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“I take comfort in knowing that you will always be here to take care of me.”
Penelope lay in bed that night, her mother’s words from earlier in the day echoing relentlessly in her mind. After spending hours dodging Colin Bridgerton, trying to comprehend how Eloise and Cressida Cowper had become best friends, and enduring Prudence’s and Phillipa’s endless absurdities, she was exhausted. But it was Portia’s condescending remark that finally pushed her over the edge.
This could not be her life, Penelope thought. She would not let this be her life.
She twisted and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was useless. The effort felt like a perfect metaphor for her place within her family—always trying to fit, forever uncomfortable—made worse by the fact that she was now the last Featherington sister standing in the marriage mart.
True, she was not tall and willowy like Prudence, nor perfectly symmetrical like Phillipa, but she had her own qualities. There was no practical reason her sisters should be married while she remained overlooked. Penelope was smart, resourceful, and fairly certain her hips were wide enough for childbearing.
Yet how could anyone notice how eligible she was if she was always hiding?
She turned to face her wardrobe and took a steadying breath. She sat up and in a few determined strides she reached the wardrobe, opening its doors at once. Her eyes swept over the yellow, orange, and bright green gowns inside. For dresses meant to draw attention, they achieved precisely the opposite effect. Penelope did not want anyone looking at her in them either.
It was then she decided at last to splurge with her Lady Whistledown earnings, and silently promised herself she would never wear those gowns again.
—
Rae had been up since the early hours of the day, as usual. Although she was primarily Miss Penelope’s lady’s maid, in the Featherington household all staff wore multiple hats and filled in as needed. Things had been slightly easier since both Prudence and Phillipa were married and out of the house, which allowed Rae to focus solely on Miss Penelope—and she rather enjoyed it. They were kindred spirits, and in another life, with fewer divisions of class, they might have been great friends.
Now Rae stood at the back of the private room at the modiste, watching Miss Penelope in front of the mirror as she spoke with Madame Delacroix.
“I do not wish to see a citrus color ever again,” Penelope said with blunt confidence.
Rae smiled to herself and lowered her gaze as Penelope spoke. For years, she had tried to advocate for better colors for the girls, only for Varley to shut her down before the suggestion ever reached Lady Featherington. Seeing Penelope finally speak up was deeply satisfying.
“Sour colors, indeed,” Genevieve replied. “But what has brought about this sudden desire for change?”
“I cannot live at home any longer,” Penelope sighed. “It has been hard enough living under my mother’s rules. But my sisters… To live at the whim of either the cruelest or the simplest person I know…” She shook her head. “I must take a husband before that happens. It is time.”
Rae’s eyes widened, and she quickly picked up an issue of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers lying nearby to conceal her grin. This was a moment she had long suspected would come, but it was how boldly Penelope had declared it that made her pleasantly surprised.
She had also suspected Penelope’s previous reluctance to pursue marriage had several reasons—one notably tall and charming Bridgerton among them. But after Colin’s cruel remarks at the Featherington Ball at the end of the previous season, Rae had noticed subtle changes in Penelope’s demeanor. And this declaration felt like the culmination of all of them.
“I see,” Genevieve said carefully. “And does my lady have a particular suitor in mind?”
“I should like to be sensible,” Penelope replied. “Someone kind, who allows for my privacy—for obvious reasons.”
Rae lifted her brows at that. It struck her as curious that no name had come to Penelope’s mind at all. Or perhaps one had, and Penelope simply was not ready to say it aloud. Still, Rae was nearly certain there was at least one gentleman Penelope might be considering. She had seen how Penelope lost herself in romance novels, how she daydreamed of companionship, and longed for children one day. Rae wanted to help her have that.
“Then a new look is just the thing,” Genevieve said with a smile, draping a length of lilac fabric over Penelope’s shoulder.
“Perfect. I shall also need a mask and a costume for the masquerade ball.”
“That was going to be my next order of business…” Genevieve said, letting out a deep sigh. “Your mother has already put in her requests for the masquerade, and she has you listed for a leprechaun costume.”
“A leprechaun?” Penelope repeated slowly, drawing out each syllable. “I—no. No. Genevieve, no.”
“I am on your side, chérie. We can do far, far better than that.”
“I cannot believe her,” Penelope said, still bristling. “She truly wishes me to rot away alone by her side forever.”
“Not under my watch,” Genevieve replied with a smile. “Now, what is your choice of costume?”
Penelope fell silent, considering. Rae, meanwhile, had been devising a plan of her own.
“I believe I have the perfect option,” Rae finally spoke, her voice confident. “If I may, Miss Penelope.”
Penelope smiled at her through the mirror and nodded in agreement.
