(jonathan bailey,) Goodness, [ THOMAS DENCOURT ] has arrived! [ HE ] is [ 34 ] , of the [ KENT ] [ DENCOURTS ], and a [ MISTER ] . They are [ RETURNED ] to England and the season and their spouse’s family holds the [ BARONY OF CASTLEHILL ]. This author has heard they are [ CHARMING ] but also [ MANIPULATIVE ]. Accompanied by [ HIS NEW WIFE] , there is much talk of their arrival and accepting calls but be warned: I have heard their [ MARRIAGE WAS HASTILY ARRANGED UNDER SCANDALOUS CIRCUMSTANCES ]!
Basics:
NAME: Thomas Dencourt
FAMILY:
Thaddeus Dencourt, Father
Margaret Dencourt, Mother (deceased)
Cecily Sterling (née Dencourt), younger sister
Florence Ellington (née Dencourt), younger sister
Lydia Dencourt, younger sister
Charlotte Dencourt (née Cuthbert), wife
Role in Society:
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Date of Birth: December 29th
Languages: English, fluent in French, reads and writes in Latin, conversational Italian, some German
Appearance:
Eye Color: Amber brown
Hair Color: Neatly kept chestnut brown curls
Tattoos/Scars: He keeps all three tattoos hidden beneath his clothing. Invictus maneo is written across his upper back. The lion from his family crest is tattooed beneath his ribcage along his side. A small anchor is inked on his foot, done during his year away after spending time with sailors, marking that he crossed the Atlantic Ocean.
Positive Trait: Charming, Ambitious, Loyal, Intelligent, Determined
Negative Trait: Manipulative, Pessimistic, Stubborn, Calculating, Distrustful
About:
TW: child abuse, parental death
Thomas Dencourt was born to modest gentry. His father spent his life chasing the standing he believed the world had denied him, while his mother spent hers softening his blows. From childhood, Thomas understood that comfort in his household depended upon performance. Good manners were praised, mistakes remembered, and affection offered sparingly.
When his mother died, the only shield between the children and their father vanished with her. Left as the eldest among three younger sisters, Thomas grew up quickly. He soothed quarrels, shielded his sisters from tempers they did not deserve, and learned to judge a man’s mood by the sound of his step. It was there he first discovered that charm could quiet anger and wit could redirect cruelty. Lashings became avoidable if one knew precisely what to say, and when to say it.
Thomas was expected to provide for his family, and for the sisters who depended on him to secure their futures. He studied relentlessly at university and worked harder than most of his peers. Eventually, he served as private secretary to an influential viscount, where he earned a reputation for discretion and skillful negotiation. In time, his name reached the court of the late King Henry. For all that he is ambitious and self-serving, Thomas took his role as the King's Adviser seriously and produced some of his finest work in the King’s service. He meant to distinguish himself, and perhaps, in time, earn the title birth had denied him.
His affair with Princess Sophia was, of course, the greatest risk he had ever taken, and likely his biggest mistake too. For one brief and reckless moment, he fled with her. When the Dowager Queen offered him a substantial sum to disappear and leave the princess behind, Thomas accepted.
He left England soon after and spent the following year abroad. He crossed the Atlantic with a group of sailors, walked the streets of France, and traveled more he ever had before. When invited north to visit the Cuthberts of Castlehill after word of his travels reached them, he accepted, eager to see the castles of Inverness. Circumstances, however, changed quickly, and when Thomas returned to England, he did not return alone.
Now he re-enters society as a husband and a gentleman of means, determined to reclaim his rightful place.
"Finally, another ball! London can be so dreadfully boring when there is nothing to dress up for." Katherine sighed, holding the latest pamphlet that held details of the event. She stepped down the steps as she exited Lady Austen's social club, ready to go find Tessa so she could accompany her to the modiste. The last thing that Kitty would want would be if she showed up looking boring.
While hurrying down the steps she felt her body bump into someone else's and she let out a gasp of surprise. "Excuse me!" Katherine tried not to look annoyed before seeing who it was that so rudely bumped into her. "Clearly you are on the way somewhere important. Are you in a rush to ready yourself for the Barnett's ball?" She forced a smile upon her lips as she looked at the other person now.
Thomas was scanning the pamphlet when it almost went flying out of his hands. He stopped short, arms shooting out to steady the person he'd run into on instinct. He dropped his hands as soon as he was sure they would both remain standing and settled his gaze on the annoyed girl in front of him. He noted that blame for the incident was immediately placed upon his shoulders, and he straightened his spine, now equally annoyed.
