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Chapter Text

T heo Sharpe had reached the threshold of his patience and politeness. 

Without warning, he yanked away the sleeve that was in the hands of the valet. Mr. Quincy yelped at the sudden movement, and glared daggers at his new charge. The former apprentice returned the glare in kind, very pointedly applying the cufflinks himself. He had to fight the childish urge to stick out his tongue when the man promptly made his leave. His attention must have been clearly broadcast in his expression, because his newfound alleged cousin snorted and began to laugh in earnest when the door to the antechamber firmly closed. He ignored the rising laughter, fidgeting with his sleeves and turned to the mirror. He hardly recognized the reflection or the man behind him lounging most ungentlemanly in a chair, long legs thrown over one arm, his body resting in the middle and his upper-half resting on the other arm. He caught sight of those bright emerald eyes and quickly averted his sight to his fancy shoes that were too tight. 

A fortnight ago, the printer would have dismissed this, his life currently, as a banburry tale. He had told the poor messenger much the same when they arrived at the shop in Bloomsbury, thinking they must have been sent on a foolhardy errand by a foxed and confused Lord. Alas, the nightmare still lingered. He looked ridiculous. Never had he ever donned such apparel or felt the need to attempt to suffocate himself with a kerchief. The material felt as though it were slowly trying to strangle him, and he slipped a finger underneath it only to find the delicate note was stronger than he realized. 

Attire was not something covered in the lengthy lessons. On the day, he was plucked away from Bloomsbury, and all he had known, there had been tutors. The first had been a reading tutor, the Marquess was very impressed that his illegitimate offspring could read. He had falsely assumed that Theo was illiterate and uneducated in maths. Those educators were dismissed, and more were brought in. A French teacher, a Theology teacher, an elucidation teacher, and most loathingly a dance teacher. None of them were educated on proper attire, how to dress or how to escape from it. That was supposed to fall into the hands of the valet who the former printer thought more of a warden than anything that resembled helpfulness.

“Oh for….,” his cousin halted on the blasphemy scrambling out of his awkward sitting position and swatting his fingers away, “honestly, if you’d asked Mr. Quincy nicely he would have loosened this for you,” 

With the offending cloth was out of the way, Theo grabbed it from his cousin’s hands and tossed it onto the dresser. It was a foolish attempt at rebellion but it made the helpless part of him feel a bit more in control. If he thought that the Marquess of Faraday would not drag his comatose body to this party, he would have tried to feign illness. Having known the eccentric man for a fortnight now, he’d probably have some potion or weird remedy to awaken him. When he turned, there was a gauntlet of something foul smelling under his nose. 

Elijah was a few years his senior, and aside from their heights being nearly the same, there were no other familial features to be found. I resemble my father, the late Mr. Abrams , had been said when Theo had been staring too long, you on the other hand Theodore look precisely like all of the other Haveringtons I’ve known . The printer had to bite his tongue not to scathingly say, lucky me . Elijah had softened then, and told him something he’d known all of his life, aside from your eyes, those are your own . The Marquess had watery gray ones that seemed shifty. Theo’s eyes came from his mother, not that he remembered her all too well. The years had softened her features into blurriness, but he knew her eyes.

“It’ll soften your nerves,” 

“I’m not nervous,” the only response he got was raised blonde eyebrows that disappeared into the mop of curly hair, “remind me again why you cannot just be Marquess?”

Elijah tsked and sighed as if he was some forlorn parent forever scolding a child, “firstly, our line is entailed to the males and my dear mother, best of the Haveringtons, while she married beneath her standing oh and died,” 

“But you were raised in this life,” 

His cousin had not finished, introducing yet another bit to the tirade, seemingly emboldened by the intake of alcohol, “I do not-I was told I would not be able to continue the line…,” another long sip followed by a choke, “that is, sire children of my own,”

The reaction could not be helped. Elijah seemed to be expecting this, turning so that his waist was pointed away from curious glares. He busied himself with his coat, and lacing up his boots. The morbid curiosity was squashed by reminders despite their kinship, they had only been aware of each other for two weeks. The former printer was not entitled to such private health information, but it still begot a cursory glance and a pointed glare in return. If it bothered Elijah, the staring, he laughed it off picking up his glass and taking another healthy sip.