—
Lord Reginald Fife stood in his drawing room before the mirror as his costume for the masquerade ball was fitted. He was not entirely certain how he had allowed Hughes to persuade him into wearing a full costume rather than the simple black mask he had originally planned, but it had seemed important to his valet’s mother, Mrs. Hughes. If serving as her model brought her happiness, he was more than willing to oblige.
Mrs. Hughes had been a devoted companion to his mother, Eleanor, and a wonderful role model for his younger sister, Angela. Over time, Lord Fife had also come to appreciate her keen eye for fabric and silks—an expertise that had ultimately influenced his recent investments in textiles.
“Be still, my lord. I do not wish to poke you with the pin,” Mrs. Hughes said, her voice stern yet caring in that singular way only she possessed.
“Perhaps it would be wise to allow the tailor to handle this part,” Hughes offered politely.
Lord Fife raised a brow, already anticipating his valet’s punishment. He found the bickering between mother and son endlessly amusing.
“If the tailor had done the job properly the first time, I would not be here making all these adjustments,” she replied, as though stating the obvious—and she was not wrong.
“It seems a tad improper for you to be touching His Lordship like that,” Hughes whispered rashly.
Mrs. Hughes scoffed and laughed in return. “Is that your duty now, standing there like a mōsō bamboo, ensuring I do not compromise Lord Fife? You do your job then, and allow me to do mine.”
Hughes sighed, and Lord Fife chuckled. They never failed to entertain him.
“I appreciate your concern for my virtue, Hughes,” Lord Fife replied with a grin before turning his attention back to the mirror. “I confess I could not see your vision when you first proposed this costume Mrs. Hughes, but it is coming together quite nicely.”
“I believe it is perfect for you, my lord,” Mrs. Hughes replied proudly. “Albeit, you are a very distinguished man, and it does not take much to make you look good.”
Lord Fife caught Hughes’s reflection in the mirror and saw him searching for an escape route, the desire to disappear etched plainly in his eyes. He chuckled again, quietly flattered by her praise.
“I am curious as to why you chose a fox,” he said. “Am I to assume you find me sly and cunning?”
Mrs. Hughes frowned and dismissed the notion at once. “There are many interpretations—foxes are worshipped by some and feared by others. The ancient Chinese admired the red fox for its intelligence and loyalty. They say that following a fox’s tracks ensures safe passage across a frozen lake, for they can hear the water moving beneath the ice. And when a fox senses its death approaching, it turns its head toward its den, for it never forgets its place of birth.”
“That is a lovely sentiment, Mrs. Hughes. I fear here in London I shall be seen as a trickster, however.”
“Well. I could—”
“And as you have said before, it is perfect,” he reassured her with a smile.
Truthfully, it suited him rather well. It was how some already saw him, and now he would simply have the mask and costume to match. He cared only that one person, in particular, would see him beyond it.
—
A couple of days later, Rae was helping Penelope get ready for the masquerade ball. She could sense that her mistress was nervous, but Rae was determined to make her feel confident in her costume. Genevieve had truly outdone herself with the intricate, sparkling gown and mask, bringing Rae’s vision to life. Penelope had been quiet for most of the day, and Rae knew that meant her mind was anything but silent. She brushed Penelope’s hair gently when she finally spoke.
“I should like to try something a little different tonight,” Penelope said shakily, lifting a pamphlet for Rae to see.
Rae bent down to examine the picture more closely and smiled. “That will look splendid, Miss.”
“Thank you, Rae.”
“Are you excited for tonight?” Rae asked as she began to style Penelope’s hair.
“I am. It is nice that it will be a masquerade ball. I am counting on the Ton to be extra scandalous and daring for Lady Whistledown.”
Rae raised her brow slightly. “I thought you were serious about finding a husband this season. Unless you are looking for a footman or a valet, you cannot linger behind columns where the staff gossip.”
Penelope was taken aback by Rae’s forwardness, but impressed all the same. “I surely am serious about that, but I still need to write. Especially now that I have purchased all these dresses.”
“If you marry a lord, you would not have to buy anything yourself,” Rae added liltingly.
“Miss Rae! I thought you were more supportive of a woman being independent,” Penelope joked.
“Until the game changes, I reckon we must make the best of the cards we are dealt, Miss. Let a man spoil you with a fully staffed home, new gowns, and all the treasures we are told not to lay up for ourselves on this earth. You should write your column for pleasure, not necessity.”
Penelope smiled and nodded. “You do have a point. It is simply difficult to come off the wall once you are on it.”
“The wall is fine. Just not behind a column, I beg of you,” Rae teased. “And must I truly remind you that you already have the attention of at least one eligible bachelor?”
“Rae…” Penelope sighed, rambling a little. “He is… I cannot…”
“It has been a few months now. If you are ready to marry, you are ready to reconsider it.”
