Chapter Text
Author’s note: Hello everyone, I decided to do Penelope and Benedict since we’re getting close to season 2. So I was inspired. I also did the secret identities for both since this coming season has a theme of cinderella. I also made Penelope the oldest sister to help fit what I have in mind in this story. And the extra sister Felicity is a real character from the books and is the younger sister of Penelope.
Enjoy
Canon season 2 rewrite
Chapter 1
The morning Penelope Featherington discovered she had competition, she was eating toast and rereading Colin Bridgerton's latest letter from Greece.
Not that she was obsessing. She'd only read it seven times. Eight, if one counted the time she'd held it up to the candlelight to see if there were any hidden messages in the paper grain. There weren't. She'd checked.
‘The sunsets here are extraordinary,’ Colin had written in his effortlessly charming script.
‘Though I confess, I miss London's particular chaos. Give my love to Eloise, and tell her I'm bringing her something dreadful from every country I visit.’ Not a single mention of missing Penelope specifically. Not even a "give my regards to Miss Featherington". Just Eloise. Always Eloise.
She was contemplating whether this constituted a personal tragedy or merely a devastating disappointment when her lady's maid Rae burst through the door.
"Miss Penelope! You must see, there's another one!"
The toast turned to ash in her mouth. Colin's letter fluttered forgotten to the floor.
Penelope snatched the broadsheet from the maid's trembling hands. ‘The Silhouetta Canvas’ proclaimed the masthead in elegant script. Below it, a sketch is wickedly accurate of Lord Pemberton's toupee taking flight during the Hastings ball. And beneath that, prose that made her blood simmer.
‘While certain scribblers content themselves with mere words, we offer London what it truly craves: scandal made visible. Why read Lord Pemberton’s unfortunate coiffure when one might see it rendered in glorious detail? The pen may be mighty, but the brush sees all.’
"Scribblers," Penelope muttered, crumpling the page. "SCRIBBLERS."
Her maid hovered uncertainly. "Shall I fetch your mother, miss?"
"God, no." Penelope smoothed the paper back out, studying the sketch with the intensity of a general examining enemy battle plans. The line work was confident. The caricature is devastating. The accompanying text had actual wit, which was frankly insulting.
She had competition. Actual, legitimate, infuriating competition.
And whoever this Canvas person was, they were going down.
From downstairs came her mother's voice, shrill enough to shatter crystal. "Penelope! Stop lurking! The Queen's ball is tonight, and your sisters need their hair dressed!"
Of course they did. Prudence at nineteen, Philippa at eighteen, and Felicity at seventeen who was having her first social season. Which meant Penelope at twenty-one was somehow both the eldest and the most invisible. This year, all of Mrs. Featherington's considerable energy focused on Felicity, the youngest and blessed with the kind of conventional prettiness that made mothers salivate and eldest daughters want to commit violence.
Penelope took one last look at The Silhouetta Canvas, committing every detail to memory with the dedication of someone planning an elaborate revenge.
If this artist wanted war, they would have it.
She just needed to unmask them first. How hard could it be?
XOX
Benedict Bridgerton's fingers were stained with ink.
He'd scrubbed them twice, but evidence of his morning's work lingered beneath his nails. India ink and lampblack, the tools of his newest obsession. Around him, his studio at the Academy hummed with creative energy. Other artists bent over their canvases, lost in oil and pigment, while Benedict pursued something far more dangerous.
"You're smiling like a madman," observed Henry Granville, pausing beside Benedict's easel.
"Should I be concerned?"
"Merely pleased with my progress." Benedict angled his sketchbook away from view; a habit now, this protective instinct over his work.
"Progress on what? You've been secretive for weeks." Granville's eyes narrowed with amusement. "Don't tell me you've taken a lover."
"Better than a lover. I've taken a nemesis."
The Silhouetta Canvas had begun as a a wine-soaked conversation with Granville about Lady Whistledown's stranglehold on society gossip. "Someone should challenge her," Benedict had declared, reckless with drink and artistic frustration. "Show London that words aren't the only way to capture truth."
He'd expected the idea to die with his hangover. Instead, it had consumed him.
The first broadsheet had been terrifying to release. He'd paid the printer in cash, used a false name, distributed copies himself in the dead of night. By noon, London was buzzing. By evening, Lady Whistledown herself had responded. A terse paragraph dismissing "Amateur artists with delusions of relevance”.
Amateur. The word had stung precisely as she'd intended.
So he'd struck again. And again. Each sketch sharper, each observation more pointed. Lady Whistledown's responses grew increasingly barbed. Their rivalry had become the talk of the ton; delicious irony, considering neither knew the other's identity.
