Chapter Text
Dearest readers,
Bedford Square, 1817. At long last, the social season has officially begun. Today is a most important day. Terrifying for some, triumphant for others, for it is the day London’s young debutants are presented to Her Majesty the Queen. It is not lineage, not dowry, not even beauty that holds sway today: only the Queen’s eye. A flicker of displeasure, and a young lady’s reputation plummets to unthinkable depths.
Outside St. James’s Palace, the square is already jammed with carriages and corsets. Mothers fan themselves in anticipation, eyes narrowed in calculated assessment of the competition. Young men with polished boots and practiced boredom pretend not to care, though each keeps one eye on the doors, and the other on the season’s fresh offerings.
This year marks the return of House Walsh to London society, with the long-absent (and recently widowed) Viscountess Emery Walsh, once Diamond herself, now escorting her younger sister, Miss Elizabeth Walsh, a debutante already whispered to be following in her sister’s shimmering footsteps. But tell us, dear reader: will lightning strike twice for the House of Walsh?
Meanwhile, the ever-entertaining Miss Trinity Santos returns for her second season, having allegedly shed both a hair ribbon and a fiance in last year’s infamous rose hedge incident. Whether she’ll fare better this time remains to be seen. Better odds, perhaps, lie with House Javadi. The Duke’s daughter, Miss Victoria Javadi, makes her debut under the exacting gaze of her mother, who believes breeding and bankbooks are all one needs to secure a title. We shall see if the gentlemen agree.
And finally, dearest reader, this author finds herself compelled to bear the most curious of news: Miss Samira Mohan, once buried in books and the company of the royal physician, has emerged from academic obscurity at Oxford. Her return to the ballroom suggests a change of heart, or perhaps a change of fortune? Ladies, do take notes. Gentlemen… do be warned. As always, we at the London Post shall be watching and whispering. Let the season begin.
London Society Papers, 23 April, 1817
***
The room still smelled faintly of sweat, and the remnants of last night’s bottle of wine. Gossamer curtains fluttered from a cracked window, filtering pale sunlight across a tumble of silk sheets and bare limbs.
Emery Walsh lay on her back, one arm lazily draped over her forehead, the other tracing absentminded circles on the mattress. Somewhere beneath the sheets, a very pretty woman snored faintly. Elegant, blonde, and gloriously distracting. Emery shifted, sighing as she sat up. A headache pressed behind her eyes and she rubbed at her temples, glancing around the room: plush and private, even in its decor.
Beside her the woman stirred. “Leaving already?”
Emery reached for her corset and her skirts, which lay half-slumped on a nearby chair, and gave a small smile. “Afraid so, darling. Obligations.” She stood, stretching with ease. “You understand.”
The woman– what was her name? –propped herself on one elbow, the sheet slipping dangerously down her chest. “Will you call on me again?”
“Of course.” Emery fumbled for her gloves. “Beatrice, wasn’t it?”
The woman’s smile faltered. “It’s Bernadette.”
Emery paused, then gave an apologetic tilt of the head. “Well, thank you for the wine. And the company as usual.”
Before Bernadette could say another word, Emery swept out the door. The morning air bit at her cheeks as she climbed into the waiting carriage. She gave the driver her family’s London townhouse address with a sigh. “Lizzy’s going to murder me with her hairpins.”
The carriage swayed gently through the streets of Mayfair. Emery sat back against the velvet seat, fingers slightly loosening the top fastenings of her gown. Her corset pinched in places, her stockings were askew, and one of her earrings had gone missing. The left , she imagined, tangled in the bedsheets beside a woman whose name Emery had already pushed to the back of her mind. The taste of last night still lingered– wine and lipstick, the too-sweet perfume clinging to her collarbone.
Outside, the city stirred to life. Postboys were rushing around the square, servants swept stoops, and the first signs of the Season’s grand machinery clanked into motion. Emery pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, but the pressure did little to stop the ache. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach, sour. But worse than all that was the way her body still hummed from the night before, a shallow echo of pleasure that failed to cut deep enough to distract. It never did.
