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“How dare Whistledown print this?” Prince Jeongguk leaps to his feet, shaking the leaflet in his hand. “Does she take me, her future King, for a lunatic?”

He paces the Crimson Room, which is not so called haphazardly. The drapes and walls are of crimson damask satin with gold embellishments. The furniture draws a maze of deep red with fleur-de-lis, making the room stuffy despite its size, and only allowing for a few callers at once.

It snows outside, the silver daylight pouring in from the large windows. It refracts on the crystal chandeliers above his head. The Prince fumes silently before the two other occupants of the room, neither more impressed by his tantrum than the other. His antics are long-established, though recently made worse by his increased appreciation for spirits. Jeongguk sips on a cordial which was once filled with brandy but changed to wine once the first bottle dried up.

Struck by a thought, he halts.

“She might wish to overrule me despite my soundness of mind. What if Whistledown has republican inclinations?”

“I should doubt so. She means to merely frighten you, not depose you from the throne,” the Duke of Montrose replies, cross-legged in an armchair as his azure eyes follow the Prince. In the corner, Mr. Jung, the butler, solemnly gazes at the windows as if the conversation concerns him not, except for the instances where he exchanges a charged look with the duke.

“Even so, today’s issue is most clear in confirming my suspicions that she must be connected to the Parliament. Maybe even a Common or a Lord herself. Whistledown must not be a lady; her words are most unladylike.” The Prince scoffs. “I cannot believe I never noticed. Who else would publicly scorn me? In the Parliament, who do you suppose would do such a thing?”

“I should know no better than you, as I have not ventured into Westminster in a long time. Perhaps you would know best if you attended the meetings the minister invited you to.”

The suggestion is met with derision, as the Prince is wont to do. The duke Jimin Park owes it to the fact that he is loath of politics. From infancy, Jeongguk has shown no inclination to partake in matters of State. At a time when His Majesty was still in possession of his faculties, the late duke, Jimin’s father, would confer with the King while their sons would sneak into the mews to feed, saddle, and ride the stallions.

While the duke has grown to be a royal advisor and master of the horse, Jeongguk continues to favour pleasure. The exaltation of Carton House to French architectural splendour was one such interest before the Regent's debts thwarted his plans. Should the Prince participate in the government once more, the Parliament could be persuaded to forgive his insolvency. However, wine, gin, and affairs pose a far more pleasant and viable diversion.

It is a cycle. The Parliament is most unlikely to pardon his debt for as long as the Ton sees him as an extravagant royal rake, and Jeongguk is unlikely to seek abnegation.

“I should prefer to seek Whistledown myself.”

The Prince crowds the duke, sitting on the side of his chair. He drapes an arm on the backrest, as his dark, round eyes take in the duke intently. Jeongguk's blue robes latch onto his tapered torso, and his white, silky breeches are most distracting, nearly painted on his strong legs. His finger grazes the top of Jimin’s head, lightly ruffling the blond strands.

The proximity is almost enough to divert the duke’s attention, but not quite.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why seek the approval of many when it is possible to secure the allegiance of one? The rumours of me, though many, would lack veracity without Whistledown. Hence, she is my main foe. Had a gentleman challenged me thus openly, would I not duel him for my honour? If Whistledown is a member of Parliament and hence a gentleman, should I not do the same?”

At the end of his spiel, the Prince's eyes glimmer. It is mischief, mingled with obstinacy, which returns his spark. Nothing thrills him more than the promise of immediate, riveting action. It matters not that the duke’s advice could garner better results, for it is tedious and upsetting. Tedious, because it would take months of laborious cajoling. Upsetting, because the Prince deems cajoling for favours, in itself, most reproachable.

Opposite to him, Jimin finds his attitude hasty and avoidant. Most of all, the turn of events astonishes him. His heart gallops as if it were a stallion spooked by ghosts—namely, the spectre of his secret penmanship as Lady Whistledown becoming at risk so soon.

As the Regent hops off the arm of his chair and saunters to the decanters, the duke seeks the butler with panic in his eyes. Mr. Jung rushes to fill the Prince’s glass, Jimin’s gaze pleading for a distraction, time to breathe and regroup. The butler nods and leaves, and he sighs with relief.

“I should require your assistance with it,” Jeongguk states.

“Me?”

“Who else if not my privy advisor?” He considers the duke’s demeanour. “Are you opposed?”

“As your advisor, it is my duty to inform you of the best course of action, which this is not. You might stumble upon Whistledown in the Parliament, or you might not. Should you succeed, she shall most certainly not solve your problems. A display of willingness and commitment to the Whigs, however, would aid your cause and suffocate dissenters, including Whistledown. It is the most effective way to have your debts pardoned—”

“And I have told you, I shall not change the government Father left. It is most unnecessary, and a detestable endeavour. I must unmask Whistledown. Hopefully, with your help?”

The duke sighs. “It shall be my honour, my Prince.”

“Excellent.” The Regent smiles triumphantly. He approaches with his glass filled, sitting on the neighbouring sofa. “Who do you suspect? You must share your theories, and do not attempt to dissuade me! You are sharp, duke, and I know you know more than you are disclosing.”

“I should like to give it some preemptive thought.”

“Preemptive thought? Is previous consideration most necessary for the advisor to share advice, as is his prerogative?”

“I should merely not like to falsely accuse—”

“This is no court of law, duke. It has been established that we can discuss matters as friends foremost, has it not?” The Prince reaches over the divide and squeezes his hand. “Are we not good friends?”

Though easy, the answer is not at all painless. For one, their friendship forbids the duke from declining without good reason, and while his reason is good, it is not meant to be revealed.

For another, their friendship does not allow Jimin to avow his feelings for the Prince out of fear of losing him. Many a time, Jimin has desired to tear their friendship apart and cloister in Glasgow, where a castle awaits him. Jeongguk’s gleaming, supplicant eyes stop him every time. Repeating the act, once more they are responsible for the duke’s surrender.

“Most certainly, my Prince.”

The butler returns, and the interruption allows the duke a sigh of relief. Their attention is drawn to the entrance where Mr. Jung balances a silver platter, which he places on a side table within their reach. It is filled with an assortment of colourful confectionery. 

“Ah! Mr. Jung, you are most timely. Sweetmeats are just what I need.”

“Is there ever a bad time for them when it comes to Your Highness?”

“You are correct, it is never a bad time.” The Prince picks up the plate, propping it against his chest and shoving three delicacies into his mouth in quick succession until he remembers the duke. “Would you like one?”

“Most certainly. How very generous of you to offer me one, if I may be so bold.”

Jeongguk smiles. “I am charitable by nature.”

He extends the arm with the plate. The duke reaches for his favourite, a chocolate nonpareil, bitter beneath the sweet. But before he picks it, the Prince pulls back the plate in a swift move.

“You have not yet agreed.”

The reprieve is brief, and the palpitations return. “You make it sound so official.”

“It is official. This is a serious commitment. Will you help me?”

The Prince’s eyes plead, unaware of the effect. Jimin smiles, hopefully not as resigned as he feels.

“Does your charitable nature forbid you from sharing lest I agree?”

Jeongguk shrugs, some sheepishness seeping into his features. “Quid pro quo.”

“I do not believe even a whole plate of sweetmeats could equal what you ask of me.”

“Let it be anything you want, then. I shall give it to you.”

Jimin laughs. Whatever he wants—would that include himself? The butler’s gaze falls heavily on him, but the duke refuses to meet the pity in his eyes.

“You would never give me what I want.”

“My charitableness is offended,” he says, and despite the situation, the duke throws his head back in laughter, his eyes disappearing behind curved eyelids.

Instead of extending the plate, Jeongguk pinches a nonpareil and hovers it in the space between their seats. He raises a challenging eyebrow. The duke stares at the offer, incredulous. It is most outrageous that the Prince should serve anyone below himself. The duke’s mind ventures straight into indecent territory far unbefitting of an audience, his cheeks burning.

He steals a glance at Mr. Jung, the butler promptly averting his eyes to the other side.

“Shall I ever be able to deny you anything, my Prince?”

“I should hope not.”

The duke surges, softly capturing the nonpareil with his lips. The tips of Jeongguk’s fingers caress the corners of his mouth, and the close intimacy makes his cheeks aflame. However, though Jimin attempts to retreat, the Regent does not release his hold, and the sweet does not follow into his mouth.

While to the duke the resistance is bewildering, the Regent finds himself transfixed by the tips of his fingers disappearing into plump, crimson lips. As neither moves, Jimin's mouth becomes a pool of saliva coating the Prince's digits, and the duke swallows around it, taking up to the first knuckle.

Whether the action is accidental or not, most stunning of all is how Jeongguk remains unable to move or withdraw from such a vexing situation.

How shall he explain to himself that three of his fingers are embedded in his friend’s mouth, fondling his tongue? Well, a game is the only reasonable cause. He and the duke have played numerous games, many of which impromptu and lawless. The rules seem vague here as well, fuzzy like the edges of his sight. It must be a competition between who is most repulsed and who lasts longer. As the duke conquers up to the second knuckle, the Regent deems his supposition confirmed. Jeongguk’s stomach coils, but he does not retreat, entirely too proud to come out defeated.

Thus the duke proceeds, enveloping up to the third knuckle with his lips.

The manoeuvre is coupled with cunning as Jimin’s eyes, like blue sapphires, shine through his eyelashes. What might be a mere glance to others is, in fact, a life-threatening weapon. Jeongguk nearly fell victim to it, as catching Jimin’s gaze during a horse ride at sixteen summers ended with the heir to the throne under the hooves of his favourite stallion. The duke, then a young marquis, was both Jeongguk’s undoing and his salvation. His keen understanding of creatures helped him calm the beast and save him. Hence why he trusts Jimin with his life.

The Prince avoids the eyes when he can, rather looking anywhere else on the duke's face. Although the Crimson Room offers no lethal dangers should Jeongguk be distracted and fall on his arse, the duke’s stare sears him down, and in that lies his ruin. Burned, the Regent yanks his hand back. The impulse to taste Jimin on his fingertips crosses his mind and is snuffed as he wipes them on his robes.

The duke lolls back into the armchair, his red lips munching around a conceited smile. His jaw ripples as he chews.

“Let it be known that, this time, His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, lost.”

His Highness might rule the Kingdom, but he is certainly not wise of all.

If he were, he would have known that his most trusted friend, a man of power and influence, quivered after their call drew to a close. Intending to help the Prince, the duke did not expect such a backfire. The Regent’s destructive behaviour was most concerning, and nudging him in the right direction did not yield results. Some persons need to be shoved. Relying on Whistledown’s trustworthiness to falsely suggest the Parliament had plans to depose the Regent, he hoped to get him involved.

It can be said that he succeeded, if unsuccessfully so.

“I should have known His Highness ought to find another diversion,” Mr. Jung whispers in the hall of Carlton House, helping the duke into his coat. “I am deeply sorry for suggesting it.”

“I chose to go ahead, Mr. Jung. Pray, I am wrong, but if the Prince does not take care, he shall indeed lose himself. If not to madness, then to delusion. Perhaps we were too optimistic to think he could be steered in any one direction. He is too stubborn a horse.”

“And you should know how to manage horses, Your Grace, but perhaps not that one,” the butler jests, soon falling grave again. “What should we do?”

“You must leave it to me. His Highness will want me to name suspects, and I shall give it to him. We could use this to weaken the Tory side.” The duke sighs. “As for Lady Whistledown, I need time to reflect.”

“I shall stall the Regent for as much time as possible, Your Grace. I hope it helps.”

“You help immensely.” The duke straightens his lapels, finally getting ready to leave. “Please do continue to inform me through Mr. Min. Be my eyes and ears, Mr. Jung. Be my eyes and ears.”

“Just a moment, James. My flap got stuck,” John says.

He is as much of a John as Jimin is a James. The duke never considers what he may be called outside the four walls of the molly house, for it indeed matters not. A name to moan in the throes of passion is all one needs, and the more generic, the better.

“I esteemed you more deft in the stripping of undergarments,” the duke says, striding around the bed to John. The lad towers over him, even with his head lowered and black hair curtaining his face as he fiddles with the frontal buttons of his spotless pantaloons. John’s occupation is a mystery, but he is presentable, and for that, Jimin often chooses him to the detriment of others. Moreover, the fact that his wide shoulders and slim waist resemble the silhouette of a certain Prince is not a random occurrence. However, after their most recent conversation, the duke sought John to unburden his mind of such thoughts, not to bury himself in them.

