Work Text:
Early September 1815
Dear Gentle Reader,
It is time again to return home as fall will soon be upon us…
Queen Charlotte’s gaze, sharp as a gem cutter’s chisel, snagged halfway through the third paragraph of the latest scandal sheet. The pamphlet had arrived less than an hour prior, hand-delivered among a spritz of lavender and the trembling fingers of a page terrified of smudging the Royal insignia. Another Whistledown, its paper creamy and creased as ever, its typeface cut in the same extravagant italics, but more than the usual undercurrent of mischief thrummed through its paragraphs. The Queen read, and a subtle chill wormed down her spine—an unfamiliar sensation, for she was not a woman easily made uneasy.
She read the passage again. The tone was perfect, almost sickeningly so—the prose on the surface as arch and impenetrable as Penelope Featherington's infamous glances—but something about the rhythm, a lack of whimsy perhaps, or a peculiar doggedness in the wording, set her teeth on edge. The Queen, who had once reviewed dispatches from half the continent in a single afternoon, who rescripted alliances with a flick of her wrist, now narrowed her gaze at the delicate, seemingly innocent curls of ink. For the briefest of moments, a suspicion flickered: was she being taunted?
Her fingers tapped out an inaudible meter against the pamphlet’s corner, as if hoping the pulse of the words would betray the author’s true identity. Lady Bridgerton, the Queen recalled, was in Greece. It was a matter of public record—and private satisfaction. The Queen took care to know the whereabouts of all her favorites. So either Penelope had planned her missives months in advance, leaving a paper trail to mislead even the most diligent of sovereigns, or… or what? The alternative—a forger, an imitator lurking in the shadows of high society—delighted and unsettled her in equal measure.
Yet there was more: this latest missive, with its far-reaching knowledge of London’s private salons and public follies, seemed to bear the fingerprints of someone far too present in the city to be writing from the Aegean coast. Someone with an intimate knowledge of the Queen’s own mornings, perhaps, or the honeyed intrigues of her inner circle. She felt the blood quicken in her wrists.
The air in her private sitting room was thick with perfume, sunlight flooding the marble and gold cornices in a manner that was almost indecent. Her ladies-in-waiting, an array of glazed-eyed debutantes and middle-aged mamas, sat in uneasy silence, as if sensing that the ordinary proceedings of the Royal household had been, for the moment, upended by a force they could neither name nor control. The servants hovered, attentive but trembling, careful to avoid any missteps as they poured the Queen’s tea. Such moments had a way of shaking the entire foundation of the palace; the Queen’s moods, it was whispered, could ripple outwards and unsettle the entire governmental apparatus.
Her most trusted confidante, Lady Danbury, sat across from her, posture impeccable even as she swirled her spoon with a languor reserved for only the most intimate moments of court. Lady Danbury had the rare ability to match the Queen’s own wit, and more than that, she possessed an unerring instinct for the social tectonics of the ton. Therefore, when the Queen set the pamphlet aside with a sigh—less resignation, more the exhale of a predator selecting a new strategy—Lady Danbury was ready.
Your Majesty, is there something in the pamphlet that offends?” she said, her tone poised delicately between concern and the dry amusement that had long ago cemented her place at the Queen’s side.
The Queen drew herself upright, shoulders squared in her stiffly boned gown. Her circlet gleamed with each motion, casting spangles of light against the tea set. “Not ‘offends,’” she replied slowly, “but intrigues, infuriates, and vexes. All in equal measure.”
She lifted the pamphlet again, squinting at a particular passage. “It is rumored,” she read aloud, “that Lord Amesbury has acquired an entirely new wardrobe, despite the suggestion that his creditors circle him like vultures above the battlefield of his reputation.” The Queen paused, narrowing her gaze.
“A metaphor unusually martials for Whistledown. And here, the lilies in the Palace are uncommonly short-lived this season. Perhaps the gardeners, like certain Members of Parliament, are prone to overwatering with bribes and blandishments.”