She hadn’t expected the return to London to claw at her like this. Emery had imagined, perhaps foolishly, that time had worn smooth the edges of memory. That ten years away might have softened the bite of the past. But already, the city felt too loud, too close, like it was waiting for her to misstep again. The last time she had ridden these streets in daylight, she was barely seventeen. She could still remember the smell of the violets pinned in her hair, the feeling of her mother’s grip on her wrist. The frantic rush of footsteps down around the townhouse.
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the carriage window and exhaled. The Season had barely begun, and already the ghosts of the past were right at her heels. At least Elizabeth would be spared. Emery would make certain of that. There would be no locked doors. No secrets. No shame. If Emery had to face down every matron and gossip in London to keep Elizabeth safe, she would do so without hesitation.
The carriage turned, wheels clicking over uneven stones. Ahead, the Walsh townhouse began to take shape, its familiar silhouette waiting like an anchor. Emery squared her shoulders and fixed the buttons of her gown. She adjusted her skirts, smoothing away any sign of where she'd been. There was no time to linger in regret. No space for fragility. By the time the carriage rolled to a stop, she was once again the Viscountess Walsh.
When she stepped into the house, the foyer was already filled with movement. Maids fluttered past with boxes of ribbons and slippers, a footman shouted for tea, and somewhere upstairs, Elizabeth’s voice was rising in a flurry of nerves.
She took the stairs two at a time.
The drawing room’s windows were flung open to let in what little breeze the morning offered, especially in early summer, but the room was still stuffy and smelled of starch and lavender powder. Elizabeth Walsh stood stiffly before a gilded mirror, her shoulders bare in a gown of pale buttercream silk. Her hair had been coiled and twisted with precision, her mother’s pearls gleaming at the nape of her neck. She looked every bit the debutante.
She also looked ready to faint.
“I feel like I’m going to be ill,” she muttered, her voice tight.
“Maybe wait until after the ceremony?” Emery responded as she stepped into the room.
“Where have you been?” Elizabeth exclaimed the moment she caught sight of her sister. “We’re going to be late!”
“We’re not going to be late,” Emery insisted, already stepping in to adjust a drooping shoulder seam. ”I just had some things to take care of.”
Across the room, Emmett Walsh, well respected and feared Marquess to many, save for his sisters, glanced over the top of his newspaper. “Well, look who’s decided to join the living.”
“Good morning to you too, brother,” Emery replied sweetly. “You’ll be pleased to know I’m fully corseted and mostly sober.”
He smirked. “A miracle.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at them in the mirror. “You both could at least pretend to be nervous for me.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely terrified,” Emery said, deadpan. “Just on the inside. And mostly for your posture.”
Emmett chuckled. “Mother is entirely convinced we’ll scandalize the family before breakfast. Let’s at least try to prove her wrong.”
“Mother,” Emery began, “is thankfully too ill to witness any of it firsthand.”
“She would’ve insisted Elizabeth wear velvet in this weather,” Emmett added.
“I like velvet,” Elizabeth offered meekly.
“You’re allowed to be wrong,” Emery said. She gently tugged a pearl pin loose from her sister’s updo, only to tuck it back in again– more for comfort than correction. “It’s just nerves. You’ll walk, you’ll curtsy, the Queen will nod imperceptibly, and soon every man in London will be dreaming of you and your… passionate opinions on fabrics.”
Elizabeth gave her a half-hearted smile. “I expect Mother to still want a letter detailing whatever happens today. Do you think she will be well enough to read it?”
“If she isn’t, Genevieve will surely read it to her.”
Emmett perked up at the mention of his wife, “She wrote this morning. Said Mother managed a full bowl of broth last night. She didn’t even complain about the herbs.”
“I think Mother prefers Genevieve’s company to ours,” Elizabeth said with a giggle.
“She likes that Genevive doesn’t talk back,” Emery corrected dryly. “A true Diamond in Mother’s eyes.”
"You were Diamond too, weren’t you?”
Emery’s expression cooled, and something shifted behind her eyes. She smoothed the line of Elizabeth’s gown, her hands suddenly too careful. “Briefly.”
Emmett folded his paper with deliberate slowness, his eyes lingering on her in the way older brothers often do: cautious, waiting for her to speak first. But Emery said nothing. Instead, she offered him a look both pointed and familiar, the kind that passed between siblings who shared too many secrets and not quite enough words.
