Chapter Text
"My dear, you simply cannot comprehend the level of sophistication that horse racing requires.” Mr Pembroke swiped his hand over the beads of perspiration that gathered upon the wires of his mustache. “It is an arena where only the truly astute dare to venture. While you may see it as a mere game of chance, I, on the other hand, see the artistry behind it all." With a sweeping gesture, he painted his intent onto the canvas of the sky. However, rather than bring clarity, this only seemed to deepen the girl's perplexity. He paused, searching for a simpler way to convey the concept. "It requires a certain level of intuition that eludes the average mind, particularly of those who seek favorable returns."
Francesca had long been observing a flock of six ducklings peering over the river's edge, dipping their tiny bills to take sips of water. However, in overhearing the slight against her “average mind”, her attention swiftly returned to Mr Pembroke. "I must admit,” she pressed her lips into a polite smile, “the level of artistry that you speak of is something that I can only hope to aspire to. And as for ‘favorable returns’, I suppose it depends on whether one measures wealth in the accumulation of coin or by the joy derived from such ventures.” A ridge formed along her brow. “I am rather curious, in which currency have you found yourself dealing?"
“Erm - well,” Mr Pembroke’s lids fluttered with the rapid calculation of his total losses for the year. “By the joy, presently.” Clearing his throat, he grasped for his handkerchief, and for any thread of credibility to salvage the situation. “My forays have not always resulted in gains, but that is the price that one pays for being part of an elite circle. I take risks that others cannot fathom to take, simply because I possess the audacity to challenge fate itself.”
"How…dedicated,” she wrinkled her nose, “of you to remain so passionate about your forays, even when they are not in your favor.”
Failing to understand the irony in Miss Bridgerton's statement, Mr Pembroke preoccupied himself with the blotting of his temple. “If it is favorable returns that one seeks, it is within the realm of dog racing that lies the greater promise." He jammed the handkerchief back into a different pocket.
It required a concerted effort to block his incessant babbling; however, it was critical to do so if Francesca were to formulate her escape. The natural inclination, of course, was to seek the assistance of a nearby acquaintance, and fortuitously, there were not only acquaintances, but family, in the nearby tent.
"Dog races oftentimes exhibit a higher degree of predictability in comparison to their equine counterparts," Mr Pembroke's voice gradually reentered her consciousness. "The shorter careers of the canines, coupled with more frequent engagements, allow for sounder judgments based on more reliable indicators.”
The drapes fluttered akin to a lazy flag drifting on a summer day - a clashing contrast to the scene unfolding within. Violet Bridgerton had long disappeared with Eloise, unimaginably eager to coerce an introduction to a Mr Camden, a fine enough fellow by all accounts, but one who resided with his two aunts. Anthony was left with the task of herding the remaining occupants, including Hyacinth, whose grip on a scone he struggled to free, and Gregory, who barricaded himself behind the safety of Kate’s skirts. In fact, the only witness to her hapless predicament was none other than Kate's corgi, Newton, who could lamentably, offer no assistance.
“Intriguing indeed,” she mumbled. Vaguely recalling that the conversation had evolved from the racing of horses to the racing of dogs, she mustered her focus. Just because she found Mr Pembroke to be unstimulating, it did not excuse her from extending him the basic social courtesies. “Do you partake in dog racing, Mr Pembroke?”
A crease formed on his forehead as he pondered the most tactful words to employ. "While I do appreciate the spectacle of dog racing, I have not personally ventured into that realm. It's not that I fear dogs, of course," he was quick to add, although not convincingly, "but rather that I find myself more captivated by the elegance of horses."
Ears perking at the words "fear" and "dogs,” Francesca bit her lip and began sifting through the possibilities. All that would be required was one well-crafted question, one that would entangle Mr Pembroke into an extensive response. An easy enough task, all things considered. “Oh, indeed,” she leaned towards him, “horse racing is infinitely more elegant. Tell me, have you witnessed a particularly exciting race?”
His eyes lit up with delight. “But of course! The year was 1803, and the odds - stacked against me.”
Social courtesies be dammed, she diverted her attention back to the tent; this time, paying no heed to her relations, but to Newton. He sat as he always did, a mound of copper fur and corpulence, but with a curious cock to his expression. What was it that she had seen Kate do? Oh, yes! Raising her brow, Francesca began to tap upon her thigh, a calling sign for Newton to come.
