Chapter Text
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers
Extraordinary People, Extraordinary News
It has been said that pride cometh before the fall. If this is so, Dear Reader, then a great fall is coming indeed, worthy of Icarus himself. Adriel, the Duke of Cornwall, has found himself in heated conflict with his Duchess Reya, whose reputation for piety is singular in its mercurial quality. Not two evenings past, a great commotion was heard and seen at the Royal Theatre, on a particular balcony where these star-crossed lovers found themselves once more at odds. Frequent readers of these pages will know that the Duke’s position is precarious, due to certain stipulations insisted upon by the Duchess in their marriage contract. It would seem that the Duke has found the tightness of his leash less bracing, and more constricting in recent weeks. The events at the Theatre are reported to have taken on a positively pugilistic character. A great battle was joined, worthy of Napoleon himself, and the Duke was seen retreating, having now acquired a veil of scarlet and matching cravat. Many speculate on the reason for this row, but this Author will not, of course, repeat mere gossip. Rest assured, Dear Reader, when I have gleaned the truth, you will know it with certainty.
Less certainty, it must be said, accompanies the commencement of this season in the ton. The debuts into formal society of a new group of young people has traditionally been accompanied by the declaration of an incomparable, the diamond of the season, the debutante whose troth is sought above all others. This season, however, the Queen has failed to declare any debutante worthy of the honor. Surely the fine and illustrious noble folk of London Society have not failed to produce a crop of marriagable youth equal to those of years past. Could it be that our Queen’s discernment has failed her at this late hour? Or has she merely been struck by the arrow of indecisiveness, so well-known to the less prestigious of us in our daily lives? Whatever the reason for the delay, one wonders whether the Queen’s favor will lose its luster in the coming days. After all, what need will the lords of the ton have for the Queen’s judgment once they, inevitably, exercise their own?
One such lord is the Viscount Beatrice Bridgerton. The Viscount’s sister and former diamond, Shannon, recently wed Mary, the Duke of Hastings, in a love match presided over by the Queen Herself. Now, the Viscount reportedly seeks her own match. But will the Viscount choose for love, or some other characteristic? Willful blindness, perhaps? For the Viscount has earned the reputation of a Rake, with a capital R. Nonetheless, no other unwed lord can boast title or wealth equal to hers. Is she truly the most eligible bachelor of the season? Or has she doomed her efforts before they have begun? That, Dear Reader, remains to be seen.
Until next time, I remain ever yours,
Lady Whistledown
****
Had Ava Silva ever doubted her decision never to marry, the conversation between the women taking tea just inside the mansion would have laid them to rest.
“She had a checklist.”
“A what?”
“A list. In a small book, like a ledger. Could I play an instrument, how many languages do I speak, did I like to dance…”
“Well, that's not so bad, is it, after all–”
“Oh, it progressed from there, quite disastrously. ‘How many children do you intend to bear, and explain the basis for your decision.’ ‘The Queen has invited us to host her for dinner at Aubrey Hall, in the countryside. What three dishes would you insist be included in the meal, and why?’ ‘If accosted by robbers on the road to Hastings, how might you go about disarming and subduing the brutes?’”
The other woman laughed prettily. “No, really?”
Ava lost interest at that point. That gentlemen and gentlewomen in London would be so crass as to put prospective partners through an inquisition of that nature…she would be glad to be back in Spain. Unbound. Unburdened. Free and content.
But first, business.
“I have secured tutors for Miss Camila, of course, in preparation for the first ball of the season.” The Lady Superion was the picture of gentility, a vision of mature nobility in a crimson dress with purple accents, and a wide-brimmed hat to match. Her cane was capped with rubies to match, and the scars across her eye accented her beauty, and her formidable stature in society. It was at a table in her garden which they sat, Ava and her sister Camila, as Lady Superion’s more temporary guests gossiped inside.
An old friend of Camila's mother, Lady Superion was friend also to the Queen Herself. As such, she had the honor, and the privilege, of opening the season with the first ball. Ava felt fortunate that her sister would have such a powerful ally in her search for a husband, or wife, in the coming months. Lady Superion had agreed to sponsor Camila’s introduction to society, and to host her and Ava as well. The benefits were offset only marginally by the fact that the Lady Superion was, to Ava's reckoning, a stuck-up judgmental bitch.
The Lady’s accent was pleasant enough, at least. Italian, if Ava did not mistake it; it had the character of one of the Papal States. “We shall, of course, have pianoforte and singing lessons every morning, dancing lessons in the afternoon, along with French lessons. I have hired only the best; you shall be in good hands.” Lady Superion smiled at them patronizingly. Lovely woman, but rich, and noble, and therefore arrogant. Ava had met the type, and wished she hadn’t. “Well ladies, please, stand up, let me have a look at you. I should like to see with what sort of material I am working.”
