New York high society had more rules than it had members, truth be told- even with the influx of those clawing their way in with new money. Yet one thing both the old guard and the arrivistes could agree on was that appearance and reputation were everything. The faintest whiff of scandal could tarnish not only a person but their family name, and take down any business tied to it.

So why were you here? Why were you lying to your mother? Why were you risking disrepute, whispered rumors, perhaps even exile from society- for something so... childish? So inconsequential?

Because you’d fallen under her spell. Mrs. Blane. And if you asked her, she would insist she’d fallen under yours.

Whether your mother admitted it or not, you were no child in need of constant shielding from the world. If anything, her relentless meddling had only driven you further away, so when she finally loosened her grip, you ran. Meeting Mrs. Blane had been...liberating.

The notion of a “friendship” of the unspeakable sort with a woman had never crossed your mind in earnest- beyond idle whispers heard in drawing rooms. Mrs. Blane didn’t push, didn’t coax you into some scandalous folly. She had simply been kind when you met in Newport, while your brother Larry was commissioned to remodel her home there. She’d looked at you in a way you’d only ever seen from the suitors your mother disapproved of- though it wasn’t until she drew you aside after the tennis tournament that you understood why.

After that... there was no undoing it. It was thrilling, intoxicating, and deliciously wicked- made all the sweeter knowing your mother would never approve. In Mrs. Blane’s own words, her servants were discreet; your visits, your departures, would vanish into silence. Even the small voice in the back of your mind urging caution fell quiet in her company.

She had grown fond of you- uncomfortably so, by her own admission. In public, she’d allow herself the fleeting indulgence of slipping her hand into yours before remembering where you both were. You were young, barely twenty, a Russell, and- at least in the eyes of the world- still learning to steer your own life. She was fifty, a recent widow, and she knew full well that New York society would devour even the faintest rumor of two women. Still, the rules had not stopped her from seeking you out- and she appreciated that they hadn’t stopped you either. What had begun as a summer dalliance had ripened into something warmer, gentler. She would say so... when it was safe. For now, seeing you smile was enough.

Her letter had reached you in New York, just as your mother summoned you home for some affair you had no interest in. But when Mrs. George Russell commands, you obey. Mrs. Blane’s message, however, was far more enticing: return to Newport. Stay in your home there under some polite pretext. Visit her when you could. Enclosed in the envelope- a golden chain with a sapphire pendant. Persuasion, in jewel form.

How could you refuse?

You told your mother you wished to extend your stay in Newport to “improve your prospects,” which was, in a way, the original purpose of the trip. She agreed, so long as you attended the right gatherings, made the right acquaintances, and, ideally, found the beginnings of a match.

It took a few days, but you made the journey as quickly as possible. Another small lie to your own house staff about where you were going, but they weren’t to follow you, so what did it matter?

At last, you reached Mrs. Blane’s home. She welcomed you in with open arms and a satisfied gleam in her eye, sending the staff away for the rest of the day. Dinner was already prepared, she said, and she was perfectly capable of serving herself if it meant privacy.

You stepped into the house you’d come to know so well, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the warmth of the hearth. She took your hand, her thumb brushing along your knuckles, the corner of her mouth lifting in that infuriating, knowing smile.

“You came rather quickly...Tell me, my dear. Was it my letter that summoned you, or the necklace?”