The Marquess of Faraday was in the foyer when they descended. His face had been powdered, a desperate attempt to conceal the bout of smallpox that he had in childhood. He liked to bring up his survival as proof of his strength; both physically and mentally. That type of hardiness existed in the very blood of the Haveringtons. The implication went without saying that Theo had inherited such robustness. He liked to think that it came from his mother who’d been abandoned by this man to suffer with their child for food, and for shelter, only to die when he was near seven.

She, Amelie, his mother was the epitome of robustness. She worked each day and night, waking as he used to at sunrise before the likes of polite society to toil unnoticed. Faraday had soft hands, and a belly that protruded over his breeches, and the lines on his face were due to age not stress. Even before the death of his older brother, when he was just some second-son, he never had to fret over his food source or if a roof would shelter him from the cold or the rain or the heat. He had a fundamental lack of understanding, and Theo hated him for it.

“My god,” Faraday clasped his gloved hands onto the bannister. He seemed to need it to balance himself. Had he been indulging like Elijah? They were about to go to some soiree, which the lessons foretold of great merriment including drinking, was he going to attend foxed? Beside him, Quincy scoffed at this charge, noting the lack of a kerchief, “Georgie. You look like my Georgie,” 

For the briefest of seconds, Theo felt shame for the quick judgment. George Haverington haunted the estate much in the manor of a ghost, although his apparition was not seen. On the piano rested the last bit of music he’d been composing. Most morbidly there was a stray quill mark slashing across most of the page from where he fell on the evening he died. When left alone in the conservatory, his eyes were drawn to it like a beacon. It was akin to the Lighthouse of Alexandra, and he hadn’t any idea of what he was supposed to feel or think about the half-brother he’d never known. Cursory sadness for a life cut short? George was not yet thirty when he passed. Anger? Theo supposed he did not want to die and thrust his bastard born brother into the forefront? Both?

Elijah side-stepped around him, “he does doesn't he?” there was a watery mirth to those eyes. He placed the gauntlet on the table beside the stairs, clasping his Uncle’s shoulders, “but this tint of blue would never suit Georgie, it suits Theo very well does it not Uncle?” 

Faraday dabbed at his eyes, “mmhmm. I concur,” 

***

Aubrey Hall

Kent, England

T o clarify, Eloise Bridgerton had been and was still immensely pleased for her eldest brother. 

Marriage, and especially, Kate suited Anthony. He was decidedly less cantankerous, everyone , from the scullery maid to their mother noticed and commented. It seemed she was the cantankerous one now, though no one had voiced it to her. They left her to her own devices which she was thankful for. The fifth-born Bridgerton would sit quietly through meals, and tea time, and then she’d disappear to her room to re-read worn books that no one knew the origin of.  At night, when she was not slowly burning each of Whistledown’s missives, she was instead tracing the handwritten notes in the margins by the waning flickering candlelight. 

“Must they always be so affectionate?” The question was not poised at anyone but Francesca and her acute hearing heard it. 

Franny paused only to mark something on the lines of her music paper before answering, “I think it is quite sweet,”

The they in question were the Viscount and Viscountess returning from their walk. Their hands were intertwined, and their clothes were ruffled like they’d been caught in a ferocious wind storm. Odd, since Hyacinth and her governess had returned only moments ago from collecting flowers, and they looked undisturbed. From across from her, the Duchess of Hastings gave an too knowing smirk that frustrated the second-born daughter, who stared at her imploringly only for Daph to shrug. It was not that Daph was not intelligent, it just drove her mad that she would not share. Before she could voice anything, Hyacinth came skipping in, calling out posts and depositing their letters on the coffee table. 

Eloise knew better than to look. The only person she corresponded with when in Kent was Penelope, no, Lady Whistledown. She could only think of scathing damnations to write, and she would not allow her to have even that, though she did miss writing letters. She much appreciated the anticipation of the response as much as the writings. She ignored her youngest sister’s glare, and returned her eyes to the yellowed pages. 

It had crossed her mind more than once to attempt to reach out to the book’s previous owner. She would-they would no longer be in danger from the gossip-monger now that she had the upper-hand. One false word and Eloise would go to her Majesty. Penelope Featherington would have to wither the mob that would form outside of her house. The Featheringtons would have to retreat somewhere far, perhaps Siberia. She’d read about that cold tundra once, and that type of environment seemed fitting for her former friend; frozen like her heart must be. The only thing that halted her was Penelope’s sister, while not the nicest or brightest, they still deserved to be untarnished.  They deserved an opportunity to escape from their Mama. 

Hyacinth’s nose scrunched up,“Colin’s written again. Do we think he’s bored while he’s traveling?”

