A Study of Courtship-Chapter 28: The Consequences of Vodka

Montgomery Townhouse, Berkeley Square—Early Evening

Benedict stepped down from the carriage looking like a man who had survived a storm at sea, except the storm had apparently been Sophia Fiennes announcing diplomatic vodka missions to Russia.

Duke Cecil followed behind him, composed as ever, though his expression suggested he had aged several years in the past hour.

The townhouse doors opened before they even reached the steps.

Duchess Eleanor swept forward, skirts gliding, eyes sharp enough to cut diamonds. Lord Edward trailed behind her, looking suspiciously innocent—which meant, of course, that he did something far from it.

Eleanor took one look at Benedict’s defeated posture and paled.

"Cecil," she demanded, "what happened to Ben? He looks as though he witnessed a war crime."

Cecil exhaled and turned to their eldest son with theatrical slowness. "Well," he said dryly, "your oldest son here is the reason Benedict is like this."

Eleanor rounded on Edward with maternal fury sharpened to a fine point.

"What," she hissed, "did you do, Eddie?"

Cecil lifted a hand. "We will discuss it inside."

In the drawing room, the family settled—Eleanor perched forward like a general preparing to issue orders, Cecil leaning back with the weariness of a man who had seen too much, Benedict sitting rigidly with his face buried in his hands, and Edward... sitting like someone who was about to be hanged.

Edward cleared his throat, attempting a smile. "Mother," he began, "I sent a word to Lady Sophia."

Eleanor folded her arms. "Yes, and?"

"I... merely informed her," he continued cautiously, "that you and Father are fond of vodka."

Silence.

Utter, absolute silence.

Then Eleanor’s eye twitched.

Cecil closed his eyes, whispering what sounded like a prayer.

Edward hurried on, voice rising defensively, "I didn’t think she would—well—go out of her way to acquire vodka from Russia! I certainly didn’t expect her to attempt diplomatic missions, demand a recipe from the Tsar, or melt White’s into panic!"

Eleanor stared at him. "You told an eighteen-year-old Enlightenment debutante with a flintlock pistol that we like vodka," she said flatly. "What did you THINK would happen?"

Edward wilted.

Cecil gestured toward Benedict, who still hadn’t lifted his head.

"And now your brother," the Duke said, "must recover from an entire gentlemen’s club watching the young lady he is courting declare she will journey across Europe to distill spirits in his honor."

Benedict finally groaned into his palms. "I didn’t even know she could pronounce ’Tsar’ properly," he muttered.

Eleanor pressed her fingers to her temple. "This family," she sighed, "is going to be the death of me."

But beneath the exasperation, her lips twitched — just a little.

Later that night, The servants had long since withdrawn. The candles burned low. Benedict Montgomery—second son of a duke, Eton-educated, usually composed, usually elegant—stood in the middle of his chamber in a state of pure, operatic distress.

He raked both hands through his dark hair, pacing in uneven circles on the carpet as though reenacting the French retreat from Moscow.

"She—Russia—she wanted to go to Russia," he muttered to the empty room, his voice cracking with a sense of cosmic betrayal. "To Russia. For vodka. For me."

He stopped.

Stared at the wall.

Pressed both palms to his face.

"Oh God."

He could still hear her voice in White’s—bright, confident, absolutely oblivious to the panic it caused, ’Perhaps the Tsar can teach me how to make vodka—’

Benedict let out a sound that was equal parts choke, groan, and whimper.

"Why is she like this? Why is she EXACTLY like this?" He resumed pacing, gesturing wildly at no one. "Who thinks of distilling vodka as a gift? Who decides Russia is a casual destination? It takes MONTHS to travel—months—and she wanted to go tomorrow!"

He flung himself onto the nearest armchair, then immediately sprang back up because sitting did not match the energy of utter emotional collapse. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

"And Edward—EDWARD—encouraging her! Of course she believed him, she listens to him, she listens to EVERYONE—except when something actually requires caution!"

He marched to the window, throwing it open as if the cold night air could soothe his soul.

"I cannot do this," he whispered dramatically into the London fog. "I cannot survive courting her."

A beat.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the window frame. "...But I must. Because I like her. Too much. Far too much."

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Lord Edward peeked in, wearing the cautious expression of a man approaching a wounded bear.

"Ben? Are you—" He blinked. "You’re... pacing in the dark."

Benedict rounded on him with the force of an unchaperoned scandal.

"YOU. YOU TOLD HER ABOUT THE VODKA."

