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Chapter 1  Masks and Mirrors

16th May, 1812

Catherine averted her gaze and turned her face to the carriage window. London's bustling streets made it difficult for their vehicle to progress. Her mother was glancing around, and when she was not, tapping, perhaps a little impatiently, upon her reticule; she was on a mission again, determined to make the most of the visit to the theatre. Her father had paid nine shillings for a shared balcony box – sufficient to allow them a taste of high society.

Her fingers toyed with her necklace, a new trinket that seemed to weigh more heavily than it ought, as she hoped to evade her mother's instructions that evening.

"Straighten your back, Cathy. Let people see your new necklace. Your father was very generous in giving you the funds to buy it."

Well, thought Catherine with a slight inward sigh, this would be no such evening. Her mother would do what mothers always seemed to do: command and correct.

As her mother chattered away, Catherine's thoughts drifted to the theatre, the one place where she could escape her mother's expectations – if only for a few hours. The theatre was her sanctuary, where she might lay aside her part and be herself. She had long since learnt to smile, nod, and don her role as one might a gown ill-suited to one's shape, but sometimes, she wondered if she would ever be more than a pawn in her mother's social game.

After a last-minute inspection of Catherine's hair and dress, which at length won her approval, her mother signalled to her husband that they were ready to leave the carriage. As she said, she had ensured they arrived early enough to 'mingle.'

A visit to the theatre in London in 1812 was no mere cultural pastime – it was a vital social occasion, and one of the most important of the season, for which no invitation was required. With sufficient money, one could mix with the ton's upper members.

The Berrington family from Queen Square in Bloomsbury, London – a still fashionable address though nowhere near Grosvenor Square – was on its way to the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden. As the carriage advanced, the Doric portico in Bow Street emerged ahead, its four fluted columns rising above the throng.

This was Catherine's third visit, and despite her mother's constant nudging, it had become one of her favourite activities during her debut.

As they alighted from the carriage, the street echoed with a commotion of sounds, from the rhythmic clip-clop of horses' hooves on the cobblestones to the lively chatter of passersby. Many came just to watch the elegant theatregoers in their finest ensembles. Carriages of various sizes and designs jostled for space, their liveried footmen announcing with due ceremony the arrival of affluent occupants.

Catherine marvelled at the theatre, its magnificent entrance, the grand hall illuminated by sparkling chandeliers, and the statues looking down on the patrons in the salon on their way to the private boxes. Yet, as she observed the finely dressed women and their dashing partners, she could not help but wonder: Did any of them know what it was like to enter this world with no name? How many of them had been born into it while she, only a few months ago, had been nothing but a girl in Hampshire, a world away from the glamour and expectations of high society, dreaming of a life like this?

Catherine admired the beautiful, elegant gowns worn by the ladies in attendance. Silk rustled like whispers; taffeta shimmered with each turn of a wrist. Perfume drifted through the air, light, floral, and clinging.

But most of all, she looked forward to the performance. This spectacle would release her from the cage of expectations, allowing her to escape into another world entirely.

To watch a play unfold was to step into another realm. The actors, the singers, the graceful dancers – all drew her in until the rest of the theatre itself faded from view. Her parents, the murmuring crowd, even the glittering chandeliers dissolved into the shadows of her mind. It was a rare and cherished escape, akin to the quiet delight of slipping away with a book into her favourite hidden nook.

"Look, Mr. Beresford is here. Let us make him notice us. He danced with you two weeks ago at the Stanhopes'. He has five thousand a year."

Catherine looked in the gentleman's direction. Her mother, catching his eye, held her gaze a moment, and when the gentleman noticed them, he graciously bowed, deep and formal, first to her mother and then to Catherine. She remembered dancing with him – he had a strange, high-pitched laugh, and she shuddered.

The theatre, for all its glitter, required its own performance. The price of attending was to play her part while her mother mingled and introduced her to new acquaintances. She had begun writing down the names of everyone she met in a notebook, lest she forget them, which was a major faux pas, as she had learnt from experience.

She did not resent her mother. Tiresome though the efforts may have been, they came from a place of love. If only they came with less force. Her mother only wanted the best for her – to find a wealthy, prestigious husband who would elevate her to high society and secure a promising future.

Catherine's mother stood tall, her posture radiating authority as she surveyed the throng of patrons with keen, assessing eyes. A faint smile played on her lips, hinting at her excitement. Catherine, for her part, felt a familiar stir of impatience. She knew that smile, that eager look in her mother's eyes – it was a look that always meant more introductions, more expectations. She yearned for a quiet moment, free from the pressure to perform, but she knew better than to voice such thoughts aloud.

She nudged Catherine gently, her finger pointing toward a group of gentlemen. "Look, dear," she said, her voice a whisper filled with anticipation. "That gentleman in the blue waistcoat is quite distinguished – his family has been in society for generations."

This was her arena, and each interaction was a carefully choreographed dance to elevate their status. Catherine felt the familiar pressure build within her – a mix of pride and trepidation as she prepared to follow her mother into this world of artifice and ambition.

"Remember, dear, to smile and be gracious," she reminded Catherine for what felt like the hundredth time. "You never know who might be watching."

She almost frowned at her mother's regular warning. Each outing reminded her that her worth hinged on her ability to attract a suitor. Was that all she was destined to be?

She remembered her early impatience to join the bustle of London, lured by the promise of art and entertainment. Yet it had not taken long for her to understand that such pleasures were, to her mother's mind, merely a stage upon which she might be noticed. Even her patroness, with her polished manners, had joined in the refrain: behave as the ladies do who wish to attract a husband. Smile, but do not laugh too freely; walk with grace but never hurry; hold your head high yet never appear proud. The rules pressed in upon her like the stays of her corset – meant to shape and support yet leaving her scarcely room to breathe.

Suppressing a sigh, Catherine acquiesced with a nod. "Yes, Mother."

Upon entering the theatre's upper halls, they noticed that, despite arriving in good time, numerous patrons were already mingling and chatting. Mrs. Berrington immediately spotted a friend of her husband's in the salon and gestured to him to take his family to greet them. Although not ideal companions, she judged that any company was preferable to standing alone.

"Mrs. Berrington," Mrs. Clayton greeted with a saccharine smile, her voice dripping with feigned warmth. "How lovely to see you here! I trust you are enjoying the evening?"

"Oh, indeed, Mrs. Clayton. The theatre is always a delight," Mrs. Berrington replied, trying to match her enthusiasm.

"Ah, the theatre," Mrs. Clayton mused, her eyes scanning the room as if she were assessing the competition. "A perfect venue for young ladies to showcase their finery and charm, is it not? My dear Georgiana has been preparing for this evening for days. Is that not right, my darling?"

"Yes, Mama," Miss Clayton replied, her voice light and pleased as she adjusted the ribbons of her gown, the lavender silk shimmering in the candlelight. "I do hope Mr. Beresford will remark on my gown. It's quite the latest fashion, you know."

Catherine cast a glance at her mother, curious to see how she bore the emergence of competition.

"Indeed, it is," Mrs. Clayton responded with a nod, her eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked to Catherine. "Such lovely colours. Much better than those dreary, faded dresses some young ladies wear these days. It really is a shame when families cannot afford to keep their daughters properly outfitted for the season."

Catherine's mother, to this, did her duty and praised Miss Clayton's gown for the evening, which, in fact, was beautiful. Made from the finest silk fabric, the gown boasted a soft, pastel shade of lavender that shimmered under the candlelight's glow. However, her mother did not stop there; she finished by praising the gown with a well-directed barb, asking whether the dress was the one she had worn to such and such a ball, thereby insinuating that she did not have enough dresses for the season.

Catherine's cheeks flushed, and her hands trembled. How cruel it was to remind her of her own wardrobe's limitations. Everybody knew repetition was necessary, since the Season stretched for several months, and there were numerous events to attend. Catherine herself was not exempt from wearing a gown twice, which her mother was well aware of. She had to remind herself that, in fact, they had started the unpleasant exchange. As Catherine forced a smile to hide her discomfort, she wondered if this was the only way to compete.

Then her mother's gloved fingers closed briefly around Catherine's wrist – firm, steady – before she resumed her composed smile.

Deep down, she felt like they were performers in a play, reciting lines they had memorised rather than expressing their true selves.

Of course, Catherine knew that her mother was aware that Miss Clayton had thirteen thousand for a dowry, three thousand more than her own daughter, and that was a mortal offence in her eyes. Now she had heard they were interested in Mr. Beresford, too.

Catherine tried to be friendly to this young lady, especially after her mother had attacked her dress. It was not a hardship for her, as she was usually cheerful and sociable. Still, her endeavour proved difficult because the other lady, Catherine suspected, considered herself superior to her on the premise that she was two years older and had more to offer financially. Would Miss Clayton ever see her as a friend rather than a rival? Or would she forever be overshadowed by her more fortunate peers?

Catherine soon learnt that people often sought to hold their rank over others less fortunate, and this included not only the hardened individuals of the season but also the offspring of such parents.