Eloise was the middle child, but it was Daphne and Franesca who took up the mantle as mediators. The Duchess tsked in a facsimile of their mother, if one closed their eyes Violet was in the conservatory, and took pity on the worn envelope rescuing it from the she-devil’s hands, “he writes because he cares for his family,”

“Hmmphm,” Hyacinth sounded like Anthony, collapsing onto the single seat looking very bored. Boredom and idleness never suited Eloise or Hyacinth, and the youngest child’s blue-gray eyes found a distraction in the worn book, “wherever did you get that book? A Vin-vin…,” 

“Vindication,” Eloise corrected without thinking. The mispronunciation was not her fault, the ending of the word had faded or fallen off.  Trying not to be too suspicious, she gently rested it on her lap, tucking strands of loose hair behind her ears, “it’d bore you not to mention its use of language would far surpass your level of ability,”

This was precisely the wrong thing to say. With an agility well versed by years of foolery with Gregory, the eighth child lurched forward grasping the worn book and clutching it close to her chest, using her body as a shield. Eloise rose to chase her out; she had barricaded herself behind the single chair. The Duchess frowned.

“Hyacinth! Eloise!” she hissed, “you’ll-

“Give it back you imp!”

“You’ll have to pry it from me!”

Daphne lowered her shoulders, “wake the baby,”

Auggie Bassett, who’d been snoozing in his bassinet, shrilled out cries. Francesca waved away his mother nodding her head towards their sisters, while she lifted her nephew from his crib and cradled him against her. He calmed, resting his head in the crook of her neck as she hummed a lullaby their mother used to sing. 

Daphne with her fists clenched turned back to her sisters, “Hyacinth give Eloise her book back. You shant take things that are not yours, you are much too old for this childish tomfoolery,” when that failed to spur any action, “Eloise, you should apologize for your harsh words,” 

Hyacinth squinted at the cover, “is this from your political radicals?” 

That sucked all of the air out of the conservatory. The humming paused as did the baby noises. That part of their recent history had been buried much akin to Colin and Marina. It was taboo to mention in the house since the night Anthony gave the worst lecture anyone could remember. Gregory and Hyacinth had been sent away with their governess for that discussion but must have heard about it. 

“Do not speak of things you know nothing of,” Eloise hissed each word through clenched teeth. Hyacinth’s hands were pliable when the book was ripped from them.  She ignored the calls of the Duchess, returning to the chamber that had become her oasis. 

Why oh why did Penelope have to ruin it? Her blossoming entry into doing something more than feel awkward on the dance floors of the ton? Penelope understood her aversions. She’d been there for the horrid dancing lessons, and the failed sewing circles. Eloise was many things but she was not Daphne, who did everything with a graceful flourish, even blushing but she had never wanted to be her. She wanted more than anything to be Eloise, and now she could not even explore who that was. Her footman and maid were gravelly spoken to about accepting her pin money, not that she’d been given any recently. Another Whistledown missive burned. The flames licked at it, erasing the words that had squandered so many. Tucked away in the top desk of her draw were letters she’d drafted for her Majesty. Would the Queen even read a letter from her? She’d have to label the outside envelope, identity of Whistledown contained here .

Francesca entered, dressed for bed. Her hair, honey colored like Daphne’s, had been released and brushed. It was tradition that they shared a bedchamber at Aubrey Hall, when Fran was there. Lately, she had not been there ostensibly to learn piano but truly to recover her lungs. Society was not to know or she’d have a poor presentation. Eloise stared at her, she seemed so different and so strange, and yet still her accidental twin. 

People, namely Benedict, said that Francesca was so shy because Eloise never let her speak. In this moment, in their staring, Eloise knew her younger sister had something to say so she held her tongue, pausing only to snuff the candle. She took the brush and began to brush. 

“You never speak of it,” Fran said finally, “your political activism,”

“Why would I?” 

Fran raised an eyebrow yanking back the covers, “because well it sounds sort of thrilling? You snuck off to Bloomsbury?” The way she pronounced the town name was said with revulsion. So many of their peers enunciated it in the same way, like some horrid disease, and not an honorable place with hardworking people, “I had to find out from Cressida Cowper of all people,” 

Her name evoked pink craziness, “Cressida? You’ve spoken?”

Francesca frowned, “I do not have many friends in the ton being away for so long. And she seems desperate,” one could always count on her for honest truth, “about to enter her third season and all with nothing to show for it,” 

***

Featherington House

London, England

P enelope Featherington was not jealous of Prudence.

