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Benedict was having a great night. He had been drawn to the lounge on the far side of the first floor, where easels had been set up for life drawing from a particularly striking man and woman, and Benedict himself had likely lost nearly two hours at his own drawing, not even realizing when the models had changed poses until someone in the corner toppled over and startled him out of his trance. With a chuckle he stood and stretched, electing to venture upstairs for some refreshments.
Near the stairs, he caught the tail end of Genevieve and a handful of her usual women discussing something teasingly to a shorter blond woman in a sinful dress and elaborate masquerade mask.
“Not causing too much trouble, are we Genevieve?” He asked with a grin as she noticed his approach. She rolled her eyes fondly at him.
“Zounds, he’s perfect!” Another woman - Bess if Benedict was remembering correctly - with an elaborate crown of braids called out.
“And he’s not lacking in skill,” added Lucy, elbowing Genevieve lightly.
“I suppose if you were hoping to finish early…” Genevieve mused to the blonde woman. “Though I don’t know if that would truly count.”
“Ay, I say it would count,” Lucy protested.
“I shudder to ask what you all are speaking of,” Benedict said, smile dancing as the women scoffed at him.
“Do try to be civilized,” Bess scolded him. “You see, it is Miss Nell’s birthday! And to celebrate being one and twenty, we decided to help her capture one and twenty kisses this evening.”
“But alas, she is a shy one and wants to give up after only eight!” Explained a beautiful woman in a well-tailored suit as she draped an arm over Nell’s shoulders.
“So we supposed she could get her remaining kisses all together from one person to settle the score,” Lucy said.
“Oh tosh, I’m sure the man didn’t attend tonight to make any charitable contributions,” Nell protested, turning to look at him. She spoke with a strong Irish brogue that Benedict couldn’t quite place. The mask - a beautifully elaborate piece that matched her dress in a way that was clearly intentional given her apparent friendship with the modiste - had a thin black fabric behind it. It served to mask the color of the woman’s eyes, but not her gaze, showing the flicker of her eyelashes as she looked him over. Her eyes widened as she looked at his face.
This was, of course, intriguing as it suggested recognition though Benedict couldn’t think of any occasion on which he had heard an accent quite like hers. Trying to catch her eyes - blue, perhaps - Benedict gave a proper bow and pressed a kiss to her knuckles when she allowed him to take it.
“I assure you that the only charity would be you allowing me in your presence,” he told her.
“La!” The woman in the suit scoffed as the other members of the group rolled their eyes at him. “These high-brow gents take up all the air in the room, don’t they Love?” Nell, however, did blush at his words - face and chest going a fetching pink and Benedict found himself wondering how far down the color went.
“He is a good kisser,” Genevieve allowed.
“I am flattered,” he told her sincerely. He looked back to Nell. “Will you allow me to aid you in celebration of your birthday, fair Nell?”
As she pondered, Benedict took her in. She was shorter than the rest of the group - with generous curves cradled by the royal blue dress. Her arms were covered in long silver gloves, but the distance of her throat down to the very pleasing neckline of her gown was encumbered neither by jewelry or fabric, exposing an expanse of soft creamy skin that he already knew carried a blush well.
Her face was largely obscured by the mask, but he could see a pert nose and a pair of lusciously soft-looking pillowy lips. He tried not to spend too much time looking at them, but he noticed the movement of her eyes darting down to look at his lips as well and knew he failed.
“Very well,” Nell said. “If only to spare this same conversation being repeated multiple times throughout the night.”
Benedict grinned and wet his lips, his smile going wider when he saw her mimic the action. Gamely ignoring the audience, Benedict took a few steps forward and swept Nell into his arms, carefully maneuvering so her back was against the wall. As she tilted her head up to look at him, Benedict raised a hand to trace the line of her jaw before he leaned down and touched his lips to hers.
She hummed lightly against his lips, turning into a soft gasp as he captured her lower lip. One of her arms slid up his torso, tangling her fingers into his cravat and pulling him closer. He groaned in response to the feeling of her chest rising against his, his own hand traveling up her cheek to behind her ear where he brushed up against the ties of her mask.
“Ah - that’s enough of that, then,” Genevieve’s voice startled the two apart. Benedict had actually forgotten their audience and felt distinctly bereft as Nell’s finger released his cravat and he pulled back.
“Well that certainly got you past twenty-one, Nell,” said the woman in the suit. She had gotten ahold of a fan and was directing it at Nell, one eyebrow raised. Benedict wasn’t sure how it was possible for Nell to color further, but she did. “You may be set for your next birthday as well.”
“Suzette,” Nell protested weakly.
“Happy to be of service,” Benedict said, giving another dramatic bow to earn some laughs and pull Nell from the spotlight. He took her hand again when offered, but this time she flipped her hand to press his kiss on the inside of her wrist, gratified at her sharp inhale as he did so.
“The pleasure was all mine,” she stammered out.
“Clearly not exclusively yours,” Bess muttered.
As Nell turned to return to her group, Benedict held on to her hand and the motion of her movement caused the glove to loosen into his grip.
“I think I’ll be needing that,” Nell told him with a quiet smile.
“Could you find it in your heart to leave me with a token?” He suggested, schooling his face into an earnest look that made her smile widen.
“Are you going to a joust, Mister Bridgerton?” She asked.
“One can never be certain,” he told her, earning a bright laugh. She still didn’t look convinced, so Benedict’s free hand went to his neck, pulling to unknot his cravat. “What if a trade?”
She bit her bottom lip as she considered, which didn’t help him concentrate on being able to untie the damn thing.
