Miss Chloe Barnett

Daughter of Charles and Christopher Barnett Lover of theatre and poetry. Rp blog for The Ton HQ

[chloe-barnett]

Grace Barnett - Intro

Character Introduction

Basics -

NAME: Chloe Barnett

FAMILY: HOUSE BARNETT - EARLDOM OF ORKENY

ROLE IN SOCIETY: Debutant

Sexual Orientation: Straight

Date of Birth: May 17th

Languages: English, Some latin

Appearance-

Chloe possessed a quiet sort of beauty that often went unnoticed beside the louder personalities of the ton. Blonde curls framed her face in soft ringlets, usually pinned back with careful elegance, though they never seemed willing to stay entirely in place.

Her green eyes were observant and endlessly curious, forever studying the people around her as though they were characters waiting to be written. They held a warmth that invited conversation, yet a spark of mischief betrayed the rebellious thoughts she kept carefully hidden beneath polished manners.

Her features were soft and youthful, lending her an innocent appearance that rarely reflected the sharpness of her mind. Fair skin, delicate brows, and expressive eyes made it easy for others to mistake her for a gentle, quiet young lady. In truth, she was opinionated, fiercely ambitious, and far more comfortable with ink-stained fingers than embroidered gloves.

Though she wore the elegant gowns expected of a lady of the ton with effortless grace, they often felt like costumes rather than reflections of who she truly was. Beneath the silks and ribbons was a playwright longing for a stage instead of a ballroom, a woman who looked every bit the proper debutante while quietly dreaming of a life that society insisted she could never have.

Positive Trait: Creative, honest, loyal, independent

Negative Trait: Judgmental, calculated, stubborn, holds grudges

Secrets for Plotting Purposes / Not Revealed

Chloe has secretly written a script for a play inspired by her relationship with her siblings. Her greatest dream is to have it produced under a pseudonym, never revealing the true identity of its author.

Chloe dreams of running away to become a governess, allowing her to support herself while writing and creating art without the judgment or expectations of society. However, she refuses to leave until her sisters are married and their futures are secure.

Under the cover of a disguise, Chloe regularly sneaks out to attend poetry readings and public script readings, immersing herself in the artistic world she longs to be a part of.

(AnnaSophia Robb) Goodness, [ CHLOE BARNETT] has arrived! [SHE/HER ] is [ 24 ] , of the [ORKENY ] [ BARNETT ], and a [ MISS ] . They are [ RETURNED ] to England and the season. This author has heard they are [ CREATIVE, INDEPENDENT, AND LOYAL ] but also [STUBBORN, JUDGEMENTAL, AND CALCULATED]. Accompanied by [ HER FATHERS AND HER SISTERS ] , there is much talk of their arrival and accepting calls but be warned: I have heard they [ ARE PLAYING HARD TO GET ]! (June, 29, gmt+1, n/a)

[edgaroconnor]

There was ink on her fingers. That detail held him more than the borrowed dress, the darker brows, the paint on her mouth. Ink was harder to disguise. It suggested thought, creativity, some private life carried beneath the costume she had chosen for the evening. Somehow, that made the name feel less like a lie than an invitation. He took her hand with careful warmth, his bow slight and unshowy. "Edgar O'Connor," he said. "Lover of theatre. Bigger lover of tea, I'm afraid. Though I shall try not to hold your poor judgment against you." The corner of his mouth lifted, gentler than a grin. He released her hand before the gesture could become anything too weighted.

The reading carried on before them, all solemn voices and restless paper. A few minutes ago, the room had felt close with old wounds - Frederic, Mary, Dominic, all the names that neither of them had invited and yet had arrived anyway. Now, the air seemed to loosen. Edgar was grateful for it. He knew enough about escape to recognise when someone was offering one. "All right," he said softly. "We start over.”

He turned his attention briefly toward the stage, where an actor had begun a speech with more confidence than sense. Edgar's eyes narrowed faintly, not unkindly, but with the pained interest of a man watching someone mishandle a delicate object. "I will say this for readings," he murmured. "They reveal very quickly who has understood the line and who has merely read it." His gaze returned to Chloe, warmer now. "And you strike me as someone who notices the difference." It was not flattery, not quite. More an observation he trusted her to understand.

He leaned back against the painted column, settling into the strange little privacy they had found at the edge of the room. For the first time that evening, he was not thinking of the play as something to endure, defend, or hide from. He was thinking of the woman beside him, with ink on her hand and theatre in her blood, brave enough to make herself someone new for the sake of remaining herself. "So," he said, voice low, "tell me what you think of the scene? Did you manage to catch the play, when it was performed at the Hayes theatre?"

[chloe-barnett]

Chloe chuckled as he commented on her take on tea. She knew that in England, uttering such words was worse than swearing in a holy place. "Believe me, Mister O'Connor. I have heard far worse insults than poor judgment," she said, offering him a smile.

A surge of electricity shot through her as her bare hand clutched his. She had offered it, and she knew it meant nothing more than an agreement to start over. Still, it sent a shiver through her body, an intimate sensation. Her eyes went to their connected hands and back up as soon as he had released it. His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue that one could easily lose oneself in.

And then he turned, back towards the actors, and Chloe blinked. The room had ceased to exist for a moment, and she needed a second to gather her mind. She turned towards the stage as well, but their voices were a distant murmur.

What are you doing, Chloe? she thought to herself. You are an independent woman with dreams far bigger than those of marriage and childish fantasies of love.

At his compliment towards her, she managed to focus her mind back on what was happening. Her feelings were pushed aside for what was truly important. Theatre. Her craft. "Thank you for that observation. I shall try my best to be worthy of such kind words."

