Chapter Text
There were no gemstone mines in Georgia.
His investigation had been surprisingly quick, and if he were less concerned about what it meant for the ladies of the household—for Penelope—Colin might have laughed at the sheer stupidity of Jack Featherington. Perhaps the man was arrogant enough to believe that his charm would cover the inconsistencies of his investment offers, or maybe he was foolish enough to believe that his luck would change and a miracle would be found beneath the dirt and rocks of the mines on the other side of the ocean. Whatever it was, Colin was grateful to his solicitor and Will, both of them playing an important role in opening his eyes to the fraud that laid right in front of him.
His first instinct had been to confront the new Baron Featherington and demand he returns the money he stole, but in a situation as delicate as this was, proof was needed if there was any hope of leaving the Featherington ladies untainted of such a scandal. He couldn’t take a step forward without putting strong thought behind it, knowing that Penelope’s reputation, and her family’s, hung by a thread that he could either fix with a careful action, or snap with a reckless one.
A plan was thus made and executed with the help of one fortifying glass of punch…or four. Miss Cowper’s need to be seen as a desirable lady gave him the opening he needed to extract the fake rubies from her neck. He’d seen Penelope at the edge of the ballroom, keeping track of her movements and drawing strength from her presence—‘This is who you are protecting. Do not fail.’—and, when the time came, he grabbed her hand with one of his while gripping the rubies with the other.
He led her away from the ball, walking through the hallways with the confidence of someone that knew them as much as the habitants of the house did, and entered the drawing room. With the door locked behind them, and Penelope looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes, Colin spared a thought to the mix of guilt and relief for being the one to break the abhorrent news to her.
“There are no gemstone mines in Georgia,” Colin rushes out, speaking over the words she had started to say but ones he didn’t listen, too caught up in his speech. “Your cousin, Lord Featherington…I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, Pen, but…well, I have looked into him. I believe he is nothing more than a mere charlatan.”
Penelope’s eyes widen. “What? What are you saying?”
He doesn’t like that look on her, half confusion and half disbelief, and he likes it less because he knows it is his words that put it on her face. The fake rubies dig into his palm as he clenches his fist around them, holding onto the anger and alcohol that simmers beneath his skin at the thought of the fraud of a man whose action have led him to this.
“I am saying, if I am right, then this necklace—”
The doors of the drawing room open loudly, and his mouth clamps down to stare at the new arrivals. Jack and Portia Featherington stand just beyond the entrance, both staring in suspicion with looks that jump between Penelope and himself.
“Mr. Bridgerton? Penelope?” Jack questions.
“What is the meaning of this?” Portia demands, though her voice is low, and she’s clearly speaking towards the younger redhead.
He is not prepared. There is a carefully constructed plan in his mind that is slowly falling apart the longer he stands silent before the gazes of the newcomers. He can see Lady Featherington inching closer to Penelope, the eyes of the matriarch bouncing rapidly between her daughter and himself while Lord Featherington keeps his position at the edge of the door.
He is out of time, and he must act now, even when it feels like his heart will beat itself out of his chest.
“The meaning of this is—” Colin says, stopping himself mid-sentence.
He can feel the indents that the rubies have made on his palm as his fingers play with the necklace. Made of glass, they are pretty enough to deceive the buyers, but they’re also extremely fragile. He takes a step towards a nearby table, dropping the necklace on top of the mantle and grabbing the first utensil he can find before slamming it onto the rubies.
They shatter under the force of his blow, and when he turns to look back and the Lord and Lady of the house, his anxiety dwindles at the look of shock that crosses both of their faces. His proof is here, witnessed, and can now be leveraged.
“…that this necklace is a fraud, made of glass,” Colin states. He straightens himself to his full height, glaring at the still silent man. “Just like you. How dare you take advantage of these poor ladies Featherington, without a father or a husband to protect them?”