“Very well,” she said with a light sigh. “But hold still, you’ll injure yourself at this rate.” She reached up and neatly undid the cravat. Benedict knew otherwise, but he could swear that he could feel the ghost of her touch on his skin. He barely controlled a shudder at the feeling of the fabric being pulled from behind his neck. “Good luck at the joust,” she told him with a grin. Then she turned and the other women led her upstairs - Genevieve shooting him a watchful look as they did.
A few hours later found Benedict searching for an open surface to rest a bit before heading out. It took three floors until he found an unattended settee tucked into the end of a hallway. A beat after he had settled himself upon it, he realized the closest door was open a gap as faint sounds of a conversation were drifting out.
“—again,” that Irish voice was saying. “Though I recall you assuring me that I would not be familiar with anyone here.”
“No my dear, I told you there would be none here to recognize you - which was true,” Genevieve replied. “You think you were the only member of the ton there in disguise?”
“And here I thought it was a mere excuse for you to dress me up as you saw fit.”
“The dress is not a part of the disguise,” Genevieve scoffed. “Merely my continued efforts to change your wardrobe.”
“And who makes the dresses that I do wear, Madame Delacroix?” Nell teased, voice going to a French accent.
“Oi, stop that now,” Genevieve said. “I am right and you know this.”
“I could hardly wear this to Lady Danbury’s opening ball,” Nell said, back in the Irish accent.
“Perhaps not,” Genevieve allowed. “But —“
“Will you help me get this off?”
“You’re not going to keep it on for the carriage?” Gen asked.
“It’s Lucy’s wig, it should stay here. Beyond that, imagine my maid’s face should I forget to take it off before arriving home!”
“So concerned about reactions,” Genevieve teased, even amongst some soft sounds that Benedict assumed were now a part of helping Nell out of a wig. He fought the urge to peek, but keep himself on the settee, eyes kept closed in the illusion of sleep. His deception was immediately rewarded as soft footsteps lead to the creak of the rest of the door opening.
“Your carriage is here, Genevieve,” Lucy said.
“Back to reality,” Nell sighed.
“Reality is what you make it my dear,” Lucy said. Their voices grew closer as they exited the room. “Are you both quite sure you wouldn’t prefer to have Henry or Thomas escort you?”
“Not only am I quite certain, I’d wager neither man is in any state to do so,” Genevieve said, earning a laugh that must have been Nell’s.
“Well how about Benedict?” Lucy suggested. “I could swear I saw him near the pianoforte a few minutes past.” Her voice was light, but Benedict knew her well enough to hear the teasing tone in it.
“You wouldn’t!” Nell protested, earning laughter.
“You seemed to enjoy his company earlier, I don’t see wh—" Lucy’s voice faded as they must have reached the stairs and Benedict opened his eyes, silently praying for a glimpse of Nell without her disguise but instead all he saw was the swish of a blue cloak. With a sigh, he settled back into the seat, one hand darting inside his vest where he had tucked away the silver glove.
“I truly do not have time for you today, monsieur Benedict.”
“So formal,” he said with a sad sigh. “I thought we were friends.”
“Do friends bother one another on the eve of one of the busiest weeks in the season?” Genevieve asked.
“I come bearing gifts?” he offered, tossing the pear in his hand up and down.
“A pear?” she clarified.
“You have expressed a distaste for flowers,” he said with a shrug. She sighed, but smirked as she snatched the pear from the air mid-toss.
“I really am busy, what do you need?” Genevieve asked.
“I was just curious about your friend Nell---” Benedict started, but she cut him off, clicking her tongue.
“No no, she is not for you,” she scolded.
“Did I suggest otherwise?” he asked, hoping he sounded innocent enough. “I just never asked her name and yet she knew me with no introduction that I can recall.”
Genevieve’s lips twitched into a frown.
“I believe I told you when we first met that your reputation proceeds you,” she said archly.
“Positively?” he clarified.
“You kiss plenty of beautiful women, monsieur Benedict, you can safely dismiss her from your memory.” Genevieve told him firmly.
“Does that mean she won’t be at another gathering?” he asked.
“It means that even if she did, you would not recognize her,” Genevieve said with a sharp smile, easily maneuvering him back to the doorway. “Goodbye monsieur Benedict.”
She shoved him through with a hand on his chest and closed the door in his face.
“How nice of you to join us for breakfast!” Henry greeted as the maid showed Benedict into the dining room and poured a cup of tea for him. “What brings you here so early, Bridgerton?”
“What indeed,” Lucy muttered in an innocent tone, bringing up her own teacup for a drink. Popping a grape into his mouth, Henry turned to his wife.
“You have suspicions?” he asked. “Do tell.”
“He met Gen’s new writer the other day,” she said. “I imagine him to be snooping for more information on Miss Nell.”
“Oh, she is a peach isn’t she? I begged her to model for us but she declined and Suzette was quite cross when Tessa brought it up again. It’s a shame really, she’d be ideal but—” Henry cleared his throat as Lucy grinned at him fondly. “Bridgerton, you know very well what a mask means.”
Benedict was distracted now. Nell would indeed make a wonderful Aphrodite.
“Benedict,” Henry said.
No, no, not Aphrodite; she would make a perfect Aphrodite of course, but that would be too simple. Psyche; she would be Psyche carefully treading between two hostile worlds and taking a risk to see- to know. A single candle illuminating the darkness as she gazes into the unknown.
“Benedict!” Henry repeated. Benedict started himself back to attention, realizing he had been drumming his fingers on the table.
“Right,” he said. “I know – private, secrecy, security, all of that yes…”
“Good,” Henry said, not looking convinced.
