Antony
From the window of my bedroom, I can make out the wide, curving driveway, now full of saddle horses and carriages teeming with guests.
The hum of conversations linger in the air. A sweet jasmine scent compliments it, leaving me with some peace to tend to my scattered thoughts. The night is young.
I consider my reflection in a mirror.
Mother has chosen a resplendent Weston & Sons tailcoat, meticulously tailored to my frame.
It is crafted from dark navy silk velvet, embellished with intricate embroidery, and complete with gleaming buttons of polished gold.
I don a crisp white shirt underneath, showcasing a pleated front and a stand-up collar, fastened with mother-of-pearl buttons.
It is paired with a tied white cravat. I look down at my black trousers, cut and fit to my form. My footwear features broguing.
A white silk pocket square peeps out of my breast pocket, and I bear a signet ring glorifying the family name on my middle finger.
My mother stands beside me, her eyes literally lit with dreams.
"You look so handsome, Antony," she gushes. "I can almost see Penelope or Caroline running up to dance with you!"
I wish I could believe her, but all I see is a jester in expensive feathers. Well.
She'd tried to get me to do sideburns, but I had been adamantly set against them. A small mercy.
Besides, custom mandates that I seek out ladies to dance, not the other way around. It is not something I look forward to—but then again, nothing about this evening is about what I want.
In all honesty, I'm not too sure I know what I want.
The grand ballroom of the Danbury Mansion is a sight to behold, ablaze with a sea of glittering chandeliers.
Ladies dressed in velvets, silks, and crinolines go up and down the stairs, arms around each other's waists, stopping to lean over the handrails of banisters, laughing and batting their eyelashes at the young men in the hall.
Against all the dread in my heart, I manage to muster a smile. This is amusing to me. Amusing that no matter how high up or low down we go, all of us function by rules.
The society in which I mingle mandates that young, marriageable ladies quickly catch husbands, like they are plagues that must be had before one can be proclaimed completely healthy.
Through the open windows, I catch a glimpse of older women in darker silks seated in the drawing room, sedately conversing as they fan themselves and discuss the woes of old age.
The front veranda is filled to the brim with guests.
Most of London's distinguished society is present tonight. The Danbury name may be fading, but in this society, it still carries weight. It carries an age old splendor, if you will.
My gaze falls on the Earl of Ashford. I almost want to go out and congratulate him on his marriage, but I know my mother will never let me hear the end of it.
This is Cliff's second marriage, but the scandal isn't in the numbers. His first wife was well beloved by all, and she moved in the same social circles as my mother.
Upon her passing on account of a delivery gone wrong, Cliff was distraught. He grieved, as is the norm, for years. But he has four children, and they demand a woman's touch.
This is where the governess came in. Two years later, the two were engaged, much to the chagrin of the upper echelons of English society.
I secretly admire him for his guts.
The man followed his heart, even if it came at the cost of a lifetime's worth of dubious glances and gossip. But he and I were not of the same strata.
Even within dukedom, there are ranks upon ranks, some specific, some shrouded in secrecy, depending on who the Crown favors best.
The more the queen loves you, the more you are at risk for making foolish choices amongst all of your alliances, including the woman you bed.
Perhaps this is why Charles believes it is one thing to marry for safety and another to bed whoever he pleases. But I cannot justify that kind of behavior.
Why, our King himself is so besotted with Queen Charlotte that he has no desire for any other lover.
That is the example I want to follow in marriage. Difficult, considering my options have been set in stone.
I stand by the side of a discreet potted plant as my gaze sweeps across the room. Let's just say I am hiding.
The ladies, adorned in their finest gowns of silk and satin, display a kaleidoscope of colors, their delicate fans fluttering in a symphony of flirtatious gestures.
Maybe I haven't done a very good job at camouflaging myself, because with a boisterous "there you are," Lady Amelia pulls me out from my sanctuary.
I cast a dismayed glance at her as she pushes a buxom lady in a puffy gown in my direction.