He had been prepared for indignation, denial, anger and perhaps a bit of fake charm. Those, however, were not what was reflected upon Jack Featherington’s face: the man still looked shocked, though it was slowly morphing into defeat and fear. It is understandable, though. The man swindled more upstanding gentlemen that he should have been allowed to, some of them with very powerful allies and titles to throw around. If this scandal got out, he would be ruined beyond salvation…and so would be the ladies. That cannot happen.
“It is out of concern for their reputation alone that I will only address this matter in private,” Colin continues, and steps into the other man’s space to stare right at his eyes. “But I expect you to return all of the funds you have collected and leave town, at once.”
There is a shift in Lord Featherington’s eyes, small but damming his inability to fight against the accusations against his name, and Colin knows he has won. There is nothing more he can say, already making his threat clear, so he turns back towards Pen and bows to her and only to her, for she is the only person in the room that he has done this for.
He walks past Lord and Lady Featherington without so much of a glance to them, upping his pace until he is far enough away that he will not be heard, standing just beyond the entrance to the ballroom. In between the sound of music and chatter, Colin blows out a breath and cannot help with grin and chuckle softly. He has done it! He has managed to successfully uncover the deceit, and demanded reparations, even if they had to be privately made to ensure no scandal would touch Pen, or her family.
A footman passes by him carrying a tray of wine, and Colin follows him into the ballroom, smile planted firmly on his face and hands shaking with the victory of tonight. A celebratory drink is in order.
He is in the middle of downing his second glass of wine when Penelope appears on his peripheral vision.
“Colin,”
“Are you alright?” He asks, and he is relieved to see that she appears to be calm. Well, as calm as one can be when presented with a family lie.
“I believe so,” She answers, sounding breathless and somewhat distracted.
“Good,” Colin states, and smiles. “Because we are dancing.”
He takes her hands in his, taking note of how dainty they feel in between his larger ones, and guides her to the dance floor. They have not shared a dance tonight, his mind too preoccupied with what had to be done and going through with it, but the situation is resolved and he can now go back to sharing steps with his favorite dance partner. They take their places, entering the floor just in time to start.
“I have been rehearsing that speech in my mind for hours,” Colin admits. “If your cousin does not return the money and leave your family alone, I will have another thing to say to him.”
“You were astonishing, Colin,” Penelope says, still looking a bit out of sorts, but her lips twitch into a small smile. “I cannot thank you enough for looking after us.”
Astonishing? She believes him astonishing?
He knows he cannot quite control his response towards such a compliment. His grin is back only for a second before softens it into a smile that resembles hers. He twirls her for a moment, and when they come back to facing each other, he makes sure his next statement sound as serious as he knows it is.
“I will always look after you, Penelope,” Colin assures her. “You are special to me.”
“As are you…to me,” She answers back.
Colin nods and keeps his smile, guiding her through another twirl. No other words are exchanged between them even as the dance ends, but the looks she gives him are enough to make him lightheaded, all full of respect and trust. He commits them to memory, and in the back of his mind, promises himself to keep being the kind of man she admires.
There is one last part of his plan that he must see through before he can feel fully victorious tonight. Will’s club sits mostly empty these days, his new fortune seemingly unable to compete with the money and prestige of White’s, but the former boxer is an outstanding man and one Colin would wish nothing but success on. Given that his words were instrumental in helping his eyes see the fraud beyond the man, Colin knows that he must repay him somehow.
A donation to his club is out of the question, for he knows that Will will not accept it no matter if he is in need of it or not. Telling every other gentleman in the ton to pay a visit to the new club has only half a chance of working, but if he can sing the club’s praises and somehow all but escort the gentlemen there…
He swipes another glass of wine from a passing footman, stepping outside into the garden while following the sound of laughter. He had not had the mind to exchange much words with this group of men since he arrived, but with everything behind him and the urgency to repay Will’s kindness, Colin steps into the circle with the surge of confidence that has not left him since he first laid eyes on Jack Featherington’s shocked face. Where before he had always felt unable to take his place among the gentlemen of the ton, tonight his frame fills the space as if it had been reserved for him. A man amongst men, at last.
“Bridgerton!” Lord Fife greets, raising his glass and grinning. “Are you finally done playing gentleman?”
