It is with the most delicate of gloves (and the sharpest of pens) that this author approaches today's revelations.
At the recent masquerade at Windmere House, our ever-enchanting Princess Helena was seen not once, not twice, but thrice in close company with the one and only Lord Jamie Harrington.
Their final rendezvous, readers whisper, occurred deep within the garden maze. Alone. Unchaperoned. And for far longer than polite society would normally allow.
What might they have spoken of? Politics? Poetry? Or matters of the heart? This author does not presume to know. But one must ask:
If he is not on the list, why does he remain in her orbit?
Or perhaps the better question is—who, exactly, penned that list?
Yours in scandal and suspicion,
Lady Whittleby
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers
2 March, 1812
---
The morning sun filtered through pale blue curtains, illuminating the Harrington townhouse in a soft golden haze that did little to temper the tension brewing within its drawing room.
Jamie stood near the fireplace, fingers curled loosely around a half-empty glass of brandy—far too early for such a thing, but necessary all the same.
Across from him, Cecilia Harrington sat with the poise of a queen and the worry of a mother.
"Lady Whittleby did not mince words," she said, her tone clipped. "You were seen alone with her. In a maze. At a masquerade."
Jamie raised a brow. "Would it have been less scandalous if we were surrounded by lords quoting poetry about meat?"
"Don't jest."
"I'm not. But if I don't, I'll lose my mind."
Cecilia sighed and rose. She crossed the room slowly, her heels clicking against polished wood. "Jamie. You need to make a decision."
He met her gaze. "What decision is there to make?"
"Either remove yourself from her life or prepare to become part of it—officially. Because the whispers will only grow louder, and when they do, they will not only hurt her. They will destroy you."
Jamie turned away, swallowing the truth like glass. "She deserves better than a man the council would rather exile than see at her side."
Cecilia's voice softened. "She deserves someone brave enough to stand beside her."
Jamie looked into the flames. "And what if I want to?"
"Then stop hiding in gardens and make your intentions clear."
At the palace, Helena read the paper in silence.
Whittleby's words stung—not for their falseness, but for their implication of truth.
Three dances. One maze. Too much vulnerability.
"It's done," she murmured, folding the sheet. "They'll never let me breathe now."
Nara stood nearby, folding gloves into Helena's travel satchel. "Then perhaps it is time you told them not to hold their breath."
Helena looked up. "You mean fight?"
"I mean host a war they have to politely attend."
The council chamber, as usual, smelled faintly of old paper and older egos.
Helena entered with a calm that cloaked her fury in velvet. Queen Eleanor followed, quiet but formidable.
Lord Greystoke was already mid-sentence.
"…And now the public believes there is a clandestine romance unfolding under our very noses. The Princess—your Highness, forgive me—has made herself into a figure of gossip."
Helena stepped forward. "No, Lord Greystoke. Lady Whittleby has made me into a figure of gossip. I merely danced."
"Alone."
"Because not a single man on your curated list has been worthy of an unchaperoned conversation."
Gasps. Silence.
Eleanor did not intervene.
Lord Caspian cleared his throat. "We do not question your intentions, Your Highness, but we do advise that appearances be managed more carefully moving forward."
Helena smiled. "Then allow me to manage them."
She let the silence stretch until it turned from confusion to curiosity.
"I intend to host a ball. At the palace. Open to the entirety of the ton. Lords, ladies, poets, councilmen—everyone. No curated lists. No hidden agendas."
"A public palace ball?" Caspian choked.
"It will be the grandest event of the season." Helena replied before they take their leave.
"And what, may we ask, is the purpose of this event?" Amir asked after the departure of the council members.
Helena looked at him with a smile on her face. "To remind them who the future Queen is. And who gets to choose."
Three days later, invitations embossed in gold filigree began circulating through the upper echelons of English society.
Her Royal Highness, Princess Helena Amira Matilda Xanthippe, cordially invites you to the Royal Midnight Ball, to be held in the Grand Hall of Lyndale Palace on the 9th of March.
The ton was beside itself.
A royal ball, hosted by the Princess herself. Not sanctioned by the council. Not aligned with the marriage list.
Lady Whittleby's quill nearly burst into flames.
But perhaps the most shocked recipient of all was Jamie Harrington.
His invitation was tucked inside a handwritten note.
You're not on the council's list. But I've decided to make my own. —H
He read it five times. Then began packing a new waistcoat.
As the night approached, the palace became a hive of florists, seamstresses, musicians, and murmurs. Queen Eleanor observed it all with quiet interest, neither aiding nor impeding her daughter's plans.
"She's bold," she told Lord Wexham. "Too bold, perhaps."
"She gets it from you," he replied.
"And if this backfires?"
"She'll survive. She was born to."
Eleanor's gaze turned distant. "So was I. But survival comes with scars."
Wexham said nothing.
The night of the ball arrived like a whisper before a storm.
The Grand Hall shimmered in candlelight and crystal. Chandeliers hung like constellations above a floor polished to a mirror's gleam. Music drifted from the orchestra as nobles in jeweled silks and velvet swept into the space, breathless with anticipation.
Helena descended the grand staircase in a gown of midnight blue and silver, her dark hair coiled like a crown, her chin lifted.
The room quieted.
Then applause broke.
She crossed the ballroom, each step measured, powerful.
And waiting at the edge of the crowd, heart thudding in his chest, stood Jamie.
He looked different tonight. Sharper. More certain. And as their eyes met, Helena's pulse skipped.
She walked straight to him.
"Your Highness," he murmured.
"You came."
"You invited me."
She offered her hand.
He took it.
And as they stepped onto the floor and the first waltz began, every head turned. Every heart held its breath.
