Chapter Text
Present day
There were only three people in the United Kingdom who could enter the Blue Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace without announcement.
Two of them were born with crowns.
The third was Seraphina Aldridge.
She stood before the fireplace, not out of need for warmth but habit—control. She’d learned long ago that people paid attention when you stood where power usually sat. Today was no different. Ministers, private secretaries, and a smattering of foreign envoys filed in behind her in soft murmurs, all pretending not to glance her way. All failing.
She offered nothing back. Only silence, posture, and the precise amount of frost behind her gaze that said: I hear more than you say, and forget nothing that matters.
The Queen would arrive soon. And with her, decisions.
"Still terrifying Parliament one glance at a time?"
Seraphina didn't turn at the voice. She didn’t need to.
"Mycroft." She reached for her teacup without looking. "What a regrettable scent in an otherwise perfect room."
He stepped up beside her, unbothered. “Your Majesty is late.”
“She likes watching us squirm. Or you, specifically.”
“I don’t squirm.”
“You twitch. Slightly.”
Mycroft gave her a glance—not irritated, exactly. Curious. The kind he usually reserved for threats wearing diamonds.
They’d known each other for years now. Circles of power, intelligence briefings, the odd shared disaster. He still hadn’t figured her out. That alone kept him coming back.
“I hear you’ve been spending time with the Dutch ambassador,” he said casually.
“And I hear you’ve been spending time threatening interns with treason charges.”
“Efficient, isn’t it?”
She sipped her tea. “Brutal.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
They stood in easy quiet a moment, the kind that unnerved most people. But Seraphina wasn’t most people. She was the Marchioness of Westerleigh. The Queen’s Whisperer. The woman who had once made a Russian general apologize in three languages—all without raising her voice.
Mycroft spoke again, quieter this time. “You’ve read the brief on the American delegation?”
“Of course.”
“Any thoughts on Secretary McCord?”
“A reputation for measured yet hidden ruthlessness. Rare in Washington.”
“Do you think she’ll pose problems?”
“I think she’ll pretend not to.” Seraphina tilted her head. “Which is the same thing, in the end.”
Mycroft studied her, something flickering behind his eyes. Not suspicion. Not yet. But interest—sharpened now.
“I’m assigning you to the primary table,” he said finally. “Direct line to the Queen. McCord’s team will want to test limits. Don’t let them.”
“I never do.”
He hesitated.
Most wouldn’t have noticed. But Seraphina did.
“I’m also assigning you to handle my brother.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is this a test? Or a punishment?”
“Both,” he said dryly. “He’s taken a recent interest in arms trafficking. And cocaine production. And… alpacas.”
She paused. “I beg your pardon?”
He didn’t elaborate.
She looked back out the window, amused. “Very well. I’ll speak to your hurricane with a PhD.”
There was a beat of silence, long enough to be meaningful.
“You’re an enigma, Lady Aldridge,” Mycroft said.
She gave a small, unreadable smile. “That’s because you’re still asking the wrong questions.”