Chapter Text
Penelope Featherington stood before the looking glass, her mother’s voice a distant hum in the background. Her dress was an off-white shade, almost grey, with golden embroidery that was meant to lend her an air of sophistication but instead would make her feel like a pale ghost among the sea of more vibrant debutantes. Indeed, today was the day she was to be presented to the Queen, a year earlier than she ought to be.
The thought made her stomach twist.
It was only natural, her mother had reasoned, that all three Featherington girls should enter society together. What else was she to do? Wait another year just to appease Penelope’s nerves?
Portia Featherington had laughed off her youngest daughter’s hesitation with an air of exasperation, fussing with the greyish off-white fabric of her gown. “You should be grateful, girl. To be presented before one’s time is an honor. It means you have potential. It means you are ready.”
But Penelope was not ready.
She had spent years accepting the fact that she was easily overlooked, that she was not the sort to turn heads or command a room. Unlike her sisters, she had not perfected the simpering smiles or the art of flirtation. She had not longed for this moment the way most girls did. And yet, here she was, swathed in layers of fabric too bright, too stiff, too… wrong.
She had dreamed, on occasion, of stepping into the world on her own terms. Of making an impression not through artifice but through wit, through intelligence, through something that was wholly hers. But dreams were luxuries that did not belong to girls like her.
With a sharp tug at her sleeve, her mother propelled her forward. “Do not dawdle, Penelope! We must not keep the Queen waiting.”
Outside, the Bridgertons were already gathering, their presence an effortless command of attention. Penelope’s heart skipped as her eyes found Eloise, her dearest friend, the one person who understood what a nightmare all of this was. The Bridgerton house was a mere stone’s throw away from her own, yet it felt like an entirely different world: one of warmth and laughter, of lightness she could never quite grasp.
As the Featherington carriage rolled towards them down the street, she could not help but watch the Bridgertons with wide-eyed wonder. She barely noticed her mother’s sigh of impatience, or the way one of the servants had to pull her back so she would not lean too far. It was only when Eloise caught her eye that she managed to break free from her trance, her friend’s expression equal parts amused and exasperated. Eloise, too, was being dragged into this ridiculous charade, though she would not be forced into presentation until the following season.
At least she had time.
Penelope did not.
The palace was dazzling.
The ceilings stretched impossibly high, adorned with intricate carvings, gilded with gold that caught the candlelight in a warm, flickering glow. Vast marble floors stretched out beneath them, polished to a mirror-like sheen. The very walls seemed to hum with centuries of history, as if the weight of a thousand secrets lingered in the ornate moldings and the deep crimson of the velvet drapes.
Penelope’s breath caught as she stepped inside, momentarily forgetting the purpose of her visit as her eyes trailed upward. For a moment, she imagined what it would be like to live in such a place, to walk these halls without the weight of expectation pressing down upon her.
A sharp nudge from her mother jolted her back to reality. “Do not gape like a fish, Penelope!” her mother hissed under her breath. “And for heaven’s sake, stand up straight.”
Penelope’s spine snapped upright on command, though her hands clenched at her sides. She stole a glance toward Eloise Bridgerton, who stood amongst the gathered crowd with her family, observing the ceremony rather than participating in it. Eloise’s expression was one of open bewilderment, as if she, too, could not fathom why they were all here, dressed like dolls, paraded before the Queen like prized mares at auction. When their eyes met, Eloise offered a fleeting, wry smile.
Penelope exhaled, feeling slightly less alone.
The presentation began.
One by one, the young ladies of the ton stepped forward, offering their curtsies before the Queen, who looked impressively unimpressed. Her jeweled headdress shimmered with every minute tilt of her head, and she observed each presentation with the air of a woman who had seen it all before and found it tedious.
Soon enough, her family was announced.
“Miss Prudence Featherington, Miss Philippa Featherington, and Miss Penelope Featherington… All presented by their mother, the right honorable Lady Featherington.”
They moved forward in a cluster, their gowns rustling, their movements strained by the oppressive tightness of their corsets. Prudence and Philippa went first, their curtsies rehearsed but stiff, their painted smiles strained. Then it was Penelope’s turn.