“I am one, Fife, unlike you,” Colin answers, and smirks at the teasing that breaks out after his comment.
He’s vaguely aware of the attendees that suddenly flood the gardens, and recalls Lady Featherington speaking of a surprise to be witnessed on the outside. The people are separated into groups, ladies and debutantes speaking in soft voices over the chatter of single, eligible gentlemen around them while the married couples create their own bubble of socialization. Himself and the men he has joined stand just on the edge of the garden, their laughter petering into chuckles and more continued jokes that he only half hears.
You were astonishing, Colin.
He hides his smile behind the glass of wine, taking a generous sip and still thinking of the conversation and dance they had shared not ten minutes before. She had sounded so sure when saying those words, as if anything less of astonishing was an insult to his character, and he cannot help but silently delight in it even when he knew her words, though welcomed, were not the primary cause of his meddling into her family’s private business. Penelope… she is dear to him, much more than most things, and a threat to her safety was something he was not going to allow. As long as Jack Featherington heeds the warnings made this will remain a mere hiccup in what it would otherwise be a ravaging scandal.
“Daydreaming, Bridgerton?”
It’s Fife addressing him again, and now he finds himself with the eyes of the other men upon him. Colin takes another sip of his wine, the glass now nearly empty, and plasters a smirk on his face. “I am just wondering where you have been all night, that is all. Usually, you are found sniffing around whatever ladies strike your fancy, Fife.”
The other man nods, accepting the assessment as true. “Yes, well…I have decided that the ladies of this year are not particularly…engaging to me.”
“Ah, so there will not be any instance of you getting…familiar with a lady this season?” Lord Stanton chimes in.
“Maybe if one catches my attention enough,” Lord Fife answers. “Though, we really should be focusing our attentions on Mister Bridgerton here, should we not?”
“And why ever would you do that?” Colin asks. The last sip of his wine feels rougher going down his throat at the looks passing between the men.
“Come on, Bridgerton,” It’s Lord Wilding speaking now, his eyes shining with amusement. “We all saw you with the redhead out there in the dance floor. Much more graceful than I thought she would be, to be honest, considering…”
Some joke must be hidden in between those words because the laughter that follows is almost immediate, and though he does not understand why that statement would garner such a response, he goes along with it and laughs too even as his chest constricts uncomfortably. In the back of his mind, he starts to devise ways of steering the conversation towards his real goal behind joining these men in conversation: get them into Mondrich’s club.
A sudden change of topic is not the path to take. He has known them for enough time to know that evasion when they have already sank their teeth into something of their amusement will only serve to urge them to dig further. This line of conversation must be dismissed in order to move on, and he must make it quick and clear. Fife, in front, regards him with a conceited expression that would have make him flinch if it weren’t for the alcohol swimming in his veins.
“Penelope Featherington?” Colin asks, now holding onto his empty glass with a tighter grip than it warrants even as he forces his face to remain relaxed.
“The way you were dancing with her looked rather interesting,” Lord Fife states, his smirk growing. “You courting the girl, Bridgerton?”
There is a glint of interest in the other man’s eyes, and Colin finds himself unable to speculate on the origin of it. Is Fife purely reaching for another thing to reduce to a joke, or is his interest something…deeper?
He thinks of his reputation—a rake through and through, and one that enjoys skirting the edge of polite society by crossing boundaries with the gentle ladies of the ton, even when some gentlemen had already set their caps off to them—and of the way the question was posed: ‘you courting the girl, Bridgerton?’
And Penelope…she’s too good, too precious to be anywhere near the thoughts of men like this. He did not dealt with the snake inside her house only to let the wolves outside swarm her. Whatever interest Fife has must be passing, considering his fickleness when it comes to entanglements, but there is no comfort in letting it run its course.
“Ah, are you mad?” His words come out quick, almost too fast for his brain to acknowledge the fact that he is speaking. “I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington, not in your wildest fantasies, Fife.”
