R Λ L S T O N

“Careful now,” Bella had whispered in mock warning, lifting her head and turning towards the man’s face hovering by the side of hers. Dangerously close. “I may be a saboteur of punch, but do not forget that you have agreed to be said saboteur’s accomplice. Sharing such news to the public assures mutual destruction.” Her slender fingers tapped together, the perfect depiction of an antagonist they were surely to see in tonight’s show. “And we musn’t have that.”

In their own little corner of the box, apparently the entertainment prior to the opera for their family, Bella chose to simply ignore the unwanted attention. It was easy enough with Byron’s tall frame acting as a barrier. Soft laughter, her melody of agreement, harmonized from Bella’s lips with Byron’s description of his younger brother. Ambrose was undoubtedly the kindest gentleman she knew, though his wicked and daring streak left much to be questioned by the community. Bella likely did not help with that as she coerced him into joining her antics. This context added to the humour of the comment, and she could not help but tease. “If Ambrose is the better of the St. Clair brothers, then you and Charles risk bordering on scoundrel.” 

“Of course, your wise counsel is greatly appreciated.” She returned a sidelong glance to the man, puckish and coquettish all in one. “Rest assured, you will be the first to hear of news when I may experience when a man falls in love. The Season will soon be upon us next year. Perhaps I will be a lucky one.” The next Season would be her debut, and she had only recently lowered her hems, her ruby skirt for tonight’s Opera one of the first occasions that the thin fabric trailed the ground. For one part, she despised the thought of being presented for show to all like a piece up for auction, but another looked forward to the possibility that she may fall in love. And perhaps even meet someone who would enjoy an adventure as much as she. Someone similar to Byron – her mind suddenly chimed – he who had only freshly returned from a long voyage of adventure. 

As the orchestra’s dramatic first notes filled the grand space and all eyes turned towards the stage,  Bella stole a glance at the man beside her who was close enough that their legs could graze at any careless movement. For a moment, the girl looked faintly bewildered as she studied Byron’s chiseled profile before turning her lingering gaze to the figures revealed by the stage curtains. 

Despite having talked of escaping intermittently, the haunting melancholic scores soon swept Bella away deep into the forbidden romance that burned as intensely as the fire that stood upstage under a pavilion. Bella found herself, without even realizing immediately, fixated on Julia, the Vestal Virgin. Though limited by responsibility and obligation to her role, the dark haired woman was outspoken and audacious. Bella’s heart wept as Julia’s lover returned from a long campaign only to find Julia having dedicated her soul to the Goddess while her heart remained with him. The heart wrenching longing between soldier and priestess slashed heavily to Bella’s chest. Before she knew it, they reached the cusp of Act Two. And to her chagrin, Bella found herself tearing up as Julia stood defiantly among a crowd who glared at her with malice and blame, the high priest interrogating her harshly for the name of her lover. 

As the thespians sang of Julia’s crime and her condemnation, Bella could hold back her emotions no longer. Rather than face the inevitable chaffing from her siblings, she slipped out the side of the box just as her tears escaped down her cheeks. Throwing herself onto the top step of the staircase, she bundled her skirts towards her before finally realizing that she had been followed. “I will convince Edmund to reveal your most embarrassing ventures if you share even a word of this to our siblings.” She warned, looking up at Byron, eyes bright with tears, as he neared her. Bella could not help alternating between pouting and sheepishly laughing, even as another tear fell. “Hence why Tragedie Lyrique are my favourite, but I seem to have been bested by Spontini. I do not know if my heart can bear another Act.”

~

Having seen the opera at least once before, Byron could roughly guess which scenes would come up next. But even with this foresight, he was no less moved than he had been the first time he’d seen it. His appreciation for art and all ( or most ) of its manifestations run deep, reaching a part of himself he has yet to fully uncover or truly delve into. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about the moment when Licinius reveals his true intentions to Julia — that even in defiance of the will of the high priestess and the goddess Vesta herself he intends to kidnap and reclaim her as not just his bride and lover but as piece of himself; the half of himself that he had acutely longed for amidst the carnage of war and the glory of victory. The poignancy of uncertainty gripped at his chest and Bryon cannot help but to reflect on how it stirs something within him.

No matter how far or wide Licinius roamed, the young doe-eyed vestal remained the only north star he would confess. And Byron, for all the worldliness his years on earth afforded him, had never traversed the line between tragedy and romance the way this Roman general had. He was almost envious of this fictional character.

As the throes of anguish and passion swept over the stage, lights guttered and strings crested in a crescendo as voices rose like a figurative axe overhead. And before the execution bell could signal the end of Act Two, Byron felt the weight of a flurry of skirts lick his ankle. Bella had gotten out of her seat. 