Her heart pounded in her ears. She stepped forward, willed her legs not to wobble, and bent into a curtsy. Not too deep, not too shallow, just as she had been instructed. She did not dare look the Queen in the eye, but she could feel her gaze—a single glance, a flick of her wrist, and it was done.
Dismissed.
Penelope barely had time to register it before she heard a strangled gasp beside her.
Prudence swayed. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she collapsed to the ground in a rustling heap of silk and lace.
Gasps echoed through the hall. A murmur of amusement rippled through the crowd.
Penelope did not dare turn her head to see her mother’s expression, but she could imagine it well enough.
Then, the attention shifted.
The name Bridgerton was called, and all else faded away.
Daphne entered, poised, radiant, ethereal in her grace. The room hushed, as if collectively leaning forward to watch. Her curtsy was effortless, her beauty undeniable. She was everything a debutante ought to be, everything the Queen was looking for. And when Queen Charlotte stood, took Daphne’s chin in her gloved hand, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the room erupted into whispers.
She had been chosen.
The Jewel of the Season.
Of course, it would be Daphne. A Bridgerton. It was always the Bridgertons who shone.
Penelope wanted to be happy for her: Daphne was kind, after all, and she had never been anything but polite. But a small, selfish part of her ached. She was reminded, yet again, that she was not meant to be seen. She had simply been another girl in another forgettable dress, dismissed with a flick of the Queen’s hand.
Later, as they filed out of the palace, Penelope cast another glance at Eloise, searching for some kind of confirmation that the world had not just shifted beneath her feet. That she had not been irreversibly marked as someone meant to be overlooked.
Eloise, at least, looked just as baffled as she felt.
It was a small comfort.
But as Penelope settled into the carriage, she could not shake the feeling that she had been thrust into something far bigger than herself. That this world was not built for her. And that if she wished to have any say in it at all, she would have to find another way to make herself heard.
A whisper of an idea took root in her mind then. Something daring, something reckless.
She thought of the Queen’s reaction to Daphne, of how a single opinion could shift the course of an entire season. She thought of the power words could hold if wielded correctly.
Yes, she would never shine like a Bridgerton.
But perhaps she did not need to.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS
Tuesday, April 6, 1813
According to the much heralded poet Lord Byron of all bitches, dead or alive, a scribbling woman is the most canine. If that should be true, then this author would like to show you her teeth.
My name is Lady Whistledown. You do not know me, and rest assured, you never shall. But be forewarned, dear reader: I certainly know you.
I can see what is happening behind the closed doors better than those behind them. Do not try to close yours tighter to protect your privacy as I might already be inside.
No need to panic, I will be fair, my gentle reader.
Today marked the grandest event of the season: the presentation of this year’s crop of eligible young ladies before our esteemed Queen. And while some shone bright, others, regrettably, barely flickered.
But as we know, the brighter a lady shines, the faster she may burn.
The ton has already turned its gaze toward one Miss Bridgerton, whose debut was nothing short of remarkable. With a single nod from the Queen, she has ascended to the pinnacle of desirability, for no one attracts notice like a Bridgerton. But, dear reader, we must ask ourselves: how precarious is such a pedestal? For history has shown us that a lady’s fall from grace is often swifter than her rise.
As for the rest? Well, let us say that not all flames burn with equal brilliance.
Pray, it is the Queen who shall keep the fashionable world apprised of a lady’s single most valuable and desirable asset: her reputation. As such, any lady failing to secure the court’s glowing endorsement shall endure the consequences. And not just from Her Majesty, but from me. For this author has at her disposal a most powerful weapon that even the Queen lacks. My pen.
A weapon this author shall wield most keenly. No matter who you are. Or what your name may be. But have no fear, gentle reader. Every transgression of politeness will be recorded.
Hiding behind this paper is a brave person who can protect herself with a pen. My intention is not to shed any blood but to shed some light on the true events in our society. My words, though might be hurtful, are not meant to be mean. They are meant to be fair. So if your conscience is clear, then have nothing to fear, my dear reader. But be prepared to hear the truth about yourself and your kin and do not be surprised if there is something that you do not know.
