White’s, Late Afternoon
The hum of aristocratic gossip drifted through White’s like pipe smoke, curling lazily through the polished room as Ian Beaumont surveyed the assembled chaos otherwise known as their friend group.
He looked exhausted. The kind of exhausted only a birthday-ball host and childhood handler of Lady Sophia Fiennes could be.
He turned first to Jeremy, who sat in his chair like a schoolboy waiting for punishnt.
"So," Ian began slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "you an to tell —while I was preoccupied with hosting preparations—that you marched into Fiennes Estate, used your calling card, and instead of courting Sophia, you gossiped about dragging her, myself, and Earnest to Alexandria, Egypt? And that the Marchioness promptly threw you out?"
Jeremy tried for dignity, failed miserably, and nodded. "She... may have escorted to the door herself."
A rumble of laughter rolled through nearby tables. Lord Collingwood actually snorted into his brandy.
Ian inhaled deeply through his nose — the way one does when silently reassessing every decision that led them to this mont — then turned, painfully slow, to Kurt.
"Kurt," he said, "you arrived after Jeremy. Tell this is a misunderstanding. Tell you did not ask Sophia to accompany you to a boxing match."
Kurt, bless his earnest horse-loving heart, nodded solemnly. "I did. But in my defense, she seed interested."
"She always seems interested," Ian muttered. "That is not the point."
More muffled laughter from spectators.
Ian raised his hand sharply before anyone else could comnt — he wasn’t done.
His gaze landed on Benedict.
"You," Ian said flatly, "were the only proper social caller in that house, I hear. And according to your brother, all other suitors fled the mont your carriage arrived. Is that true?"
Benedict’s grin spread slowly, smugly — the look of a man who had won sothing unspoken and very, very precious.
"It is," he replied lightly."And Sophia was... delighted to see ."
Jeremy groaned. Kurt rolled his eyes. Adrian murmured sothing about "Montgorys and their timing."
But Benedict wasn’t finished.
"She discussed Locke’s social contract with ," he continued, looking far too pleased for soone recounting political philosophy during courtship. "And told citizens have the right to revolt if their governnt fails them. Then she asked my thoughts about flintlock calibers, and very seriously inford she intends to gift high-quality Chinese gunpowder."
White’s went silent.
Every gentleman within hearing distance froze mid-sip, mid-breath, mid-thought.
Earnest blinked rapidly. Adrian whispered, horrified, "Did she say gunpowder?"
Benedict nodded cheerfully. "Chinese gunpowder. Superior burn ti and consistency, she said."
At that, a lord at the far table choked on his port.
"And," Benedict added, more softly, almost reverently, "she was genuinely sad when her mother ended my visit early."
Ian stared at him for a long mont. Then, with all the gravity of a man passing judgnt from the heavens, he said, "You are dood."
Jeremy nodded solemnly. "Utterly dood."
Kurt patted Benedict’s shoulder with pity. "Godspeed, my friend."
Benedict rely sat back in his chair, eyes half-dreamy, smile softening into sothing warm and unguarded.
"If this is doom," he murmured, "I welco it."
But then a hush rolled through White’s like a cold draft, snuffing every conversation at once.
Cards paused mid-shuffle.
A billiard cue froze mid-air.
Half the club wondered aloud who had the audacity to enter—a courtesan? a scandal? a ghost?
Instead, it was Sophia.
Still in her riding habit. Head held high. Absolutely no sha in the world despite being banned from White’s at least twice by now.
"Milords." Her tone was courteous enough to make every man in the room sit up straighter on instinct.
Benedict went pale.
Ian whispered a prayer.
Jeremy’s soul briefly left his body.
Sophia stepped fully into the lamplit room, utterly unbothered by fifty pairs of horrified aristocratic eyes.
"Pardon , milords," she said again, tilting her head just enough to send the feather of her hat swaying. "I am here to announce my departure from London."
Collective gasping.
Soone dropped a brandy glass.
Earnest actually clutched his heart.
Benedict rose so quickly his chair nearly toppled. "Sophia—what—where—"
But she raised a gloved hand, very serene, very philosophical, as if she were giving a lecture at Cambridge and not committing a social cri in White’s.
"I have read The Odyssey by Hor," she announced in fully regal calm. "And I wish to emulate Telemachus. Therefore, I shall embark on diplomatic missions of my own."
Ian choked."Diplomatic missions??"
Jeremy muttered, "This is how wars start..."
Sophia continued, ignoring the imploding n around her. "My destination," she declared, "is Russia."
The club erupted.
"Russia?!"
"She cannot be serious—!"
"They will freeze her alive—!"
"Is this a dream?"
Sophia only kept going, voice brightening: "Perhaps they can teach how to make vodka."
White’s died.
Half the lords looked seconds from fainting.
The other half were praying.
Soone in the corner whispered, "By God, the Fiennes girl has snapped."
Benedict, anwhile, looked like he was going to drop to his knees and beg her not to board a ship that very mont.
