Late January, the frost lingering like a rumor over Windsor.
By the time dawn slipped over the city, the first morning editions had already been printed.
Ink and gossip — two things that traveled faster than truth.
Serena Maxwell stood before the tall windows of The Nest, her reflection wavering against the glass. Outside, smoke rose from the chimneys in slow ribbons, and the city's hum began — restless, alive, hungry for something new to talk about.
And they had found it.
Every paper on the breakfast table bore her name.
Her portrait — sketched hastily from a sighting at Parliament — stared back at her in black and white. The headlines spoke in polite venom:
"The Lady and the Duke: Society's Most Curious Reunion."
"From Scandal to Redemption? Lady Maxwell's Second Act."
"Has Time Forgiven the Crown's Fallen Rose?"
Charlton had gone to Parliament before sunrise. He had told her to stay home — to rest, to avoid the noise.
