to the printers in Bloomsbury, where she had delivered her latest column, and fell into a restless slumber. But her dreams were soon invaded by a dreadful vision:

a woman and her small child, cowering in a narrow, dimly lit room, as a figure in a grotesque mask loomed over them, its knife rising and falling with a deadly rhythm. The child's wails pierced the air, his tiny hands clutching at his mother's blood-soaked gown, as she struggled to comfort him, even as death claimed her. The masked figure turned, its eyes glinting with a malevolent light, and with a final, brutal thrust, drove the blade into the child's left eye. 

Penelope awoke with a strangled cry, her heart racing like a wild animal, and sat bolt upright in bed, her breath caught in her throat.

She threw off the covers and padded downstairs to the kitchen, seeking solace in the quiet darkness. But to her surprise, she found Anthony and Daphne already there, seated at the long kitchen table, each cradling a glass of cold milk. They looked up, their faces etched with concern, as she entered.

"Penelope, dear, are you quite well?" Anthony asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

She hesitated, still shaken by the horror of her dream, and instead asked, "Why are you drinking it cold?"

Daphne shrugged, a sheepish smile playing on her lips. "We didn't dare attempt the stove. None of us is quite sure how it works."

Without a word, Penelope moved to the stove and coaxed it into life, the flame flickering to life like a tiny miracle. Anthony's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you manage that?"

Penelope, her hands moving with a quiet confidence, replied, "Cook showed me years ago. I remembered." As she poured the milk into a pot and set it to warm, the soft glow of the fire illuminated the deep shadows of the night, and the Bridgertons watched her with a quiet admiration, their faces aglow with a warm, golden light.

As Penelope stood still as a statue, watching the milk warming on the stovetop, Daphne, ever the kind soul, shifted her attention to her brother. "Anthony," she began, her voice laced with concern, "what accounts for the Duke's aversion to matrimony?"

Anthony leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of shadows in the candlelight. "Blast if I know," he admitted after a moment's pause. "Only that his childhood... it weren't a pleasant one. He never offered up the details, and I never presumed to ask. Didn't feel like my place to go poking about."

Daphne let out a soft sigh, a flicker of frustration crossing her delicate features. "Well, that clears things up not at all."

Anthony simply shrugged, a gesture of helplessness. "It's all I've got for you, I'm afraid."

His gaze then drifted to Penelope, still by the stove, and he repeated his earlier query. "Are you feeling quite alright, Penelope?"

With slow, deliberate movements, Penelope poured the warm milk into a glass, her hands steady despite the weariness in her eyes. She hesitated, then finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"I had another vision. In my dreams." Her tone was low, tinged with a hint of despair. "A mother and child, about to marry. But it's not the matrimony that vexes me. They... they were murdered. The child–" She cut herself off, shaking her head as if to chase away the haunting image. "There's nothing I can do. There never is."

Turning to face them now, her voice gaining a touch more strength, though her eyes remained distant, she continued. "These visions have plagued me since I was but five years old, and never once have I been able to summon them at will, nor stop them from arriving. They appear unannounced, without mercy. And of late, I see strangers - folk I've never laid eyes on - dying violently in Bloomsbury. One after the other. I see precisely how they meet their end, but never when, never who they are in time to avert the tragedy."

She took a sip of her milk and settled into a chair across from them, her shoulders weighed down by an invisible burden. "I cannot fathom why I was cursed with this gift, nor what purpose it serves if I am powerless to change a blessed thing. And I know no other soul like me. Not a one. I feel, more often than not, utterly alone."

The kitchen fell silent, save for the gentle crackling of the stove. Anthony and Daphne exchanged a meaningful glance, neither knowing what to say.

And so they settled there for a while, the three of them, surrounded by the dancing shadows, allowing Penelope's truth to settle peacefully into the stillness.

Anthony leaned forward, his brow furrowed with a gravity one rarely saw on him. "Penelope," he said softly, "I cannot claim to comprehend the burden you carry. I cannot imagine witnessing such things - living with the knowledge of death before its arrival - but I do know this: you are not alone. Not while you sit within these walls, under this roof."

Penelope blinked at him, taken aback by his gentleness. He was not often so tender, especially not in the dead of night, in a dim kitchen over warm milk.

Daphne reached across the table, placing her hand atop Penelope's. "Anthony speaks true," she said, her voice soft and steady. "We cannot see what you see. We do not share your burden, and we may never truly grasp it. But we see you, Penelope. And we hold you in our hearts. Surely that counts for something, doesn't it?"

Penelope's gaze lowered to their hands, her lashes heavy with unshed tears. "It does," she whispered. "It truly does. I just... sometimes it feels as though I'm cursed, rather than gifted."

Anthony shook his head firmly. "Do not speak of it as a curse. You are brave, Penelope. More brave than most. You endure a weight that would break others, and yet you continue to smile, to dance, to–" He glanced at Daphne, as if seeking the right words. "To illuminate a room the moment you step inside."

That drew a small laugh from Penelope, one that surprised all three of them.

"Thank you," she said, glancing from one to the other. "I did not expect to find solace tonight."

"And yet, here it sits," Daphne said, offering a gentle smile.

They sat a while longer, sipping their milk in comfortable quiet, until the candles burned low and the kitchen was filled with a sense of profound peace. And for the first time in many nights, Penelope did not feel entirely alone.

The Royal Museum of Art's newly opened wing had become the day's grand stage for the entire ton. Beneath the expanse of its gilded ceiling, every member of society mingled within the gallery’s vast halls. The Bridgertons, Penelope in tow, made their entrance, but hardly had they crossed the threshold before Hyacinth and Gregory, swept away by youthful exuberance, vanished amidst the columns and canvases. Before long, Daphne, too, had drifted off, most likely after some tranquil landscape or a flirtatious admirer.

Eloise, with little regard for the conventional appreciation of art, looped her arm through Penelope’s and steered them across the marble floor.

"Come," she declared, her tone laced with mischief. "There's a spectacle of such awful taste that you simply must see it."

They halted before a large painting in oil. Several nude women were arranged amongst drapery and fruit, as though listless repose were their natural state. Eloise cocked her head, clearly unimpressed.

"Rather uninspired, wouldn't you agree?" she asked, folding her arms.

Penelope examined the piece with a smile as if she was amused. "Strangely acquainted," she remarked, "and yet I'm quite sure I've never laid eyes on it before."

"That's because it, like all the others here," Eloise said dryly, "was painted by some gentleman who believes a woman's only talent is to lounge prettily and remain silent."

"Mere decorative pieces," Penelope quipped, giggling softly.

"Precisely!" Eloise exclaimed, nodding firmly, pleased with Penelope's assessment. The two girls stood side by side, their bond not in the art before them, but in their shared quick wit and the quiet satisfaction of seeing beyond mere empty spectacle.

Just then, Penelope's gaze wandered across the gallery - and froze. Colin stood there, deep in conversation with Marina. Both wore warm smiles, but Colin's was especially bright, colored with that boyish charm Penelope knew so well. Without a word to Eloise, Penelope turned and headed toward them, her steps quick, a mask of false delight fixed on her face.

"Colin! There you are," she said brightly. "I've been looking for you everywhere.” She turned to Marina with equal cheer. "Miss Thompson! Good heavens, you're out in society again. You look quite recovered.”

Marina blinked, looking rather baffled. "I beg your pardon?"

Penelope gave a theatrical gasp, pressing her hand to her chest. “You don’t recognize me? Oh, but of course. I shouldn't expect you to. I am Penelope—Penelope Hartwell. We’re related, in a way. Your uncle, Lord Featherington, is my mother’s cousin. Making us…distant cousins. Or something very close.”

"I see...how very nice to meet you," Marina replied, her smile gracious but noticeably forced.

Penelope gave a crisp nod and slid her hand around Colin’s arm, rather possessively.

Colin chuckled awkwardly and bent slightly, murmuring near her ear, "Pen—what on earth are you playing at?”

She ignored him, her gaze fixed on Marina, her own smile as polite as it was sharp.

Marina's eyes flicked to Penelope’s hand on Colin’s arm, her expression sharpening with suspicion. "Wait—are the two of you—?”

Colin straightened swiftly, interrupting, "No! Certainly not." He glanced down at Penelope, then back to Marina. "Miss Hartwell is...well, she is a friend of my family. We’ve known each other since childhood. She’s a very dear friend."

Something in his tone, despite its kindness, made Penelope’s heart clench - a sharp, strange sensation. She didn’t know why.

But her smile remained in place, and she kept her hand exactly where it was.

Just then, Portia appeared, her smile was falsely sweet, and her tone was overly friendly, looping an arm through Marina’s. "Come along, my dear," she said, "there is a certain lord I've promised to introduce you to—quite distinguished, though a touch seasoned." Without giving Marina a chance to object, Portia whisked her away, leaving Colin and Penelope alone.

Colin gently but firmly removed Penelope’s hand from his arm, his expression one of quiet confusion. "Penelope," he said, "exactly what was that all about?"

She straightened her posture and replied, "I don't trust Miss Thompson. And I don't believe you should, either.”

His brow furrowed. "Why? You were quite kind to her before. Even supportive.”

“I've learned something about her," Penelope said, her voice dropping, uncertainty creeping in. "Something rather unsettling.”

Colin’s concern intensified. "What is it?"

She hesitated. "I...I can't tell you. It's not my place to say. I just don't know how."

Colin scoffed, shaking his head, disappointment clouding his face. "Penelope, you know I intend to marry her. Why say all this now?”

She stepped forward, desperate to explain. “Colin, you know that my visions…they sometimes change. Sometimes they never occur at all.”

His eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps it's you who’s changing them now—interfering." He sighed, hurt flashing in his gaze. "It feels as though you're sabotaging something important to me. Why? Because you’re afraid you’ll lose me?”

“I—”

But he didn't wait for an answer. He walked away, jaw tight, needing space to subdue the growing fire within him.

Penelope stood alone, frustration and sadness welling in her throat. Her eyes followed him until he disappeared into the crowd.

Nearby, a theatrical gasp pierced the air. Cressida had thrown herself into a dramatic swoon at Prince Friedrich’s feet, hoping to steal the royal’s attention from Daphne.

A few bystanders turned to watch the scene unfold, but Penelope did not even blink. Her heart had already sunk deeply enough for one afternoon.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

As the evening drew to a close, the soft glow of candles and the distant hum of crickets outside accompanied Penelope as she stood before Colin's bedchamber door, a delicate plate of warm biscuits cradled in her hands. The weight of their earlier disagreement still lingered, a gentle ache in her chest. Though her suspicions about Marina had been genuine, a pang of guilt remained, a reminder that some secrets were not hers to share.

Her hand hovered, poised to knock, when the door swung open with a soft creak, as if Colin had been waiting for her. He stood before her, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his waistcoat slightly askew, giving him a delightfully disheveled air. For a moment, they simply regarded each other, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway.

Then, without a word, Penelope extended the plate, her eyes apologetic, like a summer sky after a storm. "I'm so sorry," they exclaimed in unison, their voices intertwining like the branches of an ancient tree. The tension between them began to dissipate, replaced by the warm, golden light of their easy camaraderie.

Colin's smile, soft and gentle, accompanied his words. "You have nothing to apologize for, Pen. I was the one who behaved abominably." His eyes, like the darkest, most velvety night sky, sparkled with warmth, and Penelope's heart swelled in response.

She shook her head, a wry smile twisting her lips. "Oh, I think I was the one who was being utterly ridiculous." Colin's chuckle, low and husky, sent a shiver down her spine as he took the plate from her.

"Ah, but a very generous ridiculousness, if biscuits are involved," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Penelope's laughter, quiet and genuine, bubbled up, a gentle brook babbling over smooth stones.

As they stood there, the ease between them began to reassert itself, fragile as a newly bloomed flower, yet resilient as the human heart. Penelope's sigh, a little louder than she intended, seemed to startle her, and she murmured that she should take her leave. But Colin's voice, low and gentle, stayed her.

"Pen... are we quite all right?" The question caught her off guard, like a sudden shower on a summer's day. She blinked, surprised, wondering if she should be the one asking that question, considering she had been the one to upset him.

Yet, as she met his gaze, she felt a sense of peace settle over her, like a soft blanket on a cold winter's night. "Of course, we are," she replied, her smile small and sincere. "You're my dearest friend, Colin. My second favorite Bridgerton, after all."

Colin rolled his eyes, a mock-exasperated expression crossing his face. "Yes, yes, Eloise remains the undisputed champion." Penelope's grin, wide and unrepentant, sparkled with mirth.

But then, Colin's expression turned serious, his eyes locking onto hers. "You're my favorite, Pen," he said, his voice low and heartfelt. When she raised an eyebrow, he added, with a mischievous glint in his eye, "Honorary Bridgerton, naturally."

That earned him a fond, quiet laugh, like the soft lapping of waves on a still pond. "You're impossible, Colin," she whispered, shaking her head in amusement.

Without another word, Colin opened his arms, and Penelope stepped into them, feeling the warm, familiar comfort of his embrace, like coming home to a cozy fireside on a cold winter's night. A moment later, she pulled back, offered him one last, soft smile, and slipped away down the hall, leaving Colin to his thoughts, the memory of their gentle reconciliation lingering in the air like the scent of freshly baked biscuits.

Benedict slumped over his sketchbook, his eyes scanning the page with a mixture of frustration and disdain. The lines and curves of his drawings seemed dull and uninspired, a far cry from the vibrant creations that usually flowed from his pencil. He tapped the tip of his pencil against the desk, the rhythmic motion a testament to his growing agitation.

Just as he was starting to feel like he was going to explode, a soft voice whispered in his ear, "Boo." Benedict's head jerked up, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face the culprit. Penelope stood behind him, a mischievous glint in her eye and a sly smile playing on her lips.

"Very amusing," Benedict muttered, trying to sound stern but unable to hide the hint of a smile.

Penelope's grin only grew wider. "I couldn't resist," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I saw the door open and thought I'd drop in to say hello. What brings you to Bridgerton House today? I thought you preferred the solitude of your own studio."

Benedict sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I do, but my lodgings are currently undergoing renovations, courtesy of my mother's meddling. She's convinced that I'm safer here, what with all the... unpleasantness in Bloomsbury. And while I suppose she has a point, the constant hammering and shouting were driving me to distraction. I needed a change of scenery, but so far, it's not helping."

He gestured to the sketchbook, his eyes clouding over with frustration. Penelope leaned in, her eyes scanning the page with interest. "They're quite good, Benedict," she said, her voice soft and encouraging.

Benedict snorted, his expression skeptical. "They're hands, Penelope. Any child can draw hands."

Penelope's smile never wavered. "Perhaps, but there's something to be said for simplicity. Sometimes, it's the straightforward things that are the most beautiful." She didn't mention the fact that Benedict had taught her to draw hands when she was just a child, but the memory hung in the air, a silent understanding between them.

Benedict raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "You think so, do you?"

Penelope nodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I do. But I think I can help you break through this... creative block of yours. Why don't you try attending one of those artistic gatherings? You know, the ones where all the creatives get together to share ideas and inspiration?"

Benedict's eyes lit up, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face. "That's not a bad idea, Penelope. Thank you."

Penelope shrugged, her smile modest. "Anytime, Benedict. That's what friends are for."

With a quick kiss on the top of his head, she turned and left, leaving Benedict to ponder her words. He felt a spark of hope ignite within him, a sense that maybe, just maybe, he could find his way out of this creative wilderness.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room, Daphne's fingers danced across the pianoforte keys, the melancholy tune filling the air with a sense of longing. Eloise sat nearby, her nose buried in a book, her expression a picture of patience worn thin.

"Must you play so loudly?" Eloise muttered, not looking up from her page. "Some of us are trying to read."

Daphne's response was sweetly acidic. "You could always retire to the library, dear sister. Or, better yet, come and practice with me. You'll need to be proficient for next Season, after all."

Eloise's face scrunched up in distaste. "If you continue to play like that, you'll scare off every potential suitor from here to the North Sea."

Daphne's eyes flashed with amusement. "And would that be such a bad thing, do you think?"

Eloise's expression turned sly. "If it meant drawing Mama's attention away from me, I'd consider it a blessing."

Just then, Penelope swept into the room, a look of mock exasperation on her face. "Oh, must you two always bicker? Can't you just get along for once?"

Daphne's face lit up with a smile. "Penelope, darling! Come and play with me?"

Penelope laughed, crossing the room to join Daphne at the pianoforte. Together, they launched into a lively, if slightly chaotic, duet. The music was a joyful cacophony, filling the room with laughter and energy.

Eloise groaned, covering her ears. "You're as bad as she is, Penelope. Is nowhere in this house sacred?"

Penelope teased, "The library's still quiet, Eloise. You could always retreat there if you need some peace."

As they finished their impromptu performance, Eloise spoke up, a hint of a smile on her face. "That... thing you were playing, Daphne. It ought to have a name."

Daphne's eyes drifted to the keys, a soft expression crossing her face. "It's just something I was playing, Eloise. Nothing more."

But Penelope was intrigued. "I think it's lovely, Daphne. It deserves a name, don't you think?"

Daphne's gaze lingered on the keys, her expression thoughtful. For a moment, the only sound was the faint echo of music, hanging in the air like a promise.

Three days passed, and Penelope found herself engaged in a heated game of chess with Gregory. They sat on the floor by the staircase, the chessboard between them, their faces intent on the game.

As they played, Daphne swept past on the stairs, her silk skirts rustling, her eyes red-rimmed from unshed tears. Her pace was brisk, her posture rigid, and Penelope's heart went out to her. Something was clearly amiss.

"Daphne, are you all right?" Penelope called out, concern etched on her face.

But Daphne didn't respond, disappearing into her room and shutting the door firmly behind her. Even her maid, Rose, was turned away, and Penelope's concern deepened.

Gregory looked up from the game, his eyes wide with worry. "Is Daphne all right, Penelope?"

Penelope smoothed his hair, trying to reassure him. "Of course, darling. I'm sure she just needs a moment to herself."

But as she spoke, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was lying, that something was terribly wrong, and that Daphne's troubles were only just beginning.

The little bell above Madame Delacroix's shop chimed a merry welcome as Violet, Daphne, and Penelope stepped inside. The Ingenue Ball was breathing down their necks, and finding the perfect gowns was paramount, regardless of the turmoil one might carry in their heart.

Daphne, quiet as a mouse since they'd left Bridgerton House, now stood on a platform as Madame Delacroix fussed with the hem of a gown that shimmered like moonlight. She looked lovely, truly, but a million miles away.

Penelope had tried earlier, ever so gently, to coax the truth from her friend, but Daphne had only shaken her head, her eyes holding a secret tight. Violet, with her usual understanding, had said, "Let her be, dear. She'll speak when she's ready."

Now, Violet stood with her hands clasped, watching Daphne with a smile that, to Penelope's eye, seemed held together by sheer will.

Penelope herself sat nearby, pretending to read, until the unmistakable rustle of taffeta made her look up.

"Lady Bridgerton," Araminta purred, sweeping into the room like a peacock displaying its feathers.

Violet turned, her politeness a carefully constructed shield. "Lady Cowper."

Araminta, never one for formalities, launched right in. "How utterly fortunate that your Daphne has so captivated the Duke of Hastings. Cressida simply couldn't compete if your daughter had set her sights on the prince. Yours has the face, and ours, well, the dowry."

She rejoined her daughter with a smug glance, Cressida pretending indifference, though the high color in her cheeks betrayed her.

Violet's smile flickered, just for a moment. Daphne, still on the platform, remained as still as a statue, her expression impossible to read.

Penelope couldn't help but snort. "What a dreadful woman."

"Penelope Anne Hartwell," Violet chided softly.

"But she is," Penelope insisted, with a shrug.

Violet sighed. "Regrettably, yes."

The night of the Ingenue Ball arrived in a whirl of silk, candlelight, and barely concealed jitters. Penelope entered with Anthony, Benedict, and Colin Bridgerton, the elder brothers looking dashing in their evening clothes. Daphne and Violet were to arrive later.