“Let me handle this.” Jimin swats John’s hands away and nimbly unbuttons the flap, which falls open, revealing his half-turgid cock. The duke wastes no time giving it a long stroke, making John keen as he supports both hands on Jimin’s upper arms.

He grows to full length and girth within seconds. Their breaths are ragged as Jimin entices the lad, still standing. John’s head falls onto his shoulder, stamping a trail of kisses up his neck.

When he reaches the jaw, the duke tenses and his movements stop. He moves away before John targets his mouth.

“Why do you take most liberties but stop at a kiss? Spare me one, please.”

“Kisses are most unnecessary,” Jimin says, sighing. They have discussed such matters many times, but John is never quite appeased. He leaves a peck on the lad’s collarbone, a silent apology, and falls to his knees. “There are far more effective things one’s mouth can do.”

The butler dissuades the Regent from sending for the duke for three days. During that time, Jimin organises the first ball of the season at Grosvenor’s House and thinks of escape routes from the corner he has written himself into as Lady Whistledown.

The Prince summons him to Carlton House under the pretence of hearing about the ball, but the duke knows better and is hopefully ready for the question when it comes.

“Have you considered who might be behind Lady Whistledown?”

“I have.” The duke takes a deep breath. “The answer might surprise you.”

“I am your captive audience.”

They are in the conservatory, a long, gilded room in the basement storey. It resembles a Gothic church with fan-vaulted glass ceilings and a view to the garden. Twelve parallel columns support the ceiling, bedecked with intricate arches. The Prince always said that the conservatory had no walls, no nooks, and no place for secrets. He could not have chosen a more ironic place to hear Jimin’s lie as they stroll shoulder to shoulder, talking.

“While I agree that Lady Whistledown might be a member of the Parliament, I must remind you that Westminster is not a monolith. The Tories supported your Father, but the opposition has remained your ally. The Whigs have little to gain by weakening your image.”

“You suppose Whistledown might be a Tory?”

“Quite possibly, yes.”

“Why would a Tory threaten me as the Regent?”

“I suppose they meant to launch a preemptive attack. It is the timing which makes me suspicious. You have been the Regent for four years, so why has Whistledown only now acted against your person? It is most likely that the papers were initially a means to mock the Ton from a Lord placed at the fringes of it, but if a supervenient situation forced their hand, they could have taken a side. It is my understanding that it has become quite clear to all that His Majesty shall not reclaim his post, hence why your decisions are unlikely to be overturned. You are no longer stepping in for your Father, for you are the King himself. It is most simple. Should you meet the Whigs’ expectation to appoint a Whig minister, the Tories would lose the head of government. Their attack should prevent that by making you weak.”

The duke seals his lips, waiting for the words to sink in as his chest tightens. In crafting his lie, he used quite a bit of truth. Lady Whistledown's papers started as an outlet for the deep envy he felt regarding those who could court in the light of day, when his own romantic escapades had to happen under the cover of darkness. Gentlemen might dance with gentlemen, and ladies with other ladies, but though the duke enjoyed many a quadrille with the Prince, one day Jeongguk would seek a bride, and Jimin would have to retreat even deeper into the shadows.

Mockery was the entire scope of Whistledown until last season, when Jimin’s butler, Mr. Min, found out about it. Soon after, Mr. Jung was informed, as it ought to be between partners without secrets. The three of them, now in cahoots, collaborate. Mr. Min adds shrewdness, while Mr. Jung adds that and a surprising parcel of erudition, for a butler. Their joint predilection for hearsay adds seasoning and fun to the endeavour.

Aside from sharing the burden, the duke finds that exploring the journal as a tool is a far better application of his penmanship.

The duke nearly believes himself. If inspected closely, his lie would not hold substance, but as a conjecture, it sounds mildly convincing. Jeongguk remains silent for an entire cycle around the conservatory, lowly humming with his hands clasped at his back.

“It is indeed a most interesting conclusion. As usual, Your Grace succeeds in unveiling even the most obscure of truths.”

The duke smiles, bitterly so. If only his survival were not contingent on the Regent's deception.

“I suppose you procured a list of Tories whom you suspect.”

“A list of Tories?”

“I requested a list of suspects of impersonating Lady Whistledown.” The Prince stops and peruses him curiously. “My God, you said you knew nothing. Is it really possible that you, of all people, have no clue?”

As delighted as the duke would be to agree, admitting that he had no suspects would put him in a vulnerable spot. His penmanship has been the talk of the Ton for the past few seasons. Someone in Jimin’s position would have surely considered Lady Whistledown, and not having done so would be suspicious in itself. It would invite examination and discovery.

“My suppositions are too numerous to share. It would be most inconvenient and time inefficient to have you look into each one of them. Furthermore, I should not like to make false accusations. It would be most preferable to share only a handful of endorsed suspects of such deeds,” Jimin lies before steering the conversation elsewhere. “I assumed you would seek to address the Parliament directly. Perhaps attending a meeting should give Whistledown no more reason to cast doubts on your capabilities.”

“I do not fancy that in the slightest.” The Prince says, reclaiming his step. “I should prefer to die of boredom before I discuss matters with any Lord or Common.”

“But sir—”

“The list, duke.” Jeongguk stops and glares over his shoulder. “Where is it?”

His tone is commanding and most unyielding. It sends a shiver down the duke’s spine.

“It is not on my person, my Prince. I was under the impression you wanted to discuss the Grosvenor House ball in two days, and I didn’t heed the request of the list. Forgive me.”

“Ah! The ball. Yes, I should like to discuss it. It has everything to do with our… stratagem.”

“What stratagem, if I may ask?”

“Of course you may! You shall be a part of it, duke, for the ball shall happen in your house, and as its master, you shall coordinate it.” The Prince stops once more, turning to him fully. He wears a magnanimous smile, his eyes shining as he sets his hand on Jimin’s shoulder. “During your ball, Mr. Jung will spread rumours to each suspect and his entourage, as many as you have them, I suppose. You shall help him separate each group in different rooms so that the rumours do not mix, and we shall account for every person who arrives or leaves early. That way, whatever rumour Whistledown publishes shall give us our answer.”

Jeongguk pulls away, opening his arms wide as if in demonstration of the sagacity of his plan.

“We shall unmask Whistledown until the morn.”

As the final notes of Largo’s Fairy Dance fade out, the string quartet rests to a chain of applause. The ball at Grosvenor’s House is going well, as per the host’s evaluation, removed from the main affair and backed into a corner watching the couples scatter. 

Jimin’s eyes never stray from the Duke of Norwich and his nephew, Percival and Basil Cavendish. They seem thus far entertained and unbitten by the bug of exploration; just as well, since the duke’s plot relies on the segregation of their targets until the sun comes up.

Percival and Basil, the Tory second in command and his puppet nephew, whose only role is to support his uncle's views in the Parliament, are to stay in the salon. Viscount Castlefield, leader of the industrialist wing of the conservative party, should stay in the drawing room. And Lord Richard Loxley, a low-tier MP who nevertheless has mastered the swaying of undecided votes to the Tory side, should never leave the library.

Jimin hand-picked them when providing a list of suspects to the Regent, choosing for the most scandal potential and impact on the Tory front. Weakening Jeongguk’s strongest opposition would inevitably strengthen his old allies, which is not at all bad. The Prince was none the wiser, and the stigma they each carried was enough to make them suspicious in his eyes. The groups were directed to each room and the rumours spread via Mr. Jung and Jimin’s footmen.

Now wait they must.

The duke sips on mulled wine, which is spicy, inebriating, and conducive to bouts of euphoria on such a chilly February night. Keeping watch of the Cavendish and checking in with his footmen that the guests do not mix is a fine distraction.

Usually, at a ball, the sight of a gentleman pecking the back of a lady’s hand, in a gesture that announces the gentleman’s intention to court said lady, was enough to ruin his mood. However, now, for once, Jimin's solitude does not bother him. It serves a purpose he has longed to achieve, and neither the fluttering fans nor the gallant arms of courting pairs have the usual downing effect on his mood.

“I come to relieve you of guard, duke,” the Regent says, startling him with his unanticipated arrival. As is proper for a prince, Jeongguk is packed up tight in a navy dolman with golden epaulettes and matching frogging and braiding. His strong jaw perches atop the snug high collar, making it difficult to look away from his bemused smile. “Were you afraid someone would catch you lurking?”

“Is it not too late for that? Your Highness has already seized me.”

“Not yet, I have not. But I plan to anyway, if you would be so kind as to grant me your next dance?”

“Surely Your Highness must mean my first dance?”

“I most certainly did not, but I never understood why you must stick to the corner all doom and gloom even at your own ball.” The Prince spins, extending his hand. “Shall we go? I requested our favourite.”

The duke rolls his eyes but places his hand into Jeongguk’s palm, smiling. “And I thought you had had enough of the tune.”

“There is no such thing as having enough of it.”

The Regent tows him to the middle of the salon just as the quartet reconvenes, playing the first notes of I’ll Go No More To Your Town. The guests form two long lines facing each other, and an elaborate choreography takes place following the folk rhythm. The pairs weave in and out of each other, eager to get it right, grinning with mounting glee. The pace never lets off. Jeongguk’s hands slide in and out of Jimin's grasp, their sides brush, and their breaths mingle for only a moment before springing apart—all in good, innocent fun.

Unlike the countless times he indulged the Prince’s reel fancy, the duke’s attention is elsewhere employed. The familiarity is partly to blame, for as their bodies repeat habitual moves, Jimin’s thoughts are free to latch onto Percival and Basil Cavendish again. He ought to make sure they are still here, still occupied and unaware. He hopes that Viscount Castlefield and Richard Loxley are equally preoccupied, and the concern blocks any enjoyment the dance might have provided.

“Do allow yourself a moment’s ease, shan’t you?” Jeongguk whispers close. Too close, snapping the duke out of it. “Our affairs are in order. I made sure of having them looked after before seeking your company.”

“Oh. How quite foresightful.”

“You sound most surprised.” The Prince’s smile is smug. As the song draws to a close and the bodies stop moving, he plants his feet and proclaims loudly. “Encore!”

The lead violinist nods, and the quartet carries on without a hitch. The reel is the Regent's favourite, after all, and Jeongguk does not refrain from requesting it ad nauseam. 

The Prince's predilection explains but part of why he chooses to exhaust the crowd's wits with ceaseless dancing. The other part, the duke takes most pride in, would be himself.

Indeed, Jeongguk’s dedicated attention to his mood should garner no surprise. Since their infancy, the Prince has put himself aside for the duke’s entertainment—a natural development, perhaps, as Jimin had no siblings or recollections of a mother, and the other was graced with fourteen brothers and sisters. Alongside Mr. Jung and Mr. Min, the Prince became the duke’s only close family after his father’s passing, but his regard is cherished in ways far more intricate than the Regent is able to apprehend, and with consequences he is wholly oblivious to.

As they dance, the touch of their fingers is soft, the guidance gentle, and the secret smiles meaningful. The warmth on the duke’s cheeks cannot be ascribed to the mulled wine. In Jeongguk’s arms, Jimin’s legs become most useless and his voice untrustworthy. He is readable like a book, but perhaps the duke has pages that the Regent is most unequipped to decipher.

The Regent sees him not as a prospective lover but as a friend. The years of heartsore certainly justify the duke’s belief of Jeongguk’s intentions, though it is partially a misjudgment. What the duke perceives as platonic fondness is, on the Prince’s side, a lack of understanding. Jimin’s ocean eyes have been established as dangerous, a maelstrom pulling Jeongguk into their depths, and yet he remains unable to identify what calls him to sea. As it is, the song, the dance, and the ambience sing like a siren, and as their gazes meet, his entrails tighten and tingle.

Sucked under, the Regent gets out of breath, his mouth swimming in salty water. The dance continues, the pairs twisting and twisting. He is motion-sick. His palms are damp, slipping from Jimin's grasp. When the duke shoots him a concerned look, he notices his heart pounding. He grinds to a stop amidst the swaying couples.

“I should like a drink,” the Prince rasps, breaking the daze. “Perhaps we should pause and mingle?”

“It would be wise of me, as the host. Would Your Highness wish to take a seat?”

“On the contrary. I should like to get some fresh air.”