Elizabeth looked between them, a crease forming between her brows. “I only meant… you set a high standard. I’m not sure I’ll meet it.”
“You won’t,” Emery said lightly, brushing a bit of lint from her sister’s shoulder. “You’ll exceed it. Because you’re not me.”
“Come now,” Emmett broke in, adjusting his cravat with theatrical flair. “You’ll be brilliant, Lizzy. You have the Walsh family’s exquisite charm and good looks.”
Elizabeth laughed then, the tension breaking like sunlight through clouds. She turned and stared at her reflection in the mirror last time, and for a moment, all Emery saw was Elizabeth at seven years old, gripping her skirts, chattering about frogs and French pastries, her cheeks sticky with honey. Now here she was, a debutante. Ready to face the Queen. Ready to be judged and adored and pursued. Ready to be seen.
Emery gave her hand a squeeze. “Let them see you exactly as you are.”
“And if I trip?” Elizabeth asked, only half in jest.
“Then do it with style.”
A knock at the door signaled the carriage was ready. As they gathered their belongings, Emery’s smile faltered just a moment. She remembered another morning. Another gown. Her mother’s sharp eyes. The sting of perfume and pressure. She tucked the memory away as she watched Elizabeth waltz out the room.
Emmett stayed behind just a moment, walking over to Emery and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder before she could leave. “Are you certain you’re up for this? I know it’s been a while since you’ve made an appearance.”
Emery didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the spot where Elizabeth had just stood. “I don’t particularly care what the ton thinks of my arrival,” she said at last. “I only worry for Lizzy.”
“She’ll be perfectly fine,” Emmett replied with quiet certainty. “She has us. To hell with what the Queen thinks.”
That earned him a small smile. “Don’t let the Post hear you say that.”
“To hell with what they think too,” Emmett said, with a shrug and a grin that momentarily softened the sharp lines of his face. For a second, he looked just like the boy she remembered from their childhood, all wind-ruffled hair and impish defiance.
Emery let out a breath before nodding, looping her arm through his as they followed the rustle of skirts and murmuring maids out of the room.
This time would be different, she told herself. It had to be.
***
The room was already too warm. Layers upon layers of fabric lay waiting across the chaise lounge. Two maids flitted around the bedchamber, their arms full of satin gloves and beaded shoes, but Samira Mohan sat very still at the edge of the vanity stool, her spine straight, her hands clenched in her lap. Her mother stood behind her, lips pursed, watching as the ladies’ maid worked pins into Samira’s dark hair.
“It’s still too loose at the crown,” Lady Mohan murmured, folding her arms. “It must be severe. Regal. She is not some country girl plucked from the fields.”
“I am present, you know,” Samira said, her voice mild.
“That is precisely why I am speaking.”
Samira met her reflection in the mirror. Her face looked like a stranger’s, powdered and painted, her hair sculpted into unfamiliar elegance. The maid tugged another section of hair taut, and Samira closed her eyes briefly against the sting.
If her father had been here, he would’ve told her she looked radiant. He would’ve told her to take deep breaths, that no Queen could ever frighten his daughter. He would’ve brought her tea laced with cardamom, would’ve adjusted her gloves himself, fumbling with the buttons. But he wasn’t here, and this was no longer her life of quiet studies and late-night lessons beside Dr. Robinovitch’s fireplace. This was London.
“Sit up straighter,” her mother snapped. “And stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“You are trembling.”
“I’m cold.”
“That’s absurd. The room is boiling.”
Samira’s jaw tightened. She stared at herself again. A debut in front of the Queen. A room full of hopeful girls. A thousand eyes, and behind them, a thousand more judgments. She was already too old, too different from the rest of the debutants.
She was also all that was left of House Mohan.
The thought clenched tight around her ribs, a hollow pressure that never fully released. When her father died, the world seemed to tilt on its axis– abrupt and brutal. He had been her fiercest champion, the one who believed in her ambitions with a quiet, steadfast pride. It was his signature that opened the gates to Oxford, his connections that allowed for the royal physician to take Samira under his wing. He fought for her right to learn, to become something other than what society had neatly prepared for her. But grief had barely begun to settle when the vultures arrived.