Penelope's gaze swept the ballroom, finally landing on Marina. Dressed in a gown of radiant gold, she accepted a dance from a gentleman who was most definitely not Colin. They moved together with an easy grace, and though everything looked perfectly proper, Penelope felt a prickle of unease.

She glanced at Colin. He was deep in conversation with a red-haired debutante, seemingly oblivious to Marina – or perhaps simply uncaring. The thought stung more than Penelope cared to admit.

Then, the music changed, and a ripple of anticipation spread through the room.

Daphne had arrived.

Every eye turned as she made her entrance, a vision in a gown of palest lilac. Prince Friedrich crossed the room in an instant, bowed low, and kissed her hand. She dropped her fan – whether by accident or design, no one could say. He retrieved it with effortless gallantry and offered her his arm.

Together, they joined the swirling dancers.

They were a stunning pair, the prince clearly besotted.

Violet stood nearby, her smile fixed in place. Penelope, ever observant, noticed the tension in her shoulders.

Simon, watching from the fringes of the room, turned and walked out without a word.

Penelope followed him with her eyes, her heart tightening – not for him, but for Daphne, and for the fragile, aching connection she sensed pulling thin between them.

By the next morning, London was abuzz with gossip about Daphne and the Prussian prince. Whispers snaked through drawing rooms and drifted along the promenades. Not even her fleeting connection with Simon had caused such a stir – but then, a prince outranked a duke, and society never failed to seize an opportunity to obsess over titles.

That very morning, Daphne and Violet had been summoned to Buckingham House, where Prince Friedrich had presented Daphne with a necklace so dazzling it could have been plucked straight from the royal jewels. When Daphne returned to Bridgerton House, she looked almost stunned, her steps hurried, her face unreadable, as she made her way up the grand staircase.

Hyacinth, ever curious, hurried after her, questions spilling out like a runaway stream.

"Will you have to wear a crown every day? Do you need to learn Prussian? Or does the prince speak perfect English?"

"German," Daphne corrected, her voice calm but her pace unwavering. "And only if I'm to marry him."

Hyacinth blinked, absorbing that. Her mouth was already forming her next question, but Daphne, clearly at her limit, cut her off. "And you should be with your governess."

With that, she shut her chamber door – firmly and without another word.

Hyacinth paused in front of it, her lips pursed in a pout. But a moment later, as if already distracted by something new, she spun on her heel and skipped toward the schoolroom – her governess, after all, was just as eager for a bit of gossip.

Daphne exhaled the moment the door clicked shut, the whirlwind of the morning pressing down on her like a corset laced too tight. Blessed silence, finally.

Or so she thought.

Daphne started, a tiny shriek escaping her lips as Penelope materialized from the dressing room next door.

“Heavens, Penelope!" Daphne clutched her chest, her heart racing. "You gave me such a fright! What were you doing lurking about?"

Penelope strolled into the room, arms folded, one eyebrow slightly raised in subtle disapproval. "So," she stated, her voice calm but with an edge, "the Prince, is it?"

Daphne sighed, still catching her breath. “Yes. The Prince and I.”

"How utterly...charming," Penelope said, her sweetness sounding terribly forced. Her gaze drifted to the glittering necklace adorning Daphne's throat. "And what a trinket! A king's ransom, I should think."

Daphne's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in. "What is it you want, Penelope? I was rather hoping for a moment of peace."

"I want to know what transpired with the Duke," Penelope replied, her tone softening a fraction, though her arms remained crossed. "Violet instructed me to grant you space, and I have. But I believe you've had ample time for sulking."

"It's only been a day," Daphne mumbled.

"A rather lengthy one," Penelope countered. "Come now, Daph. Simply tell me."

"Why do you even trouble yourself?" Daphne asked, her voice guarded.

"Because you are my friend," Penelope said gently. "In recent weeks, you possessed such a radiance whenever you were with the Duke. I've never witnessed you so cheerful. But since your courtship ended, you've been walking about like a thundercloud."

A bitter chuckle escaped Daphne's lips. "I didn’t end it – Simon did. He informed me he wished to conclude matters. Said he desired nothing further to do with me."

Penelope's eyes widened in surprise. "Simon?" Daphne's gaze fell, clouded with despair. Penelope stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. "You address the Duke by his given name?"

"He bade me to," Daphne murmured. "And I permitted him to use mine likewise."

Penelope gasped softly. "Good gracious. You're in love with him."

Caught unawares, Daphne shook her head, but the truth simmered beneath her weak denial.

"It explains a great deal," Penelope said kindly. "You're not merely upset that it's over. You're heartbroken. Absolutely crushed."

"I am not in love with the Duke!"

“Yes, you are. And there’s no shame in it, Daphne. To love, and to fall so deeply, is nothing to be ashamed of."

"It's wrong because he no longer desires me," Daphne's voice broke, tears streaming down her face. Penelope wasted no time pulling her into a comforting embrace.

"He doesn’t wish for me anymore," she sobbed. "What am I to do, Penelope? The Prince shows interest, but my heart lies elsewhere. And now it seems even the Queen expects me to choose the Prince – when all that I truly desire is Simon."

Penelope placed a gentle hand on Daphne’s shoulder – firm enough to offer support, but never harsh.

“Daphne, look at me,” she said softly. Daphne met her gaze. “You cannot marry him. Do you comprehend? If he proposes, you must refuse."

“Pen—”

“Please, just listen. Once you traverse that aisle, utter your vows, and seal it with a kiss, there is no return. Divorce is nigh impossible – granted only by the Queen herself, and even then, it is rare. Annulments? Even less so, especially since…” Penelope paused, careful not to overwhelm Daphne’s innocence. "Do not allow society’s expectations to cloud your judgment. Do not sacrifice your future for the desires of others."

Daphne’s voice trembled. “If I refuse the Prince, I shall remain unwed. I spent weeks courting the Duke, rejecting every other proposal – all for him to cast me aside. If not the Prince, then no marriage this season. What of Eloise, Francesca, Hyacinth? And you?”

Penelope smiled, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. “You fret over me?”

"Of course. We are friends. You are my family."

“Daphne, it is only natural to feel anxious. Your family is respected, wealthy, and well-connected. If you do not marry this season, it will not harm your sisters’ chances – or mine. Please, I implore you, do not marry the Prince. Just…don't.”

Daphne said nothing, her blue eyes, brimming with tears, fixed on Penelope's. After a moment, she sighed and wrapped her arms around the smaller woman, seeking the comfort she so desperately needed. Penelope returned the embrace quietly, hoping, with all her heart, that her friend would heed her advice and refuse the Prince's proposal.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

The morning began with a delightful surprise. A knock at Penelope's chamber door revealed Colin, his face alight with excitement. He, along with Anthony and Benedict, were headed to a boxing match – a decidedly unladylike affair. But, with a conspiratorial grin, Colin announced their intention to smuggle both Penelope and Daphne into the arena. Penelope, giddy with anticipation at the prospect of such a scandalous outing, dressed with uncommon speed. Soon, she found herself tucked between Daphne and Anthony in the Bridgerton carriage, her heart doing a little jig of its own.

Upon arriving, the group splintered. Daphne, ever aware of her social obligations, made a beeline for Prince Friedrich, who was already in attendance. Meanwhile, the Bridgerton brothers escorted Penelope to a set of seats offering a splendid view of the ring. As she took in the scene, Penelope noticed a surprising number of women scattered throughout the crowd. A mischievous thought occurred to her. "I say," she began, turning to Anthony, "Mother always insisted such places were utterly inappropriate for ladies. Yet, there they are!"

Anthony, ever the pragmatist, replied with his usual dryness, "Most of those women are either married or widowed, Penelope. Their reputations, though perhaps a little tarnished, are already made." Penelope supposed his logic held a certain weight, though she hardly felt like a fallen woman simply by being present.

Her eyes drifted across the lively scene and suddenly locked onto a familiar figure. The Duke of Hastings. He sat with a small group, but his attention was entirely fixed on Daphne and Prince Friedrich, who were seated rather intimately. A strange pang resonated in Penelope's chest. If Simon truly cared for Daphne, why had he broken things off?

A roar from the crowd signaled the start of the match. Penelope startled slightly at the sight of one of the fighters – a tall, dark-skinned man, built with the solid strength of a soldier. Something about him sparked a sharp, undeniable memory. Her breath hitched. It was him. The man from her vision, the one she saw amongst the guests at Daphne’s wedding.

"Who is that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Will Mondrich," Anthony answered. "A close friend of the Duke."

Penelope's heart pounded. So, it had been Simon in the vision all along. Not standing beside Daphne at the altar, but present, watching. A wave of certainty washed over her. Her glimpses of the future were not always crystal clear, but she knew this much: Daphne and Simon's story was not yet over.

Her gaze turned to Will’s opponent, a fair-haired gentleman whose physique nearly matched Will’s imposing presence. "And who might that be?" she inquired, gesturing towards the man adjusting his gloves across the ring.

Colin, wearing that infuriatingly smug grin, leaned closer. "Jackson."

Penelope's eyebrows arched. "Jackson? As in, the Jackson you claimed to have bested? At that dinner the Duke attended some weeks past?"

He nodded, clearly relishing the memory. "The very same! I told you I won!"

Benedict, lounging on her other side, chuckled. "I was there, Pen. It was a proper bout. Colin actually acquitted himself quite well, I must admit."

Penelope gave Colin a playful nudge. "Well, I confess I'm surprised. I hadn't imagined you were capable of such a feat."

Before Colin could retort, a sharp whistle pierced the air, silencing the crowd's chatter. The match began in earnest – a flurry of fists and agile footwork, a mesmerizing dance of trained fighters. Will quickly asserted his dominance, and when he delivered the final, decisive blow, the crowd erupted in applause. The Bridgerton brothers whooped and clapped, joined by the Duke and a chorus of others – no doubt those who had placed bets on the outcome. Across the ring, Archibald and a group of men wearing sour expressions clapped with palpable reluctance.

Raising her voice above the din, Penelope leaned towards Colin. "If that's the same Jackson you trounced, perhaps he should consider taking up needlepoint."

Colin laughed, though the sound was nearly lost amidst the crowd's roar. "He's got the strength, there's no doubt – but he lacks the wit. Always too eager to throw the first punch without a plan."

"Typical," Penelope said, wrinkling her nose. "All brawn, no brain. Rather like Cressida's latest suitor."

Benedict nearly choked on his own laughter, while Anthony – who had remained silent until now – gave Penelope a look that was half warning, half amusement. "Mind your tongue, Penelope. People might begin to think you possess a scandalous wit."

She offered a sweet, composed smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Might begin? I daresay I always have."

Anthony gave a short huff of laughter and turned his attention back to the match, where Will was being congratulated by Simon. The Duke looked distracted, his gaze drifting once more towards Daphne and Prince Friedrich seated nearby.

Penelope's eyes followed his, her stomach tightening. Daphne was smiling, politely enough, but Penelope recognized the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped her fan a little too tightly. The prince leaned in to speak, and Daphne tilted her head with practiced grace, though her body remained stiff with restraint.

“She doesn’t care for him," Penelope murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Colin glanced at her. "The Prince?"

She nodded, offering no further explanation.

A moment later, Will approached their side of the arena, a towel slung around his neck, his skin glistening with sweat and satisfaction. He shook hands firmly with Anthony, Benedict, and Colin before turning to Penelope with a warm smile.

"Miss Hartwell," he said, dipping into a modest bow. "I trust the match met your approval?"

Penelope returned his smile, warm and genuine. "Entirely! Though I fear you've now set an impossibly high standard for the next poor soul who dares to enter that ring."

Will laughed, clearly pleased. "Then I shall consider it a job well done."

As he moved on, Penelope's attention returned to the arena – only to find Simon still watching Daphne, his jaw clenched, his shoulders tense.

Visions might deceive. Instincts, rarely so.

And every fiber of Penelope's being told her – this story was far from over.

The grand estate of Bridgerton House was abuzz with the usual merriment that afternoon, its opulent drawing room a whirlwind of laughter and music. Daphne's slender fingers danced across the pianoforte keys with effortless ease, yet the melody that filled the air seemed to be played more out of obligation than genuine passion. Nearby, Colin and Gregory were engrossed in a lively mock sparring session, Colin demonstrating the very moves that had led to Will's triumph over Jackson earlier that morning. Gregory, his face flushed with excitement, attempted to mimic the punches, his limbs flailing about with unbridled enthusiasm.

Hyacinth sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, a look of pure delight on her face as she devoured a plate of almond biscuits and candied violets. Having already inquired about Penelope's reading material, only to lose interest upon discovering it was a moral treatise disguised as a courtship plot, Hyacinth's attention had wandered elsewhere. Her gaze drifted about the room, taking in the lively scene before her.

On a nearby settee, Eloise and Penelope sat side by side, their faces aglow in the warm light that streamed through the windows. Eloise's journal lay open across her lap, a pen poised in her hand as she gazed intently toward the doorway, where Mrs. Wilson was discreetly reprimanding a young maid who had suffered the misfortune of spilling the tea tray.

"What are you scribbling away at?" Hyacinth asked, her words slightly muffled by the sugared ginger that filled her mouth.

Eloise's response was immediate, her eyes never leaving the hallway. "Nothing of consequence, dear sister."

Hyacinth's eyes sparkled with mischief. "You seem to write an awful lot of nothing, Eloise. One might think you're hiding something."

Eloise let out a dramatic sigh, her brow furrowed in mock exasperation. "Very well, I confess. I'm drafting a letter to Francesca, warning her of your propensity for meddling in the affairs of others."

Hyacinth's giggles filled the air as she skipped away, leaving the older girls to their conversation. They watched as she made her way to Daphne, who was still playing the pianoforte, just as Violet's soft yet unmistakably disapproving voice floated across the room. Though she had already expressed her thoughts to Penelope earlier, the topic of Daphne attending a boxing match still seemed to rankle her.

Penelope's curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you truly writing, Eloise? Your expression suggests it's something far more intriguing than a simple letter."

Eloise's gaze never wavered from the hallway, her voice low and conspiratorial. "I have a suspicion, Pen. One that I fear may be the key to uncovering the identity of the elusive Lady Whistledown."

Penelope's eyes widened in surprise, though she managed to maintain her composure. "You cannot be serious, Eloise. Mrs. Wilson, our humble housekeeper, as the notorious Lady Whistledown?"

Eloise's tone was laced with a hint of defiance. "Why not, pray tell? What makes you so certain it cannot be her?"

Penelope's thoughts were a jumble of emotions, though she kept her expression neutral. For she knew a secret, one that she kept hidden behind a mask of indifference. Aloud, she said, "Because Lady Whistledown's writings have likely earned her a small fortune by now. If Mrs. Wilson were indeed the lady in question, would she not have long since left her position as our housekeeper to bask in the glory of her newfound wealth?"

Eloise's voice was firm, though a hint of doubt crept into her tone. "Perhaps she remains out of loyalty to our mother. After all, she was Mama's lady's maid before she married Papa."

Penelope's smile was a gentle, knowing thing. "Loyalty is a noble trait, Eloise, but financial independence is a powerful motivator. If you truly believe Mrs. Wilson to be Lady Whistledown, then I suppose nothing can dissuade you from this notion."

Eloise's jaw set in determination, her tone brooking no argument. "I do believe it, Penelope. And I shall uncover the truth, no matter the cost."

As the conversation drew to a close, Anthony strode into the drawing room, a hint of dust clinging to his coat. His mother's sharp tone greeted him at once, her words a gentle reprimand. "I am shocked, Anthony, that you would take your sister, and Penelope, of all people, to a boxing match. What could you have been thinking?"

Anthony's hand rose, a gesture of calm, as he interrupted his mother's tirade. "Scolding will have to wait, Mother. I bring news, and it cannot be delayed."

The room fell silent, as if the very air had been sucked out of it. Penelope's eyes lifted from the pages of her book, her gaze drifting up to meet the sudden stillness. Eloise's pen hovered, frozen in mid-air, while Hyacinth's hand paused, a delicate biscuit suspended mere inches from her lips. At the pianoforte, Daphne's fingers stilled, the music dying on her fingertips like a whispered secret.

Anthony's voice cut through the silence, his words dropping like a stone into a quiet pond. "Prince Friedrich has asked for my permission to propose to you, Daphne."

Daphne's eyes widened, her face a picture of surprise. "So soon?" she breathed, her voice barely audible over the sudden pounding of her heart.

Violet's eyebrows shot up, her expression a mirror of Daphne's shock. "And what did you tell him, Anthony?" she asked, her voice low and curious.

Anthony's gaze locked onto his sister's, his eyes steady and reassuring. "I told him it wasn't my decision to make. He's a respectable man, well thought of by society, but ultimately, the choice is yours, Daphne. Whatever you decide, you'll have my full support."

Daphne's eyes dropped, her gaze falling to the keys beneath her fingers. "I...I don't know what to say," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Violet's voice was a soft whisper of comfort. "There's no rush, dear. You've only just met him."

Anthony's words were a gentle echo of Violet's. "When you're ready, just let me know, and I'll convey your answer to the prince."

Daphne's nod was almost imperceptible, her face a mask of calmness. But a faint crease appeared between her brows, a tiny furrow that betrayed her inner turmoil.

Later that evening, the Trowbridge Ball was in full swing, the cream of society gathered beneath the glittering chandeliers. The room was a whirlwind of color and sound, silken gowns swishing across polished floors as music drifted through the air like a sweet perfume.

Penelope and Colin stood at the edge of the room, watching the scene unfold before them. Nearby, Lady Jane Trowbridge beamed with pride, her infant son cradled in her arms. The baby cooed softly, his tiny face scrunched up in a adorable grimace.

Colin leaned in, his voice a low murmur. "Didn't Lady Jane marry Lord Trowbridge when he was, ah, rather advanced in years?"

Penelope's lips twitched, a hint of a smile playing on her mouth. "I think that's one way to put it," she whispered back. "But I'm more concerned about the fact that her son looks suspiciously like one of the footmen."

Colin's eyes met hers, a spark of amusement dancing in their depths. "Penelope, you're a wicked woman," he teased, his voice low and husky.

Penelope's laughter was a musical sound, a gentle trill that filled the air. For a moment, they simply stood together, lost in the magic of the moment. Their eyes met, blue meeting blue, and something unspoken passed between them, a spark of connection that lingered long after the moment had passed.

As they stood there, the world around them melted away, leaving only the two of them, suspended in a sea of possibility. Then Penelope looked away, her cheeks warm, her eyes drifting down to the floor. Colin shifted beside her, clearing his throat, his cuff adjusting with a soft rustle. The moment was gone, but its memory lingered, a ghostly whisper of what could be.

As the orchestra's melodies wafted across the ballroom, Penelope and Colin couldn't help but notice Marina, her slender figure swaying to the rhythm in the arms of the elderly Lord Rutledge. The sight was almost farcical, were it not for Marina's evident discomfort - her smile seemed to be stretched taut, her posture rigid as a board.

Penelope's voice was laced with dry amusement as she whispered to Colin, "She appears to be in dire need of rescue." Colin's eyes crinkled at the corners as he chuckled, and before Penelope could intervene, he strode purposefully toward the pair, his long legs eating up the distance.

As the music drew to a close, Lord Rutledge leaned in, his voice dripping with an unbecoming confidence. "A third dance, my dear, would surely seal our understanding." Marina's response was polite, yet laced with a hint of tension. "I fear that would be most unseemly, my lord."

Colin appeared at her side, his timing impeccable. "Ah, Miss Thompson, I believe you owe me a dance." His tone was light, but his gaze narrowed slightly as he met Lord Rutledge's. Without waiting for a response, he offered his arm, and Marina accepted it with alacrity. Together, they glided back onto the dance floor, leaving the elderly lord to blink after them in confusion.