“You do… know who she is though, yes?” Benedict asked hesitatingly. Lucy rolled her eyes.
“I don’t generally allow people into my home whom I do not trust,” Henry said drily. “She is a trusted associate of Genevieve.”
It was weeks before he saw her again, despite attending each banal ton event in the meanime. Benedict was an artist, however poor at it he was, and he truly felt that he should be able to find Nell despite the mask obscuring the top half of her face.
The fact that he couldn’t made him question if any of the conclusions he had drawn were correct. Her hair color was false, but he would be able to recognize her lips if he saw them. Her height was unusual but not necessarily unique though - he thought back to watching her brush creep low down her chest - other of her features were more unique. Genevieve had said (to her, in a conversation they had not known him to be privy to) that she was of the ton. He had seen plenty of women of short stature and voluptuous build but none of them were her. So where was she?
Though simply being a member of the so-called ‘higher class’ didn’t mean she would attend every event. Perhaps she was married and her husband didn’t approve of attending too many frivolities. She wouldn’t be the only woman at the Granvilles’ with a similar story. But just the fact that the ladies had devised a kissing game for her implied otherwise.
But Genevieve was hosting a gathering and Benedict attended and this time: there she was.
Brunette this time, her mask was far less elaborate but did not reveal any more of her face than the first one had. She was with Bess, Lord Wetherby, Tessa, and a couple that he did not recognize. A different disguise than before but the second he heard that laugh his eyes found her.
Benedict fumbled to set down his wine glass and stood - trying to make his way over discretely.
Her accent was different, he realized with a start. She wasn’t Irish today, she was… French. A convincing French at that. Logically he should have realized that the Irish brogue was a part of the disguise but…
How curious.
“And what should I call you today?” He asked, managing to get close enough behind her. She started and turned, her posture relaxing somewhat upon recognizing him.
“Nell is fine, Mister Bridgerton.” She told him.
“Ah Bridgerton - there you are! Where have you been lurking?” Wetherby by greeted him. Tessa shot him a look that he successfully ignored. He’d never have invited her if he’d known how his artistic endeavors would end; it was so much more difficult to avoid her when Gen had decided that she adored her.
“Perhaps he was busy with another discussion of the Elgin Marbles?” Nell suggested, sipping at her glass of champagne.
“Keeping an ear out for me then?” He asked her with a smirk. That most recent discussion (and there had been many) was just last week and had only ended when Henry himself had emerged from the crowd and thrown alcohol at him. She shrugged at his accusation but he could see the blush start to form and his smirk sharpened.
“Could I borrow your companion?” He asked, mostly directing the question at Bess who had been watching him carefully since his approach.
“Up to her.” she replied, raising an eyebrow at Nell. Nell smiled at her.
“I’m hardly in danger from Benedict Bridgerton,” she assured Bess. Turning and taking Benedict’s arm, she allowed him to escort her to a quieter end of the room.
“You have me at a disadvantage.” He told her. At her questioning head tilt he elaborated, “you know my full name and I yet know you only by what I now believe to be a false nickname.” He leaned close, both to be more audible and to be close enough to hear her breath hitch.
“Everyone knows your name,” she deflected, going to nibble slightly at her bottom lip which was indeed just as distracting as it had been before.
“And your own?” He asked.
“I told you; Nell is fine.” She replied with a quiet little smile.
“I’ve been looking for you, Miss Nell,” he told her.
“You found me,” she replied.
“I’ve been looking for you… elsewhere,” he said, gratified to see that touch of pink return to her cheeks.
“There, you will not be able to find me.” She said.
“That’s what Genevieve said as well.” Benedict mused. “Tell me: have you ever considered giving her dialect lessons?” This earned him a giggle and at the bright sound, something in his brain fluttered - it felt so familiar and yet he could not place it.
“She does hers on purpose,” Nell said with a grin.
“A different purpose than yours?” He asked. She tilted her head as she considered this and Benedict’s eyes were drawn to the line of her neck before he managed to regain focus.
“I suppose we both do it for… fun?” She mused.
“And obfuscation.” He added.
“La, an Oxford word I would think,” she teased with a grin. “But why were you looking for me, Mister Bridgerton?”
“Benedict,” he corrected automatically. “It is only fair to use my Christian name if I’m to use yours.”
“And here I thought you were convinced it wasn’t my Christian name.” She returned.
“Eleanor?” He guessed. Her nose scrunched up a little and he sighed. “Well Nell is the name I have to work with.”
“To what end?” She asked, head tilting again.
“Perhaps I wished to ask for a dance?” he said.
“You do not dance,” she said simply.
“Perhaps I wish to?”
“Perhaps you simply enjoy mystery,” she said drily. “Tell me, Mister Br—”
“Benedict,” he corrected.
“Alright then, Benedict,” she said with a sigh. “If I solve your mystery, will you leave me to my discussions in peace?”
“I like the way you say my name,” he said. “Though I do resent the idea that my interest comes from the mystery of your secret identity.”
“Oh, do you?” Nell asked. “You do not think that were I to tell you who I was, you would lose interest?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Every interaction is a new opportunity to uncover a new mystery you know.”
“Then I’m losing my motivation to tell you,” Nell said.
“I would not want you to!” Benedict protested. “I do feel as though I am capable of uncovering your identity myself.”
Nell laughed again.
“I assure you, Benedict, you are not.” She said.
“If you are so certain, perhaps we should make it a wager!” Benedict suggested, rubbing his hands together. “If I am able to discern your identity, you will allow me that dance by the end of the season.”
“A reel?” she asked.