The scene that played before her was from a play she had indeed seen before. Lady Eveline Hart. The scene the actors were currently reading, or struggling to read, was that of when Lady Eveline discovers her pregnancy. Chloe could only imagine the terror that would be going through her mind if she had been in the same position. Everyone acted as if birthing a child was this great miracle, but Chloe knew better. It was a curse, a disease. A potential life sentence. The actress currently reading for Lady Eveline Hart portrayed none of those emotions. She seemed shocked and confused.

"I believe the actress does not do the character justice. Or perhaps it was the playwright who wrote her in such a way that one might misjudge her. She is a married woman, yet she is shocked and confused as she discovers a pregnancy? As if she did not know how it could come to be? It portrays women as ignorant. And whether that be the fault of the playwright or the actress, I have not decided."

She looked at him with a small shrug. "I saw the play, yes, but I find I do not care much for it, if we are entirely honest. The premise is promising. Showing a woman trapped in the cage of marriage. It portrays marriage in a truer light than most playwrights dare write. I shall grant him that. However..."

A pause, as her mind went searching for the right words. "The solution that the man who wrote it offers is for her to fall in love with yet another man. And it is insulting. As if a woman cannot rescue herself, or make a fulfilling life for herself while still remaining loyal to a loveless marriage. Not to mention that the playwright uses pregnancy as a plot device, to add tension and drama. How predictable. A woman's story is defined by two things: love and childbirth. What of other interests? Other pursuits?"

She took a deep breath and smiled apologetically at the ground. "Forgive me. I... when it comes to theatre, I find I do not know how to hold my tongue. I just find it is not often people ask for my actual opinion on the matter."

[youngoconner]

Frederic gives her a little scowl when she says that. He knew full well that Chloe was faking it- that she was trying to hurt him. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Now, I know you knew that's not what I meant," he tells her with a roll of his eyes.  He wasn't going to let her win or admit to any faults. That's not him...wasn't it? He never could do that.

He knew what she acted like this- they were once friends. He thought of her as a sister....he didn't see her after the engagement. He was too embarrassed and ashamed. He was full of *grief* of what he had lost. He didn't have time to think- he knew he had abandoned them, but what was he meant to do when his brother had warned him?

"Well, I wasn't planning on speaking to you," He said as he looked towards the stage. He didn't want to say sorry- he didn't want to admit his wrongs. "Though I'm sure this play was right up your alley," He offered in hopes of knowing theater distracts her enough. "It was lovely. I've recently wondered what writing a play could be like"

[chloe-barnett]

Chloe's brows rose in shock as he mentioned planning to speak to her. "Were you now? Was that before or after running into me tonight?" she said with a sarcastic smirk. Saying that one had intentions was certainly far from actually meaning those intentions would ever come to pass. After all, actions speak louder than words was a famous saying for a reason.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes as he mentioned wondering what writing a play could be like. Of course Frederic would wonder about that, with his nose constantly buried in that notebook. She used to find it inspiring. A kindred soul. She was a writer herself, and she saw herself in him, even if she never admitted to her own secret dreams. Unlike him, she did not wonder about writing a play—she had put it into being. She had actually written a play.

"Of course you would wonder about that," she said, with a small shake of her head. "People watch one play, and suddenly they believe they can write one as well." She took a deep breath, trying to keep herself calm. "Just because you write does not mean one can write a play. It requires deep knowledge of the medium in which one writes. A play is as different from a novel as a novel is from poetry."

Suddenly, she smiled at him, though there was no warmth in her smile. "But very well then. What would the great Frederic O'Connor write a play about?" Her brows shot up in a dramatic, sarcastic fashion. "Oh, how about a new take on Romeo and Juliet, where Romeo decides to leave Juliet alone in her feigned tomb instead of joining her? I bet your older brother would pay any theater quite generously to present such a work of art."

[dasxnalan]

There was much to be said about the Barnett family, of how close they were to destitution and now, thanks to the new Earl Drake, they were saved and such a sudden influx of money had the rest of London suddenly forgetting of how they had all shunned the family following a certain newspaper announcement, though Nalan had noticed something quite peculiar. Despite the increase of money, each of the sisters still had not wed or had any offers, proving to Nalan Das that English society was forever the same, they did not like outsiders marrying into their select group even if they would save them from destitution. “Oh I would have some ill feelings towards her, Lord Austen is renowned for trying to saddle her off to anyone and with your brother’s new money added to your purses, the whole of London has begun to see your family rather differently than before.” A desperation was almost shared by Nalan Das, he had wanted his sisters married off to respectable families only for his own gain, once his sisters were settled then they would focus their attentions on Nalan and he would be free to marry whatever high ranking, influential person in London, he simply needed to bolster himself through their marriages. “I find that admiration does not limit ones intelligence on certain subjects, such a passion and interest in a subject makes a person more of an expert than most. Do you watch these productions or do you have dreams of joining them, I have heard a lot of society wishing to be part of such things if only it was not for the stigma attached to the actors and actresses.” 

[chloe-barnett]

Chloe's head tilted slightly as she processed his words. There was a moment of disbelief at just how comfortable he was speaking openly about people's reputations and her family's finances. It was a bluntness that she was not used to. In many cases, it would have impressed her, and might even have earned her respect. Yet it settled differently when it was her own family he was discussing with such calculation.

"My, you are bold, are you not?" she said, opening her fan before beginning to gently send a splash of air her way. She suddenly felt warm, not from being charmed, but from concealed rage. "Yes, my family has begun to be seen quite differently after my sister's marriage. Which makes me quite aware that certain attentions have little to do with me, and perhaps more to do with what my family might have to offer."