From the edge of the room, Penelope watched the scene unfold, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She attempted to focus on the music, on the waltz's stately rhythm, but her gaze kept drifting back to Colin and Marina. They moved in perfect harmony, their laughter and conversation flowing effortlessly. Penelope's smile faltered, a pang of wistfulness settling in her chest.

In an effort to distract herself, Penelope turned her attention to the refreshments, making her way through an impressive array of lemon cakes and glasses of wine. The evening wore on, and she found herself dancing with two gentlemen of moderate charm, their company endured with gracious smiles and polite conversation.

As the orchestra paused between sets, Penelope caught sight of Anthony and Daphne returning from the garden, Anthony's coat draped over Daphne's shoulders. Her face was pale, her eyes strained, and Penelope's instincts prickled with unease.

Anthony approached Colin, his voice low and urgent. "She's unwell, Colin. I'm taking her home. See to our mother, and Penelope, would you?" Colin nodded, his gaze flicking toward Daphne before scanning the room.

It didn't take him long to locate Violet and Penelope, seated together by the refreshment table. Violet was extolling the virtues of lemon punch, while Penelope was attempting to count the number of cakes she'd consumed - with limited success. Colin's expression was a mixture of horror and amusement as he took in the scene.

He bid Marina a courteous good evening and escorted his mother and Penelope to the carriage, the three of them bound for Bridgerton House. 

The carriage ride was a spirited affair, filled with the unbridled joy of two ladies who had clearly indulged in one too many glasses of champagne. Violet, resplendent in her finery, sat across from her son Colin and their lovely companion Penelope, her face aglow with an unmistakable rosy hue. Her bonnet, once a pristine example of millinery, now sat at a rakish angle, as if it too had succumbed to the evening's revelry. Every so often, a snort of laughter would escape her lips, leaving Colin to wonder what on earth could be causing her such unmitigated delight.

Penelope, meanwhile, had attached herself to Colin's arm with all the tenacity of a debutante who had perhaps overestimated her capacity for strong drink. Her cheek rested against the sleeve of his coat, and she let out a contented sigh, her eyes drifting shut in blissful abandon. "You have the most captivating scent, Colin," she murmured, her voice husky and indistinct. "It's as if the essence of sandalwood and sunshine had conspired to create a fragrance that is at once both soothing and invigorating."

Colin's lips twitched with amusement as he struggled to maintain a straight face. "I daresay, strength is not typically an attribute one associates with a gentleman's perfume, Pen," he remarked, his tone low and teasing.

Penelope's response was a languid hum, her fingers tracing the line of his arm with a gentle, exploratory touch. "Oh, but it's not just strength, Colin – it's the entirety of your being. Your eyes, for instance, are a truly remarkable shade of blue... rather like the celestial canvas of a summer sky, or perhaps the delicate hue of a robin's egg." Her words trailed off, lost in a happy sigh as she nestled deeper into the warmth of his side.

Colin's smile grew, though he felt compelled to intervene, lest Penelope's effusions become too fulsome. "I think that's quite enough, Pen," he said, his voice firm but gentle.

Undeterred, Penelope merely snuggled closer, her head lolling against his shoulder as she let out a soft, contented sigh. Violet, meanwhile, erupted into another peal of laughter, leaving Colin to exchange a wry glance between the two ladies, both of whom seemed to be floating on a cloud of champagne-fueled euphoria. It promised to be a long and eventful evening, indeed.

As they arrived at Bridgerton House, Colin walked the two ladies toward the grand staircase, weaving a witty jest between them that drew soft laughter. Violet paused, shaking her head with a knowing smile. "Colin, I do believe I know when you're being impertinent," she said lightly, before wishing him goodnight and ascending the stairs.

Colin turned to Penelope, offering his arm. "Shall I escort you to your chambers?" Penelope smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "No, thank you, Colin. I'll manage."

With that, she climbed the stairs, retiring to her room, where she slipped into a delicate nightgown and collapsed onto her bed, sleep washing over her swiftly.

But her reprieve was short-lived, as Daphne burst into her room, breathless and urgent. "Penelope, Anthony and Simon plan to duel at dawn!" 

Penelope groaned, rubbing her temples. "At this hour? My head's pounding. Why must they be so foolish?"

Daphne's eyes were wide with panic. "Because Anthony caught Simon and me kissing in the Trowbridge garden. None of that matters now - what matters is that they'll fight, and one of them might die. You must speak with Colin, Penelope. He trusts you more than anyone. Convince him to tell you where they'll meet."

Penelope sighed, pulling a robe over her nightgown. "Very well, lead on." Together, they slipped from her room into the shadowed corridors, the weight of impending tragedy heavy between them.

They found Colin alone in Anthony's study, the scent of oak and smoke hanging thick in the air as he downed a measure of bourbon by the hearth. Daphne strode in, her voice firm. "Where are they, Colin?"

Colin's expression was unyielding. "I cannot tell you, Daphne." 

Penelope intervened, her tone firm and unflinching. "You can, Colin. And you will."

Colin scoffed. "The duke wronged her, Pen. He compromised her. Anthony has every right to defend her honour." 

Daphne's voice was sharp with desperation. "That is not his choice to make! I am tired of others deciding what is best for me. Now, tell me where they are. If you don't, one of them may die, and the other may be forced to flee England. Is that what you want?"

Colin rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "They'll be fine, Daphne. Neither will shoot the other. Anthony only means to frighten him - to rattle the duke into repentance." Daphne and Penelope burst into incredulous laughter, startling Colin.

As they composed themselves, Daphne's expression turned serious. "You truly believe that, Colin? You think Anthony won't fire? He's a dreadful shot, and you know that." Then, her eyes widened in alarm. "Cressida - earlier at the ball, she said I looked like I'd caught a chill. But the ball was indoors... unless she saw me in the garden."

Colin's expression darkened, horror dawning in his eyes. "Unless she saw you in the garden," he repeated, his voice low and urgent. Penelope looked just as stricken, her eyes locked on Daphne's.

Daphne's voice was low and steely. "Colin, tell me. Where are they?" The air was heavy with tension as Colin hesitated, the fate of those involved hanging precariously in the balance.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

The instant Colin, looking like he'd rather face a firing squad, admitted the duel was set for Hyde Park, Daphne, Penelope, and he sprang into action. Forget changing out of nightgowns – they were on horseback before you could say "scandalous." Penelope yanked her robe tighter over her gown, hair tumbling from its pins. The city was still slumbering as they pounded through the grey, pre-dawn streets.

As they rode, the wind whipping at Penelope's face, the vision slammed into her like a runaway carriage.

Hyde Park, misty and indistinct just moments before, snapped into sharp focus. Anthony and Simon stood back-to-back, pistols raised. Benedict looked on, face like granite, while Will stood grimly at Simon's side.

Simon, jaw tight, raised his pistol skyward in a defiant gesture that spoke volumes.

Anthony's hand trembled. Whether it was fury or plain fear, Penelope couldn't tell. But that tremor caused him to fire too soon.

The shot echoed in the still morning air.

Simon lurched. A dark stain bloomed on his chest. He crumpled, gasping, blood slicking his lips. Then... stillness. Death.

The vision shattered, leaving Penelope gasping for air. "We have to stop them!" she cried, her voice hoarse with panic. "The Duke will die if we don't!"

Daphne didn't hesitate. She spurred her horse forward, urging it faster. Colin and Penelope followed suit, tearing through the city as the first hints of dawn painted the sky. The cold air stung, but Penelope's mind was consumed by the image of Simon, bleeding out on the grass.

They arrived at Hyde Park just as Penelope had foreseen. The vast expanse was eerily quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the soft crunch of footsteps on the dew-kissed grass. Anthony stood, pistol raised, his arm shaking slightly. Simon faced him, a grim calm on his face. Benedict and Will stood nearby, fulfilling their duties as seconds. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Anthony, no!" Daphne's voice sliced through the air, sharp and clear.

Startled, Anthony flinched, the pistol firing wide. The sudden crack spooked Daphne and Penelope's horses. The mares reared, and in a heartbeat, the young women were thrown hard to the ground.

"Sisters!" Anthony bellowed, dropping the pistol and rushing towards them, convinced they were hit.

Simon was right behind him, his concern solely for Daphne. "Daphne!" he shouted, his voice cracking with alarm.

Benedict, Colin, and Will followed, their faces etched with concern, boots pounding across the grass.

Penelope groaned first, scrunching her face in pain as she tried to sit up. Daphne followed, wincing as she pushed herself onto one elbow. Mud and grass clung to their gowns and hair.

"Thank God," Anthony breathed, visibly relieved as both women stirred.

Simon knelt beside Daphne, his hand hovering above hers, hesitant to touch her. Colin knelt by Penelope, reaching out to steady her. The others exhaled in relief, the duel momentarily forgotten.

Once Daphne and Penelope were upright and relatively steady, they rounded on Anthony, their expressions matching in outrage.

"You nearly shot us!" Daphne exclaimed, swatting his arm.

"Utter lackwit," Penelope snapped, landing a similar blow on his other arm. "What kind of gentleman fires with ladies present?"

Anthony looked equally exasperated. "You charged into the middle of a duel like lunatics!" he roared back.

Daphne ignored him and turned to Simon, her expression fierce but composed. "I need a word with the Duke. Alone."

"Absolutely not," Anthony said sharply, stepping protectively in front of her. But Benedict reached out, gripping Anthony's arm and meeting his gaze with a pointed look.

"One minute," Benedict said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Anthony clenched his jaw but nodded curtly. The Bridgerton brothers gently led Penelope away to give Daphne some privacy. Will followed, keeping a respectful distance, arms crossed, still tense.

Colin's eyes were fixed on Penelope, searching for injuries with undisguised concern. She noticed and gave a faint smile. "I'm quite alright," she murmured, brushing mud from her gown. "No lasting damage – except maybe to my pride."

Then she turned to Anthony, brows drawn together. "Did I hear you correctly? Did you just call me your sister?"

Anthony sighed dramatically, still shaken by the near-disaster. "I've known you since you wore pinafores, Penelope. You've been part of this family for fourteen years. Of course, I consider you a sister."

Penelope blinked, surprised by the honesty – and the unexpected warmth.

"You've never said that before," she said softly.

Anthony shrugged, a little awkwardly. "Didn't think I needed to."

It struck her more profoundly than she expected. Hyacinth and Gregory often called her a sister, but they'd never known a time when she wasn't part of their world. Coming from Anthony, it held more weight.

"Same here," Benedict chimed in with a warm smile. "You're as much one of us as anyone born a Bridgerton."

Strangely, Colin said nothing.

Before Penelope could dwell on it, Daphne and Simon rejoined them. Anthony straightened instantly and turned to Simon with grim determination. "Right, then. Let's finish this. Pistols ready."

But Daphne stepped boldly between them.

"There will be no duel," she declared, lifting her chin. "Because Simon and I are to be married."

A stunned silence descended over the park.

Daphne discovered her mother lounging on the drawing-room chaise, attended by Mrs. Wilson and two maids. A cool cloth rested on Violet’s forehead, and a glass of cordial sat untouched on a nearby table. While Violet couldn't quite recall the precise amount of wine and champagne she’d enjoyed at the Trowbridge Ball, the relentless throbbing in her head suggested it had been rather generous.

"Mama," Daphne said softly, stepping forward, "might I have a private word?"

Mrs. Wilson immediately nodded, and with a subtle gesture, guided the maids out of the room. The heavy doors closed, leaving mother and daughter in a hushed intimacy.

Violet winced as she dabbed at her temple with a handkerchief. "Is something amiss, dear?"

Daphne hesitated, then took a breath. "I am to be married, Mama."

The announcement stilled Violet. Her eyebrows rose slightly, her tone carefully neutral. "To the prince, I presume? Gracious, you shall be a princess."

"No," Daphne replied, her voice firm.

Violet turned to face her fully. "No?"

"The Duke of Hastings has proposed. And I accepted."

The news banished Violet’s headache—or at least her awareness of it. She sat upright, her eyes sparkling. "The Duke! Oh, Daphne, he is quite the catch! This is wonderful—” She paused, her excitement dimming as she observed her daughter's expression. "Are you not pleased?"

"I am," Daphne said with a wistful smile. "Truly. It has all simply happened so quickly. I feel quite breathless."

Violet studied her daughter, finding no falsehood there, and embraced her warmly. "My dearest, the most wonderful things in life often arrive when we least expect them."

Daphne closed her eyes, resting her head briefly on her mother’s shoulder. She would marry the man she loved, but the weight of his promise to never have children settled heavily in her. She would be a duchess, yes, but never a mother.

Or… perhaps she could be. There were wards, orphaned children, those who needed a loving home. She would find a way to reconcile herself to the situation.

But as her mother stepped back, smiling through the lingering effects of her headache, Daphne returned a matching smile. For the moment, it was enough.

Later that afternoon, an unexpected visitor arrived at Bridgerton House—Prince Friedrich. He requested a private conversation with Daphne. Thus, Daphne found herself once again in Anthony’s study, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as the prince stood before her, his expression composed.

"I read Lady Whistledown's column," he began directly. "Is it true? Are you to marry the Duke of Hastings?"

Daphne inclined her head. "Yes, Your Highness. The wedding will be held within the week."

The prince was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but I do not understand. When last we spoke, I believed—" He paused, then continued. "Has the duke pressured you into this arrangement?"

"No," Daphne replied quickly. "He has not. I accepted of my own free will. I am… eager to become his wife."

A hint of sadness crossed the prince’s face, but he nodded graciously. "Then I must assume it is affection, not obligation, that compels you?"

"It is love, Your Highness," Daphne admitted softly. "You are a good man, and I have great respect for you—but it was never you that held my heart."

Friedrich bowed his head slightly, disappointment flickering in his eyes, though his voice remained steady. "Then I wish you every happiness. I hope he proves worthy of your devotion."

Daphne smiled faintly and reached for a velvet box on a nearby desk. She opened it and offered it to him. "I must return this. It is too valuable a gift to keep."

He took the necklace without protest, and after a moment’s pause, bowed once more. "Farewell, Miss Bridgerton."

When he left, Daphne let out a long breath, as though releasing a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

Stepping from the study, Daphne encountered her mother and Agatha emerging from the drawing room, deep in conversation. They paused when they saw her.

"There you are," Violet said, her tone brisk but pleased. "Lady Danbury and I have been discussing the wedding. Preparations are well underway."

"I hadn’t realized you were here, Lady Danbury," Daphne said, curtsying politely.

"I would hardly miss the opportunity to assist in the marriage of my godson," Agatha replied with a knowing smile.

Violet turned to Mrs. Wilson, who hovered nearby. "Fetch Penelope, if you please. We are going to the modiste."

Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Penelope is joining us?"

Violet nodded. "She insisted. Said she had… a vision for your wedding gown."

At Agatha’s curious look, Violet added hastily, "That is to say, she wished to be included in helping you choose. She has rather strong opinions, apparently."

Before Daphne could respond, the front door opened and Anthony and Simon strode in, still in their riding coats and mud-splattered boots.

"You’ve returned quickly," Violet noted. "Was the Archbishop agreeable?"

Anthony’s expression was grim. "There will be no wedding."

A stunned silence fell.

%What do you mean?" Daphne asked, her voice tight with disbelief.

"The Queen refused," Anthony said flatly. "She will not sign the special license."

Agatha huffed, her eyes narrowing. "Of course she refused. Her pride is wounded. You’ve deprived her of a royal match—and a grand spectacle. She cannot bear to lose her audience."

"She cannot stop the marriage," Violet argued.

"No," Agatha replied, "but she can make it damned inconvenient."

"What do we do?" Daphne asked, turning to Simon.

Agatha stepped forward, her cane tapping sharply on the floor. "You pay Her Majesty a visit. Together. First thing tomorrow. If you can convince her that this marriage is a true love match, she will relent. That woman adores a romance—provided it is properly performed."

Simon glanced at Daphne, who met his gaze with equal parts dread and resolve. They exchanged a silent agreement.

"We have no choice," Daphne said finally. "We go to the Queen."

The next morning, just as planned, Daphne and Simon found themselves ushered into Buckingham House. They were led to a magnificent drawing room, where Queen Charlotte held court, draped in silks and glittering diamonds, even at such an ungodly hour. She sat on a ridiculously ornate gilded chair, practically daring anyone to mistake it for anything other than a throne.

Simon offered a deep bow. Daphne, with years of practice, executed a flawless curtsy.

"Alright then," the Queen declared, her gaze sharp and curious as she assessed them. "Spill it. Convince me why I shouldn't have you both clapped in irons."

Daphne took a breath, her voice steady despite the knot of nerves in her stomach. "Your Majesty, the Duke and I... from the moment we began courting, we found ourselves falling deeply-- "

"That's not quite how it happened, actually," Simon interjected, his tone gentle but firm, catching Daphne completely off guard.

Daphne blinked, turning to him with a look of surprise.

Simon addressed the Queen directly. "We didn't exactly tumble head-over-heels at first blush, Your Majesty. To be frank, it was a... mutually beneficial agreement. I was desperate to fend off a swarm of overly eager debutantes, and Miss Bridgerton was hoping to catch the eye of some more... suitable gentlemen."

Queen Charlotte raised a skeptical eyebrow, but remained silent, clearly intrigued.

"However," Simon continued, his voice sincere, "somewhere amidst the charade, the pretense... genuine feelings began to emerge. We did fall in love, Your Majesty – utterly, completely, and quite unexpectedly. I promptly ruined everything like a fool, driven by pride and old fears. But then the very idea of her marrying someone else became unbearable. I begged her to marry me that night at the Trowbridge ball, and, thankfully, she said yes."

Daphne now wore a soft, genuine smile, her gaze full of warmth as she looked at Simon.

Simon inclined his head slightly. "I deeply regret any offense caused to Your Majesty’s nephew, but I couldn't remain silent, not when my heart was so profoundly involved."

A tense silence hung in the air as the Queen considered them both. Then, to everyone's surprise, a smile touched her lips.

"Well," she said with a dismissive shrug. "I do have a weakness for a good love story. Permission granted. Now, get on with whatever you need to do."

Behind them, Violet and Agatha, who had been holding a respectful vigil, finally exhaled, relief washing over their faces.

Queen Charlotte waved a dismissive hand. "Go forth and wed. And try to avoid any further scandalous behaviour until after the vows, understood?"

Daphne and Simon bowed and curtsied once more, barely able to contain their smiles.

That very afternoon, a whirlwind of activity descended upon the modiste's shop. Violet, Daphne, and Penelope were on a mission: to find the wedding gown. To everyone's surprise (and slight exasperation), it was Penelope who took the reins. With a determined glint in her eye, she dismissed gown after gown presented by Genevieve, declaring each one "not quite right."

"No, no, no, it's absolutely not that one," Penelope declared with a vehement shake of her head, as yet another silken creation was whisked away.

Genevieve offered a strained but polite smile, her patience visibly fraying. "I have... one more," she said, sweeping from the room with a rustle of taffeta.

Daphne turned to Penelope, lowering her voice. "Must we have that dress, Penelope? Surely, my happiness does not hinge on a specific bit of lace."

Penelope looked almost offended. "You were luminous in that dress, Daph! Like something out of a painting! Why settle for anything less when fate has already shown us perfection?"

Violet, observing the exchange with a mixture of fondness and gentle impatience, interjected, "If it cannot be found, my dear, Daphne shall wear whatever brings her joy."

Penelope reluctantly nodded, folding her arms and still looking rather put out.

Just then, Genevieve returned, holding a gown of shimmering ivory silk, its embroidery so delicate it seemed to sparkle like frost. Penelope's eyes widened.

"That's it!" she gasped, leaping to her feet.

Genevieve blinked in surprise. "Are you sure?"

Daphne, her curiosity piqued, allowed herself to be ushered behind the curtain to try it on. When she emerged moments later, a hush fell over the room. The gown fit as if it had been made for her, and her alone.

Violet brought a hand to her chest, visibly moved. "Oh, darling..."

Penelope beamed triumphantly. "I told you."