“A waltz,” he countered. She crossed her arms, looking doubtful. “If you are so confident…”
“And when I win?” she asked.
“Name your terms,” he said. Nell thought about this for a moment, biting her lip again. The combination of drawing attention to her lips and the crossing of her arms providing a lovely emphasis of her décolletage proved rather distracting and he enjoyed the delay.
“I’m just not sure that you have anything I want,” she said doubtfully. Benedict laughed at this. “Oh! Not like that --- ugh.” She cleared her throat and Benedict delighted in watching the color bloom over her skin. “I simply cannot think of anything that would not violate my secrecy.”
“Nothing?” Benedict replied, leaning forward with a wink. She rolled her eyes and lightly pushed against his chest. “Mayhaps I would simply owe the lady a favor to be called in.”
“You would be comfortable having that hang over your head?” she said.
“I am confident in my ability to ascertain your identity,” he said simply. At this, she smirked and Benedict thrilled at the sight.
“Fine then,” she said with a nod.
“Sealed with a kiss?” he suggested. She rolled her eyes.
“I believe the standard is a handshake.” She said, extending her hand instead.
“If you insist,” he said with a sigh, matching her handshake.
“Dare I ask what clues you’ve collected so far?” she asked. Benedict considered this for a moment. He knew she was of the ton, he knew she was one and twenty, he knew her hair color was not blonde and her accent was probably not real. This wasn’t much to go on considering he had spent the past three weeks trying to find her on image alone.
However, there was more he could discern from this: namely that whatever her true hair color and accent were would be especially telling. Possibly her eye color as well seeing as the mask she wore still concealed that. There was also the fact that on their first meeting she seemed to recognize him and knew his name without introduction (though so did Genevieve, to be fair)
He had been silent for too long.
“I had thought as much.” Nell said with a smile. “Going undetected is a specialty of mine.”
“Are you suggesting you use false accents and elaborate disguises day-to-day?” Benedict asked, twirling one of her fake curls in his fingers.
“I am suggesting that I do not need to,” she said with a shrug. “People see who and what they wish to see.”
“I am not sure this is true, considering I have been wishing to see you and come up short,” Benedict said.
“Life is full of disappointment Benedict.” She told him with a smile.
“Mister Bridgerton, what are you doing?” Benedict startled and turned to see Penelope Featherington giving him a bemused look, holding a glass of lemonade next to the tapestry he had been trying to creep to.
“I didn’t see you there!” he said.
“I hear that often,” she said with a grin, taking a sip of the lemonade. “That does not answer my question, however.”
“I was trying to be inconspicuous.” He said, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed him.
“Hiding from your mama?” Penelope asked.
“Not today,” he said. “I was looking for someone and hoped I’d get a good view of the room from here.”
“Eloise is talking with Kate over near the balcony doors, Francesca is getting fussed over by your mama near the refreshment table,” Penelope offered. “I have not seen Lord Bridgerton, though I assume he is in the cards room – Lord Stirling went in there earlier.”
“You are very observant,” Benedict said, impressed. “But they are not who I was looking for.”
“Ah,” Penelope said, looking interested. “Anyone I could help you find?”
“No thank you,” he said with a sigh, casting a look over the floor. She arched an eyebrow at him but shrugged.
“Very well; happy hunting,” she told him. She placed her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter.
“Would you care for a turn about the room?” Benedict asked, offering his arm. “I fear that if I attempted it on my own I’d never make it ten steps.”
“I thought you were trying to be inconspicuous?” she clarified, amused.
“I am not particularly skilled in that area,” he admitted with a sigh. She laughed.
“Have I discovered the one thing that a Bridgerton cannot master?” she teased, even as she took his arm.
“That and modesty,” he told her. “And what of you, Miss Penelope? Why were you working to be inconspicuous?”
“No work needed on my part, it comes naturally. I tend to fade from view.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Benedict said with a frown. The Featheringtons were distinct by Lady Featherington’s own design – with bright dresses playing off of even brighter hair. but Penelope in particular, with a lush softness that separated her from her sisters and her own tresses being nearly Titian red… she should truly shine in the ballroom.
“And yet you were nearly upon me and had not noticed,” she pointed out with a grin.
A thought occurred to him.
“Miss Penelope, you are the same age as Eloise, are you not?” he asked.
“Well nearly,” she said, sounding confused by the non-sequitur but too polite to ask about it. “I’m a few months older – I turned twenty at the start of the season.”
“Ah. Well then, happy belated birthday,” he told her.
“Thank you?” she said. In a minute her arm tensed in his as she turned to notice something across the room.
“What is it?” he asked, dropping his voice. She nodded to point to Miss Edwina talking with one of the Martins brothers.
“She’s giving the signal to ask for assistance,” she said fretfully. “I don’t believe I can get over there qui—oh, Eloise spotted her.” As Benedict watched, his sister swooped over and nearly disengaged Edwina from the man’s attention and led her into a crowd.
“How clever!” Benedict muttered. “Do all of you ladies have distress signals?” and why hadn’t Eloise enlisted his help when devising them.
“I’m not sure,” Penelope said. “Edwina, Francesca, Eloise and I developed some this season just in case they end up too close to a Berbrooke situation.”
Benedict instinctively scowled at the name and then blinked, realizing.
“And you, of course.” He corrected.
“Me?” she echoed, furrowing her brow at him in a rather adorable display of confusion.
“To make sure that you also don’t end up in an uncomfortable situation; you just said them.”
“Oh, well, I don’t see that happening Mister Bridgerton but yes,” she said with a light laugh.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Snakes like Berbrooke follow the crowds generally,” she explained. “So that they can swoop in at the end. If anyone like that were to pay attention to a wallflower such as myself, if would be far more conspicuous – and that’s the sort of thing a menace like Berbrooke would avoid.”
