It is with no shortage of curiosity—and a great deal of warm spiced wine—that this author reports the arrival of not one, but two most intriguing gentlemen into the heart of society. The council's appetite for matrimonial matches has not waned, dear readers, and as of yesterday's gathering at Lord Pembroke's estate, two new names have emerged from the fog of political scheming:
Lord Alistair Cavanaugh—the eldest son of the Marquess of Bexley. Handsome, golden-haired, and gifted with a smile that could charm pearls from oysters. Rumors whisper he has recently returned from the continent with stories of diplomacy and danger in equal measure. But this author wonders, is he as gallant as he appears… or is the gleam in his eye more calculation than candor?
And then we have Lord Thaddeus Everly. A quiet soul from one of England's oldest noble houses. Fond of books, soft-spoken, and known to apologize to chairs after bumping into them. He seems, at first glance, unlikely to stir storms—but perhaps gentleness may prove a mighty force in time.
As for our Princess Helena? It is said she received their presence with all the grace expected of a royal—and the biting wit we've grown to adore.
But, this author has observed a curious twist: Lord Jamie Harrington was also present at the gathering. Though not formally a suitor, his eyes followed the Princess like a shadow, and shadows, dear reader, often reveal truths before the sun dares to shine on them.
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers
27 February, 1812
---
The drawing room at Pembroke House shimmered with early afternoon light as Helena entered. Draped in a sapphire gown that brought out the cool strength of her gaze, she wore her composure like a second crown.
The room fell to hush. Every lady stilled; every gentleman adjusted their stance.
Two men stepped forward.
Lord Cavanaugh was first, offering a bow so precise it bordered on theatrical. "Your Highness, it is an honor. May I say, London seems brighter for your presence."
"I shall inform the weather," Helena replied coolly, though a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed amusement.
Then came Lord Everly. His bow was slower, less practiced.
"Your Highness. It is… truly… I mean… a pleasure. Your reputation precedes you. In the best ways. That is—um—"
Helena extended a hand, rescuing him. "Lord Everly. Thank you for your kind words."
The two men stood before her like opposing seasons—Cavanaugh, sun-kissed and dazzling, Everly, quiet and sincere.
And Helena? She felt nothing.
Not the spark she had felt at the masquerade. Not the slow burn Jamie's words had left in her chest.
But she smiled. Because she had to.
---
The council, unsurprisingly, was jubilant.
Lord Caspian cornered Queen Eleanor later that evening. "Cavanaugh's father was the King's closest ally in matters of foreign policy. His son has charm and lineage. And Lord Everly is unobjectionable."
"A high compliment from you," Eleanor replied. "Shall I prepare the wedding invitations now or let my daughter breathe first?"
"Your Majesty, we must act before the public begins to question—"
"They're already questioning," Eleanor said sharply. "But Helena is not a mare in a spring market. She will choose in her time."
---
Over the next few days, Helena endured what Nara quietly dubbed "The Parade."
At the botanical gardens, Lord Everly spoke of poetry and plants. He described an obscure orchid from India that bloomed only once every seven years.
"Like suitable husbands," Helena muttered under her breath.
He blushed. "Beg pardon?"
"I said your knowledge blooms quite impressively."
At the Royal Observatory, Cavanaugh proved every inch the charmer.
"You must get weary of being watched so closely," he said, voice velvet as the dusk.
"Not at all," Helena replied. "It's watching others misstep that keeps me entertained."
He laughed, easy and smooth. "And what of love, Your Highness? Are you entertained by that as well?"
Helena's smile did not reach her eyes. "Only when it's authentic."
---
Jamie Harrington had not intended to involve himself. Truly.
But every time he saw Helena walking beside Lord Cavanaugh, something twisted in his gut.
At one garden party, he caught sight of her seated beneath a willow, listening to Lord Everly recite Shakespeare. Jamie stood back, half behind a hedge, furious with himself.
"He's not even quoting it right," he muttered.
"Who?"
Julian, his younger brother, appeared beside him, sipping wine.
"The quiet one. Everly."
Julian smirked. "I thought you didn't care."
"I don't."
"You're gripping the hedge like it insulted your horse."
"I'm just… concerned. For the kingdom."
Julian snorted. "Of course."
---
Helena sat with Nara one evening, frowning into her tea.
"I can't tell if Cavanaugh wants to marry me or study me."
"Perhaps both."
"He's too perfect. Too rehearsed."
"And Everly?"
"Too… not Jamie."
Nara blinked. "That's not an adjective, Your Highness."
"It should be."
---
Meanwhile, behind closed doors, Cavanaugh met with Lord Caspian.
"She's sharper than I expected," he admitted. "And she watches everything. I can't tell if she's amused or plotting my downfall."
Caspian smiled. "Both, perhaps. But charm her. Woo her. Win her trust."
"And then?"
"Then we guide the crown where it belongs."
Cavanaugh nodded.
Everly, however, confided in no one. Alone in his study, he wrote poems he'd never dare read aloud. One ended simply:
> "She is not a rose. She is the hand that crushes thorns and still bleeds with grace."
The next morning, Jamie received an invitation.
A masquerade garden party. Hosted by Lord Windmere. Helena would be there. So would the suitors.
Juliette grinned when he read it aloud. "You're going, right?"
"Of course. I need to see for myself what kind of man writes poetry about bacon and still ends up on the Marriage List."
---
The garden at Windmere House was a blooming ocean of roses and lavender. Lanterns floated in the air, tethered by enchanted threads of silver light. Laughter mingled with music as nobles in pastel masks waltzed beneath the cherry blossoms.