Edward lifted both hands defensively. "I didn’t tell her to barter with the Tsar! I only mentioned that Mother and Father enjoy vodka on cold nights. How was I to know she would attempt a diplomatic expedition to Siberia?"

Benedict ran a hand down his face. "You should have known. You’ve met her."

Edward winced. "Fair."

He stepped inside, closing the door. "Look, Ben—she likes you," Edward said gently. "That’s the reason she considered such an absurd... gift. A woman doesn’t offer Russian vodka-making secrets to a man she views only as a comrade in spirit."

At that, Benedict froze. His heart did a very stupid, very traitorous thing inside his chest. "...You think so?"

Edward smirked. "Oh, I know so. She looked ready to duel the entire club on your behalf."

Benedict swallowed hard, feeling heat rise along his collar.

"But she said she is confused," he murmured. "She said we are ’comrades in spirit.’"

"Yes," Edward said dryly, "and that was before she announced an international journey to procure you alcohol."

Benedict groaned again—less distress this time, more overwhelmed affection.

"I adore her," he admitted quietly, hopelessly. "I truly, entirely adore her."

Edward patted his shoulder with brotherly sympathy.

"Yes. Everyone can see that," he replied. "Except her."

Benedict slumped. "...Yes. Except her."

Edward exhaled, walked to the door, and paused.

"Oh—and Mother says you’re not allowed to have another meltdown tonight. She’s already had hers."

The door shut behind him.

Benedict stared at it for a long moment.

Then, very quietly, he whispered into the dark, "...God help me."

The quiet of night had settled over Berkeley Square, muffling the city’s bustle into nothing more than a distant hum. Within the spacious chambers of the Duke and Duchess of Manchester, a soft fire crackled, its glow casting long, wavering shadows along the silk-papered walls.

Duchess Eleanor loosened the pins from her hair as she stared at her reflection in the looking glass—a reflection that wore an expression halfway between exhaustion and incredulous amusement.

"Well," she said at last, "our youngest appears to be... unraveling."

Duke Cecil, already in his robe, lowered himself into the armchair near the hearth with the air of a man who had witnessed enough foolishness for one evening.

He exhaled, rubbing his temples.

"Unraveling?" he echoed. "My dear, he attempted to follow Lady Sophia to Russia in spirit alone. If her father had not arrived, Benedict might have insisted on packing his trunk and storming the docks himself."

Eleanor bit back a laugh. "You cannot deny it’s oddly sweet."

"It’s insanity," Cecil countered, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Our son—my own flesh and blood—froze in the middle of White’s like a startled deer because Lady Sophia threatened to make vodka."

Eleanor’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter as she moved to sit on the chaise beside him.

"She wanted to ’show her appreciation,’ Cecil."

"By poisoning half of London, no doubt."

She gave his arm a gentle swat. "Be kind."

"I am kind. I am also realistic. That girl cannot even boil milk without scalding it, according to Beaumont."

Eleanor smirked. "And yet Benedict still looks at her as though she hung the stars."

Cecil leaned back, sighing deeply. "Youth today are—how shall I say this politely—utterly dramatic."

"Hopelessly dramatic," Eleanor corrected. "And very much in love."

"Infatuation," Cecil insisted.

"Affection," Eleanor countered.

"Madness."

"Attraction."

"Disaster."

"Possibly a future marriage."

Cecil blinked. "Do not jest about that."

"I am not jesting," she said, soft but firm. "Our son has never looked at a lady the way he looks at Lady Sophia. He nearly combusted when she called him her comrade in spirit."

"Because," Cecil muttered, "he wishes to be her comrade in heart."

Eleanor’s lips curved in triumph. "Ah, so you DO see it."

Cecil groaned and covered his face with one hand. "I see too much. And I foresee headaches. Many headaches."

"You foresee grandchildren," Eleanor teased.

He dropped his hand and gave her a flat stare. "One crisis at a time, Eleanor."

She leaned onto his shoulder, warm and content despite it all. "Oh, Cecil... They are young. Passionate. Ridiculous. But perhaps"—she smiled—"this is how their generation shows their affection."

Cecil grunted. "By infiltrating gentlemen’s clubs and threatening international vodka endeavors?"

"Exactly that."

He sighed again, but this time it was softer, almost fond.

"God help us," he murmured.

Eleanor patted his knee. "And may God help Benedict more."

The fire popped, sending sparks dancing in the grate.

Outside their chamber, the sounds of servants settling in for the night drifted through the corridor—quiet, calm, utterly ordinary.

Which made the chaos brewing in the lives of their children feel all the more inevitable.