Benedict wasn’t sure to say to that, but quietly decided that ‘nothing’ was probably best.
“Well, it was quite a good idea,” he said instead. “I am very glad that Frannie has you all to look out for her as well.”
“The marriage mart is tricky,” Penelope said. “We’ve all got to keep an eye out. Though I suppose you know that better than most, being an old hand at this point.”
“Are you calling me old Miss Penelope?” he teased.
“Of course not Mister Bridgerton,” she returned in the same tone. “Gentlemen do not get old, merely seasoned.”
“You wound me,” he said. “In truth other than my first year or two, Anthony and I mostly avoided it until Daphne’s season.”
“Ah – never came close to giving an offer?” she asked. She didn’t sound accusatory like many often did.
“No,” he said. “I fear the companionship I seek, I have not yet found among the debutantes of the ton.” He paused. “Not that… what I intended to say…”
Penelope giggled.
“I take no offense,” she told him.
“I mean that the very nature of this entire endeavor seems to pressure women to pretend to be… less than they are,” Benedict said. “And how am I to be able to determine a partner if I cannot truly hope to know them?”
Penelope was silent for a few steps and Benedict cleared his throat, wishing he had something to drink and quite aware that he had overstepped.
“That makes sense,” Penelope told him. “My mama indeed taught us to be less; which always seemed so painful to me; would I have needed to continue the charade for the rest of my life then? For fear of one of my more objectionable qualities driving away my husband?”
“Miss Penelope, I cannot imagine you having too many objectionable traits with which to drive a man away,” Benedict told her as they came to a stop. Something nearly… dangerous seemed to flash in her eyes but in an instant it was gone, her face reflecting a polite smile as she curtsied.
“Thank you for the turn about the room,” she told him. Benedict blinked, feeling a bit off-kilter and unsure why.
“Certainly,” he said. For a beat he felt as though he should say something else but with another polite smile, she was off to talk to Francesca near a particularly ominous-looking fern.
Benedict was near the kitchens when Lucy entered – pink-cheeked – and grabbed two bottles of champagne from a cabinet behind him. She smiled and motioned with her head for him to follow and he grabbed his glass and trotted after her. Two rooms away through a hallway was an ornate study where a small group was gathered including – his heart perked up to see – Nell, who was quite flushed under her usual mask and brown wig.
“Here we go!” Lucy sing-songed, passing one of the bottles to Weatherby and another to Tessa to open. “I got the good stuff, now we can celebrate properly.
“What are we celebrating?” Benedict asked, obediently holding out his glass for a refill with Weatherby nodded at him.
“Nell’s publication!” Gen told him, next to Nell and perched on a table.
“Oooh, what publication?” Benedict asked, weaving around a few bodies to get close to the two.
“I got one of my stories serialized in Ackermann’s,” Nell told him, pleased. “It’s the widest-spread publication I’ve gotten yet.”
“And by next year I’m sure you’ll be in La Belle Assembleé!” Lucy toasted, hoisting her champagne flute in the air now that everyone had been topped off.
“Hear hear!” came the chorus as Nell continued to flush.
“Congratulations,” Benedict said, dropping into the chair beside Nell and lowering his voice to draw her attention. “Does this mean I’ll finally learn your name when I get to read your work?”
“Oh Benedict, you know ladies can’t publish under their names,” Nell told him fondly. He desperately wished he could see her eyes – the champagne bubbles were no doubt sparkling in them.
“In the magazines she is ‘the Mysterious Lady N’,” Gen told him, pressing a kiss to Nell’s temple as she giggled.
“Oh! My sisters have had some pieces with your work around the house,” Benedict realized. “I could’ve been reading this whole time and not even known.”
“Indeed,” Gen said in a tone that was oddly dry before Nell giggled and finished off her glass of champagne.
“What is this next one going to be about?” Benedict asked.
“A spinster who solves mysteries,” Nell said with a smile. “And sets up all of her dear nieces and nephews along the way.”
“Didn’t you once tell me you don’t care for mysteries?” Benedict asked. “Excluding the mystery of you teasing me with your identity of course.”
“I don’t like reading mysteries,” she corrected him with a giggle. “But if I’m writing them, I already know the solutions! And I have some friends with some downright devious ideas who get some writing credits as well.”
“Ah, is this what you do at your ladies’ teatime discussions – plan fictional murders?” Benedict asked.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Nell said.
“I wish I could see your eyes,” his mouth said with absolutely no permission from his brain. Nell smiled at him and stood, reaching for his hand.
“I can’t help you with that, but how about a dance? I hear Margaret’s orchestra starting up near the stairs.” Benedict scrambled up and took her hand, lacing their fingers together as she gently tugged him from the room.
“Any time any place,” he told her.
“Don’t you lot look grim,” Benedict observed, perching himself atop the arm of a couch that held a brunette Nell, Genevieve, and Tessa. Tessa’s head was resting on Gen’s lap and her feet on Nell’s. In the couch across from them, Lucy sat on a couch with her head resting on Wetherby’s shoulder, with Henry tucked in between her and the other arm of the couch – asleep. “It’s barely gone eleven!”
“Some of us,” Lucy told him icily, not bothering to lift her head, “cannot simply decided to not attend the Smith-Smythe musicale each year.”
“We could if you would cease helping to sponsor it,” Wetherby grumbled.
“They would host it regardless,” Lucy said. “And my darling husband and I are – of course – patrons of the arts.”
“And what of you three?” Benedict asked, turning to the other trio.
