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Heart racing in the hidden alcove behind the curtain, Blanche observed the unfolding negotiation with an intensity that matched the beating of her own pulse.

The dim light barely reached her secluded vantage point, providing ample cover for her to remain an unseen spectator.

From the shadows, she listened keenly as the Duke—a master of eloquence and strategy—engaged in discussions with the venerable Baron regarding the acquisition of his late grandfather's extensive collection of antiquities.

The exchange of words resonated in the air, and Blanche strained to catch every nuance.

The artefacts being discussed were not mere trinkets to her; they were the subjects of her meticulous research, the focus of years spent deciphering the mysteries of ancient civilisations.

She recognised the nuances in the Duke's negotiation tactics and the Baron's guarded yet intrigued responses.

The temptation to interject, to share the wealth of knowledge she had accumulated, surged within her.

Yet, she remained steadfast in her hidden alcove, knowing that revealing herself would be entirely unsuitable and ruinous to the delicate dance of negotiation.

In the realm of men, her voice was often drowned out, deemed inconsequential.

It was difficult for Blanche, but she just about managed to stay silent until the very end of the conversation.

At last, to her immense relief, the men departed. Their laughter and easy camaraderie echoed through the opulent halls as they strode away, leaving Blanche the chance to cautiously emerge from her concealed alcove.

Her legs wavered beneath her, unsteady from both tension and the prolonged stillness.

Her pulse hammered in her ears, the remnants of the clandestine moment lingering in her veins.

She drew a slow breath, willing herself to composure, though the dim glow of the hidden recess mercifully veiled the turmoil written upon her features.

The weight of the evening's events pressed heavily upon her as she too navigated the corridors, each step echoing the tumult within while she exited the blue parlour.

Re-joining her mother and the other guests in the billiards room, Blanche attempted to wear a mask of composure, concealing the disquiet that coiled within her.

Lady Wickford stood amidst a cluster of ladies, engaged in light conversation.

To an outsider, there were no visible signs of the fainting spell Mother claimed to have experienced moments ago.

Her countenance remained untouched by any earlier indisposition.

Yet, Blanche could not shake the unease that lingered within her, a dissonance that seemed to dance beneath the surface.

Approaching her mother, Blanche could not suppress the urge to delve into the mystery that enveloped Isabella's delayed arrival. "Mother, what detained you for so long? You never arrived in the blue parlour for your smelling salts," she asked, genuine concern etched on her features.

Isabella, with a dismissive wave of her hand, brushed off the question. "I do not know what you are fussing about, Blanche. As you can see, I am quite fine."

The nonchalant response only intensified Blanche's sense of disquiet. The incongruity between Mother’s claimed indisposition and her current composed demeanour fueled Blanche's unease, a nagging suspicion that a veiled intricacy lurked beneath the surface.

The evening's strange turn of events, her mother's erratic behaviour, and the precarious situation she had narrowly escaped created a knot of apprehension within Blanche. She was concerned to see what would happen next…

***

The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting a subdued glow in Blanche's bed chambers.

She lay still, the remnants of a sleepless night etched on her face.

The strange events of the night lingered in her thoughts the musicale, the laughter with her friend, the intriguing conversation with the brooding duke, and her mother's inexplicable behaviour.

The latter remained an enigma, an unsolved puzzle she was not quite prepared to tackle at the moment.

With a reluctant sigh, Blanche finally stirred in her bed.

The satin sheets slid from her shoulders as she sat up, running her fingers through her dishevelled hair.

The looking glass across the room reflected a face marked by the shadows of contemplation, eyes that held the residue of both amusement and confusion from the night before.

The looming responsibilities of the day pressed upon her, urging her to leave the comfort of her bed. As she swung her legs over the edge, the cold touch of the hardwood floor sent a shiver through her. She reached for the robe draped over the chair, enveloping herself in its soft embrace.

The wardrobe stood as a silent witness to the choices she would make for the day.

Blanche pondered over the array of dresses, each holding its own story of social gatherings and whispered conversations.

Today, however, demanded a careful selection, for the eyes of society were sharp, and appearances mattered.

After a moment of contemplation, she chose a delicate lavender gown adorned with intricate lace.

The fabric whispered as it cascaded down her frame, a muted elegance that suited the occasion.

With measured grace, she fastened the buttons and adjusted the lace collar, her movements deliberate and purposeful.

The reflection in the looking glass transformed as the gown embraced her form, a subtle confidence replacing the uncertainty that had marked her morning.

Blanche, now adorned in lavender, felt a semblance of readiness for the day ahead.

She smoothed a few stray strands of hair, her fingers lingering on the delicate necklace that adorned her neck.

Her mother would be eager, perhaps even impatient, to discuss how the previous night might have influenced their social standing, particularly if any gentlemen of fine pedigree had taken notice.

There was no avoiding it, however much she might wish otherwise. With a resigned breath, Blanche rose to face the inevitable and made her way to breakfast.

She descended the staircase slowly, aware that there was something strange in the air.

An iciness to the atmosphere that she had not anticipated.

It left her wondering what she might have done to cause this.

Had she misstepped somehow the previous night?

Her mother had not mentioned it on the carriage ride home, but that did not keep her safe.

Her worries only intensified as she took a seat at the breakfast table because Mother might as well have been covered in a storm cloud.