Within weeks of the mourning period’s end, uncles and cousins emerged like smoke from forgotten corners of the family, bringing with them grim expressions and ledgers filled with numbers she was never permitted to read. They spoke in hushed voices and decisive tones, always behind closed doors. Words like inheritance , debt , and obligation were tossed like cards at a table Samira was not invited to sit at.
Then came her mother, cold and far too composed for a woman who had just lost her husband, delivering the final decree as though it were scripture. Samira would return to society. She would secure a match, one both respectable and advantageous. She would marry, not for love or desire, but for wealth, for name, for the continued survival of House Mohan.
It didn’t matter that her hands still smelled faintly of ink and crushed herbs, or that she dreamed of strolling down the streets of Oxford instead of promenading down a crowded path with some unimpressive suitor. The girl who had once walked lecture halls and copied down medical theories was gone. What remained was a daughter of a vulnerable house, dressed in silk, trained to smile, and placed gently back into the mouth of the beast.
“Appa wouldn’t have wanted this,” Samira whispered.
Lady Mohan’s gaze met hers in the mirror. “Your father wanted you safe.”
“He wanted me happy.”
”He gave you liberties . A dangerous amount of them.” Lady Mohan said, voice irritated now. “But with him gone, we no longer have the luxury of indulgence.”
Samira’s hands clenched tighter in her lap.
“This season is not a game. If you fail to secure a match, you do not only disgrace yourself. You disgrace his name. His legacy. Do you understand me?”
A beat. Then Samira stood, slow and composed. “Perfectly.”
The silence that followed rang louder than the bustle of the maids, louder than the clinking of hairpins in the dish or the soft rustle of gown fabric. Samira looked down at her hands, at the faint ink-stain on her finger she hadn’t quite scrubbed away.
There had been a life before this one. A world of study, of scholarly routines of university, of dreams built on knowledge. But now she had only this day. Only this dress. Only this chance.
A maid approached with a small satin box. “The tiara, miss.”
Samira took it with steady hands. It was an heirloom: silver and sapphire, her grandmother’s. She placed it atop her head herself, fingers careful and deliberate.
Her mother gave a small nod. “At least you’ll look the part.”
“That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
The room fell quiet as they watched her go. And if Samira’s throat ached with the weight of grief, if her palms sweated with the ghosts of all she might have been, she did not let it show.
Not today.
***
The marble floors of the long corridor inside St. James’ Palace gleamed like ice beneath the flickering candelabras, and the air, despite the sheer size of the space, felt tight with perfume and nervous bodies. Debutantes lined the corridor like porcelain dolls, dozens of girls wrapped in creams and pastels, their gowns whispering as they shifted in place. Mothers hovered like shadows behind them, correcting posture and fretting over invisible wrinkles.
Emery stood slightly apart from the line with Elizabeth, her gloved hand resting lightly on her sister’s back, a small, steady weight between her shoulder blades. Elizabeth was trembling, not visibly, not to anyone else, but Emery felt it in the twitch of her breath, in the way she hadn’t spoken in several minutes.
“You’re going to be fine,” Emery murmured, low enough not to draw notice.
Elizabeth gave a weak smile. “Easy for you to say.”
Her fingers lingered at the back of Elizabeth’s dress. It was beautiful: cream colored with gold embroidery along the bodice and hem. Emery had sewn it in herself during her quiet hours at her family’s country estate. Their mother would have hated it. She would have insisted on something paler, something more easily ignored. But their mother wasn’t here. She remained tucked away in the country, too ill to travel, with Emmett’s ever competent wife tending to her day and night. Emery didn’t miss her presence, not really, but she felt its shadow all the same. Felt it now, pressing in around them like the fitted corset of Elizabeth’s gown. Every instruction, every correction, every memory of her own debut.
She still remembered when she stood in this very hallway, corset laced so tight she couldn’t breathe, her mother’s voice in her ear like steel: “Smile demurely. Do not tremble. Remember whose daughter you are.”
Emery’s smile faltered. She had remembered. And when she forgot, just once, it had ruined everything.