“In my family, we are expected to attend every event at which an eligible Lord may attend,” Nell said in her Irish voice today, sounding even more exhausted than Lucy had. Benedict couldn’t help but feel a little trill of excitement as he always did whenever she mentioned anything of her other life.
“I was quite busy today,” Genevieve said. “So many mamas of the ton feel that they are entitled to last-second alterations.”
“And I am merely comfortable,” Tessa told him, giving a satisfied little stretch as Genevieve threaded her fingers through her hair.
“I feel so bad for them each year,” Nell said with a sigh. “Miss Smythe considered feigning a broken arm this year but in the end she couldn’t bear the idea of leaving her sister behind.”
“How on earth do you hear these things?” Benedict asked. She glanced up at him.
“I listen,” she said simply.
“And did you meet any eligible young lords at the musicale?” he asked. He couldn’t be positive with the mask, but he was fairly certain that she rolled her eyes at him.
“No Mister Bridgerton,” she said. “I imagine they were all at Mondrich’s with you.”
“I say you should just wed Thomas and be done with it all,” Tessa said with a huff. “You high-borns make marriage so complicated.” From his couch, Wetherby blew a kiss to Nell who caught it with a fond grin whilst Benedict fought the urge to bat the invisible thing from the air.
“My situation is not so dire,” Nell said. “Thomas is free to wait to rescue some like-minded debutante from a dour match.”
“Then are you holding out for love Miss Nell?” Benedict asked.
“Romantics talk of love, Benedict, women can only hope for freedom and even that is unlikely.”
“You sound like my sister,” he told her.
“Which is a compliment I hope?” she replied.
“Of the highest order,” he assured her. She grinned up at him, sharp and pleased. “You deserve freedom,” Benedict told her.
“Everyone does,” she said. “But we don’t always get it, do we? That’s why we need to find it in other ways.”
“Like your writing?” he asked.
“Or your art,” she replied. He winced reflexively at the mention and was surprised when she leaned her head against his thigh. “I apologize, I know it is a sensitive subject for you; but I know how being able to write makes me feel and I worry you’re sabotaging your own outlet because of self-doubt.”
“It is not self-doubt,” Benedict said, trying to avoid letting his voice drop in irritation. “It is a fact that I only got in because of the donation.”
“According to Rupert.” Tessa scoffed, still resting her head on Genevieve’s lap. “Who is one of the sons of a committee member’s mistress and regardless of any of that who cares how you got your chair? I would kill for a seat at the table, no matter what anyone else had to say.”
“It’s a second son’s lack of worth,” Henry muttered sleepily. “Takes a lifetime to unlearn.”
“Nell, you are a writer,” Benedict said. “Your serials, stories, and articles are published in magazines and pamphlets and broadsheets. I am not and was not an artist.”
“You could have been.” Tessa said at the same moment as Henry spoke.
“Yes you are.”
“Regardless my seat has been forfeited. I would appreciate it if we could move along to the next topic of conversation such as if the mysterious writer ‘Miss N’ has anything releasing soon?” Benedict said, directing his gaze down to Nell. He realized suddenly that the angle of the mask made it so that where he was sitting above her, he could just barely make out a hint of blue in her eyes.
“Not until next week,” Nell said.
Blue.
Her eyes were blue.
“Dear me Benedict, are you just now awake?” his mother asked as he ambled into the drawing room at half past one.
“He was probably at one of his degenerate bohemian parties he won’t bring me to,” Eloise said to Penelope who sat next to her, thankfully softly enough to escape Violet’s ears.
He hadn’t been, actually. Inspiration had hit for the first time since his dismal exit from the academy and spent the evening furiously converting his room into a makeshift studio and missing his apartments dearly – moreso now actually, with multiple sets of eyes on him.
“Did you meet anyone interesting?” Penelope asked.
“If he had, he would not tell us,” Eloise groused.
“Sorry to disappoint ladies, but I did not do anything especially interesting last night,” he told them, plopping down next to Eloise with enough force to make the two women hop in their seats and earning a swat on his arm for the effort.
“You have paint under your fingernails,” Penelope noted. “Doesn’t painting count as interesting?”
Benedict blinked and glanced down: he did have paint still clinging to him.
“That is great to hear, Brother, it has been so long since you took up your brush.” Eloise smiled at him. “What did you paint?”
“Merely some color mixing tests,” Benedict lied easily. “What are you reading?”
“Oh, a writer I enjoy has been writing a serial in this periodical,” Eloise said. “We were just discussing where it may go next.”
Feeling inordinately amused, Benedict plucked the pamphlet from her fingers and focused down. Sure enough: The Mysterious Miss N was the writer. He grinned.
“Ah yes, I’ve heard of her.”
“Have you now?” Eloise asked, sounding doubtful.
“I have in fact – she’s a friend of the Granvilles,” he said, trying to avoid sounding petulant.
“So was she at your degenerate bohemian party last night?” Eloise asked, for some reason glancing to Penelope with a smirk.
“I was not at –” Benedict sighed. “You know, I sacrifice my independence in my bachelor lodgings to be here as emotional support for my dear sisters and the thanks I get is teasing at first light?”
“Hardly first light,” Penelope pointed out with a fond smile.
“And you hate being alone in the city,” Eloise scoffed. “You’ve never lasted a week in your London lodgings – you pine too much.”
“Is that true?” Penelope asked. “I thought you had a country home of your own.”
“Oh, he has My Cottage and he generally lasts alright there,” Eloise allowed. “But we Bridgertons are pack animals at our core, and he’s the shining example of that. Along with Anthony who won’t let mother move to a dower house yet.”