"My apologies, miss," he managed to get out through a clenched jaw, the only sign of his frustration. "Simply not paying attention," he confessed, for he was rather distracted, though not by the Barnett's ball. "I find that I need less time than others to ready myself, so I thought I may run a few errands while the rest of London is busy in their dressing rooms. You, however, seem to be in quite the rush." His tone was clipped, letting a hint of his annoyance seep through.
Thomas moved through Covent Garden with ease, remembering each alley and backway as if he had never been away. It was loud, with music spilling out of open doors and dimly lit, making it easy for him to remain mostly anonymous. Gentlemen, of course, did not come to Convent Garden, so it was with purpose and much discretion that Thomas found himself here.
One of the main currencies of good society was information, and as he'd been away from London for too long, he was in great need. Though his contacts were reliable, there were too few of them left, and so he was willing to trade for what he needed to reassert himself back into the royal inner circle. He ended up at a Tavern waiting for.. someone. He wasn't quite sure who, only sure that he received a note. He sat in the back corner, facing both the front door and the open street, back straight, hand clenched tightly around a glass of whisky as he listened to the conversations around him. When the door opened, letting a warm rush of air in, Thomas raised his eyebrows, the only evidence that he found himself intrigued by the person that walked in. "I must confess, I did not expect to see you here."
It had been a simple idea, one that curried favor with the commoners and with those in society helping, Sophia’s image could only improve on it and the royal family was in dire need of such a thing ever since the princess’s twin brother had fled for Monaco and her own second engagement was dissolved. The princess was completely lost in her endeavors that she did not see him approach her. Thomas Dencourt, the man responsible for her aching heart, her own pessimistic view of love was all because of him and yet he returned with a wife and a fortune. Such a thing hardly seemed fair, but the country did not know of their princess’s embarrassment, therefore she had to endure this reunion with a smile on her face.
“It is kind of you to notice, Mr Dencourt, one must do what they can for the less fortunate and most of us women had too many dresses. Even if one does not fit, these women can sell the fabric for something more suitable.”
The princess felt her heart ache when he bowed, it was as if the room was closing in all around her and all Sophia had to do was keep composed and smile, despite it all. As improper as it was, Sophia’s gaze lingered on Thomas longer than it should have, taking in all of his changes including a beard. Despite it not being in fashion, even she could not deny that he wore it well and that only infuriated her more.
“I did not think such gatherings suited your sensibilities but I suppose we all must give what we can and your donation has already been given out, you must thank your wife for me, I assume it was one of her old dresses?”
Everything was painfully formal, it was words that were expected from a princess with some semblance of an acquaintance, while Sophia was fighting the emotions beneath such formality. She kept her hands busy, keeping them and her eyes focused on the ribbons that needed sorting when one of them had snapped beneath her hands. Sophia stilled for a moment, smithing it out as though nothing had happened even though her racing heart betrayed her.
“I do hope you and your new wife are finding London agreeable, much has changed since you were last here.”
He ached from the inside out to see her. He was close enough to smell the lilac, yet he yearned for the orange blossom that sat underneath, smelled only with one's head buried in her hair or neck. His heart pounded in his years as he stared at her, the ballroom disappearing around them. Since returning to London and catching up with his contacts, he'd learned of the Princess's two failed engagement. He could not help the feeling of satisfaction when he heard for while he did not particularly want her to be hurt, even worse still was the thought of her moving on. Even though he himself was now married.
Everything was so performative it was practically rehearsed. Their body language, their conversation. "Yes," he lied, for in truth he had purchased a new dress for the occasion, and he was entirely unsure if Charlotte even knew that he was here. "She was most sorry to miss the ocassion, but sent me in her stead." His hands are clasped behind his back, fingers dug tightly into his hands. He is wound so tightly that when her ribbon snaps, the sound startles him. It shows only in the sharp drop of his gaze and the slight jump of his shoulders. His stomach flips, as she was as skilled as he was in concealing his emotions, but this, this was confirmation that she was feeling anything at all. It only serves to encourage him.
"Yes," he agrees. "I am sure there is much that is different and yet..." he rocked back slightly on his heels, eyes floating around the room before landing on hers, firmly. "And yet, I believe, much remains the same." His tone was knowing, laced with everything that wasn't being said. He was silent for a moment before continuing, eyes refusing to leave hers. "I am relieved to find that time has not changed all things."
She's halfway done with the third draft of the letter in front of her, addressed ostensibly to her family as a whole, but perhaps in truth more for her brother than anyone else. She's had to re-write it several times, partially due to her penmanship, partially due to the lack of anything interesting to say, and largely due to the frustration that bleeds into everything she writes down. The first draft, if she were counting it -- which she certainly was not -- had been nothing but angry chicken scratch, with a repeated phrase over and over again.