Confused and alarmed, he looked over to the others and not ten seconds passed before he got out of his own seat to trail after the girl. No one had noticed not objected her leave, so similarly why would his absence be given any thought? Except that Byron failed to perceive the pair of eyes in the far corner of the box trained upon his back. 

Stepping out past the curtained doorway, Byron spotted a clearly weepy Bella sitting atop the stair in a cloud of skirts. The moment she noticed him, he choked back a laugh as he said approaching her, “I realize why you must feel the need to conjure up these threats but I assure you that I’d rather keep this between us,” before easing into a stop on her right side. Not just a second ago had he heard her openly sniffling but seeing her with tear streaks down her face expressed a vulnerability and honestly he was not accustomed to from her. Perhaps he should have called one of her sisters, threat be damned. “Little doubt that Spontini is a master at wringing hearts but I guarantee that the end will justify the means.” 

“Now that is simply cruel.” She declared, tone indicating that she felt anything but. At this point in life, Bella was acclimated to quips of her height, especially when most of the St. Clairs towered over her in addition to her brothers and her parents. Even in her heels, the height difference between Byron and her was sizeable. “T’is true that I have not grown in height, but in spirit and in mischief, that is quite another story. I have been told recently, to my utter astonishment, that I prove to be quite an engaging conversationalist.” Yet, her own appellations were thrown with a certain flippancy, a carefully tailored derision that did not sound like so. They told the tale of one who, despite speaking as if praising oneself, clearly cared not for silly qualifications granted to her by others.

As the two veered into the st. clair and aldwyn box, an army of the heads of their mingling families turned to their arrival, likely as surprised as bella herself that she found herself at Byron’s side this evening – without the company of her brothers. The pair was not out-of-place per se, but the aldwyns and st clairs clearly had their divisions among the children. Mainly by age group. On the far side, Edmund, who had been leaning into his conversation with Charles, stopped mid-sentence as he looked between his friend and his sister. The man gave a curt shake of his head at Bella’s delayed appearance, having noted her absence. Unfortunately, her brother still looked too bemused for his non-verbal disapproval to take much effect on Bella. Taking the mystified attention with grace, she merely greeted their families with a light-hearted wave. “Fear not, St. Clairs. After arduous effort, I have found your missing head and am delivering him appropriately.”  

It took only a moment for Bella to decide on the ideal seats. Ones that were closest to the entranceway of the box but tightly pushed against a decorative curtain. Bella was not blind to the glances being cast between her siblings, especially when a seat by ambrose and kitty was evidently open and likely intended for her. After settling into her chosen spots, Bella leaned in closely to Byron’s ear, her dark curls falling against his shoulder. “I do believe we have thoroughly confused our families.” Her levity was more and more apparent, a flower blooming as she soaked in the consequent chaos like sunlight. “A stroll may be inevitable, especially if you are to indulge me with your tales. I daresay if we do not, we may become more of a spectacle than La Vestale.”

Throughout the hall, candle-stoppers began to snuff the various chandeliers out. Candle by candle, the ambience began to dim and chatter slowly relented in anticipation. Bella continued, her voice low despite her proximity to the man. “I’ve yet to find anyone who appreciates a romance and a tragedy quite like your younger brother. But there must be something special if this production has earned your approval.”

She turned her head to take in his visage. “But pray tell, why is it that gentlemen are more often than not disinterested in a romance. It cannot be true that gentlemen do not fall in love.” A thoughtful expression appeared as she genuinely pondered this puzzle. “And it cannot be true that such stories are boring. I imagine falling in love must be very exciting.”

~

A knowing smirk is thrown Bella’s way. “To that I can attest. And by happenstance, if a suitor were to inquire...” Bryon’s voice dipped conspiratorially low next to the shell of her delicately adorned ear. “I shall say that Miss Aldwyn, proprietor of misplace flasks and saboteur of punch, is a sparkling conversationalist that can turn any dull story into a riot.” He was confident that he was speaking the truth even if he hasn’t necessarily witnessed this new, evolved Bella take on the intricacies of the ton. Mischief aside, Byron quite thinks she’d do stunningly well when she debuts next year. 

Upon entering their box, he nodded his hellos to the family before meeting his brother’s eye and then Edmund’s. The three of them were usually sat together at these events, mostly because they enjoyed the others’ company but also due to a silly pact they had made as young men, the long withstanding agreement between them being the one who yawned first would be the one to buy their round of drinks at the club later that night. Happy enough to extricate himself from their consensus for once, it was with a shrug and the perpetual smirk painted upon his lips that Byron made no move to pull away from Bella’s side to join the elder siblings. A look passed between Charles and Edmund and while it looked as if Edmund was about to say something ( surely something about Byron daft ), the new Earl of Ralston merely chuckled before he put an arm around his friend and turned them both around. To his surprise, they relented. Easily.