So, shall we begin?
Penelope Featherington leaned back in her chair, the candlelight flickering across the fresh ink on the crisp parchment before her. She read the words once more, lips curling into the smallest of smiles.
Her fingers ran over the edge of the paper, the weight of it grounding her. The Queen may not have deemed her worthy of attention, but society would soon have no choice but to listen. They had all dismissed her, overlooked her, underestimated her.
No longer.
She straightened the pages, aligning them with the utmost precision before setting them down. There it was. Her weapon, her armor, her voice. A document no one would dare ignore.
Her heart thudded in exhilaration as she folded the papers carefully, securing them with a neat ribbon. The house was quiet, the rest of the family retired, but she knew there was no time to waste. Her window of opportunity was narrow, and hesitation was not an option. She had taken too many years to find her power, she would not squander it now.
Rising from the desk, she moved to the corner of the room where her cloak hung, dark and unassuming, perfectly suited for the task at hand. The moment she pulled it around her shoulders, she felt a shift. A transformation. She was no longer merely Penelope Featherington, the overlooked wallflower in garish gowns. No, she was something more now.
She was Lady Whistledown .
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pinned the hood into place, ensuring her face would remain shadowed. Then, with a determined breath, she stepped toward the door, cracking it open with practiced care. The hallway was dark, save for the dim glow of dying embers in the sconces. She listened intently. Silence. Perfect.
With careful steps, she descended the stairs, pressing herself against the bannister to avoid the creak in the third step. She had mapped out her escape many times before, rehearsed it in her mind during long, restless nights when she would sneak out to meet Eloise.
She slipped through the drawing-room, past the grand mirror that had reflected her insignificance for so many years, and reached for the side door. The lock clicked open under her careful hands. The night air was crisp against her flushed skin as she stepped outside.
London stretched before her, dark and endless. The distant clatter of carriage wheels echoed against the cobbled streets, the occasional murmur of laughter drifting from a passing reveler. But none of it concerned her. She had a destination, a purpose.
The printer.
She pressed the papers against her chest, feeling the reassuring weight of her words. She had planned for this. Every step was accounted for. She knew the route, had memorized the safest paths, and ensured she carried just enough coin to pay for the first print run.
Her pace quickened as she melted into the shadows, every footstep a whisper against the stones. The world did not see her, did not expect her to be here. And that was her greatest advantage.
They would see her soon enough.
Lady Whistledown was ready to make her grand debut.
Benedict lounged in his chair, one arm draped over the side, a cup of tea growing cold on the table beside him. The drawing room was bright with the afternoon sun, pouring in through the tall windows and illuminating the gilded edges of the furniture. It was a room meant for elegance, refinement, and proper conversation. A pleasant enough scene, if not for the fact that Eloise had just shoved a piece of newsprint under his nose, her eyes alight with mischief.
Eloise, ever the reluctant participant in all things traditionally feminine, held the crisp gossip sheet up for all to see. “The first issue of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers has arrived, it was distributed today without charge” she declared in a mock-dramatic voice, unfolding the paper with an exaggerated flourish.
“Without charge?” Violet interrupted, aghast. “What kind of author…?”
“This one is different,” Eloise cut in. “It lists subjects by name. Now that is truly different.”
“Lady Whistledown …” Francesca echoed, her brows furrowing.
“Did you say Lady Whistledown ?” Daphne leaned in, intrigued.
Eloise nodded. “The author.”
Violet, ever the composed matriarch sighed. “Do we know a Lady Whistledown ?”
“Surely Lady Whistledown cannot be her true name,” Benedict added dryly.
Hyacinth, tired of the back and forth hovered near Eloise, standing on her toes as she tried to peer over her elder sister’s shoulder, making a grab for the paper. “Let me see! What does it say? Read it aloud, Eloise!”
Benedict watched with mild amusement as his younger sisters leaned in. Hyacinth all but bounced with excitement, while Francesca, seated demurely beside their mother, merely raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Violet, their mother, lifted her teacup with practiced grace and took a sip, though Benedict did not miss the way her lips twitched: half disapproval, half intrigue.