Jimin nods, and the Prince leads him away from the dancing pairs with a quivering hand poised at the small of his back. They part by a buffet of hors-d'œuvres, and while the Regent ventures out to the chilly winter night, the duke takes it upon himself to greet his guests, unaware of the damage he caused.

It is a honed skill to charm ladies and gentlemen who expect flattery on the ground of their standing. The duke has enough practice to perform it without much effort, as his thoughts go to the Prince’s abnormal behaviour. He seemed both ill and frightened, and the more people he greets, the more Jimin’s concern over Jeongguk’s condition mounts. It seems almost superfluous to check on Viscount Castlefield, Richard Loxley and the Cavendish, but the duke does so anyway, intent on rejoining the Regent with good news.

He peruses the room, and not finding the Prince or his butler, approaches one of his footmen.

“Mr. Brown, have you seen Mr. Jung?”

“He accompanied the Regent out, Your Grace.”

“His Highness departed? Without a word of farewell?”

The footman, a young ginger, seems embarrassed. “His Highness seemed most flustered. Mr. Jung said they ought to take a detour before heading to Carlton House.”

“A detour, you say? Where to?”

“I do not wish to be indiscreet, Your Grace.” Mr. Brown leans in. “Mr. Jung did not elaborate. However, I saw them head across the square, toward Park Street.”

The duke knows far too well what resident of Mayfair Jeongguk would seek in such a late-night detour. The reminder of the Prince’s mistress, Mrs. Fitzherbert, embroils his stomach. He sets down a half-empty cordial on a nearby table. His eyes prickle, but perhaps most of all, his chest stings. His hands and fingers itch, craving to grasp pen and paper and purge out the venom.

Should anyone have inquired, the duke would have been indisposed for the remainder of the night.

“I should not know this, but Mrs. Calvert relayed to me that Lady Dalton could not help but tell her, between sobs, that Lord Dalton has resorted to smuggling gin. Poor creature.”

“Tragic,” Jeongguk says.

With the back of his hand, the Prince pushes Maria's unbound locks behind her shoulders. The morning light sifts through the windows of his royal bedchambers, washing her bosom a powdery white which he repeatedly admires with his lips. Under the draped dome of the Regent’s four-poster bed, the kisses get muffled from the outside world. He trails downward from her neck, and as he reaches the breastbone, she starts thrashing in his silky blue sheets.

“Your sorrow is palpable,” she moans.

“Not more palpable than other parts of me, I should hope?”

She gasps, blushing though she evades his insistent hips. “Jeongguk!”

“My Christian name, yes?”

A knock on the door gives them pause. It is followed by the unequivocal voice of the butler.

“The morning post, Your Highness.”

Throwing on the covers to conceal their modesty, the Regent grants him entrance. Whether from utter habit or professionalism, the butler marches to the bed without betraying any sign of shock at the sight of the Prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert in their most intimate.

“Lady Whistledown has published a new issue, and I decided to bring it straight away since Your Highness was looking forward to it.”

“You did the right thing, Mr. Jung. Thank you.”

Mr. Jung hands him the paper, and the Prince latches onto it as Mrs. Fitzherbert reads it over his shoulder. The initial enthusiasm fades as he takes account of its contents, but by the end of it, a new realisation pops into his head, making him eager again. Whistledown published the three false rumours spread the previous night, and that means one of two things: she is either a well-connected individual or someone who knew of their plan in advance. The latter is ludicrous, for only Mr. Jung, the duke, and their footmen knew of their plan. The Prince snorts.

“I was unaware society papers amused you, my Prince.”

“You must leave at once, Maria.”

“At once?” She asks, almost shooting upright before settling for the greater dignity of keeping her bust covered. “Is that the way to treat a lady?”

Maria was deemed a lady many moons ago, but that is neither hither nor yonder.

“I shall receive the Duke of Montrose soon,” he replies, addressing the butler next. “Do send for the duke, please. We shall break our fast together.”

As the butler bows his head and leaves, Maria scoffs loudly.

“I should not be surprised. You prefer the duke's company to mine. I am yet to receive an invitation to a ball of yours, Jeongguk.” She climbs out of bed, marching across his chambers in her gauzy nightgown. She reaches the dresser, freshening up with the basin and jug atop it. “Perhaps next time you desire an invalid marriage, you should propose to him.”

Mrs. Fitzherbert leaves in a conspicuous royal carriage, and every moment after is spent in wait. As hunger gives its first signs of showing, the errand boy returns with a message.

“Unfortunately, the duke is most indisposed and shall not be able to call on you today,” the butler tells him.

“Did something not agree with him last night?”

“I am afraid His Grace did not elaborate.”

“Oh, that cannot be.” Jeongguk muses for a moment. “If he is ill, I shall bring him aid. Send word of our visit, then summon the royal physicist and ready a car to leave at noon.”

After a light meal, the Prince, Mr. Jung, and the royal physicist make the short trip from St. James to Grosvenor Square, where the duke lives. Mr. Min, the butler, grants them entrance with a remarkably placid demeanour. Faint piano chords float from somewhere in the house. It is a melancholy tune that would have set off bells in Jeongguk’s head even if the duke had not abandoned the instrument after his Father’s death, revisiting it only to revisit sorrow.

Mr. Min leads them straight to the drawing room, which has remained untouched since the Prince’s last visit. On the walls hang several works of art, a portrait of the previous duke, and a painting of the family’s estate in Glasgow. It was in the stables of Buchanan Castle where Jimin first tended to racehorses, and Grosvenor’s House pays homage to the equines, with many a painting on walls and statues on every surface. One such horse bust sits on the piano, atop the duke’s bowed head. His wistful playing stops at their entrance, his eyes as blue as his spirit, though unfairly beautiful even then.

“Oh. Your Highness has brought company.”

“The royal physicist, Mr. White.” The Prince says, introducing them. The duke nods. He closes the piano and tucks in the bench, approaching Mr. White, whose hand he shakes. “You said you were indisposed, though you are looking far too smart for someone in your condition, duke.”

Jimin smiles, his cheeks flushing. Jeongguk smiles reflexively and becomes serious again when the duke does. The host walks to the moss-green sofa, signalling for the Regent and Mr. White to take a seat as their butlers stand like statues by the doors.

“I am unsure how happy the patients at St. Thomas shall be to hear they cannot be admitted solely on the grounds of their external disposition.”

“So you are ill?” Jeongguk asks. “Did something happen after I left?”

Jimin’s breath seems to catch around his next words. “Fortunately, nothing happened. I apologise for wasting your time, Mr. White.”

“It is quite all right. I am glad for the tour.”

“Was that why you came, Your Highness? I am indisposed, but not ill.”

“Not really. You can go, Mr. White,” Jeongguk says. He waits for Mr. Min to see the physicist out and turns his attention back to the duke. Something is most wrong with him, even if he has no bodily malady that afflicts him. He is tucked into the opposite corner of the sofa, shrunk into himself as he longs for the piano from afar. The sight of it makes the Prince just as melancholic and desperate to find a solution. 

“Why else did you come?” Jimin asks, still looking away. “I did not expect you so soon. Was Mrs. Fitzherbert not good company today?”

A rare occurrence, Jeongguk's cheeks burn. He never told the duke about seeking Maria's company the previous night, though he must have heard it from the butlers. The Prince is allowed a tad of bashfulness over the duke’s knowledge of his private life. What sticks out, however, is his inquiry about the quality of Maria's company when, a few hours earlier, the widower suggested she was less preferred than the person he is now in the presence of.

As the Prince snorts, the duke's head snaps to him.

“My God, was I on target?”

“She was most upset that our time had to end so I could receive you, duke, and that was before I knew of your disposition and decided to call on you instead.”

“I must apologise for coming between you and Mrs. Fitzherbert,” Jimin says, scratching the short hair at his nape. His words carry remorse, yet the discreet uplift of his lips indicates something else that the Regent, for no good reason, finds most delightful. “If you came only for that reason, I am sorry to have wasted not only Mr. White’s time but yours as well.”

“I wanted to discuss an issue of our interest.”

“I see. Mr. Min,” Jimin addresses the butler who perks up, “would you bring us some tea?”

“That would be most unnecessary, Mr. Min. We shall not linger long enough for tea.”

“We are not going anywhere. I remain indisposed.”

“You are blue, my dear friend, nothing more.” As Jeongguk reaches for his hand, the duke’s gaze falls to the action. He has remarkably small, soft fingers. The Prince strokes them one at a time, fiddling with the heavy silver loops bedecking many of them. “Let us discuss the matter at the Frost Fair. We might even skate on the Thames, should Your Grace’s indisposition not forbid all forms of amusement?”

Such a beguiling proposition should garner no denials, and deny it the duke does not.

They ride to the stretch of the Thames between the London Bridge and the Blackfriars, where the frozen river makes the Frost Fair possible. Freezeland Street is most wide, with many a booth offer everything from liquor and bread to gambling and books. It is most unfit for privy conversations, but fun is to be had all around, whether it be in whirling sledges, bowling or toy shops.

Most important of all, perhaps, is the fair’s effect on making the duke eager once more.

“What did you want to discuss?” Jimin asks, propped on a tiny stool as he ties his skates to his shoes. The Prince does the same by his side, strapping the leather tightly around his feet to keep the metal blades firmly attached.

“A certain social paper arrived this morn and I found its contents most interesting.”

“Oh, indeed. I had all but forgotten about it.”

With the help of his butler, the duke stands wobbly on the blades. The Regent does the same, gliding to his side and stabilising him with a hand to the small of his back. At his periphery, Jimin releases a breath and tries to catch his gaze, but the Prince favours pushing them gently forward, to a barren area where their business can be discussed without risking eavesdropping.

“Whistledown published all three rumours, which means she knows more than we anticipated. I surmise she must have many connections. We are dealing with a powerful person.”

“You reached that verdict from the fact she bested your plan to unmask her?” Jimin smiles. “Any number of well-informed persons could achieve that. Perhaps it is the prime minister, yes, but the same could be said of a press owner or a servant.”

“Servants are far too busy, and I doubt they could string a sentence resembling Whistledown.”

“Is Your Highness an admirer?” the duke asks, smiling out of the corner of his mouth. Their stroll passes through many a horse-led sledge and folks sliding in the snow. Children, cattle, and farm people mill about. As he and Jimin charge toward a happy chicken that must not know what awaits her, the Prince snatches the duke by the waist, manoeuvering them around the heedless bird more easily like so. The duke makes a weak noise that the Prince takes for a sudden scare.

“I can appreciate a capable scribe. Whistledown is not an illiterate servant.”

“Even if servants cannot write, they talk. They live in our homes and meet at market fairs. There are channels besides official ones where information flows like the current in rivers that never freeze.”

Jeongguk tilts his head, deep in thought. The duke is most reasonable, as usual. Gossip knows no bounds. Maria's chattering in bed comes to mind; if the Ton does it, the servants and lower classes would have endless reason to gossip about lives far more sumptuous than their own.

“Suppose I see your point.”

“If Whistledown is a common husbandman or labourer, you shall never find out who she is.”

“Most reassuring, duke.”

“Nor is it all. Today’s issue flatters you very poorly. Whistledown reminded the Ton of Mrs. Fitzherbert. The Parliament is unlikely to pardon your debt while you insist on being wedded to a twice-widowed Catholic woman.”

“Oh, duke, what a joy!” The Prince jeers, hoping to conceal his burning face. His liaison with Maria is no secret to the Ton, but hearing about the affair in the duke’s voice is somewhat deeply condemning. “Do go on; my hopes are yet to be utterly extinguished.”

“I warned I was indisposed, though I do apologise for ruining the mood.” The duke sighs. “I should like to remedy this, however, by reminding you there is but one easy solution within your reach. If you think Whistledown is in the Parliament, go to the source; clear your reputation with the chambers by getting involved in the government again. Support the Whigs; they shall become your allies should you want to have your debts pardoned.”

“You are most tenacious, but I remain uninterested.”

The duke’s insistence that Jeongguk should confer with the Parliament is most vexing. Why waste time begging to get his debts pardoned when investigating Whistledown achieves the same in a most riveting fashion? The duke must be well and healthy if he can once again argue for such tedious endeavours, in which case, the Regent's mission here is accomplished. He spins them, tugging Jimin as he darts back to the stools at the snow bank where the butlers await.

“Your Grace is being willfully blind. There must be other solutions.”

“Do elaborate, then. What do I overlook?” Jimin inquires, struggling to keep up on his wobbly legs. “It is most simple. You must reconcile with the representatives.”

