London, Spring Season
It was precisely nine minutes past ten when the Beaumont carriage rattled into the heart of Mayfair, its gleaming black exterior and gold crest catching the early morning sun like an announcement from the heavens: we have arrived. The wheels crunched softly over the cobbled streets, and the polished wood gleamed with a shine so immaculate it could have been lacquered by angels. The coachman, a stoic man named Finch with an enviable mustache and absolutely no imagination, guided the pristine pair of greys with a crispness that implied military precision, or at the very least, a strong distaste for idle trotting.
The horses themselves—two high-bred, high-spirited mares named Theodora and Beatrice—tossed their heads with the kind of practiced elegance that spoke of showings and ribbons and perhaps even the tiniest touch of vanity. They were utterly unaware—or perhaps entirely aware—that they were delivering three women who would soon upend London's social waters like swans dropped into a koi pond.
Inside the carriage sat Miss Margot Beaumont, twenty-seven, eldest of the Beaumont trio and owner of a deeply rooted mistrust of peacocks, duchesses, and any man who used the word "fascinating" as a substitute for an actual thought. Her auburn hair was swept back into a low, efficient bun, her attire practical, almost aggressively so: a dark traveling dress with no lace, no embellishment, and absolutely no apology.
On either side of her lounged her younger step-sisters, as dissimilar in temperament as they were alike in beauty.
Arabella Beaumont—barely eighteen and possessed of the kind of effortless, incandescent charm that poets ruin themselves over—was currently pressing her nose to the carriage window, trying to glimpse their new surroundings. Her hair, a cascade of sunlit gold, framed her face like a Botticelli muse. Everything about her sparkled, from her eyes to the pastel silk of her traveling gown, which she had insisted on wearing despite Margot's warning that "carriages are not drawing rooms."
Cecily Beaumont, nineteen, sat with her gloved hands folded neatly on her lap, her expression serene. She was the calm to Arabella's tempest, the still water beside the waterfall. Her beauty was quieter, but no less captivating—a complexion like porcelain, eyes the color of robin's eggs, and an air of sweet contemplation that made people instinctively soften their voices around her.
Margot, for her part, was armed with a mental checklist longer than the Queen's birthday honors. Lodging: secured. Wardrobes: adequate. Step-sisters: alive, fashionable, and chattering incessantly about suitors they had not yet met.
"Do you think they'll be tall?" Arabella asked for the third time since sunrise, not turning her head from the window.
"I should hope so," Cecily murmured with a dreamy smile. "But I would settle for handsome. Or witty. Or just not smelling of old soup."
Margot pinched the bridge of her nose. "We are not here to sniff bachelors like prize truffles. We are here to make excellent matches for the two of you. Quickly. Efficiently. With minimal scandal and zero emotional entanglements."
Arabella pouted. "That sounds dreadfully dull."
"It is dreadfully dull. That's the point," Margot replied, tugging her gloves tighter. "You're here to shine. I'm here to shovel coal behind the scenes and ensure the train stays on track."
Outside, Mayfair unfolded with deliberate opulence: rows of handsome townhouses, glittering shop windows, and well-dressed people who all seemed to glide rather than walk. A woman in an ostrich-feathered hat peered curiously at their carriage. Arabella waved.
They turned onto Grosvenor Square, and Margot's stomach twisted, a reluctant knot of memory and anxiety. The weight of the Season pressed down like an overstuffed trunk on her chest. This was the last place she had expected—or wanted—to return.
She had once been young and bright-eyed here, had once danced under chandeliers and sipped lemon cordial beside eager suitors. But that was before her father's death, before debts and dowries and practicality had rearranged her life into something resembling chess rather than a fairytale. She was no longer the girl who dreamed at balls. She was the woman who orchestrated them from behind the scenes and made sure no one tripped over the punch bowl.
Their carriage came to a gentle halt in front of a tall, cream-colored townhouse with ivy curling politely along its stone façade. It belonged to Lady Tinsbury, Margot's late mother's cousin, who had generously—and with suspiciously aggressive cheer—offered to host them for the entirety of the Season.
Before the footman could dismount, the door of the house burst open like a scene from a comedic opera. Lady Tinsbury emerged in a cloud of lilac silk, clove-scented perfume, and sheer enthusiasm.
"Darlings!" she cried, waving an embroidered handkerchief like she was signaling ships at sea. "You've arrived! Just in time! The Season is positively aching for new beauties. Everyone is already gossiping about which fresh young things will steal the spotlight—and what do I say? My nieces, of course!"
"We're cousins," Margot reminded her, as she descended from the carriage with the controlled dignity of a woman resisting the urge to scream into a parasol.
"Nonsense," Lady Tinsbury chirped. "Family is family when one is trying to marry off a few daughters."
Margot didn't correct her. It wasn't worth the breath—or the headache.
Arabella stepped from the carriage next, radiant and glowing and entirely unaware of the minor chaos she was already causing. Three gentlemen across the street paused in their conversation. One of them tipped his hat. A small dog barked.
"Oh, she'll do nicely," Lady Tinsbury whispered to herself, eyes sparkling.
Cecily followed, more demure but no less graceful, her steps delicate as if she were gliding over clouds.
"Two for two," Lady Tinsbury sighed happily. "Society won't know what hit it."
Margot descended last. She brushed an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve, exhaled slowly, and braced herself. Fittings. Introductions. Petticoats. Dance cards. Men who compared women to birds and flowers.
In short: war.