Camila smiled amiably and stood. Ava did not. She could have, if need be. Her legs were not troubling her as badly as all that, though she had left her cane in her room. She would not, however, subject herself to pain needlessly. Foregoing a cane for the span of some hours to make a stronger impression was needful. Standing to subject herself to the scrutiny of a noble lady, however hospitable, was not. “I am afraid I shall remain seated, Lady Superion.” Ava had learned English from an American, a teenager who had convalesced in the same hospital as her, in the years before her father found and collected her. She knew her accent was a disadvantage here, but Ava was nothing if not charming. She could mirror the speech patterns of the nobility well enough, soften her accent to something less objectionable to their delicate ears.
But it was not her accent that roused Lady Superion’s ire in that moment. “My dear, how old are you?” Ava admired how well the Lady moderated her tone. The sisters at the hospital could never have done so well.
“Six and twenty, ma’am.”
“Indeed. An old maid, then, as such things are reckoned in the ton. At your age, and without title or noble heritage to speak of, we’ll need to do some work to persuade a suitor that you are–”
“You misunderstand, Lady Superion. I’m not here for a spouse. I’m here for my sister. When Camila is happily wed, I’ll return to Portugal, and that will be that.”
Lady Superion stared at Ava blankly, then at Camila. Camila was to the side of Ava, but Ava did not take her eyes off Superion. Whatever the Lady saw in Camila satisfied her. “Well, Miss Camila is certainly likely to have her fair share of suitors. Elegant features, a bright smile, perfect posture. The hair, the curls are natural?”
Camila smiled. “They are, my lady.”
“Lovely. With my backing, I think you will do quite well. I can think of several eligible gentlemen who would make excellent matches, but let us see whose interest we may begin to draw tomorrow evening, hm? In the meantime, as I said, the tutors–”
“Won’t be necessary, Lady Superion.” Ava loved this part the most, when she had to deal with the rich and the nobility. “You’ll find Camila is already an accomplished singer and pianist, and is more than adequate also with the harp and cello. I have taught her cotillion, quadrille, waltz, and I think you’ll find that she is more than up to the standards of your ton. Et ton francais, ma soeur, c’est exceptionnel, n’est-ce pas?”
Camila smiled and looked at Lady Superion impishly. “J’espère que mon niveau est satisfaisante, madame.”
Ava smiled. “She is also fluent in Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, and Arabic. I taught her myself.” Ava stood, with only a slight twinge in her legs. “We will take our leave now, Lady Superion. Thank you again for your hospitality, I am sure we have much to learn from you. And we truly appreciate your sponsorship of my sister.” She looked down at her corgi. “Isn’t that right, Newton?” Newton obliged her with a bark. Lady Superion looked less than pleased; Ava couldn’t have been happier.
****
Ava woke early, as was her wont, to ride. She had donned a dark blue dress with divided skirts for riding, and a heavy matching cloak to keep away the chill of the dreary spring morning. Lady Superion had a fine stables, and Ava had already befriended a sable mare whose gait and deportment were to her satisfaction. Lady Superion had not exactly granted Ava permission to avail herself of the horses, but then Ava did not exactly care whether she had permission. She cared equally little for the tired English notion that a young person who adopted the traditionally “feminine” role in English society must guard themselves from dishonor, and therefore be accompanied as if they were incapable of making their own decisions, and unworthy of trust.
Even had she cared, for horseback riding she would have risked such concerns. She could move unaided with grace and poise on a good day, and with the aid of either laudanum or a cane on a middling one. Both, on a bad day. But on a horse, so long as the ride was not extended for too great a measure of time, she could forget the difficulty she felt in wrangling her legs to compliance. She could feel the wind in her hair, outpace any rival, travel any distance. For Ava, a horse meant freedom, and in the early morning hours there was rarely anyone to infringe upon it.
Ava knew better than most that no good thing could last forever, or even for long.
And so she was less than surprised when some buffoon or other mistook the joy of her rapid pace for fear, and shouted after her. “Ho, miss, are you alright?!” Or some such nonsense. She ignored the figure and continued across a field, before she heard the faint sound of hooves behind her, offset in rhythm from the horse beneath her. She turned and saw the figure, dressed in a dark riding suit and tall hat, attempting to keep pace with her. She smiled to herself and continued on.
From their shouts of dismay as she approached a low hedge, she surmised that her pursuer’s desire to assist was outmatched by their deficit of horsemanship. She took the leap over the hedge easily, and continued on up the hill aways before turning to the side to look back at her would-be rescuer. Though at a distance, Ava now saw a woman dressed in a lord’s attire, trousers and boots and waistcoat, smiling up at her from the other side of the hedgerow. The woman inclined her head and tilted her cap Ava’s way. Ava inclined her head in return; she could be gracious in victory, after all.