"… I did not mind his company, you understand, but Mr. Barton possesses little merit, being merely a second son. I do not know how I will let him down…"

At that point, Catherine was only half listening, and her eyes wandered behind Miss Clayton. At that point, Catherine scarcely listened at all; her eyes fixed upon someone behind Miss Clayton.

Her body froze.

About thirty feet away, a tall gentleman was greeting someone. She glanced at her partner to see if she noticed her change in demeanour, but she was still speaking away. She looked back toward the gentleman and gulped. She stepped half behind Miss Clayton so that she could still see him, but her person would be hidden from notice. She glanced away, reminding herself to act composed, and all she wanted was to remain invisible.

She knew how ridiculous she was; the gentleman did not know her and probably never would. He could have his choice among the most accomplished and lovely young ladies. Surely, a gentleman of his stature would never cast a glance toward someone so ordinary as herself. She forced herself to concentrate on her partner, but it was a struggle.

It was him. 

(Chapter 1 continued)

Her heart beat at twice its normal speed. Not long ago, she had learnt his status. For Catherine, he was…well, he was, for all intents and purposes, unattainable. Nevertheless, he was everything a gentleman should be and more. Indeed, he was most handsome, his features having matured over the years.

Catherine remembered their first encounter as if it had happened yesterday.

***

Four years ago

She was not yet fourteen. It was a beautiful day in Hyde Park, and she was there with her father and governess to enjoy the fresh air. She and her father were watching the ducks and swans upon the Serpentine. To their left, she noticed a young man and a girl, possibly ten or eleven years old, who were better prepared and were feeding the birds.

The young man was tall and handsome, with dark hair, and the little girl, nicely dressed, had the same colouring. As she enjoyed herself, her eyes sparkled with laughter. Catherine found herself watching the pair, the birds flocking to them as if they were old friends. She wished her brother would be as attentive to her as the young man was to that little girl; unfortunately, her own brother was always busy, if he was at home at all.

The young man noticed her looking their way. After a few moments, he leaned down and whispered something into the little girl's ear. The little girl giggled, took a piece of her own bread, approached Catherine, and shyly offered it to her. Catherine was touched by the girl's kindness and expressed her gratitude for the offering. She then looked up at the young man.

That was when it happened.

Their eyes met, and for the first time, Catherine was affected by the presence of a gentleman. To her, he was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen, even more handsome than her brother, and she weakened at his smile. And smile he did.

Then the young man welcomed the young lady back, presumably his sister, and they continued feeding the birds. Catherine enjoyed following their actions. She glanced their way a few times because she, by then, considered him her kind hero and wanted to remember him. Then she looked over for the last time, but they had already left. She forgot about the ducks and the swans and turned to search for them. She felt a sense of loss when she found and watched the retreating figure of the first gentleman who had touched her heart.

***

Catherine did not even react when Miss Clayton saw a more deserving acquaintance and left her. She lost the battle and looked back toward the gentleman. Her reactions to his presence were the same as ever – her heartbeat quickened, and the fluttering in her stomach returned. She closed her eyes for a moment to gather herself. It would not be wise to be entirely under the control of a man who did not even know she existed and likely never would. She looked at her favourite one more time with greater detachment this time.

Was that a lorgnette?

She frowned, biting her lower lip. Heaven forbid, he should prove one of those foppish gentlemen. In her opinion, if a man spent a lot of time and energy on his appearance, it hid a defect in his personality. Though it was still her debut season, she had already formed this opinion after encountering several such gentlemen, including some of her brother's acquaintances. Her father needed glasses to read, but he was much older than her gentleman. She was sure that he could see perfectly well without it.

That notwithstanding, she found him immaculately dressed as always, thankfully not dandyish. His dark hair was artfully disordered – not enough to seem careless, yet enough to look the thing. His brown eyes were penetrating, revealing his intelligence. His nose was nobly straight, and his mouth was almost symmetrical, but she had seen it form a crooked arch, accompanied by a sarcastic look; she liked that. He had matured over the last four years; his shoulders were broader, and his body had grown heavier and more muscular.

Her covert examination of his person so occupied her that she was almost caught unawares. Two things happened simultaneously: he turned and headed toward their group, while her mother approached directly from behind her husband and stopped right in the gentleman's way. And then, Catherine heard her mother's voice.

"Oh, my lord, how nice to see you here! Lord Aylesbury, are you not?"

His lordship was naturally taken aback by the matron's blatant behaviour. He had to balance himself so as not to topple over her.

Catherine did not know what to think. Her mother surely did not know the gentleman! Oh, mother, approaching him without an introduction?

"My son, Robert Berrington, has spoken highly of you, my lord. That is why I sent you an invitation to my daughter's coming-out ball. Of course, I know you must be very busy and could not attend. But how fortunate we meet! You would like to meet my Catherine at least, I am sure. She is a lovely young lady, you will see. If I may?" And with that, she all but steered his lordship to Catherine, who was frozen to her spot a few feet away, though inside she screamed for a sinking hole. Any kind would do, she thought.

Suddenly, the gentleman, now she knew his name, was in front of her.

"Lord Aylesbury, may I present our beloved daughter, Miss Catherine Berrington of Pelbrook, Hampshire?"

"Catherine, this is Lord Alexander Nevill, the Most Honourable Marquess of Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire. Robert has talked very highly about him, remember?"

A marquess! Not just a baron or an earl, but a marquess.

Her mother's voice sounded almost too eager, her words tumbling out in her haste to make an introduction. Catherine, taken aback, looked up at the imposing figure before her.

Lord Aylesbury was indeed a fine specimen of a man – tall, athletic, his posture as straight as his reputation – but it was not just his looks that made her heart flutter. She wished, with sudden violence, that her mother had chosen literally any other gentleman in the room.

His lordship stood rigid, his nostrils flaring; for a moment, he looked as though he might dismiss them sharply, but his upbringing would not permit him to repay a gentlewoman's rudeness in kind. He bowed to Catherine in greeting.

Catherine closed her eyes in embarrassment and tried to calm herself. In her relentless pursuit of high-ranking single gentlemen, her dear mother had just offered her the opportunity to meet her longtime hero. She did not want to appear a fool before him.

A mortifyingly blessed encounter.

She took a deep breath, and when he straightened, she used all her education and performed a graceful, though slightly shaking, curtsey.

"Good evening, my lord. It is indeed an honour to make your acquaintance." She greeted him quietly.

"It is a pleasure, I am sure," he said flatly.

Catherine flinched at his dismissive attitude. An awkward silence thickened the air.

The lord looked away momentarily before turning, finally offering a topic. "So, this is your first year in society."

"Yes, it is, Lord Aylesbury."

"Congratulations on your debut."

Catherine saw him almost roll his eyes, which he stopped in time with surprising control.

"And how do you find it?"

She felt flustered by her inability to speak to him beyond a few words. Unfortunately, before she could answer, her mother intervened.

"Oh, my lord, she is delighted to be out, a dream come true. You enjoy yourself, do you not, my dear Catherine?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to the lord. "Is she not lovely, my lord? And very good-natured, too…"

"Mama, please!" Catherine blushed a deep red in horror.

His lordship was taken aback, not so much for the matron's manipulation as he had seen that enough. It was Miss Berrington's reaction to her mother's words. How interesting!

"Mrs. Berrington, I would hear your daughter's thoughts on my question if I may." He said this all the while, looking at Catherine.

Mrs. Berrington, rather than feeling chastised, graciously returned to her husband with a satisfied smile.

No gentleman had ever dismissed her mother so politely – nor invited her to speak as though her opinion mattered.

"It is… certainly an education, Your Lordship." She answered evasively.

He made a show of adjusting his lorgnette and looked at Catherine with what seemed like contempt.

Catherine huffed inside as he played with his silly glasses.

"Indeed? How so?"

"It is not that I do not enjoy myself, on occasion," she added bravely, "but I do not think young ladies out of the schoolroom are prepared for what society is really like. As I said, it is an education."

"And what did you find that is not to your taste?" The gentleman smirked.

"Well, there are a few, but my mother told me that my opinions are quite impertinent and that I should not speak of such things."

"You are not talking to your mother."

She looked into his eyes. Seeing that his condescension had changed into slight interest, she found courage.

"Rules. The rules of engagement… are burdensome. What may be said and what may not. I am constantly checking myself. And the lack of honesty – that is the thing I detest the most. Constantly having to decipher what is said…" Catherine's voice faltered for a moment, but then she took a deep breath and continued. "It is exhausting. And what is worse, we all play our parts so well, we forget what it means to be truthful." She met Lord Aylesbury's gaze; her voice quivered. "I would rather be myself, even if that means saying something I should not."

His lordship pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing. He did not expect what Catherine said.

"Like now… Maybe it is just me…"

"No, it is not just you." Lord Aylesbury found himself saying. "But can you imagine if people told the truth? Now, that would be something."

A passing couple regarded her with evident curiosity, which made Catherine uncomfortable. She looked around at others, too, and several eyes were on them.

His lordship followed her eyes.