She held her eyes locked with his, not looking away, not wanting to look weak or easily charmed. This man had never approached her before her family had money, so why was he approaching her now? Still, she made sure her piercing gaze was not too harsh. After all, he had been honest and straightforward. Perhaps she was judging him too harshly, but he had yet to convince her his interest was genuine.

As he began speaking of theatre again, and asking her if she dreamed of joining the production, she had no choice but to look away. There was certainly no way for him to know. Right? This man who spoke so openly about so many matters. Who seemed to know people's own secrets. A thought crossed her mind. Could he be Lady Whistledown? Hiding behind a female name in order to conceal his identity even further. Perhaps she could plant a seed.

"I admit," she said, returning her gaze to him. "I have often dreamed of being an actress, but then again, what young girl has not? But I know that is entirely impossible. I know my place," she said with a polite smile. It was a half-truth. A woman carrying a childhood dream of being an actress was far more innocent and unassuming than that of a woman who had written a script, currently hidden under loose floorboards. Now, if Lady Whistledown chose to include information about such a dream, then perhaps she was one step closer to finding the cause of society's troubles.

"Do you carry any secret dreams, my Lord?"

[carriebradshawdaily]

THE CARRIE DIARIES (2013) 1.01 "Pilot"

[edgaroconnor]

From the front of the room, some poor actor was reciting a speech about duty. The timing was almost wicked. Edgar might have laughed at it on another evening; quietly, perhaps, into his hand, with enough irrecerence to disgrace his house anew. But Grace Barnett stood before him with pain drawn tight across her face, and suddenly the theatre seemed too small for any easy humour.

Duty. Reputation. Family. Names. God, but men did love those words when they wished to make cowardice sound clean. He looked at her, not at the disguise now, not at the darkened brows or painted mouth, but at the girl beneath it who had once sat close enough to his family's wreckage to feel the heat of it. Mary's and Harriet's sister. Another Barnett woman expected to endure what O'Connor men had arranged, broken, or failed to repair.

"No," Edgar said at last, softly."It is not sweet to abandon someone." The answer was plain enough to feel almost brutal. He resisted the instinct to dress it in charm. Charm had carried him out of too many rooms in his life. It had no place here unless it could carry truth with it. "I call Frederic sweet because he is. I do not call him brave because he has not always been so, and he knows it."

His gaze drifted, briefly, to the stage. The actor had placed a hand upon his chest with great solemnity, declaring obedience a noble suffering. Edgar's mouth tightened. "There is a difference, I think. A man may have a tender heart and still leave other's bleeding because he cannot bear to look at the wound. In fact, sometimes the tender-hearted are very good at running. They feel the pain so keenly they mistake escape for survival."

Edgar loved Frederic, naturally - he was his brother. That was the difficulty. Love made a man want to explain. Honour required him not to excuse. "Mary deserved more from him," he said, looking back at Grace. "But Frederic is not cruel, Grace. He's frightened, and too willing to let shame silence him when speech was owed. But not cruel." He let that distinction stand, fragile as it was. "Perhaps that does not matter. Perhaps the wound feels the same whether it is made by malice or by fear. I only mean that, if he failed Mary, it was not because he loved her lightly."

Edgar glanced again toward the actors, where the speech on duty had finally ended. How tidy plays made such things. How neatly people suffered when written by men who did not have to live afterward with the consequences. "In any case," he said, quieter now, as his eyes returned to hers. "You need not be gracious with me. Not about Frederic or Dominic. Not about any of us. Your family has been asked to behave gracefully enough while hurting."

[chloe-barnett]

Chloe was fiercely loyal to one thing, and one thing alone. Her family. Her sister meant more to her than anything in the world, and if anyone ever had anything ill to say toward them, she would defend them recklessly. To her surprise, that was not the approach Edgar had taken. Here he was, discussing Frederic's flaws with her. He was admitting that his little brother was a coward, or at least lacking in bravery. He had even called him frightened.

His words made her forget her own as she quietly processed every one he had said. He had acknowledged her wound and even given her a chance to speak without grace. He had even included Dominic, which made her smirk slightly. Speaking of him gracelessly, she'd have no problem. Frederic was harder, because she cared for him, or she had, at one point. She knew Mary still did as well, even if she tried to hide it.

She looked back at the actors, but her gaze was unfocused. Instead, she was deep in thought. What did she have to say? What did she even want to say? She spent so much time alone in her bedroom each night, silently cursing the sky, some distant God above. Now that she had been given the space to speak freely, she found she had no words. Chloe did not know if it was because there were no words in the English language to describe her experience in this world, or if it was because a part of her wanted to spare his feelings and avoid causing a rift between them.

"I could say many things..." she eventually said under her breath. Her eyes remained on the performance. Actors reading the lines but not truly understanding them. Not having truly lived them. "I could curse their names or pick apart every flaw of their insufferable personalities but..." She sighed and turned to him with an empathetic expression. She did not try to hide the pain. It was clearly visible in the curve of her brows and the gentle pout of her lips.

"But I find I do not want to. I want this..." She gestured between them with her ink-stained hand. "Whatever this is... to be ours. Edgar and Chloe's. Not stained by the relations of the O'Connors and the Barnetts."

She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders back. As she did so, she caught a small whiff of lavender. She knew that scent anywhere. The most comforting and soothing smell in the world. He smelled like home. He smelled safe.

Instead of commenting on it, she gave him a polite smile with a hint of mischief. "Let us start over, as friends. As two strangers who connected over theatre, and nothing more." She reached out her hand to him, letting it hover in the air. "Chloe Barnett. Lover of theatre. Hater of tea. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

[mayfaera]

The landscape painting was beautiful, it reminded her of the large countryside she had seen when traveling to Virginia for work in DC. The colors used for the sunrise were exquisite and very lifelike. Aera had seen a sunrise just like it before, and it made her feel nostalgic. She missed home.

