Montgomery Townhouse, Berkeley Square.
Afternoon.
The room was quiet.
Not the comfortable quiet of rest—
But the deliberate quiet of decision.
Sophia stood near her writing desk, her movements measured, precise—each action performed not in haste but with intention carefully contained. A small satchel lay open before her, its contents modest: rations, a flask, and—a pistol.
The flintlock rested for a moment in her hands before she placed it within, securing it with quiet finality.
She did not hesitate.
On the desk, a letter remained. She read it once more—not to revise, but to confirm.
Then folded it.
Set it down.
She slowly reached for her ring; its gold caught the light as she turned it once around her finger. After a second, she removed it.
She placed it carefully beside the letter.
And closed her eyes, just briefly.
This is necessary.
The thought did not comfort her.
She turns toward the door, but then, footsteps are approaching. She stilled.
The door opened.
Benedict entered first, and behind him, Duchess Eleanor of Manchester.
Sophia did not move. "My lord," she said quietly.
Benedict stopped, but not before reaching her; his gaze moved. Not to her face. but to the desk. the letter, the ring, the satchel and then back to her. "Sophia."
She inclined her head. "My sincerest apologies," she said.
Her tone was steady.
Too steady.
"I have placed your family," she continued, "in a vulnerable position."
Benedict did not speak.
Eleanor watched.
"I have allowed myself," Sophia said, "to be careless in public."
"I have dishonoured your name."
The words did not tremble.
They did not break.
They landed.
Fully.
Sophia stepped forward. The ring remained on the desk. "I will remove myself," she said.
Benedict's expression did not change. "You will not."
Sophia did not stop. "I will not disclose where I am going," she continued, as though she had not heard him. "It is not necessary that you—"
"You will not."
Sophia stilled.
Benedict stepped forward. "Look at me."
She did.
For the first time, there was something in her expression: fractured.
"I have caused difficulty," she said.
"No."
"I have drawn attention."
"Yes."
"I have—"
"You have done nothing," Benedict said, "that warrants this."
Sophia's gaze faltered. "That is incorrect."
"It is entirely correct."
Eleanor stepped forward. "My dear girl," she said gently.
Sophia turned.
"I have cared for you," Eleanor said, "long before you became my daughter."
Sophia's breath caught. "You have always been… spirited," Eleanor continued. "And perhaps—occasionally—imprudent."
"But never dishonourable."
Sophia's lips parted.
No words followed.
Eleanor's gaze softened. "This," she said, "is not your fault."
Sophia shook her head. "I spoke—"
"You were asked," Eleanor said.
Sophia stilled.
Benedict's voice followed. "You were not careless," he said. "You were precise, and the consequence belongs to the one who set it in motion."
Sophia's gaze dropped to the desk and to the ring.
"I should have considered—"
"You did," Benedict said. "And you acted."
Sophia's voice lowered. "I placed you—"
"You did not."
Benedict stepped closer. "My priority," he said, more quietly, "is you."
Sophia looked up.
"I will not have you leave and I will not have you apologise for something that is not yours to carry."
Benedict's gaze shifted to the desk; he picked up the ring and turned it once between his fingers.
Then he took her hand.
And slipped it back it into place.
Sophia did not pull away.
Benedict's voice, when he spoke again, was quieter but firmer. "You are my wife, and you would remain so."
Eleanor watched them.
And for the first time since entering, she smiled.
Sophia exhaled with relief.