"Yes, well, thank you for your attention, my lord. It was an honour, but I do not want to keep you."

"Are you dismissing me, Miss Berrington?" He was visibly surprised but quickly hid his amazement by faking an upset. No one had ever appeared so eager to escape his company. He did not realise that he did not want to leave the conversation at that moment.

"Oh, no, not at all… I just… Erm, are you looking forward to the play tonight? Much Ado About Nothing is one of my favourites!"

"I have seen it before. It is quite a silly play," he said impassively.

"Lord Aylesbury, somehow, I do not believe that you do not understand the underlying message of the play. You actually prove it with your deception."

"My deception? How so?"

She offered a slight shrug. "Everybody wears a mask, my lord, yet one must lower it to be vulnerable if one hopes to admit happiness.[i]"

His lordship's forehead wrinkled in surprise. "You have some strong opinions for one so young."

"I have had time to think about it, and I think I did. I cannot wait to see it played out."

"Everybody wears a mask, you say. Even you?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

Catherine looked away but then nodded. She looked into the gentleman's eyes and spoke the truth. "I desperately want to be part of this world," she gestured with her hand, "but I am afraid I will lose my true self in the process."

The lord looked at her first without reaction, but his eyes flashed as he searched hers. Finally, he said, "I take it you spoke honestly. How refreshing!" He shook himself and said phlegmatically, "Why, I am like an open book, Miss Berrington – I have nothing to conceal."

Catherine was about to laugh but controlled herself. She shook her head and simply responded, "My lord, then I wonder why you are wearing a lorgnette when you can see perfectly without it."

His hand actually paused upon the offending object.

His stunned expression was all the reward Catherine could want. "Enjoy your evening, sir. I must return to my parents. Please excuse me." Catherine's voice was steady, but her heart raced in her chest.

As she curtsied and stepped away, the room seemed too bright. A lady passing too closely brushed Catherine's sleeve, nearly forcing her off balance. She drew one careful breath, then another. She had spoken – truly spoken – and for a fleeting instant she wondered whether she had been reckless. If he thought her merely another simpering debutante, he would not think so now.

***

Two weeks before her family attended the theatre, Catherine had at last received her voucher from the Lady Patronesses of Almack's, so they presented themselves at its regular Wednesday Ball.

Mrs. Berrington finally managed to introduce her daughter to Lady Sefton, one of the kinder patronesses, with a letter of recommendation from their country neighbour, Her Ladyship, Countess of Southampton.

For Catherine, the meeting was pure torture. They were invited to tea, and Catherine felt that every movement she made was under scrutiny; every answer was weighed to determine whether she was sufficiently qualified to enter the top echelon of society.

Mrs. Berrington, flushed with the nervous excitement of the occasion, spoke with more animation than discretion. "Catherine is quite accomplished, Lady Sefton. She plays the pianoforte beautifully – even our vicar declared her performance of Haydn's sonatas to be almost professional. Of course, I tell her modesty becomes a young lady's best, but what mother could help feeling proud?"

Lady Sefton smiled, one brow arching. "Indeed? Then I daresay London will not be long in discovering her talent. Music, my dear Mrs. Berrington, is a most useful charm – when used with taste."

Catherine coloured slightly, lowering her gaze. She did love to play, but not to be paraded. To her, music had always been a refuge, not a display.

Thankfully, she was deemed worthy, and the family received her voucher to the prim and proper Almack's. After her father paid the hefty annual fee of about ten guineas[ii], she was all set to go.

They entered the deceivingly unimpressive building from the outside, dressed to perfection. Her mother was more than satisfied with the looks Catherine received. Countess Sefton, also dressed to perfection, greeted them with surprising warmth. Catherine, though momentarily taken aback by the lady's graciousness, realised she must have considered her now one of her protégés. Still, her mind swirled with the unfamiliarity of it all.

She found herself introduced to a number of high-profile people – even a duke – their names and titles blurring together. She felt herself examined like a specimen under glass, yet she did her best to appear attentive and composed, praying that her face gave no sign of the frantic rush of thoughts she felt inside.

She was then presented to Lady Jersey, whose reputation for elegance and influence had long preceded her. Catherine had expected hauteur, yet the lady's smile was warm, almost encouraging.

It was with quiet astonishment that she found herself introduced to Lord Byron, already the subject of both admiration and whispered reproach. He laughed with ease, styling himself a "humble poet" as he spoke to her, a glint of mischief in his eyes. Summoning her courage, Catherine mentioned Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, confessing that it had moved her.

She smiled and answered as required, though her thoughts lagged hopelessly behind the procession of names. Still, she held her ground, hoping that she might find her place among them with time.

After the flurry of introductions and formalities, Catherine slipped away from her parents and wandered among the guests at the edge of the room. The whispers and laughter swirled around her, and for the first time, she felt the thrill of possibility.

It was in this moment of reflection that she heard a gentleman speak nearby, his voice resonating with a confident, captivating tone that immediately caught her attention. The gentleman, though, was plainly miserable, and Catherine nearly smiled.

"I do not know what we are doing here. What a ridiculous rule to request gentlemen to appear only in knee-breeches, white cravats, and chapeau-bras[iii]. This is a disgrace! I hate these slippers; I feel like I'm wearing only stockings. They look ridiculous," he huffed.

Catherine turned to take a better look at the gentleman who dared to voice his disapproval of the exalted patronesses' mandates, but she could only see his back.

"This is going to be a dull evening, indeed. We should have gone to Watier's[iv]. The food here is terrible[v]. One cannot have a decent drink. What kind of hospitality is this, I ask you, from our dear patronesses?" He huffed and puffed as he looked around. "Most of all, I find the conversations quite displeasing – or better to say, the lack of decent conversation – of these simpering debutantes."

Catherine felt a tightening in her chest at the biting comment. Simpering debutantes? Alas, she was one. How dare he! Did he suppose it so effortless to be thrust from the safety of one's family into society's glare? That these young ladies might possess qualities he had yet to perceive?

The gentleman continued. "Most can hardly breathe in my presence; they get all flustered. Do I resemble an ogre, then? Insupportable! Why did you persuade me to join you? Better yet… why did I let you persuade me?"

The gentleman turned – and there he was. Catherine could not breathe. She had last seen him passing along the street, grave and self-contained, a stack of books beneath his arm; now his voice carried irritation and disdain. The realisation halted her mid-turn. Catherine had considered him the epitome of what a gentleman should be; it was a revelation that he was, after all, human – a begrudging one. Her imagined hero possessed a decidedly unheroic temper.

As she turned to go back to her parents, she heard his companion scoff at him and address him as my lord. The word lingered.

Human or not, he belonged to a world she could not hope to enter.

***

Back in the theatre

His lordship looked after her as Catherine dismissed him. Did she indeed dismiss him, a lord? A marquess? Her social superior? He had to laugh to himself that it looked like she really did. Well, that was new. He could not recall the last time a young lady had ended a conversation with him by choice.

As he turned and continued his way to his box, he could not help but think of his conversation with the young lady. She surprised him. Why did he not take her first offer to leave her? What made him stay?

And then he realised he had forgotten to be his usual flirtatious self. He often engaged in some harmless compliments to discomfort the ladies when he tired of playing nice. He shook himself. Well, Miss Berrington, he contemplated nonetheless, may you not lose yourself in striving to belong among us. We are not worth it.

Nevill was yet to reach his twenty-sixth year, but he was well-known in the ton, which, in turn, had already jaded him. Yes, she was right. He wore a mask, too. He presented himself to the world as a nonchalant, eccentric aristocrat. It was his way of…of protecting himself in this society sometimes rife with competition and deception, although he never really put it into words.

Catherine would have been justly satisfied had she known that the lord did think of her after their meeting.

***

The following morning at breakfast, mother and son conversed.

"How was the theatre last night, Alex?" the Dowager Marchioness of Aylesbury asked, watching her son as he took his time to answer.

He gave a slight gesture. "It was an evening well spent."

"Indeed? Have we not seen the play together last season?"

"As well you know, Mother, one does not necessarily only go to the theatre to watch the play."

"True." She smiled.

The lord continued to eat his roll. "Have you ever thought that the play wants us to realise and be brave enough to take off our masks… to let happiness in?"

Her ladyship put her fork down and contemplated. "Interesting notion. We all wear our masks, that is sure. Society could not operate without them. The play is about all kinds of deception – deliberate, vicious, and others, benign. Hmm. I do not know… I have worn mine for so long that I have forgotten what is beneath."

Deep furrows appeared between his lordship's brows.

"What an insightful, what a fresh viewpoint. Who said that?"

"Hmm. A young lady I met at the theatre."

Lady Aylesbury looked up. "And does she have a name?"

Lord Nevill adjusted his seat. "Miss Berrington, Miss Catherine Berrington."

[i] Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing was a popular comedy in the early nineteenth century, its wit and lively characters making it a favourite with London audiences. Beneath its humour, the play explores themes of deception, pride, and the need to look beyond outward appearances. Catherine's remark reflects the play's central lesson: true happiness in love can only be achieved when one lowers the mask of pretence and allows oneself to be vulnerable – as Beatrice and Benedick discover when they finally set aside their pride and confess their affection.