However, Newton seemed to be taken aback by this newfound attention, for Francesca had never minded him before, and his furry head tilted in response.
“There will be a nice long walk - and perhaps a bone - as soon as my present predicament is solved,” she vowed in her head, tapping her thigh once more.
In a lackluster acceptance of this offer, Newton emitted a weary sigh and began to rise, wobbling a bit at first under the strain of the unexpected exertion, but eventually regaining his balance on all fours. He responded to the final tapping with a pitch forward against his restraint.
Feeling the tug, Kate looked down to the other end. Uncommonly apathetic, this sudden burst of energy was unusual for Newton. She began to scan their surroundings, half-expecting critical glances from other onlookers, but to her relief, she locked eyes with Francesca, whose desperation was palpable.
Pressing a hand to her stomach, Francesca released a sigh. “Oh, look! It appears my sister-in-law shall be joining us.”
As it was a common social gesture to acknowledge the arrival of a newcomer, Francesca was puzzled when Mr Pembroke made no effort to turn in Kate’s direction. She might have even granted him the benefit of the doubt, supposing he was deeply engrossed in his narrative to have heard her. However, his subsequent words shattered any doubt, as well as any goodwill that she might have offered the man. “How delightful,” he sniveled with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It will be a pleasure to have Lady Bridgerton's…esteemed…presence among us.”
Being that he hardly bothered to hide his contempt, Francesca penalized him with visible offense, crossing her arms. “I commend you for your graciousness, Mr Pembroke, and find that I quite agree with you.” Locking her eyes onto his, she challenged him to defend his remarks. “The viscountess possesses a remarkable knowledge of horse racing, and I daresay you may find her conversation on the subject quite enlightening, that is, if you intend to accumulate winnings in a currency other than joy."
If Kate was cognizant of the slight towards her (which, considering her astuteness, was highly likely), she gave no indication of it. Standing tall and dignified, she acknowledged Mr Pembroke with a gentle smile and a polite nod as he pretended not to notice her arrival.
Although Francesca’s ears tinged with a touch of crimson, she resolved not to be deterred by Mr Pembroke's frigid disregard for etiquette. Shielding Kate from further effects of the man's behavior, Francesca greeted her sister-in-law with a beam that rivaled the warmth of the sun. "Kate, do you remember Mr Pembroke?"
For a fleeting moment, Kate’s eyes softened in appreciation the defense. But they soon sharpened like a blade as she turned to Mr Pembroke for the kill. "I do remember Mr Pembroke. Although,” her smile remained steady, “it seems he may have momentarily forgotten me.”
The flare of his nostrils betrayed Mr Pembroke’s offense at being addressed in this manner by someone whom he did not consider deserving of their newfound standing in society. “I certainly did not - ” his voice faded as gaze latched with a sight that wrought a shiver down his spine. Before him posted a beast, four legs and pointed ears on guard, ready to pounce at any moment.
“Is something the matter, Mr Pembroke?” probed Francesca.
Already having been undermined by the viscountess' cutting remarks, Mr Pembroke made every effort to steady his voice, coughing several times until it no longer squeaked upon the first syllable. "Of - of course not, Miss Bridgerton."
"I am happy to hear this," Francesca voice dripped with a honeyed charm. “I was thinking that we three could take a promenade by the river. Well, we four, including Newton." Without wait for a response, she linked her arm with Kate's, and looked to her suitor with baited expectation.
Mr Pembroke, in turn, stared at her blankly.
"I believe it is customary for a gentleman to lead a dog when he is in the company of ladies.”
Incredulous at this preposterous suggestion, he took a step back. “Me?”
Francesca widened her eyes in reaction to Mr Pembroke's reluctance. "It is by no means an obligation, of course," she maintained her solemnity through a nudge at her ribs, "but you know how gossip travels in these elite circles. It would certainly be discussed if a gentleman did not to assist a lady in managing her pet."
The muscles in his jaw tensed and relaxed and tensed as he considered. “Of - ” he gulped, “of course. It would not do at all…to be discussed…in that manner.” After a few breaths, he extended his hand, somewhat shaky, to receive the leash.
Woof!