Or that was what she tried to think and project visually when she had to endure Mr. Dankworth fed yet another grape into her sister’s awaiting mouth. He was a perfectly nice gentleman but seemed to lack even more brain capacity than Prudence, which was as alarming as it was fascinating. His brain was truly a marvel to see or hear his thoughts. Yesterday, she’d seen him reading a book upside down and when she informed him, his only response was a very chirper, I know . Oddest of all, it did not seem that he was pretending but actually reading it as pages were turned. Already she was thinking of the paragraphs she’d write about this pairing, that seemed destined to be together. 

She was not jealous of Prudence, though Dankworth seemed to have a true appreciation for her sister, and had a considerable fortune. He was untitled but could(and she shuddered) father a Baron. That stipulation had yet to be honored. Philippa, despite arduous attempts, was still not with child. That brought up another shuddering, fiercer this time, because Mr. and Mrs. Finch had occupied the room next to hers. The walls were decidedly not thick enough to hide the efforts. 

Of the two couples, she’d preferred Lord Finch over a possible LordDanworth, which brought her to true jealousy. She wanted, no need, to find a husband. He need not be titled or tremendously wealthy, just someone to suit her. They’d purchase a country house somewhere not in Kent, and rent a home in London, away from her mother, who now was speculating Penelope would be her companion in her adage.  Was there a worse fate? 

Outage of her true identity would be worse. She had not heard a single word from Eloise from the night of the party. The image of her oldest friend’s face twisting in agony with the contents of her bedroom strewn across the floor, were conjured then. Why oh why had she been so angry? Penelope had saved her from the Queen. It would have been much more disastrous if she’d written about the damn printer. 

“We are going to be late!” Portia clapped her hands together, “come on young ladies….Mr. Dankworth,”

The Soiree was hosted and to be attended by what she dubbed the “left-overs”.  They were the families who did not have a country estate to escape to, and they were left to sweat in the overheated capital. Normally, the Bridgertons would extend an invite, but even Prudence had realized that none was going to come. They stepped out, a united front, into stifling air that made the fabric of her citrus dress stick to her. 

Unfortunately, the color chosen today was yellow. It hid nothing. She resolved to keep her arms pressed to her sides the whole night. She’d cling to her shadows, and listen for the gossip. Yes, that was precisely what she was going to do.

That was until she bumped quite literally into a printer disguised as a Lord.

Chapter Text

T heo had been searching for the chamber pot. Ostensibly, to remove himself from the center of the party. Faraday had been away for some time, and people migrated to him much like the planets orbited the sun. He far outranked any other person in attendance, so the inclination was natural. He had read enough of Whistledown’s papers to understand the hierarchy. It had been a Duke two years prior that had enraptured them, something with an H name. The company was mostly matrons tugging along gaggles of girls who paused only to glare at him with narrowed suspicion, and flocked to Elijah who seemed unbothered. Within earshot, he heard bastard thrice, some other thinly veiled comments, and some French he did not think was all too pleasant. His French tutor had been delayed by some storm, and a shame too, it was the only part of his forced lessons that he actually had any interest in.The people here moved differently than those he knew of in Bloomsbury. Their postures varied as did their speech. The few parties he attended where people drunkenly danced it was not to rigid steps or with dance cards, it was by passion or by alcohol. 

Eloise described the dances once. Her nose had scrunched up in that adorable way when she was disgusted by something. Dancing was not her forte, she admitted, and all the while she described waltz, and quadriles, he was picturing her radiance in dresses like the one she fled in during her brother’s wedding. 

He had asked Elijah if the Bridgertons would be present. His cousin’s eyebrows met, but he answered in earnest, no they’ll be in Kent. They always summer there. It’s a beautiful estate, I visited one summer in between terms at Eaton. Benedict, the second-eldest is my age, and I think he took pity on me because I have no siblings . This led to a tirade on the chaotic and businesses of such a large household, but he thought only of Eloise expressing that Benedict, was her most favored brother, and that alone endeared the faceless older brother to him.

“Pardon!” a feminine voice squeaked out from inches below him. He had not been looking forward, and something or rather someone had bumped into his torso. He peered down, first noting the shock of brilliantly red-orange hair coiffered, and then into the rounded face, locking eyes with bright blues. 