"You're playing with fire," Granville warned, though his tone held admiration. "Whistledown has ended careers with a single sentence."
"Then perhaps it's time someone reminded her that she's not invincible."
Benedict cleaned his brushes with methodical care, his mind already composing tonight's sketch. The Queen's ball which was the season's most important event. Anthony would be there, hunting for a viscountess with all the romance of a man purchasing livestock. Eloise would be miserable, forced into yet another pastel gown. Colin was still gallivanting across Greece, sending letters full of sunshine and antiquities.
And Lady Whistledown would be watching, her invisible eyes cataloging every misstep.
But so would The Silhouetta Canvas.
He smiled, imagining her reaction when she saw his next piece. Would she rage? Would she redouble her efforts? The thought sent an unexpected thrill through him. This strange, addictive dance with an opponent he'd never met.
"You're doing it again," Granville said. "The mad smile."
"Can't help it. Tonight should be very entertaining."
XOX
Lady Danbury’s ballroom glittered with calculated splendor. A thousand candles reflected in gilt mirrors, the air thick with hothouse roses and the particular tension that came from knowing Queen Charlotte herself would be watching.
Penelope stood at the room's edge in her yellow gown, her mother's choice, naturally. And conducted what she privately termed "Operation Canvas Capture”.
Step one: Observe everyone with artistic inclinations.
Step two: Look for suspicious behavior (sketching, excessive staring, ink stains).
Step three: Unmask the villain and destroy them.
It was a foolproof plan. Absolutely foolproof.
"Lord Weatherby keeps touching his jacket pocket," she muttered to herself, eyes narrowing.
"Suspicious. Very suspicious. Could be hiding a sketchbook."
"Pen, Lord Weatherby is eighty-three and can barely hold a spoon," Eloise observed, appearing at her elbow. "I doubt he's your mysterious artist."
"That's exactly what he'd want us to think." Penelope tapped her fan against her palm. "The perfect disguise. No one suspects the elderly."
Eloise stared at her. "Have you slept recently?"
"Sleep is for people who aren't engaged in psychological warfare."
"Right. Well, while you're planning to interrogate men as old as a father clock, I should mention that the Sharmas have arrived. With Lady Danbury. The Queen looks positively gleeful."
Penelope's attention snapped to the entrance, her Canvas-hunting temporarily forgotten. Lady Danbury swept in with her usual commanding presence, her cane striking the marble with deliberate precision. But it wasn't the dowager who commanded every eye in the room.
It was the two young women flanking her.
The younger sister moved like poetry of doves. Soft, graceful, with dark eyes that held gentle warmth. Her pale pink gown seemed to float rather than rustle. She was the kind of beautiful that made men write sonnets and mothers weep with envy.
The elder sister stood half a step behind, her posture protective, her gaze sharp. Her deep blue gown was elegant, but practical and catching. As the elder sister smiled politely at the gawking crowd, her eyes assessed every face with the precision of a general surveying potential threats.
"The Sharma sisters," Eloise supplied. "From India. Lady Danbury is sponsoring the Edwina Sharna season. The younger one is Miss Edwina. Apparently she's been declared the season's diamond before even being presented. The eldest is Miss Kate who I find inspiring as a spinster. She looks like she could murder someone and make it appear to be a cunning accident."
"I like her already," Penelope murmured, watching Kate Sharma's protective stance.
She recognized that look. She wore it herself when watching her own sisters navigate society's treacherous waters.
Across the ballroom, Penelope watched her mother's face transform from pleased to pinched. Portia Featherington had spent the entire week basking in Felicity's success. The morning callers, the dance requests, the breathless attention. Felicity had been holding court with her usual headstrong charm, her bold opinions and bright laughter delighting the young gentleman who found her refreshingly unconventional.
But now those same gentlemen were drifting toward Edwina Sharma like ships changing course.
The difference was immediate and brutal.
Where Felicity commanded attention through force of personality. Demanding to be noticed, insisting on being heard. Edwina Sharma simply existed, and the room rearranged itself around her. Felicity's admirers had been entertained. Edwina's were enchanted.
It was the difference between a bonfire and starlight. Both drew the eye, but only one made men dream.
"Your brother looks positively thunderstruck," Penelope observed.
Anthony Bridgerton had frozen mid-conversation, his attention locked on Edwina Sharma with an intensity that would have been comical if it weren't so transparent. The Viscount seeking a wife had just found his diamond.
"Anthony has a list," Eloise said darkly. "An actual list of requirements for a viscountess. I saw it. 'Accomplished, well-bred, even-tempered, suitable for bearing heirs.' It's like he's purchasing a broodmare."