Lady Danbury smiled, lips barely parted. “Astute, your Majesty. The botanicals are a nice touch.”
“And entirely unnecessary,” the Queen declared. “Lady Whistledown has never before indulged in such idle comparison. She traffics in truth with a razor’s edge. This—” she snapped the pamphlet closed, “this is a forgery. Or, if not that, a calculated imitation.”
The room fell silent. Even the servants seemed to sense the magnitude of the Queen’s accusation. She placed the pamphlet on the table with a decisive clatter, ignoring the sweet cakes arrayed before her. She was, in that moment, as untouchable and alone as a chess queen mid-game, surrounded by pawns yet entirely reliant on her own cunning.
She leaned forward, eyes glittering.
“Lady Whistledown,” she announced, “has published another pamphlet. Although I was not expecting it, since Lady Bridgerton is currently on her honeymoon.”
“Hmm,” Lady Danbury replies, taking a delicate sip of her tea as she examines the Queen with a discerning eye. Her voice is calm but laced with a hint of amusement.
"Perhaps, Your Highness, you should consider writing a letter to Lady Bridgerton to inform her of this situation. If she arranged for the publishing to proceed during her honeymoon, then you will have your answer." She places her cup gently on the saucer, the porcelain clinking softly, and leans back slightly in her chair, her expression thoughtful.
The Queen, who had been quietly pondering the suggestion, seems to mull it over carefully. She lifts one of the smaller plates in front of her—an ornate, gold-rimmed piece—and picks up a biscuit with a slow, deliberate motion. She takes a tentative bite, savoring the sweetness and the slight crunch before lowering it back onto the plate.
In that quiet moment, it was as if a decision had already been made within her. The Queen’s lips curl into a slight smile, one of anticipation and mischief. She had decided—she would indeed follow her friend’s advice, send that letter to Lady Bridgerton, and see what unfolds from there. The thought of stirring the pot, of gentle chaos just beneath the surface of courtly civility, filled her with a thrilling sense of excitement. Her mind already raced ahead to the possibilities, eager to see how this small act might ripple through the court and beyond. She chuckled softly to herself, the sound barely more than a whisper of amusement, already planning her next move.
*****
Evening pressed in on Buckingham House not as an intrusion, but as an opulent comfort. The Queen settled into her favorite armchair, velvet worn soft by decades of rule, and let the hush of imminent dusk swallow her up. She sipped at her tea—a new blend, from the northernmost slopes of Ceylon, earthy and bright—and let the heat of the cup bleed into the bones of her hand. The world was, for this rare moment, in a perfect equilibrium: the day’s warmth had not yet surrendered to the chill of night, and the pungent scent of crushed rose petals from the palace gardens drifted through the open windows. Outside, footmen glided across the gravel in gold-laced slippers. Inside, the Queen, invincible and alone, read the letter that had arrived only an hour prior, and smiled into her tea as though it were a confidante.
It was not the letter from Lady Whistledown that had so set her in this pensive mood—though that notorious gossip column now sat, face down and dog-eared, on the silver tray beside her—but rather the letter from Lady Bridgerton, posted from the shimmering exile of Athens. It had arrived with a faint sheen of foreign dust on the envelope, an effect the Queen suspected was entirely deliberate. The handwriting was Penelope’s, neat and uncompromising, and the opening line was characteristic in its arch simplicity:
“Your Majesty, I write to you from a land where the sun has yet to be tamed by English manners or millinery.”
The Queen had smiled at that, but what followed stole her composure for a moment, as if the words themselves were a sluice of ice down the back of her neck.
The letter continued, ‘I want to clarify that I left my publishers in London without any significant messages. The column you mentioned was not written by me.
After leaving for Greece, I had made prior arrangements regarding my publications. The previous pamphlet, published before my departure, was made accessible to the public with the intent to write again at a later date. This was done to ensure my readers could remain engaged with my work during my absence. If I return, this ambiguity will benefit me since it keeps my presence alive in the literary world and piques curiosity.