Even Genevieve, who rarely seemed truly impressed by anything, offered a nod of approval. "C'est parfait."

And just like that, the wedding dress was chosen.

Four dawns later, under the soft, hushed light of early morning, Daphne Bridgerton became Daphne Basset.

The wedding, held in the quiet solemnity of a small stone chapel, was an intimate affair – only close family and dearest friends were in attendance. The soft, early light streamed through stained glass windows, painting the pews in a kaleidoscope of colours as Anthony escorted his sister down the aisle. He wore a look of both pride and quiet determination, while Simon – already at the altar with the Archbishop of Canterbury – could not tear his gaze away from his bride.

Daphne moved with the grace of a woman completely sure of her choice. Her gown, the one Penelope had so stubbornly insisted upon, shimmered with every step she took. When she reached Simon, he bowed his head briefly, a gesture of reverence not to the Archbishop, but to her.

Penelope stood near the front, beside Colin, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, as the vows were spoken in clear voices. The Archbishop's words echoed in the ancient rhythm of tradition, solemn and beautiful. And then, with a quiet nod, he pronounced them husband and wife.

Their kiss was gentle, reverent, lingering just long enough to draw warm applause from the small gathering.

As the couple turned to face their guests, Penelope glanced at Colin and saw a suspiciously wet sheen in his eyes.

"Are you crying?" she whispered, teasing.

"I simply adore weddings," he said, his voice a little thick and choked with emotion.

She laughed softly and discreetly dabbed at her own damp cheek.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

The celebration stretched on, with Bridgerton House practically overflowing with the cream of the ton. The entrance hall, usually a testament to refined elegance with its marble gleam and soaring windows, now throbbed with festive energy. Her Majesty, bless her insatiable sweet tooth, was holding court near a quartet of tables laden with sugared fancies, sampling each confection with the discerning air of a seasoned connoisseur. It was a well-known fact that a successful Bridgerton party involved an overabundance of pastries, a rule they had faithfully adhered to.

Daphne, now the Duchess of Hastings, floated through the throng, a vision of happiness tinged with a subtle weariness. She offered a practiced curtsy here, a radiant smile there, while Simon, ever the composed duke, dispensed polite acknowledgments with that roguish charm he'd perfected. To onlookers, they were the picture of wedded bliss, but beneath the surface, a quiet unease simmered.

Simon wrestled with the ghost of a promise, a vow sworn on a deathbed to forgo marriage and fatherhood. It wasn't loyalty that had fueled that promise, but a rebellion born from the relentless cruelty of his father, a man who had treated his stammer as an unforgivable flaw. He loved Daphne with a depth that astonished him, yet the cold, unyielding hatred for his father continued to dictate his choices. The secret he kept from Daphne, the lie about his inability to have children, weighed heavily on him.

Daphne, for her part, played the role of duchess flawlessly, but behind her smile lay a pang of sorrow. Motherhood was not just an abstract concept for her; it was woven into the very fabric of her memories. She recalled the gentle rhythm of her own mother's humming as she carried Gregory, then Hyacinth, the feeling of her burgeoning belly beneath Daphne's curious hands. Even the tumultuous arrival of Hyacinth hadn't diminished her anticipation. Now, that future seemed shrouded in uncertainty.

Yet, she refused to harbor resentment towards Simon. If nature had indeed denied him the ability to have children, then she would accept it. Perhaps, in time, they could offer a home to an orphan, raise a child in need of love and care. It wouldn't be the same, but perhaps it would be enough. Her gaze found Simon across the bustling hall, and he offered a tired, tender smile. She returned it, clinging to the joy they shared, even as the shape of her dreams subtly shifted.

Near the edge of the crowded hall, Penelope stood with Eloise, a flute of champagne trembling slightly in her hand. Eloise was engaged in a spirited debate with the indomitable Agatha, Dowager Countess, who regarded her with her usual dry amusement.

"I'll wager you're Lady Whistledown herself,” Eloise declared, folding her arms with an air of triumph.

Penelope sputtered, a spray of champagne cascading down the front of her gown. "Eloise!" she gasped.

Agatha chuckled, a rich, knowing sound. "Child, everyone enjoys a touch of scandal. Even gentlemen, perhaps especially gentlemen. But do you truly believe I possess the time to scribble away at all those pages myself?" With a tap of her cane, she strolled away, her amusement lingering in the air.

Before Penelope could question Eloise's outlandish accusation, a hush fell over the room as the Queen approached. Both girls dipped into hurried curtsies, Penelope's graceful, Eloise's decidedly less so.

Her Majesty fixed Eloise with a piercing gaze. "You are searching for the identity of Lady Whistledown, are you not?"

Eloise blinked, taken aback. "Yes, Ma'am – Your Majesty – I am. That is, I... well, yes."

The Queen extended a gloved hand. "Let me see."

Eloise clutched her journal to her chest. “Oh. Well, actually, it’s rather private—”

Penelope's eyes widened in panic. Had Eloise completely lost her senses?

The Queen's tone turned frosty. "Are you refusing your Queen?"

Eloise snapped to attention. "No! Of course not!" She thrust the journal into the Queen's hand with uncharacteristic haste.

The Queen flipped through the pages with swift, discerning eyes. "Hmm. You are clever." She snapped the book shut. "Very well. I am assigning you the task of unmasking Lady Whistledown. You shall report directly to me."

Penelope stood frozen, utterly speechless.

Eloise, eyes wide with astonishment, could barely stammer out a response. "Truly, Your Majesty?"

The Queen inclined her head. "I shall summon you soon," she said, already turning towards Daphne and Simon.

The moment she was gone, Penelope gaped at her friend. "What in heaven's name just happened?"

Eloise clutched her journal as if it were a sacred relic. "The Queen just gave me a mission! To uncover Lady Whistledown!"

Penelope swallowed hard. "Eloise—" She began, a note of alarm in her voice.

But Eloise was already radiating excitement. "Pen, this is the most thrilling thing that has ever happened to me!"

"I'm sure it is," Penelope began, trying to inject a note of reason into the conversation, "but—"

"You must help me," Eloise interrupted, her eyes shining with purpose. "You're my dearest friend. You simply must."

Penelope hesitated, unsure how to respond. Every instinct screamed no, but before she could utter a word, her gaze snagged on a movement across the room. Colin and Marina were quietly slipping into Anthony's study, unnoticed by the rest of the guests.

"Excuse me," she murmured to Eloise, already edging away.

Pausing before the closed door, Penelope chanced a quick peek behind her. Satisfied that she remained unobserved, she leaned in close, pressing her ear against the polished wood. Faint whispers emanated from within, a jumble of muted sounds. She focused intently, but just as she thought she might decipher a word, the door swung inward.

Marina, caught off guard, stammered, offering a fleeting, strained smile as she brushed past. She hurried away, disappearing down the corridor without uttering a word.

Colin emerged moments later, his brow furrowed in surprise. "Pen?" he questioned, his voice tinged with bewilderment.

"What were you doing, just now, alone with Miss Thompson?" she asked, her tone sharp with suspicion.

Colin, however, seemed utterly oblivious to her accusatory tone, a wide smile spreading across his face. "I've just offered my hand in marriage," he declared, practically radiating joy. "And she accepted!"

Penelope stood frozen, rendered speechless by the unexpected announcement.

"Lady Miriam Beckett is hosting a garden party next week," Colin continued, his excitement bubbling over. "Mama mentioned it to Viscountess Harcourt, you see. It's there that I intend to make it official. All your predictions are coming to pass, Pen. Isn't it amazing?" He chuckled lightly before departing, leaving Penelope standing there, completely stunned.

The colour seemed to drain from Penelope's face in an instant. The hallway swam before her eyes. Without a second thought, she turned and bolted towards the stairs, her skirts hindering her hasty ascent.

Once inside her bedchamber, her breath came in ragged, angry gasps. Her gaze fell upon her hairbrush, sitting innocently on her dressing table. With a frustrated cry, she snatched it up and hurled it towards the window. The glass shattered with a resounding crash, shards raining down upon the garden below.

She grabbed her pillow, burying her face within its soft depths, and unleashed a muffled scream, a sound both raw and desperate, utterly unbefitting of a young woman of her station, which only served to make it feel all the more necessary.

Late that evening, long after the last of the guests had departed and Bridgerton House had fallen silent, a soft knock echoed at Penelope’s door. Violet entered without invitation, her expression calm but shadowed with worry.

"I've come to see how you fare," the Dowager Viscountess said gently. "You disappeared before the wedding breakfast was over and didn't even wish Daphne well before she left for Clyvedon."

"I was feeling unwell," Penelope replied, her voice uncharacteristically quiet and unsteady. "A headache."

Violet fixed her with a knowing look, leaving no doubt as to her disbelief. "My dear girl, I have known you since you were a babe swaddled in ribbons, refusing to smile for portraits. You are not being truthful."

Penelope turned her face away, but Violet’s gaze swept the room, lingering upon the broken window, its jagged edges glinting in the dim light.

"What in heaven's name happened here?" she demanded, moving towards the wreckage.

"A bird flew into it," Penelope answered quickly—too quickly.

"Do not insult my intelligence," Violet retorted, her voice sharper now, her motherly patience wearing thin. "You will tell me the truth, Penelope. Now."

Penelope closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. She remained still for a long moment, gathering her thoughts. Then, with a quiet breath, she rose from her bed, the pale fabric of her nightgown rustling softly about her ankles. Rae had slipped in earlier to help her change, wordlessly understanding that her young mistress was not quite herself.

"I threw my hairbrush at the window," Penelope confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "I was angry. It was wrong of me, and I am sorry. I shall speak to Anthony about it in the morning. He can arrange for it to be repaired."

Violet sighed, her stern demeanour softening into concern as she folded her arms gently. "Penelope... I believed we'd agreed on no more hurling objects in fits of pique? It’s been ages since an outburst like this, not since you were seven and pelted Benedict with your slippers for sitting on your embroidery."

Reluctant amusement tugged at the corners of Penelope’s lips. "I remember. I was severely reprimanded for that."

"As you should have been," Violet replied, her tone gentler now. "But you are a grown woman now, Penelope. What has so upset you this time?"

Penelope lowered her gaze to her hands, then shook her head faintly. "I'd rather not speak of it. Not yet."

Violet did not press her. Instead, she moved across the room and enfolded the small figure before her in a comforting embrace. Penelope leaned into the familiar warmth, resting her cheek against the soft silk of Violet’s sleeve. In moments such as these, it was easy to forget that they were not bound by blood.

And yet, bound they were, all the same.

Lady Miriam Beckett's garden party, a highlight of the season, was in full swing, though not every member of the ton had graced it with their presence. The Bridgertons, of course, were there, radiating their usual charm.

Penelope stood with Eloise on the manicured lawn, her gloved hands fiddling nervously. Her gaze kept darting towards Colin, who was deep in conversation with Miss Marina Thompson a short distance away. The Featheringtons, ever-present, hovered nearby, their eyes flitting between the couple with a mixture of curiosity and calculation.

"We must pay a visit to Madame Delacroix this week, dearest," Violet was saying to Eloise, a delicate fan fluttering in her hand. "A new gown for the Holloway ball is essential – excellent practice for your debut next year. And we really should consider having your hems let down. It's time, Eloise."

Eloise looked utterly dismayed. "Mama, my time is far too precious for hems and fripperies! Her Majesty herself has entrusted me – me! – with unmasking Lady Whistledown."

Violet's brows rose in surprise. "The Queen did what, now?"

Hyacinth, never one to miss a juicy tidbit, chimed in, "I wonder what Daphne's up to?"

"She's likely settling comfortably into her new life as the Duchess of Hastings," Violet replied, her face a picture of serene composure. "No doubt she's enjoying the joys of marital life."

"What are the joys of marital life?" Hyacinth asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

Violet's smile tightened ever so slightly. "Go find your brother, dear. Now."

Hyacinth, with a dramatic pout, skipped off towards Gregory, leaving her mother to mutter under her breath about always forgetting to censor herself around that one.

Suddenly, the gentle buzz of polite conversation died down as the distinct sound of silver striking glass echoed through the garden. Every eye turned to Colin, who stood holding a glass of lemonade, a look of unmistakable joy on his face. Beside him stood Marina, her expression coolly triumphant.

"If I may have your attention," Colin announced, his voice ringing with enthusiasm, "Miss Thompson captured my attention from the very start of the season. And quite recently... I asked her to become my wife. She has graciously accepted!"

A wave of gasps and surprised glances rippled through the crowd, followed by applause – hesitant at first, then growing steadily more enthusiastic. Portia Featherington practically glided towards them, a smug grin plastered on her face, and looped her arm possessively through Marina's.

Penelope stood rooted to the spot, a lump forming in her throat. She felt like she should cry, but no tears would come. All around her, guests surged forward to offer congratulations – Eloise, Gregory, Hyacinth, even Lady Beckett herself. But Penelope remained still. Violet, Anthony, and Benedict were equally unmoving. The elder Bridgerton brothers looked stunned, while Benedict simply wore a bewildered expression. Penelope, however, looked as if the very ground beneath her had crumbled away.

Anthony turned to his mother, his voice low and urgent. "Did you know about this?"

Violet, her gaze fixed on her son and his intended, gave a subtle shake of her head. "Remember yourself, Anthony. We must offer our congratulations, for appearances' sake."

With that, she stepped forward, radiating composure, and Benedict reluctantly followed. Anthony remained where he was, his eyes flicking to Penelope.

"You knew," he said, his voice quiet but not unkind. "You're close to Colin. And you have a knack for seeing things. Surely you knew."

Penelope gave the faintest nod. "Since the night of Lady Danbury's ball," she whispered.

Anthony stared at her, incredulous. "That was weeks ago! Why didn't you say something?"

She offered no answer, her expression blank. He found her silence more worrying than any outburst.

"You're not well," he said gently, lowering his voice even further. "Penelope... are you quite alright?"

She turned to look at him, her green eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. Then, she slowly shook her head.

Without another word, Anthony took her arm and gently steered her away from the party. As soon as they were seated in the carriage, he rapped sharply on the roof. "To Bridgerton House," he commanded.

Before the wheels had even begun to turn, Penelope burst into tears – sudden, raw, and unstoppable.

Anthony startled, but quickly gathered her into his arms, holding her close in a protective embrace.

"I don't know why I'm crying," she gasped, her voice choked with sobs. "It just... it hurts. Everything hurts."

Anthony held her tighter, rubbing her back with gentle, brotherly hands. "It's your heart, Penelope," he murmured. "And sometimes, when it breaks, it feels like your whole self is coming undone."

As the carriage rumbled softly along, the single candlelight lantern swaying above cast a warm, flickering glow across the space. Anthony remained silent for a moment, simply holding Penelope close as her sobs gradually softened into ragged, uneven breaths. Her small frame shivered against him, fragile and exhausted. He remembered her as a child – sharp-witted, determined, always trailing behind Eloise like a faithful shadow. But she had grown, and the pain she carried now was no childish sorrow.

When her breathing finally began to steady, he spoke, his voice quiet, as if carefully drawing the words from a distant memory.

"You know," he murmured, "you once told me you were going to marry Colin."

Penelope stirred slightly but didn't lift her head. Her fingers curled tightly in the folds of her gown.

"It was years ago. You must have been nine," he went on, his voice steady. "You were on the swing in our back garden. Colin pushed you a little too hard, and you went tumbling headfirst into the flowerbed. Your bonnet was askew, your dress torn, but you stood right up and declared, 'It's quite alright! I'm still going to marry him someday!'"

A faint, choked laugh escaped her, though tears still glistened on her long lashes. "I do remember that."

Anthony smiled. "I thought it was childish nonsense. But you never stopped looking at him that way."

Penelope finally raised her eyes to meet his. "He's always been my friend. My best friend."

Anthony nodded slowly. "Yes. But somewhere between the swings and the balls and all the years in between... that fondness grew into something more, didn't it?"

Her gaze wavered.

"I don't think you ever stopped loving him," he said softly. "You just didn't perhaps realize it. Until now."

Penelope swallowed, her throat tight. "It crept in so slowly," she whispered. "And now... it's everywhere."

"That's how it often is," he said. "Love doesn't always announce itself with a fanfare. Sometimes it waits, quietly, until you finally hear it – just as it breaks you."

She turned her face towards the window, watching the blurred trees pass by in the gathering dusk. "Do you think he'll be happy?"

Anthony hesitated, then replied carefully, "I think he believes he will be. But Miss Thompson... she is not you."

Penelope's eyes fluttered closed.

"And you," he continued, his voice gentle now, "you will get through this, Pen. You always do. And one day, I promise you, you'll see that the kind of love you deserve doesn't vanish when your heart breaks. It waits. Patiently."

She leaned her head against the carriage wall, the silence between them no longer sharp, but calm. Her heart still ached, but within that ache was something steadier. Clearer.

She had loved Colin.

Perhaps she always would.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Penelope had barely stirred from her bedchamber since Colin's announcement at the Beckett's fete three days prior. The room remained shrouded in gloom, curtains tightly drawn, her appetite vanished, and her spirits plumbed new depths of despair. She had, by some stroke of luck and perhaps Anthony's quiet intervention, managed to avoid Colin altogether.

Yesterday, a veritable parade of suitors – eight in all – had descended upon her. Each one impeccably dressed, utterly proper, and, alas, profoundly tedious. Penelope found herself barely registering their droning pronouncements on their estates, the fickle weather, or their mothers' questionable talent for the pianoforte. The moment a gentleman commenced to speak, her thoughts invariably returned to Colin, and the quiet, agonizing revelation of watching him pledge himself to another.

Now, she sat upright in bed, her hair a tangled mess, her nightgown bearing the creases of restless slumber. With a weary sigh escaping her lips, she reached beneath the mattress and retrieved a small bottle of brandy – a discreet acquisition from Anthony's study when his back was turned. She uncorked it with a furtive movement and took a hearty swig, her face instantly contorting in a grimace.

"Gad, that's wretched," she muttered, forcing the liquor down. She much preferred the delicate effervescence of champagne or the warm embrace of a good Claret. But those were for times of celebration, of joy. This... this was for the sole purpose of blotting out memories.

A brisk knock sounded at the door, jolting her from her dark reverie.

Panic seized Penelope. She hastily shoved the bottle back under the bed and smoothed her skirts with trembling hands. Before she could manage a response, the door creaked open and Eloise breezed in – not in a dressing gown as one might expect, but rather a simple day dress of turquoise hue, her hair neatly arranged in plaits.

"Good day," Eloise chirped, as if she were entirely oblivious to Penelope's evident state of emotional wreckage.

Penelope groaned, letting her head fall back against the pillows. "Absolutely not. Whatever scheme you've concocted, I refuse to participate."

"Nonsense," Eloise retorted smartly. "Mother is dragging me to Madame Delacroix's for new gowns, and I utterly refuse to endure such torture alone."

Penelope's shoulders slumped further against the pillows. "Do I have any say in this matter?"

"Not in the slightest," Eloise said cheerfully. "Nor do I, for that matter. Consider it mutual torment."

Penelope cast her a withering glare. Eloise merely grinned and sauntered over to the wardrobe, throwing the doors wide. "Get dressed. If I am to be subjected to the indignity of being poked with pins and lectured on the proper length of a hemline, so shall you."

With another sigh – this one tinged more with resignation than bitterness – Penelope swung her legs over the side of the bed. Heartache be hanged. There were corsets to be laced and modistes to be endured, after all.

The delicate chime of the bell above Madame Delacroix's door heralded their arrival, the early afternoon sun casting a warm glow across the rows of shimmering silk and opulent satin. Inside, Eloise stood stiffly upon the raised platform, encased in a pale blue ballgown, her expression as sour as unripe fruit as Violet fussed behind her.

"There, you see?" Violet said brightly, smoothing a stray fold of fabric at Eloise's waist. "With your hair styled into an elegant updo next season, you will look positively enchanting."