The men laugh, and Fife nods and salutes with his drink, his interest apparently now faded. Colin raises his glass, touching it to his lips before he remembers that he has already drank it all. The laughter around slams against his ears, the noise grating and uncomfortable, enough to make him turn around in search of another drink.
There is no footman in sight, but as he takes two steps in the direction of the house, his eyes lock into another, familiar blue gaze. Penelope stands there, barely hidden beyond one of the statues of the garden. Her face is pale, and there are fresh tear tracks down her cheeks that he can only stare at for a moment before she turns around and flees.
He is frozen in place, staring at her retreating back as it disappears beyond the back door of the house. It is only when he can no longer see her that his feet start to work again. The empty wine glass falls to the ground, cracking while he takes as quick as step as he can without attracting too much attention, and steps inside the house in search for her, worry overtaking his mind.
It is all but empty. The attendees are still gathered in the gardens and the footmen and maids are spending all their focus on keeping them happy. He does not know where to look because he wasted time before following, but he tries every room he can find that is unlocked on both the first and second floor. None of them hold her inside, so there is only two other places that she can go and hide: the servant’s rooms, or her own room.
He stares at the staircase, eyes flickering from the ones going down to the ones going up to where he knows the families’ rooms are, and decides to take the upper ones.
With a quick look behind him to make sure nobody is lurking around, Colin takes the steps two at a time and enters the hallway, softening his pace and searching. There is a door near the end, which stands out from the others due to the sliver of light that escaped from the bottom of it. He followed her quickly enough to know that nobody else made it inside before he did, so he knows it is her beyond the door.
The memory of Penelope crying spurs him on, and before he knows it, he is pulling the door open and stepping quickly inside. She is at her desk, a mess of papers, discarded quills and an overflowing inkpot around it. Her writing pauses to stare at him shock while he walks over to her desk, his pace quick enough that she cannot do anything but sit there and stare at him.
“Pen, what is the matter?” Colin asks, stumbling over his words. “You are crying.”
Penelope stays quiet, mouth downturned and hand tightening around her quill before she startles. Her hands fly all over her desk, gathering papers while she speaks, her voice quivering with sadness and frustration.
“I am well, Colin,” She says, and the papers on her hand become wrinkled with the strength and carelessness she’s using to gather them.
“You clearly are not,” Colin retorts, stepping even closer. “You have been crying. Are you ill? Has someone done something to you? Tell me at once and I shall settle the matter.”
“I am well,” She insists, even when he can tell there are fresh tears going down her cheeks.
“Pen—”
Her hands are shaking enough that her movements work against her, and the papers escape her hold. Most of them drop on the desk in disarray, but some of them flutter to the ground at his feet. He leans down, gathering them quickly while still looking at her, and he pauses. Her face has shifted: gone is the pale, hurt expression he glimpsed back at the garden and when he first strode inside her room. Her eyes flicker between his eyes and the papers in his hand, teeth biting her lower lip while her hands play with her quill. If he were to be honest, she looks…afraid.
Colin frowns, and for the first time in the night, he wonders if he should have slowed down with the number of drinks. There is something he is missing here, he knows that. Penelope’s demeanor since he has followed her inside does not make any sense, even less now with her quick change from dejection to fear. Whatever it is, it has something to do with the papers he holds, and he confirms it when she reaches out a hand.
“Colin, give them to me,” Penelope says, but before she can grab them, he pulls them towards himself and paces back.
“Pen, what is wrong?” He asks. “Is it something to do with this? Is somebody…threatening you through letters?”
“Nothing like that,” Penelope answers, and she follows in his footsteps while he continues to avoid her closeness. “I need those back. Give them to me.”
“What could possibly be so import—”
His words get caught in his throat as his eyes swim around the papers he holds. The very first words are enough of a clue to what he holds: Dearest Gentle Reader…
The whole page is filled with Penelope’s handwriting. He has spent months trading letters with her so often that he could forge it by memory alone. The slants of the F’s, the way she crosses her T’s and dots her I’s, all of it is ingrained in his brain and staring right back at him from a paper that it freshly written. He is only able to read no further than one sentence—‘Although considered by everyone, including this Author, more tacky than graceful, the Featherington matriarch…— before the papers are ripped from his hands.