She was lost in her own thoughts when the young lady spoke again and Aera smiled kindly. "Of course you can. I was just writing about how realistic the colors are." She motioned towards the painting ahead of them. "The way the orange blends into the yellow, and the little hints of blue and purple as well? How it all fades into one another so seemlessly? It's stunning." She sighed softly, her eyes practically sparkling as she took in the picture. "Sunrises are one of my favorite things to look at, if you could not tell." She chuckled sheepishly and offered the woman another smile. "And what do you think of the painting? You do not have to be as elaborate as I was." She assured with a soft chuckle.

[chloe-barnett]

Grace considered the woman's words as she described the painting. Her gaze traced the colors she spoke of. Whoever she was, she clearly knew the craftsmanship. Yet the most stunning view was that of the woman herself. More than anything, Grace loved watching people. They were alive in a way paintings could never be, especially when they spoke of things they loved. Their passions.

"I can see why people would be drawn to sunrises. New beginnings. The sun keeping its promise to always bring light after the darkness. It is quite poetic. I myself am too much of a night owl to truly appreciate them. I tend to sleep through them, unless our maid feels unnecessarily cruel." She jested.

Her focus returned to the painting as the woman asked her what she thought of it. "Unlike you, I am not familiar with the craftsmanship paintings like these require. But I enjoy the emotions it brings me. It feels..." She paused, searching for the right words. "Calm. Hopeful, even. Perhaps that is why I am so drawn to it. Like I mentioned, the only thing one can truly trust in this world is that the sun will rise again. Even if it sometimes feels like it may never."

Grace realized she had been rambling on again and had made it all about herself. Was that not what pain did to people? Made them selfish in their desire for attention. Their feelings so overwhelming it became impossible to hide. Grace's world was burning to the ground, and all she could do was stand by and watch with a polite smile? No, thank you. Still, this stranger did not deserve her fury.

"Why do you like sunrises?"

[dreamspenned]

For Mary, nights had often been less about sleeping and more for her various evening activities ( writing before her engagement broke off, sneaking out in men's clothing to plays, to speeches, to taverns turned to wailing and pacing and breaking down after it broke off, and now, she is staring at the walls and holding her pen again ). Though time changed, her stance on the dark hours being wasted extra hours of the day did not and she lived like the creature of night and shadow in her books, more alive in the dark than she ever was in the light. Tonight, she had been trying to write and for the first time in months she had finished a chapter, two, three, almost a fourth when she heard her sister's knock immediately and did not hesitate to sit from her desk and tuck away her novel in it's usual hidden place.

" Dear Gracie, you should know by now you never need to knock, nor you are always welcome inside of my room. My hiding place, my sanctuary is yours as well as mine. Always. " She said before she had even opened the door, and as she did, there was a gentle smile on her face, taking her sister's hand in one of hers and guided her inside, the other closing the door again.

Despite being awake, there was a certain weariness within Mary, one that had been lingering within her since the ball. Ill , perhaps, though she had yet to call it that, ever stubborn despite her state. The diamond of the season could not have time to sleep or for weakness and, more importantly, neither did Mary Barnett. There was always a task to do, something that needed to be done and Mary would see it done. Right now, that task was caring for her sister and making she ailed well.

She squeezed her hand tightly, scanning her eyes. " Sit. On my bed. On the chaise. At my desk. Whatever would be most comfortable for you. " She moved to pour a glass of water from the pitcher by the nightstand for her sister, and as she handed it over, she looked over her once again, hoping she might see what was haunting her sister. " Sit and tell me what is haunting your mind and tell me what I can do to scare it away so that you may get the rest you deserve. "

[chloe-barnett]

Grace accepted the glass of water with a gentle smile, one that carried the meaning that she had not needed such a generous gesture at all. "Sister. I am one year your elder, yet you act as if you are Elizabeth." The sister let out a quiet chuckle that sounded more like a sigh.

"I knocked because... well... you have not been yourself lately... ever since... well." There was no need to mention it. They both knew she was referring to Frederic ending their engagement. Instead, Grace climbed up into Mary's bed and patted the spot beside her. Her own back leaned against the headboard. Her sister had been so strong through this whole ordeal, and Grace admired that, yet she also wished that Mary would let her in, so they could grieve together.

There was a bone-deep empathy clearly visible on the blonde girl's face as she looked at her sister. "I myself am struggling with the loss of Frederic from our family, and I saw him only as a brother. I know whatever you must be feeling is much worse. And I want you to know that you are not alone. I will burn down the O'Connor townhouse and drive a wooden stake through Dominic's ice-cold heart if it means making things right." Another sigh escaped her lips.

"Yet I know that is not what you'd ask of me. So I shall not. For you. Just please... my dear sister. Let me in. I can hold your emotions, whatever they may be." Grace knew she was rambling, saying too many words that might not even get through to Mary, but there were no poetic or wise words that could make any of this right.

[youngoconner]

Frederic had a spark in him as of recent- ever since that play.... He had the urge to write a play. He's never written in that style before, and he's eager to see more plays to help. He managed to get tickets for the play tonight. He wonders how it'd be to write something and see it play out.

How wonderful would it be to see all your hard work play out before you?

It'd feel like seeing someone out reading your book- he had once seen it. Someone reading the published work he was part of. to see slight reactions to the words on the page.

Nothing could really beat the feeling of sharing his passion and seeing the reaction to it all.

He wasn’t going to change to just plays, but he did want to try it out…..

