Eloise speaks before her brother can, because she is sick of people speaking for her. “Not without unmasking Whistledown’s identity. The Queen herself has tried and failed. I have tried.”

This is all so stupid. Had she been a man, nobody would have batted an eye. Had she been a man—

“Perhaps– perhaps, if the Queen has synthesised what I have written to her, she might realise this is all lunacy? Her word here is gospel, if she declares it, then perhaps the ton will realise–”

“What you have written to her? What have you written, Eloise?”

Curses.

“I– that is between the Duke and I.”

He is so tired of this. “So you already keep secrets between one another, do you, sister?”

“Why don’t we just see where this goes?” He interjects. “No marriage dealings have to happen just yet. I still say we all promenade together tomorrow, make it clear that there is no ill will between our families, and allow the ton to lose interest? They will have nothing to bite into if you two at least pretend to be best friends again.” He gestures between the Duke and the Viscount. 

She shoots Benedict a grateful look.

“Because our sister’s reputation is already ruined, Benedict. If we leave this, it will only fester. It is crucial that we make haste.” He presses against his temples, nursing the beginnings of a headache. “A promenade tomorrow is not a terrible idea. I shall invite Miss Edwina and the Sharmas – perhaps having the diamond on our arm will return to us some propriety. Following this, unless anybody has any sudden strokes of genius, I shall see about organising my sister’s wedding.”

He holds up his hand as Eloise opens her mouth. “I will not hear any more of this from you.” 

She fumes. “I hate you.”

He casts a glance at the Viscount. Swallowing his pride is one thing, but pretending to be friendly with the man is not going to come easily. Here is a man so tightly bound by duty that he cannot even fulfil it, who will protect his family from everyone except himself. 

No, he has no words to reassure Lord Bridgerton. 

"Eloise," he says instead. He speaks quietly, but not gently, she isn't so fragile as the rest of them. "We shall not cease to search for a solution. Whistledown may fall to us both in concert - my means are at your disposal now, and Her Majesty is-" very clever when she wants to be but mad as a box of frogs, maybe she couldn't find Whistledown the first day and gave up in a huff, maybe this is just one problem she can't solve, maybe she enjoys the game too much, maybe she does know and just keeps it quiet, maybe she is Whistledown - he can't say any of those - "-not omniscient. And in the final extremity - even if our marriage requires some unusual arrangement, we shall find a way to make it tolerable for you." 

That's probably not the aristocratically correct thing to say, but he truly could not care any less if he tried. 

It is– all of a sudden quite hard to breathe. She can barely hear Voltur as he talks, only vaguely registers that he is trying to reassure her, recognises the word ‘marriage’– what has she done? What is this mess that she has gotten herself into? Her family?

She can’t stand it. She can’t stand to be here, she can’t stand their staring, she feels all of their eyes on her and the world is suddenly too bright and the flowers are too vivid and her palms feel slick with sweat–

Eloise rises and, tugging at the strings of her corset, runs out of the room.

He runs after her, glaring at Anthony.

…

“I thank you for your visit, Duke Voltur. If you will excuse us, we have a family affair to address. I hope to see you tomorrow.” His voice is deflated.

He bows to Lord Bridgerton exactly correctly, with an extraordinary effort of will. "Of course, Lord Bridgerton. I look forward to it." His voice is crisp. It's the voice you use when you're talking to soldiers when they haven't done anything wrong, but you still don't want them to forget who you are. 

...

He did insult this delicate flower of a man quite badly. And, gods help him, this might be his brother-in-law. Maybe it's time to try not to make his personal life as unpleasant as possible. 

"And Lord Bridgerton - I do mean it when I say I am sorry for what I said to you." He glances after Eloise. "The blame for this does not lie with you."

He nods, and makes as though to leave. 

She finally finds her voice. It all happens so quickly. 

"Your Grace," she says gently. "In fact - if you would be so good, I for one would like to know the truth of what happened, as you yourself understood it." She casts a glance at Anthony. "Since Eloise is- ah - indisposed," you had better not go storming off after her now Anthony Bridgerton, "and- if you and Anthony are to present a united front to the ton tomorrow."

Oh, gods. His mother is meddling again.

She has this way of making him feel like he is a boy again, when she tries to take control from him like this. He has spoken to her countless times about it, to little avail.

His ears pink and his lips pursed, he grumbles, “That is not perfectly necessary.”

She shoots him a quelling look. It's impolite to mumble. "I am sorry, my dear, my ears are not quite what they were - you'll take a drink, Your Grace? I made some arrangements, in fact-"

Gods damn this woman. And gods damn that fucking Duke.

The man does seem truly apologetic, as far as his insistence goes. The flowers were excessive, in truth – flimsy things that die in a matter of days. Anthony sincerely hopes that the Duke’s sincerity does not die with them.

…Voltur is the most powerful person here, after the Queen. Anthony realises that he probably shouldn’t antagonise him further, and the feeling of it is like swallowing lead.

But it does come with some relief. Eloise hates him, now, she said so herself – but this is for her own good. They will all thank him later.

He is so weary.

…

Fine.

“Perhaps we should speak in my office.”

She lowers her head demurely before the head of her household, and follows. 

Oh, here goes. 

He follows the Lord Bridgerton into his office. 

He isn't really sure what he expected, but it's - oddly somber. There's a strange look to the place, like- like it hasn't changed in a very long time. 

There's dust on the books, not on the spines where servants dust but on the tops where the pages haven't been turned. 

He accepts a tumbler of something dark and honey-coloured, finely-etched glass held tight in calloused fingers. 

The door closes behind them. 

She looks at the Duke expectantly. 

He's still gazing about the room. A large portrait hangs over the fireplace, showing a tall, well-built, serious-looking man staring out from eternity. 

"Ah."

Gods, how does he even begin. 

"I should stress that I knew almost nothing of the ton before I arrived here. I did not think there was anything to know - Her Majesty had instructed that I learn to dance, and that was all. I suppose she found it amusing." He grits his teeth. "It was Lady Danbury who explained to me the custom of making calls. Eloise took the liberty of explaining to me the position of women in the ton, and I offered to make the case to the Queen, but she expressed that she knew nothing of the circumstances of the rest of the nation, and so I endeavoured to show her. I truly could not have imagined the consequences."

She nods encouragingly. This truly is most strange - indeed, bizarre - but, well, they were promised a man out of legend, after all. 

She glances at her son.

Anthony sits at his desk, tapping his fingers on the old wood. Letters and open ledgers lie upon it, people that need him and accounts that require running – and here he is, entertaining the sorry tale of a newly ennobled soldier.

Perhaps Miss Edwina has softened his heart. He feels some sympathy for the man.

“I see. Had you stopped to think about your new position, Your Grace, you would not have caused such damage. There are others in the ton who would not have such lenience, but you have shown yourself willing to make amends with our family. I suppose this is, at last, the great hero we have all been hearing about. We stand on tentative friendship.”

He sighs, rubbing at his temples again. That ridiculous headache is getting worse. He has work to do.

“A word of advice. My sister often has… ideas. It is best not to entertain them too seriously, now that you are to be wed.”