Colin settled deeper into the chair strategically placed in front of his bedroom window, taking his spyglass in hand and fixing it on the window across the square.

The candles were still lit, but any moment now it would go dark.

That was when she'd make her move... just as he would make his. It had been thus for a week now.

Before that, she'd been in Ireland... and Lady Whistledown suddenly had nothing to say.

Fancy that!

As for him, he'd been in Italy, France, and Spain, unable to enjoy any of it. Sure, he saw the sights, sampled the food, butchered the language just as he had before, but none of it felt as it had before. It should have been better. On his first tour, he'd been nursing a destroyed engagement and a broken heart.

This time, it was only a broken friendship. It should have been easier.

Why was it harder?

Perhaps it was because the sights seemed less somehow, without someone to share them with. His family replied politely, claimed jealousy, asked after his health, told him about their days, then dutifully asked where to send their next letter. They didn't ask questions or make fanciful comparisons or ask him to describe the tastes and sights in great detail. They didn't tell funny little tales of how their afternoon watching their sisters fight over the last lemon tart was surely just as exciting as watching two Balkan lynxes spar over a hare...

He didn't miss her. He didn't even know her.

How could one miss a friendship that had always been based on lies? Because it had been, hadn't it?

He started at a movement in the window across the square now, but it was only a maid, tidying up as his quarry pretended to go to bed. Any moment now, she would blow out the candles and he'd be ready.

God, he should just go to bed himself! This damnable nightly ritual was exhausting. He could just forget what he'd seen that first night and pretend she was, indeed, sleeping. None of this was his concern. None of this was part of his plans for the season. Not that he had plans for the season. If he did, they consisted of humoring his mother, escorting his sisters, then counting the days until he could leave again.

But once he saw her traipsing about at night, once he realized precisely how Lady Whistledown got her business done, he could not rest until he knew, at the least, that she hadn't got herself killed yet. How he wished he could just ignore it, ignore her.

Yes. That, if anything, had been his plan for the season, but even from that first day, she'd spoiled it...

*********************

One week earlier ...

*********************

Colin had meant to arrive before the season started, at least a week before Frannie was to be presented. But he'd not planned on the weather. He hadn't given it a thought, more fool him.

He should have been on an earlier boat, knowing that the Mediterranean waters obeyed no man in spring. He should have planned for such a thing, but he hadn't. It took two boats to get home and he'd arrived on his family's doorstep looking a mess. His duster jacket full of actual dust, his cravat undone, his red gloves a subject of merriment for his brothers. He'd meant to be there days earlier, dressed for Court, ready to do his duty by his sister... and if he happened to catch a glance of a certain red-headed demon when she arrived, he'd be prepared to see her.

As it was, his family greeted him, embraced him, and then — ultimately — teased him over his attire, his tan, his untied cravat. He smiled, he relaxed, he told himself there was plenty of time to make himself presentable, and plenty of time to prepare himself to see her.

Until he saw her, that was.

He was not prepared.

She descended from a carriage, just behind her mother, who slithered out, bundled in a green and white carriage blanket, a matching sleep-mask dangling from her fingers. Penelope, unlike her mother, hopped out, barely taking the hand of the groom reaching for her, landing upon the ground with a little bounce. He somehow expected her to look different now, perhaps dressed in black, hair slicked back tight and unforgiving, her eyes shrewd and villainous.

But she didn't. She looked as she always did. Red curls bounced merrily about her face and her gown was a bright, pale green. A garish green, he reminded himself. He certainly didn't like it. He definitely didn't think her hair shined like a bright, copper penny against her apple-green dress... which had ridiculous branches sprouting up from it that would surely poke her in the eye if she turned too quickly.

He waited for her to turn his way. Why? He didn't know.

Perhaps so she might stop smiling. She didn't deserve to smile. Yet there she was, smiling at her mother, at her staff, as if she had the right to smile... after all she had done!

"What has you so fascinated over there?" He jumped to find Benedict putting an arm around his shoulders and squeezing, glancing in his direction. "Ah, Penelope!"

"I wasn't looking at her," Colin mumbled.