Elizabeth shifted nervously. Emery caught her hand and gave it a light squeeze. “It’s not a trial,” she said, her voice warming. “The Queen’s attention is but one moment. Just one. And if she likes your curtsey, you’ll be the toast of the ton before you’ve even had your first waltz.”
Elizabeth nodded once. Then her eyes drifted past Emery, to the other end of the corridor, and widened.
“What?” Emery turned, and paused.
A young woman had just entered the waiting hall, escorted by a familiar face. She was dressed not in the traditional snowy white, but a deeper ivory, almost silver, her dark curls twisted into a high bun with sapphires glinting along her temples. Her deep skin glowed against the pale satin of her bodice. Unlike the others, she did not shrink under the weight of so many eyes. She smiled radiantly, all warmth and poise, the picture of a young woman basking in the greatest day of her life. And yet, to Emery, there was something practiced in it. Not false, perhaps, but carefully constructed. Beautiful, yes. But deliberate.
Miss Samira Mohan.
Emery remembered the name from the Post, and vaguely from years ago when she still lived in London, though they had never properly crossed paths. Lady Dana Evans was at her side, a woman of considerable respect and influence, and also a close friend of the Walsh family. It made sense that Miss Mohan would appear under her patronage. Still, it was unusual. A debut at twenty-two? A woman known for her academic pursuits suddenly thrust into society?
Miss Mohan’s gaze swept the corridor with cool precision, her chin lifted just enough to convey poise without arrogance. But then her eyes moved slowly, scanning the assembled onlookers, and for one fleeting second, they landed on Emery.
It was nothing. A glance. Less than that, really. A brush of attention. But it struck Emery like a pin pressed to the nerve. Her breath caught. Her lips parted, though no words came, and Emery’s heart gave a single, treacherous thud against her ribs. Then it was gone. Miss Mohan had already turned her attention elsewhere, her smiling expression still unreadable, already folding into the posture of the moment. For a second, Emery doubted it had even happened before–
"Miss Elizabeth Walsh, presented by the right honorable Viscountess Emery Walsh." the herald bellowed.
Emery blinked, pulled sharply back into her role, her grip tightening on her sister’s gloved hand. The double doors opened with a grand sweep, and Elizabeth stepped forward. But Emery’s mind, just for a beat too long, remained in that corridor.
The queen sat at the far end of the grand space, flanked by ladies-in-waiting and dressed in rich silks that shimmered in the light. Her expression was unreadable, carved from years of duty and discretion, but her gaze was keen and unrelenting. It swept across the pair with all the weight of tradition. Elizabeth, to her credit, curtsied with grace. Her form was good, elegant, practiced, a touch low for propriety but forgivable in a debutante so youthful. The queen’s eyes rested on her a moment longer than most, but there was no indulgent smile. Only a silent appraisal.
Emery felt her shoulders rise with a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She glanced quickly to the side and caught the faintest nod of approval from one of the ladies-in-waiting. Not exceptional, perhaps, but solid. A fine beginning. They stepped aside to the left, joining the small cluster of girls who had already made their presentations, and watched as others were ushered forward.
Emery remained alert, eyes flickering to Elizabeth every few seconds. The girl was trying not to fidget, but Emery could feel the tension in her arm. She offered her sister a slight nudge with her elbow and murmured, “You did well.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Should I have swooned more dramatically?”
“Perhaps,” Emery replied. “You might’ve gained points for style.”
But the jest died in her throat as the herald announced, “Miss Victoria Javadi, presented by the Duchess Eileen Javadi.”
A collective ripple passed through the room. The Javadis were wealthy and highly ranked. Emery tilted her head as Victoria swept in. She was pretty in a brittle sort of way. Her gown was dazzling and weighted with diamonds. A statement piece, calculated. It spoke of ambition more than charm. Victoria executed her curtsy with almost mechanical perfection, but as she rose and the queen’s eyes locked on hers, something faltered. A wobble. A twitch.
Then, silence shattered– Victoria collapsed.
A gasp traveled through the room. The Duchess let out a strangled cry and darted forward, but before any footman or lady-in-waiting could move, another figure did. A woman stepped swiftly from the waiting line, skirts lifting just enough to allow her hurried stride.