He knew that face, why did he know that face? He closed his mouth, taking a step back, and bowed, trying to give himself more time to think. She curtseyed quickly, her curls bobbing up and down with her as redness overtook her face. 

“Do I know you?” It was not the nicest of ways to introduce himself, but how could somebody from his lower class background be here, in the townhouse of some landed gentry? She was quick to dismiss this with a violent shaking of her head, “truly I think I have seen you before,” 

She would not look up, “ I fear you are mistaken sir,” 

A woman who could only be her mother appeared then. Her hair was a hue darker but she was dressed in a similar offending citrus color. Her face dimpled at the sight of him, and he never felt more akin to prey than in this moment. 

She curtseyed, “I am Lady Featherington, may I present my daughter Miss. Penelope Featherington?” Penelope wilted beside her, “and you are?” 

“Theo Sharpe,” he answered, forgetting the honorific he was supposed to use. This dampened the mother considerably. Technically, he was still Theo Sharpe, as he had always been. Faraday was still awaiting official confirmation that he was legitimized. Whenever that day would pass, he would be the Right Honorable Viscount something or other, a curtsy title. All of it felt immoral to who he was, and he wanted nothing more than to literally shed his sweaty gloves and storm straight back to Bloomsbury, but then, he would not be able to discern who she was, and she was somebody.

Upon his return, a slightly foxed Elijah scurried off the dance floor to his side. His dance partner gaped after such a display but he did not notice it. Faraday and Elijah would never admit it, but for their own reasons, they were holding him hostage. He was never allowed far from them or from his valet, and he tried to smile politely but feared it might have been more of a grimace. Despite his anger, his cousin was at the very least knowledgeable of the people of polite society. 

His advice for the redhead? Be weary. The mother, he described, was a vulture. The father had been a gambler, and there were rumors last season of ruination. Elijah smiled wickedly when he elaborated that there was one positive, the title of Baron Featherington along with estates and the money would go to whichever of her daughters produced a son first. That sounded horrid, that people would seek them only for the possibility of a son to inherit the title. It was all so terrible, and, for the first time, he grabbed a glass off the table, not expecting the sweetness that invaded his mouth. 

The rest of the night was spent on the fringes. Precisely how long did these affairs last? The answer seemed to be endless. When the trio walked out of the townhouse, the sky was lighting in the east. If he was still himself, he’d be awake by now at the shop, something that unsettled him for the ride home. These people knew nothing of true toil. 

When he awoke the next morning it was Mr. Quincy not being quiet with his feet. The Dance master had arrived, and they were to continue his waltzing lesson. It took much of his self-restraint not to throw one of the ornate pillows at the man. He had avoided dancing the night before but it seemed dancing was quintessential to a young gentleman’s education. His mind though was very far away to be counting steps, something the dance master grew very frustrated with. The lesson concluded with a tuttering of Italian mumblings. 

He could not stop but think of the youngest Featherington sister. He knew her. For one, her hair was such a unique and vibrant shade of red, almost orange. And there was the matter of her stature. She was dwarfed by nearly all of the attendees in the room. Why would a baron’s daughter be in Bloomsbury?

The answer would come to him much later. It hit with the jolt of lighting or perhaps, what it might feel like to be thrown from a horse and have all oxygen be forcefully evacuated from one’s body. Lady Whistledown. Penelope had to somehow be involved with the gossip monger. It was the missing piece that eluded them. They had combed over mentions in the pamphlets, and tucked somewhere in the suitcase that had been hastily packed was the list. Eloise wrote in slanted cursive, and while he appreciated the penmanship, it was the only physical remnant he had of her. 

“Do you have any old editions of Whistledown?”

Elijah peered up from the book he was reading. His hair was still damp from bathing, and he had not been in attendance for lunch or the tea time. He appeared to no longer be suffering from the effects of alcohol any longer. 

“I must confess I do not. I find her writing trifling but you may purchase your own copies,” 

Aubrey Hall, Kent

“I nvite them,” Eloise was trying to nurse her burnt finger, and to conceal it all at the same time. She had not been expecting the late night onslaught of the Viscount and Viscountess hence the fumble. She truly liked Kate, and was beginning to appreciate her as a new sister, but she did not fancy yet another parental figure; her actual mother, Anthony, and Daphne suited well enough. The couple had sought her out to discuss the upcoming annual ball; their question? Should the Featheringtons be invited? Her answer was not what they were expecting, and their stunned glances and exchanges gave her time to shuffle backward to her nightstand to dip her finger in the glass of water the maid had left there. The water was lukewarm but it offered some comfort. 

