Chapter Summary: The identity of the mysterious Lady Whistledown is a spectacle many ponder on, but never act on. All except for Jongho, who—with a team of seven friends—aims to find the writer and profess his admiration.
Chapter Warnings: swearing
Author’s Note: The final installment! There are a lot of people to keep track of here as I wanted to end the series with the entire ensemble, so please forgive me if it is a bit confusing at first read!
Now Playing — Wildest Dreams
The newsboy weaves through the Mayfair streets, a messenger bag slung across his nimble frame and a bundle of papers clutched firmly in his hand.
“Paper! Paper!” He shouts to all the passersby who throw him coins that he gladly exchanges for a print of the newest edition of Lady Whistledown. A carriage rolls close by, its wheels kicking up mud from last night's rain. The paperboy screeches to a halt, his leather boots stopping just short of the carriage before he swerves around it, continuing his routine route to distribute as many prints as possible.
In his hurried missteps, a paper flies loose from his grasp, floating in the air before gracefully falling into a puddle in the divot by the curb. The paper shrinks in on itself, freshly printed black ink bleeding into an incoherent mess. A few moments later, a hand reaches into the puddle, fishing the ruined parchment out. It drips steadily as the hand raises it for inspection.
“She prints weekly, Jongho.” San says, standing beside his friend with his arms crossed in amusement. “And why go fishing for a copy when you could buy one fresh?”
“Look at the ink. It spreads so easily, as if it has only just been printed the night prior. Her distributor must be close, then.” Jongho beams at the soddened paper, eyes continuously scanning over the large printed text—now barely legible—that reads ‘Society Papers.’
“Oh, for Christ's sake, Jongho. Could you just—Yunho!”
San shouts to a man shopping for trinkets at a stand across the road. Yunho looks to the source of the noise, smiling softly before making his way over.
“Good morning to you, too, San. I see Jongho is reading—well, sort of—Whistledown. What is new?” He remarks sarcastically, eyes traveling from the parchment to Jongho's concentrated expression.
“My good friend,” San says to Yunho, gesturing to the rather transfixed Jongho. “Could you please tell our lovely Lord Choi that his efforts are fruitless?”
“They are not fruitless, thank you very much.” Jongho breaks his silence, pocketing the wet parchment before turning to address his friends, the sight of which makes San audibly gag.
“Why did I just watch Jongho pocket a dripping wet print of Whistledown?” Wooyoung appears out of nowhere behind Yunho, causing the older one to startle. Wooyoung only looks at the youngest of the four men in utter confusion, a hand on his hip with the other clutching an antique stopwatch.
“Where did you come from?” Yunho asks, turning to face Wooyoung, who only stares up at him with a nonchalant expression.
“My darling got caught up with an old friend on our promenade, so now I am abandoned until further notice. Besides, whatever is going on here seems riveting. Please, continue.”
San fills Wooyoung in on the conversation, causing the younger one to laugh loudly, prompting passerby’s heads to turn.
“You have lost your mind, my friend.” Wooyoung remarks, wiping his eyes of tears as his laughter dies. Jongho only looks at him silently, waiting for his ridiculousness to subside.
“What is so funny over here?”
Another voice interjects, this one softer and full of palpable curiosity. It rises from behind San, who, of course, jumps at the sound despite its soothing nature.
“Oh, I did not mean to startle you, San.” Yeosang places a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, the other hand holding a blooming bouquet of honeysuckle.
“Is this some sort of intervention? Where do you guys keep appearing from?” Jongho finally questions, his patience wearing thin.
“No, but an intervention does not sound like such a bad idea.” San says, causing Wooyoung and Yunho to nod in agreement. Yeosang simply looks around, eyes wide and searching for an answer.
“Is there a party going on here or something?”
The deep voice startles all five men. Mingi only stares at them expectantly, hands in his trouser pockets in an improper display that has Yunho quirking a brow in disagreement.
San, with a hand over his rapidly beating heart, looks around the circle of men, his face full of emotions, the most prevalent of which is disbelief.
“Seriously. What is going on today?!”
The six men find themselves in Hongjoong’s private study later that afternoon, lounging about on various chaises and armchairs. Jongho sits alone in a plush green velvet seat, hand itching to reach into his damp pocket for the society paper. San watches his friend’s hand tick with worry.