Adjusting himself into his seat, Byron could not shake off the feeling that he might have upset some sort of balance in the St Clair-Aldwyn box, what with mixed hues of blues and browns looking their way. He even caught the narrowed eyes of his mother pointed at him for the same amount of seconds he’d normally receive when she thought he was up to his antics. Amused, Byron sent her a reassuring smile before answering Bella. “I am confident they will overcome their confusion. Our brothers and I have wreaked more havoc than this as you well know.” His thoughts reached back to the time when they had broken several windows on the estate when one of their lawn games had taken a brutal turn. “I do not know if they would survive us taking an impromptu stroll but we’ll never know if we don’t try.” Bryon hadn’t always had a devil-may-care streak but the vigour of youth and the certainty of a St Clair family shaped safety net had nurtured it into this light-hearted thing that craved excitement of any measure. “Who’s to say we might not have taken a wrong turn during the intermission?”

As the lights began to dim, his senses began to zero in on the diminishing gap between himself and Bella. Hearing her casually speak about his family truly drives home how much he’s missed in the past year. “Ambrose has a heart of gold.” And gold, if one didn’t know, is soft. “Romance and tragedy, I have no doubt, speak to the best of us, it’s what drives us as humans. And I dare say that he might be the better of the St Clair brothers.” That said, there is nothing devious about the twins, per se, but the youngest son had been born precious. 

He continued his whispering even as the overture started. “La Vestale, as you will see unfold, is rife with excitement, catastrophe and love’s eventual triumph. And...that’s all I will say.” His last syllables were laced with a soft laughter, suspecting that the short explanation should be just enough to keep Bella curious but not satiate her thirst. 

Straightening in his seat, he thought that their conversation had ended for the time being but the soft murmur in his ear proved him wrong. A pause. And then... “I think one has to find out on her own what exactly a man experiences when he falls in love.” Blue hues glanced sidelong at her. “Cure your inquisitive mind and trust the process as it happens when it does. And simply accept that one’s taste in opera do not reflect how one falls in love.”

Leaning against him, she snuggled a little closer, enjoying his warmth and the safety she felt. It was a stark contrast from the utter terror of only a few minutes prior. “Perhaps not, but I was foolish to have gone there so late at night. I was looking for someone, but that doesn’t matter now.”, she mumbled as she brushed a few tears from her cheeks. She knew she must have seemed like an easy target, there alone with no chaperone, not even an abigail to lend her the status that was hers by birth. Deep inside, Eira felt that she should not have to prove her worth to anyone, but she knew that was the way of the world. She was so grateful that Byron had happened to find her. What were the odds?

She shook her head. “No, I do not wish to worry anyone unnecessarily, and you know the fewer people who know, the better. It would harm my reputation. What man would consider me as a prospective bride if he thought that… well.” Her dark brows rose meaningfully. “Even a physician might gossip. No, thank you, I am fine other than the few bruises I shall have, which will hopefully heal quickly. “Thank you, by the way. I trust you will not tell anyone what happened and where I was?”, she asked, momentarily more concerned about word getting back to Sophia or all of polite society finding out than about the pain she felt.

~

“Looking for someone? Who?” Byron asked, pulling back enough for her to see his brows furrowing at the surprise of her admission. 

The hour was late, later than she should have been out on her own but this someone must have some merit for her venture. At least to her. But he would pry no further. There would be time to chastise the girl in the morning, when their minds are both fresh and unclamoured by the night’s turn of events. He should send for her servant, he really should. Even being in her presence like this gives the wrong kind of impression, one that he suspected even Sophia would disapprove no matter how much she might trust his own good intentions. But the girl spoke her mind, preferring not to involve anyone else in their predicament other than all the privy parties. Byron, Eira and the sorry assailant. And for the moment, Byron respected her wish.

“You are certainly not wrong... It is perhaps why we— I should not be alone with you, especially at this hour.” Easily he let go of her, motioning for her to take a seat. His thoughts drifted to Bella for a heartbeat when the light from the nearby candle hit Eira’s face just right, illuminating her façade in a way that accentuated some features which bore a resemblance to the woman whose heart he had broken. He imagined Bella, tear streaked face and surfacing hints of bruising... With a sharp exhale, he willed away the thought of the brunette who seemed to be plaguing him more often than not these days and turned his dark gaze to Eira.