"How romantic."
"Benedict says he's lost his mind. I say he never had one to begin with." Eloise paused.
"Speaking of Benedict, he's been acting strange lately. Secretive. Always at the Academy, covered in ink stains."
Penelope's head whipped around so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. "Ink stains?"
"Yes? He's studying art. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"No reason." Penelope's mind raced. Benedict. Ink stains. Always at the Academy. Secretive behavior.
Oh my goodness.
Benedict Bridgerton was The Silhouetta Canvas.
It was so obvious. So blindingly, brilliantly obvious. How had she not seen it before? The artistic talent, the sharp observations, the way he always seemed to be watching at these events.
"Pen, you're doing the thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look like you're solving a murder in your head. It's unsettling."
Before Penelope could respond, a hush fell over the ballroom. Queen Charlotte had arrived.
The Queen swept in with the kind of presence that made everyone else seem like poorly dressed peasants. She was magnificent in purple silk, her expression imperious as she surveyed the crowd. Beside her, Brimsley carried a velvet cushion.
"The diamond," Eloise breathed, hiding behind Penelope in case the Queen looked her way. "She's about to announce it."
The Queen's gaze swept the room, lingering on the debutantes with the assessing eye of someone who'd been doing this for decades. She paused on Felicity, who curtsied beautifully. Moved past a skittish Eloise with hidden amusement. Finally, she stopped on Edwina Sharma.
"Miss Edwina Sharma," Queen Charlotte declared, her voice carrying across the ballroom. "You shall be this season's diamond."
The room erupted in polite applause. Edwina curtsied with perfect grace, her expression demure and grateful. Kate Sharma's face remained carefully neutral, but Penelope caught the flash of something in her eyes. Pride mixed with worry.
Mrs. Featherington's face had gone an alarming shade redder.
"Well," Eloise muttered. "That's going to make things interesting."
Interesting was an understatement. Penelope watched Anthony Bridgerton make his way toward the Sharmas with single-minded determination. Watched Lady Cowper's too-bright smile as she whispered something to her daughter. Watched the way the entire ballroom seemed to reorganize itself around the new diamond.
All of it material. All of it potential ammunition for Lady Whistledown.
But first, she had a Canvas to catch.
She scanned the ballroom with renewed focus. Benedict had to be here somewhere. Probably lurking in a corner, sketching everyone, being all artistic and suspicious.
"Miss Featherington!"
Penelope turned to find Benedict Bridgerton himself standing before her, offering a bow. Her heart leapt into her throat.
‘Play it coy,’ she told herself. ‘You're a master of deception. You can handle one conversation with your nemesis without revealing anything.’
"Mr. Bridgerton," she managed, her voice only slightly strangled.
"I was hoping I might claim a dance." His smile was warm, friendly. The smile of someone who'd known her for years as his sister's dear friend. "That is, if you're not otherwise engaged?"
‘He's trying to throw me off the scent,’ Penelope thought wildly. ‘This is a tactical maneuver. He suspects I suspect him. This is a test.’
"I would be delighted," she said, taking his offered arm.
As they moved toward the dance floor, Penelope's mind raced through possibilities. This was her chance. She could interrogate him subtly, look for evidence, maybe catch him in a lie.
"You look very focused," Benedict observed as they took their positions. "Plotting something?"
"Me? Never. I'm simply admiring the... chandeliers."
"The chandeliers."
"Yes. Very chandelier-y. Lots of... candles."
Benedict's lips twitched. "Indeed. Though I must say, you seem distracted tonight. Not your usual observant self."
‘Observant self.’ Was that a hint? A clue? Was he admitting he'd noticed her observational skills?
"I'm perfectly observant," Penelope said, perhaps too defensively. "I observe things. Many things. All the things."
"Clearly." The music began, and they started the dance. "Though you seem to be observing Lord Weatherby with particular intensity. Should I be jealous?"
"Lord Weatherby is a person of interest."
"He's eighty-three."
"Age is just a number for a gentleman."
Benedict snorted, delighted snorts that made something warm unfurl in Penelope's chest despite her suspicions. "Pen, I do enjoy your company. You're wit has such honesty and you’re wonderfully strange."
‘Pen.’ He'd called her Pen. Like they were friends. Like he wasn't her mortal enemy.
This was psychological warfare of the highest order.
"I could say the same of you," she countered, watching him carefully. "You've been spending a great deal of time at the Academy lately. Eloise mentioned it."
"Ah, yes. My artistic pursuits." His expression remained perfectly pleasant. "I've been working on a project. Nothing terribly interesting."
"What kind of project?"