[ii] Worth a pound plus a shilling (21 shillings) each. Ten pounds in Regency times was approximately 800 pounds in today's value, though its purchasing power was much higher.

[iii] Based on the military hats of the Napoleonic wars

[iv] A short-lived but fashionable gentlemen's club in London, established in 1807 under the patronage of the Prince of Wales (later George IV). It was named after Jean-Baptiste Watier, the Prince's chef, and soon became known as "the Dandy Club," frequented by Beau Brummell and his circle. Though famous for its elegance and exclusivity, the club's fortunes declined within a decade, and by the early 1820s, it had closed. See article link on the story website.

[v] It is true. The establishment was famous for providing only meagre refreshments to the guests.

Chapter 2      

Reflections and Revelations

"Miss Berrington, Miss Catherine Berrington."

Lady Aylesbury studied her son over the rim of her teacup. "Miss Berrington," she echoed. "And does she remove her mask more readily than the rest?"

He hesitated – only slightly. "She appears less inclined to wear one."

Lady Aylesbury did not immediately respond. The faintest smile touched her lips.

…

The memory of the theatre returned to him with unwelcome clarity.

Back at the theatre the previous evening…

His lordship graciously shared his family's box at Covent Garden, in company with his esteemed aunt, uncle, and their guests that evening. After the exchange of greetings and polite formalities, he took his seat and let his gaze travel over the splendid theatre with a leisurely air. The chandeliers shone with a brilliance that illuminated the vast space, casting an ethereal glow upon the sea of elegantly dressed patrons. The grandeur of the place never failed to amaze him, not that he would allow such a thing to show on his face.

As he observed the bustling activity of the elegantly attired patrons, the familiar scene wrapped around him; he was at home in this world. It was not a love affair, far from it, but he had learnt its intricate ways, discovered its well-guarded secrets, and mastered the subtle art of navigating its social complexities.

The high ceilings echoed with the lively chatter of the upper echelons of society, a constant reminder of the expectations weighing upon him. Each familiar face he passed was a reflection of the roles they all played within this elaborate social performance. Indeed, the young lady had struck upon a truth he could no longer ignore – who could say what lay behind each patron's mask?

Yes, he had learnt to navigate these intricate waters, but deep-seated dissatisfaction simmered in him beneath the surface. It was not merely the pressure to secure a prestigious match or uphold his family's reputation that troubled him; it was the relentless performance itself.

Now, the unexpected meeting with Miss Berrington – and her candidness – stirred in him a desire to be himself again, to lay aside the perpetual performance and step, however briefly, beyond the expectations of his world.

His eyes moved across the boxes, past familiar faces, past ladies who angled themselves toward him. No, his eyes roamed ceaselessly, searching, though he remained unaware that he sought a fresh face amidst the crowd – the face of a young lady.

A debutante, he allowed himself a wry smile at the thought. How old could she be? Eighteen, if that. So young. Then, he recalled that his mother was twelve years younger than his father.

There she is. He looked away at once, annoyed by the absurd little satisfaction the sight of her produced.

She sat with her family in a box off to the side, his own placed further back, affording a view of both the audience and the stage. From his box, he could discreetly observe her without drawing attention to himself, he thought.

As the play started, Miss Berrington became utterly engrossed in the unfolding drama on stage. She laughed at Benedick and Beatrice's banter and even whispered some lines with the actors. Her laughter was unguarded – she did not hide it behind her fan as though the jest truly delighted her. A faint crease appeared beside her eyes when she smiled, and for a fleeting instant, he felt something tighten unexpectedly beneath his ribs. He had not known he was watching for it until it faded.

She never once glanced in his direction. Which, naturally, ought not to matter in the slightest.

It mattered enough that he noticed it every time.

As he tried to concentrate on the play, following her example, he instinctively adjusted his lorgnette. Mid-motion, he paused, removed it, and examined the object in his hand.

She had called him out on using it.

The impertinence.

The humiliation.

He could hardly remember the last time someone had rendered him speechless.

He was so shocked at her playful barb that he had no comeback. Indeed, why did he use it? His vision was perfect; he certainly did not need it. Then why? Why had he succumbed to this pretentious habit? Had he become what he always despised – a slave to societal expectations?

The lorgnette was less a tool for sight than a fashion statement, a superficial symbol of erudition. The realisation struck him hard: he had ceased to examine his motives. This revelation was forced upon him by a mere slip of a girl with integrity, which she had the sense enough to know was worth protecting.

His introspection deepened, and with a sense of distaste, he released his lorgnette from its chain. It was as though the object itself had become a symbol of his disillusionment, a mask that he had worn for so long he scarcely remembered who he was without it.

He felt a pang of frustration with himself.

The offending object weighed heavily in his palm, a stark reminder of his lost self-awareness. He tucked it into his pocket, with more determination than certainty. He found himself sitting a little straighter – not for the benefit of the room, but for himself. He felt it – something within him was shifting, as though a door long kept closed had been opened a fraction. He spent the next several minutes instinctively reaching for it anyway.

He looked at the source of his reawakened need to change. She spoke her truth, not knowing how it would make him confront his habits.

When he first entered society, he did so with a firm conviction of his self-worth. He laughed at its quirks, despised the immoral tendencies lurking beneath the surface, and criticised its pretensions. However, at almost six and twenty, he found himself having let go of his high standards, at least some. Still new to the ton, Miss Berrington reminded him of what truly mattered.

It irked him to need such a reminder of his principles, yet he could not help but feel a grudging gratitude for her boldness. No one else would have dared to speak to him in such a manner.

He found himself uncomfortably determined not to slip back into old habits.

His jaw tightened.

***

Catherine, watching the play in the theatre, remained blissfully unaware of the profound impact of her candid remarks on her esteemed lord. She sat in their spacious box – the one that had cost a full nine shillings, as her mother had reminded her more than once – and immersed herself in one of her favourite plays. To be fair, she had read all of Shakespeare's comedies and loved every one of them. Dutifully, she had also read some of his other, heavier plays, but those felt more like required study rather than genuine pleasure. Her disposition was more inclined toward the ridiculous rather than the tragic, and the light-heartedness of the comedies resonated deeply with her. She revelled in the witty banter and humorous misunderstandings.

This evening, however, part of her remained focused on the fact that she had conversed with her longtime hero, even if his very human attitude at Almack's had somewhat stripped him of that lofty title. In reality, he was very much the result of his circumstances and status – a peer moulded by the expectations and pressures of his world.

Catherine still lacked the experience of dealing with such exalted personages, having mainly observed them from a distance. On the other hand, she reflected that he must endure many such encounters with enthusiastic mamas introducing their daughters to him, especially considering her mother's persistence in engaging him.

Her mother aimed high by arranging an introduction to a marquess. She wanted the best for her daughter. She could not really blame her.

Catherine did not think of marriage in terms of consequence or advancement. When she allowed herself to imagine it at all, she thought instead of the small, unguarded moments she had witnessed in others – her father lingering at breakfast to hear her mother finish a story; the Murrays sharing some private amusement across a crowded room, their eyes meeting with easy understanding.

If she married, she wished for something gentle. A gentleman whose presence would steady rather than silence her. Someone who would listen – truly listen – when she spoke, and who would not require her to be other than she was. She had read of grand passions and dramatic declarations, but what she longed for was simpler: to be chosen not for advantage, but because she was herself.

She had heard enough about marriages of convenience – unions that served to merge money and power – and the scandal sheets were full of proof of these unhappy marriages in the upper echelons.

Her internal conflict grew as she pondered the implications of her mother's aspirations. She yearned to be more than just a vessel for someone else's ambitions.

As she reflected on her encounter with the lord, she felt that at least she did not cower but met him on her terms. She felt a sense of triumph that she was able to change his demeanour to one of slight interest, enough so that he did not take his leave when she offered. She had spoken her mind and had not allowed herself to be cowed by the weight of his title or the expectations around them. Her mother would have a fit if she knew half of what had been said.

She had been faithful to herself for once, and it had felt… empowering, yet she was still blushing about the lorgnette. What possessed her to say such things aloud?

It made her wonder whether such moments would become easier – or whether society would eventually smooth every sharp edge from her. Could she be Catherine Berrington, not just a debutante in a sea of faces? It was a small victory that made her evening even more memorable.

She smiled to herself. Whence had her impertinence sprung? What fortitude compelled her to voice her unvarnished thoughts so boldly? She had surprised him with her blunt dismissal, and then she did it again! She reddened anew at the thought of how she had left him just after calling him out on wearing a silly accessory.

She knew the answer. Closing her eyes, she silently admitted it to herself – she did not want to act like a 'simpering debutante' in his presence. That is why she did not wait to be dismissed, and that is why she did not search for him in the theatre. He must be pursued, and she refused to join the throng of women vying for his attention. She gave him credit that he would be offended by the open displays of the ladies rather than enjoying them. Just in case he saw her in their box, she did not want him to think she could not take her eyes off him. Instead, she maintained her composure, determined to be different, to stand out not through fawning admiration but through genuine, unvarnished interaction.