She took a more leisurely pace across the next field. It was not until she arrived at the road that she realized she had misjudged the other woman.
“I see you were not in so much trouble after all!” The voice came from behind Ava and to the left and startled her almost out of the saddle.
“Puta que pariu!”
“I’m sorry?” asked the woman. “What did you say?”
Ava felt herself flush. She doubted that this woman knew Portuguese, but if she did…well, that was not the sort of language that would endear her to polite society, here or anywhere. Not that Ava Silva particularly cared for the approbation of polite society, but here, now, she had her sister to think of. There also was the matter of this particular member of society.
Now that Ava could see her up close, she regretted absconding from the woman's presence. To describe her as “striking” would have been to dissemble by understatement. The woman was a vision. Her well-tailored riding suit emphasized the strength and solidity of her proportions. Her hands gripped the reins, clad in gloves that suggested more than they concealed, about both the strength and length of the fingers within. And her face…the woman's jaw was an affront to the art of sculpture, for Ava had not yet seen stone crafted to such pleasing sharpness. Dark brown hair, pulled back into a low bun. A dusting of freckles across the woman's cheeks suggested an active demeanor, time spent out of doors (Ava refused to contemplate what sort of activities might occupy those freckles, those fingers, indoors). And those eyes, golden brown, with a slender length to them, at once elegant and warm. Ava thought it would be easy to lose oneself in eyes like that…
As indeed she had done. “Miss? Are you alright? Did you hear me?”
Ava cleared her throat. “Um, yes, fine. I'm quite well, thank you.”
The woman looked relieved and smiled at Ava. “Good, good.” The woman glanced around. “Are you riding alone, then? No escort?”
Ava smiled tightly. “I am quite fine on my own, thank you very much.”
“Your spouse, perhaps?”
Ah. Ava rolled her eyes. “I require neither spouse nor guardian. I am simply on a morning ride, and now am on my way back to Mayfair.”
The woman's eyes widened in recognition. “Ah, Mayfair.” Her eyes then narrowed, and the corners of her mouth lifted. “Perhaps you would consent to race me back, seeing as how our first race was hardly a sporting affair.”
“Mmm, is that how you usually describe it when you lose?”
The woman huffed in offense. “I beg your pardon, I did not lose. We had neither set start nor end to the course, no signal to announce the beginning of the race, for all we agreed the race could still be on!” The woman urged her horse to a slightly faster trot. “There, now I have crossed the finish line first. Would you care to set stakes on a third match, and perhaps some rules in advance?” The woman smirked as she said it and raised her eyebrows.
Ava scoffed, but smiled as she did so. “I see no need for a third match, since there was no second, and I must insist you withdraw your claim to the contrary.”
The woman shrugged. “I’m afraid that would be impossible. Unless you withdrew your claim to the first race, of course, that would be a horse of a different color.”
Ava laughed. “Not on your life. I’ll simply have to e-race your so-called victory from my memory.”
The woman laughed in turn, and the laugh lit her from the inside out, like it bloomed from the center of her lips to the corners of her mouth, to her cheeks, and finally to her shoulders where it shook them with abandon. When the woman had caught her breath, she looked around. “Are you sure you do not require an escort? You might find it beneficial–”
This again. “No, my lord, I do not require assistance. How many times would you like me to repeat myself?”
The woman visibly fought a smile, and was losing. “I only ask because Mayfair is, in fact, in the opposite direction.”
Ava attempted to stare daggers at the woman, but was sure the effect was ruined by the wry smile that she felt rising on her lips, unbidden. “Thank you for the assistance, but I am afraid I must take my leave.” And with that, she spurred her horse to a gallop.
“Wait! At least tell me your name!”
Ava laughed. “Sorry, I’m busy with my victory lap!” She smiled the whole way back.
****
The day passed swiftly. Ava reviewed her research on the various noble families of the ton, and those bachelors expected to be in attendance. Camila practiced her curtsies, her dancing, her smile, and read to calm her nerves and provide ammunition for any conversation into which she might be drawn. Ava could see that Camila was out of sorts, and spoke up when her sister had not calmed herself by the time they were getting ready to dress for the evening’s ball.
“Cam. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Camila sighed and smiled, though the latter did not reach her eyes. “I don’t know. Just nervous, I guess?”
Cam sat on the edge of her bed, and Ava joined her sister. “You don’t have anything to be nervous about.”
Camila laughed, though there was little humor in it. “You think I don’t know why we’re here? That I couldn’t figure out why Mama couldn’t join us?”