The Regent frowns. Conferring with the Parliament, who jubilates at his defeat, as Whistledown so eloquently put it, sounds abhorrent. Those are the peers who bowed to His Majesty but refuse to defer to the Regent and his unrepressed passion—for the arts, architecture, cuisine, spirits, and ladies with an agreeable disposition, regardless of creed.

Nothing pleases his eye more than a parade of prim and pretty necklines vying for his attention. Lately, however, he seems to have lost the favour of the fairer sex. It is quite unexpected, as normally, being a Prince would attract ladies like bees to nectar. Perhaps the ladies know he plans not to wed them, in which case Jeongguk must lead them to believe that he does.

“I stand corrected, duke. I must seek a bride to marry.”

There is a gasp and the duke trips. Though the Regent tries to grasp him, Jimin tumbles to the ice on his arse, bringing their promenade to a close.

It should be unsurprising that the Prince has no real intention to wed.

He is simply, as per the duke’s counsel, doing what he must to give the appearance that he has bent to common sense to please the Parliament. Seeing as the fate of seeking an Anglican queen who is neither deflowered nor widowed is quite inevitable, it was his weapon of choice.

“A fine ball is a most enjoyable occasion to fraternise,” the Prince tells Jimin in the privacy of the royal carriage on the way back from the Frost Fair. “Lady Whistledown or her proxy must be in attendance, and as you have well said, gossip runs rampant. Someone must know something, duke. I shall use the opportunity to approach our suspects’ entourage and gather information we are missing. It should not be too difficult; I do love a good reel in good company.”

Once again, the duke and Mr. Jung are the only ones aware of the plot. It creates unforeseen repercussions—some bad, some worse.

A week later at Carlton House, the Regent holds a grand fête. Bisecting the conservatory, a dinner table with a marvellous fountain and tiny orange fish swimming above the guests’ heads sits two hundred guests. The other persons in attendance are scattered in two adjoining rooms that, with the conservatory, form a long corridor in which the party never seems to cease.

The Prince signals for the string quartet to halt. Once the tune stops, he climbs onto a small raised platform, garnering the attention and hush of all present.

“Good evening. I am pleased to welcome you to Carlton House and sincerely hope you are most tended to and jubilant. No request is too extravagant, and no joy too loud. On this occasion, we must celebrate. Must you wonder what we celebrate, I shall tell you now; I, the Prince Regent and future monarch of the Kingdom, should like to choose a queen.”

A murmur sweeps the crowd. The Regent clears his throat, and the noise abates as they await the rest of his speech. “Here are the finest members of the Ton, and no one who should have come was left uninvited. Let us make this an extraordinary night of extraordinary people.”

He raises his glass in a silent toast, and the crowd erupts in polite applause. The whispers are scarcely controllable, and as soon as Jeongguk steps down from the platform, a procession of properly prim ladies surrounds him, garnering a most pleased grin from the Prince.

As for the duke, he can be found scowling, watching it unfold amidst embroidered blue curtains.

He leaves early, returning to Carlton House in the morn while the Prince is still experiencing the other side of inebriation. Though he must, Jimin does not desire to hear the tales of the previous night and Jeongguk’s conquests, false as they might have been. His blood burns on the account of every dance he missed and every gloved hand held by the Prince.

“Of course, I asked the Cavendish to sit by one side, and Lord and Lady Hertford by the other. Ms. Denison ought to sit at the table too, but she was rather engaged in conversation with the Marquess of Conyngham, unfortunately,” the Prince says, most unregalike, sprawled in a crimson sofa with his cravat tied into a poor excuse for a knot. “Lady Hertford surprised me as most graceful. She possesses uncommon mental acquirements; I see why the Viscount Castlefield would seek her as a lover.”

This is the duke’s personal hell. He exchanges a look of sympathy with Mr. Jung, but it only serves to confirm how little hope he has of escaping. “I implore you to reconsider, my Prince. Not only must there be other paths to roam, but you mislead these poor, innocent ladies who will hold vain hope to become Queen.”

“I shall not lament on behalf of whomever approaches me with the interest of improving their standing,” the Prince contends. Unbeknownst to him, but in the duke’s field of vision and thus within his knowledge, a footman peeks into the room, and the butler rushes outside to converse with him. “I shall not lament either if this plot helps uncover that one of them, or their families, is Lady Whistledown. I shall take every lady in the Kingdom to dance, if that is what it takes.”

The door bursts open, and in stalks a most ruffled woman who was once a lady. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s coiffure is frizzy, and her dress hints at a hurried, anguished trip to Carton House.

“Is it not enough for you to tarnish my name by publicly seeking a queen—in a ball I was not invited to,” Mrs. Fitzherbert hisses, advancing to the Prince faster than Mr. Jung is able to contain her, “must I also be the last to know of your treachery? How dare you treat my person with such disregard? I am a lady, but you are no Prince, you absolute scoundrel.”

Her palm lands on his face like a whip. The air snaps and then sits deadly still. The Regent’s hand quivers up to his cheek, which colours like the walls and curtains of his drawing room. His eyes are rounder than usual, as if Jeongguk cannot quite comprehend he just got slapped, or what to do before such unforeseen circumstances.

To the duke, for once, there is satisfaction to be found in Maria’s presence.

For one, she has voiced feelings he could not have.

For another, he is most assured, this shall be the last time she shall be in the Prince’s vicinity.

“Mr. Jung,” Jeongguk calls, “please escort Mrs. Fitzherbert to her coach.”

“No remorse?” She asks as the butler gently steers her out. “Should I take this as acknowledgement? You are a Prince in name but a rake at heart. I pity the lady who you con into becoming your queen, and I fear for the kingdom on the day His Majesty dies.”

Though she leaves, her words cumber the air, making their breaths ragged. The Prince's eyes are lost in the landscape beyond the windows, watching the patches of melting snow and the trails of mud created by the wooden wheels of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s coach rolling away. 

The duke inspires deeply, intent on using distraction as a remedy, when the Regent springs to his feet. He forgoes the butler's aid as he helps himself to a glass of brandy, and then another. The duke and Mr. Jung trade concerned looks behind his back.

Mrs. Fitzherbert was not the only one the Regent’s sudden announcement caught by surprise. Only moments after his, now supposedly former, lover departed Carlton House, a boy delivered a request for a call from his Mother, the Queen, at Buckingham House.

“Queen Si-yeon awaits you, Your Highness,” Mr. Brimsley says by way of greeting at the entrance to Her Majesty’s drawing room.

As the Prince marches inside with Mr. Jung always five steps behind, she lounges at a chaise-longue and pets a small, fluffy dog in her lap. Her satin robes are of a greyish blue embroidered with golden thread. In this Kingdom, red is not befitting of a Queen, but she retains the colour in the form of a norigae at her waist and a coral bellflower hairpin. Her hair remains strong and thick, though salted with grey ever since the King’s strange illness befell him. Unlike other ladies of the Ton, Her Majesty's day gown has sleeves up to her wrists, with a fine silk hanbok peeking out of the cuffs and crossing chastely at her chest.

She never renounced the modest garment despite the latest fashion in Paris and London. It is most accurately said that Her Majesty had to yield in order to abandon Joseon for England, but, finding the act of submission most upsetting, vowed never to capitulate another day in her life.

Less accurately, in Jeongguk’s opinion, he is said to have inherited the same type of obstinacy.

“I should like to know what you were possibly thinking. I was made a fool this morn when Lady Danbury called on me to comment on your coming to your senses and seeking a bride. I had to disabuse her of the notion you had gained any discernment, because I cannot fathom how a son, much less a Prince, should announce such ambitions to the Ton without ever informing his Mother, who happens to be the Queen, first.”

He bows his head. “I apologise, Mother.”

“Though you ought to be sorry, I must ask if you are serious about your enterprise. Your Father and I have attempted many a time to have you marry; why do you suddenly wish to comply?”

The Regent assumed his marriage intent would be the topic of their conference. If his search for a spouse already distresses her, the Queen would be most vexed to find it is all but a ruse. Given his accuracy in the last prediction, Jeongguk must be correct in this assessment also.

“It is certainly serious. The Parliament has made it most impossible to avoid it.”

“Ah, the Parliament, of course. Have they denied your pardon?”

“You must have heard about it—yes.”

The Queen munches on her next words. “I should know only such dreary circumstances could push you to such an undertaking. In any case, I am glad you have confirmed your intentions, for I would like to suggest a match myself.”

The Regent’s stomach drops. The lack of foresight has always been a fault of his impulsive decisions. The Queen’s meddling with his prospects in marriage should have been anticipated, most of all because Her Majesty is unlikely to surrender the bone once she bites it.

“Is this most necessary?”

“Absolutely, or I would not have called on you to convey such news.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“Oh, you act as if I would commend a total stranger. You have heard of your cousin, have you not?” The Queen asks, and in her smile lies the conviction of a monarch who never not gets her way. “Her name is Caroline Amelia Elizabeth, and you shall find her quite agreeable.”

Caroline of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel is most agreeable indeed.

Making her acquaintance, initially an imposition by the Queen, has been entertaining the Regent. His cousin is fair and well-spoken but highly versed in reels and a spirited quadrille partner. Her presence ruffles other ladies’ feathers, who, disadvantaged by the lack of royal sanction from the Queen, seek the Prince with enthusiasm and willingness to disclose information about their peers that might grant them any type of influence. Jeongguk knows more about the Tories now than ever before.

It is the duke who has any objection.

“I should not like to intrude—

“Then do not, duke.”

The Crimson room sets the stage for their audience. In the aftermath of last night’s ball at Bridgerton house, the Regent has been nursing a headache with shots of gin. It is the duke’s understanding that Jeongguk has never been in worse form, though he is under the illusion that his most recent activities are advancing his objectives. In reality, the ladies with whom he dances are most interested in saying whatever pleases the Prince, hoping to become Queen.

The eagerness muddles his judgment. The luxury and pomp of such events, the courting, dancing, wining and dining, bedazzle the Regent with the lure of a siren that slowly drowns.

“Lady Caroline is not a good match, my Prince. Much like an embroidery whose backside is tangled and amorphous, her public face and the one shown in private do not coincide. I was told she refreshed to appear in your presence, but that is not her common practice.”

“Thank you for enlightening me, but I shall not marry any of them.”

“You are playing a dangerous game. Her Majesty does not know that, however, and she shall see to it that you choose her candidate.”

“If it comes to that, I suppose I ought to marry.”

“You would not.” The duke examines the Prince’s side profile as he pours yet another cordial glass of wine. It is not of Jeongguk’s ilk to commit without passion. “Are you enamoured?”

“What if I am?”

And while the question is asked in jest on the Regent’s part, for Jimin, who cannot guess what thoughts permeate his head, it is most devastating.

“A week is not enough time to fall in love.”

“Says who?” The Prince asks, turning to him. He sips the glass, his lips wet and his smile wobbly. The sight is most painful; both the state of him and the plans he devises wracking the duke apart. “Have you ever been in love, duke?”

What a mockery. To have the object of one’s desire wonder what desire is.

“My personal experience has no relation to the question.”

“Being opinionated is a luxury of erudites on a subject. It seems we have finally found a topic where my wisdom subdues yours, duke.”

With no veracious retort that can be voiced, Jimin remains mute.

An insidious tale told by the author who never lies is enough to wreck, in the span of a week, what little Jeongguk built.

The change is subtle but irrevocable. No lady can politely decline an invitation to dance, but the ones who take the Regent's hand seem to know they are but his pets and do not engage as lively as before. Conversation is stilted and relates to the blooming of spring or the refreshing lemonade, offering no insight into the machinations of the peers and their liaisons.

Likewise, both Whigs and Tories have disengaged from the Prince. The mere reveal that his intentions were not genuine sufficed to burn bridges. Lords and Commons are back to discussing corn duties and suffrage uprisings, forgoing debates on a pardon whatsoever. The Queen is most upset, as expected, though the outcome of his ploy would dissatisfy her anyhow.

Of the Prince, it can be said he was caught unguarded. It would be expected for Whistledown to favour some ladies over others, thus revealing personal bias. However, eliminating all candidates, the scribe scorned his proposal and rose to be a challenging opponent. 

Whistledown must be bold or mad, for no person in their right mind would decline a seat by the throne—unless their standing entirely forbade such aspirations.