"Well, you should," Ben prodded. "Perhaps you can lure her to tea. Mother says she misses her terribly. She is very tired of this silly little spat her and El are twisted up in."

Colin frowned heavily. "It's more than a little—"

"Ah!" Anthony crowded in on his other side now, also squeezing him. "The Featheringtons are back in town, too. Good! Eloise has been insufferable. Maybe having her little friend back will stop her moping about."

"She won't have her back," Benedict sighed. "They are quarreling."

Anthony nudged Colin. "Over what?"

"Why do you ask me?" Colin muttered.

"Because you know Penelope best. Perhaps you can put an end to whatever—"

"This has naught to do with me." Colin shrugged them both off. "Eloise can sort out her own quarrels." He certainly wouldn't be aiding in their reconciliation, not that Eloise would consider mending their friendship, even for a moment.

"But I'd bet you could help," Benedict cajoled. "I'm certain our dear Miss Featherington would listen to you, above anyone."

He turned to Ben. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Benedict rolled his eyes. "Come now, the girl hangs on your every word."

Yes, she might have once. And he'd sought her out time and again. It only made it hurt more, all she'd done in secret while pretending to be his friend.

"Aye, you could probably get her to forgive El in a thrice," Anthony added.

"Why do you assume Eloise is the one in the wrong?" Colin grunted.

"Experience," Ben said lightly.

God, if they knew... Not that he'd be telling anyone. He'd rather forget it all.

"El probably said something thoughtless," Anthony added.

"Aye, but it's not like Penelope to hold a grudge," Ben said.

"Look, if it's all the same to you two, I'd like to be left out of it." He shrugged both of them off. "I've just got off two ships and a very badly sprung hack."

"Someone's a bit cranky from his travels," Anthony chuckled before returning, with the rest, to fuss over Frannie.

"I'm not—" Oh, hell. He couldn't deny it. He was cranky. And seeing Penelope wasn't helping. He stepped away a bit, passing the carriage now blocking his view, telling himself he was just looking over the square after a long time away.

She had gone in, anyway, damn her!

"So is this how you plan to dress from now on?"

Colin turned to find Eloise at his side.

"I should warn you that pirate gangs are rare in these parts," she went on. "Your manner of dress will be most alarming at garden parties. Everyone shall surely expect to be pillaged."

"Welcome back, Brother," he muttered. "So good to see you safely returned."

She nudged him, laughing a bit. "Very well. I'm glad you're back. I'd even take your ramblings about the beauty of the open sea over yet more talk about court dress embroidery and," she shuddered, "feathers."

"Well, it is Frannie's first season." Colin looked Fran's way as Kate adjusted her hair, quite seriously imparting something to her about balance in the midst of all the other chatter.

"It may as well be mine," El groaned. "Mother's been having me share in Fran's dancing and deportment lessons. Apparently, mine didn't take the first time."

Colin turned to her, "Did they take now?"

Eloise gave him a wry look. "What do you think?"

Colin chuckled. "Thinking back, it's a shame I missed your presentation. Did the Queen approve of your posture?"

"Did you not hear? The Queen never got to me." Eloise smiled. "It was quite funny. There I was, the doors opening as I was nearly marched to my doom when everything was stopped. The Queen halted everything all because Lady Whistle—" She dropped her smile. "It doesn't seem so funny now."

Colin now knew a lot more about Lady Whistledown's exploits than he'd ever bothered to learn before, having read them all now, but this was new to him. "I suppose she wanted as much attention as possible for herself," he said stiffly.

"Sometimes I've wondered if she did it for me, some grand gesture to spare me the presentation, but you're likely right." Eloise shook her head. "I hope you didn't answer her letters."

Colin stiffened. He'd not received any letters and was quite surprised El had, but it felt strange to say so now. Not as if he was jealous. In fact, it was a relief. "Certainly not." How could he answer letters he'd not received. "Did you?"

"I didn't even open them. Nor will I," El said, her voice cold. "Sometimes I think I shall burn them."

Colin wanted to urge her not to, perhaps beg her not to, ask her to give them to him rather than destroy the only trace of evidence left that Penelope Featherington had ever been their friend.