Nearly perfectly synced sets of footsteps sound from down the hall before the doors swing open. Hongjoong appears, walking to his seat behind his desk, not bothering to address a single individual in the room. Seonghwa follows shortly behind, his hands idly fidgeting with his wedding ring.
“Make it quick.” Hongjoong says, plopping down with a sigh. Seonghwa stands by the door, leaning against its frame, his foot tapping on the floorboard patiently. “My wife needs me.”
“Oh, would you stop it with the wife talk?” Yunho groans, his arm crossed as he throws his head over the back of the chaise he shares with Mingi. “It is always ‘wife this’ and ‘wife that’ with you two.” Yunho looks between Seonghwa and Hongjoong, his gaze full of discontent.
“Ooh, someone is jealous.” Wooyoung muses, his teasing playful yet seemingly striking a nerve within his friend.
“Watch it.” Yunho replies, temper barely concealed.
“I was just making a joke, Yuyu. Learn how to take some sarcasm. Clearly, you cannot take a wife, so..."
“Shut your mouth, you little fucke–”
“Gentlemen!” Hongjoong shouts, causing the two men to freeze. All heads turn to the second-eldest. His legs are elevated to rest on the surface of his desk in a lounging manner; his voice suggests a contradictory amount of authority than his posture conveys.
“I trust you are not here to refresh me on whatever troubles exist with Yunho—that is, if you could call an affair a ‘trouble.’ I have heard enough about it.” Wooyoung shrinks into the cushions behind him, mouthing a silent “sorry” to his offended friend. Yunho clears his throat—a quiet acknowledgement of his friend's apologies, though not a total acceptance.
“San?” San turns his head at the sound of Seonghwa’s voice. “You said this has something to do with Jongho, yes?”
San hums in response, telling his two eldest friends of Jongho’s troubles. Jongho only shrugs in response, mind imagining the printing press pushing black ink into perfectly crisp parchment. Delicate hands grasping a quill as they write in the most beautiful penmanship.
“So, let me get this right.” He removed his legs from his desk, instead bringing his elbows to rest on the table as he leaned forward to address Jongho.
“You have become infatuated with finding the identity of Whistledown.” Jongho nods. “Why?”
“She ruined my life by writing about me.” Yunho says.
“Mine, too.” Mingi adds, tossing and catching a random trinket he took from an end table.
“You ruined your own lives,” Jongho says simply. “She just writes about it. And look at you now,” Jongho says, turning to address his two friends. “You ended up alright despite her column, did you not? Mingi gained a fiancée from it. Yunho gained…” Jongho looks at Yunho and decides he has taken enough of a verbal barrage for the day. “Never mind. The point is she only writes what we are all too afraid to say aloud.”
“How can you love someone you have never met?” Yeosang asks, hands still around the bundle of flowers he had been carrying before being pulled into this impromptu meeting.
“You do not know her, or even if she is a her!” Wooyoung says, head falling against San's shoulder as they sit together across the room.
“She is a lady, I assure you. Her writing is thoughtful—intuitive. No man could ever do something with such care and beauty.” Jongho replies.
Everyone takes a moment to consider before humming in agreement.
“And I do know her. I know her better than I know anybody else, even you seven.”
“How so?” Hongjoong gains interest. He perks up, all his attention falling to Jongho.
“Her writing, of course. Her thoughts, her personality. They are within each touch of ink in everything she marks as her own. She is funny, witty, and incredibly observant. Not to mention, she is a working woman. What is not to love?”
The room is silent, partly with judgment and the other half with consideration.
“I wish to catch her.” Jongho breaks the silence. All seven pairs of eyes snap to him.
“To…catch her?” San asks. Jongho nods in response, sitting up in his seat. He pulls the ruined print from his pockets. It is dryer now, though there is a noticeable wet patch on his pants that makes Wooyoung stifle a chuckle.
“This is the key.” He waves the parchment around as if it were a handful of shillings, smiling to himself. “Her printer is within a five-mile radius of Mayfair, I am sure. Otherwise, she would be unable to report on gossip the night before and have it ready for the morning column. There is no other explanation.”
A beat of silence passes before Wooyoung speaks up.
“Oh, so you’ve lost your mind?”
