A Study of Courtship-Chapter 30: A Call Upon the Campbells

The Campbell townhouse in Berkeley Square was quiet in that dignified, aristocratic way—sunlight pouring through tall windows, the faint scent of polished wood and lemon oil, and a distant pianoforte scale drifting from some far drawing room.

Duchess Catherine looked up from her embroidery as the butler bowed.

"Your Grace, His Highness Prince Felix of Hanover has arrived."

Beatrice’s hands stilled on the keys.

Victor straightened, miniature cane at the ready, as though preparing for a diplomatic summit.

Catherine sighed. "Victor, do not posture."

Felix entered with that serene, painterly grace that came so naturally to him—inclined his head politely, but his gaze softened immediately when it found Beatrice.

"Lady Beatrice," he said warmly. "It is an honor."

She curtsied. "Your Highness. Please, sit."

Felix took the offered seat near her, though the distance between them was decidedly closer than etiquette strictly required. The Duchess noticed. She said nothing, but she definitely arched an eyebrow.

The conversation drifted to art styles, to the changing fashions in Prussia, to the Queen’s birthday ball—all light threads, pleasant threads.

Yet Beatrice’s fingers tapped nervously against her skirt.

At last she exhaled. "Your Highness... forgive my forwardness. But—how is Sophia?"

Felix’s gentle expression dipped into exasperated affection.

"Well," he said, "she is still fully convinced she does not love Benedict Montgomery."

Beatrice closed her eyes. "Of course she is."

Felix continued, "She insists her attempt to go to Russia—alone—to procure vodka for the Duke and Duchess of Manchester was simply an act of returning a favor to a friend."

Victor puffed his chest. "She is returning the favor! Benedict is courting my cousin, and she simply wishes to bring honor to our family and to the Crown."

Catherine didn’t even look up. "Victor, go to your room."

Victor sputtered. "But Mama—"

Catherine’s tone sharpened with aristocratic finality. "Victor."

He groaned theatrically and stomped off, muttering something about ingratitude and the failures of adults to appreciate genius.

The door shut behind him.

Felix continued, unruffled. "As I was saying... Lady Sophia remains steadfast in her belief that she is motivated purely by philosophical camaraderie. She even tried to turn the conversation around by accusing me of being smitten with someone."

Beatrice froze. "...me?"

Felix cleared his throat, cheeks warming. "Her words, not mine, milady."

A pause.

"Though she is not incorrect."

Beatrice’s breath hitched—just barely—but her composure held.

Felix gave a small laugh. "I told her plainly: our discussion was about her. Not me. Not you. Her."

"And?" Beatrice asked softly.

"And," Felix sighed, leaning back, "she denies it all. Her heart is speaking, but her mind... is Sophia’s mind. It refuses to yield."

Beatrice nodded slowly. "Sophia was scolded harshly this morning. Grandpapa and Grandmama, Uncle Reginald, and Aunt Josephine—they all gave her a piece of their mind. Mama and Papa were present as well, and I was left with Victor. But she is family. We will look after her as always."

Felix smiled, something fond and warm and undeniably admiring. "A family of brilliant chaos," he murmured. "Exactly my ideal in-laws."

Beatrice flushed.

Catherine raised her eyebrow again.

And somewhere upstairs, Victor shouted from behind his door, "I HEARD THAT!"

Beatrice smoothed her skirts, gathering both her poise and her words. "Your Highness," she began gently, "I... I am worried."

Felix turned toward her, the soft seriousness of his gaze settling on her fully. "And why is that, milady?"

Beatrice glanced toward her mother—who pretended to be engrossed in her needlework but was very much listening—then back to Felix.

"We all know Earl Frederick Lockhart is courting Lady Margaret..." she said quietly. "And while I do not begrudge Margaret the chance to form an attachment, it is the motive behind it that troubles me. Sophia does not understand the implications of such an alliance. She does not harbor resentment toward Margaret, not even after the insult at Almack’s. She thinks only the best of people."

Felix folded his hands behind his back, pacing once in thought before speaking. "I understand your concern, Lady Beatrice," he replied, voice low. "And... you are right to worry."

Beatrice’s brows drew together, her breath catching slightly. "So there is reason?"

Felix let out a quiet sigh—not of annoyance, but of something like weary disappointment.

