Esteemed Members of the Ton,
This season promises to be a spectacle unlike any other. For those newly arrived upon our shores, this Author possesses a surplus of scandal to distribute. Viscountess Hale was recently observed in the company of several formidable mamas, professing a most convenient ignorance regarding Lord Granger's latest indiscretions toward her daughter.
This Writer, however, finds such claims difficult to swallow. For a woman who devotes more hours to gossip than the rest of the Ton combined, one can only assume she is playing a most calculated hand.
Lady Ravenscroft Society Papers 18 April 1813
The morning following Lady Wellington's ball, both Violet and Lady Hyacinth Granger found themselves besieged. They were utterly overwhelmed by members of the Ton offering "consolations"—though, in hindsight, such sympathies were merely thinly veiled attempts to unearth the sordid details of the affair.
"I believe it is high time we take decisive action," Lady Dorrington declared, her voice cutting through the heavy air of the Hale drawing room.
The four eldest Hale siblings sat in tense silence alongside the Beaumont family, Lady Dorrington, and Lady Granger.
"The scrutiny is beginning to take a toll on Violet, and I fear the consequences shall be dire," Lady Dorrington added gravely.
"Lady Frederick actually had the audacity to inquire if Lord Granger's preferences leaned toward my sons instead," Violet remarked, her features contorted in a mask of utter disgust.
"How about a distraction?" Lady Dorrington suggested.
"A distraction?" James repeated, leaning back as he studied the grave faces around the room.
"Perhaps... a courtship," she said, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"A courtship?" Edward stared in a mixture of confusion and disbelief.
Lady Dorrington tapped her cane against the floor, the sharp clack echoing through the silence. She looked at each of them in turn—her gaze lingering on Nicholas, who sat stiffly in his chair, his jaw set in a familiar, defensive line.
"Indeed," Lady Dorrington said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "The Ton is like a pack of hounds, Edward. Once they catch the scent of blood—as they have with poor Violet's circumstances—they will not stop until they have torn the reputation of this family to ribbons."
She glanced at Violet, who sat huddled on the settee, her bruises a silent testament to the Granger family's brutality. "To stop the whispers, we must give them a new scent. Something so dazzling, so utterly unexpected, that they cannot help but turn their heads away from scandal and toward... romance."
Violet's breath hitched. "But who? Surely not I. I cannot bear to be looked at, let alone courted."
"Not you, my dear," Lady Dorrington reassured her gently.
She turned her focus back to Nicholas. "Nicholas, you are the Season's most eligible bachelor, according to our dear Lady Ravenscroft."
Nicholas shifted uncomfortably, the phantom of his mother's criticisms regarding his speech echoing in his mind. "L-lady Dorrington, I h-hardly think—"
"You must court Catherine," Lady Dorrington declared, cutting through his hesitation with the practiced ease of a woman who had orchestrated a dozen successful matches.
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Catherine Beaumont, the Season's Incomparable, felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Beside her, Helena's eyes widened in horror.
"Court Catherine?" Helena cried, her protective instincts flaring. "He is a—well, you know what the papers say! And Catherine is far too young to be used as a shield!"
"It need not be a true engagement, Helena," Lady Dorrington countered, though her eyes twinkled with a secret hope.
"But think of it! The stoic, mysterious Viscount Hale finally falling for the Season's most beautiful debutante? It is the very thing to set every tongue in London wagging about wedding bells instead of Granger's indiscretions. It would provide the cover Violet needs to retreat to the country and heal in peace."
Nicholas looked at Catherine. She was indeed beautiful, with striking brown eyes that seemed to see right through his carefully constructed armor.
He remembered the way they had moved in sync during the Spring Ball—a rare moment where he hadn't felt like a 'puzzle' to be solved, but simply a man.
"Catherine," Nicholas began, his voice surprisingly steady as he addressed her directly. "I w-would not ask this of you if there were any other way to p-protect my sister."
Catherine met his gaze, her usual wit momentarily silenced by the gravity of the request. She looked at Violet's battered form and then at the man her sister had warned her was a debauchee, yet who stood before her with such raw, pained sincerity.
"If it will help Violet," Catherine whispered, her hand finding Helena's for support, "then I shall do it. I shall be your distraction, My Lord."
Lady Dorrington smiled, a sharp, triumphant expression. "Then it is settled. Tomorrow, Lord Hale, you shall send the largest bouquet of white roses available in London to the Beaumont residence. And by Tuesday, you shall be seen promenading in Hyde Park with Catherine on your arm. Let the Ton have their spectacle; we shall have our peace."
Helena's discomfort with the newly orchestrated arrangement was palpable. While the room buzzed with the logistics of white roses and Hyde Park promenades, Helena felt like a traitor to her own blood.
She had spent years shielding Catherine from the world's harshness, only to see her now being served up as a sacrificial "distraction."
"This is madness," Helena whispered, though the words were drowned out by the scraping of chairs as the gathering began to disperse. She caught Nicholas's eye, her gaze sharp with an accusation he couldn't quite meet.
Sensing her agitation, Nicholas stepped away from the others, his movements stiff and deliberate. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, travel-worn ledger and a folded piece of parchment.
"M-Miss Beaumont—Helena," he began, his voice dipping into that low, steady tone he used when trying to master his stammer.
"I know you d-disapprove of this... arrangement. But I m-must ask for your help with another m-matter."
Helena crossed her arms, her blue eyes narrowing. "And what could the 'Season's Most Eligible Bachelor' possibly need from a 'spinster sister' like me, My Lord?"
Nicholas didn't flinch at the jab. Instead, he smoothed out the parchment on a nearby console table. "It is the l-letter from my grandmother, Lilian. You may recall I mentioned she spoke of several p-properties and investments located in Lyon—assets held in a private trust that my parents never knew existed."
Helena's posture softened slightly at the mention of Lyon. It was her home, the place where she would have happily remained tending to her horses if not for their family's financial ruin.
"L-lady Dorrington s-said that you are f-familiar with the area," Nicholas continued.
"These properties are sc-scattered across the city. I need to know which of them are tr-truly valuable—which ones are in the better districts and which might be m-mere hovels."
Helena stepped closer, her curiosity momentarily overriding her frustration. She scanned the list, her finger tracing the familiar street names. "The Rue de la République... the Quai Saint-Antoine..." she murmured. "Your grandmother was a shrewd woman, Lord Hale. Many of these are in the heart of the merchant district."
"Will you h-help me m-mark the most significant ones?" Nicholas asked, handing her a small charcoal pencil.
Helena looked from the list to Nicholas. He looked exhausted, the weight of his sister's scandal and his mother's betrayal etched into the lines of his face.
For a moment, she saw not the formidable Viscount, but the "black sheep" his grandmother had loved so dearly.
"Very well," she said, taking the pencil.
"But do not think this means I am at peace with what you are doing to Catherine. I am helping you for the sake of your sister, and because Lyon deserves better than to have its land managed by someone who doesn't know a quay from a cobblestone."
Nicholas offered a ghost of a smile—the first she had seen since they entered the room. "I w-would expect nothing l-less from you, Miss Beaumont."