“Come now,” Hyacinth urged, “before we all perish from anticipation!”
Eloise cleared her throat and began to read. “It appears our dear London is to be entertained by a new and anonymous chronicler of high society. A writer of exceptional wit, no doubt.” She glanced up from the paper, smirking. “At least, she thinks so.”
Benedict chuckled. “Someone who fancies herself clever enough to remain undiscovered while spilling all the ton’s most scandalous secrets? I should like to see how long she lasts.”
“She writes quite well,” Eloise mused, “much better than the usual society scribblers.” She scanned the paper further before adding. “She loathes the fact we have been named alphabetically, oldest to youngest…”
“Your father and I found it orderly,” Violet supplied.
“Lady Whistledown finds it banal,” Eloise countered, her lips twitching with amusement. “As for the debutantes of this season, one name already stands apart. She has called Daphne the season’s incomparable . She calls you a… diamond of the first water. How lovely.”
Hyacinth turned to Daphne, beaming. “You absolutely sparkled, sister!”
Daphne, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the discussion, sighed and placed her hands in her lap. “Come now, I merely simpered and minced in a pretty dress like everyone else.”
“Not exactly like everyone else,” Francesca interjected with a knowing look. “The Queen hardly deigns to notice most debutantes, let alone name them flawless .”
Benedict watched as a faint pink hue touched Daphne’s cheeks. She had never been one to seek attention, yet there was no denying she had already become the center of it. He could only imagine what it must be like, to be thrust into such a position overnight.
“It was a most gracious remark,” Violet said with pride, though her sharp eyes flicked to Daphne with a knowing glint. “You should not dismiss it so easily.”
Daphne’s hands twisted in her lap. “It was unexpected, that is all.”
“Flawless,” Benedict mused, tilting his head. “And yet, I distinctly recall you nearly tripping over your hem when you curtsied.”
Daphne shot him a glare, though there was no real venom in it. “I did no such thing.”
“You did stumble a little,” Eloise supplied, grinning mischievously.
Hyacinth gasped. “Did you? ”
Daphne groaned, rubbing her temple. “It was the briefest misstep, and no one noticed.”
“Clearly, Whistledown did not,” Benedict teased. “She may be insightful, but she is not that perceptive.”
The sisters giggled while Violet sighed, though Benedict caught the way her lips twitched upward.
As the conversation turned toward other gossip from the paper, Benedict found himself watching Daphne carefully. She played the part of the perfect debutante well, but he knew his sister. Beneath her practiced poise, there was something else, perhaps uncertainty, perhaps the weight of expectation settling too heavily upon her shoulders.
It was a feeling he understood all too well.
Still, he smirked, raising his teacup. “To Daphne, the diamond of the season. May she survive the trials of courtship with her flawlessness intact.”
Daphne rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched with amusement as their mother raised her own cup. “To Daphne.”
The sisters echoed the toast, and even Eloise begrudgingly lifted her teacup, though she muttered, “I much prefer a toast to Lady Whistledown. I think I rather like her.”
Benedict chuckled to himself. Whoever this mysterious writer was, she had certainly stirred something in his sister. And if nothing else, the season had just become much more interesting.
“Although I wish she had not said such things about the Featheringtons.” Eloise added, tapping a thoughtful finger on her chin.
Benedict found himself leaning forward slightly. “What does she say?”
Eloise pursed her lips. “That Lady Featherington is quite desperate to marry off all of her daughters this season and that their presentation lacked… shall we say, refinement.” She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her, much to their mother’s chagrin. “I shall need to visit Penelope.”
Benedict frowned. His mind flickered to his sister’s closest friend. He imagined she must be rather mortified by such public scrutiny.
He sipped his tea, deep in thought. It was easy enough to laugh off Lady Whistledown ’s remarks when they were directed at themselves. But what of those who had no defense? His gaze drifted to Eloise, already scheming her next course of action, and he felt a small prickle of curiosity.
Who exactly was this Lady Whistledown? And what did she have in store for them?