"I knew Frederick in our Oxford days," he said. "And though men change, their ambitions often remain the same. Frederick told me—in confidence, mind you—that he intends to marry a lady from the lower end of the peerage. Not because he cherishes humility..." A thin, wry smile tugged at his mouth, "but because he believes such a lady’s family will be too desperate to challenge him. That she would be... pliant. Easily managed."

Duchess Catherine gasped, her needle slipping from her fingers. "That boy! Pliable? Easily managed? What sort of husband is that?" she muttered under her breath.

Felix continued, tone darkening. "He sees a wife not as a partner, but as an asset. One he assumes he may control without consequence. Lady Margaret—being eager for status and validation—fits the structure he desires. And Frederick is clever enough to know that targeting her allows him to needle two families he holds in contempt: the Fiennes... and the Montgomerys."

Beatrice’s hands tightened in her lap. "Sophia will not see any of that," she whispered. "Not until it is too late."

Felix nodded solemnly. "Which is why your concern is justified, milady. Sophia sees Margaret as a misguided former friend—not as a strategic pawn. And she sees Frederick as... merely another bachelor." He paused, then added more softly, "Sophia does not imagine malice unless it is plainly declared. Her mind is too honest for that."

Beatrice sighed, staring toward the window where afternoon sunlight spilled across the rug.

"She is clever, yes—brilliantly so—but she is new to court politics. I do not want her caught in the crossfire of Margaret’s resentment and Earl Lockhart’s schemes."

Felix stepped a little closer to her, his voice taking on a softer warmth. "Then rest assured, Lady Beatrice. For Sophia’s sake—and your own—I will keep watch over the matter. Frederick Lockhart is predictable, if nothing else."

Catherine lifted her head from her embroidery, fixing Felix with a sharp look. "And what about you, Your Highness?" she demanded. "Are your intentions toward my daughter predictable?"

Felix blinked—then flushed, his composure wobbling for a single heartbeat.

Beatrice sputtered, "Mama!"

Catherine sniffed primly. "If we are discussing dangerous men, I have every right to ensure my daughter is not speaking to one unaccompanied."

Felix bowed his head respectfully, though a faint smile curved his lips. "Your Grace... my intentions are honorable."

Catherine arched a brow. "They had better be."

Beatrice covered her face with her hands, mortified. Felix looked amused, and somewhere down the hall, Victor sneezed—loudly—as if in protest from his exile.

White’s, Late Afternoon

Earl Frederick Lockhart lounged comfortably in one of White’s deep leather chairs, surrounded by a cluster of young aristocrats who enjoyed basking in his arrogance like moths drawn to a poorly lit candle. A glass of claret dangled from his fingertips as he spoke, his voice carrying just enough to be overheard by anyone unfortunate enough to pass by.

"Lady Margaret Seymour will do nicely," he said, swirling his drink lazily. "Pretty enough, eager enough, and her family is... pliable." A ripple of chuckles followed.

One gentleman leaned in. "And once she is your countess?"

Lockhart smirked. "Once she is my wife, she will be grateful I bothered to elevate her at all. I am not marrying for romance—merely utility. Her parents know better than to object. And the girl herself? She wants status so badly that she’ll accept whatever boundaries I set."

Another lord lifted a brow. "You sound quite confident."

"Why should I not?" Lockhart replied. "She is ambitious, but she is no Lady Sophia Fiennes. No strong household. No powerful grandfather. No meddling cousins. Margaret Seymour is ideal precisely because no one will interfere in how I choose to run my home. A wife should know her place, and she will."

More laughter. One man clapped him on the shoulder.

"You may rival the Fiennes and Montgomery families in politics, Lockhart, but you certainly don’t wish to marry into them."

Lockhart scoffed. "Of course not. I’m no fool. I need obedience, not a battlefield."

The group laughed again—complacent, smug, utterly unaware that their private fantasy of domination was dissolving into ash just a few yards away.

Because in the hallway, unseen by them, stood Lord James Seymour, Margaret’s older brother—frozen in place, face drained of all color.

He had only meant to fetch a misplaced glove.

Instead, he found himself listening to the man who was courting his sister speak of her as though she were cattle to be acquired and broken in.

James’s jaw tightened. His hand curled slowly, knuckles whitening.

He swallowed once, hard.

Frederick Lockhart’s laughter rang out again, easy and confident.

James turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the hallway, heart pounding with a clarity he had never experienced before.

His sister was walking into a trap, and this time, James would not stand idle.