The Prince staggers against the walls of another ball with such thoughts in his mind, alone. The duke is absent, having parted to allocate the cavalry to the continent, and has not yet returned. Worse even, as Napoleon reconquered Paris and required Jimin’s departure, Mr. Jung fell with a malady that prostrated him to bed, leaving the Regent’s footman to accompany him to two dances this sennight.

Without the duke, the butler, or the ladies’ attention, the Regent nurses a glass which seems to empty as soon as it is filled. He lurks in the perimeter, along with the footmen of Lord Carmichael’s magnificent house, who watch and whisper about the guests dancing the quadrille.

Jeongguk never noticed the footmen, usually occupied with the main event. The observation seems important, though his current state of inebriation blurs the reason behind it. Certainly, the duke would offer perfect insight and a match to his steps. His absence makes the air rarefied.

“I should like to examine the gardens more closely,” says a lady nearby.

“It is far too dark and cold to go on your own.”

“Then you must accompany me, Lord Connyngham.”

The man sighs. “Ms. Denison…”

At the mention of her name, Jeongguk’s head shoots up. Indeed, the lovely Ms. Denison and the Marquis Conyngham, who once sat at the Regent’s table during the Carlton House fête, are by the refreshments, discussing their most unchaperoned escape from the party and into the night.

“I shall accompany you, Ms. Denison,” the Prince says, trudging to them. “Such a honourable lady must not venture alone with a gentleman.”

His arrival startles the pair. Poor Ms. Denison, wearing a modest but elegant pearl muslin gown, pivots to the Prince. In doing so, her shoulder bumps into him, which would not be an issue were Jeongguk remotely sober. However, his instincts are sluggish and his glass fatally full; hence why he does not heed his movements and tips the glass, spilling red wine across her dress.

Ms. Denison gasps, drawing the attention of the adjacent guests. The taint is most obnoxious, and certainly why there are suddenly tears in her eyes.

“Ms. Denison, I deeply apologise.”

“Would you like to be escorted home, Ms. Denison?” Lord Conyngham asks.

“I shall fix that. My footman can escort you to a carriage back home.”

“I am most grateful, Your Highness,” Ms. Denison says and curtsies, but addresses Marquis Conyngham. “I accept your offer.”

The pair leaves, and after their departure, the Regent becomes the topic of whispers. His glass is once more empty, and his legs are scarcely able to keep him afoot. The most dignified route at the moment, Jeongguk leaves the ball, though it remedies not his faux pas.

Whistledown shall certainly bask in his disgrace. The scribe has not published any papers in a few days, yet this must surely bring her out of enclosure. As he lies awake in bed, the Prince awaits the coup de grâce which dawn shall bring.

Come the morn, he lounges in the Crimson Room out of habit. Perhaps he manifests the duke’s arrival, as the first footman announces Jimin’s call shortly after Jeongguk has poured his first glass.

He is overjoyed. Leaving the wine behind, the Prince greets him by the entrance with a tight hug.

“You are quite a sight, duke.”

“I suppose the same can be said about you,” Jimin says, his eyes hopping over Jeongguk's features. “I heard of what happened at the Carmichael Ball. How are you faring?”

“Most nicely, now that you have arrived.” The Prince directs them to a sofa, finding that his flattery bears most true. “I await Lady Whistledown’s issue, for it is sure to ruin what joy your visit has amassed. Tell me, how was your trip?”

The duke launches on a tale about his trip to the channel, and the shifting powers of the Coalition, headquartered in Brussels, to reclaim Paris from Napoleon. Many anecdotes fit into the main plot, leaving the Prince most amused and distracted.

Surely enough and as expected, Lady Whistledown's paper arrives, though it dedicates but one sentence to the Regent.

His Highness, in the times of yonder a zealous enjoyer of the reel, chose to withdraw from the fun and confabulate with the walls.

“It is most odd.”

“How is it odd that Whistledown granted you a respite?” Jimin asks. “Perhaps you should enjoy it.”

“Why has she not reported properly? I am most offended. Does Whistledown suddenly have a code of honour, which allows the publishing of falsehoods but not self-induced humiliation?”

“I do not know.”

Upset, the Prince makes brief confusion. “Mr. Jung, I should like some brandy.”

“Mr. Jung is still in recovery, though he fares far better, Your Highness,” the footman reminds him. The Prince’s eyes rise to him, a ginger lad in his black livery. “I shall bring it in his stead.”

The Regent had truthfully forgotten about Mr. Jung’s illness, and the reminder gives him pause. But as his exterior halts, his musings whirl in a dangerous alchemy of suspicion, evidence of absence, and blind trust in the duke. It leads him to an unequivocal, if erroneous, conclusion.

The bravery granted by spirits bids him to charge undaunted, most oblivious to his misjudgment.

“Fetch Mr. Jung and bring him to the conservatory.”

The footman seems to hesitate. “Mr. Jung might not be in condition to offer proper service, Your Highness. I apologise if my services are subpar. I shall strive to meet your standards—”

“Fetch him, regardless of what condition he is in, and bring him to the conservatory.”

The footman nods, compliant. “Your Highness.”

After the servant leaves, the duke inquires, “Must I ask what moves you to request Mr. Jung’s presence in his state?”

“You shall ask, but I must withhold my answer. Patience, duke, and you shall see.”

In late March, the conservatory offers a wide view of the garden. It blooms with myosotis, daffodils, hyacinths, and the first signs of tulips. Inside, the room changes not with seasons, though today, a table with spirits and sweetmeats has been added as per the Prince’s request.

“Would Your Highness like me to pour you a glass?” Mr. Jung asks.

He looks ill. Though standing on his feet, his cheeks are red and his eyelids are low on his eyes.

“Certainly, Mr. Jung.”

“The Prince has had enough for today,” Jimin intervenes, blocking Mr. Jung’s path as he addresses Jeongguk. “Has he not?”

“It is a special occasion, duke, for which we must celebrate.”

“What are we celebrating?”

Poor Mr. Jung pours and hands them a cordial of brandy each. The Regent stands by the large windows overlooking the garden with the duke by his side.

“To victory,” Jeongguk says, proposing a toast, “and uncovering Lady Whistledown’s identity.”

It is a good thing that Jimin has not yet sipped, or he would spit on the floor. His heart races, but he manages to keep a serious face.

“Very well. Who is it?”

“Oh, duke. Do you not care to know how I arrived at the truth first?”

“In this rare case, it matters less the path than the destination. If you are most certain of your verdict—”

“I am most certain, indeed.”

The duke exchanges a look with Mr. Jung. The butler’s former ruddy complexion is now of a greenish, sickly hue. Jimin is most able to relate.

“Very well, then.”

“It amazes me, for I have carried the pieces of this puzzle for weeks before deciphering it. I have been aided by our attempts to unmask Whistledown. They seemed unsuccessful at first, but gave me many a clue as to her identity. Your counsel as well, duke, has been most valuable, as customary. You have corrected the course where I was headed in the wrong direction, and you have asserted that Whistledown could be anyone. I have considered the reflections you have provided me with, and I have mused on them. Without them, our investigations would have amounted to nothing.”

The duke swallows, but his mouth is dry with dread. “I should be eager to learn just how.”

Jeongguk smiles. “I apologise for my histrionic vein. I could not resist the thrill of detouring.”

“I am quite thrilled.”

“To dispense with the preamble, I had been combining the pieces erroneously. It was by sheer luck that I slotted them together this morn when you called on me, duke. Firstly, I knew Whistledown must be powerful and have access to many sources of information, for she published all three rumours we spread. Secondly, I suspected she might not reap benefits from a royal wedding with me, for she tainted my marriage intent in such a way to prevent any approach to my person, including her own, as promoting herself in the absence of competition would have revealed her identity. Indeed, I was not approached in good faith by anyone afterwards, but the incident eliminated Lord Richard Loxley, the Cavendish, and Viscount Castlefield from my suspicion and broadened my horizons to include options I had not yet thought of before.

Lastly, when Whistledown failed to publish about the incident at the Carmichael ball, I assumed she must not have been present. Whistledown would never miss a chance to publicly scorn me. She must have been absent and heard a partial report through others.”

The duke listens intently, growing more nauseous with every word. A migraine blooms and throbs in his temples, the pain making the window and the flowers waver in and out of focus.

“To summarise, Whistledown has wide sources of gossip, could not benefit from my matrimony, and did not attend the ball yesterday. Such evidence still left many a suspect. I must confess, duke, that I have not shared my full thoughts with you. For when our investigations had just begun and Lady Whistledown published all the rumours, I briefly considered she might know of our plan. With few people who were involved, I would not have many suspects. However, Lady Whistledown is erudite, and apart from mine and your servants, no person knew of the plan.

Such a preposterous notion that Whistledown might have known she was being chased from the start fled my thoughts immediately, but this morn, in your presence, it returned. Given what I just exposed, I urge you to take a guess, duke. Who do you wager Whistledown is?”

“You bring reasonable points, but I have not given enough thought to craft a response.”

“I shall provide one clue,” the Prince says, stepping closer and whispering into his ear. “There is but one person who could be Whistledown, and he is in this room.”

The duke ceases breathing. As the worst possible scenario unfolds before him, Jimin is wholly oblivious to the fact that he has no reason to fear. He forgets that two other people occupy the conservatory, the dread allowing him not to see beyond himself.

Likewise, the Prince’s steadfast belief that the duke is incapable of betrayal forbids him from seeing the portrait of reality in all its shades. He would trust the duke with his life, after all, and Whistledown’s identity is a matter of treason, and therefore, a matter of life and death.

“You shall have to tell me,” the duke mutters.

“As you wish.” The Prince turns his back to the windows. “Step forward, Mr. Jung. Or should I say, Lady Whistledown?”

Jimin’s head whips to the butler, whose gaze scurries to the duke in panic. He looks even paler than before. “What?”

“Me, Your Highness?”

“Mr. Jung, do not act coy, now,” the Regent booms. “You must explain the reason for your treachery. Was it spite? Do you so detest the shelter you have been granted, at the very heart of power, to the point of wanting to destroy it? Was it greed? The papers must profit quite a penny, but did you aspire for more?”

“Your Highness, I am but a servant—”

“And yet you are more educated than others, are you not? One of a kind, the perfect fit for a future monarch.” The Regent prowls, closing in on the butler. “Deny as you may, Mr. Jung, but I have uncovered your scheme, and I shall find evidence of your crimes. The other servants shall search your quarters, and when evidence is found, you shall be sent straight to the gallows.”

The threat stuns both the duke and the butler. Their gazes clash, one filled with guilt and the other with hopelessness. Mr. Jung’s very life is on the line. Had he been entirely free of guilt, his innocence would eventually surface, and the Prince would have to admit to being defeated.

The duke knows best, however. The butler played a most enthusiastic, if minor, role in their plot. The butler is too honourable to either accuse another or absolve himself of blame.

Fatally, Mr. Jung is unable to conceal the truth, even if to save his own life.

“My Prince, this is most outrageous. Mr. Jung is not Lady Whistledown.”

“Your kindness is commendable but unprompted, duke. This is a man who thought he could exploit the Ton in his favour, and now pretends he did not do it. He deserves no defence, for he cannot even be purported to defend himself.” The Prince glares at Mr. Jung. “Do you deny acting in the shadows, under the guise of my butler, Mr. Jung?”

This is when Jimin knows he must intervene, for Mr. Jung cannot be made to convincingly lie in the face of a direct question. Steeling himself, he steps forward. On the other side of Jeongguk, the butler trades a look with him, discreetly shaking his head.

“He is not Lady Whistledown,” Jimin solemnly says, “for it is me.”

The Prince’s lips were frozen around gritted teeth, his eyes burning with righteous anger. At the duke’s words, his face melts into astonishment. He turns to Jimin with no distinct expression.

“Do not defend him, duke. Least of all at your own expense.”

“I speak not in his defence, but to confess my own fault,” he says, and breathes deeply. “I chose which suspects to name in an attempt to weaken the Tories. I proposed rumours that bore enough likeness to truth that, even when denied by Whistledown, they should still tarnish their reputation. I published the rumours because ignoring them was futile, but shifting my blame onto any one suspect would have been unjust, as they are innocent and I am not.

I would not benefit from your matrimony, for I am no lady, and I have no close female relative who could be suited. I arrived from the channel in the early hours and heard about your misfortune at the ball but chose not to publish it, not for lack of occasion, but because, despite what I have led you to believe, I never, ever wish to scorn you.”