Penelope has reached him, and his surprise had frozen him in place and allowed her to take the papers back. Even with her swiftness in doing so, one look at her tells him that it is far too late, and they both know it. He has read the words, and though there is still more than enough confusion in his brain, the fear and worry in her eyes is enough to tell him that what he read was not a figment of his imagination.
“Penelope…” Colin breathes. His mouth opens and shuts for a moment.
His mind is clouded, he knows that, because there are a torrent of thoughts that rip at each other, echoing chaotically enough that he has to force himself to take a deep breath. He wants to ask her, he needs to ask her, but he is afraid of her answer because if it is what he suspects…
“Colin…” Penelope whispers, her lips trembling.
“Is this…” Colin says, voice unrecognizable even to his own ears. Rougher, equally parts disbelieving and angry. “Penelope, are you…?”
Lady Whistledown.
He can’t bring himself to say it…and he doesn’t have to.
Penelope breaths in, her hands twisting the papers in her hands while her eyes stay on his. There is a pause, a long one, filled with nothing but uncomfortable silence and thickened tension before she nods once, quick and sharp.
He feels the breath leave his lungs, staggering backwards a step and staring at her. Penelope…Lady Whistledown? The scribe? The gossipmonger? The one who has been spreading the ton’s private business for everybody literate to read and ridicule?
“You…” Colin breathes. “You…are her.”
“I…” Penelope whispers, hugging the mess of papers to her chest, smearing some of the fresh ink onto her yellow dress. “I…I am.”
He thinks of Whistledown. Of the many scandals exposed and people ruined because of the stroke of a quill by what used to be a mystery author but that now stands unmasked before him.
He thinks of Daphne’s debut, the very first year Whistledown appeared and rose above every other gossiper in the ton by providing not only interesting gossip, but actual, full names and the type of information that had everyone wondering just who was mischievous enough to gather it.
He thinks of Miss Thompson, ruined beyond salvation with the exposure of her pregnancy and scheme to cover it up. He still remembers the feeling of waking up that day, bag packed and carriage ready to ride to Gretna Green before his mother stopped him, no words offered as she passed him the newest issue of Whistledown.
He thinks of Eloise. Eloise. Penelope’s best friend that had nearly been driven to ruin by Penelope writing about her consorting with radicals. Penelope herself…she had written that about her friend and sent it to print, knowing exactly what the eyes and tongues of the ton would do to his sister the moment those words reached them.
“How could you?” Colin asks, voice faint, but slowly growing in volume as he continues. “You…everything you have written, all the lives you have destroyed…How could you?”
“I never meant to…” Penelope says, trialing off. She is shaking, her shoulders trembling and eyes filling with tears. “You do not understand, Colin—”
“—of course I do not understand,” He interjects quickly. “What is there to understand, Penelope? You…What you have done…”
“I never meant for this to grow so…large,” Penelope says, crumpling the papers and letting them fall to the ground, her hands now hanging at her sides. “And I certainly never meant to…to…”
“Ruin people?” Colin asks, tone harsh, though his voice dropped in volume. A quick look at her door later, he brought his eyes back to hers. “And you were about to do it again tonight, were you not? That is why you ran from your own family’s ball all the way here…why you had all these papers already filled with whatever gossip you gathered in the hours spent alongside company. Tell me, just who exactly is the target of your ire this time?”
Penelope shakes her head, making her way back to her desk and shuffling blank papers around. He follows, standing in front of the furniture and staring at her until she met his eye once more, voice soft and wavering. “Nobody that you need to concern yourself with.”
Colin scoffs. “I do not believe you.”
“That does not change the certainty of my words,” Penelope states. Though with fresh tears still gathering in her eyes, her overall demeanor was hardening: her gaze avoided his now, mouth downturned and shoulders tense.
“Who, Penelope?” He insists. “I believe I ought to warn them of the fact that they are about to be unfairly exposed.”
