A Study of Courtship-Chapter 24: A Thorn in the Garden

Fiennes Estate, Late Afternoon

The whispers reached her before Benedict did.

It was impossible not to hear them—two footmen passing in the hall, Lady Cowper’s maid gossiping with Sophia’s attendant, even Beatrice’s hurried note delivered by messenger:

Margaret Seymour has secured Lord Lockhart’s attention and the ton is talking.

Sophia read the letter twice, then folded it neatly.

"Well," she said, almost to herself, "that is... good for her, is it not? She sought admiration and it appears she has found it."

She genuinely meant it—somewhere beneath the pride and the rivalry and the sting of being criticized by Margaret so publicly, Sophia still carried the remnants of childhood affection. Margaret finding a suitor should have pleased her.

Should have.

The door opened.

Lord Benedict Montgomery entered with the kind of deliberate calm that meant he had opinions. Very strong ones.

"Sophia," he began, bowing slightly before crossing the room. "I bring news regarding Lady Margaret."

Sophia raised a brow. "I have heard already. She met Earl Frederick Lockhart at the promenade. They walked together. The ton is whispering."

She tilted her head. "But truly... perhaps it is fortunate for her."

Benedict did not answer immediately.

Instead, he gave her the sort of look one reserves for someone who has completely missed the danger in front of them.

"Sophia," he said gently, "Earl Frederick is not—how shall I say this politely—an innocent admirer."

She blinked. "He seemed pleasant enough according to what I heard."

"Pleasant," Benedict echoed dryly. "Yes. In the way a wolf is pleasant when you are still too far to see its teeth."

Sophia frowned. "What do you mean?"

Benedict stepped closer, voice lowering.

"House Lockhart despises your family and mine. Their feud with the Montgomerys goes back decades. And they have always viewed the Fiennes and Huntingtons as political rivals—especially your grandfather Duke Theodore."

Sophia stiffened. "So... Margaret befriending him...?"

Benedict nodded. "It is not merely courtship."

His eyes glinted. "It is strategy. And not hers, I fear."

Sophia exhaled slowly, her pulse tightening.

"She seeks to outshine me," she murmured. "Or prove herself superior."

"She seeks a weapon," Benedict corrected softly. "And Lord Lockhart is more than willing to be one."

Sophia looked away, troubled but calm.

"I should not wish her ill," she said quietly. "Even if she wishes it upon me."

Benedict’s expression softened—warm, protective, slightly pained.

"That is what sets you apart," he said. "But do not be naïve, Sophia. Lockhart circles her for a reason."

"And what reason is that?" she asked softly.

He held her gaze. "To spite you. To spite your family. To create scandal where there is none."

"And because he thinks Margaret is... easily used."

Sophia flinched—not out of personal insult, but because the truth felt unpleasantly clear.

Margaret was a debutante trained her whole life to chase husbands, not recognize danger.

"And what," she whispered, "am I meant to do with this knowledge?"

Benedict moved closer, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "You do nothing," he said. "You live. You shine. And you let the Lockharts rot in their own schemes."

A small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

"And Margaret?" He sighed, resigned.

"For her sake, I hope she understands the game she is entering. And for yours—"

His gaze softened, unbearably warm. "Do not let her choices weigh upon you. She left your side long ago."

Sophia inhaled, steady and slow.

"Yes," she murmured. "But she was my friend once."

"And that," Benedict replied gently, "is precisely why she envies you."

Sophia said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

Beaumont Estate, London—Evening

The chandeliers glittered like constellations overhead, casting warm golden light across the throng of London’s finest. Music swelled from the string quartet tucked beneath an arch of white roses. Couples glided across polished floors. Servants wove among guests with silver trays and practiced ease.

But in the farthest corner of the ballroom— beneath an enormous oil painting of Viscount Beaumont’s ancestors—Lady Sophia Fiennes resided in her own private sanctuary.

Her sanctuary was a carved Grecian chair, a glass of watered champagne, and her beloved copy of The Histories by Herodotus laid open on her lap.

She had not looked up once.

Jeremy Eden, on the other hand, had planted himself beside her with the posture of a man attending a gladiator match.

"My dear Sophia," he whispered gleefully, "you must look up. You simply must. It is art."

Sophia, without lifting her eyes from Herodotus, replied, "You say that every time you witness human folly."

"Yes," Jeremy said, "but this folly is particularly flavorful."

Across the room, Lady Margaret Seymour and Earl Frederick Lockhart were promenading about the ballroom with the smug elegance of two newly allied peacocks. Frederick bent down occasionally to murmur in Margaret’s ear; Margaret tittered with exaggerated sweetness.