Byron picked on up her hesitance to trust him despite her own words of confidence. 

Henrie had business in town - or at least, that was what he’d told his scowling mother as he sped out the door. In truth, he knew his mother had planned on having the Parson sisters to tea, and she had high hopes that the eldest would catch his eye. He’d seen the eldest, and spoken to her at dinner last year, and he highly doubted her conversation would be much improved. Henrie was saving himself from a great headache.

So instead, he was wandering the busy London streets, unsure of his final destination yet eager for something that would satisfy the rest of his day’s activity. He’d been pondering stopping to pick up sweets for his family (to placate his mother) when he heard a man curse and saw the distorted shape of a hat fly through the chilly air. Henrie grinned at the familiar voice. “Byron, my friend, better your hat than your foot!” he cried out with a laugh, patting his old companion on the shoulder. “The London horses are not Eton-bred, these beasts do not care whether you are a Lord or a dropped crumpet.” Henrie nodded towards the bustling street. “That was not your favorite hat, I hope?”

~

A double take had to be done as the man standing beside Byron seemed to bear an exceptional resemblance to— “Henrie Latymer?!” The name uttered almost as much as a question as it was a fact. Recognition smoothened out the creases across Byron’s forehead and a beam began to pull his lip into a well-known crooked smile as he embraced the man, clapping his own hand on the other’s shoulder. He was a long time friend and confidant. Henrie Latymer’s was a face Byron hadn’t seen for a while perhaps due some lack of trying but unfortunately ‘tis the natural course for some friendships no matter how close.

However, no time nor space could hold hostage their camaraderie as they both fell easily into the familiar repartee nurtured by the years of boyhood spent together.

“No, they are not,” the words melded together with a laugh, scowl all but forgotten in the company of his old chum. “If we were at Eton, it would have been me on that horse and some other unlucky fellow’s hat under it instead. Probably Mortimer’s—that man could misplace his teeth even if they were real.”   

Sending one last look at the run over topper, Byron said. “Would you consider losing a newly acquired hat as much as a loss if it had not been a favourite?” The rhetoric is coupled with a dull shake of his head and a shallow sigh—a ruined brand new item is just as much of a loss of an old favourite to Byron. “It’s a damn pity. I’ve only had it for a few weeks. I reckon I ought to visit the haberdasher before the next big gala then.” There was no saving the sorry thing now.

Not wanting to wallow in this minor setback, Byron turned his ocean hues fully toward Henrie, gesturing East in question if they were heading the same way as they walked away from the scene and onto the pavement to rejoin the foot traffic. “Enough about me and my problems. How have you been, old friend? How is the old lady doing?” Of course, Byron was endearingly referring to Henrie’s eccentric Aunt Elly.

Bella could not help herself from laughing at the accurate and good-humoured accusation. “That is my mistake then, believing I’ve fooled someone as sharp as yourself.” But of course, Bella could not leave it at that, not in a bout of banter. “There is the fact that you have been away from London though.” 

If Bella was a cautious girl, she would rein in how she was speaking, her tone not that of a young lady politely speaking with a longstanding friend of the family. Perhaps she would reconsider tilting her head teasingly the way she was towards one of her her brother’s oldest friends. Or she would think better before she smiled like she was to Ambrose and Kitty’s older brother – the smile that she had recently learned to be quite dazzling, a fact she had acquired the more she had been introduced into the Ton. She wouldn’t be allowing herself to suggest such tantalizing words. “Since you’ve been gone, there are many things you’ve yet to learn of me.”

But in the moment, Isabella was not a cautious girl. She was enjoying their banter, both intrigued and curious by the boy she was familiar with and the man she did not know. And thus she did not give another thought before her arm encircled into his, unknowing that she had not simply sealed a mere shared secret over a pranked punch, but rather a sequence of events to come that she would have never imagined.

“I suppose a partner-in-crime may better their odds if they are armed with a tale or two of their travels to keep a companion entertained. In the happenstance that tonight’s show fails to keep my attention.” Bella lowered her gaze, lashes aflutter, before meeting sapphire hues again. “It is quite a feat to maintain my attention.” The words fell naturally, more truthful than coy despite sounding like the latter. For anyone who did not know better, or rather know Isabella Aldwyn better, they would have found her behaviour to be oh so demure, the epitome of a modest lady. With a second glance, it would have become crystal clear that the young girl simply found their exchange thrilling. And she was being unashamedly Bella.