Ava’s breath caught. “It’s…there’s nothing to–”
“We couldn’t afford the journey for three.” Camila knew. Of course Camila knew. She was always so insightful.
“When did you realize?”
“I wasn’t certain until after we arrived, and I started to put together the pieces. How bad?”
Ava shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, Cam. We’ll be fine. Once you’re married, you can send for mother and you’ll both be taken care of. I’ll find work back in Spain, or perhaps Portugal. Everything is going to be fine.”
Camila shook her head. “And what if I have no suitors? What if I am judged for Papa’s not being a noble, for Mama running away with him?” She sighed. “On the journey here I would daydream about this night. Catching the eye of a duke or a prince, someone handsome and charming. Dancing with them all night. And now that it’s here, I’m just scared.”
Ava grabbed her sister’s shoulders. “You have nothing to be afraid of. You are so brilliant, and beautiful, and kind. You will find someone you deserve. Not just someone handsome or charming. Someone as wonderful as you are. Someone who touches your soul with theirs. Someone who recognizes the shape of who you are below the surface, someone who you recognize the same way. That’s the kind of love you deserve, Cam. And I am certain you’ll find it.”
Camila curled into her sister’s arms. “I love you, Ava. Thank you.”
“I love you too, Cam.”
****
Lady Superion had been more than generous with her tailor, and her selection of jewelry. Camila looked like a princess in her own right, the red-accented pink of her dress and garnet jewelry beautifully offsetting her dark curls, worn high, and the gray of her eyes. Ava contrasted her in dark blue, the cut and quality both of the dress and the extensive jewelry beyond anything she had worn before. Lady Superion had lent her a cane as well, topped with a golden angel’s head, halo and all. “If a single person here dares so much as look at you askance for walking as I do every day, I assure you they shall never be seen in polite society again.” Ava had managed not to cry at the words, but only just. The Lady Superion was, perhaps, growing on her.
The ball was well-attended by the time they made their entrance, and by design. Ava noticed the eyes turn their way when they were announced, and marked the faces of several who attended to her sister with interest. She knew the names of a few from seeing their likeness in one publication or other, but for the rest she made a note to ask Lady Superion. First things first, however. And the first thing, in this instance, was an introduction of the greatest importance.
“Your Majesty,” began Lady Superion. “May I present Miss Ava Silva and Miss Camila Silva. Miss Camila is granddaughter to Lord and Lady Sheffield.”
The Queen was a striking presence, arguably a social gathering in and of herself. She was surrounded by courtiers, a personal attendant, and at least two high ranking nobles. Ava recognized the Duchess Reya's likeness from the papers. The Queen stood out from her crowd in both color and flamboyance of her attire. She had medium brown skin and wore a white wig, the hair piled high upon her head, and caged by a silver tiara studded with pearls. Her dress, possessed of an enormous train, was powder blue, and nacreous gems adorned the finer details and patterns.
“Ah, of course. I know your mother. I recall that I named her incomparable of her season, so many years ago. A shame she could not find the time to bid her Queen goodbye before she absconded abroad.” The Queen's face had remained impassive throughout. “Lady Superion.” The Queen nodded, and continued on.
She was followed by her attendants, with the exception of the Duchess Reya, who was turning a shade bordering on purple as she glared at something across the room. Ava followed the Duchess' gaze to a tall man, with dark hair unfashionably long and even more unfashionably growing from his chin and upper lip. The man had a lascivious grin, and was leaning in to say something to a striking woman in a remarkably low cut dress. Whatever he said caused the young lady to blush, and the Duchess Reya to storm off in his direction.
Left in relative solitude, as much as might be had in a crowded ballroom, Ava turned to Lady Superion and addressed the matter of the Queen. “Is this a problem? Has Mama's past doomed us before we even begin?”
Lady Superion adopted a determined gaze. “No. Her Majesty and I are old friends, and she is merely setting forth a challenge. And I do relish a challenge.”
****
Lady Superion continued with their introductions for a time, before their progress was broken, or perhaps accelerated, by a new arrival. Across the hall, Ava heard a woman exclaim loudly “The Viscount has decided to find a wife this season!” An excited murmur, and something approximating a stampede of silk, followed. Ava marked the target of this bustle near the door: a familiar and handsome woman in a sharp suit.
“I know her.” Ava had not intended to speak, but the words were out now, bare before her.
Lady Superion turned her head sharply. “And how might you have come to make the acquaintance of the Viscount? I certainly did not introduce you, and you have not attended any other social event.”
Ava cleared her throat, and decided that this was not the opportune moment to confess her early morning ride. “I must have been mistaken. The Viscount, you said?”
