Talbot House in Bloomsbury Square was less grand than Jane's residence but steadier. Older. Established. The kind of house that had seen births, engagements, and funerals without announcing any of them to the street.
The luncheon table was laid with quiet elegance.
Elizabeth sat between her mother and Emma, her posture composed, her expression unreadable. The silverware chimed softly against the porcelain as conversation attempted to regain normalcy.
It did not succeed.
Earl William Talbot set down his glass with measured care.
"I presume," he began calmly, "that the events of last evening require discussion."
Jane exchanged a glance with Laurence.
Emma did not look up from her plate.
Adolphus cleared his throat. Edmund leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap.
"I imagine they do," she said evenly.
Rose Talbot reached for her daughter's wrist briefly—a subtle touch.
"Your name," William continued, "was spoken more than once this morning."
Elizabeth's gaze did not waver. "I expected as much."
Edmund exhaled sharply. "Andrew should have spoken."
Jane shot him a look. "We do not yet know his reasoning."
"I know enough," Edmund replied.
Laurence intervened gently. "Let us avoid conclusions without clarity."
Emma's voice was softer. "Lizzie?"
Elizabeth lifted her eyes.
"I am well," she said.
They all knew that tone.
It was the one she used when she had already decided something and did not wish to argue about it.
William studied her carefully.
"You have waited two Seasons," he said. "We allowed it because we trusted his intentions."
Elizabeth's chin lifted slightly. "And do you doubt them now, Papa?"
William did not answer immediately.
Before he could—A soft clearing of the throat near the doorway.
All heads turned.
Agnes, one of the housemaids, stood there with visible hesitation.
"Yes?" William said.
Agnes curtsied quickly. "Begging your pardon, my lord… but may I speak freely?"
The room stilled.
William's expression softened. "You may."
Agnes glanced at Elizabeth first.
Then she spoke.
"I heard from the Montgomery maids this morning, my lady… that Lady Sophia visited Russell House."
Emma straightened.
Jane's brows lifted.
Edmund sat forward at once.
"And?" William asked calmly.
Agnes swallowed. "They say… she strucked the Marquess. In your honour, my lady."
Silence.
Elizabeth's breath caught—not visibly, but internally.
Agnes continued, emboldened now that she had begun.
"And that there was… an argument. Between the Marquess and Lord Benedict. Loud enough that servants in the corridor heard."
Adolphus muttered something under his breath.
Laurence went very still.
Emma's eyes widened. "Sophia struck him?"
Agnes nodded quickly. "So they say."
William dismissed the maid gently. "Thank you, Agnes."
The door closed.
The room remained suspended.
Elizabeth was the first to speak. "She had no right."
The words were not loud.
But they were firm.
Jane blinked. "Lizzie—"
"She had no right," Elizabeth repeated, her voice steady now. "It is not her reputation at stake."
Emma reached toward her. "She meant to defend you."
"I did not ask for defense." Her composure was cracking—not dramatically—but in fine, nearly invisible fractures.
Edmund leaned forward. "He deserved worse."
Elizabeth's eyes flashed. "He is not your enemy."
William observed her closely.
"Is he not?" Edmund pressed.
Elizabeth stood abruptly, the movement small but decisive.
"He hesitated," she said. "He did not withdraw."
"That is hardly comfort," Rose said gently.
Elizabeth looked toward the window, where Bloomsbury Square lay calm and deceptively orderly.
"He has always carried more than he admits," she said quietly.
Emma studied her sister's profile.
"And you?" Emma asked softly. "What do you carry?"
Elizabeth did not answer.
The image formed in her mind unbidden—
Andrew opens his mouth.
Andrew says nothing.
Andrew is looking… afraid.
Sophia's words echoed faintly in her memory.
She trusted you.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly.
"I will not be pitied," she said at last.
No one had intended to pity her.
But the fear of it hung in the air.
William rose slowly from his seat.
"You will not be," he said firmly. "You are a Talbot."
Elizabeth met his gaze.
"And if he does not choose?"
The question was quiet.
No one answered.
Because for the first time since childhood, Elizabeth was not certain he would.
Hyde Park that afternoon was brighter than the previous morning, though no less observant.
Beneath the shade of a broad elm near the Serpentine, a table had been arranged—not formally announced, but unmistakably intentional.
At its head sat Her Majesty Queen Charlotte.
