↫Mischief in Mayfair↬

His Grace, the now-royal Duke of Kingfield, has officially moved into Bushy House with Queen Adelaide. Her Majesty grew up in the home with her family and is reportedly happy to welcome her new husband there after their recent wedding. England could not be more fortunate than to be in possession of such a Monarch.

-Madame Mischief 

Scarlett James hovered over a piece of parchment, reading through the words she had written.

It was an uninteresting pile of drivel.

Sighing, Scarlett considered what else she could say about Addie and Theo that would sound more neutral. Unbiased. She didn't want to write something that read like Madame Mischief was personally associated and invested in the royals' lives—which at this point, she was. Scarlett certainly should not write something that gushed about how adorable their daughter, Victoria, was. Even as someone who was not typically fond of children, Scarlett had to admit the fondness she felt for Victoria.

There was a lot of power in the simplest of words, and Scarlett often contended with how to use that influence appropriately. She should not be able to sway the population of England with a mere flick of her wrist, and yet she could.

When Scarlett first created her gossip column, she decided on four uncomplicated rules. Firstly, she would only write what she knew as the truth; she would not blindly portray falsities for the public to read. Secondly, she would stay true to her purpose, which was acquiring monetary profits. As callous as it sounded, that was what Scarlett needed the most.

Next, Scarlett told herself that she would stay untangled from the lives of her subjects—the people of the ton. She was not doing this to make or break friendships. And lastly, Scarlett's final rule for Mischief in Mayfair: she would not hurt anyone.

In the last five years, Scarlett had broken all of her rules.

She had gotten too damn involved. For Christ's sake, she just went to afternoon tea with the Queen of England and Lady Trotten.

Scarlett's cat, Timothy, meowed as he walked across her writing desk. One paw dipped itself in the bottle of ink, but Scarlett did not realize until little prints trailed across the parchment she had been using.

"Timmy!" she cried, quickly scooping up the offending feline. She darted across her bedchamber in search for a cloth to clean the cat's padded feet before they could drip more ink on her belongings.

Scarlett had sparsely decorated living arrangements. After her husband died, she disposed of everything that reminded her of the wretched man. But Scarlett had not had any money to replace it, meaning that there was not much besides bare essentials. At least not on the second floor, where no one visited besides the few servants she employed.

After cleaning his paws, Scarlett set the cat back down. He meowed in appreciation, rubbing against the bottom of her muslin skirts. It was rather hard to stay mad at his adorable white face, spotted with black patches of fur. Sighing, Scarlett strode back to evaluate her writing, smeared in black ink. She glared at Timothy once more. "I know the writing was drivel, but honestly."

Timothy gave a mewed response and then dashed across the carpeted floor. Scarlett noticed small spots of black left in his wake and rushed after the cat again, hoping to clean whatever she had missed. But the cat took off through the open doorway, barely escaping her capture.

She ran after him, bounding ungracefully down the hallway, in attempt to catch Timothy before he spread black ink throughout her entire home. But once he slipped through the railing and down the stairs, Scarlett knew it was a lost cause. She refused to continue to run wildly about her home. "Drat," she muttered, turning back toward her bedchamber.

Slipping back into her chambers, a tightening in Scarlett's chest caused her to halt her movements completely. It rather felt as though someone were squeezing her throat, closing off her connection to the rest of the world. Her hand flew to her chest, and Scarlett forced herself to concentrate on her breathing, forcing air in and out—like the rise and fall of the ocean as it meets the shore. She closed her eyes and pictured it, envisioning the waves she played in as a child.

In. Out.

In and out.

"Is everything alright, my lady?"

Scarlett forced her eyes open to see her lady's maid, Fallon, standing in the doorway. Fallon's usually passive face appeared alarmed at the sight of Scarlett's expression.

"Yes," Scarlett said with a reserved exhale. The tightening had eased; it was likely caused by her flutter of activity when attempting to clean and chase Timothy. It usually did not come on so fast, but Scarlett pushed that thought from her mind. She moved slowly to sit down on the settee near the foot of her bed. "Just that damn cat again."

"Oh," Fallon said, smiling with relief. "That was all that was wrong?"

Scarlett nodded. But they both knew her answer was a lie.

Fallon pushed her ash blonde hair out of her face and shifted her feet. Scarlett could tell that the younger woman was trying to decide how much to pry. Finally, she said, "I have an invitation for you, my lady." Fallon extended her hand, displaying the envelope for Scarlett to see.

"Bring it here." Scarlett waved the maid over to her. Obliging with her request, Fallon placed the invitation in her lap.

"What is it for?" Scarlett slipped her finger between the folds of the parchment, opening it in a single swipe.

"I believe it is for a ball. Hosted by Lord and Lady Trotten," Fallon answered delicately.

Scarlett frowned. "That does not sound like Will and Emilia. I do not believe they have ever hosted a large event." The couple had been married for over a year, but they were not precisely the type to seek attention by throwing lavish affairs.

She surveyed the invitation, noting that Fallon was correct. Lord and Lady Trotten were inviting her to a ball.