As they began to make their way to their shared family box, trailing behind the mass of opera-goers, Bella made sure to pick up her scarlet skirts so she did not trip on them to ascend the stairs. “This may be the rare night that the orchestra may actually be heard clearly over the audience. If I’m not mistaken, tonight’s spectacle is the masterpiece by Spontini. I must admit I’ve been waiting for its arrival since news of it from Paris found its way to London.” Bella wasn’t one to enjoy sitting for hours, but she found it much easier when sitting through a well-made production. The type that could keep her enraptured.

“I find myself more partial than I’d like to admit to the genre of tragédie lyrique. But nothing quite leaves an impression like a moving romance.” She cast a side glance to her companion. “And what of your preferences?”

~

“Oh?” A dark brow quirked up. His curiosity is piqued as he sensed the subtle change in her lilt. Not a sudden change, per se. Bella had always been a rambunctious girl, all smiles and playful taunts. But the gleam in her eyes that accompanied her cadence told a tale different from what a young girl of twelve years might detail. Byron had seen that look on many a woman’s face before; feminine guiles that never fail to set him agrin in return. And to his surprise, Bella, someone whom he’s known since she was yet a child, too has somehow evoke a similar reaction from him. It is not an odd feeling to suddenly realise one’s friend’s sister has grown into a young woman. No, it is the natural order of things. It is, however, in a way liberating to be able to treat Bella as someone closer to a peer than a younger sibling. Liberating and captivating. 

And yet, he still could not resist teasing her all the same.

“Pray tell, how have you evolved over the spell or two that I have been gone? I do not think you have grown any taller as you should have,” he jested, throwing a sweeping glance over her dark crown woven with strands of gold, easily discerning the obvious height difference of when he had last seen her and now. Or rather, the lack thereof. Actually, a difference laid in the way she held herself. She was more confident, bolder and more brazen with him than she had ever previously been. Perhaps it was the lack of Edmund’s looming presence that sparked the change. Whatever it may be, Byron found that he quite liked this....liberal and captivating version of Bella.

So, it is an easy decision that he would endeavour to keep their circumstance as such. At least for as long as he could.

“I would not doubt Spontini’s prowess as a composer but if you should like me to provide a distraction at any point throughout, you need simply ask, Miss Aldwyn. I would be terribly happy to indulge you.” Her arm slipped comfortably into his and they started their short procession toward the open doors. “Though I cannot say the rest of the family would be as happy about our incessant whispering in the dark.” A devilish grin slowly began to colour his features. “It would not be rude of us if we had to take a stroll, would it? You know, for the family’s sanity.” Just the thought of sharing yet another thing with Bella rouses his disbelief—obviously, Byron did not arrive at Covent Garden with the intention of positioning himself at her side and especially not complying to a tacit pact of managing mischief.

That said, he also did not think his night would begin so splendidly.

Byron nodded at everything she was saying but her question begged him to ponder on an answer. “All operas are a spectacle, I should think. But I have a preference for the ones with adventure and danger. La Vestale is an exception. This would be my second time viewing tonight’s romantic saga. I had the chance in Paris a few months ago and I am glad I did not pass it up. It was an enormous success. And you shall see why in a moment.”

His words were punctuated by the emerging sight of the stage as it slowly rose above the horizon of the upstairs balustrade. The curtains did not conceal the Corinthian columns lining sides of the stage. That in itself was a sight to behold.

Benjamin had always found London to be a difficult place. Despite living within its smoky, ruined heart; despite having been brought up breathing in its fumes and sleeping in its clutches – something about the grey city had never agreed with him. It was a thought that weighed heavily on his mind as he moved swiftly through a swath of people in its streets, or at least, attempted to. On more than one occasion, he was forced to pause in his tracks and nod his head in deference to a passing couple crossing perpendicular to him; his own natural instinct to stop and wait still there, coiling in his gut. Only a few months ago, he would’ve been invisible to them. Now, however, they too inclined their heads politely toward him, seeing a certain familiarity within Benjamin; something he couldn’t quite digest.

It was on one such happening, paused on the side of the road, that he saw the moment disaster struck: a gentleman’s top hat, deflated and trampled by a carriage, the item crushed quickly underfoot. Benjamin, for his part, at least had the propriety to stifle his laugh of surprise; turning abruptly to see the aforementioned gentleman staring out toward his recently departed accessory with irritation. Recovering almost immediately, he cleared his throat, altogether suddenly far too conscious of the itch of his cravat against his skin, the obvious newness of his clothes, the stench of unpreparedness rolling off him in waves. “My… apologies, sir. Certainly unfortunate.”