The Prince listens in stunned silence. As the pieces come together, his countenance changes; from sceptical to resigned. From angry to hurt. Jeongguk’s shoulders shrink, his chest caves in, and he brings one hand above his heart. The sight of his hurt aches in the duke just as fiercely.

“It was never my design that things should end this way.”

“How did you intend for things to end, must I inquire?” The Prince asks, his voice firm. “After lying to me for months—years. After you listened as I, like a fool, shared my very thoughts, while you, my foe, hid masterfully under the guise of my friend like a wolf in sheep’s clothing!”

“It shall never be your foe! I remain your truest friend.”

“You are no such thing!” Jeongguk hurls his glass across the room. It explodes against a window, jolting the duke and the butler, and creating a crack that whistles with the draft. “How can you stand there and act as though you did not antagonise and ridicule me, as though you did not deliberately cheat to get your own way? Is your notion of companionship so abject?”

“My design began most differently. It cannot be overstated; this conclusion is most undesired.”

“I shall believe that. You certainly did not intend that your mask be stripped from you.”

The Regent paces around him like a caged animal. If he is anger and resentment, the duke is but fear. He fears for his life, which he might lose literally, or figuratively if he is exiled. He fears for his home: the building and the people who are his family and whom he shall never again see. 

He fears for Jeongguk, and the thought of him hurts most of all.

“What did you aspire to?” The Prince inquires. “You have riches, you have titles and standing. You have power, for it was granted to you, but you are unshackled from being the future monarch of the country, hence, you have all of those things, and you are free. What else could you possibly desire?”

The duke is unable to answer, for words fail him. His most immediate answer to the question of desire is the Prince himself, but Jimin should not like to add wood to the fire. His other reasons seem trifle in the face of such a catastrophe—all but one.

“You must answer!” the Regent demands. He is on the duke in two steps, grabbing him by the lapels and slamming him against one of the columns in the conservatory. Jimin’s head throbs, his migraine spreading to his entire head, but he is given no respite as Jeongguk screams.

“What favours should you aspire to in order to betray me?”

“I did not wish for any!”

“Lie not to me, duke; it has become quite unfashionable.”

“I wished only for the favour of your person!” Jimin reasons, frantic. “It mattered not whether I was your advisor or friend; you never heeded my advice!”

“It was a matter of your self-importance, then!”

The duke is offended. His eyebrows jump to his hairline. “If self-importance is involved, it is a matter of yours!”

“Oh, surely, I must be at fault for your deception.”

“You are the most entitled, willfully ignorant, tempestuous, self-serving, and selfish mule I have ever encountered, Jeongguk!” The duke spills, stunning the Prince into silence. He releases the hold on Jimin’s lapels, recoiling from the torrent of candour escaping his lips. “And yet since the moment we met, you have shown me care, and I have returned it in kind! I do not take this lightly, Jeongguk, not for a moment!

Never have you troubled yourself with temperance, yet from the instant the regency was bestowed upon you, you have become most wretched! Ceaselessly, I attempted to help, but lending an ear proved insufficient. Many a time, I advised you to mend your ties with the Parliament, for I believed it would have eased your burden. You listened not to me, heedless of how it destroyed you—and me by extension.

You must forgive me, for I could no longer bear to behold it. As you continued to dismiss my concern, both as your friend and your advisor, I had hoped you would listen to the facet of me who is Lady Whistledown. By the time I wrote that you might become ill like Our Majesty, it was not yet true, but my most sincere fear. At last, when the paper came out, you listened to Whistledown, though not in the manner of my design.”

As the greater part of the duke’s anguish is purged, his spirit is lighter. Perhaps the abrupt shift from secrecy to candour has given the Prince a kind of whiplash and affronted him. However, should the duke be banished for his honesty, he should like his words to linger with the Prince long after his departure, regardless of how hard they must be to endure.

Indeed, the duke suspects not the extent to which his speech has struck. It has stripped the Regent of weapons and all protective armour. Jeongguk is clad in his vests, yet utterly bare. He wonders whether the duke has always seen him with such clarity. Most of all, he is moved. For selfless devotion, in the life of a royal, is a most rare delicacy.

“I shall not ask for your forgiveness, for I know it is not earned. I am deeply regretful for how matters ended, though I stand by my intentions.”

“You are forgiven,” the Regent says, earning a gasp from the duke, “for your initial design. I believe you.”

“Jeongguk…”

“But not your actions thereafter. When I set out to uncover Whistledown, you ought to have told me immediately. Deception cannot lie in the foundations of friendship, or the building shall ruin.”

That mention of friendship escapes neither. The duke nods vehemently. “I understand.”

“You must keep no more secrets from me.”

“I shall not. Nevermore.”

The duke’s eyes are rimmed red from keeping tears at bay. The urge to comfort him, to cross the bridge recently rebuilt to embrace him at the apex, is most overwhelming. It is akin to losing and finding the halves of one’s self again.

Lacing his arm around the duke’s waist, Jeongguk pulls him close and holds him tight. Jimin holds him just as fiercely, and they remain connected in silence. The duke’s rib cage quivers against his hold, and the Regent knows he is sobbing quietly. It is in virtue of Jimin’s tears that he notices his own.

After quite a moment, the Prince clears his throat. “I should like you to stay.”

“It shall be my pleasure.”

The duke sounds choked by his own emotions. Jeongguk rubs his back soothingly.

“You can leave for Grosvenor tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

There is some shuffling from the corner. Quietly, Mr. Jung excuses himself to prepare a chamber for the duke’s sojourn.

The opening of the door wakes up the Prince. He peeks past the footboard at Mr. Jung swinging in with a tray set to break his fast. He looks far better than the previous day, but Jeongguk is most dishevelled and half-undressed in his nightshirt. The sight makes the butler halt.

“Good morning, Your Highness. I thought you ought to be awake, but I can return later.”

“Is it late already? I shall eat,” he says, and Mr. Jung sets the tray on the table by the windows. “Where is Jimin?”

“The duke is awake. Would Your Highness like me to bring him?”

“I would, thank you.” The butler bows and starts retreating. “Mr. Jung, I am sorry for yesterday. Not only for losing my composure, but for accusing you of treason and breaking your rest. You have been ever loyal and reliable, and I regret not trusting you. Take the week off and warn the first footman to take over your duties.”

“Seven days off service?” He seems puzzled. “Whatever for?”

“Whatever pleases you most.”

The butler slowly grins. His teeth are big and his smile heart-shaped. It is the first time the Regent sees it. “Thank you, Your Highness. Had I known a reward existed for being accused of treason, I would have found a way to incriminate myself earlier. Have a good day, sir.”

He departs, leaving the Regent equal parts baffled and amused.

Jeongguk sits at the table and munches on grapes, tomatoes, some cheese, and toast. The food does not claim his thoughts, but the duke does. Upon wakefulness, his mind reminisces compulsively on the events of the previous day. Most leave him quite sheepish. However, despite all the words traded, there is one matter which continues to puzzle the Prince.

It was never disclosed why the duke, who stood to gain nothing from either outcome, chose to impart that Jeongguk’s heart already belongs to someone. Given Jimin’s keen intuition of him, the Prince wonders whether a person exists to whom his affections are so instinctively devoted to have gone unregarded.

After his meal, the Regent lounges in bed just as the duke makes his entrance. Unlike him, he is most handsome and neat.

“Your Highness. Have you eaten?”

“Jimin, does your head hurt?”

They ask in unison, but only the duke bothers to reply. Treading closer, he touches the back of his head self-consciously. “Your worry is most flattering. I feel quite all right.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perhaps it is a bit tender.”

“May I see it?”

The duke approaches, sitting by the side of his bed and leaning closer to have his head examined. Holding his head gently in place, the Regent feels for bumps on the back of Jimin’s head. Upon reaching a certain area, the duke hisses and recoils.

“You must allow me to seek your forgiveness, duke.”

“Whence I am concerned, you shall always be absolved.” Jimin laces his hands with the Prince’s, setting them on his lap. “Your reaction was most comprehensible, and far less bleak than I feared. It is no small blessing to remain your friend.”

“I must agree, though not always have I been worthy of your friendship.”

“You most certainly have.”

“What sort of friend is so dismissive as to push one to folly?” Jeongguk asks, stroking Jimin's chubby fingers. “I have overlooked you while you watched me closely. You saw in me virtues and sins I was blind to, though that makes them not untrue. Hence, I must ask… Who do you suppose my heart belongs to?”

“Excuse me?”

The duke’s jaw is slack and his eyes slightly wide.

“In the issue, you said my heart already belonged to another. I suppose it shan't be Mrs. Fitzherbert, but I assume you think of someone. You have always been most insightful. Unless you planned to ruin my chances with any ladies of the Ton. Should that be the case, I cannot fathom how that would have helped me.”

“You did not honestly wish to wed, Jeongguk.”

“Yes, but I wanted to give the illusion of it, as discussed.”

“It was most ungentlemanly of you to carry that ruse.”

“Was it a false insinuation, then? Did you simply wish to help me act more gentlemanlike?”

The duke looks uncomfortable. He rises from the mattress and strides to a reasonable distance. “It was only yesterday that I promised not to keep any secrets. I should not like to start that promise by breaking it, but my reasons would faster have me hanged in the gallows than treason could.”

“Then tell me you must.” His words make the duke start pacing, dodging tables and armchairs. He watches his restlessness with growing worry. “What could be more damning than betraying your future king?”

Jimin heaves a breath and stops in front of the half-open curtains. From afar, his figure is slender, though shorter than the Regent himself. There is something pleasant about his form that Jeongguk never perceived in close quarters; something of dignity in his gait that gives not an unfavourable idea of his heart.

Ultimately, after all has been said and done, the Prince can attest to the correspondence between the duke’s exterior and what lies in his heart.

He fears not what the duke might reveal to him. Perhaps he never feared, always keen to deposit his trust in his closest friend.

“You must be sympathetic to the woes of forbidden affections.”

The duke faces away from him. He is looking at the windows, and if not for the absurdity of thinking one should ask the curtains for sympathy, the Regent might not have known he was being talked to.

“I suppose I am.”

“As Whistledown, I was most judgmental of your connection to Mrs. Fitzherbert. I disapproved of the predicament. Perhaps it is too late to say so, but I was not indifferent to Your Highness’ suffering, for I understand it deeply. And I am well aware it is most hypocritical of me to disapprove of the very thing I so desire.”

Jeongguk frowns. His marriage to Maria was never valid, though the Regent had wanted it to be. Their bond, now perished, brought both joy and sorrow. Though opposed, she and Jimin showed grace to one another. Had the duke harboured different feelings, he hid them well.

The Prince is ready to ask for clarification when Jimin turns.

“I remind you of the woes of forbidden affections, for I beseech your sympathy. I shall accept your scorn, your ire, and even the viciousness of the law. As long as I know a part of you holds a bit of sympathy, even if you cannot comprehend the ways of me, I shall find peace, whatever my destiny might be.”

Even from across the room, his eyes shimmer. The sight of his tears fills the Regent with dread that makes his own eyes sting.

“God almighty, Jimin. What is the matter?”

“I love you.”

His voice quavers. From a distance, it is feeble, and only the colouring of Jimin’s cheeks confirms the avowal of his feelings. The duke seems to grow aware of the issue of being heard, sidling to the footboard of the bed and clinging to the giltwood motifs of the frame as if they were his own life.

“Not a day has passed in which I did not love you. You have been my friend, my family, and my home for as long as I can remember. My feelings were born fraternal. But capricious foals they were, and soon they changed into beasts that, regardless of rhyme or reason, I could neither bridle nor banish.

I fancy not the opposite sex but my own. However, by the time the nature of my affections made itself known, I had already loved you for too long to quit it. You ask me who I suppose your heart belongs to, but I offer no intuition on the matter; rather, it was the folly of a longing heart which led me to spill its wishes on the page for all to see. I knew the Ton’s scorn would never bring you to me, but I could not live with the notion that you might find a more permanent home in Lady Hertford, Ms. Denison, or Lady Caroline.”

The Prince is yet to speak, rendered mute by the thundering in his ears. Jimin searches his face, certainly finding in Jeongguk's expression no reason to withdraw.

“I have since made my peace with those feelings. They are mine, though now confessed, they are yours to reject.”

For reasons that escape the Prince, it crosses not his mind to refuse the duke’s affections. The shocking revelations from the day before must have primed him for strong emotions, for this one does not strike him as outlandish. It is, in fact, quite delightful. Ladies do not commonly declare their passions, for which this is the first such occasion where Jeongguk has been the recipient.