"Ah! Er - " Lest he be perceived as anything less than dignified, he swallowed the final note of his scream. "I - I forgot I had arranged to meet Mr…Mr..." In his panicked state, his cognition left the concoction of a name just beyond his capacity.
"Yes, well, do not let us keep you," Francesca graced with a pleasant smile.
Executing a lightning-quick bow, Mr Pembroke bid his farewell and scampered off like a startled hare.
When Francesca turned back to Kate, she noticed a lingering admiration in her gaze. Feeling a flush begin to creep across her cheeks, Francesca shrugged. "It’s rather a shame to be parted with such an engaging conversationalist.”
In an unsuccessful attempt to stifle the outburst, Kate brought a hand to cover her mouth. “I heard him discuss the weather for a half-hour at a dinner party once. Quite the feat, I must say."
Arm in arm, they dallied back to the tent, Francesca’s expression a display of blank resignation, while Kate performed an examination of the park, and more importantly, of its occupants. “You would think that the pinnacle of gatherings would be brimming with eligible bachelors, but they seem to be an elusive bunch."
A rather obvious point, Francesca chose not to respond.
As they rounded a bend, they came upon Lady Green and her daughter, Rebecca. Their eyes met in passing and exchanged a customary nod. While she and Francesca were not intimate friends, they had crossed paths at various social events, both victims of the same plight.
"Might you consider postponing your courtship until next season? It's highly probable that the number of eligible suitors will increase by then. Lady Whistledown suggests that Lord Melton is expected to conclude his tour next year, and Mr Fletcher shall be returning from university. Your patience might be rewarded with a better match."
"’Time wasted in waiting is the greatest of all losses,’" quoted Francesca.
Rolling her eyes, Kate tutted, "Ah, well, if we are indulging in philosophical quotes, allow me to remind you of the proverb: ‘Patience is a virtue.’ Sometimes the right person will require a bit of patience.” She then casted a surreptitious glance at her unwitting husband, at present occupied in mediating the latest squabble between the youngest siblings and suppressed a wry smile. “A lot of patience actually.”
Noting the loving smile that adorned Kate's face, Francesca arched an eyebrow. "And was it a test of your patience, or an attempt to escape the clutches of love by you threatening to run off to India?" Francesca teased. "And, of course, you were spared the delightful challenge of waiting for an older sister to marry.”
Kate chuckled at this. “I might remind you that society does make exceptions for a younger sister to marry before her elder.”
“Perhaps when there is a considerable age gap between sisters.”
The thwack of leather against willow filled the air, drawing their attention. In one corner of the park, a spirited game of cricket was underway, soon accompanied by the cheers and applause from gathered onlookers.
Squinting to the skies, Kate sighed. "I must concede that Eloise cannot claim to be on the shelf as I did. After all, I was six and twenty when I made such proclamation, whereas she is merely nineteen."
"And she will still be considered marriageable for several more seasons. Any true gentleman will honor the precedence of elder sisters in matters of matrimony, unless it is the younger sister’s debut season. So, if I do not secure a match during this, my debut season,” Francesca emphasized, “I shall find myself waiting behind an elder sister with no particular inclination towards marriage.”
“JOHN!”
Startled by the shriek, both jolted in surprise. Heads whipped in the direction of the outcry, and they attempted to locate the source of Hyacinth’s commotion. Their eyes alighted upon two gentlemen ambling in the direction of the Bridgerton tent.
Gregory's chestnut curls had barely settled from his mad dash when Francesca registered his arrival. "Colin is here!" he panted, employing every effort to regain his breath as he approached them. "I must fetch Mama and Eloise."
With the grace of a seasoned courtier, he threaded his way through the crowd, displaying remarkable agility as he weaved past strolling couples and children reveling in the grass. Some of the more compassionate onlookers exchanged a puzzled glance at his haste, while the less charitable observers cast him a critical look. "Gregory!" Francesca pleaded, "Don’t…run."
Seemingly unfazed by the whole spectacle, Kate nudged Francesca forward to proceed with their customary hellos.
As Colin's eyes landed upon Kate and Francesca, a radiant smile illuminated his features with what they at first believed to be genuine delight. "Ah! My dear sisters.” Hastening his stride, he swept them into a boisterous embrace, his arms plopping upon each of their shoulders as he turned them to face Hyacinth. "Have you ever seen two lovelier faces in all of London?" he inquired of his friend, who, with Hyacinth coiled around his waist, appeared somewhat unraveled from his usual composure.