"Rooms are ready, trunks have been delivered," Lady Tinsbury said as she led them up the marble steps. "Oh! And I've taken the liberty of submitting your names to the guest list for the Harrington Spring Ball."
Margot halted mid-step, eyes narrowing. "I'm sorry—the Viscount Harrington's ball?"
"Yes! Newly minted Viscount, thanks to his brother's royal marriage. A bit of a recluse, they say. Frowns like it's his profession. But terribly wealthy, and oh-so eligible. And his Spring Ball is the highlight of the early Season. Quite exclusive. Don't ask how I got your names on the list. I shan't tell you."
"I didn't ask," Margot muttered.
But her pulse betrayed her. Harrington. The name curled through her memory like smoke. Julian Harrington. She'd heard of him, vaguely. Quiet. Bookish. Said to have the charm of a damp sock, but the fortune of Midas.
Perfect. A reluctant host for a reluctant chaperone. What could possibly go wrong?
Still, the Spring Ball was an ideal place to launch her sisters. It would be full of opportunity, gossip, and—if Margot played her cards right—husbands. Not for herself, of course. She had no intention of being swept into a waltz or a flirtation or, heaven forbid, a courtship. Her role was simple: prepare them, coach them, push them into the glittering world—and then disappear quietly behind it.
She squared her shoulders as they stepped into the foyer.
By the time dusk fell on London that evening, the Beaumonts were officially installed at the Tinsbury residence. Margot stood by the upstairs window, staring out over the bustling street, watching carriages roll by like jeweled beetles. The city glimmered under the burnished gold of gas lamps, and laughter echoed faintly from pedestrians below, weaving threads of life into the cool spring air.
Inside, the Tinsbury residence—on loan from their absent and perpetually adventuring cousin—was a modestly grand townhome nestled within the fashionable edges of Mayfair. It had a certain faded charm: silk wallpaper from a previous decade, creaky mahogany floors, and a parlor that smelled faintly of camphor and rosewater. But it was enough. More than enough, in fact, for their purposes.
This was the beginning. The start of a carefully orchestrated campaign. Margot's campaign.
She had spent months preparing—reviewing names of eligible bachelors, gathering intelligence on social events, and writing letters in carefully chosen inks to forge connections. Now, standing in the drawing room of a house not her own, staring at a world that had long moved on without her, Margot Beaumont was ready to reenter that world—not for herself, but for her sisters.
She had always been the practical one. The invisible one. The dependable daughter of a man who married for convenience and left little behind save for his debts and two startlingly beautiful stepdaughters.
Arabella, the elder of the two, with hair like burnished copper and eyes the blue of Delft porcelain, was the picture of demure elegance. She floated rather than walked and spoke like a trained actress reciting poetry. Men would fall over themselves trying to woo her.
Cecily, younger and wilder, had an untamed grace. She laughed too loudly, danced too freely, and seemed to always have a bit of ink on her fingers from scribbling poetry or sketching flowers in the margins of books. She was less polished, perhaps, but radiant in her unpredictability.
Margot pressed her fingertips against the cold glass of the window. The city beyond felt enormous and unfamiliar. Yet she did not flinch.
If she had her way, it would all end swiftly—with Arabella and Cecily securely betrothed, tucked away in respectable homes with gentle, dull husbands who could never break their hearts, and herself retired to the quiet countryside with a cup of tea and no mention of dance cards, ever again.
She imagined a stone cottage—small, weather-worn, and beloved—perched on the edge of a sleepy village where no one cared for fashion columns or whispered court gossip. Ivy would climb the crumbling walls in delicate curls, wrapping the home in green lace. Bees would hum lazily in the lavender bushes that lined her garden path, and the only visitors would be the milkman, the vicar, and perhaps a local tabby who demanded a saucer of cream and offered silence in return.
Inside, there would be books. Shelves of them. Not etiquette manuals or the ton's endless circulars, but novels—scandalous, swoon-worthy novels she could read aloud to no one but herself.
No formal suppers. No silken gloves. And most importantly, not a single embroidered invitation in sight.
Margot closed her eyes and held that image like a sacred talisman.
What could possibly go wrong?
The universe, it seemed, had a prompt answer.
There was a resounding thump, followed by a clatter, a low squeal, and then Cecily's voice, shrill with dramatic flair, rang up the stairwell like a town crier announcing calamity.
"Margot! Arabella's hatbox just tried to murder me!"
Margot opened her eyes. Her mouth twitched. She was afraid to ask what that meant. And yet, she knew it didn't matter—asking would only invite further chaos.
She moved toward the door with the grace of a general heading into battle, pausing only to rest her forehead against the frame. "Sweet serenity," she whispered, "how brief our affair."
From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of another box tumbling down the last few steps, followed by Arabella's voice—low, soothing, with a touch of laughter.
"It's a hatbox, Cecily, not a cannon."
"Well, tell that to my shin!"
Margot sighed and turned back to the window. Outside, the gaslights were flickering to life one by one, casting long golden spears through the descending dusk. The clatter of hooves and the hiss of carriage wheels were underscored by London's endless din—so alive, so loud, so... far from peaceful countryside solitude.
Yes, this was the beginning.
The grand campaign.
The march of gowns, suitors, salons, and scandal.
The Beaumont girls were officially launched, whether London was ready or not.
And Margot? She had the sinking feeling that this Season was going to be a battle of gowns and gossip—and that she might be the only one without armor.
It was going to be a very, very long Season.