“You cannot!” She exclaims. “You cannot tell anyone, Colin. If you do…”
And there is frustration, anger, sadness, and a whole other myriad of feelings that accompany the sudden revelation of her identity, but what does not exist in his mind is the possibility of outing her to the ton. Not when he knows the kind of scrutiny and persecution that might knock at her door if he were to whisper her secret to anybody outside this room.
“I will not,” Colin says, voice low, and he means it. Fully. “But that does not mean I can just stand by and watch you bury somebody with your words, Penelope. Whoever it is, whatever they have done, I beg of you, let them be. This has gone on long enough, do you not think so?”
“Excuse me?”
Colin shrugs helplessly, and his anger dwindles a bit, now allowing for earnest pleading. “If power is what you seek, you already have the ton eating from your hands. The earnings must be substantial, judging by what the delivery boys ask for in exchange for a paper. You have proven to be the best gossip writer polite society has ever seen, Penelope…what else is there? If you retire now—”
“—I will not.” Penelope interrupts.
There is a fire in her at this very moment, unknown to him. She stands tall now, with her desk in between them. She stares at him with what he deems to be indignation, and keeps his eyes as she walks around the furniture to stop right in front of him. There are still tears in her eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall even when her lip quivers before she speaks.
“I am Lady Whistledown,” She says, and he can see the way she leans to the side and stares at her door beyond his body for a moment before returning. “I was, am, and will continue to be Lady Whistledown, Colin. That has not changed. What I do…it is important to me.”
“Important? Ruining lives is important to you?” He asks, baffled.
“It is not…I am not…I do not ruin lives, Colin!” Penelope says, exasperated. “I only write what people already talk about! Nothing I have ever written has been untruthful. I am merely…taking advantage of my invisibility to write about the ton. It is…mostly harmless.”
“I believe Eloise, or even Miss Thompson, will disagree with you there,” Colin huffs. “My sister, your best friend, and your cousin, Penelope…how could you?”
“Everything that I wrote about them had no hidden motive, it was for protection,” Penelope argued.
“Protection?!”
“Yes, protection!” Her voice is sharp and loud, and for a moment she freezes, throwing another look at the door before resuming her words, now lowering her voice. “Eloise was consorting with radicals and people were starting to notice, Colin, and Marina...she loves George, even after he has perished in battle. Nobody else would have ever been enough for her,”
“You ruined her,” He accuses her.
“I protected you!” Penelope hisses, pointing a finger at his chest. “I protected you, Colin! She was manipulating you! She chose you and did everything she could to secure a marriage with you while knowing that her heart and her womb belonged to another! You...you desire love, Colin, do you not? You would never have been happy with her,”
“You should have told me,” Colin states, shaking his head, cursing the amount of wine glasses that he had freely grabbed at the ball. His head still felt somewhat muddled, words pouring out of him before he can even think about them properly. “You should have told me about her pregnancy, about her deceit, not…not write it out for the entire ton to read it!”
“I tried. I tried to tell you, do you not remember?” Penelope asks. Her shoulders drop, and a humorless laugh leaves her mouth, tense enough to make him pause. “Of course you do not. Why ever would you listen to Penelope Featherington of all people?”
“Excuse me?” He whispers. There was something in her tone that made him uncomfortable.
“I heard you,” Penelope murmurs. The tears that gathered at the edge of her eyes start to fall again. “I heard you moments ago. You…you were laughing.”
“I do not—”
“‘I would never court Penelope Featherington, not in your wildest dreams’,” Penelope quotes. “Is that not what you said to the other gentlemen?”
His anger defuses immediately. Colin swallows, catching the heartbroken expression that has freely taken over her face, and struggles to form a coherent thought. He remembers…he remembers now. The conversation with the gentlemen had all but left his mind once he had started to follow after Penelope, but her words had brought it all back. The laughter, the implications of his dance with her, Fife’s question, his response.
“I…” He whispers. The proper words are lost to him in between the torrent of shame and guilt that is moving within him. “I…I am so sorry, Penelope. I should not have said those words. They were not meant for your ears.”