Then again, he'd done that already — not only that night, in that room, but after...

He remembered it well, the fireworks exploding in the sky above, her face lit up in a mask of pain as he said the words that destroyed everything that was or ever would be of their friendship.

And he refused to regret it. She deserved every bit of it and more.

*******************

Present Day ...

*******************

Colin sat up straighter, noting that the window had gone dark. It wouldn't be long now. He readied himself, knowing full well she was doing the same, but it would take more time.

It was easier for him. He'd dismissed his valet without the pretense of dressing for bed. Ladies, he reflected, must not have such freedoms. He'd switched from his evening clothes to his traveling gear easily. He'd never needed a valet on his journeys. His cravats were simple knots, and that was if he bothered with them at all.

He quickly donned the rough blue breeches and shirt without the constricting neck cloth, the brown leather jacket and brown boots, the red gloves...

Pen hadn't seen him thus. She'd have no idea it was him even if she did catch sight of him. Nor would anyone else. Still, he donned a scarf, covering the lower half of his face and shoved a tricorn hat on his head.

In this, he looked nothing like a respectable Bridgerton Brother. In this, he had blended into the streets and alleys of Cypress, of Milan, of Paris and, this past week, of London. His leather duster might have been a fine bit of goods when he first bought it, but now it was weathered and worn, just how he preferred it.

No one blinked at him as he slinked through the maze of alleys surrounding Mayfair. He preferred that as well.

He had to admit, much as he hated it, that Penelope had also chosen her disguise well. Her weathered blue cloak and rough-spun dress, only glimpsed in seconds as she rushed from house to hackney, then hackney to print shop, might have been enough. But she added to it a certain theatrical flair.

He wasn't certain if this Irish accent of hers was a recent development from her travels, but it did stop anyone from looking too closely. Most of his compatriots cared little for the doings of the Irish. Hell, most wouldn't even hire them.

When he first heard her, barking at her printer in her harsh yet strangely melodic lilt, he'd thought it was someone else. Until he looked in the window to find it was, indeed, Penelope Featherington, banging her little fist on the counter and talking about her mistress' demands.

Of course, that wasn't the only surprise. Really, the biggest surprise was that he followed her at all because he hadn't meant to, not on that first night...

******************

Six days earlier ....

******************

Colin hadn't, in the end, attended Frannie's presentation. He did march upstairs and consider letting his valet force him into a bath and into court dress... in the minutes before his head hit the pillow with no hope of rising again, not for hours. He did hope he might wake to attend Lady Danbury's vaunted ball that started off each season — if nothing else, her menu was always impeccable — but he also slept through that.

When Colin woke, well past midnight, he considered being angry no one had stirred him, yet he was also grateful as he'd had little rest this week, between rough seas and his new inability to rest at night.

It was a new acquirement from his travels, one he wished to lose as soon as possible. But, as he woke, picking at the tray of cheese, fruit, and bread left on his desk, he realized tonight would not be that night. The world was still and he was wide awake.

He stared out his window into the empty square, wishing he'd got up at dawn when he could at least see the bakers and florists and green grocers, pushing their carts and peddling their wares for Mayfair's butlers, cooks, and maids. It would be rather nice to see the world waking up. As it was, there was only darkness.

He was just contemplating what book from Anthony's collection might be the most boring and most likely to put him back to sleep when he saw a sudden light across the square. He moved to his trunk, still packed despite his valet's protests, and retrieved his spyglass. He'd never been the sort of man to spy on his neighbors, but he was blandly curious as to who might be sharing the midnight hour with him.

He only realized, by the time he lifted his glass to that lit window, that the house he'd trained it at belonged to The Featheringtons. He nearly dropped it again.

Yes, he knew they lived across the square as they always had. He'd often walked there himself, but he never thought to spy upon them from his window. He really shouldn't be doing it now. Yet there was something about a lit window after midnight that made him see the house anew.

He jumped as someone appeared in that window, actually dropping his spyglass, grappling to catch it before it hit the floor, then lifting it to his eye again.