"I shall look precisely like every other debutante," Eloise grumbled, catching her reflection in a nearby mirror and scowling. "Only less graceful and far more likely to commit a social gaffe."

Violet sighed, her brow furrowing in concern. "Penelope, what is your opinion, dear?"

From a nearby chair, Penelope glanced up from the novel she had been pointedly pretending to read. "She looks utterly ridiculous."

Eloise smirked, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes. Violet, however, remained unimpressed.

Before she could offer a reprimand, Madame Delacroix swept into the room, her arms laden with pins and shimmering lace. "Lady Bridgerton. Miss Bridgerton."

Ah, yes – Miss Bridgerton. A title newly bestowed upon Eloise in the wake of Daphne's marriage. A title she might very well bear until her final breath, if Eloise had her way.

"If I understand correctly, we are here to discuss a more... appropriate hemline?" Madame Delacroix inquired, her gaze sweeping over Eloise's gown with a critical tilt of her head.

"Precisely," Violet replied, her smile radiant with the determination of a mother intent on transforming her daughter into the epitome of a proper young lady.

But the tranquil atmosphere of the shop was soon shattered by the arrival of none other than Portia and her niece.

"Lady Bridgerton! There you are," Portia exclaimed, her voice dripping with false enthusiasm. She then turned to acknowledge Penelope with a subtly arched brow. "Miss Hartwell."

Penelope glanced up, her expression a mask of polite indifference. "Lady Featherington."

Portia barely faltered before offering Eloise a cool, "Miss Bridgerton."

"Lady Featherington. Miss Thompson," Violet returned smoothly, her tone perfectly civil.

"It is a pleasure to see you, Lady Bridgerton," Marina added politely, though her gaze flickered nervously toward Penelope. "Good day, Miss Hartwell."

Penelope's tone was sharp. "Miss Thompson."

Violet interjected swiftly, stepping into the uncomfortable silence. "You must call me Violet now, dear. I insist."

Marina nodded, though the exchange left her visibly uneasy.

"Is it not delightful?" Portia chirped, her eyes sparkling with a somewhat unsettling intensity. "Our families soon to be joined together forever!"

"Indeed," Violet replied, her smile strained. "Quite something."

Portia leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You must simply come to supper tomorrow, you, Colin, the viscount – we have so much to celebrate."

"I shall consult with my son," Violet said mildly, her tone purposefully noncommittal.

"Perfect," Portia beamed, her eyes gleaming. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I must steal Madame Delacroix for a moment."

With a dramatic swish of her skirts, Portia ushered the modiste into the back room. Marina lingered, her gaze once again drawn to Penelope, who had pointedly returned to her book.

"Yes?" Penelope said flatly, without bothering to look up.

Marina hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... Mr. Bridgerton came to see me yesterday. He seemed... concerned. About you."

Penelope raised a skeptical brow, her expression unreadable. "Did he now?"

Marina nodded, her voice subdued. "He said he hasn't seen you since the garden party. He seemed... worried."

Penelope closed her book with a snap that echoed in the sudden silence, and offered a small, humorless smile. "How very kind of him. But my association with Colin is absolutely not your concern, Miss Thompson. You would be well advised to find your aunt and decide upon the lace for your wedding gown."

Marina blinked, clearly taken aback by Penelope's unexpected display of tartness. Eloise stifled a snort of laughter, barely concealing her amusement. Violet looked utterly mortified, her cheeks flushed.

As Marina turned and hurried after Portia, Violet rounded on Penelope, her voice a hushed whisper of disapproval. "What on earth has gotten into you?"

Penelope slouched back in her chair and opened her book once more, her face hidden behind the pages. "Everything," she said quietly, her voice barely audible. "Absolutely everything."

Violet practically burst through the drawing-room doors the instant they were back within the walls of Bridgerton House. Her gloves were stripped off with a speed bordering on violence, and a frown was etched deep into her features. That disastrous visit to the modiste still stung, a persistent ache much like an overly tight corset. She needed tea. Or perhaps something with a bit more kick.

Meanwhile, in the entry hall, Eloise had cornered Penelope, her arm slung casually around her shoulders as she launched into a breathless tirade about Lady Whistledown.

"It has to be someone with access to the highest circles, someone who hears every whisper! I've narrowed it down to three possibilities, though I'm excluding Lady Ashworth only because—"

"Eloise," Penelope interrupted, a weary note in her voice. She paused at the foot of the grand staircase. "Dearest Eloise, I truly adore you. But I simply cannot entertain this today."

And with that, she turned and started her ascent, leaving Eloise standing there, a mixture of bewilderment and offense on her face.

Once safely inside her room, Penelope bolted the door shut. She leaned against the cool wood for a long, steadying breath before reaching under her bed. Her fingers closed around the prize: a half-empty bottle of brandy,liberated from Anthony's private stock. She uncorked it and took a large gulp, the liquor burning a welcome path down her throat.

"Did you pilfer that from Anthony's study?"

Penelope shrieked, the bottle nearly slipping from her grasp. Colin sauntered out from behind the dressing screen, looking utterly unfazed.

"Good heavens, Colin!" she gasped, clutching a hand to her chest. "What—how long have you been lurking?"

"Oh, since you ladies left for the modiste," he replied, with infuriating calm. "I let myself in and settled down. Read one of your books, actually."

He offered her a slim volume. Penelope snatched it from his hand and tossed it onto the bed with a disgruntled frown.

Colin's gaze flickered to the bottle still clutched in her hand. "So you truly did steal it."

"I did," she admitted, then held it out to him. "Care for a taste of sin?"

He accepted the bottle and took a swig, his face contorting. "Still as foul as I remember."

Penelope laughed—a soft, genuine sound that surprised even herself. Colin smiled, his eyes warming.

"I've missed you," he said quietly. "You've been avoiding me these past few days."

Penelope's smile wavered. After a pause, she said simply, "I have."

Colin's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why? I thought, of all people, you'd be pleased for me. You disappeared after the announcement and haven't spoken a word to me since."

Penelope couldn't bring herself to confess the truth: that her heart had betrayed her, that she'd spent the last few days dodging him because she'd finally recognized how deeply she truly felt, and the realization terrified her to her very core. Instead, she took a deep breath and looked away.

"I was mortified," she said quietly.

Colin seemed taken aback. "Mortified? Whatever for?"

She hesitated, then said, "I overheard someone at the garden party make a rather cutting remark about me. About my appearance. Specifically, my… roundness."

Colin's expression darkened. "Who said that?"

"I don't know," Penelope lied quickly. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters—"

"It truly doesn't," she insisted, her voice firmer this time. "It's not something I usually allow to bother me. Violet has always encouraged me to embrace who I am. And I do. But that day, I... I don't know. The words just stuck. I needed to be alone."

She forced a small smile. "It had nothing to do with you, Colin. I've been avoiding everyone, not just you. I've taken all my meals in my room since that day. Even Eloise has noticed."

Colin studied her face for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful and unreadable. "That doesn't sound like you at all."

Penelope shrugged, lifting the brandy bottle to her lips once more. "Well, perhaps I'm not myself lately."

"You should have told me," Colin said quietly, his voice laced with a hint of reproach.

"You're right," Penelope sighed, suddenly weary. "I should have."

Then, with a forced attempt at cheerfulness, she clapped her hands together. "Well then, good day to you!"

She began nudging him towards the door with a determined little shove, but just as he reached the threshold, something occurred to her. "Hold a moment. Lady Featherington is hosting a dinner tomorrow evening. Just family. You, your mother, and Anthony are expected."

Colin's face immediately brightened. "Splendid. So you'll be there, then."

"What?" Penelope nearly groaned. "Must you truly torment me so?"

"You are my dearest friend," he said with infuriating sincerity. "I want you there. Besides, you are a Featherington. No one will think it odd."

Penelope shook her head. "Colin—"

"Please, Pen?" His voice softened, as did his eyes. "Miss Thompson is to be my wife." Penelope flinched, and he saw it, but continued anyway. "But you will always be my dearest friend. I'd like you to be there—to lend me your support. And to give her a chance. Perhaps we can all grow to like one another."

Penelope wanted to refuse. Desperately. But those dreadful blue eyes of his—so pleading, so sincere—made it impossible.

"Fine," she muttered.

His whole face lit up with a boyish grin. "Thank you," he said warmly, and then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Penelope turned to stare at the half-empty brandy bottle. With a determined tilt, she downed the rest of it in one go, grimacing at the taste. She set the empty bottle on her writing desk, then grabbed her pillow, flopped onto the bed, and screamed directly into it.

She had half a mind to hurl the bottle through the window again—but then remembered the thorough scolding Anthony had given her last week when she'd confessed to the previous incident. He'd had the window replaced at once—but not before lecturing her sternly in his study, as if she were still a child.

No. Better the pillow this time.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

"Tell me, dearest," Violet inquired, her voice a gentle chime amidst the genteel clatter of silverware on china. "How did you while away your hours in the countryside?"

The Bridgertons, Featheringtons, and Penelope were arranged around the lavishly set table in Featherington House. The supper, a symphony of flavors, featured succulent roast duck, glistening honeyed carrots, and potatoes swimming in butter. Yet, Penelope found herself strangely unable to savor a single bite. Marina sat beside Colin – his betrothed, after all – while Penelope was positioned next to Violet. Ordinarily, she would have cherished the Dowager Viscountess's company, but tonight, she longed to be nearer to Colin. He, however, was utterly absorbed. With her. Penelope couldn't even steal a glance at Marina without her appetite deserting her entirely.

"Riding was my greatest pleasure," Marina responded, her voice polished and poised.

Violet offered a smile, warmer in sound than in appearance. "Please, call me Violet. We shall be family, you know."

"Oh, Miss Thompson is the picture of propriety," Portia gushed. "A true boon to our family, indeed."

Violet inclined her head, her patience a virtue. "Have you traveled much, Miss Thompson? My Colin has always possessed a thirst for adventure."

Marina shook her head. "Never. Though I must confess, it is now a great aspiration of mine. Particularly now."

Penelope pursed her lips, her gaze firmly fixed on the untouched carrots on her plate.

"I foresee a honeymoon in exotic lands," Portia declared brightly, delicately dabbing her lips with a napkin. "What are your thoughts, Lord Bridgerton?"

Anthony, stationed at the far end of the table, barely acknowledged her. "I prefer not to speculate."

Unfazed, Portia continued, "Indeed. Though I dare say it would be the perfect start. Mr. Bridgerton," she turned her attention to Colin, her tone carefully nonchalant, "you might seize this fortunate stretch of weather. An earlier wedding wouldn't be remiss."

Before Colin could formulate a reply, Anthony interjected smoothly, his voice clipped. "Colin is still young. A lengthier engagement would be more sensible, I believe. Weather notwithstanding."

Penelope briefly lifted her gaze to Anthony, who met her eye with a look of understanding. She quickly averted her gaze, studying the pale mound of potatoes on her plate as though they held the key to her current predicament.

Colin, meanwhile, looked decidedly displeased. He turned to his mother instead.

"Mother, have I mentioned Miss Thompson's exceptional skill with a needle? Truly gifted. She surpasses even Daphne and Eloise – and Miss Hartwell, if I may be so bold."

He cast a glance in Penelope's direction, but she remained impassive. She didn't even flicker an eyelash, simply pressed her fork against a carrot until it surrendered.

Undaunted, Colin added, "She also possesses a great fondness for Evelina, by Frances Burney." He directed the comment towards Penelope this time, his voice gentle, almost pleading.

Still, Penelope offered no response.

Just then, Portia clapped her hands, her face beaming. "Dessert shall be served presently – gooseberry pie!"

Penelope closed her eyes and took a long, steady breath through her nose, then exhaled. Once more. And again. She detested gooseberry pie with all her heart. It was tart and self-satisfied, always carrying a faint aftertaste of regret.

Later, the assembled company migrated to the drawing room, where Philippa took her place at the pianoforte and commenced playing a piece that was neither ambitious nor melodious, but certainly loud. Prudence stood beside her, warbling with misplaced confidence:

"Oh dear, what can the matter be? Oh dear, what can the matter be? Oh dear, what can the matter be? Johnny's so long at the fair..."

Her voice, sharp as shards of glass, sent shivers down Penelope's spine. Seated between Violet and Anthony on a damask settee, Penelope pressed her gloved fingers to her temples and offered a silent prayer to any deity who might be listening: Please. Let Prudence lose her voice before the second verse.

From the corner of her eye, she observed Colin leaning in towards Marina, whispering something. Marina smiled – a taut, distracted expression. Moments later, Colin rose and unobtrusively slipped from the room.

Penelope followed.

She made no announcement, offered no explanation. She simply rose and trailed after him up the grand staircase, her footsteps muffled by the carpeted treads. When he disappeared into a room – perhaps a study or a private parlor – she hesitated. Instead, she ventured further down the corridor, curiosity stirring within her.

Marina had been peculiar all evening – restless, evasive. Something was amiss. And Penelope, despite her better judgment, couldn't resist the urge to investigate.

She discovered the smallest bedchamber at the end of the hall – plain, tidy, utterly unremarkable. Marina's. Without a moment's hesitation, Penelope slipped inside.

She wasted no time.

With swift, silent steps, Penelope crossed to the small writing desk near the narrow bed and began her search. She opened drawers, rummaged through folded linens and worn gloves, until her fingers closed around a bundle of letters – neatly tied, their edges softened from frequent handling.

She drew them out.

The topmost letter bore an address in a bold, masculine hand: Sir George Crane, Baronet. The seal was broken, the date marked mid-March – prior to the start of the Season. Penelope unfolded it, her pulse quickening.

George Crane, it seemed, had been summoned to join the war effort, his father having secured him a commission. He apologized for departing Somerset without a farewell, and the letter – though written with the formality expected of a gentleman – contained genuine affection. Penelope continued through the pile.

Early April. Mid-April. Late April. Early May. Mid-May.

Marina’s responses, though absent, were referenced within his own letters. Her tone, reflected through his replies, had been loving but tinged with sorrow. Then came the most recent missive – dated only days prior. In it, Marina had confessed to George that she was with child.

Penelope gasped, her hand trembling.

George Crane was the father.

But why, then, was Marina engaged to Colin?

Frantically, Penelope flipped through the remaining pages and located more recent letters – also from George, but their tone had shifted dramatically. He was now cold, dismissive. He had no intention of returning, and certainly no desire to be burdened with a child. "You must resolve the matter yourself. It is no longer my concern," one line declared.

Penelope's wide blue eyes filled with horror.

The truth was clear. Marina intended to marry Colin in order to pass off her unborn child as his.

Her stomach churned. She felt a wave of nausea.

Carefully – though every fiber of her being yearned to tear the letters to shreds – she returned them to their drawer, ensuring they were precisely as she had found them. She slipped out of the chamber without a sound.

As she descended the stairs, she caught sight of Colin ahead of her, just turning the corner at the landing, rejoining the drawing room. Penelope gathered her skirts and followed, her heart pounding with each step. She had to tell him. She simply had to.

"Colin," Penelope called softly, her voice hushed but urgent as they reached the foot of the staircase, finding themselves alone in the marble-floored entry hall.

He turned, a smile gracing his lips as he saw her. "Pen."

She hesitated only a breath before stepping past him, pivoting with a surprising resolve. "Colin, a word, if you please. It concerns Miss Thompson."

His brow furrowed, a hint of the smile vanishing. "Pray, enlighten me."

Penelope's heart hammered against her ribs. "I... I took the liberty of entering her chamber. Against my better judgment, I grant you, but I had my reasons. I discovered letters, Colin, a veritable stack of them. From a gentleman—Sir George Crane, a baronet of some standing. They share, or rather, shared, a certain intimacy."

Colin's reaction was unexpected. No shock, no anger, just a faint, almost indulgent amusement.

"You are not perturbed?" she blurted, completely taken aback.

He took her hand, his touch gentle. "Penelope, your loyalty is truly admirable. But no, I see no reason to begrudge her a past. Heaven knows, I've danced attendance on half the ladies of the Season."

"But you misunderstand," she insisted, shaking her head. "This was no fleeting infatuation. She harbored deep affection for him, and from the tenor of her correspondence, those feelings persist."

"Yet, she chose me," Colin countered, a confident smile playing on his lips. "We are well-suited, we understand one another. I have no qualms."

"You barely know her!" Penelope retorted, her voice sharper than intended. "A mere month has passed. A month."

Realizing she was making little headway, Penelope took a deep breath and delivered the final, devastating blow.

"She carries his child, Colin."

He froze, his expression blank. "...What did you say?"

Penelope pressed on, her voice low but filled with a fierce determination. "She has been with child since before she arrived in Mayfair. George Crane is the father. He has abandoned her—and now she intends to pass the child off as yours. You are merely a solution to her problems. Security, a name, protection. Nothing more."

For a moment, Colin was utterly speechless, a stunned look on his face. Then—before Penelope could elaborate—Marina appeared in the doorway to the drawing room, her expression guarded and wary.

Colin swung around to face her. "Is it true?" he demanded, his voice tight. "Are you with child?"

Marina's dark eyes widened, darting between him and Penelope, calculating. Then, with a trembling nod, she offered a soft, "Yes," she admitted, quietly. "I intended to tell you. I panicked. I... I needed safety for myself and the baby."

"You should have confided in me," Colin said, his tone hardening.

"I did not love you at first," Marina said, her voice faltering. "But I am growing to... or I could, given time. You are kind, and good. And your family is—well, everything. I could not bear to marry Lord Rutledge. He is cruel, and he—he would never have allowed me to keep my child."

Colin stared at her, his jaw clenched tight. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze to Penelope, whose face was a mixture of triumph and disbelief.

"I shall proceed with the engagement," he announced at last, his voice low and resigned.

"What?" Penelope whispered, utterly stunned. "Colin—"

"I have no choice, Penelope," he said quietly. "It is the honorable course."

"Penelope."

She startled, her breath catching as her wide blue eyes met Colin's. He stood just before the main staircase, concern etched across his brow.

"What is it?" she murmured, her voice faint, her limbs heavy with shock, her vision still clouded with what she'd seen.

"You said you wished to speak with me—about Miss Thompson?" he prompted gently. Then, narrowing his gaze, he added, "Wait… I know that expression. You've had a vision, haven't you?"

Her heart began to pound, an echo of the image still lingering behind her eyes. Before he could press further, she turned away without answering and silently returned to the drawing room.

She sank into the space between Violet and Anthony, hands clasped tightly in her lap, and stared unseeing at the flickering candlelight across the room. Her mind spun.

She could not tell him. Colin was too noble—too quick to sacrifice himself for what he believed was right. If he knew, he would marry Marina out of duty. And he would suffer for it, living a life bereft of love, tied to a woman whose heart belonged to another.

No, Penelope thought grimly. If she could not save her own heart, she would at least spare his.

That evening, back from their outing, Penelope stole away to her room. Sleep was the last thing on her mind, however. She settled by the candlelight, quill in hand, crafting her latest missive. Her hand trembled, just a touch, as she poured her thoughts onto the page before slipping on her cloak for a surreptitious trip to Bloomsbury to ensure its timely delivery.

Returning to Bridgerton House, Penelope felt a pang of loneliness, her room suddenly too empty. Instead, she found herself drawn to Eloise's chamber, only to find it unoccupied. Nor was her friend in the library or drawing-room. It was in the garden, bathed in the soft moonlight, that Penelope finally located her.

Eloise sat on the garden swing, lost in thought, her brow furrowed. But when her gaze lifted and met Penelope's, a smile blossomed, only to quickly fade as she noticed the glisten of tears in Penelope's eyes.

Penelope said nothing, her emotions overwhelming her. She sank to her knees, her small frame wracked with sobs that shook her to her very core.

Eloise was by her side in an instant, dropping to her knees and enfolding her dearest friend in a tight embrace. She didn't press for answers just yet; there would be a time for explanations. What mattered was that Penelope was hurting, and Eloise was there to offer comfort, just as she always would be.