He hadn't noticed Grace Barnett at all too much in his own thoughts about the play and everything involved in it. It only took a few moments for him to realize she was speaking to her father and not him, but the man was nowhere near. good. He felt dread facing the man- He hadn't seen him since... He shook his head.  

"Your father got distracted, it seems," He said as he had his hand behind his back. He was once friends with the Barnetts. It feels odd interacting with them. He's almost on edge, and he wants to bite Grace out of reflex.

If he looked back, he could see that the older man was stuck talking to some other lord. How boring. "How troublesome and boring"

[chloe-barnett]

"Oh, Frederic. Do not say such harsh things about yourself." Grace said, with a polite and considerate smile that would fool anyone except those who knew her. Those like Frederic, who had once felt like a brother. Grace knew perfectly well that the younger O'Connor had not been speaking about himself, yet pretending to interpret it that way gave her plausible deniability if he was to be offended. Something the blonde Barnett sister hoped he would be. A part of her wanted him to hurt. To feel small and insignificant, as he had made her feel.

It was Mary's heart he broke when the engagement ended, yet Frederic had done little to seek out Grace and apologize to her, or even admit that he wanted to remain friends, even if it had to be hidden away from the watchful eye of his elder brother. He had abandoned their entire family in their time of need, when a friendly connection between the two families would have helped Grace and her sisters immensely.

"Did you need anything, my Lord?" Grace asked, her green eyes piercing into him. There was accusation there, surely. But underneath it all was a deep desire for him to at least admit that he knew he had hurt her, and that it had not been easy for him. Some sort of acknowledgment that their relationship had mattered, even if it had been a familial one.

[prinxesssophia]

There were many things one gained from expanding their world view, be it a change of environment or a simple change of dress, there were many things the princess had tried to get a better understanding of the world. A trip to a different theatre was just that, and there was untapped potential and talent within these walls or perhaps it was simply something new the princess was trying. In a world where too many were pitted against each other, it was refreshing to see people come together to embrace other’s talents. “Not at all, I am not so set in my ways that I can not enjoy other’s views, even if they differ from my own. The Theatre Royal is a long and established place, but with that can come compliancy, with my attendance here, perhaps the Theatre Royal will understand that my patronage is not always guaranteed.” It all seemed rather duplicitous but as a princess of England, Sophia had responsibilities to society and most of which was to simply be seen in the right places. Being seen in Heyes Theatre sent a message that did not need words, the princess was not happy and could possibly be seeking her entertainment elsewhere, for what was society if not sheep who followed the person with the shiniest and biggest crown? “I do enjoy watching it, but I admit that I prefer to watch than partake in such things. I am an adequate singer, quite the actress but I do not have the discipline for the craft. What of you, Miss Barnett, how do you fill your days when you are not here?”

[chloe-barnett]

Grace was taken aback by the princess's open honesty about her patronage of Theatre Royal. Her brows rose slightly in quiet awe and respect. The princess, Grace imagined, had a certain freedom to speak her mind that Chloe longed for. Well, she did speak her mind, perhaps more than she ought to, but to Princess Sophia, those were qualities that seemed to reshape the world, not ruin her family.

"I hope Theatre Royal receives the message well, and continues to make inspiring art pieces for all of London to admire." She said, keeping it polite.

Grace's shoulders lowered slightly as the princess seemed to be much more down to earth than what she had imagined. It was easy to imagine royals as so disconnected from the world, but Sophie seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. As she turned the question back on her, Grace couldn't help but blush slightly. She did not enjoy being in the spotlight like that.

"Me... I... well... Unlike you, I fear I am not even an adequate singer, and not much of a musician either. I am, I fear, bordering on tone-deaf. Perhaps that is why I am drawn to theatre and poetry." A soft, self-deprecating smile graced her lips. "So I fill my days with books. Reading scripts, novels, and poetry. And occasionally I write in my diary, or letters to distant cousins I so dearly miss. I expect your days must hold many more engagements and inspiring outings that burying oneself in an old book"

Oh, how a part of Grace dreamed to have her power and influence over the world.

[elliottxcarlisle]

When the fair had come to London Elliot knew that he was going to have to go and visit it for himself. Excited to see what curiosities and fun they sought to bring. He was actually quite impressed by it, and as he wandered about, he paused when he saw the tent of a fortune teller. In the army, he and his men had discussed higher mysteries, magical powers, the vast unknowns of the world. Elliot was educated, though, having studied at Cambridge. He saw himself as a man of logic, science, and rationality, and yet sometimes he had a childlike wonder of wanting to believe that some magic was real. That was when a voice spoke to him, pulling him from his focus on his thoughts around the sign, the fortune teller, and asking if he believed in the magic of the teller.

"Maybe I am, considering getting my fortune read. Remove a little mystery from my life. If such a power even exists." Dark magic, he supposed, or perhaps people truly gifted. Though he imagined that for someone to truly be gifted, they would be far and few between.

"An experiment? Tell me what are you thinking? Nothing that could potentially anger the magical forces of the fortune teller." Regardless if he believed or not, these were not the type of people Elliot would seek to cross. They were wanderers, and well.....what would stop them from seeking some type of vengeance if crossed.

[chloe-barnett]

Grace tilted her head, and one eyebrow rose as she looked at him, trying to consider if his words were genuine or not.

"My Lord. If such a power even exists, do you believe those wielding said power would spend it for petty coin at a traveling fair?" She shook her head in response to her own question. "The oracles of ancient Greece were powerful women. Feared and respected. They advised leaders, lawmakers, and generals. They did not set up a tent and entertain the masses."