Something was amiss, and she was terrified to find out what.

"Good morning," she offered in a quiet voice, but that was something she would soon come to regret.

Lady Wickford turned sharply, her eyes ablaze with fury. Without preamble, she thrust the latest copy of the scandal sheet across the table. Blanche's eyes met the sensational headlines that now stained her reputation, and her heart sank.

A Scandal Unveiled: Duke's Late-Night Tryst with Lady Blanche Ipswich.

The ink on the pages seemed to scream accusations, weaving a narrative of scandalous rendez-vous and compromising positions. Blanche felt the hot sting of embarrassment rise to her cheeks, her hands trembling as she read the lascivious tales spun by the scandal sheets.

Shadows of Impropriety Cast on Aristocratic Pair.

The clandestine meeting took place in the blue parlour.

Lady Blanche Ipswich, known for her impeccable reputation and social standing, now finds herself teetering on the precipice of scandal.

Lady Wickford’s voice, shrill and cutting, pierced through the air. "Blanche Ipswich, explain yourself! What in the name of decency is this abominable scandal?"

Her mother's eyes bore into Blanche's, demanding answers that seemed impossible to provide.

“I… I cannot account for it,” she managed to say, her voice a whisper beneath the weight of mortification.

“You cannot account for it?” Isabella’s tone rose sharply. “You left a public assembly alone , Blanche! Without so much as another lady to attend you! What possible excuse have you for such shocking impropriety?”

Blanche's thoughts scrambled, sifting through the haze of the night before — the sudden search for smelling salts, the confusion, the ill-timed encounter in the parlour... and now this. She had only meant to help.

“I was looking for what you requested — the salts,” she said, voice trembling. “You were unwell, and I… I acted in haste. I did not think—”

“No,” Isabella snapped, her fan snapping shut like a verdict.

“You did not think. Not to ask Miss Penelope to accompany you? Not to pause long enough to remember even the simplest rules of decorum? And now see what has become of it — your name dragged through the mud before half of London can even finish breakfast!”

Blanche felt her composure begin to crack beneath the force of her mother’s scorn. The accusations bit deep, and though she knew she had acted from concern, the misstep now loomed large.

“I only meant to return quickly,” she murmured. “I did not know anyone would follow… or that the Duke would—” She stopped herself. There was no use explaining what could not be undone.

Isabella turned away with a sharp exhale, her fingers tight around the crumpled paper in her hand.

Blanche stood in the silence that followed, her face burning. She had made a mistake — a small one, in her mind — but in the eyes of society, and more damningly, in her mother’s, it had become a catastrophic fall from grace.

Lady Wickford threw up her hands disparagingly, her eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and disappointment. "You have been recklessly foolish, Blanche! Your previously respectable reputation is now in tatters because of this apparent impropriety."

The words landed like heavy blows, each one chipping away at the fragile facade of Blanche's social standing. "I do not know what it is that we can do from here. This is truly a disaster."

"I did not know the Duke would also come into the room…"

"And yet, once he did enter, you did not have the sense to remove yourself immediately. This story makes it seem like you remained in that room with the Duke for far too long, which is what I cannot wrap my head around. I have never known you to be quite so foolish."

Blanche clasped her lips together in shock.

That was true; she had not run, but she had not wanted to.

Something she now truly regretted.

The scathing beratement continued as the viscountess, with a mix of disdain and theatrical lamentation, berated her daughter.

"What possessed you not to be more cautious?

Allowing yourself to become trapped alone in a room with a gentleman, and a duke, no less!

Have you no sense of the consequences of your actions?

Can you not see how much damage this has caused?

I do not think we will be able to recover from this. "

Blanche, feeling as if her world were crumbling around her, tried to defend herself some more, even if it was useless. She wanted her mother to believe her, even if the rest of the world did not.

"Mother, it was not intentional. I genuinely thought you were unwell.

I had no reason to suspect such a scandal would ensue.

I had no idea another person would arrive in that room, and we merely began speaking of the artefacts.

My necklace… the Duke noticed my pendant, and everything seemed to happen from there.

I did not instigate anything. I would never—"

The viscountess, however, would hear none of it.

Her voice, sharp and unforgiving, cut through Blanche's feeble attempts at explanation.

"No matter how innocently it began on your part, the damage is utterly done.

Word of your indiscretion is spreading like wildfire, tarnishing your name and our family's standing. Do you comprehend the gravity of your thoughtless actions?”

She exhaled sharply, her anger barely restrained.

"And to think this all began over those wretched artefacts.

How many times have I warned you, Blanche?

You must never waste time indulging in such nonsense—never.

And last night, I gave you one simple instruction: to remain silent.

Yet you could not help yourself, and now—now, we find ourselves in ruin. "

The gravity of Mother’s words settled heavily on Blanche's shoulders.

The tendrils of gossip, fueled by sensationalism and half-truths, had woven a tapestry of scandal around her.

The breakfast table, once a symbol of familial unity, now served as the stage for a mother's stern rebuke and the crushing reality that Blanche's reputation, painstakingly built over the years, lay in ruins.

As the weight of societal judgment bore down upon her, Blanche could not help but wonder if the damage inflicted upon her name could ever be mended.

What on earth am I to do now?

Is there any way out of this?

It was unlikely that her mother would ever trust her again.