Jimin’s feelings are a mythical creature he had lost hope of encountering. Someone to love him, with nothing to gain and all to forfeit.

The Prince’s chest thaws, and the duke’s words are the source of heat. His eyes are limpid pools of candour. At a moment, the reason for their allure becomes just as transparent; it is love, seasoned with desire, which has always lorded over the Prince.

“Show me,” he whispers. As the duke merely blinks, he clarifies. “Give me a taste of the love you speak of. I should not like to accept or reject what I have not yet attempted.”

The duke hesitates. “You must not discern what you request.”

“I have been acquainted with passion before.”

“Not with a gentleman.”

“But you have,” the Regent says, climbing out of the bed. He joins the duke by the footboard. “With a gentleman.”

“They cannot be purported to be gentlemen.”

The use of plural sends a jolt of dissatisfaction beneath his ribs. “Then I shall be your first.”

The duke’s eyes hop between Jeongguk’s as if to ascertain his words are true. Indecision seems to get the best of him, until his gaze briefly drops from the Regent's eyes to his lips.

Jimin’s resolve visibly shifts in the droop of his eyelids. He inches closer, his cheeks blooming a most lovely shade. His lips drop slightly open, and his breath fans Jeongguk's chin. The Prince finds himself anticipating what comes next.

Jimin's palm cradles his cheek. 

“That you should be my first remains most true.”

As the duke closes in, Jeongguk forsakes sight for the feel of his lips. They are soft, plump, and sublime. Jimin’s lips land as erratically and lightly as butterflies. He kisses with the hesitance and precision of a traveller adrift.

The Prince suspects not that a man with as many winters as the duke would be inexperienced in the art of kissing. Owing it to caution, he tugs Jimin closer and deepens the kiss. The duke goes willingly, relaxing into Jeongguk’s chest as their arms entwine. Jimin's lips yield to the breach of the Regent’s tongue in most heavenly a manner. The way he keens is most lovely and rousing.

Jeongguk is but a creature susceptible to the duke's charms. Had this tryst been sparked solely to attempt at a different type of love, the experiment could end now on a note of success. But as the Prince presses their bodies flush, attempting is not enough. They are aroused, their groins rutting together in a maddening dance that must not cease if he is to stay sane.

The duke gasps, emerging from the kiss as he clings to the Prince’s shoulders. Jeongguk uses the break to kiss and gnaw along his jawline. At his ear, he kisses down, but the path is obstructed by the high collar and cravat around the duke's neck. Suddenly, nothing is more abhorrent.

“You are frightfully overdressed.”

The words jolt the duke out of blissful departure. He peruses the Prince, his complexion becoming redder at his flustered state. “You are most undressed.”

“Then my attire is more fitting than yours.”

“A nightshirt?” Jimin smiles. “I have roused hours ago.”

“Perhaps it is time you return to bed.”

The playful smile that graced the duke’s lips fades to seriousness. Alongside the emotions already there, dread swims in his eyes. The Prince cannot fathom what he fears at the moment, but Jeongguk fears nought. Quite possibly, he has never been surer of another thing in his life.

“I do not wish you to regret this. It shall never be erased that you committed a sin.”

“If that is your concern, you are most delayed. I shall never forget that we kissed, either.”

“Neither shall I.” The duke’s smile returns. “I should like to be memorable.”

With a peck that turns heated for a minute, Jimin disentangles from him and marches to the tray laid on the table. He discards his clothes, creating a path with them on the floor. From the tray, the duke takes a small vial of olive oil which he sets beside the bed. He reaches the mattress in a loose shirt and silken pantaloons. That too goes away.

The duke is, at last, completely bare. His skin glows with an inner light. His lines are more resolute than a woman's, and yet they meander around his hips and thighs, inviting the Regent to become lost in them. His hairs lead a path to a region where he is both enticing and engaged.

“I have clad myself appropriately,” Jimin says, hitching a hand on his hip. His countenance is most courageous and proud, but the tips of his fingers inch onto his groin, betraying the sheepish need to cover his half-hard cock. “You are not yet clad for the occasion.”

“I suppose I am not.”

The Prince sheds his nightshirt. The duke’s gaze caresses his skin, from his chest to his abs, his thighs and shins. As Jeongguk closes in, his regard diverts also to his cock, half-standing and most excited. As the Regent embraces him, their erections glide together, eliciting groans from both sides. They kiss, now devoid of hesitation. They kiss and grind until their cocks are turgid.

“I must confess to be most inexperienced from this point onwards.”

“I see.” Jimin blinks, coming to his senses. His face flushes quite spectacularly before his next words. “I must become ready.”

Not knowledgeable of what readying oneself in the context of sodomy entails, the Regent watches. The duke fetches the vial of olive oil by the bed, then takes it onto the mattress with him. He kneels with his back to Jeongguk, then bends, leveraging himself on one forearm. His buttocks are curvilinear and supple-looking, unblemished, and the sight most tempting.

Unwittingly, the Prince reaches for his cock, stroking it as the duke pours some of the liquid on the crack. His movements are languid, measured, and fascinating. He sets the vial aside and daubs his aperture liberally before hooking in his middle finger, then its neighbour.

The intrusion must be most pleasurable, for the duke moans and sighs in rhythm with the movement of his digits. Jeongguk is transfixed, fondling the tip of his cock until it weeps. As Jimin introduces a third finger, his noises peak, and so does the Prince’s impatience. He climbs onto the mattress behind the duke, touching his thigh to regain his attention.

“If this continues, I shall reach completion on my own.”

“Yes,” the duke replies, laughing breathlessly. His face remains pink, though now the colour gathers in splotches across his cheeks. “If you are so inclined, I should like to ride you.”

“Ride me? As in a stallion?”

“As in a stud.”

The notion is most queer, for in Jeongguk’s experience, horses were never referenced in intercourse. The confusion must show on his face.

“Sit against the headboard, please,” Jimin says.

The Prince obeys, and the duke fetches the vial again to smear oil on his cock. As he coats it, his hands are far too small to span the entire length or width, and that too turns him on. Perhaps he strokes him more than strictly needed to cover every inch, but complain Jeongguk does not. The movement ripples waves of arousal, his breaths ragged, and his blood pumping.

The duke equally labours to breathe. He drops the act and sits astride his thighs, facing him.

“I shall start now.”

Jimin rises on his knees and guides the Prince's cock to his entrance. As he lowers himself onto his lap, the tip broaches his aperture, and he releases a silent gasp which the Regent mirrors. He is snug, wet, and most wonderful. The pleasure feels impossible, and Jeongguk has to cling to his haunches to assure himself he is not an illusion.

Once at the bottom, the duke starts moving. It is akin to riding, with his hips moving up and down and swinging back and forth. Jimin moans in tandem, seemingly lost to the woes of pleasure. Jeongguk is the stud, but Jimin is the one whose strong thighs move with powerful endurance. Of the Prince, no effort is required, simply that he lie and let himself be ridden.

He cannot withhold his grunts of pleasure, for the enjoyment of intercourse has never been this grand. Above him, Jimin slowly loses composure. Strands fall into his forehead, and his skin glitters with perspiration. It gathers like diamonds on his philtrum, and the Prince reaches for it, capturing his upper lip. It turns into a kiss, restricting the duke's movements but not stopping them. As Jeongguk enters him above as from below, he clings to his shoulders, moaning. His hips draw circular shapes, grinding mercilessly on his cock.

“You shall push me to madness like this.”

“I should like… to push you to completion,” Jimin breathes, showing signs of exhaustion. “But madness shall have to do.”

With a groan, the Regent snatches Jimin’s waist and clutches him close. He pivots to the side, and in a moment, the duke is under him. His eyes widen slightly, though arousal keeps them hazy. He poses a tantalising picture to the Prince, whose hips recommence the rhythm by thrusting into him.

The position is most familiar, allowing for instinct to take over. Jeongguk rams into the duke, garnering the most delightful cries as of yet. Often, a kiss or two is stolen which cannot last long lest the pace is dropped. Jimin's legs wrap around his midriff, spurring him deeper and faster. He is curled into Jeongguk, as if attempting to reach full conjunction between their bodies. And then the Prince does something that causes the duke to gasp in most delectable ecstasy.

“What’s the matter?”

“Change nothing!” He swallows. “Stay as you are and dare you not stop!”

The Prince follows and is rewarded with a litany of the same noise from before. It is but excitement which renovates disposition, thus propelling them both to completion. The habitual coil at his groin makes itself known seconds before he spurts his seed inside Jimin. The duke clenches around him, releasing lovely sounds as he too spills on his stomach.

Jeongguk’s head rests on Jimin’s shoulder, his entire body collapsing on him. A lady would be most inconvenienced by the weight and would beg him to roll off immediately. The duke, however, envelops him in a blissful embrace, seeking to keep the Prince inside of him.

“This was… enlightening.”

Jimin snorts but stays silent for a moment. “Was it enjoyable?”

“Certainly, yes.”

“Then I am glad.”

It seems as though he shall say more, and for a moment, Jeongguk awaits his words. But in the bliss that follows, Jimin reveals not what pesters him, and the Prince falls into a brief slumber.

"What would the Ton say of their next monarch’s indulgence in buggery?" is the first thing out of Jeongguk's mouth upon wakefulness.

Neither has yet found the wherewithal to go to the basin and refresh. The stickiness is most undesired, and yet parting seems worse a fate. They have moved so that Jimin is no longer crushed, hugged from behind by the Regent instead.

The duke laughs, caged in his arms. "They would be most aghast. As was I."

"You were aghast? The man himself?"

"I never expected you to indulge in my wickedness."

"Your wickedness, you say.” The Prince caresses along the sinewy line of Jimin's silhouette. “I should like to think it matches my extravagance perfectly."

Jimin does not dwell on what those words mean. From the beginning, he has guarded his heart from the unpredictable consequences of this encounter, but it was foolish to entertain the thought that he could be successful. The Prince’s mention of compatibility could be entirely carnal; the duke has had many an affair which remained entirely physical for its duration.

Such is the fate of persons like him. And yet with Jeongguk, he wishes it meant more.

“Near the end, you…” Jeongguk starts. “Something I did seemed more enjoyable to you than all else. I pride myself in my expertise, but never have I garnered such a reaction before.”

The duke frowns, unsure of what the Prince is referring to. Once comprehension befalls him, he bursts into laughter.

“You reached a part of me that ladies lack, I fear. They cannot reach such pleasure without it.”

“And it was inside…?” Jeongguk’s hand trails lower. It stops at his hip. “May I see it?”

The curiosity is most flattering, causing Jimin’s face to blush. He cranes his neck to the side, though the brazen nature of the request inhibits him from meeting Jeongguk’s gaze unwaveringly.

“You may.”

Enough oil remains to allow easy entrance. Jimin grunts as the Prince pushes two fingers in, feeling around for the spot which drove him to rapture. The exploration ought to be but a detached study of one’s body; however, the body in question does not know of this and reacts with arousal, sending waves of pleasure which originate from Jeongguk’s digits.

“Ah!” Jimin moans as the Regent reaches the target. “There.”

“What shall happen if I…” he trails off, finishing the question by pressing on the area. The feeling conquers Jimin, pushing him to hardness in not too long a time. In his thrashing, the duke feels the Prince’s own erection prodding at his back.

“Use the oil,” he pleads. “You must indulge me once more.”

Jeongguk enters him from behind, again and again. Jimin wonders if, like his body, the Prince could love and worship him.

Mr. Jung has his ear pressed against the Regent’s door, his mouth agape. Being granted a week off to do as he pleased forced the butler to consider his enjoyments, of which he could not recall one but the glee of spending time with Yoongi. Sending for Mr. Min had been most justifiable, as the duke was staying at Carlton House. However, seeing as, unlike him, Mr. Min was himself not off from service, Mr. Jung saw himself falling into the routine of servicing alongside his beau.

As the saying goes, God helps those who help themselves, for Mr. Jung’s deferring act led him straight to another of his greatest joys: gossip.

His hold on a tray of food for the Prince’s meal is precarious, his hands quivering with thrill.

“What is it?” Mr. Min asks.

“They are—T-they—”

“Are they quarrelling? If Jeongguk hurts His Grace, I shall murder him in his slumber. I care not that he is the heir to the throne.”

“They are—fornicating.”