The ton whispered, pointed, gasped, and wondered—and Jeremy drank in every morsel with delighted wickedness.

"Frederick Lockhart," Jeremy said, eyes sparkling, "has the facial expression of a man convinced that he is winning."

Sophia turned a page. "And is he?"

"Oh, not even remotely," Jeremy said cheerfully.

Before she could reply, two familiar voices approached.

"Well," Benedict said dryly as he and Kurt emerged from the ballroom crowd, "I see nothing has changed. Lady Sophia is reading at a ball, and Lord Jeremy is enjoying the spectacle of society like a cat with a bowl of cream."

Jeremy bowed. "I aim to live with purpose."

Sophia did not look up.

"Earnest is occupied assisting Ian for his birthday duties," she said mildly. "He told me to remain here with Jeremy."

Benedict exchanged a knowing glance with Kurt. Of course Earnest had appointed Jeremy as the Sophia’s chaperone. The last time she wandered at a ball unsupervised, she debated the socio-political implications of monarchy with a viscount’s grandmother.

Kurt crossed his arms, leaning one shoulder against the wall. "Lady Sophia, don’t you want to see the rest of the ball?"

She turned a page. "I am seeing it. Jeremy narrates."

"It’s true," Jeremy said proudly. "I am better than most circulating libraries."

Benedict chuckled—softly, helplessly—because Herodotus or no Herodotus, Sophia’s presence always tugged at something soft inside him.

"Milady," Benedict said gently, "may I tempt you to look at something other than ancient warfare?"

Sophia sighed, finally lifting her eyes—and for a fleeting instant, Benedict forgot how to breathe.

Those sapphire-bright eyes flickered toward him, curious and warm in that specific way she never quite seemed aware of.

"What is it, Lord Benedict?" she asked.

Benedict leaned in, dropping his voice.

"Margaret Seymour and Frederick Lockhart," he murmured, "are drawing quite a great deal of attention."

"Oh." Sophia blinked. "Good for Margaret. I am glad she found someone."

Benedict exchanged a glance with Kurt.

Kurt cleared his throat. "Sophia... Frederick Lockhart is not courting her out of affection. His family despises both yours and Benedict’s."

Sophia frowned. "But why would the Lockharts despise us?"

Jeremy popped a grape into his mouth. "Because they are petty, darling. And nothing inspires pettiness like watching your less-fortunate neighbors rise in influence."

Sophia narrowed her gaze toward Margaret and Frederick across the room.

"I do hope Margaret is not entering into something harmful," she murmured.

Benedict studied her—her sincerity, her worry, her refusal to relish the downfall of a former friend.

Then the herald’s voice echoed through the ballroom,

"His Highness, Prince Felix of Hanover!"

A hush fell — subtle, reverent, inevitable.

Felix entered with effortless grace, wearing the subdued elegance of a royal who had nothing to prove. His grey-green eyes swept the room in a quiet, meditative way—until they found Sophia.

His face brightened almost imperceptibly.

But it wasn’t Sophia who caught his attention next.

Because Lady Beatrice Campbell was approaching her cousin with a soft smile, her pale pink gown shimmering like a cherry blossom, and Felix’s breath visibly hitched.

It was small — the shift of his shoulders, the slight widening of his eyes — but those who knew him recognized it instantly.

Something sparked.

Benedict noticed.

Jeremy definitely noticed.

Felix approached the group, and Sophia — blissfully oblivious — looked up from Herodotus and offered a warm smile.

"Your Highness," she greeted, "you are most welcome to join us."

Her tone was polite, unflustered. Felix’s was warmer than usual.

"I would never miss Beaumont’s birthday," he said softly. "And... it has been too long since I last saw my friends."

"For propriety," Sophia continued in perfect rational fashion, "allow me to introduce Beatrice properly."

She gestured elegantly to her cousin.

"Lady Beatrice Campbell — my cousin and a most accomplished young lady. She plays the pianoforte beautifully, and she speaks Japanese, French, Prussian, and Latin. She is also two and twenty, like you."

Beatrice froze.

Felix blinked.

Jeremy nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Kurt turned away to hide a grin.

Benedict pressed a fist against his mouth.

Sophia blinked innocently. "What? It is helpful information."

Beatrice whispered, mortified,

"Sophia... why would you say —"

Felix, however, looked utterly starstruck. "A polyglot," he murmured, voice soft with genuine admiration. "And a musician. That is... remarkable."

Beatrice’s cheeks warmed.

She curtsied. "Your Highness is generous."

Felix returned the bow with a small, reverent smile — far softer than anything he had worn upon entering.

He looked at Sophia only briefly, the fondness undeniable...but when his gaze returned to Beatrice, it lingered.