However, the column you sent was not mine. I have always been committed to sharing accurate information, and I only share the truth in my writings. Any deviations from this principle in the suggested column lead me to disavow its authorship.’
The Queen pressed the letter flat against her lap, thinking through the implications as the evening light turned from gold to the soft blue of fine porcelain. The implications were as layered as a mille-feuille, each more tantalizing than the last. Lady Bridgerton had not only denied authorship of the new column, but she had also, with a kind of elegant malice, left open the possibility for infinite impostures. The Queen understood the move immediately; it was the same logic she had used to cement her own power. Leave your enemies guessing, and you have already won.
She drew a deep, unhurried breath. The latest Whistledown column not written by Lady Bridgerton was already circulating through the parlors of Mayfair like a particularly well-dressed virus. A forgery, but a masterful one, as if the imitator had studied not just Penelope’s words but her every hesitation and hidden meaning. The Queen ran her finger along the edge of the pamphlet. She felt an unexpected twinge of pride: her society had grown clever enough to spawn a doppelganger that could fool even the sharpest of eyes.
But pride was not enough to satisfy her. Queen Charlotte had long ago learned that chaos, once unleashed, could just as easily turn its fangs on the hand that fed it. She glanced up at the ceiling. Shadows tracked across the cornices as the sun dipped lower, and the Queen pictured the city beyond the palace walls—every drawing room a theater, every dinner party an interrogation. If London’s most feared pen had multiplied, the season would not be measured by weddings or fortunes made, but by reputations ground to powder.
She reached for her bell and rang it—three clipped chimes, the signal for Brimsley and no one else. He showed up promptly, impeccably dressed as usual, in a deep blue outfit with a rich red sash draped across his chest, the fabric gleaming in the fading sunlight.
"Brimsley," the Queen said, "be so good as to send for Lady Danbury.”
Brimsley bowed. "At once, Your Majesty."
She had no doubt her most trustworthy and long-standing friend would meet her with worry.
Within a half hour, Lady Danbury entered, her cane a staccato metronome on the marble floor. She wore a dress the color of the deep sea, but her eyes betrayed not sorrow but savage delight.
"Lady Danbury," the Queen said, "we have a problem of authorship."
Lady Danbury inclined her head and raised an eyebrow, awaiting the rest.
"I am in receipt of a letter from Lady Bridgerton. She claims the latest Whistledown is not hers. I am inclined to believe her—the tone is all wrong and the metaphors are a touch too provincial. Someone is impersonating her and doing it with the sort of skill I find both admirable and repugnant. What do you suppose we should do?"
Lady Danbury smiled, thin and cutting. "Set a trap, Your Majesty. Or, barring that, stir the waters and see who rises to the bait."
The Queen favored her with a rare, genuine laugh. "That is precisely what I intend."
She turned her gaze to the stack of correspondence on her desk. Among it were a dozen notes from various lords and ladies, all professing shock or titillation at the new pamphlet, all desperate for guidance from the throne. The Queen could sense the hunger in those letters—the London aristocracy was a beast that could never be overfed.
She took up her pen and began to write, ignoring protocol and social hour. She drafted a proclamation, elegant and terrifying in its simplicity: a reward for proof of Lady Whistledown’s identity. Not a sum so vulgar as to inspire greed, but a prize of status and favor, the one currency that mattered in her world. She would make it public within the week.
By the time darkness had fully claimed the city, the Queen was finished. She sealed the letter with her own crest and pressed it into Brimsley’s waiting hands.
"See to it that this is delivered to every salon, every club, every house where such a message will find its most ravenous audience," she instructed. Brimsley bowed and vanished, soundless as a thought.
The Queen leaned back, folding her hands, and watched as Lady Danbury’s face flickered between admiration and a sly, almost maternal pride.
"Let them hunt each other," the Queen murmured. "Let the ton tear itself apart for a whiff of notoriety. Whoever this new Whistledown is, she will reveal herself soon enough."
She took a final sip of cooled tea, her smile growing fractionally sharper.
Forever Yours,
Lady Whistledown