~

Byron spared a quick glance at the newcomer as he looked at both ways this time before taking a step forward saying, “Hmm yes, clearly. I shall have to defer to my haberdasher for a new topper—” He recognized the man—new to the ton, nouveau riche if he recalls correctly, and as far as he could tell, a rather quiet fellow. Well, the fact of the matter is that Byron barely knows the man and only simply knew of him because much like all high society, his ear is privy to talk and gossip. Still, it would simply be unbecoming of him to not make polite conversation no matter how unfamiliar he thought one might be. 

“—though,” he bent to pick up the now miserable looking top hat, “I supposed Mr. Davey will get a kick out of this story. At worst be horrified.” It’s not every day that a man returns to get a new hat made just after having acquired one recently. And especially not accompanied by such an ill-fated tale.

It was quite a sorry attempt at redemption, Byron realised as he paused dusting off the fine particles on the ruined accessory. Nothing would be able to save it now, not after suffering that stampede. So resolute in his decision in discarding the item, he could do nothing more than clutch it in his hand with a hope to find a proper place to dispose of it. With his focus returning to the barrister, Byron cocked his head and remarked. “I say, I do not think we have been introduced.”  

Circumstances sometimes can be both fortunate and unfortunate at the same time oddly enough. 

In this instance, as Byron St. Clair took in the sights of the hustle and bustle, he recognized how fortunate he was to find himself back in the city so unlike any other. A city that, no matter where he visited or would settle, would always be his first. He had grown up in the country as most children of polite society did. So it was no surprise that his first real taste of adventure had been spread across the landscape of London town—a fact that made sure his somewhat sentimental heart latched onto it. 

What was unfortunate, however, was that he’d been rudely reminded of how busy it could be even in winter as a landau sped down the street a sliver too close to where he’d been meaning to cross. Byron stumbled back enough to avoid being trampled but fate was not as kind to his top hat that dove in doom’s way in its master’s stead. “Blast.” Byron cursed, uncaring who stood within earshot.

It was all too easy to nick Edmund’s flask. When you had five sisters who would endlessly primp and pamper; a brother who disappeared for hours in their barn to tend to wildstock; two girls running afoot while making a racket for not being allowed to attend the opera, a fussy Italian mother who adored opera and would not stand for tardiness, and an imminent opening of opera that started with or without latecomers, Edmund had more than enough to occupy his attention. It did not help matters that the Viscount Cheltenham, instead of putting his foot down and setting order in his household, smoked a cigar languidly from his armchair. His crinkled warm eyes flit from Aldwyn to Aldwyn. It was when Edmund stopped to hurry the Viscount to finish his drink so they could all pile into their carriages that Bella saw her opportunity. 

As she walked out, she rummaged in Edmund’s coat, perfectly draped over the arm of their footman. Silver container in her possession, Bella put a finger to her lips, a request for accomplicity or at the very least, for secrecy. The footman, Robin, who was no stranger to bella’s antics, merely smiled. Ah, tacit agreement, bella’s favourite kind.

Upon their arrival to the mirrored halls of the opra, Bella would argue the scheme was going considerably well. Edmund, once again preoccupied with ushering their family to meet the St. Clairs at their shared box, had missed his devil-may-care sister giving him the slip. Not a lady or gentleman noticed the young girl, despite being adorned in striking scarlet, siddle up to the punch bowl and empty the contents of edmund’s nightcap. At least, that is what she thought. At the sound of a half-chuckle, the brunette whirled around quickly to hide the flask behind her skirts. 

All too soon, she relaxed when she realized who had caught her in the act, no longer needing to conceal her mischief. “Mr. St. Clair.” She parried back. “Surely a young innocent like myself would not go so far to thieve from my own brother. How absolutely deplorable of a girl do you believe me to be?” A grin, equally wicked to Byron’s, lifted her pink lips. “After all these years, I now see the impression I’ve left on you. What a greeting upon your return to London.”

Her quick quips had slipped out from sheer habit, but it had been the first time she had brandished them towards Byron. In fact, Bella could not even recall the previous occasion the two had spoken alone to each other. A variation of a collective of their brothers and sisters were always present. Yet, there was something new in their brief interaction, something that was sending a buzz of anticipation through her. But anticipation for what exactly, remained the question. How long had it been since Byron was last in London? Long enough that he appeared different. Older. More dashing. And it was a strange thought to have of your older brother’s schoolboy friend, among other foreign thoughts that entered her head as he stepped closer. His height gave her an opening for her to put away the evidence of her crime, which she promptly took advantage of..

”You may be in luck.” Giving the flask a little bit of a shake to reveal the sound of its remaining contents before it disappeared into her reticule, she drifted her eyes upwards to his, alight with mischief. “Enough bourbon to satiate one gentleman and one lady through a three-act Opera. I may even be convinced to share but – “ A purposeful lilt wrapped around her words. “– unfortunately I only grant boons to accomplices. Ones who find themselves more partial to feistier Aldwyns rather than protective brotherly types, you see.”