Emery's eyes widened as she watched Miss Samira Mohan kneel beside Victoria without hesitation, one gloved hand checking her pulse, the other gently turning her head. She moved not with dainty concern, but with experience. Certainty.
A murmur rolled through the court. Gentle gasps and whispers followed Miss Mohan’s form.
Victoria stirred, blinking in confusion as Miss Mohan steadied her with quiet instructions. By the time a footman reached her, the crisis had passed. It became more obvious then that the queen’s gaze never left Miss Mohan.
“Miss Samira Mohan,” Her Majesty said at last, her voice calm but commanding. “Approach.”
Emery felt Elizabeth stiffen beside her.
Miss Mohan rose slowly, gracefully, as if aware that the entire room had narrowed to this single point. She stepped forward and sank into a flawless curtsy, deeper than any that morning. When she lifted her gaze, it met the queen’s without a tremble.
A beat. Then–
The queen smiled.
There it was: that rare, decisive lift of Her Majesty’s brow. Approval, clear as a summer’s day. The moment lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough. Gasps whispered through the crowd. Emery didn’t need to hear the words to know what would be printed in the Post by morning. Not Victoria Javadi. Not Elizabeth Walsh . Samira Mohan .
A diamond.
***
The garden at Lord Weston’s estate was overflowing with color. Poppies and foxglove spilling out of manicured beds, decorative hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, and silk-draped canopies shading clusters of nobles sipping chilled lemonade.
“Try not to look so stiff,” Emery murmured, keeping her voice low as they strolled toward the main lawn. “You’re not the one being hunted today.”
Elizabeth, sandwiched between her siblings, offered a nervous little smile. “I rather think I am, actually.”
“Not to worry,” Emmett said brightly. “I shall ensure no stray dukes come within ten feet of you.”
“Oh good,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll personally destroy my marriage prospects.”
They reached the central pathway, where trays of drinks were being circulated and the music had shifted into something light and drifting. Emery squinted against the sunlight, once again feeling the ache behind her eyes. She didn’t mind the city air so much, but this many frills and sunshine was enough to drive any sensible person to a dark corner and a stiff drink.
Emmett touched her arm as if he could sense her discomfort. “Go on,” he said. “Take a moment for yourself. I’ll see Elizabeth safely delivered to a chaise lounge and personally intercept any man with questionable sideburns.”
Emery hesitated, then inclined her head. “Try not to scare all of them off.”
“No promises,” he said, already steering Elizabeth toward a decorative marble bench beneath an archway of flowering vines.
Emery exhaled slowly and turned, weaving her way around an eager flock of debutantes and down one of the quieter paths that skirted the edge of the garden. She passed a group of ladies cooing over the pastries, ignored an older countess who was already recounting the events of the presentation as if she’d been the queen, and finally reached a shaded clearing.
“Now there’s a face I haven’t seen since the prince had hair.”
Emery startled, turned and broke into a rare, crooked smile. “Lord Shen,” she said. “They let you out?”
He lounged against a stone balustrade like he’d been born to do it, one leg crossed over the other and a wine glass held between two fingers with far too much ease. His coat was unbuttoned just enough to suggest disinterest in formalities, and a sprig of mint tucked into his lapel hinted that he’d already raided the refreshment table’s garnish bowls.
“They did. Though only because my mother insists I must ‘observe the market,’” he replied, making air quotes with his free hand. “As if I were shopping for a horse and not a woman.”
“Have you found any mares to your liking?” Emery teased, stepping beside him.
He snorted. “None so far. But I did see Lord Fairfax trip over his own cane trying to approach Miss Mohan. A more glorious downfall I’ve not witnessed since the last time you broke someone’s heart.”
“That was entirely not my fault,” Emery said.
John gave her a disbelieving look and sipped his drink. “As I recall, you lured poor Lord Grafton into a hedge maze and left him there.”
“I warned him not to call me ‘petal .’”
“Which is exactly why I’ve never given you a nickname.” He grinned, then tilted his head. “Truly, though. I wasn’t sure you’d return.”
“I wasn’t either.”