…

Indeed, the gentleman found himself looking her way more than once, especially during the intervals. At first, he had tried to ignore the pull – after all, she was but another debutante. Yet, there was something about her, something that made her stand apart from the others.

He did notice that she behaved differently. I must not have made much of an impact, he reflected with annoyance, although he did not understand why it mattered that she ignored him. This constancy intrigued him further, leaving him to wonder why her indifference seemed to sting more than the fawning attention he was accustomed to.

***

The following morning, after breaking his fast with his mother, Lord Nevill closeted himself in the master's study. His father had died of a heart attack about two years previously. His legacy was extensive and a heavy burden for a son, yet young. Estate matters, investment coordination, and other less pressing matters needed to be addressed. It became the lord's habit to spend the morning hours in discussions with his secretary, a talented fellow from Oxford who needed employment as a second son. He handled most of the correspondence, allowing his employer to concentrate on planning, learning, and managing tasks.

Today, he dismissed Bertram after an hour, finding he lacked the patience to deal with everyday matters at that moment. His mind was elsewhere, and he felt restless. He called his footman outside his office and asked him to have his horse ready.

Hyde Park, at the edge of London, was then a green oasis amid the bustling city. Its landscape was meticulously curated with expansive lawns, tree-lined avenues, and the Serpentine – a picturesque, sinuous lake that invited boating and leisurely strolls along its banks. Here he came to still his thoughts; time with his horse had never failed him.Maximus was his favourite mount – so named because, even as a foal, his great size promised the noble creature he became. He always took him when he went anywhere for an extended period.

One of the park's most notable features was Rotten Row, a long, broad track on the south side, approximately 1,500 yards in length, famed for its equestrian activities. Here, London's elite displayed their finest steeds and riding attire. Usually, ladies, perched elegantly atop their horses, exchanged nods and smiles with passing gentlemen, their top hats and tails impeccable, creating a moving tableau of fashion and society. However, the track was now empty, and there were no spectators either. The fashionable hours were around five in the afternoon, so most people missed the sunny morning.

With a strong jawline softened by a hint of a smile, he surveyed the park. Dark eyes, sharp and observant, took in the serenity around him; yet, there was a distant quality to his gaze, suggesting that his thoughts were occupied by matters beyond the park. A top hat, tall and elegantly shaped, rested securely atop his head, completing his distinguished look. As his first act of reclaiming himself, with a smirk, he removed the hat and threw it on the grass below a tree. Nevill revelled in the spontaneity he allowed himself. Maximus gave a low, amused snort at this action as though unimpressed by the performance.

He patted him. "Yes, my friend. I'm ridiculous. Do I not know it?"

For the first time in many years, he allowed himself to laugh at the absurdity of it all. His world, so tightly controlled and measured, had just been loosened by a simple, spontaneous act. A gentleman would never step outside without his hat, and with his defiant act, he just told society to step aside – even if there were not many around to judge him. (And a pity it was, for what is rebellion without spectators?) The wind rushed past him, and with it, his mind seemed to clear. In this moment of freedom, riding on his loyal steed, he felt something he had not felt in years – alive.

As they moved along Rotten Row, the pair exuded an air of effortless command and mutual respect. The gentleman held the reins lightly, allowing his mount the freedom to move naturally, yet there was an unmistakable connection between them – an understanding borne of countless hours spent together.

As the rider urged his horse into a swift canter, the transformation was immediate and striking. Maximus responded with a burst of energy, his powerful muscles rippling under his gleaming coat, hooves pounding the ground in a rhythmic, thunderous cadence. Lord Nevill maintained perfect balance and control, his coattails and the horse's mane streaming back in the wind.

Man and horse moved as one with grace and power. Their rapid pace sent a thrilling rush through the park, catching the attention of the few onlookers who paused to admire the display of speed and synergy.

As he galloped his second round, instinctively, he looked beyond the tree line to the walking path, where a flash of colour caught his eye. A figure stopped to watch him.

Recognition dawned almost immediately. The young lady from the theatre, the very one who had put him in his place with her sharp wit. She stood poised; her eyes lingered on him with curiosity and something akin to amusement.

His heart skipped once – hard enough to irritate him.

His grip on the reins tightened instinctively. The horse, sensing his distraction, maintained its steady gallop.

Without the hat, he remembered suddenly.

Excellent.

Now she had seen him behaving like a madman. Maximus, traitor that he was, seemed delighted by the whole affair.

As he sped past her, their eyes locked for the briefest instant. The moment struck him with absurd force. He looked forward again at once, jaw tightening.

Ridiculous.

He hesitated over whether he should go after her. He wanted to continue their conversation; he wanted to hear what additional wisdom she would share with him. But he shied away from the encounter. It was not his habit to pursue young ladies in so public a place, and to seek her out again might suggest an interest.

Which, of course, there was not.

He remained where he was, contenting himself with the faintest glimpse of her retreating figure, though a small, restless part of him regretted the choice almost at once.

Lord Nevill picked up his hat, dusted it off with a heavy sigh, and then placed it back on his head. A faint smile appeared on his face – he took off his gloves and stuffed them into his pockets.

***

As Lord Alexander Nevill entered the drawing room, a smile spread across his face at seeing his sister and mother. Suddenly, all was right in the world.

"Ellie, Mother, what a delightful surprise to find you both here," he greeted them warmly.

Lady St. Claire, his newly married sister, rose to greet him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Alex! I have missed you. I thought I would surprise you with a visit. Mother and I have been catching up on all the latest news." She kissed him on the cheek, her affection evident.

"Indeed," added the Dowager Marchioness with a smile. "Have you enjoyed your ride, my dear?"

His lordship took a seat opposite them. "Yes, thank you, Mother. It is good to see you, Eloise. I needed a good ride. The weather was perfect for it. I will never understand why people wait until the afternoon to come out. Mind you, it was nice to have the track to myself."

Miss Berrington's figure intruded on his mind.

Was she following me?

The thought was so absurd he nearly laughed.

"It is the town hours as well, you know. One who leaves a party in the early hours will not stroll anywhere before noon, Brother."

His lordship was quietly relieved to find there was another aspect of his life in which he did not succumb to the ton. He hated losing half the day to bed.

"… Brother, Alex!"

"Hmm, yes?"

"Are you not interested in the latest news?"

"Oh, pray, what is the latest gossip? The two of you always seem to know everything before anyone else."

Lady St. Claire shot him a mischievous glance. "I wish. But if you would hear, I do have some news that I was just about to tell Mother. Well, you know Lady Harrington's eldest daughter, Emily? It appears she has been seen rather frequently in the company of Colonel Weston. There is talk of a possible engagement."

Lord Nevill raised an eyebrow. "Colonel Weston, you say? I thought he was quite the confirmed bachelor."

Colonel Weston was a peculiar personage in high society and was greatly admired. Everybody still referred to him as 'Colonel,' as he was the second son of an earl and had earnt this title for his service in the war on the Peninsula; however, not long after, he inherited the title Earl of Egremont in Sussex and was already known for his philanthropy. He was older than the lord, but Lord Nevill considered him a friend.

"People can change, Alex," his mother interjected, nodding sagely. "Besides, Emily is a charming young woman. I would not have minded if you had shown interest in her. Though, if I may say, it is her dowry that likely caught the colonel's eye."

Lady St. Claire laughed lightly. "Or her rather… er… large décolletage."

"Ellie, you are incorrigible! But true…"

"Mother! Ellie, I will not have you speak thus. It is not appropriate for a lady." His lordship had to bite his tongue not to react further to his sister's comment.

The lady was a lovely young woman with a curvy figure that caught the eye. He believed most men would find her attractive, regardless of the current beauty standards. He had known the lady, danced with her a few times, and even talked to her at various dinners, but her sweet yet cheeky attitude reminded him too much of his sisters.

"You are not to chastise me, Brother. I'm a married woman now," said Lady Eloise, her expression twisting into a defiant grimace.

"You are still my dear sister, and Lady Eloise will not talk of another lady like that. Am I understood?"

She rolled her eyes, but he just looked at her disapprovingly. "Yes, Brother."

"And may I say, Mother, that the new Earl of Egremont is not in need of funds. I dare say if he is in the company of Lady Emily, it is because he likes her for whatever reason."

"It could well be so, I concur. Well, your brother met a young lady who left a lasting impression last night."

"All right, I think I take my leave of you…" Lord Nevill made a show of standing.

"Brother, you cannot go! At the theatre? Whom did you meet? I cannot believe I missed it."

He looked at his mother and sighed, then sat back. "Nobody of import. Her mother introduced us, and we had a short conversation."

"You knew Mrs. Berrington?" His mother asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well, no. I do not think…"

"And she still approached you with her daughter? How vulgar! I cannot stand people who do not know their place."

"Mother, you should be more understanding. You have two daughters, do you not? Every mother wants the best for their children. She did mention her son praising me to her." Only after speaking did he realise he was defending Mrs. Berrington.