"Ah, Antony, my dear, I see you have caught the attention of Lady Penelope. She has been asking about you all evening," she says, her voice laced with playful intrigue.
My lips curl into a perfunctory smile as I gaze at Lady Penelope. She is becoming enough, with doe-like eyes and a sweet smile.
"Duke Antony," she whispers, blushing.
I want this performance to end immediately. But I'm acutely aware of the eyes on my bearing, so I sigh and take a stride forward, offering my gloved hand.
"Lady Penelope, would you do me the honor of this dance?"
Lady Penelope's cheeks flush with a delicate pink hue as she curtsies. "I would be delighted, Your Grace," she replies.
The music swells, and Lady Penelope and I glide across the dance floor, our steps timed to the rhythm.
Amidst the whirl of dancers, whispered conversations float through the air like delicate secrets shared.
"Have you heard the latest gossip, my dear? It seems that the Earl of Ashfordshire has been seen whispering sweet nothings to Miss Arabella," one lady confides to her companion, her fan covering her smile.
Her companion chuckles softly. "Ah, yes, Arabella is known for her beauty, but let's not forget her father's scandalous past. I wonder what the ton will say about such a match."
The evening winds on and on, and I find myself flitting between dances and the cascading gowns, as more and more females are introduced to me.
Some are strikingly beautiful, others demure, and all have been trained to please.
It is as if I am surrounded by marionettes, each vying to know what the Crown may think, should I choose them as a lifelong companion.
I sigh inwardly a thousand times, sometimes remembering Lady Imogen, the one who got away.
She and I—we were a lost letter of love, one that I composed before I left for service. When I returned, I was too late.
Finally, I take a minute's break and seek recourse in a glass of wine when I'm approached by Lord Wentworth. My brows knit together immediately.
I find the man deeply distasteful.
From his covert dealings with the French, which the Crown keeps condoning for god knows what reason, to the manner in which he speaks of women, Wentworth has nothing redeeming about him.
"Antony, my good friend," Lord Wentworth rumbles. His voice carries a note of urgency.
"I come to you with news that has left me furious and determined to catch the culprit who dared to cross me."
Intrigued by his cryptic statement, I lean in closer, my gaze fixed upon his clenched fists.
"Pray tell, Wentworth, what has transpired to stir such emotion within you?"
His eyes blaze with frustration as he speaks, his voice resonating with controlled anger.
"The Night Owl, that cunning thief, has outwitted me. He infiltrated my manor and made off with a valuable necklace from my prized collection."
My interest deepens, the mention of the Night Owl fueling a mix of fascination and determination within me.
"Tell me, Wentworth, how did this audacious thief manage to evade your security measures?"
Lord Wentworth's jaw tightens, his voice laced with vexation. "It seems he exploited a momentary lapse in the guards' attention and disappeared into the night.
"Even I am in disbelief, but he will not get too far before justice is served."
I doubt it. I've heard of the Night Owl, a little boy who is said to resemble a scarecrow in an oversized coat. My world is full of people who fear they will become his next target.
I shrug anyway. "I hope you find him soon, Wentworth. I imagine everyone in this room will be thanking you."
A sudden scream from my mother's chambers catches my attention, and swiveling in its direction, I break into a hasty run.
Upstairs, the door to her room is wide open, revealing utter chaos.
Servants and family members alike gather in a hushed frenzy, their voices murmuring in astonishment. Amidst the commotion, my mother stands, a look of dismay etched upon her features.
I push through the crowd, my eyes locking into my mother's perplexed gaze. "What is it?"
"My necklace," she cries, pointing to an empty casket that once held her most prized gold and emerald-studded piece. "It is gone."
I look down, and my sight and smell note two things:
A singular rose petal and the lingering scent of jasmine.
Lord Wentworth has snuck up on us. His words are laced with bitterness.
"It is he, the Night Owl. He has dared to strike even within the sanctity of this very room."
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