Penelope looked down at her lap, fidgeting with her fingers, falling quiet once more.
Rae grinned, satisfied, knowing that Penelope’s mind was at work again.
—
Lord Fife was sipping a drink, one hand in his pocket and the other lifting a champagne flute to his mouth as he observed the crowd. He amused himself by guessing how many people he could identify based on their costumes. He was just about to criticize how obvious most of them were—though, admittedly, he was dressed as a fox. A very sleek one, if he might say so himself. Mrs. Hughes had done a splendid job and could give any tailor in town a run for their money.
His eyes continued to search the room, sharp and analytical. He had seen nearly everyone—except the one person he was truly looking for. When he set his empty glass down and glanced toward the trellis-lined wall adorned with flowers, he saw her.
Her dress shimmered in iridescent shades of purple, blue, and green. Her hair cascaded forward over one shoulder, while the back of the gown mimicked butterfly wings—the fabric loose and gathered at her wrists so that when she lifted her arms, the illusion came alive. He drew a steadying breath and straightened his waistcoat before walking toward her, silently amused by how the scene must appear to an observer across the room: the fox chasing the butterfly.
It felt like a coincidence.
Far too much of one.
It felt like a setup.
“Let me guess,” he said, clearing his throat as he came to a stop beside Penelope, hands clasped behind his back. “Miss Rae suggested the butterfly costume.”
“How did you—” She began, then turned to him. “Oh. Very subtle. Seems like something Miss Rae and Mr. Hughes would concoct."
“Miss Rae and Mr. Hughes, indeed.” He repeated solemnly.
“I thought the purpose of a masquerade was to conceal one’s identity, not advertise it.” Penelope said, biting back a smile as she took in his attire.
“What if my advertisement is my concealment?” he murmured, leaning just close enough to flirt with impropriety. “Perhaps I have no interest in letting people believe I am better than what they already see. Except you.”
“Why?” She asked, intrigued. “Why let everyone think you are someone you are not?”
“I thought you, of all people, would understand.”
Lord Fife watched her icy blue eyes roll behind the butterfly mask. Months ago he had followed her after the Featherington ball ended, with the intent of asking permission to court her. When he saw Penelope entering a carriage when the ball had been at her own home, it felt suspicious. And it was her carriage’s path that led him to the printer, to the truth of Lady Whistledown. He then confronted her right there in the alley, laying bare his intentions with even greater conviction upon his new discovery.
But she had been too hurt to believe him, or even to hear him. The wound Colin’s careless words left behind was fresh, and she blamed Fife for drawing it out of him. He cursed himself often for not waiting longer, for letting his impatience and excitement override his better judgment. The rejection had been deserved.
During the off-season, he wrote to Penelope. He told her that if she needed time, he would give it freely. That he would wait.
Patiently, now.
Until she gave in to him.
“The pirate keeps staring your way,” Lord Fife pointed out with revulsion.
“He would not be looking if he knew it was me.”
“I assure you, he knows it is you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You could be wearing a blonde wig and he would still know it is you, Miss Featherington.”
She looked up at him, confused, and he smirked back—his gaze lingering a moment too long at the edge of her bodice, where her perfectly round, voluptuous curves were on tantalizing display, like dessert behind glass. There was only one woman in polite society blessed quite like Penelope was. Any man would recognize her.
“Would you care for a turn around the room?” He said softly, offering his arm. “I assume you are working tonight.”
She hesitated for a second before taking it. “I promised Miss Rae I would enjoy the ball instead of working. But it is not as though the gentlemen are lining up to dance or speak with me.”
Lord Fife raised both brows. “Why not both? My company can be quite enjoyable, if you give me a chance. And I have excellent gossip, too.” He leaned in again so only she could hear.
Penelope blushed, then tried to recover by brushing it aside. “You have good gossip?”
He chuckled and searched the room until his eyes landed on Lord Arliss. He tilted his head to the side lightly, and Penelope looked in the same direction.
“Do you think the fairy with Lord Arliss is his mistress?” He asked slyly.
“He would have to be rather bold to bring her right under the nose of Her Majesty,” she replied baffled, “and his wife.”
“It seems that he is,” Fife said mildly. “I am fairly certain she is an actress.”
Penelope paused, studying the fairy more closely. “Goodness. You are right.”
Lord Fife smirked, pleased to see her smile bloom and her eyes sparkle in response.
—
After the ball, Penelope could not sleep. She changed into one of her new nightdresses and a silk robe, then sat by the window, gazing out at the dark night sky. She kept reliving the evening in her mind—the easy conversation with Lord Fife, the way his arm had felt so firm beneath her hand.