As dawn painted the sky with the first soft light, Colin descended the grand staircase, a small bag clutched in his hand. Dressed for travel, his jaw was set with firm resolve, only to falter when he saw his mother pacing anxiously in the entry hall, her expression etched with worry.

At the sound of his approach, she turned and wordlessly pressed a folded paper into his hand.

It was the latest edition of Lady Whistledown's Society Papers.

He unfolded it, his brow creasing in confusion, until he froze, the words blurring before his eyes. His breath hitched in his throat.

Marina was with child.

Had been since the very moment she stepped foot in Mayfair.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

Penelope couldn't quite grasp what had driven her to seek out Eloise in the dead of night, collapsing into her friend’s arms like a distressed child. It was as if the weight of all her secrets and sorrows had become too much to carry alone, and Eloise—ever the steadfast and loyal companion—had answered her silent summons.

But here they were now, back in Penelope’s bedchamber, the hour still late, and Eloise, bless her persistent heart, was pressing the issue. She sat perched at the foot of Penelope’s bed, her brow furrowed in that familiar expression of deep concern, firing off questions and half-formed theories.

Penelope, for her part, was silently counting down the minutes until dawn, when the latest whispers from Lady Whistledown would sweep through Mayfair like a sudden summer storm.

She adored Eloise, she truly did. But in this moment, she desperately wished her friend would simply take her leave. Eloise had already served her purpose, hadn't she? She had been there to offer comfort when Penelope's composure had shattered. That should be enough. Now, Penelope needed solitude, not company.

So, she offered a fabrication.

"It was Prudence and Philippa," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the bedsheets. "They made some rather unkind remarks during dinner… about my appearance. Again. I – I think it just wore me down."

Eloise's features immediately twisted with indignation. "Those wretched geese," she muttered under her breath. "If I had been present, I would have hurled my syllabub directly at their heads!"

Penelope blinked, surprised by her friend's vehemence, and then blinked again as she realized how easily the lie had been accepted. It struck her then—how effortlessly the falsehood had slipped from her lips, how instinctively she had crafted it.

She was becoming quite skilled at this game of deceit.

And she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that.

"You know we didn't have syllabub," Penelope offered gently. "Lady Featherington served gooseberry pie for dessert."

Eloise gasped dramatically, her expression one of utter dismay. "Oh, you poor darling!"

It was a well-known fact between them that Penelope abhorred gooseberry pie. A moment of shared laughter followed, light and fleeting, but enough to ease the weight pressing down on Penelope's chest—if only for a short while.

When she finally pleaded exhaustion, Eloise embraced her tightly before departing. And as the door clicked shut behind her, the silence descended once more. Heavier now. Familiar.

Her sorrow returned, not with the same intensity as before, but steady and unforgiving. Alone in the soft glow of her candlelight, Penelope replayed the words she had penned. Whistledown’s latest missive was already in the hands of the printers. There was no turning back now.

The Featherington name would suffer—though the extent of the damage remained to be seen. But did she feel any remorse for it?

No. Not really.

Let them face the consequences of their actions.

She had no doubt that Portia had been aware of Marina’s condition all along. Penelope could remember Rae's blunt explanation from weeks ago—how a pregnancy began when a woman's monthly courses ceased. Which meant Varley, with her sharp eye, would have informed her mistress. And once discovered, their sole objective had been clear: to secure a marriage for Marina with all possible haste.

Penelope thought of Lord Rutledge. Elderly, well-connected – and utterly unsuitable. Marina had, of course, refused him. And so, they had turned their schemes toward Colin. Sweet, trusting Colin. He had been an easy target.

Penelope’s hands clenched tightly in her lap.

She could never forgive them for that.

She had made it abundantly clear in her column that neither Colin nor his family had any knowledge of Marina's situation, that the child was conceived long before her arrival in Mayfair. The Bridgerton name would remain unblemished.

But Colin—Colin might not be so fortunate.

Penelope feared he would be utterly heartbroken. He may not have truly loved Marina, but he had certainly cared for her. For weeks, she had been the focus of his every conversation. He had spoken of building a future with her, a shared life.

And now that future was nothing more than ashes.

Penelope felt sick with guilt. She recalled the vision she'd had weeks ago at the Danbury Ball—Colin, his face radiant with excitement, announcing his engagement to Marina in the garden, before all the assembled guests. That vision had come to pass. But it would not culminate in marriage. And that was Penelope’s fault.

She longed—desperately—to go to him. To knock on his door, fall at his feet, and beg for his forgiveness. To explain everything.

But she couldn’t.

To confess now would be to reveal herself as Lady Whistledown. And Colin… he would be furious. Utterly furious. But more than that, he would be hurt. And Penelope couldn't bear to see that expression in his eyes. Not yet.

Perhaps one day, when the scandal had subsided and gossiping tongues had moved on to new amusements, she might tell him. Not face to face—she wasn't that brave—but in a letter.

She went to her desk and began to write.

She wrote of the beginning: why she had become Whistledown in the first place. The moment she'd discovered Marina's secret. Why she had waited. What she had seen in that cursed vision. And finally, why she had chosen to reveal it to the entire ton.

When she finished, she sealed the letter in an envelope and wrote his name—Colin—across the front in careful, elegant script.

Then, she pried up the loose floorboard beneath her bed, where her Whistledown earnings were hidden in neat stacks, and tucked the letter alongside them.

She did not know when she would give it to him.

Only that she would.

Unable to find solace in slumber, Penelope crept from her chambers, a familiar plan forming in her mind – to warm a bit of milk, a remedy her grandmother had always sworn by. The latest scandal sheet from Lady Whistledown had set tongues wagging that morning, and all of Mayfair buzzed with gossip about Miss Marina's delicate situation and the Featheringtons' rather transparent attempts to ensnare Mr. Colin Bridgerton.

Colin, poor soul, had retreated to his room and hadn't been seen since.

Penelope, heavy with a burden of guilt, had tried every conceivable distraction. She’d attacked the pianoforte with a vengeance, embroidered until her fingers ached, and even endured several rounds of cards with Hyacinth and Gregory – a feat that saw Hyacinth, surprisingly, triumph more than once. As a last resort, she’d even braved a visit to Benedict's bachelor lodgings, pleading with him for another art lesson, despite his vow to never teach her again after she’d hurled a paintbrush at his window during a fit of… artistic inspiration.

Yet, the guilt clung to her.

As she tiptoed toward the kitchens, a low murmur drew her to the drawing room. Intrigued, she crept closer, pausing just outside the door. Inside, she found Violet, Anthony, Benedict, Daphne – and Colin. It was clear they were discussing the unfolding scandal. Violet seemed grateful for Daphne's presence, hoping the Duke and Duchess of Hastings could somehow dampen the flames of Society’s gossip. Daphne, however, appeared less than thrilled, as if biting back a rather tart remark.

Colin, it seemed, wished to call upon Marina, but Anthony swiftly shut down the notion. "The scandal is, at present, somewhat contained, thanks to… Whistledown’s efforts," he said firmly. "But if you are seen associating with the young lady, the gossips will declare you the father, and the reputations of our sisters – and indeed, Penelope – will suffer. Surely, Colin, you wouldn't wish that?"

Colin's reply was soft. "No… of course not." Yet, there was a lingering note of concern, a fondness for Marina that seemed to twist a knife in Penelope's heart.

Daphne, ever practical, wondered aloud what new amusement would next capture society's attention. Violet mentioned the Queen's upcoming luncheon. Daphne, with a knowing smile, offered to secure an invitation, suggesting her and the Duke's esteemed presence would quickly redirect the ton's wandering gaze.

"I am so very grateful this entire mess has been so neatly solved—for my sake, of course," Colin said with a sudden, sharp edge. He turned on his heel and stormed from the room.

Penelope gasped, instantly frozen.

Fate, it seemed, was against her. The door swung open, and Colin all but collided with her. He stopped, startled, his eyes widening. For a fleeting, breathless moment, they simply stared at one another – her heart hammering against her ribs, his expression a blank canvas. Then, without a word, he sighed heavily, turned away, and ascended the stairs.

He had never passed her by without a single word.

Moments later, Daphne emerged and spotted her.

"Penelope? What on earth are you doing up at this hour?"

"I… I desired a bit of milk," Penelope stammered, the excuse sounding rather pathetic even to her own ears.

Daphne gestured down the corridor. "The kitchen is that way, dear."

Penelope bit her lip.

"You were eavesdropping, weren't you?" Daphne stated matter-of-factly.

"No," Penelope lied, though her voice lacked conviction.

"You are a terrible liar, Penelope," Daphne said with a knowing smile.

Penelope could have argued – truthfully, she was becoming remarkably good at dissembling.

"You know Mama and Anthony absolutely despise it when you listen at doors."

"I was merely concerned," Penelope mumbled. "I hadn't seen Colin all day, and then just now… he looked right through me as if I were complete stranger. "

Daphne sighed. "I'm on my way to speak with him now. Do not take it to heart, Penelope. He is simply… overwhelmed."

Penelope gave a slight nod, trying her best to keep the guilt from creeping across her face.

"You'd best make your way to the kitchen before someone else discovers you lurking in the hall," Daphne added gently, before continuing up the stairs.

Penelope remained still for a moment longer. Then, turning quietly, she headed toward the kitchen – no less uncertain than she had been when she left her room.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

The garden at Buckingham House was The gardens of Buckingham House were a sight to behold that late spring. Bathed in sunlight, every hedge was perfectly trimmed, every fountain softly gurgled, and the air itself was thick with the perfume of white blossoms. Under a magnificent canopy trimmed with gold, Queen Charlotte held court, every inch the monarch in her full regalia. Her enormous white wig, adorned with silk flowers and pearls, added to the spectacle. Nearby, a small group of musicians played a light, airy tune, their melodies dancing on the breeze.

Guests strolled about, each wearing the practiced expression of polite cheerfulness. Among them were the Bridgertons, the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, and Penelope, who, despite her bright green gown, looked anything but merry. Colin, too, seemed as though he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Isn't this simply delightful?" Violet exclaimed, hooking an arm through Gregory and Hyacinth's. "All of us together again!"

"Francesca is still at Bath, isn't she?" Penelope remarked, a slight frown creasing her brow.

Violet blinked, momentarily thrown. "Ah, yes. Well... most of us, then."

Colin offered a wry smile, devoid of humor. "Delightful indeed. Perhaps we should scandalize the ton more often if this is the reward."

He hadn't wanted to attend the Queen's luncheon in the slightest, but Anthony had made it abundantly clear that declining a royal summons wasn't an option afforded to the Bridgertons.

Penelope, standing close by, glanced up at him. His jaw was tight, and she noticed his hand twitching restlessly – a sure sign of his inner turmoil. On impulse, she slipped her hand into his and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He looked down, their eyes meeting in a long, silent moment before he managed the ghost of a smile. She released his hand immediately.

"Make way, there!" a familiar voice boomed.

The crowd parted with almost comical haste as Queen Charlotte, a vision of feathers and grandeur, swept towards them, followed by pages and footmen. She surveyed the gathering with a critical eye, her mouth pursed in a thin line of disapproval.

"Must you all huddle together like goslings at feeding time?" she muttered, stopping before them.

The Bridgertons and Bassets bowed and curtsied, Penelope offering a particularly deep, respectful curtsy.

"I have no less than a hundred guineas riding on the expectation of a Hastings heir before the year's end," Queen Charlotte announced, fixing her formidable gaze on the Duke and Duchess. "Am I to collect, or must I resign myself to losing my money?"

Simon inclined his head, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "We have been dedicating ourselves most diligently to the matter, Your Majesty."

Daphne turned to look sharply at her husband, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes at his practiced charm.

"We trust our Queen will be satisfied presently," he added smoothly.

"See that I am," Her Majesty said crisply. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she scanned the assembled company. "I confess, I'd expected more diverting company this afternoon. My niece, Queen Seraphina of Barclavia, and her son, the young Prince Alistair, were due to arrive last week."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, most knowing better than to comment aloud.

Queen Charlotte's tone sharpened. "But alas, no. Seraphina writes to say she finds herself in an 'unexpected and delicate condition.' At her age! Forty-five, if she's a day. And naturally, Alistair—dutiful boy that he is—has remained in Barclavia to see to her care. A sensible decision, I suppose, considering the risks of such a late pregnancy. Still, one is allowed a little disappointment, wouldn't you agree?"

Her eyes swept the gathering once more, as if searching for someone capable of filling the void left by their absence. Finding no one, she exhaled like a general deprived of her most capable lieutenant.

"I had quite looked forward to Prince Alistair's company. Sharp as a whip, that boy. A pity."

She turned on her heel, her mood noticeably soured.

The Bridgertons stood frozen, as if any movement might invite further commentary. Violet reached again for Hyacinth's hand, though the child was now staring at the Queen's wig with undisguised awe.

Penelope remained silent, her attention fixed on Colin, whose faint smile had vanished entirely.

Just then, the Featheringtons arrived.

A hush fell over the garden, and every head turned in unison. Conversations died, fans fluttered nervously. Even the Queen, seated under her canopy, narrowed her eyes. A wave of undeniable disapproval washed through the guests.

The whispers began immediately.

"The sheer nerve..."

"Entrapping a Bridgerton, wouldn't you know it."

"And with a babe already swelling beneath her gown!"

"Lady Featherington truly should have remained within her drawing room."

Portia, however, walked with her chin held high, resplendent in her most flamboyant gown – a lime green creation adorned with yellow rosettes – and flanked by her daughters in equally gaudy attire. Though her smile was strained, she was determined not to be intimidated.

Spotting Violet, Portia hurried towards her, her silk skirts rustling with a desperate air.

"My dear Lady Bridgerton," she said breathlessly, "what an unfortunate circumstance - for us both! To be so grossly misled by that scheming girl. Who would have imagined Miss Thompson capable of such deception, after all I’ve done for her—welcoming her into my home—”

But Violet turned away without a word and walked off.

Portia faltered.

Brimsley, Her Majesty’s ever-watchful secretary, appeared at her elbow. His expression was one of polite, but utter rejection.

“Lady Featherington,” he said smoothly, “I regret to inform you that you and your family are no longer welcome at Her Majesty’s gatherings.”

Portia blinked. “But we received an invitation—”

“I trust you would prefer to avoid any further discomfiture," Brimsley replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Before Portia could utter another protest, he gave a shallow bow and stepped aside. There was nothing left but to retreat, under the withering gaze of the entire ton. The Featheringtons turned and walked away, their satin skirts whispering against the gravel with every humiliated step.

Nearby, Cressida leaned toward her mother, a smug smile on her face. “That should teach them.”

“Teach them what, Miss Cowper?” a voice cut through the air, cool and clear.

Daphne stood nearby, her expression calm but unmistakably disapproving. “To judge not, lest we, ourselves, be judged?”

Cressida flushed, and Araminta bristled,

Daphne didn't wait for a response. She turned and walked across the lawn towards a quiet stone bench under a blossoming hawthorn tree, her skirts swaying gently behind her.

Penelope had little recollection of the remainder of the Queen’s luncheon. From the moment Daphne had swept across the lawn, everything seemed to fade into a polite blur. She smiled and nodded, curtsied and murmured, all while her thoughts raced. The Bridgertons and the Bassets did the same, bearing the scrutiny of the ton with strained civility, as if Colin’s heartbreak was not written plainly upon his face.

By the time they returned to Bridgerton House, Penelope felt as though her corset was suffocating her.

Daphne and the Duke had returned to Hastings House, and Penelope, her heart pounding, had at last resolved to speak with Colin. But he passed her in the corridor without so much as a glance—his expression blank, his pace quick—and disappeared into his chamber, the door shutting firmly behind him.

Frustration stung her eyes.

She recalled Daphne’s words—he is overwhelmed—but even so, Penelope couldn't help but feel slighted. Hurt. After all, she had only tried to protect him. Shouldn’t that count for something?

Unless… he knew.

The thought struck her like a thunderbolt.

Did he know? Had he somehow figured out that she was Lady Whistledown? That she had penned the very column that had shattered his engagement and exposed Marina’s secret to the entire ton?

Her mouth went dry.

He hadn’t confronted her, but perhaps he was waiting. Waiting for her to come to him. To confess.

Panic welled up inside her, and Penelope hurried to her bedchamber and locked the door behind her. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she began to pace, her skirts rustling with each step. What if he had known all along? What if he loathed her now, not for Marina’s sake, but for her betrayal?

She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling suddenly ill.

The truth had set Colin free… but it might have cost her everything.

Two evenings hence, the Bridgerton family attended a musicale at the opera house—a small, elegant gathering intended to give Eloise a taste of what awaited her at her debut. Eloise grumbled the entire carriage ride, proclaiming her gown a preposterous confection and the music sure to lull her to slumber. Violet and Anthony, accustomed to these pronouncements, paid her no mind. Even Penelope, who might once have found amusement in her friend's antics, sat quietly opposite with a book, her expression unreadable. Only Benedict offered a wry smile.

Colin, noticeably absent, had declared himself unwell and remained sequestered in his chamber since the luncheon at Buckingham House.

The family was shown to their private box just as the orchestra began tuning their instruments. A moment later, Brimsley approached, bowing formally, and requested Eloise's presence in the Queen's box.

It seemed Her Majesty desired a progress report on the matter of the elusive writer.

When Eloise returned, she collapsed into the seat beside Penelope with a weary sigh, recounting the encounter in a hushed voice. "She's quite turned against me," she lamented. "Declared I was brimming with theories but possessed no solutions, and forbade me from pursuing the matter further."

Penelope, still unsettled from Eloise's sudden departure, offered a small smile. "That does seem rather unjust of Her Majesty."

"Indeed," Eloise agreed, her eyes narrowing. "And you haven't been of particular assistance either."

Penelope tilted her head, choosing not to rise to the bait. After a moment's pause, she asked, almost too casually, "What would you do... if I were, say, Lady Whistledown?"

Eloise's eyebrows shot upward, then her face broke into a mischievous grin. "If you were Whistledown? That would be truly magnificent! I should insist upon becoming your partner, of course. Imagine—my thoughts on women's rights, printed in secret! We could sway minds, you and I."

Penelope laughed, a strained sound. "Wouldn't you be rather furious with me? Whistledown hasn't always been... kind."

Eloise paused, a frown creasing her brow. "Well, I might demand an explanation for that dreadful piece about Daphne's lack of suitors… and why you exposed Miss Thompson, of all people." She rolled her eyes. "But I suppose even Whistledown is prone to error. I should still admire you greatly. Besides, if you were she, you would at long last be performing some deed of consequence."

Penelope forced a smile as the musicians settled into their places and the conductor raised his baton. "It was merely a fanciful notion," she murmured. "Purely hypothetical."

Eloise nodded, her attention now captured by the swelling music.

But Penelope knew in that moment with absolute certainty—she could never reveal the truth. Not even to Eloise. Not now.

Lady Whistledown was her secret, and hers alone. To share it would be to relinquish it. And Penelope was not yet prepared to surrender that part of herself.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

As May drew to a close, signaling the London Season's gradual decline, Penelope found her thoughts drifting towards the tranquil haven of Kent. Aubrey Hall, with its promise of verdant landscapes and cool, quiet spaces, beckoned as a refuge from the relentless social whirl of Mayfair. The prospect of fewer callers, fewer carriages, and, most importantly, fewer overwhelming sights filled her with a sense of longing.

At present, she occupied a settee in the Bridgertons’ drawing room, a novel resting unread in her lap. She had attempted to lose herself in its pages, but the moment Eloise burst into the room, hot on Benedict's heels, her concentration vanished entirely.

"But where did you encounter her?" Eloise pressed, her voice laced with curiosity as she trailed after her brother.

"About town, is all," Benedict replied with a touch of curtness, as he settled down, sketchbook in hand.

"At her shop, perhaps?" she persisted.

Benedict cast her a look of mild exasperation. "Shouldn't you be occupied with preparations for your upcoming debut ball?" he countered, playfully nudging at her chin.