“You preferred to speak about me without my knowledge, then?” She asks, and takes a step closer to him. He mimics her in the opposite way, stepping back to maintain some sort of proper distance between them. She is…angry, and it is not an emotion he is accustomed to see reflecting in her face, much less directed at him. “Is that the reason why your joke landed so well with the gentlemen? Because they knew poor, little, stupid Penelope did not know that her friend was laughing about her at her back?”
“No! Of course not!” Colin rushed to deny it, discombobulated by how quickly this entire conversation had changed. His anger about Lady Whistledown was still present, simmering, but fighting with his worry around what she had heard from his own mouth. “I am very, very sorry you had to hear such a thing—”
“—but not sorry you said it?”
“Yes! I mean, no!” Colin exclaimed.
“I do not remember asking you to court me,” Penelope continued on, ignoring his words. Her cheeks glow red, shiny with the fallen tears. “And I never, in my wildest dreams, could I have guessed that somebody who calls himself my friend would be so embarrassed by me that he had to all but shout how ineligible I am to anybody who dared to listen in.”
“You are putting words in my mouth!”
“Your words are the reason we are standing in here, fighting like this!”
“I dare say it is your words, Lady Whistledown,” Colin argues, grasping onto some of his anger to try and gather some sense back into his mind. “Whatever you were going to write—”
He cuts himself off immediately, going through everything they have thrown at each other since he came into her room. Her reluctance at revealing the primary target of the next gossip issue, the pivot from her exposed secret to what he had done back at the garden, ‘…all but shout about how ineligible I am to anybody who dared listen in.’
“Penelope,” Colin murmurs, pointing at the discarded, crumpled papers. “You…Were you writing about it? About what I said? Is that what you were going to print?”
“…Yes,” She whispers.
“You cannot,” Colin says, disbelieving. “How can you—to even think about—It is you, Penelope! What—”
“—I write what people whisper about,” Penelope says, rubbing her tears away. “Lady Whistledown does not play favorites, and she certainly does not waste such an…interesting piece of gossip just because she shares her identity with the same woman you scorned publicly. I must write it. Do not worry. Nobody will scold you for it, not for me.”
“You think I care about that?” Colin asks, frustration dripping from his voice. “I am talking about what this means for you! You…you will humiliate yourself like this to keep your secret? You will diminish yourself to allow for your quill to remain as sharp and biting as it is now?”
“You speak as if my own words would deliver more damaged than whatever the ton has already thought of me before tonight,” Penelope scoffs.
“Your reputation—”
“—will remain as it has always been,” She says. “You seem to hold me in higher regard than anybody else in this place.”
“I do, I do,” Colin confirms, just shy of desperate. “And everybody else will surely open their eyes, too, but not if you write this. Please…do not write about this. I am…most sorry.”
Penelope pauses and stares at him. Her anger, like his, seems to temper a bit. Her face softens, shoulders dropping and hands now fiddling nervously with each other. She chances another look at the forgotten papers, and though he spies hesitation in her eyes, he also witnesses some of that fire from before.
He wants to say more, needs to say more, but this entire conversation has already gone into an entire different direction than what he previously thought of when he followed her into her room. Whistledown whispers in a corner of his mind while he keeps replaying his words over and over, his head developing the type of ache that he would get only after a night of drinking heavily. He has said a lot of things tonight, some of them he meant and some of them he did not, and now he stands here before one of his closest friends without quite knowing what his next step is.
Outside, a thunderous sound echoes, and then her room is flooding with multicolor light as the fireworks explode across the night sky. She shines in red, blue and green as they stand frozen in their spots for what feels like an eternity, and she is the first to move.
“You must go,” Penelope urges, pressing her hands against his chest and pushing against him. “The ball is nearly over, and you cannot be found in here.”
“We are not done with this,” Colin answers, even when he walks backwards towards the door. “Let us finish it.”
“There is no time, and there is no need for it,” She states.