Hopefully, her words had convinced him to a great enough degree that he would be willing to entertain her proposition. She put on her most endearing smile and fluttered her eyelashes. The only thing missing would be a fan, and she would look as a flirtatious debutant. An exaggerated version of one. An act."If you could be so kind as to be my betrothed for a mere fifteen minutes, then we can surely find out if this fortune teller truly possesses the gift she speaks of." She stopped her act and turned into her regular self again. A curious skeptic, and not a wanting debutante.

"I need someone to act as my entirely besotted betrothed. I want to see if she will shower us with the typical nonsense she tells all the couples of the ton, or if she will see through our act." Her face was that of a mischievous teenager, despite her being well into her twenties. Some things never change.

[edgaroconnor]

The word 'repay' sat badly between them. Edgar noticed the step she took, the brush of purple silk against his shoes, the small, dangerous glance that fell to his mouth before rising again. He noticed, too, the courage it cost her to stand so near and pretend she was not afraid. Another man might have mistaken it for an invitation. Edgar did not.

He thought of Mary Barnett first. Of Frederic, pale and ruined by what had been done between their families. Of Dominic's careful hands arranging other people's lives until love itself had become something to be negotiated, broken, and tidied away, like in Romeo and Juliet. The Barnetts had already paid too dearly for the O'Connor name. Edgar would be damned before he made another Barnett sister purchase mercy from him in a dark corner of a theatre.

His expression sobered. "Ms Barnett," he said quietly, correcting himself from the false name without triumph, "you owe me nothing." He gave the words no flourish, no flirtation. Only the plainness they deserved. She was angry, and she had every right to be. If she looked at him and saw the shadow of his brothers, of money, rank, cowardice, and ruined promises, then Edgar could hardly call her unjust. He had spent much of his life escaping responsibility with a grin; he could not now complain when someone expected the worst of him. But he would not be that man for her.

"I will not blackmail you," he said, his voice kept low beneath the actors' droning. "Not tonight, or weeks from now. Not when it might be convenient. And I will not take payment for keeping a lady safe from a scandal she never deserved." His gaze held hers, steady and unadorned. Still, he understood what she was asking for. Not seduction; she wanted balance. A weapon in her hand because she feared the one in his.

"If you require a secret, then take this one: I am sure you have heard from the scandal papers, that I have chosen sobriety. I did not reform because I became good. I stopped drinking because Frederic asked it of me. Too many times, our oldest brother, Dominic, has picked me up, bottle-weary in the middle of the night, from jail. And it has caused too many arguments; something that sweet and sensitive Frederic should not have to endure." The confession was quiet, but it cost him. Not because it was the worst thing he had ever done, but because it was true in a way London would make ugly if given the chance. "So there," he murmured, with the faintest, tired curve of a smile. "If I betray you, you may tell them Edgar O'Connor's great improvement was not honour, but fear. I would rather you did not, naturally. I am vain enough to prefer the prettier version."

[chloe-barnett]

Grace's lips parted slightly as she stepped back, giving the man space as he confessed to her. She had indeed pushed and probed, demanding equal means of destruction, but it was not until a secret was truly delivered in return that she realized she hadn't actually expected it. Edgar held all the cards, all the power, and he had handed it to her like it was the simplest thing. It was even delivered with a ghost of a smile. If anything, that had earned him her respect. It was bold, and it was captivating.

"I... I admit, Mr. O'Connor. I... I did not expect you to actually fulfil my request." She stuttered slightly, her walls shambling to pieces in front of him. "Thank you for trusting me. I will guard the secret as if it were my own." The debutante, still hidden under layers of heavy make-up, gave him a reassuring smile.

Then another thought occurred to her. This was not just his secret. It was a secret that belonged to Dominic as well. Her instincts screamed at her to find some way to forge this into a weapon against him. To destroy him like he had destroyed her family, and more specifically, her beloved sister. But even the thought of betraying Edgar O'Connor's trust felt like a heavy stone in her gut. It felt impossible. If she used his secret as the weapon it was, was she truly any better than Lord O'Connor himself?

"You call Frederic sweet and sensitive?" she asked as her follow-up question. Grace had managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes as he said those words, but she still wanted to probe him on them. "Tell me, is it sweet to abandon those one claims to care for? Without as much as a thought to explain oneself or apologize for the damage one leaves behind?" Grace knew she was speaking much more plainly than she ought to be, but then again, their entire conversation had been spoken without the restrictions titles and surnames provided.

"Forgive me. I know it is not my place. But I cannot help but feel as if those words do not accurately portray him." Her words carried with them a coldness, certainly, yet it did little to hide the wounded girl underneath. Grace had enjoyed Frederic's company. He had been like a brother to her. Yet the man seemed to not have given her a second thought since he ended things with Mary.

[lorddominic]

It took everything Dominic had not to laugh at Grace’s outburst. It was typical of a Barnett to cause a scene, even in a shop. At the mention of power, only then did Dominic laugh. “Who mentioned anything about power?” He shouldn’t have expected anything other than lies from anyone with her surname. Twisting things, putting words in someone else’s mouth. Dominic thought it was second nature to that family. “You can say that now you’re all not destitute,” he says with a smug smile. “But strip away the money you’ve all just got and the title your father sold, and you’ll have nothing.” Having nothing was something Dominic thought her family would be used to. Apparently not. 

Dominic smiled again. A sprinter’s life was probably what suited that rabble. He didn’t flinch or become bothered at Grace’s attempt to curse him. He’d listened to stronger people, those who didn’t have to resort to measures her family had. “You can’t take that stance seriously, can you?” He laughed. “Your own father basically sold your sister and title to Peter Drake. A dock owner for a husband to an earl's heir just when you all return to the social season?” He said it loud enough for people in the shop to hear. There’s one thing the establishment hated: people buying themselves a seat at the table. Her brother-in-law had done just that. London’s obsession with Dominic’s heart and his future of being alone, physically or emotionally, was fascinating. If he were a vain man, he’d take it as a compliment. For now, it was a slight bother. “I don’t think you’ll be alone,” he says, smugly. “You and your sisters will remain spinsters together. You’ll all live in that house, all unmarried and all unimportant. It’s inevitable.” 