That, he thought, was worth keeping an eye on.
The night was draped in elegance as the grand chandeliers of the Danbury ball cast their golden light across the packed ballroom. The laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint rustling of silk dresses blended into the soft hum of the ton’s whispered conversations. Benedict Bridgerton stood at the edge of the crowd, his attention split between the people around him and the delicate task of being a steady presence for his sister, Daphne. Her debut had been his family’s most highly anticipated events of the season, and Benedict knew the weight that was on her shoulders. The eyes of London were on her, as they always were for any Bridgerton.
Daphne looked radiant, a soft smile on her lips as she charmed the noblemen vying for her attention. She was nothing short of a diamond: radiant, confident, and, much to Benedict’s discomfort, the focus of nearly every nobleman’s attention.
As one of her elder brothers, he was meant to stand by her, to observe, to guard her from the prying eyes and meddling tongues that made London society a jungle of delicate social webs. He could not help but feel suffocated by the endless parade of insipid conversations and forced smiles. He found himself subtly slipping away from the center of the ballroom, hoping to escape the seemingly endless stream of introductions, compliments, and overly eager proposals. It was not that he disliked these events entirely. It was just the noise, the pretense, the complete lack of anything real.
His gaze flicked to the doorways, the corners of the room, seeking any semblance of an escape from the endless stream of familiar faces and conversations. And as he moved toward the edge of the room, trying to blend into the shadows, his peripheral vision caught the unmistakable figure of Lady Danbury making her way through the crowd, her sharp gaze cutting through the crowd like a blade.
Tall, imposing, and no doubt with some new social artillery to deploy, she was approaching him with a look in her eye that sent an immediate chill down his spine. She was as formidable as a hawk circling in search of its prey, and he, unfortunately, seemed to be the target. Benedict could not decide if she was looking for him intentionally or if he had simply been unlucky enough to be within her line of sight, but either way, the prospect of conversation with her was one he was keen to avoid right now.
In a panic, Benedict did the only thing he could think to do in that moment: he turned swiftly, eyes darting across the ballroom in search of a refuge, an escape, and as if fate itself had granted him a moment of mercy, his eyes landed on her.
Penelope Featherington was making her way through the edges of the ballroom, just off to the side, near a pillar.
Benedict wasted no time in making his way towards her. Penelope was, at the very least, a familiar face. A safe harbor amidst the treacherous waters of the ton. She had always been a family friend, a presence he associated more with Eloise than himself, but that did not matter now. She was standing alone, seemingly unnoticed, which made her the perfect person to approach. If he played it well, Lady Danbury might simply overlook him altogether.
As he reached her side, he noticed something he had not expected: she was tense. Though she kept her posture composed, there was a stiffness to the way she held herself, her gloved hands clenched tightly before she swiftly forced them apart. She had been moving toward the edge of the ballroom with a determined pace, and it occurred to him that perhaps she had been seeking an escape of her own.
“Miss Featherington,” he greeted with an easy smile, his voice lowered so as not to draw unwanted attention. “Might I say, you are an oasis in an otherwise overwhelming desert.”
Penelope blinked up at him, clearly surprised by his sudden presence. For a moment, he saw a flicker of something in her eyes, an assessment, perhaps, of whether his company was truly welcome. And then, just as quickly, she straightened and returned his smile, though hers was more guarded.
“Overwhelming, Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice. “I had thought these events were as natural to your family as breathing.”
He let out a quiet chuckle. “You mistake me for my brother, Colin. He thrives in these settings. I, on the other hand, would rather endure a thousand hours of Lady Whistledown ’s gossip than another moment of forced pleasantries.”
Penelope’s lips twitched, though she quickly masked her amusement. “You must not mind gossip much if you are willing to suffer it over a simple conversation. I am afraid, dear sir, that the ton would not find your priorities very respectable.”
“Respectability is overrated,” Benedict said without hesitation, his grin widening as he caught the soft laugh that escaped her lips. “Besides, there is something rather entertaining about reading Whistledown ’s latest dispatches and knowing which details have been embellished beyond reason.”