Eloise groaned dramatically and collapsed into the nearest chair, clearly unimpressed by his attempt to redirect her.

Across the room, Hyacinth and Gregory were deeply engrossed in a spirited game of chess. While Hyacinth possessed a remarkable skill for card games, Gregory, with his quiet intelligence, was systematically dismantling her defenses on the chessboard.

Just then, Colin entered, and despite his silence, Penelope felt a familiar flutter in her chest. She hadn't witnessed him genuinely smile in what felt like an eternity. He strolled over to a side table, promptly stuffed a biscuit into his mouth, and then reached for another. It was such a comforting and familiar sight that she almost laughed. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was on the path to rediscovering his former self.

"Brother," Hyacinth chirped from her seat, "may I participate in the pall-mall matches at Aubrey Hall this summer?"

Anthony, deeply engrossed in his newspaper, offered no response.

"Brother!" she repeated, this time with a touch more force.

Finally, Anthony glanced up, his attention momentarily diverted. "Provided you keep a safe distance from my mallet, I see no reason why not."

Hyacinth beamed with delight. "Splendid!"

"You cannot be serious," Gregory muttered, already envisioning the impending chaos.

"I shall commence my practice at once," she declared, practically vibrating with excitement.

Penelope couldn't help but smile to herself. Pall-mall at Aubrey Hall was a time-honored tradition of mayhem and wounded pride, and she cherished every moment of it. For years, Hyacinth had been considered too young to participate, but it seemed she was now about to be initiated into the family's most fiercely contested sport.

Colin's eyes met hers across the room, and for a fleeting moment, they simply held each other's gaze. Then, a genuine smile bloomed on his face, not the practiced sort, but one that sparkled in his eyes. A hesitant warmth echoed in her own answering smile, yet neither dared to bridge the space between them. Their bond felt… different, ever since the whispers and rumors surrounding Marina. It had been weeks since that unsettling morning, and things hadn’t quite found their footing. Still, a smile felt like a fragile new beginning.

Across the room, Eloise, relentless as ever, had cornered Benedict at a small writing table, launching into what appeared to be a full-blown inquisition.

"Mark my words, you should tread carefully around her," Eloise declared mysteriously.

Benedict, engrossed in his sketching, arched a brow in amusement. "Careful, you say? Of all people, you're suddenly concerned with a lady's reputation?"

"I—no," Eloise stammered, realizing she was dangerously close to revealing too much. Accusing Genevieve of being Lady Whistledown outright was out of the question... at least for now. "I simply mean... watch yourself."

Benedict merely offered a look that suggested he'd heard quite enough of Eloise's cryptic pronouncements.

Sensing she'd reached a dead end, Eloise pushed herself away from the table with a dramatic sigh. "I must go and adorn myself for this infernal ball," she announced, flouncing over to Penelope and plopping down beside her with a noticeable oomph.

"Anthony," she called out theatrically, "has there been any more disturbances reported in Bloomsbury?"

"None in weeks," the Viscount replied, his face buried in his morning paper.

Penelope blinked, surprised. It was true. The unsettling visions, the disturbing whispers… they were gone. The silence was unsettling, unfamiliar – yet undeniably welcome. A faint smile curved her lips.

No visions. No deaths. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might finally get a decent night's sleep.

That is, until the ball.

"A letter from Aunt Georgiana," Violet announced as she entered the drawing room, a sealed letter held aloft. "Francesca shall be returning home tomorrow."

"Oh, how marvelous!" Hyacinth clapped her hands with delight.

"Perhaps she'll entertain us with tales of far-flung adventures beyond Mayfair," Colin murmured, though his focus betrayed his words as he eyed the dwindling remains of fruit and biscuits. He unabashedly plucked the last fig from the plate.

"Fran has missed a great deal," Gregory observed, idly shifting his chess pieces.

"Indeed," Violet agreed, her voice tinged with wistfulness. "It has been quite the season… what with Daphne’s marriage to the Duke, and then Anthony and—"

She trailed off abruptly, catching Anthony's pointed glare from behind his newspaper. His brow arched in silent warning.

Violet cleared her throat delicately. "Yes, well. A busy season, nonetheless." With that, she made a hasty retreat, her skirts rustling as she swept out of the room.

"I suppose," Benedict mused, stretching his legs lazily, "with these... incidents... seemingly at an end, I might finally return to my lodgings in Bloomsbury. The peace and quiet will be a welcome change."

Penelope's head snapped up, her gaze instinctively seeking out Colin. He met her eyes, tilting his head ever so slightly and making the most subtle of gestures towards the hallway.

Her heart fluttered. She rose almost imperceptibly, even as Eloise was deep in thought beside her.

"Pen, did you hear what I just—?"

But Penelope was already slipping away, leaving her book abandoned on the settee as she followed Colin into the corridor beyond.

Penelope trailed behind Colin as they ascended the staircase, her pulse quickening with each step. Reaching his chamber, he ushered her inside, then closed the door, sealing them in a heavy silence. They settled side-by-side on the edge of his bed, the space between them thick with unspoken words.

Colin released a long breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Penelope," he began, his voice laced with regret, "I owe you a sincere apology. For my withdrawal these past weeks. You did not deserve that treatment."

"There's no need for apologies, Colin," she responded softly. "You were wounded. Anyone would have required time to recover."

But Colin shook his head, his expression troubled. "No, I do need to. I should have confided in you, above all others." He lowered his gaze to his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "I spoke with Miss Thompson some weeks ago, at Hastings House. My mother and Anthony remained blissfully unaware."

Penelope's spine stiffened ever so slightly.

"I had hoped," he continued quietly, "that Lady Whistledown's report was misleading, a cruel fabrication. But... Miss Thompson confessed the truth. She is with child. And she intended to present the babe as mine."

A small, bitter laugh escaped his lips. "I was a fool."

Penelope swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "Was it... because you were in love with her?"

Colin's gaze met hers, softened with honesty. "No. I did not love her. Not in the truest sense. I believe I simply desired to prove my worth. Anthony continues to treat me as though I am a boy of five, fit only for the nursery. And Benedict—he has his art, his exhibitions, a clear sense of purpose. Anthony has his title. I am merely... the third son. Pleasant enough, but ultimately inconsequential."

Penelope's heart ached for him. "Colin, that is simply not true. You are kind, good, and far more capable than either of them recognize. You possess a unique ability to make people feel seen, valued. That is no small thing."

He offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, but the doubt lingering lingered in his eyes. "She chose me to deceive precisely because I was kind," he pointed out, his voice hardening slightly. "Is that not a most ridiculous irony?"

"No, it is a testament to the very essence of your character," Penelope countered firmly. "You must never feel ashamed of your kindness. It is far rarer than wit, charm, or even beauty. It is why—" She stopped abruptly, panic rising within her. "—why you are held in such high esteem by so many."

If he noticed her stumble, he gave no indication. Instead, he nodded slowly, appearing more weary than angry. "I apologize again. For not confiding in you. I needed solitude, but that is no excuse."

He hesitated for a moment. "Pen... did you know? About Miss Thompson? Before the column appeared?"

Penelope froze, her blood running cold. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she blinked up at him, striving to maintain an innocent expression. "No," she said softly, barely above a whisper. "I was just as horrified as you."

Colin studied her face for a long, tense moment, then nodded slowly. "Of course. You would have told me immediately."

Her chest ached with guilt, but she managed a small, reassuring nod.

"I have decided to depart for Greece once the season concludes," Colin added, his voice quieter now. "I need to escape, to experience something beyond London's drawing rooms and ballrooms."

Penelope's heart sank, but she forced a light tone. "You will write to me, I trust?"

"Without question," he said with a semblance of a smile. "And I expect you to reply. At length."

"I shall," she promised, managing a weak smile in return.

Silence descended once more, gentler this time. Then he spoke again, his voice laced with hesitation. "May I ask something of you?"

"Anything, Colin."

"When it comes to my future," he said slowly, choosing his words with care, "I would prefer to remain in ignorance. I understand your visions come unbidden, but... should you ever find yourself tempted to look ahead on my behalf, please—resist the urge."

Her throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. "I understand perfectly."

"I hold you blameless in all of this," Colin said softly, his gaze searching hers. "None of this is your fault."

Penelope simply nodded, too choked to speak. And then, gently, he opened his arms. She stepped forward, embracing him. They held each other in silence, her cheek resting against his shoulder, his warmth a grounding force.

And though she knew he would be leaving soon, Penelope closed her eyes and breathed him in, wanting to remember this moment, just as it was.

Francesca had finally come home.

Penelope realized, with a jolt, how much she'd missed her. It wasn't that they’d been close confidences; not like Eloise and Penelope themselves, nor with the easy camaraderie that Daphne and Colin shared. Francesca had always been… separate. Quieter, more reserved. She'd always seemed to observe like a shadow at the edge of the room: always present, yet never quite the focus.

Even so, her return filled some unseen void in the Bridgerton household. Like the final piece in a grand puzzle.

When Daphne and the Duke swept into the drawing room, Francesca rose from the pianoforte where she'd been seated, her face unexpectedly radiant as she embraced her elder sister.

"Welcome back," Daphne said warmly, holding Francesca close for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

Francesca then turned to Simon with a gentle smile. "When I left, I had four brothers. It seems I have gained another one."

Simon chuckled softly, inclining his head. "The pleasure is all mine."

Daphne smiled, pulling Francesca into a quick, sisterly side-hug. Just then Hyacinth, never one to be shy, approached the Duke, her eyes shining with mischief.

"Could I possibly visit Clyvedon someday?" she asked, her tone brimming with eager anticipation.

"Hyacinth!" Violet scolded softly from her armchair, lifting a hand as if to restrain her daughter. "Do not trouble His Grace."

But Simon, ever the gentleman, simply smiled. "You may come whenever you wish, Miss Hyacinth."

Delighted, Hyacinth grinned and boldly took his hand, leading him toward a newly placed settee at the far end of the room.

Daphne chuckled, looping her arm through Francesca’s once more. "Tell me, what have you been practicing in Bath?"

And with that, the two sisters returned to the pianoforte, the drawing room once again filled with soft melodies, laughter, and the comforting murmur of a family restored.

Penelope sat beside Eloise on one of the drawing room settees, happily sharing a box of French bonbons Eloise had procured from the market. Penelope had declined to purchase her own at the time – she simply hadn't been in the mood – but now, in the midst of her monthly discomfort, she craved something sweet with near desperation. Fortunately, Eloise, ever the generous friend, didn't mind sharing.

They were several chocolates deep when they noticed Benedict advancing towards them, his expression unusually stern. Penelope exchanged a knowing look with Eloise.

"What have you done this time?" she whispered, a hint of amusement in her tone.

"Me?" Eloise retorted, feigning offense. "Perhaps you hurled another of his paintbrushes at his window."

Benedict sat beside Eloise without a word, leaning forward, his voice low and clipped. "You are not to do what you did the other morning. Do you understand?"

"Visiting Madame Delacroix?" Eloise said lightly, popping another chocolate into her mouth. "She's delightful. You've nothing to be concerned about."

"I wasn't concerned," Benedict insisted, his tone tight.

"Sounded rather concerned to me," Penelope murmured, earning a glare from him.

Just then, Anthony entered, settling into the open seat beside Penelope, sandwiching the two girls between the eldest Bridgerton brothers. He reached for the chocolate box, and Eloise reluctantly passed it over. Anthony helped himself with evident satisfaction.

"Not concerned about what?" he asked, his words slightly muffled by chocolate, glancing at Benedict.

Benedict hesitated, clearly pondering his response, before muttering, "I have… a friendship with Madame Delacroix. The modiste."

A beat of silence hung in the air.

Then, to everyone's surprise, Anthony nodded. "Good for you. You deserve happiness."

Benedict blinked, as did the girls.

"We all do," Anthony added, brushing a stray crumb from his waistcoat. "If the lady brings you peace, I am glad for it."

He then turned to Penelope. "And you – why is there money missing from your dowry?"

Penelope straightened, caught off guard. "I… I don't know," she blurted out quickly.

"Yes, you do," Anthony replied, his voice calm but firm.

Penelope sighed. "Very well. I may have withdrawn a bit… for some books and a new bracelet. And perhaps a few sweetmeats."

Anthony didn’t seem angry, only bewildered. "I give you an allowance."

"I know, but perhaps I do not wish to be entirely dependent on you," she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

"You're under my protection, Penelope. I want to provide for you. That money is not meant for frivolous spending – it's meant for your future, for your marriage. I noticed the discrepancy while reviewing the household accounts. Imagine, if a proposal were made, and I'd pledged a sum for your dowry that was no longer accurate?"

She winced. "I understand. I am sorry. It won't occur again."

"Of course," she thought with a faint, secret smile, "it hardly matters now; Lady Whistledown is far more lucrative than any dowry ever could be."

Anthony strode with purpose to the other end of the room, leaving the two younger siblings and his ward momentarily perplexed in his wake.

"Whatever sweets have gotten into him," Benedict remarked with a wry smile, helping himself to another chocolate from Eloise's dwindling stash, "I believe I'll sample the source of his good humor." And with a casual air, he ambled off.

Across the drawing-room, Daphne leaned gracefully over the pianoforte, offering Francesca a sincere compliment. "Your playing has blossomed beautifully," she said, earning a delighted blush from their younger sister.

Hyacinth, clearly swept up in the musical atmosphere, turned to Colin with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Oh, do join them! Give us a song, Colin."

Violet, ever the orchestrator of familial bliss, chimed in with an encouraging smile. "Yes, my dear, please do grace us with your voice. It's been far too long."

The suggestion snagged Penelope's attention. She sat up a little straighter on the settee, one of Eloise's pilfered chocolates melting luxuriously on her tongue. She struggled to recall the last time she'd heard Colin sing—perhaps not since their childhood days, racing through the gardens of Aubrey Hall, faces smeared with jam and boots caked in mud.

"If I must," Colin quipped with a dramatic sigh, though the amusement dancing in his eyes betrayed his true feelings. He strode over to the pianoforte, where Francesca was already poised to play.

As Francesca's fingers danced lightly across the ivory keys, Colin began to sing, his voice rich and clear:

"Now we are met, let mirth abound, And let the catch and toast go round— And then the catch, and then the catch— And let the catch and toast go round."

While he sang, his gaze drifted across the room—and settled upon Penelope. She was softly clapping along to the rhythm, a bright, genuine smile illuminating her face. Something in that simple, unstudied joy seemed to catch him off guard, and for a fleeting moment, his voice wavered.

But he quickly recovered, his voice growing louder and more assured, as if determined to match the quiet happiness he saw reflected in her eyes.

"Pen!"

Penelope closed her eyes with a sigh. Eloise had taken to tapping her shoulder with a persistent rhythm, as if sheer determination could coax a response. Finally, Penelope turned to face her, earning a triumphant grin.

"I have news!" Eloise declared in a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "I've found her. Lady Whistledown!"

Penelope blinked. "Have you, now?"

"It is Madame Delacroix!" Eloise proclaimed, brimming with confidence. "The modiste and Whistledown are one and the same!"

It took a considerable amount of willpower to suppress a laugh.

Even if Penelope hadn't known the truth, the idea struck her as utterly ridiculous. Genevieve, though clever and possessed of a sharp sense of style, was not of the ton—hardly positioned to know its every scandal and secret. Lady Whistledown needed access, not simply dress fittings.

Still, Penelope offered a polite, albeit unenthusiastic, "That's...remarkable. Congratulations."

Eloise, clearly pleased with her deductive prowess, reached for Penelope's hand and gave it an enthusiastic squeeze. "We ought to admire her, don't you think? Independent, unmarried, earning her own living. It's precisely what we always said we'd become."

Penelope hesitated, her smile fading slightly. "What if I no longer desire such a life?"

Eloise blinked, utterly taken aback. "What?"

"I mean...what if I wish to marry someday? To have children. A handful, at least—no more than three," she added with a small, hopeful smile. "What if I yearn for a grand love story of my own? Like Daphne and the Duke. Like your parents. Mine."

Eloise looked as if Penelope had struck her a blow. "But... you promised. We were to be spinsters together."

"I was seven," Penelope said gently. "And you were in a terrible state after Hyacinth was born. I only said it to comfort you."

Eloise sat back, lips parted in surprise, but remained silent.

Penelope's voice softened further. "You're not angry, are you?"

"No," Eloise said at last, with a sigh. "Not angry. Just... a little wounded, perhaps. I suppose I believed we'd always remain the same. That even if everything else changed, we wouldn't."

She looked downcast. "What will become of us if you marry? Will we still be friends?"

Penelope squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Of course we will. You will never lose me, El. Not even if the world itself turns upside down. I may not be blessed with perfect foresight, but of this—I am absolutely certain."

Eloise gave a light laugh, visibly relieved. She slumped back beside her once more, and the two returned to the box of chocolates between them, shoulders pressed together, whispering and giggling like the carefree girls they once were.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

The Hastings Ball marked the grand finale of the Season, and for Eloise, it was her very first formal entry into society.

Daphne, ever the attentive older sister, had pulled Eloise aside for a private chat, leaving Penelope to sense the unspoken need for a moment of sisterly intimacy. With a gentle smile, she excused herself, weaving through the throng of elegantly dressed guests. The ballroom was a dazzling spectacle, jewels flashing in the candlelight, gowns rustling like whispered secrets.

Across the room, her eyes found Colin. He was near the refreshment table, looking impossibly handsome and just a tad restless beneath the glow of the chandeliers.

Their gazes locked.

A smile played on his lips, and he began to make his way towards her, navigating the clusters of chattering guests with that effortless charm he always possessed. Reaching her side, he offered a playful greeting.

"Escaped the watchful eyes of the chaperones, have we?" he teased.

“Only for a fleeting moment,” she replied, her own smile tentative.

They settled near the edge of the dance floor, their voices soft against the music. They touched lightly upon his impending departure, but it was just that—a passing mention, devoid of solemn farewells or weighty emotion. Theirs was an easy, comfortable conversation.

As if neither dared to acknowledge the looming reality of the morrow.

The evening unfolded with unexpected grace. Penelope and Colin had shared two dances, laughed more freely than she had allowed herself to hope, and even managed to steal away to a quiet corner for a shared plate of lemon tarts. Amidst the music and murmurs, she had discreetly gathered enough tidbits for her column—a remarkable feat, given how easily his presence seemed to muddle her focus.

By the time she returned to Bridgerton House, her feet were aching, and her head was swimming with champagne bubbles and whispered secrets. She hurried to her chamber, casting off her gloves and settling down to write. The words flowed effortlessly, as if they had been waiting all evening for the touch of her quill.

Not long after, cloaked and gloved, Penelope hailed a carriage to Bloomsbury. The printer's shop, tucked away on a dimly lit lane, had only a flickering lamp illuminating the entrance. Adopting her usual contrived Irish accent, she greeted the clerk and handed over her carefully folded sheet. With a quick nod, she prepared to leave.

But something stopped her.

Just beyond the mouth of the alley, a figure lay sprawled on the ground, barely visible in the dim light from a nearby streetlamp. Penelope frowned and took a step closer, then froze in horror.

It was a woman. Her gown was drenched in blood. Her throat... had been brutally slit. And carved into the bodice of her chest, a gruesome message: FILTHY PSYCHIC.

Penelope gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

She moved forward, almost without conscious thought, her heart pounding in her chest.

Suddenly, hands seized her shoulders, yanking her backward against the wall.

She cried out in shock, her bonnet tumbling to the ground as her back slammed against the cold brick. A masked figure loomed above her, his face concealed, but his hatred was palpable.

His hands closed around her throat.

"You're one of them," he hissed, his breath hot with rage. "Filthy psychic. I'll kill every last one."

Penelope clawed at his wrists, choking, her vision blurring. Her feet scraped against the cobblestones. Her lungs burned. She sobbed silently, desperately trying to scream, but no sound escaped.

She didn't want to die. Not here. Not like this.