Hyacinth tilted her face towards John Stirling for assessment. “Surely not lovelier than mine,” she cooed.
“Ah - ” Viced by Hyacinth's adoring gaze, poor Mr Stirling found himself increasingly flustered, his discomfort only exacerbated by the accompanying dread of Anthony Bridgerton marching their way.
Coming to a halt, Anthony locked his gaze onto Mr Stirling like a hawk on its prey. “You would do well to remember that we are in public, Mr Stirling, and that a sense of decorum should be upheld, regardless of your familiarity with my family.”
Prompted by an instinct for self-preservation, John quickly nodded in agreement. “Yes, of course, Lord Bridgerton.”
Shifting his scrutiny onto Colin with laser-like precision, Anthony’s scowl left little room for anything but immediate obedience. “I should ask that you release your handhold on my wife. I assure you that she is more than capable of standing upright without your assistance.”
Having borne witness to Anthony's demeanor on numerous occasions, it never ceased to evoke a shared exchange of knowing smiles between them all. With a needling grin, Colin removed his arms and raised them in mock surrender. "Very well, brother. I bow to your superior husbandly prowess."
While Anthony upheld his outward composure, a faint undercurrent of annoyance manifested in the almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw. Yet, any lingering vexation quickly dissipated as his beloved wife joined him at his side, whose mere presence evoked an affectionate smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. With a shake of his head, Anthony bridged the gap between himself and Colin, firmly planting a hand on his shoulder. "If you were not my brother, I might challenge you to a duel for that remark."
"I thought you might have learned your lesson from last time," Kate poked at Anthony’s chest. "But seeing as you have not learned, I have half a mind to allow you to duel after all. But keep in mind, with Daphne still in Hastings, she will be unable to act as your rescuer this time.”
Anthony released a hearty laugh, the sound rich and full of genuine mirth. “Your wit is far more dangerous than any pistol in a duel.” Enveloping Kate in his embrace, he bestowed a tender kiss upon the tip of her nose.
"I fear our poor brother would be at a disadvantage should you ever engage him in a duel of wits, Kate," Colin chuckled.
Locking eyes with Colin, Anthony emitted a glare that could have frozen fire, though he chose not to indulge in further interaction. "Hyacinth, if you would be so kind as to join us, let us go find Gregory," he commanded, ushering both his sister and wife away from the unfolding scene.
Colin, John, and Francesca, who remained stationed beneath the tent's canopy, traced the departure of the trio. However, the lingering mirth in Colin's eyes was soon replaced by a comically exaggerated rumble that seemed to erupt from the very depths of his being. In response to the gastronomic outcry, he placed a hand over his belly, his expression shifting from mild embarrassment to inquiry. "Please tell me that you have more food.”
Reaching into the basket at one corner of the tent, Francesca retrieved a half-eaten pastry, artfully wrapped in a linen napkin. "We had lunch before we came, so we didn't pack much," Francesca explained. "You can have the rest of mine.”
Colin offered a nod of gratitude for the remaining food, a subtle glint of disappointment flashing as he accepted the remnants. As he chewed, his gaze roamed the park, until it alighted upon something that kindled a spark of hope in his expression. "I shall return shortly," he muffled through a mouth full of eclair, striding off in the direction of the Featherington tent.
With Colin now out of sight, Francesca took one chummy step towards their guest. "It seems we've been abandoned, Mr Stirling."
John’s lips curled into a grin. "I thought we had all agreed over the holidays to drop the honorifics in private."
“So we did,” she agreed. “I am delighted that you had not forgotten our agreement.” Forgoing the customary inquiry of, “How were your travels?”, she instead began an examination of his wardrobe, scanning his pressed jacket and starched cravat to draw her conclusions. "Your attire suggests that your journey was nothing short of pleasurable."
A crooked smile graced John's lips, and he adjusted his coat accordingly. "It was indeed a most pleasurable journey, accompanied by the most excellent company."
