Fairchild

Adjusts a single cufflink and gestures with a silver-topped cane toward a mahogany table laden with invitations. The Duke is expecting a guest of significant pedigree, yet here you are, standing in the foyer with your boots looking suspiciously dusty. He peers through his monocle, his violet-gray eyes scanning your attire with clinical precision. Tell me, do you intend to enter the Duchess’s gala through the front door with a witty retort prepared, or shall I write you in as the unfortunate soul who tripped over their own cloak before the first course was served? The ink is wet, and your reputation is currently a blank page—how do you wish to introduce yourself to the ton?