Regardless of their reason for throwing such an event, the invitation was what Scarlett needed at the moment. Provided that Will and Emilia did not mind, an article on the couple's first-ever ball would sell quite nicely. Doubtless, there would be a story to tell from the evening itself, too.

Not on Will and Emilia, of course—Scarlett did not wish to overexploit them.

Again.

But it would undoubtedly be one of the most sought-after events of the season. Scarlett would ensure that, although it wouldn't be too terribly difficult. She had put in enough time in the past ensuring that Will and Emilia were beloved by the ton, trying to cover their unfortunate histories. And it helped now that Emilia's brother, Theo, recently became England's Prince Consort.

This ball was the perfect opportunity for her to pick up readers. There was one thing that Scarlett could be sure about when it came to what she knew of society: there was always another story.

She simply needed to find it.

****

"What do you mean you are throwing a ball?"

Leo was lounging next to the fireplace in Will and Emilia's charming drawing-room. Tastefully decorated in hues of cream and sage, it was one of Leo's favorite places this winter. There was always a row of carefully selected liquors on the sideboard that warmed his insides and a crackling fire and velvet blankets to warm his outsides.

He wasn't sure if Will and Emilia were partial to his frequent occupation of the green drawing-room in their new Mayfair home, but they hadn't said anything to the contrary. Yet.

Emilia played a game of patience at a small card table in the corner and did not even bother to look up at him as she responded.

"It is really not that difficult to understand, Leo. We are inviting people to our home to dance, eat, and drink horrible lemonade. Surely you are familiar with the concept of balls."

"Oh, dear God. Can we please skip the lemonade, Emilia?" he groaned.

"I rather thought it was a staple of such affairs. It goes hand in hand with stuffy etiquette, irritating dance cards, and uninteresting gossip." She tapped her chin as she stared at the cards laid out before her.

Leo twiddled his thumbs, considering before leaning forward with an idea. "Actually, what a fabulous opportunity you have, Emilia."

"Oh?" She looked up from her cards.

"Yes! Now that you are vastly popular—you know, after you won back the fiance that previously jilted you and also somehow got the Queen of England to marry your brother—think of what you can do!"

She rolled her eyes and went back to staring at her cards. "What did you have in mind, Leo?" she asked, despite seeming uninterested in the answer.

"I am envisioning real societal change here, Emilia. I mean, come now. Your influence knows no bounds."

Emilia threw the cards in her hand down on the table, looking frustrated with her game. She strode over to the settee where Leo was and plopped down next to him, a golden curl falling out of its pin as she bounced on the cushion. A quick glance indicated she was still listening, so Leo continued.

"You can create the staples of such affairs as the one you are planning. You can be rid of watered-down lemonade at not just your ball, but all the balls." Leo waved his arm through the air as if painting the picture for her.

Emilia swatted at him playfully just as Will walked through the door. His blue eyes darted towards them, and he muttered, "Darling, I've told you before not to hit Leo. He's easily injured, you know." Will settled in a chair across from them before giving his wife a coy smirk.

God forbid Will should believe he had the upper hand, so Leo leaned over and whispered loudly in Emilia's ear. "You can hit me anytime you like, Em. I rather like it." And just for added measure, he threw her a wink.

Emilia snorted, and Will gave Leo just the glare he was expecting.

"This is exactly why we are throwing this ball," Will murmured.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Leo asked, shooting a glance at his friend.

"This is exactly why we are throwing a ball," Will said, louder.

"And why is that?"

Will glowered. "So you can get your own wife to flirt with."

"I don't think Emilia minds. Do you, Em?"

She smirked but looked as though she knew better than to respond with the dark look on Will's face.

Leo decided that he would continue to tread on Will's toes. After all, it was too early to drink—what else was he supposed to do? "At least someone is flirting with your wife."

A little giggle escaped Emilia's lips at that, and Will looked swiftly at her. Standing, he strode over to her, leaning down to cup her face gently. "Do you think I give you an insufficient amount of attention, dear?"

"Certainly not," she replied. Emilia's pretty upturned face was looking at her husband in clear adoration, her willowy body practically straining toward his. The expression on Will's face matched hers in every way.

Suddenly, Leo was feeling a bit left out. "Well, that rather backfired," he muttered.

"I told you," Will announced, breaking his gaze from Emilia's. "We need to find someone for you, Farrington."

Leo scoffed, shifting in his seat. "You needn't do this for me. I know you have tried to avoid the spotlight in recent months."

"We are ready to rejoin society," Emilia said, sighing. "And so should you, Leo."

Will swiveled on his heel, walking over to the display of liquors and surveying his options.

Well then, apparently it wasn't too early for a drink.

"Is there anyone in particular that we should invite?" Will asked over his shoulder. "To the ball?"

Leo opened his mouth to reply, but Emilia cut him off. "Scarlett has likely already received her invitation."

Smiling, he gestured to Emilia and said, "See, Will? Your wife knows me so well."

Leo could hear Will snort and watched as he shook his head. "It isn't exactly a secret," Will said.

Merely shrugging, Leo settled back into the sofa and smiled. Perhaps a ball wasn't a bad idea, after all.