"If you say so. At least she has an eye for the best."

"Mother."

"Do not 'mother' me, Alex. You are one of the best the ton has to offer. I stand by it."

"Enough of this. How did she make a lasting impression? Is she beautiful?"

The question surprised Lord Nevill. When he met her, his frustration had clouded his ability to appreciate anything about her. Later, he was fascinated by her conversation and the fact that she dismissed him twice. When he observed her in her box, his primary focus was her behaviour, especially the fact that she did not seem interested in him.

Was she beautiful?

Her face, framed by her hat, came to mind again. If not beautiful in that classic sense, she was definitely…

"Lovely. Lovely is the better word."

The word escaped before he could reconsider it. Now they would never leave him in peace. His sister already looked intolerably pleased with herself.

He saw again the way she had bitten her lower lip before daring to contradict him – not coyly, but in restraint – and the way her eyes had held his without flinching. That steadiness had unsettled him more than any practised charm ever had.

She had unsettled him, forced him to confront a side of himself he thought he had buried long ago. Catherine Berrington, with her sharp wit and defiance, had awakened something in him – a desire to be better, to be more than the man he had become.

His mother and sister shared a look.

"Everybody looks nice when dressed for the theatre." He said defensively but knew it was too late: his dear female relations were now thoroughly intrigued.

Chapter 3    Family Ties and Hidden Agendas

"How was your journey from the estate, dear?" Her ladyship asked. "I hope the carriage ride was not too tiring. Your brother wanted to collect you, but I told him you were in good hands with Mrs. Teller and the Johnson brothers."

Martha smiled. "Yes, they took excellent care of me." She turned to her brother. "I was safe with them."

Nevill nodded. Indeed, he had worried about his sister. He had sent the brothers, his most trusted men, to bring her to London. Travelling could still be arduous, especially if some ruffians thought their coach was a good target.

Lord Nevill dined at home with his mother that day, an event marked by the recent arrival of his second sister, Martha, nearly sixteen. She came from their country estate to join the family in London that afternoon. Given that the family was in town for an extended period during the season, it was important for her to spend some time with them to alleviate the lengthy separation.

For Lord Nevill, Martha's presence was a source of great joy. He adored his younger sister, and her presence with them completed the familial harmony he cherished so deeply. The bonds between the siblings were especially significant given their current family circumstances. Their father had passed away, leaving a void keenly felt by all. Eloise, their older sister, had recently married and moved out, further reducing the family's once-robust circle to a smaller, more intimate triangle.

As he watched Martha settle into her chair, Lord Nevill's thoughts briefly turned to their father. He had always admired the strength and decisiveness his father had shown, qualities that seemed to have faded with his passing. The weight of that loss lingered with Lord Nevill, especially now that Eloise was no longer at the family home.

His sister chatted on. "… It was quite pleasant, Mama. The weather was fair, and I had a good book to keep me company. Although I must admit, I was eager to arrive and see both of you."

"We were just as eager to have you here, Martha," Nevill said, a broad grin spreading across his face. "London feels incomplete without your cheerful presence," Nevill observed her sweet face, no longer that of a child, yet not yet womanly. When had that happened? Only yesterday, she had been feeding ducks with jam-stained gloves.

His mind drifted back to the many times they had spent together. He remembered the first time she tasted ices, her eyes lighting up with delight as the cold sweetness melted on her tongue. She giggled at the strange sensation. The next time they had snow one winter, she enthusiastically offered him snow topped with raspberry jam, explaining that it was nature's ices. He remembered their frequent visits to the menagerie, where she was particularly enchanted by the exotic animals, especially the lively chimpanzees. After their initial visit, she had eagerly requested to return at least once each season to see her favourite animals.

As he watched her now, Lord Nevill could not help but wonder if this time would be different. Had she outgrown her fascination with the menagerie and its inhabitants? He wondered whether their cherished walks in the park, where they would spend hours meandering along the paths, had lost their appeal to her. Would she still find joy in their ritual of feeding the birds at the water's edge, tossing crumbs and watching the ducks and swans glide gracefully towards them? Or had these simple pleasures become too childish for her burgeoning sense of maturity?

Lord Nevill sighed softly. He looked at Martha differently after that. The little girl who once found wonder in every new experience was slipping further into memory each year.

Their shared past already felt strangely distant to him, as though childhood had slipped away while he was occupied elsewhere. She was growing into a woman with her own sense of self and her own opinions, and Nevill could not help but feel the bittersweet tug of that transition.

She tilted her head and smiled playfully. "You have not yet told me how you are finding the Season, Alex. Any young ladies caught your eye?"

Lord Nevill raised an eyebrow. "Must I report to you now, little sister?"

"Yes, absolutely," she replied with mock gravity. "It is part of my solemn duty as the youngest sibling."

He chuckled. "Well, the usual parade of pretty faces and polished manners abounds."

"That is not an answer," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"I am still forming my opinions," he said airily, sipping his wine. "Besides, you'll be out soon enough yourself. Then I can ask you if anyone has caught your eye."

"I shall have my answers ready," she said, flashing a grin. "But you are evading. Which means someone must have made an impression."

From her place at the far end of the table (although the table was not a big one), Lady Aylesbury's attention appeared fixed upon the gentle clink of her crystal glass. In truth, her ears were attuned to every syllable, her gaze flicking briefly toward her son as if willing him to speak a particular name, though her expression betrayed nothing to the casual observer.

Nevill shook his head, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Let us say I have met a few people who gave me pause for thought. That is quite enough for now."

The dowager nodded to herself inwardly.

Martha gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But one day, I shall drag them out of you, Brother."

Two more years and she would be out, he realised. How would she find society? Would she struggle the same way as Miss Berrington? Would she find her way? The world would shape her soon enough, whether he liked it or not. And Nevill could only hope society would not wear her down too quickly.

His mother's voice brought him out of his reverie.

"It is lovely to see you both together. It reminds me of when your father and I first brought you to London." Lady Aylesbury's voice was filled with warmth, her eyes growing wistful as she looked at her children.

Martha's smile faltered slightly. "I miss Father. It is strange being here without him."

Lord Nevill reached out to squeeze Martha's hand, his voice gentle. "We all miss him, Maddie. But he is with us in spirit, and we honour his memory by continuing to live and enjoy our lives. We have each other, which is something to be grateful for."

"Well said, Son." She nodded with teary eyes.

"Eloise looks well," Martha commented, wanting to change the subject.

"Yes, she seems content, even happy, in her new role," their mother agreed, a hint of pride in her voice.

"Let us toast to that. Bartholomew is a decent fellow," Nevill said, raising his glass high.

"But with such a name?" Martha complained, crinkling her nose in playful distaste. "I would not marry anyone with that name – it is just not right."

Their mother chuckled, adding, 'She calls him Barthy."

Nevill groaned. "I wish you had never said that. Now I shall be sorely tempted to call him Barthy each time I see him," he exclaimed, feigning exasperation.

Martha giggled, the sound light and infectious. "Oh, Barthy, kiss me…"

Nevill did not know whether to laugh or chastise his sister, but she spoke before he could say anything. "Alex, you will manage, but if not, you will have my sympathy," she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Her ladyship smiled warmly at her children, her heart swelling with affection. "It is endearing, really. 'Barthy' suits him in a way. He cannot say no to Eloise."

The two siblings shared a look, and Nevill gave up on being proper. He burst into laughter with his Maddie.

***

Monday morning broke clear and bright at Queen Square, breakfast was laid with its usual orderliness: toast cooling in its rack, boiled eggs awaiting decisive taps, and Mr. Berrington's newspaper already creased from use.

Mrs. Berrington was already arranging the day.

"Robert, you will not forget tomorrow. The Royal Academy opens at eleven, and I expect you to see your sister there in good time. Exhibitions are most advantageous. One never knows whom one might encounter."

"I shall not forget," Robert replied. "Catherine has been speaking of little else."

Catherine nearly dropped her spoon. The spoon struck the side of her cup with an incriminating clatter.

"I have not," she protested, colour rising at once.

Her father lowered his paper slightly, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Your mother speaks from experience," he said mildly. "She once encountered me at a musicale, and I have been unable to escape her since."

Mrs. Berrington shot him a look that might have passed for reproach, had her hand not reached, almost unconsciously, to smooth the crease in his cuff.

"You exaggerate, sir."

"Never," he replied, folding the newspaper with deliberate care. "I was thoroughly captured."

Catherine lowered her eyes, though she had noticed.

The faintest softness passed between them – unperformed, unstrategic – before Mrs. Berrington straightened and returned to her practical tone.

"The Academy is not a promenade, Catherine. You will remember that."

"Yes, Mama."

Her mother might strategise; she might push and prod – but her father still watched her as though she were the cleverest woman in the room.

The image settled somewhere quiet inside her.

Her mind betrayed her then with another image: a dark horse in motion, sunlight catching against a rider who, she just realised, had been without a hat. Their eyes had met – and she had stood, absurdly rooted to the path.

"Catherine?"

