The Fiennes carriage rattled over the uneven stones of Piccadilly, its passengers settling into that peculiar mixture of relief and fatigue that follows ceremony. The plumes and pearls had survived; dignity, miraculously, had too.
Sophia leaned back against the velvet seat, one gloved hand resting thoughtfully on her lap. Her mother sat opposite, whispering quiet instructions to her maid about calling cards and invitations. At the same time, her father occupied himself with his pocket watch, which he consulted as though time itself owed him courtesy.
Across from Sophia, the three gentlemen of her inner circle occupied their usual places—Jeremy lounging with feline indifference, Ian sitting upright as if born to the posture, and Earnest dozing, his head against the side panel, a faint smile still ghosting his lips.
The sound of the wheels filled the silence until Jeremy broke it, as was his custom.
"I heard," he began with the tone of one dangling forbidden fruit, "that a certain gentleman is returning to London this Season."
Sophia's gaze flicked toward him, suspicious. "You always begin like that when you intend to irritate me. Who?"
Jeremy's grin widened. "Lord Benedict Montgomery."
She blinked. "The younger son of the Duke of Manchester?"
"The very same," he said. "Fresh from his Eton education and ready to charm half the ton."
Ian nodded gravely. "His elder brother, Lord Edward, has yet to marry, and he is two-and-twenty now. It is most irregular."
Sophia smoothed her skirts, feigning indifference. "Perhaps Lord Edward is simply taking his time."
Ian gave her a look that balanced exasperation and fondness. "Sophia, no. It does not work like that. For heirs and titled men—myself, Jeremy, and Earnest included—it is expected that we secure our legacy early. Titles demand stability."
"Legacies," she echoed softly. "How very exhausting to live one's life as a lineage instead of a person."
"Philosophy again," murmured Jeremy. "London shall tremble."
Earnest made a small noise from his corner, half-asleep. "If London trembles, wake me after tea."
The Marquess chuckled, but the Marchioness turned her sharp maternal gaze upon them all. "I will thank the four of you not to gossip in my presence. The Queen's blessing still clings to your sleeves, and I will not have it tainted by idle chatter."
Jeremy opened his mouth, but Sophia was quicker. "Forgive me, Mama, but I must inquire—why is gossip forbidden in a carriage, yet the gossip of ambitious mamas at salons and gentlemen at White's is treated as a national sport? "
Her mother closed her eyes and uttered a soft prayer. "Lord, grant me patience with my daughter before I lose the virtue entirely."
Her father laughed, the sound rich and fond. "You married a philosopher, my dear. It was only natural she'd raise one."
Sophia hid her smile behind her glove. "I merely inquire for the sake of equality, Papa."
"Equality," Josephine repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. "You shall drive me to prayer again, child."
Jeremy leaned back, smirking. "At least she'll make the clergymen work for their tithes."
Ian groaned softly. "Jeremy, for once in your life—restraint."
The carriage lurched, London's grand houses sliding by in stately procession. Outside, the city glittered with the beginnings of the Season's fever—carriages, ribbons, the faint promise of scandal carried on the wind.
Inside, Sophia stared out the window, thoughtful. The name lingered in her mind like a half-remembered melody: Lord Benedict Montgomery.
It had been years since she last saw him—before Eton, before she decided that reason was safer than affection. She could almost recall his laughter, warm and disarming in the spring air.
"Lord Benedict Montgomery," she murmured under her breath, as if testing the weight of it.
Her mother did not hear. But Jeremy did, and his smirk deepened.
The Fiennes carriage rolled to a halt before the family's townhouse on Grosvenor Square, its polished black lacquer gleaming beneath the pale London sun. The iron gates swung open at the sight of the Marquess's crest, and liveried footmen hurried forward to receive the distinguished passengers.
By now, Ian, Jeremy, and Earnest had each been deposited at their respective London estates, the hum of their laughter still faint in Sophia's memory. The carriage felt quieter without them—quieter, but no less full of expectation.
As the door opened, Sophia exhaled, the long morning catching up to her all at once. "Papa," she began, pressing her gloved fingers to her temple, "is there another ball that will take place this evening? I confess, I am quite tired."
Her father, the Marquess of Kent, descended first and turned to offer her his hand, smiling with amused indulgence. "My dear sapphire, the first ball of the Season will take place tonight—and as it also marks Her Majesty's birthday, attendance is not optional."
Sophia sighed, taking his hand as she stepped down from the carriage. "I would rather go riding with Coriolanus."
From behind her, the Marchioness's voice carried its usual melodic scolding. "Your white Arabian stallion will live even if you do not gallop with him for a single afternoon."
Sophia cast a look over her shoulder, eyes glinting. "He is more agreeable company than most of the ton, Mama."
Josephine rolled her eyes heavenward. "And yet, it is not Coriolanus who must marry one day."
"Pity," Sophia murmured, too softly for her mother but not softly enough for her father, who let out a hearty laugh.
The family entered the townhouse, shedding the finery of court for the gentler attire of daylight hours. Footmen whisked away the silver gown and the rebellious plume, leaving in their wake the faint scent of lavender and starch.
Sophia reappeared some minutes later in a day dress of cerulean muslin, its high waist and simple cut chosen for comfort rather than fashion. Yet even simplicity, when worn by Lady Sophia Fiennes, carried a certain authority. The blue caught the morning light, echoing the clarity of her eyes, and the faint shimmer of white embroidery along the sleeves suggested refinement without vanity.
She paused at the tall windows overlooking the square, watching the carriages rattle past—the city already alive with gossip and anticipation. The Season had begun, and with it, all the machinery of marriage and maneuvering.
Her father adjusted his gloves, preparing to depart for Parliament. "You'll rest until evening, my dear. The Queen's ball will not tolerate fatigue, no matter how philosophical its cause."
Sophia smiled faintly. "Then I shall nap in the spirit of diplomacy."
Josephine shook her head but could not quite hide her amusement. "Only you could make idleness sound like a virtue."
"Reason and repose are cousins," Sophia replied lightly.
"Then pray, let one of them teach you to behave tonight," Josephine muttered, turning toward her own chambers.
Left alone in the hall, Sophia watched the sunlight play across the blue fabric of her gown. Beyond the window, Grosvenor Square shimmered with the promise of carriages, bouquets, and the intricate dance of London society.