“Ah, so you are a connoisseur of scandal sheets, then?” Penelope arched a brow. “That does not surprise me in the least.”
“And why is that?” he asked, intrigued.
“Because you have the air of a man who enjoys mischief. Not outright scandal. No, no, that would be too troublesome. But mischief? Certainly.”
Benedict pressed a hand to his chest in mock affront. “Miss Featherington, you wound me. I am a paragon of virtue.”
“A paragon of virtue who just admitted to indulging in gossip,” Penelope countered, tilting her head. “How ever will your family survive the disgrace?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “If my family has survived Anthony’s scowling, Colin’s overt enthusiasm, and Daphne’s army of suitors, I suspect they will manage my minor indiscretions just fine.”
She hummed in agreement, allowing the conversation to flow with ease. As their discussion continued, he noticed her relax, the tension in her shoulders easing as they spoke about the absurdities of the ball. The way Lord Berbrooke had already made a fool of himself by spilling champagne on a lady’s gown, the way Lady Cowper held court as if she were royalty. He had always known Penelope to be sharp, but now he was witnessing just how truly observant she was. She wielded her wit with care, her words clever but never cruel. He found himself enjoying their banter more than he had expected.
But then, curiosity got the better of him.
“I must ask,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Your mother is introducing you this season, is she not? You could have waited and debuted with Eloise next year. Why now?”
Something shifted in Penelope’s expression, something subtle but unmistakable. For a moment, she hesitated, and then she let out a soft scoff.
“I am not sure you would call it a choice. My mother had no interest in delaying. She seems determined to wed all three of us as quickly as possible, and I suppose she thought we stood a better chance if we were all thrown into the fray together.”
Benedict frowned. “That must be difficult, navigating all of this on your own.”
Penelope let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, I am hardly suffering as much as you think I am. No one spares me any attention, not unless my mother forces them to. I am doomed to remain at the fringes, which is both a blessing and a curse.”
Benedict followed her gaze as it flickered towards Daphne, who was now engaged in conversation with yet another hopeful suitor. His brother, Anthony, stood nearby, his arms crossed, looking positively murderous as he watched over her every move.
“At the very least,” Penelope continued, “I do not have to endure what your sister does. Your brother seems ready to draw swords if necessary.”
Benedict sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He does seem to be taking his role as guardian a little too seriously, does he not? Perhaps I should remind him that dueling all of London’s bachelors is not a requirement of being a viscount.”
“You should,” Penelope said dryly. “Before poor Daphne finds herself declared unmarriageable due to your brother’s... enthusiasm.”
Benedict made a mental note to have a word with Anthony the following day. He had no doubt that Daphne’s prospects would dwindle rapidly if his brother kept glowering at every eligible gentleman who so much as looked in her direction.
Feeling at ease, he turned back to Penelope and, without thinking much of it, said, “I am grateful, truly. You have saved me from Lady Danbury’s clutches. I do not know what scheme she had planned, but I had no desire to find out.”
He meant it as a jest, a lighthearted remark to continue their playful exchange, but the effect was immediate. Penelope’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and something unreadable flickered across her features before she schooled them into careful neutrality.
Of course. He had just confirmed what she likely already suspected, that he had only approached her for convenience. That had the circumstances been different, he would not have sought her out at all.
Benedict opened his mouth, ready to say something, anything, to amend his blunder, but Penelope was quicker. She straightened, her expression politely composed, and dipped into a small curtsy.
“If you will excuse me, sir, I believe I have lingered long enough.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.
Benedict watched her go, feeling an unfamiliar twist of regret in his chest. He had not meant to make her feel overlooked, and yet, somehow, he had managed to do just that. Before he could dwell on it further, however, he became aware of a looming presence beside him.
He turned, and there she was.
Lady Danbury.
He barely had time to curse under his breath before she fixed him with a knowing smile, her cane tapping lightly against the marble floor. “Benedict Bridgerton. How fortunate that I have found you.” She said, her tone loaded with a mix of amusement and challenge. “I see you have found a more interesting distraction than my ball.”
Benedict sighed, resigning himself to his fate.
It seemed his reprieve had come to an abrupt end.