[chloe-barnett]

Grace's eyes hardened further, and her breath quickened as he dared to point out how her sister had willingly saved their family by laying herself down on the altar and marrying a man she did not truly know or love. The only reason Elizabeth even had to enter such an arrangement was because Dominic had brought their family to the brink of ruin. And now he dared to use that fact to mock her? To belittle her. Her hatred for another person had never run deeper.

"My sister, Elizabeth, is the kindest, most selfless person I know. You could enter every ballroom, every household, every establishment in all of London, and you would never find anyone more loyal or caring. Lord Drake is the luckiest man in the world to marry such a gem, and I am sure he is well aware of it." She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. "If I find myself growing old as a spinster, surrounded by my sisters, then I shall greet death with a smile on my face. Surrounded by those I love, and who love me. All under one roof, with no man telling us how to live a miserable life."

Her gaze traveled around the shop. Some people had quieted their own conversations, watching the O'Conner and the Barnett argue. Two prominent families everyone knew had a feud. Grace sent them a polite, reassuring smile before returning her attention to Dominic. Her expression had softened. It looked almost bashful, but the performance was only skin deep. Her words, however, were cruel. Low, so that only he could hear. "You reap what you sow, My Lord. Remember that."

She stepped back and gave a small nod. "Good day, Mr. O'Conner. I hope your soon-to-be wife enjoys her present." She had come here for gloves. And she intended to get some, but right now, she needed to distance herself from the man before her anger became too much to bear. She turned her back on him and focused her attention on a cheaper set of gloves than the ones he had picked out as a potential pair for his bride-to-be.

[edgaroconnor]

Edgar had been looking at the stage when she spoke again. His attention had drifted somewhere between the actors' voices and the thought of Romeo and Juliet, of families congratulating themselves on propriety while love bled quietly in the next room. He had not noticed the way his own careless mention of a 'woman in disguise' had struck her. Not until he heard her voice again. 'Please... do not tell anyone you saw me here tonight.' There was something in the tone that pulled him back at once. Edgar turned properly then. For the first time, he truly looked at her. Not as the woman half-hidden beside the painted column, but as someone afraid enough to forget the part she had chosen to play. The rouge. The darkened lashes. The loose hair. The borrowed purple silk. They had changed her, yes - enough to fool a room that did not expect to see a debutante there. Enough, perhaps, to fool him while he was only glancing.

But fear had a way of stripping away costume. And beneath it, suddenly, unmistakably- Grace Barnett. Edgar went still. Not for long though. Only the space of a breath. But long enough for recognition to settle, and with it a complicated ache he had not expected to feel in this place, beneath these lamps, with actors droning on only a few yards away. Mary's sister. Frederic's almost-family. A Barnett girl in disguise at a script reading, looking at him as though he held a knife to the one door in London through which she could still breathe. Good God. He ought to have been more surprised. Perhaps he would have been, once. But then he had seen Harriet Barnett slip into a political discussion crowded with men who would have fainted from indignation had they known what to do with a faint. He had heard from Frederic himself, about Mary Barnett risking her reputation to see him. Perhaps, he thought, the Barnett sisters had always been better at escape than anyone had given them credit for.

A small, fond sadness touched him before he could prevent it. He glanced once toward the room. The reading continued; pages rustled, a director muttered, an actor discovered new ways to misunderstand grief. Their little corner remained blessedly ignored. He gave her space. Not much, but enough. A slight shift of his shoulder, a small easing back, so she would not feel penned between him and the column. Edgar lowered his voice. "Grace Barnett," he said quietly. The name seemed to settle between them, soft but undeniable. For a moment, he did not quite know what to do with it. Or with her. There were a dozen things he might have said - questions, reassurances, some clever remark to ease the tension - but none of them seemed to fit the look on her face. So he simply stood there, watching her, feeling the weight of her fear and the absurdity of it both at once.

And then, quite against his better judgment, a small sound escaped him. A chuckle. He pressed his lips together at once, as though he might catch it back, but the amusement lingered in his eyes. "Forgive me," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "It is only- " He glanced at her again, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself. "You look as though I am about to ruin you with a single word," he said, softer now, not unkindly. "As though I am the most dangerous man in London to have discovered you." There was something almost incredulous in it, though not mocking; more a quiet, private irony. "If you knew half the things I have done that no one has ever heard of," he added under his breath, a hint of dry amusement threading through his tone, "you might reconsider which of us ought to be afraid of whom." He let that hang for a moment, then sobered, his gaze returning to her with steadier warmth. "But I will not say anything," he continued, more gently. "Not to anyone."

[chloe-barnett]

Her breath caught as she heard her own name whispered by his lips, like some secret between strangers. There had also been a moment of realization, and Grace bit the inside of her cheek while cursing her name in her head. He hadn't known who she was, and she, like some naive fool, had revealed herself. To an O'Conner of all people.

Mary had spoken kindly of Edgar. And Frederic had, up until he broke her sister's heart, seemed like a good man. A good and cowardly man who chose reputation and image over true love. Dominic, the eldest, was a demon spawn of the highest order. At least Edgar wasn't related by blood, but he still carried the name.

