A Study of Courtship-Chapter 38: Gentlemen in Mourning

White’s had rarely sounded so funereal.

Ian Beaumont stared gloomily into his untouched drink, Earnest slumped like a wilted flower beside him, Jeremy drummed irritated fingers on the table, Kurt brooded in silence, and Adrian looked as though someone had informed him Parliament had outlawed joy.

The club, sensing collective misery, graciously pretended not to notice.

"She is gone," Jeremy declared dramatically, throwing himself back into his chair. "Not dead, mind you, which would be easier to process. No. She has been—" he made a tragic sweeping gesture, "—claimed by the matrons."

Ian groaned. "Not claimed. Guided. Chaperoned. Refined."

"Tamed," Adrian corrected grimly, as though Sophia were a wild mare being broken in.

Earnest sniffed. "Duchess Arabella and Lady Jersey are very respectable ladies. They will not break her spirit."

A silence fell.

Then the entire table collectively laughed in disbelief.

"Sophia?" Jeremy scoffed. "The lady who quoted Lao Tzu at a Viscount until he cried? She is untamable."

Kurt nodded solemnly. "The same lady who tried to challenge Napoleon. Twice."

Adrian leaned forward. "But imagine it—Sophia under two of the most influential matrons of the realm." He shuddered. "What horrors is she enduring right now?"

Ian pressed a hand to his forehead. "Etiquette lessons. Comportment. Grace. Needlework."

"Needlework?" Jeremy gasped. "They would never."

"They would," Ian replied. "Lady Jersey once made me sit through a lecture on acceptable ballroom posture."

Jeremy’s soul visibly left his body.

Kurt sighed. "I give it three days before she escapes through a window."

"Two," Earnest murmured. "She hates embroidery."

"Well—" Jeremy brightened suddenly, "—this could be good for her. Sophia wants to be a spinster, but if she must marry, why not prepare her for duchesshood?"

A moment of contemplative silence.

Then Kurt pointed a finger. "You’re only saying that because you’re terrified she’ll drag you into another boxing match."

"And Egypt," Ian added. "Do not forget Egypt."

Jeremy looked offended. "My plans for Alexandria were perfectly rational."

"They involved smuggling Sophia past port authorities," Adrian reminded.

"She’s good at disguises!"

"SHE IS TERRIBLE AT DISGUISES," the table chorused.

Jeremy folded his arms. "Well, forgive me for trying to broaden our horizons."

Ian exhaled. "Look—Lady Jersey is not unkind. Duchess Arabella is strict, yes, but she loves Sophia. They only want her to avoid... missteps."

"Like punching an Earl," Earnest offered.

"Or nearly getting deported from White’s," Kurt added.

"Or nearly going to Russia to make vodka," Adrian sighed.

The table fell into another mournful hush.

Then, very softly, Jeremy whispered:

"...Do you think Benedict is suffering more than we are?"

All five men went quiet.

Then Ian, voice heavy with pity, said:

"He is in love with her. And she is currently being... refined."

"Alone," Kurt murmured gravely.

"Vulnerable," Earnest added.

"Defenseless," Jeremy whispered dramatically.

Adrian shrugged. "He’ll survive."

And then —

The door opened.

Benedict Montgomery stepped inside White’s with the expression of a man who had not slept, smiled, or known peace since Tuesday.

The men stared.

"Oh no," Ian breathed.

"He looks worse than I thought," Kurt whispered.

Earnest covered his mouth.

Jeremy stood and saluted.

Adrian clapped his shoulder in solidarity.

Benedict dragged himself to their table and collapsed into a chair. "They have taken her," he said hoarsely.

"We know," Ian said gently.

Benedict stared blankly at the ceiling. "She is learning comportment."

Six grown men flinched.

"She asked me yesterday," Benedict continued, voice strained, "if she should practice soft smiles. Soft smiles. Do you know what Sophia’s version of a soft smile looks like? It is a threat. A promise of mutiny."

Jeremy nodded solemnly. "She tried it on me once. I feared for my life."

Benedict dropped his face into his hands. "What if they change her too much?"

Ian leaned forward. "Sophia cannot be changed. Only... redirected. Hopefully toward fewer crimes."

"But what if she forgets her conviction? Her fire?" Benedict muttered.

Kurt smirked. "Ben, she punched an Earl yesterday. She is not mellowing anytime soon."

The men nodded, reassured.

Benedict finally let out a weak laugh.

Jeremy clapped him on the back. "Come, milord, take heart. Sophia is merely sharpening her claws under expert tutelage."

Adrian added, "And think of it this way—once she emerges, polished and trained, she will still be Sophia."

Ian nodded firmly. "Still the same lady who once tried to overthrow Napoleon."

Benedict exhaled and slumped back.

"Yes," he said softly, a reluctant smile forming. "She will."

White’s had rarely sounded so funereal.

Ian Beaumont stared gloomily into his untouched drink, Earnest slumped like a wilted flower beside him, Jeremy drummed irritated fingers on the table, Kurt brooded in silence, and Adrian looked as though someone had informed him Parliament had outlawed joy.

Montgomery Townhouse was unusually quiet that evening, the sort of quiet that only settled over a home when all its occupants were thinking too loudly. Duchess Eleanor moved through the drawing room with the purposeful precision of a general preparing for a minor skirmish, while Edward sat stiffly on the sofa as if awaiting his sentence. Benedict watched them both from near the hearth, arms folded behind his back in a stance he had adopted from his father but executed with far less dignity and far more anxiety.