Lady Superion’s gaze suggested she was less than mollified, but her discretion allowed the matter to rest. For now. “The Viscount Beatrice Bridgerton. An old family, and wealthy. The Viscount has a reputation as something of a rake. She has never pursued a serious suit, and reportedly spends more time consorting with actresses and singers, if the rumors can be credited. If the Viscount is truly in the market for a wife, she would be the most desirable match on the market this season.”
Camila gazed across the room with interest. “She is very handsome, is she not Ava?”
Ava felt unsettled, though whether by the question or some other matter she was unsure. “I suppose she is.”
The Lady Superion chuckled. “That would be quite the stroke of luck for us. You see how the eyes of ton have flocked to the Viscount? Now mark the other lords who would press their suit on the other debutantes. Note their disappointment, and their jealousy. Note the relief in those who are unserious about their suits, who are participating against their will. Now is an opportune time for us to seek advantage elsewhere, and allow the more greedy of our fellows to wreck themselves against each other in pursuit of the Viscount.” She looked at an approaching figure and smirked.
“Ah, Lord Corley,” Lady Superion purred as a young man, tall, blond, rather thin and pale for Ava’s taste, approached.
“Lady Superion, good evening. A wonderful affair this evening, as always.” He turned then to Ava, then Camila, and bowed slightly. “I hoped I might be introduced to your guests.”
“Then may I present Miss Ava Silva and Miss Camila Silva.”
Ava struggled to recall the name from her research, to assess whether it would be wiser for Camila to accept or to reject this suitor. “A pleasure,” she replied, then to Lady Superion as Camila responded, “Lord Corley?”
Superion fixed her with a withering stare. “Baron Corley.”
Ava returned her attention to the Baron. “--ask Miss Camila for the honor of a dance?”
Camila looked to Ava, and Ava nodded slightly. “I would be delighted, my lord.”
As Camila made her way to the dance floor with the Baron, Ava turned to Lady Superion. “I don’t remember seeing a Baron Corley in my research, I would have rem–”
“Listen to me very carefully,” growled Lady Superion. “For all the illumination and gems and silks and flowers, you must always remember that this is a den of snakes and jackals. The ton delights in nothing more than to see one of their number belittled and dragged through the mud. It is, in fact, their primary form of entertainment. And so every person here understands that they must navigate their affairs according to the ton’s unspoken rules. One of which is that a young debutante may not decline a genteel request to dance from a noble of higher rank unless they are already spoken for. Can you guess for me how many guests here are of lower rank than your sister?”
Ava swallowed as she felt her skin flush. “Only me.”
“Only you. So if a young lord, or an old one for that matter, comes calling and asks her to dance, she will say YES and be grateful for the opportunity, because every single one of them is a sign to all the rest that your sister is desirable and worthy of suit. That is the game we are playing, while working with all our might to avoid a slip of any kind that would signal the opposite. You heard the Queen. Understand that my reputation, too, is staked upon your sister’s success this season, and I shall not, after so many years, fall because you cannot summon the humility to imagine that you have something still to learn at the ripe old age of six and twenty.”
Lady Superion looked over Ava’s shoulder. “Now, I must greet other guests and plant seeds for the future. Your sister’s future. I recommend that you move through the room and attend to the things you see and hear in silent contemplation. I shall find you when my business is complete.” And with that, she pasted on a smile and glided away.
Ava stood, breathing deeply in an effort to calm herself. She took a glass of champagne and did as the Lady Superion had bid her.
****
Her turn around the room was instructive. Ava could see that the Lady Superion was wise in her assessment. She overheard much gossip that could be advantageous. This woman in her second season had been spurned by that lord, and pined over them still. This lord had been unfaithful to each of his last three wives, and was reported to have a mistress hidden away in his country manor. Yet another had lost her husband recently to illness, but was considering remarriage now that her mourning period had ended. And on and on.
Throughout it all, Ava found her eyes drawn again and again to the dance floor. She loved to dance, though her legs would not permit it that night. So she watched as others danced, and marked their technique, or lack thereof, their enthusiasm, their demeanor towards each partner. And again and again, she could not help but see the Viscount.
Bridgerton was an accomplished dancer, that much was plain. What was equally plain was that she had yet to find a match for her skill in those present, and found the situation infuriating. Ava watched as the Viscount stiffly conversed and stepped and twirled with one lady after another. Despite the Viscount's obvious frustration, she was unfailingly polite. Indeed, Ava wondered whether someone watching less closely would have even noticed the Viscount's discomfort.
Handsome, polite, a fine dancer, likes a good pun. I can work with that. The thought came unbidden, and she dismissed it. She was not here to entertain idle, impossible fantasies about a lowborn orphan girl from Lisbon falling in love with a handsome noblewoman. There was no future in such a rumination. Yet she found it difficult to look away.