“Penelope—”
“Go, Mister Bridgerton,”
With that, the door all but slams into his face. Colin breathes rapidly, staring at the darkened wood and wondering how much more time he can get away with inside her room before risking discovery. His hand reaches up, ready to knock until the sounds of applause reach his ears. The fireworks show has ended.
He turns on his heel, sprinting towards the stairs and taking them down two at a time, barely managing to hold onto the railing as he stumbles right at the end of them. The hallways are still deserted, fortunately for him, which makes it easy to slip back out into the garden without anybody being aware of where exactly he has been all this time.
His chest heaves, drawing back the breath he lost on his way down here, and he walks around guests in search for the first familiar face he can find. His steps feel uneven, shoes digging into the ground while his hands flex at his side, mind still reeling from what had transpired inside Penelope’s room.
“Dearest?”
“Mother,” Colin greets, doing his best to give her a smile that will hopefully not look as tense as it feels. “Are you ready to head back home?”
Violet nods, and frowns. “Do you feel alright?”
“Of course,” He answers quickly, and offers his arm.
His mother hums but otherwise keeps quiet and intertwines her arm with his. As they cross the square, Colin sighs, and wonders how everything ended up like this in a matter of moments.
His head is pounding and his mouth is dry beyond what he believed to be possible, but Colin forces himself to blink away the pain as his curtains are pulled from the window. The shock of the sunlight is enough to disorient him, and by the time he is awake enough to look at his surroundings, his valet is already at the side of his bed with an expectant stare.
“You must hurry, sir,” He says. “You shall be late for your ship if you delay further.”
Colin frowns, rubbing at his forehead, slow to process the words. Ship…ocean…journey…his second tour.
“Right,” Colin murmurs, hating the wave of nausea that slithers up his throat. “Of course.”
He goes through the motions of getting ready as fast as his body allows him to, declining the offer for tea and the packet of wrapped biscuits for his journey. His bag, already packed before yesterday, is already waiting inside the carriage, and his mother and youngest brother and sister stand on the steps of their house.
“Come here,” Violet murmurs, pulling him into a tight hug. “You will write and be careful, yes?”
“Of course, mother,” Colin answers.
“And you will bring back presents, will you not?”
It’s Hyacinth who speaks now, and she sounds as curious and demanding as only a child of her age can. Gregory, at her side, scoffs and shoves her shoulder, prompting her to shove him back. Violet, staring at them from the sides of her eyes, puts an arm around each of them, stopping any further argument between her youngest.
Colin smiles and nods. “Yes, of course. I will make sure to bring back something you will really like. Give my regard to everyone else, please, mother.”
“They should be here,” Violent comments, and her eyebrows dip in displeasure. “I tried to wake them and find them, but your siblings—”
“—it is alright,” Colin interrupts softly. “I knew leaving right after a ball would mean I would not get everyone to see me off, but I prefer to get an early start.”
With another hug, now from the three of them, he climbs into the carriage. The driver urges the horse forward, and as it starts moving, he glances out of the window and straight into Featherington house.
Its blinds are closed and there is no sign of life coming from inside, which is not surprising. His ship leaves early, earlier than what is common, and now he is stuck with the memory of their last conversation and the reveals that had happened during it. If he concentrates, he is sure he would still be able to clearly see the way her tears had rolled down her eyes as she accused him of embarrassment where she was concerned.
His heart stutters at the thought, but it also speeds up in anxiety at the reminder of who exactly he was facing last night: Lady Whistledown. The writer herself, the one who exposed anything and everything and did so with cutting precision and prose…was the same person as his dear friend Penelope?
Perhaps that was the very thing that had shocked him most about the reveal. The idea that those two people were one and the same, of the knowledge that Penelope—sweet, kind, shy, young Pen—and the gossipmonger were one and the same…the mere action of trying to compromise both identities was enough for his head to ache even more.
He keeps staring at Feartherington house until it disappears from his eyes fully, and then promptly shuts the curtains and exists in the sadness and the rocking motion of his carriage. It only took a night and one conversation for his confidence to shake so violently that he feared it might never return, and now he is on his way to another journey, lost on how exactly to proceed now that it felt as if he did not know Penelope at all.