She blinked.

"Yes, Papa?"

"You are far away this morning."

"Only considering the exhibition," she said lightly.

He could have turned his horse. He had not. She hated that part of her that waited for him to do so.

She buttered her toast with unnecessary precision. The toast suffered considerably for it.

Tomorrow, she told herself, she would think of paintings.

She did not believe herself in the slightest.

***

Still on Monday, after his hours with his loyal Bertram, Nevill decided to spend some time with his fellow men at White's. He instructed his coachman to return in about three hours.

At the club, he was greeted by old Philip, who had already been old when his father first took him to his club. He always felt the old servant deserved more respect than being called by his Christian name, and because he did not know his surname, he simply greeted him with this: "Mr. Philip, good to see you. Tell me, how is your wife? Better, I hope."

The servant smiled at the young man. Most people walked past him sometimes without acknowledging him; therefore, he regarded the lord's attention as a great distinction. "Better, my lord, better. Thank you for remembering."

"Not at all, Mr. Philip. And what is it like inside?"

"Not too busy. Are you dining?"

"Yes, I would like to."

"In that case, let me secure the seat at the bay window; it is not yet taken."

"Thank you." He turned to leave, then turned back to the old man. "Is a certain Mr. Robert Berrington a member?"

It took only a moment for Philip to remember. "Yes, Your Lordship, he is presently inside the dining room."

"Oh, thank you." He took two coins and subtly placed them in his hands, which was not only a sign of gratitude but also conveyed, with a look, that he should be discreet about his inquiry.

***

The club's mahogany doors swung open to reveal a spacious, high-ceilinged room. The walls were adorned with rich, dark wood panelling and hung with portraits of illustrious members from generations past. The scent of polished wood and the faint aroma of tobacco lingered in the air.

Several men greeted his lordship, and he greeted them in return, but he did not linger long and advanced into the room for diners. The tables were set with crisp white linen and gleaming silverware, meticulously arranged by the attentive staff. Around these tables, groups of gentlemen sat, engaged in animated conversation or quietly perusing the day's broadsheets. The murmur of voices blended with the occasional clink of cutlery and the rustle of paper.

Lord Nevill looked around. "Mr. Berrington?" he asked from the footman at the door, who discreetly showed him the gentleman.

Robert Berrington was seated comfortably in a leather armchair with a glass of brandy.

Nevill approached with a casual air, yet his mind was sharply focused.

"Berrington?" he greeted him with a slight bow. "May I sit?"

Robert looked up, surprise flickering across his features, before he jumped up. "Lord Aylesbury! Of course, please join me," he said, wide-eyed.

Nevill took a seat opposite Robert and signalled to a waiter for a drink. He leaned back in his chair with an easy grace. "Remind me, please. How do we know each other?"

Robert felt a flush of embarrassment. Indeed, he knew why he was asking. He was mortified that his mother had used his name to accost his lordship.

"I also went to Cambridge. You were above me. I often admired your achievements… I might have mentioned it to my mother. I–I am sorry."

Lord Nevill nodded gracefully. "Rest assured, I bear no ill will towards you, Berrington. Mothers are mothers, and they have a crucial role to play. I understand that."

"Thank you, my lord. You are very gracious."

The waiter returned with Nevill's drink. He nodded thanks, took a measured sip, and let the warm liquid linger.

"I believe I recall your skill at fencing, sir. It was most impressive."

Robert blinked in surprise. "Oh, yes, I enjoy the sport."

'So, how has the season been for you?"

"It–it has been eventful, thank you. And–and yourself?"

Nevill swirled the brandy in his glass thoughtfully. "Cannot complain. The season has been busy, but it soon becomes repetitive. Attending events can become exhausting. I usually leave by the middle of June."

"I concur. We will probably stay till July – because of my sister."

"Oh, yes. I hear it is her first year."

"Yes, she has done quite well. She has already attracted some attention."

Nevill raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. He slowly took a sip of his drink and then put it down, looking at it. He looked up.

"Really? That is interesting. Good to hear. Good to hear."

He lifted his glass again, though he barely sipped. The repetition filled the silence he did not quite know how to breach.

Robert looked down at his glass, then back at Nevill. "I do not really know how I feel about that. They sit and listen to her play the pianoforte with such puppy-like admiration that I sometimes want to throw them out of the room."

"She can play the piano?"

Robert nodded. "She plays beautifully – and I am not saying that merely because she is my sister. But still, grown men should not be looking at her with such longing. Thankfully, she hardly notices, so absorbed she is in her music…"

Nevill lifted his glass, though his mind lingered on Robert's words. So she played the pianoforte…not as an ornament to be admired, but with genuine feeling. The image came unbidden – Catherine at the instrument, her brow bent in quiet concentration, her fingers shaping harmony as naturally as thought.

"… A part of me wants to hold time so that she can be my little sister a while longer."

Nevill sat up straight and smiled faintly. That last thought – he should not be thinking such thoughts. "I know what you mean. I have a newly married sister. It was a nightmare, and I have another sister who is yet to come out. I dread the ordeal already."

Robert nodded. "Then you understand. It is hard to watch the men flocking around her. Yes, Catherine has certainly attracted attention. Thankfully, she is not in a hurry to wed."

Lord Nevill tilted his head slightly. "How come?" he asked, his voice almost too casual.

Robert glanced around and lowered his voice slightly as if to protect a confidence. "I do not wish to violate her trust, but I can say that she wishes for attachment. Mother tries to make her give up her 'childish fancies,' as she calls them."

Nevill's brow furrowed slightly. He reached for a small biscuit on a side plate, more for distraction than hunger.

"Childish fancies?" he repeated. His tone was even, but the slight tension in his jaw betrayed his interest.

He waved the waiter over to order another drink for Robert, a subtle sign of hospitality – and perhaps a sign that he was not yet ready to let the conversation end. Then, his voice tightened slightly as he continued. "At odds with her mother then? I take it she does not have a suitor then."

"No, but two gentlemen have started calling on her."

Nevill nodded. He set his glass down rather more carefully than necessary. "I see." His hand clenched around his drink. He leaned back in his chair.

Robert offered a tight smile. "I pity them – they have a ghost to compete with."

Nevill looked at Berrington with furrowed eyes. "A ghost?"

"She met some gentleman some years ago in Hyde Park, and she has been calling him her 'hero' – cannot recall why. She was fascinated by him. At least in part, he is why Catherine has grown up reading so much. One day, she saw him coming out of a bookshop with several books, so she figured a gentleman like him would want a well-read wife. I bet she has read more books than I."

Lord Nevill's eyes narrowed slightly, but he concealed it by reaching again for his drink. "She seemed quite mature for her age at the theatre… So, a hero, you say?"

"I know," he said with a chuckle. "Sometimes, I thought it should be me idolised in her mind, you know, as an older brother."

"Indeed. I take it she was very young then?"

"About fourteen. She's not yet eighteen."

Nevill nodded. Too young, he reminded himself at once. The thought did not improve his mood. He leaned back again and let a slow breath escape. "What a lovely story. And who is this paragon of a man?"

'She didn't know, never said. She only kept saying that he was everything a gentleman should be – handsome and kind…and tall." He shook his head with warm remembrance.

Nevill stared into the amber liquid in his glass. For a moment, he imagined the young man who had captured the young Miss Berrington's admiration. A flicker of something stirred within him, but he quickly quelled the emotion, pushing it aside with a mental shrug. A child's fascination, he told himself.

"Hmm." He reached for his drink again, though he had only just set it down.

Then, he cleared his throat and changed the subject with deliberate ease. He also ordered his meal from the waiter.

"I will dine at the bay. Will you join me, Berrington?"

At the famous table, they continued to converse.

"What do you make of the assassination[i]? A shocking event, indeed."

Robert's expression grew serious. "Quite shocking. Some of his decisions were questionable, but we live in challenging times. He was against the slave trade but opposed Catholic emancipation…"

"Indeed," Lord Nevill agreed, his tone thoughtful. "The repercussions are bound to be significant."

They fell into a more neutral exchange for a moment, the previous conversation cooling into silence.

Then Nevill leaned forward slightly.

"Understandably so," Nevill said. "In uncertain times, family becomes even more important. Speaking of which, as I said, my older sister recently got married. Last year, I took it upon myself to prevent any scoundrel from approaching her. Miss Berrington is lucky to have an older brother who can protect her. I know you have your parents, but as a young man, you have more insight into the men of the ton. I did not see you at the theatre; do you accompany her?"

Robert's eyebrow arched in surprise at the subtle rebuke. "I–I usually accompany her to balls. She specifically asked that I dance the first dances with her. And I also take her to places my parents do not wish to go." He straightened in his seat. "Tomorrow afternoon, I am taking her to the Royal Academy. She has been eager to see the new exhibition." His voice carried a hint of pride and anticipation.

"The Royal Academy, you say? That sounds delightful… I was considering visiting myself."

He leaned back, folding his arms loosely across his chest.

"Why did she ask you to dance the first set with her?"