And so Ava watched in amusement as the Viscount struggled to mask her discontent and retreated from the dance floor. The Viscount’s actions bore a stark contrast to her reputation. Ava would have expected the infamous rake to be flirting outrageously with the assembled ladies of the ton, smiling in profligate fashion and letting wit and humor flow endlessly forth. Or perhaps Ava expected the woman of mystery, cutting a dashing but quiet figure, speaking softly to an intimate group so that they would have to lean in close, hanging on her every word.
The Viscount’s exit, to the contrary, was comical. This Beatrice Bridgerton seemed, if anything, uncomfortable with the crowd, and with the role of eligible bachelorhood forced upon her by English society. Ava could not help but be intrigued. A woman of such beauty, wealth, and position, many would kill to be so blessed (and not a few had, over the course of history), yet the Viscount Bridgerton seemed averse to these blessings. What did she live for, this woman who had everything and seemingly wanted none of it? What might inflame her passions, and who?
When the Viscount fled, Ava followed.
****
Outside, Ava found the evening air bracing, though her legs twinged at the change in temperature. Cane in hand, she made her way down shallow stairs to the grass of Lady Superion’s grounds, then heard laughter off to her left, closer to the house. She followed the sounds, then stopped when she heard a voice with, of all things, an American accent.
“Beatrice, how are you?”
“Mary, good to see you.” The Viscount's voice was deep, and soft. Mary…Ava thought that must be Mary, Duke of Hastings. Raised in the American colonies, or former colonies, she had wed Beatrice’s older sister Shannon two years before, according to Lady Superion.
“‘I'm doing well too, Beatrice, and your sister and niece too, thank you for asking,’” the Duke replied in exaggerated, though good natured, mockery. “And you, Lilith? How's my least favorite sister-in-law?”
“You look tired. Our niece keeping you up?” The voice was female, and biting in its sarcasm, though Mary and Beatrice laughed, as did two or three gentlemen.
“Never change, Lilith,” admonished Mary.
“So how goes it, Bridgerton?” asked one of the men. “I didn’t think we’d see you on the marriage market so soon. Thought you’d still be keeping company with…what was the opera singer’s name? Lucia?”
The Viscount cleared her throat. “Yes, well, that’s all done with. The time has come to do my duty, which means finding an appropriate match to ensure our family’s future.”
“I feel the rest of us must thank you for occupying the wolves tonight,” said another of the men.
The Viscount chuckled. “I suppose I should be glad at least someone is benefitting from this catastrophe. My mother announcing us in that fashion was quite beyond the pale.”
The man laughed in return. “Come now, is at as bad as all that? Surely it cannot be that taxing to find a wife. Simply ensure that she is wooed, bed, and bred, and you can return to more lively pursuits.” The man’s tone of voice was self-satisfied, but his foul words were soon followed by a loud grunt, and the sound of someone groaning, or gagging.
“We’re going to keep the disrespect to a minimum, yes?” asked Mary.
Coughs from the man, then a hoarse voice. “Of course, Hastings. My apologies.”
Bridgerton sighed. “I just wish it were not so difficult to find an appropriate match. A woman of good breeding, acceptable wit, a pleasing countenance, someone who can string together an intelligent conversation for more than two minutes at a go. It should not be so difficult.”
Ava’s gut dropped at the Viscount’s tone. The haughtiness of it. She tried not to think of all the times she had been dismissed by others for her “low breeding.” How dear Sister Frances had taunted her and named her a bastard. She gritted her teeth and tried to dispel the shame pooling in her belly.
“Beatrice,” admonished the Duke, “you cannot possibly look at this that way. You go into this looking for someone perfect, someone who fits appearances, you’re going to end up miserable, or alone, or both.”
“I demand perfection of myself in all things, Mary. I shall not expect less from my wife. And should I fail to find an appropriate match, I am quite certain Lilith can manage to find someone.”
Lilith Bridgerton snorted. “I respectfully decline. Perhaps if you are lucky, the Queen will finally select a diamond, and you will have no need to weigh the merit of these ladies yourself.”
Ava ground her cane into the ground as the discussion continued. She looked down at it and felt herself grow hot all over. She should not have thought…she didn’t know what she thought, coming out here. It was foolish. She had learned the harsh lesson, long ago, that others saw her as defective. It had been a long time since someone else had made her see herself that way. Nothing. This was nothing. What would she even do with such a person? Tied down to lands and titles and the expectations of the ton. How could she travel, explore, see the world if she were ensnared by such a person? This had been a foolish indulgence. A fantasy from one of the books she used to read to Camila.
She banished the absurdity from her mind. She breathed deeply and calmed herself. Camila. She would go back inside and see to her sister’s future.
“See you in the smoking room then, Bridgerton?”
“Shortly. I should like to take the air for a bit first.”