Eleanor turned to Edward first, as she always did. "Edward," she said in that motherly tone that could charm socialites and terrify grown men alike, "I adore you, but if you do not find a wife soon, your brother will be the one inheriting the dukedom."

Edward groaned into his hands. "Mother, you say that as though I’ve spent four years doing nothing but breathing and existing."

"You have spent four years doing that," Eleanor countered. "And very attractively, I admit, but it hardly advances our line."

Benedict tried, and failed, to hide his smirk behind his hand.

Eleanor pointed at him without looking. "Do not gloat, Ben. If your brother refuses to act, the weight of the dukedom will fall on you. And judging by your expression, you look as if you might faint."

Benedict cleared his throat. "I am not fainting. I am... contemplating."

Edward shot him a look. "Contemplating Sophia again?"

He bristled, though the accusation was accurate. "I am contemplating many things."

His mother arched a brow. "Are any of those things shaped like a tall, sapphire-eyed young lady who tried to infiltrate Russia and punch an earl this week?"

Benedict groaned into his palms this time. "Mother, please."

But Eleanor had no intention of stopping. "Ben, dear, I spoke with Josephine today. Sophia is receiving lessons from her grandmother and Lady Jersey. They are shaping her into the sort of duchess who could hold court, manage estates, navigate Parliament’s politics, and prevent you from burning down the ducal office accidentally."

"I would not burn down anything," he muttered.

"Ben," Edward said dryly, "you once set your own cravat on fire because you thought warming the fabric would help the starch settle."

Benedict glared. "That was one time."

Eleanor smiled fondly. "My point, darling, is that Sophia is being prepared. Whether you become a duke or not, she is being shaped for a future in which you are in it."

Benedict’s throat tightened.

He looked toward the window, where London’s dusk had begun settling into violet haze. His mind drifted — not to titles or duty, but to a woman who quoted Locke during a courtship, challenged boxing scores, tried (twice!) to infiltrate White’s, and punched a sitting earl for insulting another woman.

A woman who, maddeningly, earnestly, believed she only saw him as a comrade in spirit.

He whispered, mostly to himself, "If Edward does inherit, she will still be a lady. If I inherit... she would become a duchess."

Eleanor smiled softly. "Ben, dear... she already looks at you as though you hang the constellations. It is only she who does not see it."

Benedict swallowed. "And if I fail her?" he asked quietly.

Edward snorted. "You? Fail Sophia? She’d drag you by the collar until you succeeded. The woman punched Lockhart — I assure you, she fears nothing."

Benedict couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

Maybe Edward was right.

Maybe Sophia felt more than she understood.

Maybe — for once — Benedict Montgomery should stop contemplating and start acting.

And yet, as he looked at his mother, his brother, and the looming weight of duty that might someday shift onto his shoulders...

He whispered a truth he’d not yet admitted aloud: "...I don’t fear becoming duke.

I fear becoming duke without her."

And Eleanor, for once, said nothing — only reached out and squeezed his hand.

Night settled softly over Berkeley Square, muffling the city’s usual clamor. Inside the Montgomery townhouse, lamps flickered low, servants padded like ghosts through the corridors, and the household slipped toward sleep.

All except Benedict.

He stood in his chamber, waistcoat unbuttoned, cravat loosened, the remnants of the day’s composure hanging off him like abandoned armor. On his desk lay a small wooden box—cedar, polished smooth by time, the hinges delicate but sturdy.

An heirloom.

He had retrieved it earlier from his father’s vault with the vague excuse of "wanting to inspect something," though the knowing look in Duke Cecil’s eyes suggested fatherly indulgence rather than belief.

Benedict eased open the lid.

Inside, resting on aged velvet, lay a brooch of deep-cut sapphire framed by thin, elegant gold filigree. It was old—older than the House of Montgomery itself, if one believed the family tales. A warrior’s jewel for a lady of uncommon fire, his grandmother once said.

He brushed his thumb across the stone. The sapphire caught the lamplight and flared, bright and sharp, startlingly reminiscent of the way Lady Sophia’s eyes lit when she argued Locke or lectured him about flintlock calibers.

He exhaled, a helpless sound—half laugh, half surrender.

"Good Lord, I am in deep," he muttered to the empty room.

Because this was not a token one gave to a casual flirtation.

Nor a passing fancy.

This was a gesture of intent—serious, deliberate, unmistakable.

He tried, briefly, to imagine Sophia’s reaction.

She would tilt her head in that determined way of hers and say something like, ’Milord, this is quite irrational. I do not deserve such a gift merely because I spoke fondly of your family’s preference for distilled potato spirits.’ And then she would blush anyway. A soft, surprised little bloom of color across her cheekbones.

The image undid him.

He closed the lid gently, as though sealing both the brooch and his own dangerously expanding hopes.

Tomorrow. He would give it to her tomorrow.

Not to sway her.

Not to rush her.

Simply because he wanted her to have something that reflected what she was becoming to him— A constant. A certainty. The bright, brilliant center of his thoughts.

Benedict tucked the box safely into his coat pocket, placed the coat carefully over the chair, and allowed himself one last, foolish grin before finally extinguishing the lamp.