Mr. Min’s jaw goes foolishly slack. “By George.”

“Yes!”

“You must have misheard.” Moving Mr. Jung aside, Mr. Min presses his own ear to the door. “His Grace has pined for…”

He trails off, and it is implicit in the look he shoots to Mr. Jung that Mr. Min has found in the lascivious sounds in the Regent’s chamber unequivocal proof of his claims.

“Forever. I know!”

“How is it possible? Why now?”

“It matters not how it happened but that it did, Mr. Min.” Mr. Jung ushers him away from the door, then hurries down the corridor with Mr. Min on his heels. “May God bless them. Bless them!”

The sound of a door closing rouses the duke, still tangled in Jeongguk’s sheets. The sunlight casts an oblique shade in the bedchambers, which is indicative of the afternoon. He is bare; his body aches deliciously as he stretches, his toes digging into the mattress. Another sound, this time a tray being set down, makes him raise his head and look for the source. The Prince is back in his nightshirt, helping himself to a lunch fare. Most timely, Jimin’s stomach grumbles.

“We have skipped a meal. I required Mr. Jung to bring us something to eat.”

“Did he see you in such a dress?”

“He did not. Though I told him you remained here and neither he nor Mr. Min were allowed to see you,” the Prince says, walking to the bed. He holds a handful of grapes, which he then offers to the duke. “I requested a bath.”

“Did you?”

“Two baths.”

“Hmm.” The duke catches the grape with his teeth, biting off half of it. The fruit gushes with juice that coats the Prince’s fingers, and Jimin watches him as he licks it off.

It is not dissimilar to the occasion with the nonpareils in which Jeongguk’s eyes were just as sultry and entranced. How the duke could have missed the spark crackling between them remains a mystery, yet now it provides him with newfound clarity and inspiration.

He licks his lips one last time, the surveillance garnered solidifying the idea in his head.

“A bath sounds magnificent and most necessary.”

As every intimate moment with the Prince might be his last, the duke must afford more. Though bathing is truthfully not required, it enhances his plans. After soaking off the oil and fluids and returning to the chambers in robes, Jimin halts the Regent with a soft, and rather clumsy, kiss.

“I should like to afford you great pleasure,” Jimin says, doing his best to maintain composure despite his hot cheeks. Coyness was never a problem with other partners, but when the heart is engaged, some measure of modesty seems unavoidable. “It shall be most pleasant to me, too.”

“What shall it be?”

“Please sit.”

Jeongguk takes an armchair, and the duke kneels between his legs. His robe, recently donned, comes off in favour of Jimin’s hands on his thighs and groin, and Jimin's lips wrapped around his cock.

Jeongguk’s seed spurts onto the duke’s tongue, who drinks it like nectar. The Prince is panting, his head collapsing to the backrest and his eyes closing. Jimin’s inebriated look might just stay etched behind his eyelids for the foreseeable future.

“By which means did you acquire such virtue, angel?”

Jimin moves, his fingers brushing Jeongguk's body as he rearranges the robe around him. His weight settles onto the Prince's thighs as he sits.

“Angel?” Jimin laughs. “Should this be the requirement to become holy, I should have gone to heaven many times over.”

Irritation flares inside the Prince, and his eyes snap open. “Have you done this before?”

“Evidently. I fear some virtues must be acquired in less than virtuous ways. Through practice.”

The duke’s lips are swollen and flushed, begging to be kissed. It is most indecent. Jeongguk cannot fathom that anyone but him could have been granted such a privileged sight.

“I reckoned you had not much expertise.”

“Why not?”

“When we first kissed, you seemed hesitant… Though I admit the possibility of sheer agitation.”

To the Regent’s astonishment, the duke has not a rebuke to his claim. His cheeks flush a beautiful pink, and he casts his eyes down to their laps.

“I should find that acceptable in the case of first times, is it not?”

“That was…” The Prince ducks his head, trying to meet the duke’s gaze. He tilts his head up by his chin. “Was that your first kiss?”

“Yes.”

Despite the most outrageous fact that the duke’s lips had never been worshipped as they should, the Prince’s chest beams with euphoria. Such neglect must not have been accidental.

“Has my lack of skill betrayed me?”

“Have you spared yourself for me?”

They stare intently at each other.

“You were most lovely.” Jeongguk cradles the duke’s jaw, stroking his bottom lip with his thumb. 

That Jimin’s mouth was never claimed thrills him, and that his body was claimed many a time leaves his ribcage in disarray.

That such issues matter to the Prince at all befuddles him, and that he feels compelled to seek answers to his troubles in the duke's body seems carved in sensible and flawless rationale.

“If I guarded myself, it was done not out of hope you would take it as a prize, but so my actions would point in the same direction as my inner compass,” Jimin says, his eyes alight. “Two bodies can be foes, but the lips are darlings.”

“I should like to believe that if the lips are dear, so is the rest. If your lips have only ever been mine…” Jeongguk snakes his arms around the duke's waist, pulling him against his torso. “I must warn you, I am notoriously greedy.”

“I have been warned.”

Their lips greet in an intense kiss. The Prince suckles on his Cupid's bow, then his lower lip, as Jimin twists and straddles his lap. His tongue plunges into the duke's mouth, his hands sliding under his thighs and heaving him closer.

Once close, the urgency gives way to calm. Their touches are reverent and curious, travelling over hair and shoulders, slinking under robes, discarding clothes that were just put on. The Regent inches to the edge of his seat and gets to his feet with Jimin in his arms, interrupting the duke's string of soft moans with a jolt.

Jeongguk lays him on the mattress, rubbing a palm from his bare heart to his ribs, to his fluttering stomach. “The oil is still plenty.”

“Coat yourself and join me.”

On the Prince's bed, their bodies reacquaint many a time. Like a word repeated, love tires of meaning, rests overnight, and regains meaning in the morn. It wakes, just so it can be used some more, lose and gain meaning again.

Perhaps the Prince fell when he nearly died under his horse's hooves.

But if love has only now felled him, two are his reasons to rejoice, for the duke has been bested.

It is most possible to fall in less than a week.

“Why would you publish that I have a gigantic ego?”

“Is it not most true?”

“It makes me sound awfully conceited,” Jeongguk complains while gliding fingers on his skin. The large scar on the Prince’s forearm, acquired at the accident with his stallion, is visible at their state of undress. On regular intervals, he kisses the duke’s shoulders, his neck, his jaw. Jimin’s skin bears witness to whatever has shifted, cherished in every inch. His heart swells with hope he dares not share.

Just as possible is that simply no strength remains to move after both relentlessly indulged in mundane delights. They lounge in bed for the second day, greeting the waning flare of the evening sun as one would the gates of heaven. It could be intimacy; it could be exhaustion. The duke shall not inquire.

“Did you not compare me to a horse more than once? What am I, a beast?”

“One could say so, given our current premises. Furthermore, as stubborn as a horse.”

“Is that why you created Lady Whistledown? To jest at me?”

Even at his depleted state, Jimin's heart has it in it to hurry at the question which digs so close to it. Should this be but an escapade in the grand story of their friendship, the duke should like to keep his reasons private and protected from ridicule.

However, even if this exploration amounts to nothing, no more damage shall be done from sharing his deepest desires than has already been caused by the avowal of his feelings and their joint venture.

The duke should like to leave with his pride, of which there is much to be found in vulnerability.

“I wished to marry. Growing a family of my own after Father died was my main goal. Of course, that changed when I met you, Mr. Jung, and then Mr. Min, who became my family, and soon the only family I could have if I were to stay true to my heart, as I wished not to betray it. I wished to forget about it. But as a duke, and as someone close to the royal family, I could not simply vanish and ignore the Ton. I had to watch others court and dance and flirt in brazen ways I shall never be allowed to.” Jimin shrugs. “One might look at me and think me guilty of lust, but I am more guilty of envy. I ruined your plans and revealed myself because of it, and I created Whistledown to gain some semblance of control. Being the person I am, that was the only way to do it.”

The Prince had stopped rubbing his arm as he listened. He now recommences, his lips brushing Jimin’s forehead.

“You must know I cherish your presence just as much. I have always considered that, as my advisor, you should move in.”

His answer further muddies the waters. The Regent wants the duke close, but to what end? Jimin's heart wobbles, undecided on floating or sinking. “That is most unusual. Your future consort shall not like such scrutiny.”

“I shall have no consort. I have thirteen siblings who are more than able to generate the next heir to the throne.”

“No marriage?”

“No marriage,” Jeongguk replies, catching Jimin's gaze. “But no more worldly conquests either.”

The duke's cheeks burn and he averts his eyes, failing to not read too much into Jeongguk’s words.

“If Whistledown bothers you, I could retire. Is that what you want?”

“I should not like you to do anything you do not wish.”

“I fear that both the reason Whistledown was created and the aim for which it was perpetuated have become obsolete, as all has been opened and clearly stated between us.”

The Prince muses on this, then sighs. “Regarding your advice that I should partake in the government, I find myself unequipped to deal with it as you wish.”

“Why not?”

“Out of the many aspects of royal life, cajoling is the one I detest the most.” Jeongguk grimaces. “Favours have been asked of me since I was but a child, for I was the first-born and thus the natural heir to the throne. From that point onwards, no person has approached me that did not aspire to some type of favour. To the exception of a few people including you and my Mother, nobody tried to win my graces who appreciated me for my qualities and not the favours I could grant upon their persons. When it comes to politics, it is all this but many, many times worse.”

Fastening his arms around the Prince, the duke kisses his neck several times. Jeongguk’s refusal to take part in the government finally explained, his avoidance of the matter fits in with the rest of him. It is not the lack of commitment which keeps him away from duty, but the pressing need to feel appreciated.

“Should you strip me of everything I own, I would still stay ever by your side,” Jimin says, devotion heavy in his voice. The Regent stays silent, though his eyes speak of gratitude. “However, the give and take of favours is the reality of life. People in all levels of society do it, for it is necessary to eat, dress, and maintain one's standing before one's peers. You are in a privileged position where no matter what you do, your position shall stay the same. Henceforth, though I understand and respect your sentiment, it is quite reminiscent of a spoiled child.”

The Prince gasps. “A spoiled child, you say?”

“Indeed, one with many whims.”

“I am unable to ascertain whether this new dynamic of openly stating what crosses your mind is beneficial,” the Prince complains. Breaking his serious composure, however, is a lovely, lovely pout. “I feel as though I have become a target of your words.”

“Such is the drawback of honesty, I suppose.”

“I am yet unable to assure whether I shall be able to seek the pardon of Parliament.”

“You must, and you shall,” Jimin says, and kisses him. “I shall hold your hand every step of the way.”

It is the last ball of the season.

Most curiously, the duke cannot be found leaning against a corner. The Prince requested his presence by the thrones, in the area designated for the Queen and the royal family. This is where he stands, in the spotlight, when the Regent finally arrives.

“Good evening, duke.”

He sports a magnanimous smile that the duke is unable to decipher. With a flourish, the Regent extends his arm in wait for his hand, which he gladly sets in his palm. It is not until Jeongguk touches his lips to the dorsum of his hand, in a gesture widely regarded as a harbinger of courtship, that the reason for his smile is wholly unveiled.

Jimin is breathless, his skin stamped with the memory of the Prince’s kiss.

“May I have a dance?”

The duke searches their surroundings, but Jeongguk’s act seems not to have offended even the most delicate of constitutions. They are all elsewhere employed, worried about their own pursuits. The Prince just courted him before the Ton, and no conversation was disrupted over it.

Jimin is led to the centre of the room, where a lively reel soon begins, bidding their legs and feet to dance.

“You seem most shocked, duke.”

“I am, indeed.”

“Fear not, duke. The eye sees not what it wishes not to see. I shall court you in public to the complete obliviousness of the Ton.”

The reel requires that they briefly part and dance with another member. Jimin's cheeks are afire and his heart most hurried. The respite helps not assuage what excitement he feels, as the Prince's words upon their reunion only make it beat faster.

“After I am done, you ought to move into Carlton House. I shall not dare to seek a reverend’s approval, and yet all other aspects of our lives should be indistinguishable from those of pairs whose union has been blessed. In the future, historians of a more evolved society shall doubt not what the reports about us shall entail. What do you say?”

The duke is most pleasingly shocked. “Your words bear a remarkable resemblance to a marriage proposal.”

“It is often the case that things which look a certain way are precisely what they seem to be.”

Jimin smiles.