As the group disbanded, Ava waited, then made to return inside. Unfortunately, she stumbled as she did and nearly fell against the bush that had concealed her. Only her cane prevented her fall. “Shit.” Only after the word left her did she realize that she might have been overheard. She paused, waiting.
“Hello, is someone there?” Ava sighed in resignation, then turned to face the Viscount, who had made her way down the steps to where Ava stood. “You!” The Viscount began to smile. “I apologize, I never did get your name.”
Ava smoothed her skirts. “No, my lord, you did not.”
The Viscount stepped closer, her hands behind her back. “I wondered if we might see each other again.”
Ava rolled her eyes. “Why, so that you could decide whether my wit was satisfactory? My countenance pleasing enough for your exacting standards?”
The Viscount’s face dropped. “You were eavesdropping.”
Ava scoffed. “You were practically shouting. Declaring for all to hear how deficient the ladies are here tonight. I hope none of them heard, for their sakes.”
The Viscount's jaw tightened. “I meant no offense, and would have apologized, sincerely, if I caused any. That was a private conversation, I did not mean–”
“Do you think yourself above such judgment, then? Are the ladies of the ton so generous in their affections that they would accept the suit of a woman who was so low as to insult them behind their backs, on the strength of nothing more than a strong build and a pleasing smile?”
The Viscount seemed uncertain how to respond, smiling and frowning at turns before settling onto something half like a disbelieving smile. “You think my smile pleasing?”
“What I think, my lord, is that I have never heard greater arrogance. Do you imagine yourself up on high, casting judgment upon every woman who is unfortunate enough to catch your attention?”
The Viscount seemed taken aback. “That is not at all what I–”
“Or maybe you're the one who's deficient. And you walk around looking down your nose at–” She felt herself slipping into old speech patterns as the Portuguese drifted ever so slightly into her accent. She gathered herself and wiped a tear from her eye; that is not how these people spoke. She needed to school her emotions, and her language, for her sister’s sake. “Some of us are doing the best we can. My lord.”
The Viscount looked stricken, no doubt fearful for her reputation. “I did not mean–”
“And I pity the woman who will spend the rest of her life submitting herself to your fine judgment, only to be found wanting day after day after day. Good evening to you.” And with that she brushed past the Viscount and went back inside.
She decided, in the end, not to report the Viscount’s comments to Lady Superion. Lady Superion had warned against anyone looking at her askance and, to be fair, the Viscount had not spared a glance for Ava’s cane at all.
****
The rest of the evening was tolerable, more or less. The Viscount and her compatriots retired early from the main hall, and Camila was the subject of a handful of invitations to dance. Ava did not know whether it was a poor showing or an impressive one, and she dared not ask until she was able to speak with Lady Superion in private. That opportunity presented itself in the form of a knock on the door of Ava’s bedchamber that night as she was brushing her hair.
“Come in.” Lady Superion entered Ava's bedchamber. Ava stood. “Lady Superion, to what do I owe the honor?”.
Lady Superion’s face was a storm cloud. “I thought we could have a chat, you and I.”
Shit.
“I understand. I do want to apologize for how I behaved earlier. Your wisdom and guidance tonight was deeply appreciated.”
Superion stalked back and forth, her cane tapping softly against the rug. “An apology for earlier tonight is welcome. You might consider adding one concerning your visit to the stables this morning and removal of one of my horses without permission or a chaperone. You could apologize for the insult of thinking that anything that happens within my home is beyond my awareness.” She held aloft a letter. “Or you could begin by confessing whatever scheme you have concocted with the Sheffields.”
SHIT.
“Lady Superion, I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”
“Oh, I am quite sure you do. I wrote to the Sheffields, you see. Did you think I would play host and sponsor to your sister without my own research? Knowing nothing of you? They told me of your correspondence.” Ava closed her eyes. “So now is your opportunity to come clean. I thought I was doing this as a kindness to an old friend. So whatever game you and your sister are playing at–”
“Camila knows nothing of this!”
Lady Superion pursed her lips and placed both hands on the top of her cane. And waited.
Ava sighed. “We have nothing. We spent the last of our money to come here. I wrote to the Sheffields before we made the arrangements. They agreed that if Camila is engaged to marry an English noble they will pay her dowry and recognize her as their granddaughter.”
“And what about you?”
Ava shrugged. “I'm no one. Camila and I have different mothers, and it is her mother who is the Sheffields’ daughter. Only she can do this. I promise you, I would take this burden from her if I could.”
Lady Superion tapped her fingers on her cane. “Does Camila know?”
“Not about the Sheffields.”
“You have to tell her. This is her future, her life.”