Assuming the role of interlocutor, Francesca prompted further discussion, to which he eagerly elaborated. Starting from their initial misadventure while still in the threshold of Kilmartin Castle, John unraveled a tapestry of evocative anecdotes — painting scenes of enchanting inns and one heart-pounding brush with highwaymen — which culminated in the tale of a fool’s errand.
“But Colin was adamant that this bakery served the finest Cranachan in all of Scotland. Hours we spent, Francesca, wandering through every street, your brother acting the overenthusiastic guide, all for this supposed dessert. And yes, it was pleasant, but only by Glasgow's standards. It's Scotland, after all; you can find Cranachan on every corner - ”
"Glasgow?" Her narrowed eyes honed in on the very subject that had piqued her curiosity. "That seems rather unlike Colin. He is usually efficient in his travels between destinations. What brought you all the way to Glasgow?"
The widening of his eyes was complimented by a stillness that seemed to have paused time itself. "Ah - well," Performing an exchange of the feet, John’s fingers rearranged the strands of his hair before continuing. "Your brother had maintained correspondence with a schoolmate from Eton - well, with several of them, actually. But upon learning about this particular schoolmate's wish to return to London, and coinciding with our own travels, we decided to stop in Glasgow to collect him... and to indulge in the finest Cranachan, of course,” he added, the corners of his mouth lifting into an uneven expression of discomfort rather than joy.
“Oh. May I ask who? Perhaps I know him.”
"Erm - I’m not sure you do. Ah - " He positioned his hands behind his back, but the movement had been too deliberate to project any convincing air of nonchalance. "Colin mentioned that you had planned to attend the house party at Bradbourne. Have you ever been?"
She felt her eyes slit into a nuanced study, exceedingly attuned to his every movement. John was typically forthright in his interactions, and yet, had chosen deflection. “To Bradbourne? I have not, but I most look forward to going,” her words lingered in the air. With a slight arch of her brow, Francesca ventured, "John, are you attempting to change the topic?"
He glanced to the hem of his coat, toying with the fabric while he sifted for the combination of words that would allow an honest answer and a sidestep of the complete truth. When he finally redirected his attention towards Francesca, there was no doubt in his sincerity, but a trace of reservation lingered in his tone. "The gentleman in question has requested that we withhold his return until a time when he feels prepared to reveal it."
"Conceal his return?" she pondered aloud; her words intended more for herself than for John. "That seems rather unusual. I wonder what could prompt such a need for secrecy."
John’s lips curled into a half-smile. "Perhaps he wishes to save himself from the fuss of being paraded around like a prized horse.”
She stilled as the pieces shuffled and aligned in her mind. John’s comparison suggested some form of public attention, possibly the showcasing of a potential suitor. Additionally, the notion of wanting to be hidden from society aligned with the avoidance of marriage-minded families on the prowl for suitable matches for their daughters. Therefore, the probability was that this "prized horse" was indeed a sought-after bachelor, and the marriage mart was precisely the "fuss" he aimed to evade. Relief washed over her, carrying with it was what she hoped was an imperceptible exhale. However, as quickly as hope bloomed, it withered, giving rise to a simmering annoyance. Her brows knit together, and she felt herself tense. “Yes, it is unfortunate that the marriage mart need be considered a fuss, given all the pressures placed upon a lady to secure a desirable match.”
John's eyes expanded with an unfolding realization. “I did not mean - ”
“And, of course," she continued, her tone measured, “there is often little consideration for matches driven by necessity, such as those ensuring financial stability or social connections for her family.”
Assuming the stance of a careful listener, John rested his hands on his hips as an indication of his resolve to let the conversation unfold without further interruption.
“But I suppose it's easier to overlook all of that when one has the privilege of opting out of the marriage mart, as you do." The final words were spit with a touch of resentment, and a recognition that her bitterness had nothing to do with John.
In the wake of her words, his fingers twitched, and he lowered his gaze to the ground. "Forgive me," he murmured, "My comment was insensitive." After a moment, he raised his eyes, wearing a most sober expression. "I believe marriage to be a matter of utmost importance, the most serious indeed, and I regret belittling my own earnestness on the subject.”
As quickly as her emotion had built, it released. Her shoulders dropped, and her expression softened with the acknowledgment of the impact of his words. “I know you do.” Bringing her fingers to her temple, she assuaged the remaining tension. “My circumstances are no fault of your own. You are fortunate to be able to wait until you are ready.” John was also fortunate to be able to wait within the comforts of a calming home — a privilege she refrained from voicing aloud as the comparison to her own family would appear unkind rather than true.