His gaze softened. “But?”
“But I’m only doing this for my sister,” she replied, not quite meeting his eyes. “After that, I’d like to never step foot in this city again.”
John was quiet for a beat, his usual smirk fading into something gentler. “Then I hope Elizabeth finds herself a suitor with remarkable haste, so that you may flee as swiftly as you wish.”
She glanced up at him, surprised by the sincerity.
“But,” he added with a shrug, “selfishly, I must admit. It is nice to have you back, Emery. Even if only for a moment.”
“Careful, Shen. You’ll ruin your reputation for indifference.”
He tipped his glass toward her. “I’ve three older brothers. I’m free to be indifferent as I like.”
Emery shook her head, the smile lingering longer than usual. It was easy with John. Effortless, even. He never pressed too hard, never asked for explanations she wasn't ready to give. He simply… was. A welcome constant in a world that had changed far too quickly.
“If you’re here,” she said, “then Abbott mustn't be far behind.”
“Last I heard, he was brooding in Winchester,” John replied with a lopsided grin. “But I expect he’ll show his face soon enough. He does love a good entrance.”
“If he does, we ought to call on Ellis. A visit to her club might be just what we all need.”
“Now that is the best idea I’ve heard all week.” He extended his arm with mock gallantry. “Come, Walsh. Let’s make a show of pretending to be sociable. I believe we have several years to catch up on.”
***
Samira stood at the edge of the gravel path, the scent of roses clinging sweetly to the air. Lady Dana Evans had just looped her arm through Samira’s and was now offering a running commentary on the various peerage meandering about the garden.
“There, that’s Lord Fenwick’s eldest,” Dana murmured, nodding toward a tall, square-jawed young man who was already watching Samira with open interest. “Don’t bother with him. His family breeds hounds and nothing else, as far as I can tell.”
Samira gave a soft laugh, more out of politeness than agreement, her smile lingering just long enough to look convincing.
“You’re doing quite well,” Dana added. “But I imagine it’s all terribly overwhelming.”
Samira’s hands were clasped in front of her, white gloves folded over one another as if they might still themselves by sheer force of etiquette. “It’s not that I dislike the company,” she said carefully, “only that I feel… terribly out of place.”
Dana’s expression softened, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You exceeded their expectations, and the Queen saw it. That’s all anyone is talking about. Now– ah, there she is. Viscountess Walsh!”
Samira followed Lady Dana’s gaze to a tall, dark-haired woman just parting ways with a gentleman not too far away. She carried herself like someone who’d learned to do so with armor sewn into every seam: composed, careful, elegant. When Dana called her name, she turned, and her eyes met Samira’s for the second time that day.
There was something sharp in the look. Recognition. Interest. Apprehension.
Though Samira had never been properly acquainted with the Viscountess, she, like most of London society, knew well the importance that the Walsh name carried. Viscountess Emery Walsh had long been whispered about in the drawing rooms and parlors of the ton, though more for the mystery of her sudden disappearance than for the glittering promise of her debut. Some said she had married too young. Others claimed heartbreak, scandal, or illness. But whatever the truth, her return to London had stirred the pot anew, with more than one socialite craning their neck to catch a glimpse of the elusive widow.
“Come,” Dana said, drawing the woman in with a beckoning hand. “I believe the two of you ought to speak.”
Viscountess Walsh approached at a measured pace, the shade of the pergola catching along her cheekbones as she entered the space beside them. Lady Dana made introductions, though they were hardly necessary, and then, with the elegance only a practiced matron could manage, she made her excuses and slipped away.
Leaving the two of them– Diamond and former Diamond –alone beneath a lattice of white blooms.
Samira hesitated a breath, her composure fraying at the edges now that it was just the two of them. The Viscountess was even more striking up close, and Samira had the absurd thought that this woman, unlike many of the suitors who had already approached, some just to gawk, looked through her instead of simply at her.
“Viscountess.” Samira finally said, her voice steadier than she felt. In her mind, her mother’s reminders of tone and formalities echoed. “You honor me with your presence.”
The woman in front of her offered a wry smile, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Please, just Emery. I can hardly lay claim to any Viscountess-like duties these days.”
