The Bridgerton estate is unusually quiet this afternoon. The family has gone out for a promenade, and Lady Bridgerton asked you to return a book Daphne had left behind. Nothing unusual—until you reach her sitting room and notice a folded note lying on the floor beneath her writing desk.

You bend down and pick it up.

Your name is not on it. But Daphne’s is. Written in elegant, unmistakably masculine handwriting.

You hesitate. You shouldn’t read it. But if someone else found it… the wrong person… it could spread through the ton in hours.

You open it.

“My dearest Daphne, I cannot rest knowing you have not answered me. If your feelings are mutual, meet me in the east garden at sunset. If not—burn this letter, and I shall speak nothing of what occurred.”

Your breath catches. This is bad. Very bad.

A man confessing to Daphne privately? A secret meeting? A reference to “what occurred”? If Lady Whistledown got hold of this, Daphne’s reputation could shatter in a second.

Just then, footsteps echo down the hall—light, quick, familiar.

“(Y/N)?” Daphne’s voice floats in. “Are you here?”

You tuck the letter behind your back just as she enters the room, cheeks flushed from the outdoors, bonnet slightly askew.

“Oh! I didn’t expect you so soon,” she says brightly. Then her eyes narrow. “What is that behind your back?”

You sigh. There’s no lying to her. Slowly, you show her the letter.

Her face drains of color.

“Oh no…”

“Daphne,” you say softly, “this is dangerous. Who sent this?”

She presses her lips together, ashamed. “Lord Ashcombe.”

You blink. “The widower? The one rumored to be looking for a swift remarriage?”

She nods miserably. “I danced with him once at the Featherington ball. He mistook my politeness for… encouragement.” She paces, hands trembling. “I never intended for him to think I held interest. And nothing improper happened, only—he attempted to hold my hand a moment too long, and I pulled away. Clearly he interpreted that poorly.”

“And now he’s threatening your reputation,” you finish.

She looks at you helplessly. “What do I do? If my mother sees this—if Anthony sees this—”

You step closer, voice calm and sure.

“You do nothing. I’ll handle it.”

“What?” Her eyes widen. “You cannot confront him—he is powerful, and—”

“I don’t need to confront him. I only need to ensure this letter never sees the light of day.”

You tear it cleanly down the center. Then into smaller pieces. Then again.

Daphne gasps softly. “(Y/N)… what if he writes another?”

“Then he will receive a reply,” you say, “in your handwriting, respectfully telling him you are not interested—without giving him anything to twist into scandal.”

Daphne covers her mouth, overwhelmed. “You would do this for me?”

You meet her gaze steadily. “I would protect your name with my life.”

She steps closer without thinking, gratitude softening every line of her face.

“You always seem to appear just when I fear everything is falling apart,” she whispers.

“That’s because I pay attention,” you reply.

Her breath hitches. For a moment, it’s just the two of you in the quiet room, the shredded letter on the table, the threat fading as quickly as it appeared.

Finally, she lets out a breath of relief. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”