John's smile held the weight of unspoken thoughts, and his eyes contained something deeper, an emotion shielded from view. However, he appeared to have let his secrets scatter in exchange for providing her validation. “I can imagine the challenges you face with such expectations.”
But in that moment, Francesca found herself grappling with a self-awareness that painted her concerns in a somewhat trivial light. "I suppose in the grand scheme, others surmount far greater hurdles," she confessed, and feeling rather silly, reached for his arm. "We can always return to discussions of Bradbourne,” she smiled, “should you wish to change this topic as well."
John's unwavering gaze served as an understanding of her attempts to steer the conversation elsewhere. Yet, in a curious twist, his focus shifted unexpectedly, his eyes lifting to lock onto someone else behind her head. “Your brother returns.”
Colin’s return was marked by a stride that was measured in hesitation. His gait alternated between moments of brisk determination and brief pauses, reflecting the tangle of thoughts that clearly occupied his mind. With his head bowed, he was oblivious to the exchange of glances between Francesca and John.
"Colin, are you alright?" Francesca inquired.
The direct address had an electrifying effect, snapping him out of his reverie and thrusting him into the immediate moment. Feeling the weight of John and Francesca's gaze, in an instant, Colin shrouded his emotions beneath a veneer of practiced charm and an easy smile. "I'm afraid there was no luck for me there either," he shrugged.
A subtle shake of Francesca’s head served as a silent warning, urging John not to delve deeper into the matter. "Come out of the sun while we wait for Mother. I shall prepare tea for both of you." Waving away the assistance of a servant, Francesca prepared the china herself, while John began to divert Colin’s attention from his concerns through means of a casual conversation.
Observing the two men engrossed in conversation, Francesca's smile hinted at satisfaction. Colin was quickly returning to his usual state, alleviating any immediate concern. Lost in the simple rituals of tea preparation, her mind sought solace from more intricate musings. Yet, like the steady flow of water into the teapot, her thoughts inexorably flowed back to the elusive gentleman.
The water settled, and her fingers danced across the various containers, each labeled with Mrs Wilson’s meticulous penmanship. Raising the glass jars, she searched for the perfect blend. Ah, there it was - Earl Grey, the quintessential welcome back to England. Opening the cork, her fingers sifted through the fine leaves, much like she sifted through the names of Colin's Eton associates: Lords Huxley and Ashcroft, eliminated due to having already been in London. As for Mr Radcliffe, his military service cast him out of contention. And since the wiry one, Mr Russell, was already entangled in courtship with Lady Lipton, this rendered him an unlikely candidate. Plucking the leaves, she allowed them to fall into the teapot for infusion.
There remained a lone possibility. Lady Whistledown had reported the gentleman on an extended tour of the United Kingdom, Scotland included, but what if he had cut his wanderings short and returned early? The cups and saucers in her hands shifted as if guided by her contemplation. If this gentleman was, indeed, entertaining the notion of marriage, it would be a logical maneuver to veil his arrival in London with a shroud of secrecy. After all, the city's eligible bachelors often found themselves ensnared in the web of “fuss” orchestrated by ambitious families vying for strategic alliances. She winced. Herself included. There was only one way to find out.
With the subtlety of a diplomat entering a high-stakes negotiations, she advanced the gentlemen with unobtrusive footfalls. As she reached their side, she proffered a cup first to John, and then to Colin, her demeanor altogether disarming. "Colin," her voice carried a teasing undercurrent, "why did you not tell me that Lord Chamberlain returned with you?”
John's eyes widened with a touch of panic. “Wait - ”
Colin's eyes darted towards John, his hand finding its mark on his friend's shoulder with a pointed smack. “Did you tell her?”
“No,” John whacked Colin in return, “but you just did.”
"Hello!" a familiar voice cooed from behind.
The hum and laughter of six strolling Bridgertons reached their ears. Drawing their glare away from Francesca and towards the entrance of the tent, John and Colin shared a look of agreeance, placing their cups down to attend to this new development. Through the parting of the entrance, the Bridgertons erupted like a force of nature. Violet led the charge, followed by Gregory and Hyacinth, Eloise, and Kate and Anthony trailing behind.