To her right, Duchess Arabella Huntington of Suffolk, dignified and quietly formidable. To her left, Lady Jersey, attentive as ever.
Across from them gathered the unofficial authority of London's social sphere:
Duchess Catherine Campbell of Sutherland—serene, immaculate, and blissfully unconcerned with scandal.
Marchioness Josephine Fiennes of Kent—composed but visibly restrained.
Countess Rose Talbot—measured, watchful.
Dowager Marchioness Guinevere Russell of Cheshire—controlled elegance sharpened by maternal instinct.
Dowager Countess Augusta Eden.
Dowager Countess Alice Routledge.
Dowager Viscountess Anne Beaumont.
Dowager Viscountess Mary Darlington.
Baroness Esther Arundel.
The atmosphere was polite.
Which meant it was dangerous.
Queen Charlotte began lightly.
"It seems," she said, folding her hands, "that last evening's hesitation has grown legs."
Lady Jersey smiled faintly. "It galloped rather swiftly."
Duchess Arabella sighed. "And my granddaughter appears to have contributed to the acceleration."
A ripple of restrained amusement passed through the table.
Rose Talbot spoke first, her voice calm.
"My daughter did not request intervention."
Josephine inclined her head. "Nor did mine seek permission."
Guinevere Russell remained still.
"Your daughter," she said carefully, "acted with conviction."
"And your son?" Josephine replied evenly.
The air tightened.
Guinevere's gaze did not waver. "My son has never acted dishonorably."
Rose interjected gently. "No one has suggested he has."
"Not yet," Augusta Eden murmured.
Anne Beaumont adjusted her gloves. "The concern is not dishonor. It is uncertainty."
Mary Darlington added, "Uncertainty breeds speculation."
Baroness Esther Arundel fanned herself. "And speculation breeds damage."
Josephine leaned slightly forward.
"Elizabeth's name," she said softly, "must not suffer because Andrew fears his own shadow."
Guinevere's expression cooled.
"My son does not fear shadows."
"Then what does he fear?" Josephine asked, almost pleasantly.
Silence.
Queen Charlotte observed the exchange with undisguised interest.
Rose spoke again, measured and firm.
"My daughter has conducted herself with dignity."
"And will continue to do so," Guinevere added quickly.
Josephine's tone sharpened just slightly. "Dignity is not armor."
Duchess Catherine, who had thus far remained silent, finally spoke.
"My children," she said serenely, "have chosen to avoid involvement entirely. It is remarkable how peaceful a Season can be when one behaves."
Lady Jersey nearly smiled.
Duchess Arabella placed a gloved hand lightly on the table.
"We must ask the proper question," she said.
All eyes shifted toward her.
"Is this a matter of pride," she continued, "or preparation?"
Guinevere answered immediately. "Preparation."
Josephine did not look convinced.
"Preparation," she repeated softly, "does not require public silence."
Rose's gaze flickered between them.
"Elizabeth," she said carefully, "has not withdrawn."
Josephine's eyes softened briefly. "Of course she has not."
"But," Rose continued, "she will not wait indefinitely."
That landed.
Guinevere inhaled slowly.
"My son will not allow this to become a spectacle."
Lady Jersey murmured, "It already is."
A subtle shift passed through the group.
Footsteps approached.
All turned.
Duchess Eleanor Montgomery of Manchester joined the table with measured grace.
She inclined her head to the Queen first.
"Your Majesty."
Then to the others.
"I understand my household has been… mentioned."
Josephine arched a brow slightly.
Eleanor sat.
"My daughter-in-law acted impulsively," she said calmly. "But not incorrectly."
Guinevere's gaze sharpened.
Eleanor met it.
"If Andrew does not intend to marry Elizabeth," Eleanor continued smoothly, "he must say so plainly."
Rose stiffened.
"And if he does," Eleanor added, "he must prove it."
Queen Charlotte leaned back slightly.
"There it is," she said.
The heart of it.
Not gossip.
Not pride.
Not rivalry.
Proof.
Josephine looked toward Guinevere once more.
"Will he?" she asked.
Guinevere held her gaze.
"Yes."
It was not defensive.
It was certain.
Across Hyde Park, unaware of the summit convened in their honor, Elizabeth walked with Emma along the gravel path.
And for the first time that afternoon—
The question was no longer whether Andrew loved her.
But whether he would act before others did.