Let them watch, Helena thought. Let them whisper.
I'm done hiding.
The violins swelled, their notes wrapping around the couple as if trying to contain them within the music itself.
Jamie's hand settled at the small of Helena's back. Their steps fell into perfect rhythm—not practiced, but instinctive. Like they had danced this waltz a hundred times in a hundred different lives.
"You've caused quite the stir," Jamie murmured, his voice low, laced with both amusement and concern.
Helena lifted her gaze to his. "Good. Let them choke on it."
He huffed a laugh under his breath. "You're dangerous when you're cornered."
"I'm dangerous when I'm underestimated."
As they turned, Helena caught sight of Lord Greystoke's jaw clenched near the wine table. Lord Caspian stood stiff as a mannequin by the balcony, his wine untouched. And yet—
The ton was watching. Not with disdain. With something closer to awe.
Helena leaned in, just enough to let her words melt into the space between them. "I'm not dancing for them, Jamie."
He swallowed. "Then who are you dancing for?"
"You."
Jamie faltered—but only for a beat. He recovered swiftly, spinning her outward before drawing her back in. Her palm rested against his chest now. She could feel his heartbeat, thunderous beneath his skin.
"You shouldn't say things like that," he said roughly.
"And why not?"
"Because if you do… I'll believe them."
Their final turn ended with her standing close enough to feel his breath. But before anything more could pass between them, applause erupted across the ballroom. The moment shattered—public again, surrounded by hundreds.
Jamie bowed. Helena curtsied.
The spell broke.
But it lingered in every corner of the hall.
Across the ballroom…Lord Cavanaugh watched, wine swirling idly in his glass. His smile never wavered, but his fingers curled tighter around the stem.
"She's making a fool of us," he muttered.
Beside him, Lord Everly blinked slowly. "She's making a statement."
"You sound impressed."
"I am impressed."
Cavanaugh's eyes narrowed. "She belongs to the crown. Not to a man who is yet to assume his duty as Viscount"
Everly turned, meeting his gaze with uncharacteristic boldness. "She doesn't belong to anyone. Least of all to ambition."
And then he walked away, leaving Cavanaugh to drink his resentment alone.
---
And within the shadows of the ballroom, Lady Whittleby took notes at record speed.
The Harrington boy dances like a man with nothing to lose—and everything to gain.
Princess Helena burns brighter than the chandeliers.
Tonight's waltz may well become the opening chapter of a revolution.
And this author, dear readers, is here for every trembling page.
---
Helena stood with a goblet of wine in hand, flanked by Nara and her cousin Lord Lionel who had arrive the night before, a young man she barely tolerated but couldn't publicly exile.
"You'll exhaust yourself," Nara whispered. "Let someone else play hostess."
"I'm not tired," Helena replied, scanning the room. "I'm—"
Her eyes landed on Jamie, now speaking to Julian near a marble pillar.
"—clarifying."
Lord Lionel leaned in. "You've certainly given the council something to chatter about."
"They were already chattering."
"Yes, but now it's more of a hiss." He smirked. "You know, Aunt Eleanor won't protect you forever."
Helena turned sharply to him. "And you won't benefit from being underestimated."
Lionel blinked. Then raised his glass in mock salute. "Touché, cousin."
Meanwhile, Queen Eleanor observed from her usual perch above the festivities.
Lord Amir Wexham stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back.
"She's winning them," he said.
"She's dazzling them," Eleanor corrected. "Winning comes later."
"And the council?"
"Wounded. Which makes them dangerous."
"They'll act?"
"They'll plot," she said. "They always plot before they pounce."
"And if they do?"
Eleanor's gaze followed her daughter. "Then they'll learn what happens when you corner a lioness."
Later that evening—toward the end of the third waltz— Jamie found Helena alone near a garden alcove off the ballroom.
The stars were visible through the open arch, casting silver along the marble floor. The faint scent of lilacs drifted in from the palace garden.
"You've conquered the night," he said softly.
She turned toward him, her expression softer than before. "Not yet."
He hesitated, then asked, "Why did you invite me?"
"Because you needed to be here."
"And what do I do now that I am?"
Helena looked at him for a long moment. "Stop pretending you're not part of this."
He stepped closer. "What is this?"
"I don't know," she admitted, voice barely above a breath. "But I'd rather face it with you than without you."
Jamie's hand brushed hers.
Then he took it.
Their fingers intertwined—not publicly, not boldly. Just quietly. Honestly.
And that, perhaps, was more dangerous than anything else.
Back in the ballroom, the murmurs shifted.
Some called it scandal.
Some called it bravery.
And some—the quiet few who understood the rhythm of change—called it the beginning of a reckoning.
The Princess had drawn her own map.
And Jamie Harrington had just stepped onto it.
Later that night, as the final guests departed, Helena stood at the grand doors alone.
She watched the carriages disappear one by one into the foggy streets of London.
A step behind her, Queen Eleanor finally spoke.
"They won't forget tonight."
"I don't want them to."
"You've lit a fire," the Queen said. "Let's hope it burns the right things."
Helena turned toward her. "If it burns the wrong things, I'll rebuild."
The Queen looked at her—truly looked—and nodded.
"My daughter," she said softly, "the storm."
---
The Palace Ball of March 9th will live on in history—not for its gowns, its wines, or its orchestral flair, but for the very fact that our future Queen declared herself not with speeches, but with a single dance.
Not chosen. Choosing.
And the man she danced with?
Well… he may not carry a title. But he carries something rarer: her gaze, her fire, and perhaps… her heart.
To the council, this author offers one word of advice: Adapt.
Because Princess Helena is no longer playing your game.
She's rewriting the rules.
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers
10 March, 1812 (Post-Ball Edition)