“John, darling!” Eyes aglow with genuine affection, Violet drew him into an embrace that resembled a nurturing cocoon. It was as if the very act of holding him close was her way of saying, "I've missed you, and I'm so glad you're here."
"Once again disregarded in favor of your charms," Colin muttered under his breath.
John’s icy stare bore into Colin.
A devilish plan took root, bringing a mischievous glint to Colin’s eyes. Pivoting on heels like a soldier taking his mark, he outheld his arms to Eloise. “Eloise, do you not have a hug for your dear brother?”
It was clear that Colin meant to settle their mother’s act of greeting John before him. Likewise, Eloise saw this as an excellent opportunity to exact her revenge for Violet's earlier insistence on introducing her to that exasperating Mr Camden. With an enthusiasm exaggerated to comical levels, she practically leaped into Colin’s arms, leading one to think that she had not seen her brother in years, rather than months. “Brother!” she pecked him on the cheek. “How I’ve missed you so!”
Francesca's cheeks reddened as she swept for any signs that their reunion had garnered unwanted attention. Although the immediate vicinity seemed presently uninterested in her family, she couldn't shake the certainty that this scene might very well be discussed in Lady Whistledown. After all, how could it not, when Colin and Eloise clung to each other with a theatricality more befitting of a stage rather than a simple reunion in Hyde Park?
Before any onlookers could catch a glimpse of her disapproval, Francesca extricated herself from the scene. Craving a refuge from the noise, she navigated along the tent's perimeter, until her wandering led her to an abandoned chess game set upon a woolen blanket. The chessboard itself was a work of art, crafted from gleaming mahogany and each piece delicately carved from ebony and ivory. Easing herself onto her knees, the fabric of her skirts cascaded like drapery caught in a gentle breeze. Lest her gown be marred by any grass stains, she swept back the folds onto the blanket. From this vantage point, she studied the board at leisure. The initial moves indicated that white had launched a King's Pawn gambit as the opening salvo of the game.
As she pondered her next move, her thoughts inevitably circled back to Lord Chamberlain. A handsome enough fellow, she recalled, with intriguing family connections. Lady Chamberlain had the peculiar habit of staying for months at a time with one of her two married daughters. Each of Lord Chamberlain's sisters seemed to be engrossed in their own social circles and commitments, often leaving him to his own devices, whether in bustling London or the expanse of his Briarwood estate. A furrow formed on Francesca's brow as her mind oscillated between chess and contemplation. Taking on the role of black, she maneuvered her Queen's Pawn to bolster her position.
If discretion was indeed his priority, then partaking in public gatherings would be an unlikely endeavor for him. Yet, leveraging his association with Colin and John might present an advantageous opportunity. They could orchestrate a more controlled environment, perhaps a discreet gathering at Bridgerton House, in a private setting. As her strategy unfolded, she moved her Knight forward, advancing her white pieces.
However, the matter of navigating her family during a social call caused her stomach to plummet with trepidation. Francesca was painfully aware that her more reserved nature would struggle to hold its own against the overpowering boisterousness of her family. And the thought of every word she spoke being subjected to the scrutiny of not just her brothers but, even more dauntingly, her mother, left her feeling somewhat hopeless. She mirrored her opening strategy with black, casting her white King's side to fortify its position behind a wall of pawns. In similar fashion, she, too, required an alternative strategy.
Contemplating her options, her fingers hovered over the pieces as a new plan began to take shape. She could seek him out independently, perhaps during a chance encounter at private Bridgerton ball. With her family preoccupied with hosting duties, she could engage Lord Chamberlain without the usual distractions. The idea held a certain allure; however, it would require the assistance of Colin and John in this clandestine affair. She was confident that at least one of them would be willing to help – likely John, she mused. With a private invitation extended by a trusted friend, Lord Chamberlain would be hard-pressed to decline, especially when the promise of anonymity was extended. As her mind raced with these burgeoning possibilities, Francesca's gaze shifted from the chessboard, seeking Kate.
Drawing closer to her sister-in-law, Francesca's touch was as delicate as her intention. "Kate," she began, her fingers lightly resting upon her arm, "I've been wondering - would you be open to the idea of hosting your ball a bit earlier than originally planned?"