Then, without warning, the man screamed.

He staggered back, clutching his head, a sound like tearing metal ripping from his throat. Penelope crumpled to her knees, coughing, her fingers pressed to her bruised neck.

The man's cries grew louder, more agonizing. He writhed, convulsed.

Then his head exploded.

A sickening sound echoed through the alley.

Blood splattered the cobblestones. Penelope remained frozen, covered in gore, trembling uncontrollably as the man's body collapsed beside her. She couldn't scream. She couldn't do anything but stare, wide-eyed and shaking, as silence descended once more.

The hackney carriage lurched over the uneven streets, but Penelope barely registered it. She sat motionless, the lantern above casting a dim, flickering light across her bloodstained gown. Her gloves were soaked through, and she dared not look at them.

The driver eyed her strangely as she climbed in—her hair disheveled, her cloak heavy with filth—but said nothing. For that, she was grateful.

As the carriage pulled up before Bridgerton House, dawn was just beginning to paint the sky with a hint of grey. Penelope dismounted like a ghost, not even pausing to pay the driver. He didn't ask.

The footman at the door blinked in surprise at the sight of her.

"Miss Hartwell—"

"I shan't be needing anything," she said quickly, her voice hoarse and unrecognizable. "I... I was taken ill. Do not wake anyone. Please."

The young man hesitated, then bowed and stepped aside.

Penelope slipped inside, her slippers silent against the carpet. Her hands—dear God, her hands—were still trembling, and she kept them hidden beneath her cloak as she crept through the hall and up the grand staircase.

She avoided the mirrors she passed.

Reaching her chamber door, she paused, her knuckles white on the handle. Her limbs felt distant, disconnected. As soon as she stepped inside and closed the door, she collapsed to her knees.

A sob ripped from her throat. Not a delicate cry, not the kind permitted in polite company, but a raw, desperate sound born of terror, guilt, and fury.

She curled up on the cold floor, her cloak twisted around her, shaking as if consumed by a fever. Her thoughts spun uselessly—the blood, the scream, the eyes behind the mask, the word carved into flesh—until even memory became unbearable.

Finally, she managed to drag herself upright, fumbling towards the washbasin. Her hands were stained red. Her face, she saw, was streaked with something she didn't want to acknowledge.

She scrubbed until her skin burned, then crawled into bed without changing her gown.

She stared at the ceiling.

Sleep would not come.

Only silence. And the distant echo of a scream.

The morning sun, far too cheerful for her liking, peeked past the edge of Penelope's curtains.

Sleep had deserted her.

She might have drifted off for a moment or two, but each time, darkness only brought back the chilling image: that man's face contorted in anger, the woman's desperate, gasping breath, and the metallic, unforgettable scent of blood filling the air. Her nightgown, still damp from the previous night’s ordeal, clung to her skin beneath the silk gown she hadn't bothered to remove.

A gentle knock sounded. Hesitant.

The door creaked open, and Rae entered, her steps cautious. She stopped short at the sight of her mistress, still in bed, fully dressed, hair a mess, and her face as white as milk.

"Oh, Miss," she whispered, approaching with a practiced air. "You'll catch your death like this."

"I simply overslept," Penelope replied a bit too quickly, forcing herself to sit up. "That's all."

Rae blinked, clearly unconvinced, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. She turned her attention to gathering clothes for the journey: a soft blue walking dress with ivory accents, a bonnet to match, and a pair of gloves that, thankfully, had not been ruined in an alleyway the previous evening.

"We're to depart within the hour, Miss," Rae said, helping her out of the crumpled gown. "Off to Kent, as planned."

"Yes. Aubrey Hall." Penelope's voice was thin, wavering slightly. She pressed her lips together, trying to steady it, focusing on a point just beyond Rae's shoulder.

The maid's touch was gentle as she bathed her, her hands quick but kind. Penelope winced as the cloth grazed her throat, now marked with ugly purple bruises, but she didn't say a word. The bonnet ribbon would conceal most of it, she hoped.

Downstairs, half an hour later, Bridgerton House was a flurry of activity. Trunks were hauled about. Footmen rushed back and forth. Violet stood by the front door, giving instructions, while Hyacinth and Gregory bickered over who had packed more books.

Outside, Colin was already with his horse.

The sight of him was like a physical blow.

He stood there in the gentle spring light, coat buttoned, hat in hand, adjusting the saddle himself, despite the groom's offered assistance. His belongings were already loaded onto the cart that would accompany him to the docks.

Penelope slowly approached the doorway just as Daphne swept in from the stairs, Simon by her side. They wouldn't be joining the family at Aubrey Hall; they were headed for Clyvedon, their carriage waiting just behind.

Daphne embraced her brother with unusual tenderness. "Don't do anything foolish in Greece."

"I shall endeavor to reserve all my idiocy for English soil," Colin replied, a playful smile on his face.

Simon clapped him on the shoulder. "If you find a ruin older than four centuries, be sure to write and boast about it."

"I fully intend to."

Then it was Violet's turn. She held her son tightly, and Penelope couldn't hear what she whispered, only that it made him smile.

Finally, his gaze shifted—and met Penelope's.

She walked down the steps toward him, her steps slow and measured. The sky was far too blue. She hated how vibrant everything felt.

"You will write, won't you?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt inside.

"At length," he promised, his smile a little crooked. "You'll be thoroughly bored."

"I doubt it." Her fingers twisted the edge of her glove. "I'm rather fond of your ramblings, you know."

He mounted his horse, then hesitated. "Look after Eloise, will you?"

"I always do."

He held her gaze for another moment, then nodded once. With a gentle nudge of his heels, he was off — the sound of hooves striking the cobblestones as he rode down the square, growing smaller, and smaller still.

She didn't realize she'd stopped breathing until Eloise touched her arm.

A commotion at the edge of the square caught her attention. A Featherington footman, a face she barely recognized, hurried toward her.

"Miss Hartwell," he said, with a slight bow. "My apologies for the informality, but I was instructed to deliver the news at once. Lord Featherington passed away in the night. An apoplexy, the doctor said. Painless, they believe."

Penelope blinked. The words took a moment to sink in.

"Oh." She tilted her head slightly. "Will I be expected to wear mourning for a year?"

The footman looked surprised by the question. "No, Miss. You're not immediate family. The regulations don't apply."

"Thank heavens," Penelope murmured, too tired to feel guilty. "I loathe black."

The footman seemed unsure whether to nod or not, so he bowed again and departed.

Eloise watched her, a curious look on her face. "That was rather cold of you, wouldn't you say?"

Penelope smoothed her hand down her glove. “Was it?”

She turned back toward the house.

"I suppose I'm just eager for the fresh air of Kent."

Eloise drew a breath beside her, trying to appear nonchalant. "I was wrong," she said finally. "Madame Delacroix is not Lady Whistledown."

Penelope simply nodded, offering no questions as to how she'd reached that conclusion. She already knew the answer, and pretending otherwise was simply too exhausting.

"I won't give up," Eloise added, determined. "She's out there, and I will find her."

Penelope managed a tight smile before slipping away. Her head was beginning to pound.

She didn't get far before Anthony stopped her. "Penelope," he greeted her, his voice gentler than usual. "You look a bit pale. Are you quite all right?"

She managed a sigh and a strained smile. "Perfectly fine."

Anthony didn't seem convinced. He studied her with the knowing gaze of an older brother, despite their lack of blood relation. "Look here, if something is troubling you, I'm always ready to listen."

He placed a warm, reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Penelope opened her mouth to thank him—but stopped short. Her vision blurred, and then shifted completely.

She saw Anthony in a sun-drenched garden, breathing heavily. A woman stood facing him—tall, striking, with sun-kissed skin and a mass of black curls pinned loosely. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Anthony’s hand was protectively splayed against her left breast, just over her heart. There, a faint, round bruise bloomed, undoubtedly a bee sting.

The woman clutched his hand where it lay, as if grounding herself. Anthony looked terrified. And utterly, completely captivated.

Penelope blinked, swaying slightly as the vision vanished.

"Oh... my word," she murmured.

Anthony's brows furrowed in concern. "What is it? Did you see something?"

She recovered quickly, forcing herself to breathe. "Only that... you should be careful next Season. With your heart."

He gave her a puzzled look, but before he could inquire further, Daphne and Simon joined them.

"I've made a decision," Anthony announced with sudden determination. "Next Season, I shall marry."

Daphne's eyes widened. "Really? And which young lady has caught your eye?"

Anthony gave a dry smile. "That is quite beside the point. I've come to realize that the real difficulty lies in one thing—love. Remove that from the equation and the whole matter becomes infinitely simpler. I shall not be swayed by emotion. I shall choose a wife sensibly, with logic and order, and thereby maintain control of my life and responsibilities.”

With that, he dipped his head and strode off toward the waiting carriage.

Penelope stared after him, then shook her head. "Yes, that's not going to happen."

Daphne turned back to her, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"I had a vision," Penelope admitted, her gaze still fixed on the retreating Viscount. "Anthony. In a garden. With a woman. They were standing quite close and... well, his hand was rather... strategically placed."

Simon choked back a laugh. "A vision?"

Penelope waved her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, I have visions. That's not important right now."

Simon exchanged a quick glance with Daphne, who simply gave him a calm "later" expression.

"Anyway," Penelope continued, "she'd been stung. By a bee, I think. Anthony was terrified for her—truly terrified. But also... different. He looked at her as if the world had tilted on its axis."

Daphne blinked, clearly trying to take it all in. "And you're certain?"

"I know a bee sting when I see one," Penelope said flatly. "Your father had the same kind of mark, remember?"

Silence fell between them.

Then Simon muttered, "Well, this should be interesting."

Penelope couldn't agree more.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

In the hushed corridor, the air thrummed with the unspoken anxieties of the Bridgerton family and Penelope. Before them loomed Eloise's closed door, a formidable barrier on this momentous day: the dawn of the 1814 social season and, more significantly, Eloise's official debut. News of her debut had just been spread throughout London and everyone was eager to meet the famous Eloise Bridgerton. But Eloise remained a prisoner in her own chamber, the precise moment for their departure having sailed past by a full half-hour.

Inside, a team of patient maids were said to be struggling to complete the daunting task of preparing her for her grand entrance into society. The Bridgerton siblings argued, as siblings often do, about the most effective course of action. Should they barge in and drag Eloise out? Or should they continue to give her the space she so clearly desired? Violet, ever the matriarch, attempted to quell the squabbling, urging patience and understanding. Meanwhile, Penelope, her gaze fixed on Gregory, fumed silently. The youngest Bridgerton brother was enjoying the spoils of the last piece of her birthday cake. Three days had elapsed since her eighteenth birthday, and Cook, bless her heart, had saved a few slices for any late-night cravings. Eloise had happily claimed one, and Penelope had indulged in the sweet, buttery goodness of another. Only this morning, she had been seized by a longing for a final slice, only to find Gregory the culprit, devouring the last morsel with utter glee.

Unbeknownst to the assembled group, a new player had arrived on the scene. Daphne had made her entrance.

"Is this the current state of affairs?" she enquired, her voice a low, amused murmur.

A collective sigh of relief swept through the group.

"Daphne, thank heavens you're here," Violet breathed, her shoulders visibly relaxing.

"She's requested a delay," Anthony announced, his tone a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"We simply do not have the luxury of time," Daphne said before taking a step forward, intending to intervene. But Benedict, ever the artist and provocateur, blocked his path.

"No offense, sister, but you might be the last person she'd want to see right now," Benedict said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Penelope let out a snort of laughter.

Daphne, however, seemed a little taken aback. "And what exactly is that meant to imply?"

"Are we even certain she's still inside?" Hyacinth piped up, her usual curiosity on full display.

"Of course, she's still in there," Francesca said, as if the answer were perfectly obvious.

Gregory, crumbs still clinging to his lips, rolled his eyes. "Where else would she be? I heard her give one of the maids a proper dressing-down."

"Perhaps she's thought of another escape route – the window, the chimney…"

"I tried the window trick last season, but I couldn't even manage to open it," Penelope sighed, remembering her own ill-fated attempts at escaping social obligations.

"Hush! She may hear us," Violet hissed, worried a breach of privacy.

"Do you all realize I left my husband and child at home for this?" Daphne said, the faintest hint of weariness in her voice.

Penelope frowned, a sudden thought occurring to her. "Yes, now that you mention it, how are you even standing here, so soon after giving birth?"

Daphne waved a dismissive hand. "It was a rather straightforward experience."

Anthony, ever the pragmatist, threw up his hands. "As I predicted, we're going to be late for the Queen."

"Quiet," Francesca hushed them, her ears perked. "I believe I hear something."

The group fell silent, straining to hear. After a moment, Anthony threw his hands up in exasperation, reaching for the door. But before he could, the door swung open, and a procession of sulking maids emerged, their faces etched with defeat. The family, drawn by the commotion, leaned forward to get a better view. And then, she appeared. Eloise, resplendent in a pale, intricately embroidered gown, a long train trailing behind her. A towering plume of ostrich feathers crowned her head, adding to her imposing presence. Her family and Penelope gaped at her, struck by the sheer magnificence of the transformation.

Eloise drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "If one of you so much as breathes a word…"

They all returned her gaze, a mixture of awe and amusement on their faces. Benedict, Daphne, Hyacinth, and Gregory struggled, as if trying to swallow their own smiles. Penelope, however, found herself unable to contain her mirth, ignoring Violet's gentle admonishment to be quiet.

Eloise rolled her eyes. "Well then. Let us be done with this." With a determined tug at her train, she swept past them, ready to face the ton, the season, and all that it entailed.

The family's descent from the townhouse was a spectacle in itself, a graceful procession down the sweeping staircase. As they stepped into the crisp April air, a liveried footman approached Penelope, proffering a letter on a silver tray. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the familiar script. Without a moment's hesitation, she broke the seal and drew out the folded missive.

It was from Colin, penned two months past.

His opening was, as always, a charming informality, before he revealed that his return from Cyprus would be postponed. He sent his apologies, requesting that she convey his well wishes to Eloise, whose debut was fast approaching. Even such simple words, penned with such care, brought a genuine smile to Penelope's face, a blush blooming on her cheeks.

She reread the letter, savoring each word before looking up, her voice bright. "Colin sends word that his return will be put back a bit. A week or perhaps two, he says."

Anthony, Benedict, and Gregory were already settling into one of the family carriages, while Violet oversaw the ladies’ preparations for their own conveyance. Violet gathered herself, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, and Hyacinth for their own travels.

Penelope joined them, situating herself between Violet and Eloise as the door closed. Daphne took the seat opposite, flanked by Francesca and Hyacinth, their surroundings a symphony of rustling silks and the gentle cadence of the carriage springs as it set off into the bustling London street.

Penelope gazed out the carriage window, lost in thought as the vehicle rattled along the cobblestone street, her mind a million miles away. Beside her, the other ladies chattered amongst themselves, but Penelope seemed to be in another world entirely.

"Eloise, sister, try to keep a straight face," Daphne said with a gentle firmness, her tone like a well-mannered lesson. "Her Majesty isn't fond of all the fuss. A calm expression, perhaps a little smile, is the key. Show that you are pleased to be there, but not desperate to impress."

Eloise, looking as though she had lost every ounce of colour, avoided her sister's gaze. She appeared as though she longed to flee from this moment, and the window seemed to interest her.

"Come on, let's have a look," Daphne said, trying to bring her sister back to the present.

"Absolutely not," Eloise replied stubbornly, clutching at the folds of her dress as if they were the only things keeping her grounded.

"She is about to explode!" Hyacinth chirped with a laugh.

Francesca, taking her cue, reached for the fan resting on Violet's lap and started to gently fan it in Eloise's direction.

"And the curtsy, darling," Violet reminded her, turning to Daphne, wanting to reassure her daughter. "Remember how you handled it with such grace."

"Find a fixed point, and keep your eyes on it," Daphne explained. "I used a painting in the throne room. We practiced, remember? Many times."

"I remember," Eloise said quietly. “But please don't speak to me as though I am a simpleton.” She snatched the fan from Francesca and began to fan herself furiously, as though she was trying to cool both her face and temper.

Daphne exchanged a fleeting glance with Penelope, who was still absorbed in the world outside the carriage, her eyes distant. "Penelope?" she asked softly. "Have you any advice?"

Snapping back to reality, Penelope blinked, then considered the question. She recalled her own debut just last year - how she had been too caught up in the thrill of it all, staring blankly at a marble sculpture for what felt like forever, until Violet's subtle nudge brought her back.

"Just remember…try not to make a fool of yourself," she said with a small chuckle before returning her gaze to the window, as if there was a greater world to consider.

Eloise exhaled, a puff of irritation escaping her. "Oh, wonderful advice, Pen. Thank you so much."

The carriages had arrived at Buckingham House, and the ladies began to disembark. Violet, ever the picture of composure, gracefully stepped out first, followed by Daphne, then Penelope, Francesca, and little Hyacinth. But when it came Eloise's turn, she remained stubbornly inside.

"Eloise!" Violet called back, her voice sharp with a hint of exasperation. "We haven't all day! Do come out at once."

Silence.

Anthony and his brothers, having just exited their own carriage, had witnessed the entire scene. Anthony's jaw tightened, a muscle working in his cheek.

"Shall I go in and fetch her?" he muttered, already moving towards the carriage.

But before he could act, Penelope stepped forward, her voice calm. "If you would allow me, Anthony," she said, and without waiting for a response, she slipped into the carriage, closing the door behind her.

Inside, Eloise sat stiff, her breathing shallow, eyes wide with a fear that Penelope understood all too well.

"I owe you an apology, Eloise," Penelope said gently, settling beside her. "My advice earlier was utter rubbish. Truly."

Eloise didn't respond, but she didn't pull away either. Penelope reached for her hand, offering a comforting touch.

"You don't need to simper for Her Majesty, or be a dancing bear. You only need to be yourself - clever, strong, and wonderfully inquisitive. That, my dear friend, is quite enough."

Eloise finally exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "Thank you," she whispered, her grip tightening on Penelope's hand. "I haven't the slightest idea what I would do without you."

Penelope smiled, a warm, reassuring light in her eyes. "Luckily, you'll never need to find out."

Together, they descended from the carriage, ready to face the day.

The grand throne room of Buckingham House buzzed with anticipation. Penelope, amidst the flurry of the Bridgerton family, stood shoulder to shoulder with the other guests, arranged in neat rows on either side of the chamber. Beyond the heavy doors of the antechamber, the debutantes were poised, she imagined their nerves were probably as taut as a violin string. The Queen, a vision in silks and jewels, was perched upon her elevated seat, patiently awaiting the next presentation.

Anthony, beside Penelope, was drumming his gloved fingers against his thigh, a clear sign of his growing impatience. Eloise was next, after all.

When Eloise finally emerged, she moved with a clear reluctance, her posture stiff, her chin held a touch higher than was perhaps comfortable. Penelope held her breath.

But before Eloise had even taken a few steps across the marble floor, a royal footman approached the dais and bowed low, offering Her Majesty a freshly printed pamphlet—Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, its ink still fresh.

The Queen, after a single glance at the title, narrowed her eyes and announced with dramatic finality, "I believe I have seen quite enough for one day!"

A collective gasp rippled through the room. She rose abruptly, her ladies-in-waiting scrambling after her like a flock of exotic birds, and swept out of the throne room without a backward glance. Her secretary, Brimsley, was right behind her, already poring over the pages.

The silence that followed was profound.

Eloise blinked once, her face a mixture of relief and… well, something else. She then turned on her heel and practically flew back through the antechamber doors, barely able to contain a grin. Violet, flustered and calling her name, hurried after.

Daphne leaned towards Anthony, her lips twitching. "Good luck, dear brother," she whispered. "You'll need it."

With that, she and her siblings took their leave, disappearing into the growing crowd of murmuring guests who were now dispersing in mild confusion. Penelope remained where she was, her expression carefully composed. Though, a tiny spark of satisfaction did, she admit, cross her face.