"Sophia," he managed through clenched teeth, marching up to her, "you are not going to Russia."
"But milord," she replied primly, "I must bring honor to the Crown. And vodka knowledge is essential."
Jeremy muttered in despair, "She’s lost her entire mind."
Kurt groaned into his hands. Andrew considered whether fleeing the country himself might be wise.
Sophia looked around, visibly pleased with the reaction.
"Well. I simply wished to inform you all," she said. "I shall depart tomorrow—"
Benedict practically shouted, "YOU SHALL DO NO SUCH THING."
White’s fell silent again.
And Sophia blinked like a startled owl. "But your brother Lord Edward sent word that your mother and father are fond of vodka," she said brightly. "So I thought I might learn the craft! We have potatoes in England, do we not? I could simply research the thod, write a few notes, and—"
"NO." That was Benedict, Andrew, Kurt, Adrian, Ian, Earnest, and every other man present...
all at once.
Jeremy, of course, was delighted. "This is marvelous," he murmured. "Imagine—Lady Sophia Fiennes of Kent, ambassador of spirits. Russia won’t know what hit them."
Sophia nodded with absolute seriousness. "Exactly. I will bring honor to our nation and to my family. Coriolanus is prepared for long travel; I have checked on him."
Ian sputtered again. "You’re bringing your horse to RUSSIA?!"
Sophia blinked. "Should I not? He has a thick coat in winter."
The club devolved into another wave of disbelief.
Adrian buried his face in his hands.
Kurt muttered sothing about divine punishnt.
Andrew looked ready to write his will.
Benedict stepped toward her, voice gentle but strained. "Sophia... you are not going to Russia."
She folded her arms. "And why not, milord?"
"Because," he said, fighting a smile, "you are not Telemachus."
Sophia scoffed. "Telemachus is overrated. I can surpass him."
Ian groaned so loudly a gentleman at the next table patted him in sympathy.
Benedict tried again, more softly this ti. "And... because I would rather you stay in London. With ."
That made her pause.
Her eyes flicked up—sapphire-blue, bright with confusion, wonder, and the faintest bloom of color upon her cheeks.
The entire club leaned in.
Sophia swallowed hard. "Milord... I..."
But before she could complete the thought, Jeremy threw his arms dramatically toward the ceiling.
"AND THUS THE MONTGORY LINE CONTINUES!"
The club was already teetering on the edge of riot, but nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared the room for the sight of two patriarchs striding through the doors like thunderclouds.
A collective gasp swept the chamber.
There, in all their terrifying paternal regality, stood,
Marquess Reginald Fiennes of Kent and Duke Cecil Montgory of Manchester
Two n whose re presence could silence a ballroom, a parliant chamber, and now, evidently, a gentleman’s club monts away from collapsing into chaos.
Reginald’s gaze landed on his daughter first.
Sophia froze.
Every man in the building froze with her.
Reginald murmured, "Sophia. My sapphire."
He said it the way one might address a powder keg—gently, with a profound desire not to be blown sky-high. "You will co with ."
Sophia opened her mouth—"I can explain—"
"Please don’t," Ian whispered from behind her.
But Reginald wasn’t alone in this crisis.
Cecil’s eyes snapped to Benedict, whose soul visibly attempted to flee his body.
"Benedict," Cecil said, with the weight of ten dukedoms, "you will also be accompanying ho."
Benedict cleared his throat. "Yes, Father."
Sophia blinked, bewildered. "Milords, I have not yet finished my announcent—"
An entire generation of British aristocracy chorused, "YOU HAVE FINISHED."
Jeremy, clutching his glass, muttered, "I have never been this sober in my life."
Kurt crossed himself.
Andrew stared at Sophia like she’d grown wings.
Adrian rely whispered, "Russia...?"
Earnest, poor man, fainted again.
Reginald stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Sophia, you have already infiltrated White’s once. You will NOT do so twice."
Sophia glanced around in mild confusion. "But Papa, I only wanted to say goodbye—"
"And you may say it," he said, "after you are safely in the carriage and NOT promising to invent spirits strong enough to kill half the peerage."
Cecil added, deadpan, "And Benedict will not be receiving vodka, homade or otherwise."
Sophia gasped. "But Your Grace, I was only intending to show my appreciation—"
Ian slapped her elbow before she could spiral into another heroic monologue. "For the love of everything sacred, please stop appreciating people through chemistry."
White’s collectively nodded.
Cecil clapped Benedict on the shoulder—hard enough that the young lord nearly stumbled. "Co, boy. Before she actually books passage to Russia."
Benedict gave one last helpless glance at Sophia, who returned it with an apologetic sparkle of sapphire-blue defiance.
Reginald sighed deeply—the sigh of a man resigned to a daughter who would one day attempt to reform Parliant before breakfast—and turned toward the doors.
"Sapphire. Lord Benedict. Carriage. Now."
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