“Totally crazy.” Mingi adds, still tossing the trinket into the air. Seonghwa scowls at his friend's actions, loud enough that Mingi’s rhythm falters.
Hongjoong’s voice stops all conversation and motion. Naturally, everyone looks at him. Jongho hums in response, bracing himself for a scolding.
“Are you one thousand percent sure you love whoever is behind Whistledown?”
Hongjoong does not smile, but he does not frown either. Instead, he hits his desk with his palms, his mind decided.
“Well then, what are we waiting for?”
“Pardon?” Jongho looks at his friend blankly. In fact, everyone is rather confused—all except Seonghwa. Seonghwa smiles smugly, still leaning against the door frame, but now with a new air of amusement.
“We should be looking for this young lady, not sitting here and speculating about her.” Hongjoong finishes.
Jongho is beyond perplexed, but he does not fight it. Instead, he allows his friends to gather around and create a viable scheme to track down the infamous Lady Whistledown.
A turn of events indeed; however, Jongho finds it most welcoming.
“This feels like a bad idea.”
Yunho’s worry is palpable beside Jongho as they stand together in the crowded ballroom of Mingi’s estate. The whole affair is meant to celebrate his upcoming marriage to his love, as evidenced by the elaborate decor of red roses ordered specifically to match the pink walls and golden accents. Everybody who was somebody was sure to be in attendance for the unthinkable event: Mayfair’s very own rake set to marry a resplendent young lady, one whom he had not ravished. Even Mingi was impressed with himself, for he found it hard to leave his love alone even for a second after proposing.
It took much convincing of both Mingi and his fiancée to allow their ball to function as the setting for a rather idiotic attempt at identifying Whistledown. His wife-to-be only requested that whatever stunt the eight of them were to pull, it had to be done towards the beginning of the night so that the rest of the festivities could resume right after.
Such requests are precisely why Yunho stands on one end of the room with Jongho and Yeosang, while Wooyoung and San stand on the other. Yunho has always been somewhat of an actor, having taken a class or two in the past when he dreamed of being a player as a youth. And Wooyoung, well, he was always down for mischief no matter the hour. Thus, the group decided it was best to have them lead the stunt.
“Are you ready?” Jongho whispers to Yunho.
“Do you really care?” Yunho deadpans back, giving his friend a stern look with his arms crossed in discontent.
“Oh, Yunho.” Jongho claps his hand on his friend's back, the weight of his palm causing Yunho to jolt forward with a barely audible yelp. “Of course not.”
Yunho grumbles before walking forward towards the center of the ballroom, Wooyoung mirroring his actions on the other side of the space, a glass of champagne full to the brim balanced delicately in his grasp. As the pair meets, Yunho holds a well-executed scowl, Wooyoung sporting an aggravated face of his own. The two purposefully collide shoulders with one another, Wooyoung’s glass slipping from his hand and accidentally—despite the many minutes of practice prior—soiling Yunho’s crisp tailcoat.
Gasp sound from around the two, for Hongjoong and Seonghwa had previously been spreading information that the two friends had a rather nasty tiff over a serious business matter concealed from the public. Women turned to one another, hushed whispers spilling from their pink lips. Men shook their heads in disapproval, grumbling comments under their breath as they sipped their own libations.
Yunho and Wooyoung enter a hushed, well-rehearsed bicker, eyes still on them despite the onlookers' attempts to remain discreet. Jongho cares for none of it, no matter how impressive the acting might be. Instead, his eyes scan the ballroom for young ladies—any singular young lady who seems to be digesting such a sight not with giggles or haughtiness, but with keen eyes and an open ear.
You stand in the corner of the ballroom beside a pillar, hearing fixed on the foolish display. While certainly an entertaining sight, it is most definitely not real, for you heard Lord Jung complaining to Lord Kim five minutes prior that he felt poorly ruining his friend’s tailcoat. You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head before exiting the ballroom, looking for a bout of fresh hair as you wait for something both authentic and interesting to report on.
As you exit, your eyes are drawn to Lord Choi on the left-hand side of the room, his eyes frantically searching the sea of guests rather than looking at the growing argument between his friends. His arms are crossed as usual, but his typical nonchalance is absent. Instead, you sense desperation—loud and palpable even from across the ballroom.
