White's, St. James's Street.
Evening
White's was, by reputation, a place of restraint.
Conversation was measured. Disagreements were contained. Even tension—when present—was expected to remain within the boundaries of civility.
Jeremy Eden sat alone.
Which, in itself, was unusual.
A glass rested untouched before him. A paper lay folded at his side. The room moved as it always did—quietly, composedly, and unremarkably.
And yet he was not.
For the first time in recent memory, Jeremy was not reading.
He was reconsidering.
Not the facts.
Those remained clear.
But the outcome.
The dissonance between the two.
He exhaled but then…
"Eden."
The voice was controlled.
But not calm.
Jeremy did not look up immediately. "Darlington."
Kurt stood before him.
Still.
Jeremy lifted his gaze.
He did not sit. "You knew," Kurt said. "That she blamed herself."
"Yes." Jeremy replied, "but that was not my intention."
Kurt laughed. Without humour. "Your intention," he said, "is irrelevant."
Jeremy's gaze sharpened. "It is not."
"It is," Kurt said, "when the consequence is borne by someone else."
"You placed Adelaide in a position she did not choose."
"I did not—"
"And Sophia," Kurt cut in, his voice tightening, "who trusted you."
Jeremy stood. "You are overstating—"
Kurt moved.
The punch landed clean.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Jeremy staggered—just slightly—before recovering.
He straightened.
Touched his jaw.
Then looked at Kurt and struck back.
Fury, long restrained by civility, found form—not in words but in movement. Kurt advanced; Jeremy met him. There was no technique in it—only intention, misdirected and immediate.
"Enough—"
"Gentlemen—"
Chairs shifted.
Voices rose.
But neither stopped.
Kurt drove forward again, his restraint entirely gone.
"You do not get to decide—" he said, breath sharp, words fractured by motion, "—and walk away as though nothing has changed."
Jeremy blocked—
Poorly—
"You do not—" Kurt continued, "—get to use her—"
"I did not use—"
"You did."
The words hit harder than the blows.
Did not have an immediate reply.
Which was when Kurt struck again.
"Stop this at once."
The voice cut through.
Hands intervened.
Firm.
Unyielding.
Prince Felix stepped between them first.
No longer merely a young nobleman—but a prince, and one accustomed to command. His presence was immediate, his authority unquestioned. "That is sufficient."
Behind him, Marquess Reginald Fiennes of Kent. Sophia's father.
His expression was not raised. Not angry. But controlled in a way that suggested something far more dangerous and beside him Duke Alexander Campbell of Sutherland was watching.
Kurt was pulled back.
Jeremy steadied.
Breathing unevenly.
Prince Felix looked between them. "You will explain," he said.
Reginald Fiennes' gaze settled on Jeremy. "You are Jeremy and the friend of Sophia."
"Yes, Lord Kent."
"You are also," he added, "the cause of a situation that now extends beyond yourself."
Jeremy's jaw tightened. "That was not—"
"Intended," the Duke said quietly.
Jeremy stopped.
Alexander Campbell's gaze did not waver. "It rarely is."
Reginald spoke again. "My daughter," he said, his voice measured, "is not a matter to be tested through consequence."
Jeremy did not respond.
Prince Felix turned slightly.
"And you," he said to Kurt.
Kurt's chest rose and fell, his expression still tight with restrained anger.
"You will not resolve this with violence."
Kurt said nothing.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Royal Highness."