Samira hesitated, then recalled the column from that morning, and the quiet whispers threading through the garden. Her tone gentled. “Then allow me to offer my condolences. For your late husband.”
Emery inclined her head. “Yes. It was a good marriage. He was a kind man.”
There was a note in her voice, an undercurrent Samira couldn’t name, but felt down to the bone. She nodded, stepping slightly closer so no one could overhear them.
“My father passed just this year,” she offered. “Grief has a way of making everything feel unsteady, doesn’t it?”
Emery met her gaze. “It does.”
Silence settled between them again, companionable now. Samira felt herself exhale, for the first time all day. She looked over the garden, the polished silver trays, the gentle hum of gossip. All of it felt just a touch too loud.
“You must be exhausted from this morning,” Emery said at last. Her voice was lower than Samira had imagined. Smooth like velvet. Warm. “I recall being handed three dance cards and a promise of a marriage proposal within half an hour of my first garden party.”
“I’ve yet to be proposed to, though one gentleman did try to hand me a poem. It mentioned something about my skin reminding him of chestnuts?”
Emery huffed a laugh. “God help us.”
That coaxed a smile from Samira, something genuine and soft around the edges. “I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m doing,” she admitted. “Now I’m being paraded about in ivory silk, and everyone looks at me as if I’ve engaged in some horrible scandal.”
“And yet you carry yourself with more grace than those who’ve spent years preparing for it.” Emery said. “You belong here just as much as any of them.”
Samira blinked at her, the words digging beneath her skin. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”
“Did you expect me to be scandalized that you studied medicine?”
“I expected you to be like the rest of them.”
Emery looked at her for a moment, something unreadable passing behind her eyes. “I have never been like the rest of them.”
The air grew still between them. Samira’s heart beat too fast for the moment’s quiet.
“I could help you,” Emery said finally, breaking the silence but not the charge. “If you’d like. Navigating this whole circus, I mean. I’ve done it before. I can tell you which of these men are worth your time, and which ones still ask their mothers to pick out their cravats.”
Samira arched an eyebrow, amused despite herself. “And what would you know about cravats?”
“I know I’ve pulled off more than one,” Emery replied, her smile sly.
Samira flushed, her mouth parted slightly in surprise, then for the first time all day, she laughed. “All right,” she said, eyes glinting. “But what are you getting out of this?”
Emery tilted her head, clearly amused. “Oh, you think I wouldn’t offer my assistance without personal gain?”
Samira raised a brow. “I think you’re not the sort to do anything without thinking three steps ahead.”
“Flattering,” Emery murmured, as if she didn’t quite mean it. “But you’re not wrong.”
She didn’t look away when she added, “My sister is among the younger debutantes. And while she’s clever and charming and endlessly kind, she’s... fresh to it all. I’m afraid the season may devour her whole.”
Samira’s expression softened slightly. “And you think being close to the Diamond might help her?”
“I think,” Emery said, “that being seen as a friend to the Diamond might insulate her from the worst of it. And give me a clearer view of the men who think themselves entitled to her hand. My sister will not be any man’s second choice.”
“You plan to scare them off?”
“I plan to assess them thoroughly. And besides, the faster you find a suitor, the sooner the season can truly begin for the rest of the debutants.”
Samira laughed again, though this time more quietly. “So we are to enter a mutually beneficial alliance.”
“If that makes you feel better about accepting my help,” Emery said, the corner of her mouth lifting, “then yes.”
Samira considered her for a long moment. The sun, through roses and drifting parasols, lit the silver threads in Emery’s gown, making her dark eyes gleam like polished obsidian. There was something dangerous about her, yes, but not dangerous enough for Samira to want to stray.
Her lips twitched at the edges. “Very well,” she said. “But if I’m to be paraded about like a prize pheasant, I expect your commentary to be entertaining.”
“I’m told my wit is my most marketable quality,” Emery replied. “Well, second only to my tolerance for awful company.”
Samira laughed– light, unguarded, and entirely unexpected. They moved at the same time, an instinctive, quiet agreement, and began to walk together along the pebbled garden path, skirts brushing in rhythm. And suddenly, the rest of the season didn’t seem so impossible.