~

“Absolutely deplorable—deplorability of the highest order.” Byron replied with a beleaguered sigh, half sure that he’d made the word up but in any case, a smile lit his face and all effects of seriousness vanished. It was a merry occasion tonight. A reunion that Byron sorely wanted and needed. After months spent abroad and away from family, it was striking how even Bella’s company seemed to have become a remedy to the slight homesickness he’s been experiencing. Easily he fell into a good humoured and natural banter with her without needing the buffer of their siblings’ company. “Oh it is precisely because of those years that you will not have me fooled.” 

Hues of blue lifted away from warm earthy tones to look over the crowd around them. In all honesty, Byron was ready to take the fall if they so happened to be discovered. He’d sooner admit to a breach of etiquette on his part and suffer the consequences than to let her become the subject of disapproval or worse—gossip. But there was no need for such precautions. Nobody spared them a glance, not even the doorman standing just across the way, when Bella deftly began to tuck away the telling silver. Of course, the place was abuzz with anticipation and people were too preoccupied in conversation to pull their attention away from the gilded doors which were about to be opened. 

A bright smile flashed across his features at the sound of the sloshing of bourbon and grew brighter still at her clear attempt to coerce him into collusion. Eyes narrowed, Byron gave her the impression that perhaps he might decline her offer but he inevitably bit the bait as she met his gaze that now fully revealed how he’d succumb to her carefully worded proposition—promise of reward and challenge lacing her syllables. 

Then the sound of chatter began to ebb, taken over by the carpeted footfalls of the gentlemen and ladies of the ton. The entryway into the boxes have been opened and there is no doubt that their family have already begun filing in.

Turning to his soon-to-be partner in crime, Byron acceded. “Well, then I hope I possess some measure of fortune tonight. You see, I plan to remain behind just a minute longer after the doors open. That way I might increase my chances of securing the seat next to a very well-supplied Aldwyn sister.” He eased away from her, facing the direction of the doors and offer her his arm. “I don’t suppose you know how I might go about that.” With a cant of his head, he motioned for her to take his arm—essentially sealing their silent pact.

the night was welcoming to the young eira blanchard. too welcoming in fact that she’d thrown caution to the wind—a grave mistake that put her into a threatening situation against the wall of an alley at the end of the vise grip of a drunken assailant. were it not for byron st. clair, who knows what else may have transpired in the dark? setting things right with his fists, byron had managed to thwart the fiend, leaving the man within an inch of his sorry life at the despairing behest of the girl before bringing @eiraeth somewhere safe. 

“Miss Blanchard—” Byron started, then even gentler he said her name as he smoothed out her dark tresses, “Eira, you do not deserve any of this. I hope you know that.” The girl was no older than Kitty and he could not help but feel a sense of brotherly protectiveness towards her. Especially not when he had been there when she was first exposed to the type of brutal violence between men. Before properly making her acquaintance over these recent months, he’d met Eira by chance some years ago—or rather, she had met him. Their situation was little different from now—Byron had even had his fist in someone’s face. Both times, rightfully so. 

It was more than fair to say that Byron St Clair was not averse to the act of mischief. In fact, he quite enjoys it as in some cases it is art coming to life. 

With each tick of the small watch in his breast pocket he took a quiet step toward an unsuspecting Miss Aldwyn who, to her credit, was trying so hard to surreptitiously empty a small silver canister into the punchbowl. He slowed down only to savour the fact that he had just caught his friend’s younger sister doing something she surely should not have been, pausing as if to admire a work of art in progress.

He stifled a chuckle but the sound was just enough to alert the young miss.

A villainous grin lifted one side of his lightly tanned face into something both familiar and wicked.

“I see you’ve developed light fingers, Miss Aldwyn.” Truly... The formality must surely be a tease. They ought to be beyond that by now. “I swear I heard your brother saying he was missing a flask.” A lie or another tease? Either way... 

Politeness dictated that he “protects” her. And so languidly, he used his body to cover her own slight frame that she might stash away her personal effect. “While normally I would encourage your current behaviour, I fear that it would leave less drink for me to indulge. What is in that? Whiskey? Bourbon? Tell me it is not completely dry.” Much has change since he last laid his eyes upon Isabella as he finally regarded the easy boldness that was perpetually in her eyes, now magnified tenfold more than he last remembered. For some reason, that realisation made his smile wider.

