Had Portia Featherington known what mischief her dearest child was truly up to, she would have barred the doors and tossed away the key herself.

The morning’s Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers arrived, wrapped in their usual pristine elegance, yet brimming with venom. Portia’s heart stopped as her eyes skimmed the inked words: “The latest affront to propriety—a Featherington seen prancing about like the ton’s bicycle, no less!” It was a cruel line, laced with whispers of reckless behavior that made her cheeks flush with mortification.

In the face of scandal, Portia wasted no time. A sharply worded letter was dispatched to the art school her child attended, demanding their immediate return to Mayfair. By the time the carriage rolled to a stop outside the Featherington estate, she had constructed a mask of perfect composure, though it threatened to crack at any moment.

She offered them one chance to atone: a single glittering ball to undo the whispers tarnishing their name. But the evening’s events only served to confirm the worst.

When the grand doors to the Featherington estate slammed open the following night, Portia stormed inside, her gown trailing like a tempest behind her. Her child stood there, shame and defiance warring on their face, while the other daughters—ever attuned to their mother’s fury—bowed their heads in quiet submission.

“Good God, what have you done?” Portia’s voice rang out, sharp as crystal shattering on marble, echoing through the gilded halls.

Archibald, lounging in his study, did not even lower his paper. “Drama, as usual,” he muttered under his breath. Penelope lingered on the staircase, her sharp gaze hidden behind the bannister, ready to absorb every detail for future musings. Phillipa murmured an excuse and shuffled off to bed, while Prudence bustled away, pulling at her corset and muttering about needing air.