Gossip was the heartbeat of Britannian society. The royalty kept the stability of Britannia but gossip kept the sanity of the ton. The women gossiped in tea parties and the men gossiped in their clubs. The gossips were especially rampant in Elaris, the capital.
No one really knew how rumors began, whether whispered by servants or born from the imaginations of bored duchesses, but truth hardly mattered. In Elaris, the noble wives thrived on it. Gossip was their breakfast, backbiting their past time and reputation their crown.
That morning, the Duchess Clarissa of Ashburrow lifted her teacup with a smile that promised mischief. Around her, the parlor hummed with laughter and whispers , sweet poison wrapped in charm. Clarissa listened, patient and silent. She was saving her turn, and they all knew it.
"Lady Clarissa," said Lady Kendell, a small, sharp woman with a voice like lemon, "you've been uncommonly quiet today. Are we boring you?"
"Or perhaps she's guarding something worth saying," drawled Lady Bridget, her rival, all honeyed malice and perfect posture.
Clarissa took her time. She sipped, sighed softly, and allowed the silence to ripen. "On the contrary," she said at last, her tone gentle and knowing. "I simply thought I'd save my piece for last."
That was all it took. The air around the table shifted; fans paused mid-flutter. When Clarissa spoke, Britannia listened and Elaris would echo her words before the night was out.
"What is it, my lady?" Lady Kendell pressed, her curiosity barely contained.
"Yes, do tell," someone urged.
Clarissa set her cup down with care. Her smile never wavered. "The Marquess and Marchioness of Windmere," she began lightly, "have returned from their expedition."
Lady Bridget gave a dismissive laugh. "If that is your revelation, my dear, you must be losing your touch. Everyone knows they've returned."
Clarissa's eyes gleamed, sharp as diamonds. "Indeed. But what you do not know…" she let her voice fall to a whisper "…is that they have not returned alone."
The chatter stopped.
"A child?" murmured one of the ladies. "Has the Marchioness… finally conceived?"
Everyone knew Beatrice Sparrow was barren. The question hung in the air like perfume.
Clarissa tilted her head, savoring the moment. "No," she said softly. "The child is not hers by birth. They brought her from Zerola."
The room went still.
"Zerola?" someone breathed. "You mean..."
Clarissa nodded, her tone cool and smooth. "Yes. A black child. And the Marquess has adopted her."
For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then came the gasps , quick, scandalized, hungry. No one in Britannia had ever dared such a thing.
"A girl or a boy?" Lady Bridget asked, all pretense of disdain forgotten.
Clarissa's smile curved just slightly. "A girl," she said.
And with that, the quiet was gone, replaced by a flurry of voices, fans, and startled laughter. Every woman in the room knew, without a word more, that Britannia would not be quite the same again.