“He simply enjoys having the house looked after while he and Kate are away,” Violet defended from a few meters away. “And with Benedict helping keep track of the estate in his place, it makes more sense for him to be here as well.”
“Regardless I think it’s lovely to have a family that enjoys spending time together,” Penelope said. Benedict was abruptly reminded just who her family included and fought the urge to wince.
“You are apart us,” Eloise said firmly, taking Penelope’s hand. “You’re always welcome wherever I am.”
“Thank you, Eloise,” Penelope said, smiling warmly. “But as I’ve reminded you nearly every day since I was 8, I do still have to go home eventually.”
“Well not yet!” Eloise said, pulling her into a stand. “Come, I found an interesting book in the library I wanted to show you!” As the two exited, Penelope gave a polite wave back at the rest of the Bridgertons in the room and Benedict chuckled, tucking the pamphlet into his vest to read for clues later.
“There is something that you need to know.” Nell said, finally breaking her gaze. “About who I am, before you get any further.”
“Your name?” he asked. She shook her head.
“No.”
Benedict managed to keep himself quiet, watching carefully as Nell stood and paced the room.
“You can’t tell anyone.” She said, biting her bottom lip as she came back over and looked down at him fretfully.
“I promise,” he told her. She shook her head.
“You can’t,” she said softly. “But you should still know. Only…” she sighed and Benedict couldn’t resist, reaching out to trail his fingers down her arm and lacing their fingers together to tug her close.
“I promise,” he repeated. She smiled sadly at him.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered. He did, and a second later sat very still as he felt her untie his cravat and very carefully tie it as a blindfold over his eyes. She placed a hand on his shoulder but pulled it back when he reached up for her wrist.
“Benedict,” she said, voice unaccented in a clear Queen’s English. “Benedict, I am Lady Whistledown.”
Benedict froze, his breath leaving him.
Nell was Lady Whistledown. Nell had exposed his family – Eloise to the ton’s judgement. Nell had dissected Anthony’s missteps. Nell had angered the Queen, had chased away Nigel Berbrooke, had saved Colin from a cruel trap of a wedding.
Benedict startled to a stand, hands coming up to tear off the blindfold but the room was empty.
He burst through the door, wildly searching the hallway for any hint of her presence.
She was gone.
Not even an hour later, Henry found him near the pianoforte, deep into his second bottle of some alcohol he could no longer identify.
“Oh there you are Bridgerton, wasn’t sure we’d see you after Nell left.”
“She’s gone then?” he asked with a sigh, rolling his head along the back of the couch to look at him. Henry frowned at him, looking concerned.
“What in the devil happened to you?” he asked, plucking the bottle from Benedict’s hands and looking at the label.
“Can’t say,” Benedict told him, making a half-hearted swipe to regain the bottle but falling short as Henry neatly side-stepped him.
“Hm,” Henry said. “Well, whatever she told you… it clearly wasn’t her name.”
“Can’t say,” Benedict repeated. Henry glanced around the room. There was a dull roar of conversation, a background sound of the pianoforte, and a slight haze of smoke. Whatever or whomever Henry was looking for didn’t seem to appear so Henry crouched in front of Benedict.
“Where’s your head at?”
“Can’t say,” Benedict repeated yet again. Henry sighed and Benedict tried and managed to get the bottle of whatever-it-was back. “Don’t know,” he elaborated.
“Is the gin helping you figure it out?” Henry asked.
“Izzat gin?” Benedict clarified. It didn’t taste like gin. He shook his head. “Not yet, need more; can’t think right now.” He paused, “CAN think – don’t want to.”
“Very well,” Henry said with a sigh after a long pause. He shook his head and gave Benedict a sorry sort of smile before turning and folding himself into one of the discussions around the room. Benedict slumped more deeply into the couch.
Nell was Lady Whistledown.
Nell had nearly ruined his dearest sister, the other half of his heart. Oh god, Eloise had spent so long hunting the writer and it was Nell – Nell.
It occurred to him, hazily, that he knew quite enough to expose her. He didn’t know her name, but he did know the name she wrote under for her stories and periodicals – a simple letter linking them to Whistledown could render her unpublishable.
Could he though? She knew; she had told him and she had known what it would mean for him.
Whistledown had scarcely published in a year, she hadn’t needed to tell him so why had she?
Was she trying to chase him away?
Would he let her?
“Eloise,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch in the corner. It was only the next day and he still felt like he had been rolled over by the Queen’s parade but he needed to know. “Since she seems to have stopped publishing, are you still on the hunt for Whistledown?”
Her head snapped up from her book and about twelve different expressions ran a marathon across her face. She was not especially skilled at subterfuge, so the fact that her face was hard to read once the emotions passed was… surprising.
“Shut up,” she hissed, glaring around to ensure that their mother was still across the room with Francesca and Anthony still distracted with the broadsheets. She put her book on her lap and carefully folded her hands together atop it. “Why on earth would you ask?”
“She caused you harm,” he said. “I was curious if that was effective in dissuading you.”
“If anything, I would say that the Queen and I dissuaded her,” she muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear. She cleared her throat. “Lady Whistledown no longer publishes; therefore, I no longer pay her any mind.”
“You don’t seek satisfaction?” Benedict clarified. Eloise huffed out a breath.
“I only tried to seek her out in the first place in order to convince her to restore Penelope’s reputation after Miss Thompson was exposed,” she said. “And then to understand how she achieved her success… her freedom. With her no longer publishing, neither is relevant any longer.”
He watched her carefully and realized she was doing the same to him.