"You," he breathed, as if the person in the window could hear him.

Penelope could not hear him, of course, not all the way across the square. Yet she still looked strangely... furtive before she blew out her candle, as if someone might see.

Then there was nothing. He smacked at his spyglass, as if it was somehow broken, before realizing he was an idiot. Of course there was nothing more to see.

Penelope had blown out the candle and gone to bed, leaving him staring at what must be her bedroom window for no good reason.

He'd actually had no idea her bedroom window was situated across from his until now.

Not that he'd have looked in even if he knew. He'd never have violated her in such away, even if she had very few qualms about violating others. He certainly had even less interest now... not even when he saw movement at the side of the house, near the servants' entrance.

Yet he lifted his spyglass again, as a cloaked figure emerged — one that was quite obviously female. He didn't even know why he was looking, adjusting his view. It must be a maid going home for the night, stepping onto the sidewalk, looking up and down the street, possibly waiting for her husband to collect her and escort her safely home. He really should stop watching.

Yet he couldn't. Because it wasn't a husband that pulled up, but a hack. And it wasn't a maid that stepped toward it, but Penelope! The wind gave her away, blowing her hood away from her pale face and a shock of red hair escaped before she tucked it away and pulled her hood close again, stepping into the hack.

He'd rushed out, then, out of his room and his house. Stupidly, he realized, considering her hackney was long gone by the time he reached the street, staring up and down it helplessly. He had no idea where she had gone. He only knew she shouldn't have, not at this time of night! She could turn up dead!

Hadn't Eloise said she'd been very obviously using Madame Delacroix as her way to get her issues to print? Wasn't that enough? What had her traipsing about town past midnight?

He didn't yet know, but he would know.

*****************

Present Day ...

*****************

Colin pulled his coat close, signaling for his own hired coach just as Penelope stepped into hers.

The man pulled forward, ever at the ready...

Colin pointed down the road. "Follow that..."

"That hack with little red-headed thing in the blue cloak. Aye, I know," the driver, a sour-faced man called O'Reilly, droned. "Get in, then."

Colin stepped in, rather annoyed. It wasn't like he didn't pay the man handsomely. One might think drivers left to the whims of the late-night scene — likely involving lordlings casting up their accounts all over their seats — would enjoy something nice and mundane like following a young lady who did the same thing every night.

Yet Colin would not let that make him complacent. Yes, Penelope seemed to have some sort of routine now, one that did not involve Madame Delacroix, but that did involve her waltzing from her hired carriage, or hack, to the print shop, putting on her ridiculous accent, before waltzing back out with a heavy purse of coin.

He'd shadowed her for a week now, waiting for the moment she got into her hack again and made her way home before he could stop his chase, wait for her to disappear into the Featherington town house before he made his own way home.

Yet her hired hack didn't stay tonight. It moved on as soon as she stepped into the print shop. "What?"

"Should I follow it?" O'Reilly asked.

"No, damn it!" He didn't give a damn about the carriage. "We follow her!"

Colin hopped out himself, staring balefully after the hack now descending down the dark street, tempted to chase after it, ask the driver what he was playing at, leaving a girl without a way home.

Had she told him to circle back? She hadn't done that before. What was she playing at?

Whatever it was, he would see it play out.

He shivered and drew his jacket closed, staying close to his own hired hack, yet keeping his distance from the print shop.

He could be sleeping now. He could be out drinking at Mondrich's or gambling at Boodles or — God forbid — even Whites. Yes, there were a far too many bloody Tories there, but he at least knew some of them and might have a passably good time.

But no. He had to stand here in a damp alley, after midnight, in the quite chilly spring air because Penelope Featherington couldn't stay in her bleeding house and give him even one damned night of peace!

"Damn you, Pen," Colin hissed under his breath. "And damn Lady Whistledown."

************

This was a plot bunny I tried my best to ignore, but it kept hopping back to me. I want this one to be much shorter than my others, so let's hope I can get this one done without it being a dang novel. Wish me luck! 

Going to update my original, then the other Polin fics, then I'll be back with more of this. I hope you're intrigued so far...