Ava shook her head. “Camila deserves a chance to find love, without burdens or restrictions. Mama and I have done our best to protect her from this. I have spent years training her as best as I can to be the best that she can, watched her work harder and better and…she is an amazing person. And she will sacrifice her dreams in a heartbeat if it means helping others. If she knows about this, she'll accept the proposal of the first lord who asks, just to guarantee success. My sister–” Ava paused as emotion seized her by the throat, the tears threatening to pool. She began again. “I cannot explain how much I owe her. And I will not allow myself to become a burden to her. If she has a chance to find something beautiful and real through all of this, I will not stand in the way of that. I would do anything, give anything, to protect that for her.”
The Lady Superion stared at her for a time. “And when your sister learns the truth?”
Ava huffed a laugh. “By then, she'll be happily married, and ready to forgive whatever silly thing I concealed from her along the way. What could go wrong?”
****
Everything changed at the next ball. The Queen had a seat to the side at this one, and was accepting homage from guests. After Ava and Camila presented themselves, and Camila had received an approving glance from the Queen, Lady Superion lingered to have a brief conversation with the Queen.
“What was that all about?” asked Ava.
“I made a gamble. We shall see what comes of it.”
“What sort of gamble?”
Superion smirked. “The Queen has been made a figure of fun in the gossip sheets, most notably by Lady Whistledown, for falling to select a diamond this season. I happen to know that she is bored of her little game, and is delaying because none of her choices excites her. I merely suggested a choice that would be the most unorthodox one she could make, and did so in terms I knew she would find appealing.”
“But won't she know you're manipulating her?”
Superion scoffed. “Of course. But what matter that I benefit, as long as she gets what she wants? As I said, a gamble. And now we wait.”
They did not have to wait long. A few dances later and horns sounded to call the attention of the assembled guests to the Queen.
“Your Queen is most appreciative to all of you tonight, and now has an announcement. It is my delight to present to you our season's diamond.” She paused and cast her gaze slowly around the room as the crowd murmured in anticipation. Her eyes stopped just short of where Ava stood.
“Miss Camila Silva.”
Ava let out a breath she did not know she had been holding and broke into a grin as she turned to face her sister. Camila's eyes were wide with shock. “Oh my God, Ava?”
Ava smiled and nodded her encouragement as the Queen's attendant came and offered his arm to Camila. As he led her away to be presented to the Queen, Ava rounded on Lady Superion. “You're a miracle worker. I'm giving you the biggest hug when we get back. I can't…this is wonderful! Camila will have her pick of–” Ava paused and breathed deeply as her gratitude and relief nearly overwhelmed her.
Lady Superion patted her on the shoulder. “Gather yourself, my dear. The real work begins now. Look around the room and tell me what you see.”
As Ava did, she saw first what she wished to see, the assembled lords slowly inching their way closer as the Queen extolled Camila's virtues, hoping to make an introduction and, hopefully, receive a dance. A second glance told her the rest. She saw the other debutantes, and their mothers, muttering to each other, frowning, glaring at Camila. “They hate her.”
“Good. You see it. We can afford no mistakes. You see that one there, with the particularly twisted expression? Lady Crimson fancied that she would be named the diamond this year. She will be first and loudest to celebrate your sister's fall, should we slip or falter, but only the first and loudest of many. This is a great opportunity, but that opportunity comes with great risk. We will be cautious, we will be prudent, and in so doing we will make the most of this opportunity. Yes?”
Ava nodded. She could see the wisdom in Lady Superion's words, but she refused to worry. In this moment, she allowed herself to feel the joy of her sister’s triumph.
“Where is my sister?” The Queen's speech to her was long done.
“I believe she took a turn upon the dance floor, though I did not see with whom…ah, here she comes now.”
Camila came upon Ava, smiling from ear to ear. “Ava, I wanted you to meet someone.” Trailing close behind her, Ava saw–
“Lord Bridgerton,” interjected Lady Superion with a grin. “I see you have already met Miss Camila. Allow me to introduce her sister.”
The Viscount's eyes met Ava's and widened in shock before the Viscount steeled her features. “Her sister.”
Ava frowned. “Miss Ava Silva, my lord.”
The Viscount paused for a moment as though thinking of something to say, then bowed her head to Ava.
Camila spoke. “The Viscount is an excellent dancer, and a wonderful conversationalist. Perhaps we could arrange to–”
“Sister, would you please join me in the retiring room?” Ava hated to interrupt, but this could not stand.
Camila's face fell to confusion at Ava's tone. “Of…of course.” Ava took Camila's hand and led her away to the exit. Once they were far enough not to be heard, she whispered, “You need to stay away from that woman. I have much to tell you about her.”
Ava looked back over her shoulder as she left, and saw the Viscount rooted where Ava had left her, staring. Ava turned away.