Inwardly, he chastised himself for wanting to know more about her. She is young, too young.

Robert laughed lightly. "Simple. So that she is not obliged to dance it with someone she does not wish, you know how the first dances are considered."

Nevill nodded, concealing a smile.

Clever girl, Nevill thought, hiding his intrigue behind a polite smile.

***

Next day

The soft morning light, gentle as a whisper, filtered through the delicate lace curtains of Lord Nevill's drawing room in Aylesbury House, casting intricate patterns on the plush, wine-coloured carpet. The room, a harmonious blend of elegance and comfort, was adorned with tasteful paintings and exquisite furniture, reflecting the refined taste of its occupants.

Lady Aylesbury, the graceful matron with silver-streaked hair, sat by the window, her needlework poised in her lap. Across from her, Martha, her daughter, occupied herself with a book, though her mind seemed elsewhere. The ladies were anticipating morning calls. Nevill, customarily, was already with Bertram in his study after a satisfying breakfast.

A footman entered the room, his posture stiff with formality. "Lord Morton and Lady Amelia have called, my lady," he announced.

The Marchioness smiled warmly. 'Show them in, please, and let the Master know that his friend is here." The siblings were well known to the Nevills, as their estate neighboured theirs in Buckinghamshire. The family held the title of Earl of Buckinghamshire, a relatively new earldom granted to them in the middle of the previous century for their services to the crown.

Moments later, Lord Arthur Morton, a tall, handsome man with rakish charm, strode into the room, his presence commanding attention. He was followed closely by his sister, Lady Amelia, who glided in with a confident grace. She was a vision of beauty, her eyes sparkling with life. Her morning gown of soft blue, a perfect match for her fair complexion, enhanced the delicate blush of her cheeks. Her eyes, like two sapphires, immediately scanned the room, taking in who was present.

"Lord Morton, Lady Amelia, what a delightful surprise. Welcome," Lady Aylesbury greeted them, rising to offer her hand.

Lord Morton bowed deeply. "The pleasure is ours, Lady Aylsebury. We could not resist calling upon you and your lovely family."

Lady Amelia curtsied elegantly. "Indeed, we hoped we might find you all at home. Is Alexander here?"

Her ladyship slightly frowned at Lady Amelia using her son's Christian name to her. It was one thing to allow the intimacy, but quite another to use it in company.

"Do sit," the Dowager gestured to the seats nearby. "As you see, Martha has joined us for a few weeks. We missed her so much."

Martha rose and curtsied politely. "Lord Morton, Lady Amelia."

"Oh, Martha dear, how good it is to see you!" she gushed. "I hope you will have great fun; London is always so exciting. Please call me Amelia. We are friends, are we not?"

Martha smiled and sat back on the sofa. She knew the lady, of course. For some time, she had harboured the suspicion that she was after her brother. Thankfully, Alex did not reciprocate the sentiment.

"You will need some new things now that you are here. If you like, I can escort you after this visit," she offered in a honeyed way.

Martha answered with confidence. "My brother is to take me to the Royal Academy Exhibition this afternoon."

"Oh, how lovely! Already making sure you are occupied." She became quiet in thinking.

As they all settled in, the conversation flowed easily, touching on the weather and recent social events.

"Mother, I… Ah, Morton…and Lady Amelia," Nevill greeted his friend with a broad smile. He faltered for a second when he saw his sister with him. "What a pleasant surprise."

Nevill had to join at least for a while if he did not want to be rude. Morton was a good enough friend; they had had many a night out after university, but those days were over for him. He had a serious job to do while Morton still lived the idle life of an heir.

Lady Amelia's gaze frequently flickered to him, who looked dashing in his morning coat.

Lord Morton grinned. "Nevill, always a pleasure. We were just catching up with your charming family."

As the conversation continued, Lady Amelia's interest in Lord Nevill became apparent. She leaned in slightly, her voice just the right pitch. "We were discussing the Royal Academy exhibition earlier," she said, appearing nonchalant. "I have heard it is quite the spectacle this year."

Nevill spoke before he realised the possible trap. "Indeed, Lady Amelia. My sister and I were to visit it this afternoon."

Lady Amelia clasped her hands in delight. "Oh, yes, she has told us. How wonderful! I adore the arts. The vibrancy, the creativity… It is all so inspiring."

Lord Morton chimed in. "Amelia is quite passionate about it."

Martha just knew what was to follow. She wanted to bite her tongue for freely offering the information.

"Perhaps we might accompany you?" Lady Amelia came to the point. She looked at Nevill expectantly. Her eyes sparkled, not with a genuine interest in the exhibition but with an unspoken challenge, as if testing his willingness to indulge her.

There was a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation before Nevill responded. "We would be delighted to have you join us."

Lady Aylesbury, ever the gracious hostess, smiled. "The more, the merrier."

Lady Amelia leaned back in her seat, and like a satisfied cat, she smiled triumphantly.

The gesture did not go unnoticed by the matron, who then looked at her son. Despite her excellent pedigree, Lady Aylesbury did not think Lady Amelia and her son would suit. Her son would not appreciate a manipulative woman, she thought. And she was not aware how true that was. Nevill had learnt early on that Lady Amelia liked to bend things to her will, to her advantage. He liked to read, and she once pretended to have read the same book. When he offered to discuss it with her, it soon became clear she had lied. At the time, he wondered why she would do such a thing. Only later, after several hints, did he realise that she was after him. Since then, he had been more careful around her. His mother was right. Her character, scheming, did not sit well with him.

With plans set, the Mortons soon departed to prepare for the outing.

As the door closed behind them, Martha's previously composed demeanour faltered. "Mother," she began, a touch of anxiety in her voice, "I believe I would rather not go to the exhibition today."

Lady Aylesbury looked at her daughter with understanding eyes. "Is this because of Lady Amelia, my dear?"

Martha nodded, her expression troubled. 'She is…quite forward, is she not? I find her presence somewhat overwhelming."

Lord Nevill approached with a comforting smile. "Martha, I understand your feelings. Lady Amelia does have a rather strong personality. But you must not let her deter you from enjoying the exhibition."

Martha sighed softly. "Perhaps you are right, Alex. I just feel…overshadowed. She will take all the attention."

Mother and son exchanged a knowing glance.

"I tell you what. I will take you another day, and we will make it an occasion and visit Gunter's afterwards."

Martha's now glistening eyes were answer enough for him.

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Thank you, Alex. I would like that very much."

Martha's thoughts lingered momentarily as she realised how quickly the world around her was shifting. She had always been the little sister, content in the protective bubble of her family's care. Yet, as she neared her coming-out season, the reality of her place in society seemed ever more pressing. She was no longer quite a girl, nor entirely a woman. She longed for the simplicity of her childhood moments with Alex – before she had to deal with women like Amelia. She had never taken to her.

Lady Aylesbury patted her daughter's hand gently. "You see, my dear? There is always a solution."

"Are you still going this afternoon?"

"Erm, yes… It would be ill-mannered to decline at this point."

"All right. Now, let us have some more tea and enjoy the morning."

Nevill's mind lingered on the brief exchange with Lady Amelia. He had always found her attempts at charm tiresome, but today, he really could have done without her. Lady Amelia had a way of using others for her gain, and he was no longer willing to be her pawn. He was becoming thoroughly tired of people arranging his life for him.

***

"That was very well done, Amelia," Morton commented when they returned to their carriage. Morton was a close friend of Nevill as they grew up on neighbouring estates. They also went to the same schools, as his family ensured their offspring would be on good terms with the future marquess. He always admired his friend with a bit of envy. He sought to emulate him in every action, including his investments. His family was only moderately wealthy; their estate was only half the size, and they had no other source of income. He and his father enjoyed spending time at the gambling tables and other gentlemanly establishments that did not feed their coffers. He supported his sister's ambition to secure Nevill and subtly tried to elevate her in his eyes. A family connection to a wealthy marquess would further elevate the family's status. "You will be noticed to be publicly in his company, and my presence will give credit to our welcome of the connection." If he felt remorse about using his friend like this, he quickly quelled that in the sight of a great connection.

Amelia was not, by nature, a malicious person. But she was ambitious. From a young age, she had grown up alongside tales of the Nevill family's influence and prestige, her mother often remarking on what a fine match Lord Nevill would make. Over time, the idea had taken root until it became, in Amelia's mind, something of a foregone conclusion. She had begun to view the marquess not merely as a desirable prospect but as her eventual due. The problem, however, was that he did not seem to share her conviction. His lack of interest only deepened her resolve, driving her to grasp any opportunity that might further her aim.

"You are right; maybe a well-placed article in a paper would nudge him to notice me. Securing the outing was easy enough, thanks to little Martha. Our efforts, on the other hand, seem insufficient. He shows no interest in me. We may have to create a situation…" She looked meaningfully at her brother.

Morton uneasily looked out the window.

[i] The British Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, was assassinated on May 11, 1812. He is notable for being the only British Prime Minister to have been assassinated. The murder took place in the lobby of the House of Commons, and the assassin was John Bellingham, a merchant with a personal grievance against the government.