A most peculiar sight indeed—far more interesting than anything thus far. You silently tuck the information away and into your brain, walking from the scene with a sly smile.
“She has written about me.”
“She has written about me—Whistledown.”
Jognho is unable to take his eyes off the unfolded paper held inches away from his face, eyes scanning over the same two sentences again and again.
Hongjoong snatches the paper, earning a grumble from Jongho. He clears his throat, reading it aloud.
“Lord Choi seems all too bothered last night, focused on anything but the madness of Lord Song’s marital celebration. Does this honourable Lord have a delicious secret, or is he simply becoming even more of a stoic, inactive presence?”
Hongjoong lowers that gossip column, revealing the childlike, whimsical way Jongho stares back at him, as if Whistledown had molded the world herself with a simple string of words.
“Jongho, I think maybe this is a lost cause.” Mingi pipes up from the corner of the room, the eight friends having gathered this time in Seonghwa’s drawing room. “I mean, I gave up my engagement ball for you, and Whistledown has scarcely revealed herself! My fiancée and I bickered all night because of it!”
Wooyoung giggles, swirling his glass of gin in his hands.
“I bet you did more than just bicker, yeah?”
“Do you take pride in being such an arse—”
“Both of you, stop it!” Jongho raises his voice, causing everyone to still. Yeosang shuts the novel he was reading. Yunho and San’s conversation ceases. Jongho sighs, wiping his hands over his face before addressing the room.
“This means a lot to me, and I appreciate your combined help in tracking her down. But we will never be successful if we cannot simply get along. We are friends! Why do we insist on turning on one another when we actually have something of great importance to figure out?”
From that day on, operations turn serious. Every ball, every soirée, eight pairs of eyes stay prying for anyone of suspicion. Seonghwa falsely pins Lady Cowpress as the culprit, that is, until he spoke to her and learned how utterly dull she was. There was even a point where Yeosang's own silence begged interrogation, Wooyoung claiming that perhaps his natural introversion was simply a guise fabricated to remain covert.
Two weeks pass without any viable prospects, leaving Jongho rather vexed. You continue your life, writing, attending events, gathering each sweet bit of gossip to turn to ink. And each time, Jongho falls a little bit more in love, for your evasion of him fuels his desire.
He is a smart man—you must know this by now, Jongho concludes. You must also know that he is keen to find you out, for he and his friends are anything but subtle in their little investigation, despite valiant effort.
You must admit, it boosts your pride to know that somebody appreciates you for who you truly are—somebody who likes not only your gossip, but your mind.
You like Lord Choi’s mind, too.
And one night, when you are sitting by the candlelight, quill and inkwell perched sneakily on your desk, you cannot help but think of how suitable Lord Choi is. He wants not to marry, but is arguably one of the most eligible bachelors on the market.
He is handsome. Very handsome. He is smart, witty, blunt in your favorite sense, and well-mannered. He comes from a respectable family with money and the right morals. Truly, there is nothing not to like.
So why is it that he remains set on staying unwed when he is so perfect? It is the one piece of information that still evades you.
Your hand writes on the parchment without you even realizing, words woven of ink and truth sprawling to fill an entire page alone. You sigh, the ink stained your fingertips and forearms.
The carriage was to be down the street in ten minutes. You had no time to spare. So, you pocket your parchment, throw your cloak over your shoulders, and make your way out of your home. You remember at the last moment to grab a pair of simple gloves, slipping them over your stained fingers.
The voyage to the printer’s is always the same: down the road, out of Mayfair, and past the market to the small shop past the border of the wealthy parts of London. The night is black, save for a few faulty streetlamps that light overhead and cast a warm glow over the red bricks of the close-standing buildings. Your heels click against the uneven cobblestone; your hood is up, and your face is cast downwards. The parchment shuffles in your pocket, rustling against the flowing fabric of your riding cloak.
You turn the corner, lifting your head and expecting to see the small shop you have become so familiar with just a few more paces away, coins already in hand and your fake accent at the ready.
“So we meet at last, Lady Whistledown.”
Lord Choi stands there, hands clasped respectfully behind his back, in a fine outfit—like he meant to look his best tonight. The burning of the street lamps lights his face in the most beautiful shade of orange, making his honey skin pop and his features—which you knew were handsome before—seem even more appealing.