The thought of the annual summer’s end ball had been eating at her. It was no secret that balls and soirees made her nervous. While she was in possession of a large lexicon of words they all seemed to fail her at these events. She had truly cherished their slight seclusion, “invite the Featheringtons and I shall excuse myself from the affair,”

Anthony pinched at his temples, “you cannot be absent,”

“I must not,” Eloise corrected, “but I do think it is a gentler course. The Featheringtons come, and I remain here or in the library. No scandal to be had,” 

The thought of having to come face-to-face with Whistledown was one the incurred wrath, pity, and righteous anger. Just the night before she had replayed that conversation, it was the only way to save you . The only reason she or Anthony or Daphne or Marina ever needed any sort of saving was due to her. She was a villain, a villain who hid in her tower spewing hatred that stemmed from deep within her. To think, she had gone to comfort her in the aftermath of the Marina incident. Penelope had played them all for fools, from the landed gentry to her majesty. 

“We would not wish for you to miss the festivities,” Kate sat at the desk, politely ignoring the half-burnt column that sat atop it. She adjusted her long braid so it rested over one shoulder, “and you are  Bridgerton. This is your house, and you should be comfortable with all of its guests,” 

Eloise had to stifle the snort. Kate, while incredibly intelligent, did not understand that the ton dealt in half-truths, and kept their grudges behind forced smiles. There were scores of people who,if they were not held up to a certain standard, would not be invited. No words were exchanged for a long while. 

“Have the Cowpers confirmed their attendance?” 

Once, a long time ago, Cressida was a semi-frequent guest in the Bridgerton nursery. She and Daphne had met in their French lessons under the tutelage of a very renowned teacher who could inflict a natural accent in his pupils. The friendship was taciturn. At times Cowper was warm and friendly, but without warning or reasoning, she was cold. They were mostly frosty, though with Daph’s elevated title, Cressida would not dare to be so outwardly cruel, and after a third attempt at the market, she might be more receptive. And if Francesca was on friendly terms, she could be too.

“Yes they have,” her brother confirmed.

“Invite the Featheringtons,” 

In the grand hall of Aubrey, Cressida Cowper resembled a dahlia. Her dress was the same shade, and her shoulders were covered by what looked like pedals. A smaller one was fastened to her hair keeping it pinned up tightly in a manner that looked as though after hours would give one a headache. The outfits had always been outlandish and garnished in a uniquely Cowper way. Eloise coughed to hide her smirk at the sight, her mind already thinking of insults. She allowed for Francesca to make introductions and pleasantries first, before they and their maids began the promenade around the estate, where the talk turned regrettably to that of the season. Eloise kept mum, shoving her sweaty gloves into her parcel. 

“I do not think I can withstand the torment of the damned feather,” this statement came at the conclusion of a long winded explanation of the excitement of being a debutant, “it itches and will fall into your eye,”

Eloise concurred with this statement having never thought she and Cowper would ever share sentiments.  The prospect equally thrilled and confused her in equal parts. Perhaps befriending her was not going to fail miserably. What was the ancient proverb? Amicus meus, inimicus inimici mei , or rather, my friend, the enemy of my enemy.

A/N: I cannot believe that season 3 is very nearly upon us.

As for this story, I’ve seen people on tumblr and reddit mention what if Theo joined society or was at a ball, thus Faraday and Elijah. This is still sort of the prologue, with Theo connecting the dots to Penelope, and the beginnings of the Cressida-Eloise connection. 

This chapter is more of a prologue part Two, the needed meat. As for why the Featheringtons are not in the country;

A.) I do not think they have a country house, having had financial concerns and if you remember Violet and Daphne were hosting a lot of people at Aubrey for the ball in the summer.

B.) I have loved the behind the scenes/spoilers of Prudence and her suitor. So perhaps they stayed so the courtship could flourish.

Also, my thoughts on Penelope. I concur that she is a gray character, and that I think the show would be wise to use this to their advantage. We all want to cheer on a wall flower or an underdog but she really harmed a lot of people. Marina ! I understand that Marina was tricking Colin but she was in a bad situation, and yes Penelope is a teenager but maybe she could have told Lady Bridgerton? 

I get very upset by the comments saying Eloise is a bad friend, and/or should be thankful for Penelope to help save her? 

I’ll get off my soap box now! As always please let me know what you think!

And there will be a reunion of Theo/Eloise I promise!