Her jaw tightened slightly, and her brows, brushed dark brown by a heavy hand to hide her usual blonde, soft ones, furrowed as she looked at him. He seemed convincing in his sincerity, but Grace was slow to trust. "Forgive me, but I find it hard to believe that an O'Conner is willing to keep a lady's secret with no transactions or favors to be had. At the end of the day, you are all loyal to your own name above all else. And I would rather pay you what I owe for this secrecy, rather than be asked a favor weeks from now, or find myself blackmailed by a more powerful man."

It was a dangerous game, to be so frank with him, but she felt a deep-rooted desire to show him that she was resourceful, and not the naive little girl so many seemed to believe her to be. Their previous conversations had felt like two drifting souls who had finally found their way to one another. Not on the dance floor of yet another grand ball, but under the candlelight of a living, breathing theatre. Her eyes quickly flicked over him. From the bottom of his heels to the top strands of his head, analyzing him, reading him, seeing if there was a threat, but the piercing gaze revealed no answer.

She stepped forward, close enough for the edge of her dress to barely brush over the edge of his shoes. Her gaze did not falter from his, but held a quiet challenge. "Prove it," she uttered. "You say if I knew half the things you'd done, then you'd be afraid of me. Yet here you stand, still holding the fate of my future in your hands. While I myself have no line of defence. So prove to me that I shall not fear you." Her gaze dropped to his lips for a brief moment, before returning to his eyes. It had been subconscious. A symptom of the intimacy of standing so close to a person. It meant nothing. Surely. "Give me equal means of destruction. A secret for a secret. Or… offer me some other way to repay you for your secrecy. Either way, I refuse to be in debt to an O'Conner."

[dasxnalan]

There was something to be said about the Barnett’s resilience, bouncing back from complete scandal with a small fortune thanks to the marriage of the eldest sister, sacrificing integrity for a quick financial fix and yet here stood Miss Grace Barnett without a single care in the world, presumably with a new dowry that had no doubt been increased. Peter Drake was many things, but he was no fool, to trade his wealth for their title was something most envied and desired of him and yet the Bartnett’s were the ones to get such the reward. “I think your father was pulled away by Lord Austen, I fear he may be trying to settle his daughter on one of you and I hope, for your sake, it is not you.” Though untitled and in line to nothing, Nalan Das could not see a world in which the Barnett sisters were not left out of anything, and if their new brother-in-law was as rich as he said, they would make the most adventurous matches, with possibly only Lady Whistledown to stop them. “Would you mind terribly if I kept you company while you wait for his return? I overheard you speaking of the performance and I admit, I know nothing of such talents. It would be a treat to speak to someone with more knowledge on such matters.” Any links with the Barnett’s would be of a benefit to Nalan and his family, they were well liked despite their lacking influence, which was something Nalan was in desperate need of, so perhaps Miss Barnett’s shine could be siphoned his way.

[chloe-barnett]

Grace had to stop herself from rolling her eyes as the man laid it on thick to attempt to charm her. Had it been what felt like a different life ago, Grace would have attempted to counter his words in a playful and innocent way, even if it risked offending him. Ah, sure, her older sister was married and their family was doing better, but the scandals of the last seasons were still lingering over their household. So the debutante took a deep breath and gave him a charming smile, biting her tongue. She needed to play along. To be charming and innocent and... interested.

"Lord Austen, you say." Her gaze went across the room to see her father standing with the lord he mentioned. "I am sure Miss Austen is a charming young lady. I have no ill feelings towards her." She wanted more than anything to add that talking down another woman was not a charming way to elevate oneself, but alas, here she was.

She looked down, fluttering her eyelashes and taking out her fan, as he spoke kindly to her. "Oh, you give me too high a praise, Sir. I am sure there are countless people here tonight with far greater knowledge than I. I am merely an admirer." She looked up at him with piercing green eyes that seemed to look straight into his soul. "Do not be modest, you must know some talents. Some performances must surely have moved you more than others. And I suspect it was not from their beauty or projection skills alone." Her smile grew slightly more genuine as she thought back to tonight's performance. "Some merely convey the written word, while some breathe life into the complex characters uttering them."

[chloe-barnett]

Closed starter for @dreamspenned

Where: Barnett house Who: Grace & Mary

Grace paced the soft carpet in her bedroom, stopping only occasionally to listen to the sound of the house settling in for the night. The muffled sound of doors closing far off by the servants' quarters barely carried all the way to her bedroom. Her white nightgown floated over the carpet, making her look like a restless ghost. It was ironic. Because Grace wasn't the ghost in this house. Mary was. A ghost of the sister she once knew. As the barely older sister, Grace had pulled away in an attempt to grant Mary some space. But after running into Dominic and confronting him in public, Grace knew she needed more information. She needed truth. A reason that went beyond what Dominic had shared with society.

The flick of her wrist on the matchbox produced a faint flame that lit up the determined features on her face. She transferred it to the candle on her dresser and blew out the match. The candle painted her golden and made the blonde curls falling over her shoulder look like they were alive with fire. She stopped and listened one final time before putting her hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly and quietly.

Her bare feet were cold on the hardwood floor between the two carpets of her safe bedroom and the empty hallway. Grace held her breath as she closed the door behind her. The only sound in the house was a silent click. Not enough to be heard by anyone but her. There were only a few strides across the hall to Mary's room. There was an urge to storm in, or at least enter quickly, before anyone saw her out of bed, but Grace knew better than to force herself upon her sister. So she slowly raised her hand and knocked on the door.

Her forehead rested gently on the hardwood, and she closed her eyes. "Mary… It is me. Grace. I… I wanted to talk. I can't sleep." Her voice was a whisper, loud enough for Mary to hear, if she was awake, but not enough to alert the household.

[stardust-pond]