When he found her at the printer all those months ago, she had been certain he would deliver her head to the Queen on a silver platter. At the time, she knew very little about him, only that he was one of Anthony’s friends from Oxford and that he was considered a rake of sorts, though she was not quite sure what kind. That was one of the curious things about Lord Fife: people spoke of him often, but never enough for her to truly have him figured out.
Yet contrary to her expectations, he did not betray her. Instead, he asked to court her, which only confused her further. At the time, it had been impossible for her to say yes. She had been heartbroken, and she blamed him when she should have been blaming Colin. If anything, she ought to have thanked Lord Fife for revealing Colin’s true feelings about her.
The letters he sent during the off-season surprised her even more, but something still held her back. It was difficult to believe that someone like him could be genuinely interested in someone like her. For a while, she told herself he must have lost a wager and been challenged to court her, like something straight out of a novel.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Miss Penelope. Someone is here for you.”
Penelope looked at Rae, confused—but judging by Rae’s smile, she knew exactly who it was. She went downstairs and made her way to the gardens, wrapping her robe more tightly around herself, her arms folded to hold it in place.
“You should not be here at this hour,” she said, skipping all the pleasantries.
“You were the one who told me to come at this time. Am I late?” He replied, both amused and confused.
“I was the one who told you?” She said, even more confused.
He opened the small envelope he was holding, glanced at the note inside, and laughed softly, shaking his head. “Miss Rae and Mr. Hughes.”
Penelope rolled her eyes but laughed. “They make quite the pair. They seem to be at every crime scene these days.”
“Mmm. It makes me highly suspicious that they have some ulterior motive behind their matchmaking efforts.”
“It would seem that way.” Penelope shook her head.
She had suspected that Rae and Mr. Hughes had grown quite close as of recently. Certainly living under the same roof and working for the same household would make it more convenient for them.
“I should probably leave, then. I only visit ladies late at night when solicited by them,” he offered lightly, and Penelope swallowed.
“Do you receive many invitations like this?” she asked, with a tinge of jealous curiosity.
“A gentleman does not kiss and tell, Miss Featherington.”
Penelope smiled at that. Perhaps he was the capital-R type of Rake after all.
“Have a good night, Lord Fife.”
“Sweet dreams, Miss Featherington.” He bowed to her.
When he turned to leave, Mr. Hughes and Rae were standing there, arms crossed.
“Are you not forgetting something, my lord?” Mr. Hughes asked firmly, though a grin betrayed him.
Penelope gasped in surprise, and Lord Fife immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from Mr. Hughes’s view.
“The pair of you have done enough.” Lord Fife said, facing the two culprits. “You can stop now whatever it is you are trying to do. We can make our own decisions.”
Rae and Mr. Hughes exchanged looks and smirks belonging to people far too confident they would keep their positions after this.
“As you wish, my lord,” Rae replied brightly. “You and Miss Penelope should be able to choose what you want. At present, your options are either to begin courting tomorrow—or I shall fetch Lady Featherington to inquire about a fox that invaded the gardens while chasing a butterfly.”
Penelope was stunned by Rae’s audacity and rendered speechless for a moment. Lord Fife appeared to be similarly affected.
“No one knows you two better than we do,” Mr. Hughes added, looking between Penelope and Lord Fife before turning fully to his employer. “And I am growing rather tired of your sulking, my lord.”
“I do not sulk, I—” Lord Fife began defensively, but Rae stepped in, sparing him further embarrassment.
“And you, Miss, received many letters over the past few months,” she said gently to Penelope. “Yet there was only one person you ever replied to.”
Lord Fife turned to Penelope again, still positioning himself so no one behind him could see her. “Is that true?”
“That I have received many letters?” She attempted to redirect.
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes, letting out a dry laugh. “No. Is it true that you only replied to me?”
“It is,” she whispered, bracing herself.
“Then allow me to court you outside of parchment and ink,” he said softly. “My heart is set on you, Miss Featherington. It has been waiting for you. I know I should have waited, and should not have approached you so soon after the last ball—but I am glad now that I did. You will never have to wonder whether I would have noticed you before you turned into the most beautiful butterfly.”
He held her gaze steadily. “I have seen you all along. It is you I wish to make laugh and chase the hurt from. It is you I wish to whisper the sweetest and most indecorous words to.”
Penelope smiled quietly as their eyes met. A shiver ran down her spine as she realized this was what it truly meant to be seen. Out of all the smiles in the Ton, he wanted only hers. There were so many eyes upon him, yet he wanted to meet only hers. How fortunate she felt in that moment, to finally understand what it meant to desire someone who desired her in return.
She accepted his courtship without further delay.
And her goal of marrying that season was achieved shortly thereafter—thanks, in no small part, to Miss Rae and Mr. Hughes.