“Don’t.” Is all she can manage at first. Don’t say you cared. No matter how much she wanted to believe him, she could not muster the strength in her to consider the possibility. Because if she did, that would mean he had willingly chosen to walk away from her. That she had not been worth staying for. Yes, she had known of his plans from the beginning. Whatever had happened between them had always been created on limited time. When they had met again, Byron had just returned from being away. It was at this time that ocean eyes met dark; something shifted and both viewed the world very differently than all the years before. No longer seeing her as merely edmund’s younger sister, byron saw her for bella. But those same blue eyes had always looked over her shoulder at the horizon. 

Naivete had been her nemesis. What she clung to in a sea of doubt. Never once had she hoped to be the subject in his life. To think that she could have become the foreground, or even part of byron’s background was enough hope for her. She would have been willing to be any stroke brushed on the canvas, if only he had been willing. “I had hoped that…” she could join his plans. Become part of his plans. Her voice died in her throat. Saying so now was meaningless.

Coming here had been a mistake. 

She didn’t know what she had wanted, nor what she expected from him. Had it been the haze of drink that led her askew? Had she surrendered to the curiosity of what would happen if the two met alone? Had she hoped that everything could return to the innocent summer days of that year? Had she wanted to reassure herself that even in front of his extraordinary face and soulful eyes, his rich voice, his ability to bring a smile to her face even at her wildest rage, she would feel nothing? Perhaps she needed a confirmation that for all the pain that she had felt, for having been thrown into the fiery forges of Hell and back of heartbreak, that she would at least be impervious to him. 

She set down the jar of poultice onto the table with a dull thud. The realization that she was still very much under his enchantment – for that was the only thing she could call it at this point – was staggering. 

I did not mean to. “But that doesn’t matter, does it Byron?” Bella trailed her gaze to his bruised knuckles, wanting so deeply to hold them in hers. To fix them. And the very thought angered her that she still cared for him after all this. 

“In the end, it all hurt the same.” She met his gaze, firelight illuminating the unshed tears in her unwavering eyes. Before she blinked, she stood up and turned away from him hastily. Hiding her visage back under the hood of her cloak, she made her way to the door.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” Her voice was tight. Every syllable carefully crafted into a steady statement.

~

“Bella...” 

Bryon lets her response wash over his skin, like the depth of the sea at the feet of a tempest, falling all around him and letting the weight of her words sink in and crush him under the severe harshness of his own actions he had dealt those years ago. For it was harsh, was it not? He had made Bella believe that if she trusted in the tone of his voice and the smile in his eyes and the fact that he had courted her for months, that he wouldn’t be the one to leave her. That he wouldn’t be the one to dash all her hopes upon a shore that she would not be standing on beside him. He did not mean to be the rock against which her dreams crashed. But that doesn’t matter, does it Byron? No, it does not. The past, in the face of the present, matters less especially now that they lack the ability to change it. 

But for all his savviness with romance and his affairs of the heart, he is not prepared to see her cry. 

He had never been. 

Even in the parlour of her house on the evening of what had been the last day he had ever called on her, Bella’s tears had not spilled. They’d brimmed around her usually warm brown eyes, yes, and lined them with silver before glazing them with a sadness that made Byron turn away ( the same way she now turns away from him in his home ) but the tears had not slid down her face. Not in front of him, at least. But he had known, deep in his heart, he had known that he had caused her to cry over him, over a future that the low, comforting timbre of his voice and the light in his eyes had promised. 

He does not want to repeat his mistake. 

He does not want to make any more empty promises. 

So, he retracts the hand that he had grasped her with without thinking, halting them near the door—a touch that is less gentle than the whisper with which he said her name. He cannot bar her from leaving, he should not. In fact, she is right—she should not have come. He should have gone to her instead long before this. 

And while his touch itself is not a promise, it is a show of intention. 

So, with the sinking of his shoulders and the loosening of a quiet sigh, he respects her resolve to leave and walks around her to the door. Even as he tries to look into the shadows of her cloak just to catch one last glimpse of her, Byron turns the brass handle of the door, letting the cold night air seep in from the outside, from another kind of darkness she’d have to step into because of him.

“Let me make things right.” Or is it already too late? He shakes off the little voice, shutting it back into the corner where it cannot stop him from trying. “It is all I can offer, if you will have it. But if you will have none of it...” None of him...

A considering pause fills the space between them. 

Long enough for him to make out a familiar figure of a woman standing outside, illuminated by the moon against the dimness.

Then with just a murmur of a farewell, Bella steps out of his home and into the carriage silently awaiting her and effectively leaves Byron alone to stew in his own unwelcome thoughts for the rest of the night.