You stand there in shock, accent dying in your throat. Your eyes are wide, body unmoving. Lord Choi only smiles, stepping forward just enough to make his presence feel more intimate without crowding you.
“I have been searching for you for a while now. I hope you do not mind.”
You are still unable to find words. Of course, you knew Lord Choi was invested in uncovering your identity. You must have underestimated how invested he was, for a gentleman showing up in a place like this was something even you could not glean. Suddenly, his demeanor becomes serious, his face hardening and his voice dropping low.
“You. You have been the one, exposing my friend’s lives and causing them such panic?”
You pause. He only looks at you with nonchalance, as if his words state the obvious.
You feel as though you should laugh. Cry, maybe—run away, even. But instead, you stay. Not because you cannot move, but because you do not want to. Lord Choi does not berate you—does not call you heinous nor cruel for your work. You were right about him.
He loved what you do so much to the point where he trudged all the way out of Mayfair just to meet you face to face.
He smiles, and oh, does it make you feel light-headed. Of all the times spent in his proximity, you have never seen him smile with such intention. There is a palpable happiness written all over his face, unlike anything you have ever witnessed.
It is a beautiful sight. So beautiful that it reminds you of the parchment tucked away in your pocket containing all the words about him.
He thinks you are wonderful, just as you think he is wonderful, too.
“I really admire you.” Lord Choi breaks the long stretch of silence, taking another step closer. You mirror his actions. He continues.
“Like, really admire you. And if you will allow it, I also love you. I love your words, your penmanship, and your mind. I love how you are unafraid to say what you think or tell people the truths they refuse to hear. I love how you are consistent. I love how you write every week with gossip ready at the same time each morning. I love how you are enigmatic. I love how you made me work to find you. I just love, well, you.”
You laugh, not at him, but in disbelief. You knew this day would come: the day your identity was revealed. You dreaded it—ran from it with every fiber of your being. And yet, here you are, and you could not be more overjoyed.
You take another step closer to Lord Choi, a playful grin on your lips.
“I must admit, you have quite a way with words, Lord Choi.”
“Jongho.” He replies swiftly, and with a smile of his own. You nod your head.
“Sounds nice coming from you.”
“Are you trying to flirt with me, Jongho?”
You take a moment to think, though the white smile playing on your face counteracts your contemplation.
“I think I can let it slide. What I refuse to allow, however, is that my plan for printing Whistledown is now your knowledge as well! I really thought I was quite deceptive.”
“Consider tonight's affair a missprint.” He steps forward, holding his hand out. You take it, gloved hands finding his warm palms. He frowns before his fingers move over the leather, sliding the glove off in a swift motion, the cool night air hitting your bare skin.
He lifts your hand to his lips, bowing down to kiss it, eyes never leaving yours. He runs the pad of his fingers over the ink stains on your own digits, chuckling to himself.
“Now, shall we go inside? We cannot leave the Ton waiting for tomorrow's edition.”
Your cheeks turn a delightful shade of rouge. You are thankful the night is dark.
As the season sees its final week, it is time for this author to sign off and retreat to the countryside alongside the rest of Mayfair. We have seen quite a season, indeed. Marriages, affairs, love, lust, friendships rekindled and ruined—truly, it has been busy.
This author has also been busy, for I have something to admit to you all.
Yes, you read that right, dear reader. This author has found…love. I have watched many people marry and fail. I watch gentlemen and ladies succumb to the pressure of marriage, only the rare few triumphing and finding something true in arranged matches. I have always disdained it, and yet, I sit here telling you all that I, too, have formed an attachment.
Do not expect my writing to change simply because I have found someone to adore. In fact, expect it to be much more fruitful, for my love agrees that my words are well informed, now from a new lens.
Ink spreads on a parchment with just one drop. It takes just one drop to change something forever. A misprint. A blotch over the letter "I" that turns it inferior. I presume that love, too, can spread.
Even when we are too blind to see it, one misprint can truly change everything for the better.
Author's Note: Thank you for your continued support on this series. I truly enjoyed exploring this world and these characters; it is sad to say goodbye!
taglist <3: @writinganecho, @diearama, @tinycloudz