This draft is faring better, it seems; the frustration remains, but is more veiled, now, with allusions instead of accusations. Charlotte leans back in her chair, rereads what she's written, trying to ensure she's covering everything that needs to be said. They arrived safely in London after an uneventful, if expeditious journey, the townhouse is lovely, the weather in London is agreeable...she sighs. Everything that needs to be said indeed. Her gaze turns towards the window, watching several people go about their business. She watches a couple arm in arm, the woman tilting her face up to smile at the man, and feels something twist inside her chest.
A knock at the door tears her attention away, and she turns, grateful for the distraction. Her brows lift, her frown softening only slightly as she catches sight of her new husband lingering in the doorway. "It's you," she says, unable to keep the surprise out of her tone. Then her frown deepens, her stomach falling. "Oh...I'm late for something, aren't I?"
Marriage, it seemed, was quite a thing to get used to. He found himself passing back and forth outside of her room a dozen times before attemping to knock, and only on the 3rd attempt did he actually bring himself to do it.
He steeled himself before entering the room, a carefully composed mask slipping into place. He'd spent the better part of the morning in correspondence, the afternoon in meetings, and all of it with the faint awareness that there was another person moving somewhere beyond the walls of the townhouse who, by law and ceremony, was now tied to him in life and in death. It was, he found, an absurd arrangement. More absurd still that he did not yet know how to speak to her without sounding like a solicitor drafting terms.
"It is me," he replied, somewhat awkwardly. "You are late for nothing," he assured her, shaking his head in a signal that there was nothing to worry about. "I told the staff that I would..." he looked around the room, searching for the right lie. "See that you knew that dinner is served at six," he lied. In truth, he'd half-expected to find the room empty and her belongings gone, halfway back to Inverness. They hadn't exactly seen much of each other since their arrival.
Instead, he found her surrounded by papers. scribbling furiously. He had the distinct urge to snoop, to lean over and read what she was writing. Against his better instincts, he fought against it. For now. "Though I am most impressed that your first instinct upon seeing your husband is to presume you have failed in some duty."
There was a certain type of crowd that tended to attend charity events, Thomas had come to realize over the years. For most, it was more about the act of being seen as charitable rather than being charitable. And even those with a more generous spirit tended to want to avoid dissecting their actions too closely, for where was the line between benevolence and selfishness? Did one give to ease suffering, or to simply enjoy the feeling of having done so? Thomas, for his part, knew where he stood.
In truth, he rarely attended these events, but this one was different. Thomas had already made a generous donation before arriving, ensuring that his presence would be welcomed, and attendance justified. That, at least, was the explanation he offered himself as he stood in the corner with a glass of whisky in his hand.
He watches her work the room from afar, elegantly moving between guests. His heart felt as if it might burst from his chest, seeing her again. It would be easier if the time and distance had made her unfamiliar, if his memory was exaggerated. But she was the same as she had always been. Shame rippled inside of him, and he drowned it by finishing his drink and setting the empty glass aside with more force than necessary.
He could not take it anymore.
He closes the distance between them with measured calm, letting their eyes lock before he reaches her. Suddenly, all else falls away for him, and it is only them in the room. His face is carefully composed as he reaches her, stops, and bows deeply. "Your Royal Highness," he says. "You've put on yet another remarkable event, and for such an admirable cause." He is careful to keep his voice even, lacking all familiarity and emotion.
It was too late for her to hope that no one spotted or recognized her around the park. Whistledown already had noticed her sneaking out at night, something that she had been quite careful about. She had avoided her parents for the most part, hiding where she could manage. But as soon as she decided to leave the house, she knew that her sisters, her fathers, anyone who read the pamphlets would look at her differently.
She dragged her feet towards the stables, deciding that if she was going to be in trouble, she might as well enjoy herself a little bit. Harriett snuck in, climbing into the back door when she heard a sound, the presence of someone else. "I didn't do it!"
Thomas and Rook moved in perfect tandem, as though they were one creature. They'd always understood one another perfectly. The black stallion cut across the park paths, powerful and eager to go faster beneath him. Thomas kept one hand light on the reins as they followed the edge of the water, finding their way easily. Riding was one of Thomas' few habits that quieted his mind, and if Rook was kept from the running too long, he grew restless and agitated.
By the time they returned to the stables, both Rook and Thomas were significantly calmer. Thomas dismounted outside, murmuring a low word to the stallion as he led him in. He glanced up at the sudden yell, having clearly startled the young woman already inside.
“Innocent people do not usually feel compelled to yell about it to strangers,” he remarked, one brow lifting as he led Rook into his stall and began removing the tack. He looked at her properly then.
“Miss Barnett, is it?” he asked, placing her with easy confidence.