Helena arrived wearing a gown the color of moonlight, a mask shaped like phoenix wings. Her eyes scanned the crowd—not for titles, not for council plants.
For him.
Jamie arrived late, mask in place, posture tense. The moment he spotted her, something in his chest eased—and tightened all at once.
He crossed the lawn toward her, only to be intercepted by Cavanaugh.
"Lord Harrington. I've heard… mixed things."
Jamie smiled thinly. "I'm sure you have. Council meetings are hardly private."
"You're not on the list, are you?"
"And yet, here I am."
"Funny how that works."
Jamie's tone turned sharp. "Let me make something clear. If you ever use your proximity to her for political games, I'll ensure the council loses more than just their patience."
Cavanaugh's smile faltered. "Touché."
Jamie stepped past him—and Helena was there.
"Took you long enough," she said, smiling behind her mask.
"I had to find the right threat to make before I arrived."
They danced.
And behind them, Lady Whittleby's quill burned.
As twilight descended over Windmere House, the masquerade took on a dreamlike quality. Helena moved through the crowd like a moon orbiting a cluster of stars—polite, radiant, but remote. Lord Everly lingered near the refreshment table, clutching a cup of cordial with both hands as though it might steady his nerves. Lord Cavanaugh, by contrast, prowled through the garden with confident strides, his smile resting easily on his lips, his eyes watching Helena far too closely.
Jamie found himself retreating to the edge of the festivities. He leaned against a sculpted pillar entwined with wisteria, nursing a glass of wine and a growing headache. Watching Helena dance with suitors who couldn't hold a candle to her felt like bleeding slowly beneath polished armor.
"You're brooding again," Juliette murmured beside him. She had slipped away from a waltz with a shy Marquess and joined him unannounced.
"I'm observing."
"You're sulking."
"Fine," he muttered. "I'm sulking while observing."
Juliette smiled. "Then observe this: everyone here knows she's only pretending. Except maybe Lord Everly, who's too sweet to believe anyone could be disingenuous. And Lord Cavanaugh, who's pretending better than anyone."
Jamie sighed. "That man has the council in his pocket."
"Or vice versa," Juliette said. Then she nudged her brother. "But she's looking at you. Right now."
Jamie looked up.
Helena stood at the edge of the lantern-lit maze, her mask slightly tilted, her gaze locked on his through the crowd. Her expression was unreadable—was it longing, amusement, or merely curiosity?
Jamie excused himself and crossed to her, every step slow and measured.
"May I steal you from this glittering circus?" he asked.
"You may," Helena said simply.
---
They slipped away into the hedge maze, the rustle of leaves and the soft hum of distant violins masking their footsteps.
"You seemed... off," Helena said.
"Just drowning in my admiration for Lord Cavanaugh's jawline," Jamie muttered.
Helena laughed. "Be honest. What do you think of him?"
Jamie paused, looking at her. "I think he's too polished. Too rehearsed. Men like him don't love—they calculate."
"And Everly?"
"Kind. Smart. But not brave enough for someone like you."
Helena leaned against a marble fountain in the center of the maze. "So who is brave enough?"
Jamie didn't answer right away.
Instead, he stepped closer. "Someone who sees you as more than a title or an alliance. Someone who hears your silences and isn't afraid of your storms."
Her breath caught.
"You speak as if that someone exists," she whispered.
Jamie's eyes softened. "He does. But he's not on any list."
---
Meanwhile, Lord Everly wandered near the trellised courtyard, his bookish awkwardness doing little to shield him from the curious whispers of young ladies and the calculating stares of dowagers.
Cavanaugh approached, wine glass in hand. "I must say, Everly, you surprise me. I expected you to flee the moment the Princess asked a difficult question."
Everly blinked. "She's more insightful than most of the council."
"A dangerous trait in a woman."
"Only to men who fear being outmatched."
Cavanaugh smirked. "Is that how you see it?"
"That's how it is."
"Careful," Cavanaugh said, lowering his voice. "The council plays chess, not checkers. Pieces like you and me? We're expendable if we stop moving as they wish."
Everly met his gaze. "Then maybe it's time someone knocked over the board."
---
Back in the maze, Jamie and Helena sat on the edge of the fountain, their laughter quieting to a comfortable silence. Above them, stars twinkled in a velvet sky. The palace lights glimmered in the distance, a world away from the intimacy of this hidden corner.
"Do you ever wish you weren't royal?" Jamie asked.
Helena thought for a moment. "Sometimes. But then I remember—I'm not ashamed of what I am. I just resent the cage others try to build around it."
Jamie nodded. "I know something of cages."
She glanced sideways. "Because of your family?"
"Because of the expectations. The shadows I'm meant to stand in, the ones I'm never meant to outshine."
"But you do," Helena said softly. "You burn brighter than most of them dare to."
Jamie looked at her, and for a fleeting second, the weight of crowns and councils vanished.
Then voices echoed from the maze entrance.
"Princess Helena?" It was Lord Cavanaugh. "Are you well?"
Helena stood. Her expression cooled. "Duty calls."
She turned to Jamie.
"Walk with me?"
He offered his arm.
Together, they emerged from the maze—two silhouettes poised between rebellion and responsibility.
---
It appears the Princess continues to confuse the council's carefully laid plans by, dare we say it, thinking for herself. Lord Everly charmed the scholars. Lord Cavanaugh dazzled the ballrooms. But both now find themselves at the mercy of one invisible rival—the man not on the list, and the only one she seems to see.
Stay vigilant, dear readers. The real game has only just begun.
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers
Supplementary Note, March 1st, 1812