“Why are you asking me this?” Eloise asked, face suspicious.
“I was merely curious,” he said. She frowned at him.
“Good afternoon Bridgertons,” Penelope greeted cheerfully from the door.
“Good afternoon, dear, lovely to see you,” Violet greeted with a smile.
“Pen! Come, let us go to the garden,” Eloise exclaimed, hopping up and rushing to her friend’s side.
“I thought we were going to get ready for the Lowery ball together?” Pen said, surprised.
“We can do that after!” Eloise said, grabbing her arm.
“Maybe check to see if Newton also needs a walk,” Anthony said, glancing. Up from the paper.
“I am not a dog, Anthony,” Eloise grumbled.
“You did decide that you needed a walk,” Benedict pointed out. Eloise turned her glare to him but he got a giggle out of Penelope before Eloise pulled her away down the hall.
Oh.
Oh.
“Miss Penelope,” Benedict greeted, “would you do me the honor of granting me this dance?” she smiled politely at him, only her eyes betraying confusion.
“Mister Bridgerton?” I believe it is the waltz next,” she said.
“That was the agreement, yes?” he said, allowing his smirk to show. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth but nothing came out. He extended his hand in askance and, after another hesitant glance around, she took it. He squeezed her hand in what he hoped was a gesture of assurance as he led to the floor. In the beat before the music started, they locked eyes.
“You are very quiet this evening,” he observed a few steps in.
“I find myself unsure of what to say,” she told him. “I had thought you to be angry – rightfully so.”
“If Eloise has come to peace, I see no reason to continue anger on her behalf,” he told her.
“Ah, that is why she was so worked up earlier,” Penelope said with a sigh. “I will have to assure her that I told you myself, it wasn’t her fault.” On a turn, Benedict spotted Eloise glowering and sent her a bright smile.
“I’m quite pleased in fact,” he told her. “I finally get to see your eyes up close.”
She scoffed at him, but her face had gone pink.
“And I finally understand the wigs,” he added. “Your own beautiful hair is quite distinct. It would have been a straight giveaway.” Aware of where they were, he managed to stop himself from reaching out for a curl draped over her shoulder.
“Is that truly what you have to say?” she asked, brow furrowed as he guided her in a spin.
“It’s not all I have to say. You said you were one and twenty,” he scolded. “That was the one piece of information I had to go off of.”
She laughed, bright and clear and he was unable to hold his false cross expression, his own face breaking into a wide smile without his brain giving it permission.
“That was Suzette’s way of getting me an extra birthday kiss,” she told him, eyes sparkling.
“I’ll have to thank her,” Benedict mused. “One less and you may have not decided to finish all at once.” She flushed, eyes stubbornly settling past his left ear.
“So is your curiosity now satisfied?” she asked. He hummed as he considered.
“I’m not sure it ever shall be, Miss Nell,” he told her. “How on earth did I not see you until you were in disguise?”
“No one does,” she said. “I am a background character.”
“Then who is the main character?” he asked. “Eloise?”
“She’d hate that,” Penelope said. “Perhaps Genevieve. She’d make a fascinating heroine.”
“I would read that,” he agreed. “But I believe I would also enjoy reading your story.”
“You don’t know my story,” Penelope pointed out.
“That is why I would need to read it,” he replied. “Miss Penelope Featherington, cleverest of her name, takes a quill to write her own narrative to entrance the very crowd that doesn’t notice her?”
“I’m not able to have my own voice,” Penelope said.
“So you crafted one,” Benedict said. She smiled. “And then you stopped?”
“Redirected,” she amended. “Eloise was so angry, and she was right to be though I couldn’t think of another solution at the time. Later, of course, but not then.”
“At what time?” Benedict asked.
“It is… quite a long story, and I believe Eloise would prefer to tell it should she choose to.”
“She won’t,” he pointed out.
“Probably not at home, no,” she allowed. Benedict narrowed his eyes.
“I am not taking my little sister to the salon, Nell,” he told her in a stern whisper. She rolled her eyes.
“Did I suggest it?” she asked. “Regardless, Eloise was angry with me and I knew that she was right… about most of it, at least. But I still needed an outlet. Furthermore, I also needed the money.” Benedict frowned, making a mental note to follow up on that later. “Genevieve finally convinced me to join her at one of Henry’s nights and I was able to make some publishing connections.”
“And how did you meet Genevieve?”
“I ran into her on my way back from a delivery,” she told him. “She caught me in my full maid’s disguise.”
“You made column deliveries in person?” Benedict hissed, pulling her a bit too close for privacy. Of all things she rolled her eyes at him.
“I already got this lecture both from her and from your sister,” she said. “I don’t anymore. Gen and I developed a system together that worked very well for the rest of that season.” She sighed. “I do miss the intrigue. Simply handing off my writing to Lucy or Tessa to post has far less drama.”
“You don’t send if off yourself?” Benedict asked.
“My mama watches the post very closely,” Penelope told him. “It would be incredibly foolish to let her know what I get up to.” Her voice was teasing.
“So any letters from me would be intercepted?” Benedict asked. She gave him a funny look into the last turn.
“What?”
“To be safe I’d best call on you in person then,” he said with a nod as the music came to an end.
“For what?”
“To court you, of course!” he told her. “Shall we take a turn about the room?” at her confused look he decided it was a yes and started leading her around.
“To court me?” she echoed, question clear in her voice.
“If you are okay with that, of course,” he hurried to amend. “But I have been yearning to spend more time with you for months and court you properly.”
“I… yes,” she finally said. “Yes that would be lovely.” She was flushed but smiling up at him and he couldn’t help with beaming smile in return.