"Oh, you know. Sketches. Studies. The usual artistic endeavors."
‘SKETCHES.’ He'd said sketches. He was practically confessing!
"What do you sketch?" Penelope pressed, trying to sound casual. "Landscapes? Portraits? Satirical caricatures of society figures?"
"That last one seems oddly specific."
"Does it? I wouldn't know. I'm just making conversation."
Benedict's eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement. "You're suddenly very interested in my artistic habits."
"I'm interested in all my friends' pursuits. For instance, I'm very interested in Eloise's reading habits. And your brother Colin's travels." She couldn't help the slight wistfulness that crept into her voice at Colin's name.
Benedict's expression softened. "Still no word from my wayward brother?"
"He wrote to Eloise. Mentioned something about Greek sunsets." Penelope tried to keep her tone light. "I'm sure he's having a marvelous time."
"I'm sure he's being an idiot," Benedict said gently. "Colin has always been remarkably blind to what's right in front of him."
The kindness in his voice made Penelope's throat tight. This was the problem with Benedict. He was genuinely nice to her. Treated her like a beloved younger sister, teased her gently about her hopeless crush, made her feel seen even when she was trying to be invisible.
It would be so much easier to hate him if he weren't so damnably decent.
"He'll come home eventually," Penelope said. "And probably with some dreadful souvenirs."
"Undoubtedly. Last time he brought Eloise a stuffed mongoose. She named it Gregory."
Despite everything, Penelope laughed. The dance brought them close, and she caught the faint scent of ink and turpentine clinging to Benedict's jacket.
‘Evidence,’ her mind screamed. ‘EVIDENCE!’
"You smell like art supplies," she blurted out.
Benedict raised an eyebrow. "That's... an unusual observation."
"I'm an unusual person. You said so yourself."
"I said wonderfully strange. There's a difference." He spun her gently, his hand warm at her waist. "But yes, I've been painting today. Oils, mostly. They're rather pungent."
"Not ink?"
"Some ink. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. Just curious. About your artistic process. Which I'm very interested in. As a friend. Who is interested in friends' hobbies."
Benedict was definitely trying not to laugh now. "Pen, are you feeling quite well? You seem rather... intense."
"I'm always intense. It's part of my charm."
"It truly is." The music was winding down. "You know, I think I should accompany you and Eloise sometime at an art gallery. I think you'd find it interesting. You have an artist's eye, even if you don't paint."
"Perhaps I will," Penelope said carefully. "Though I'm more interested in words than images."
"Are you? I've always thought images could be just as powerful as words. More so, even. A picture, as they say, is worth a thousand words."
‘He was definitely taunting her now. This was Canvas-related. It had to be.’
"Some would argue that words have a precision that images lack," Penelope countered. "The right word in the right place can destroy someone. Or save them."
"True. But the right image can do the same. And it's harder to deny a picture than a written accusation."
They were standing very close now, the dance ended but neither moved away. Around them, other couples dispersed, but Penelope and Benedict remained locked in their verbal chess match.
"You seem very passionate about this," Penelope observed.
"I could say the same of you."
"I'm passionate about many things."
"Such as?"
"Justice. Truth. Unmasking frauds and charlatans."
Benedict's smile widened. "How very noble. Any particular frauds you're hoping to unmask?"
"Oh, you know. The usual suspects. People who hide behind anonymity to mock others. People who think they're clever but are actually quite transparent."
"Transparent? That's harsh."
"I'm a harsh person."
"The ton may have hardened you, but the radiance of the red in your hair still glistens your fiery spirit."
The observation was so accurate and so affectionate that Penelope momentarily forgot she was supposed to be interrogating him. Benedict looked at her with such genuine fondness. The way one might look at a beloved Pomeranian who was being adorably ridiculous.
It was infuriating and touching in equal measure.
"I should return to Eloise," Penelope said, needing to escape before she did something stupid like confess everything or accuse him directly. "Before she's cornered by Lord Fife and his butterfly collection."
"Ah, yes. The infamous butterfly collector. A fate worse than death." Benedict bowed. "Thank you for the dance, Pen. And for the... interesting conversation."
"It was very interesting," Penelope agreed. "Illuminating, even."
"Was it? I'm glad." His eyes sparkled with something that might have been mischief. "I do enjoy our talks. You're one of the few people in society who actually says what they think."
"Not always," Penelope muttered.
"More than most." He squeezed her hand gently. A brotherly gesture that made her heart do complicated things. "Take care, Pen. And do try to get some sleep. You look like you're plotting for a kingdom."
"Just Mayfair’s crown. I'm not greedy."
Benedict laughed and walked away, leaving Penelope standing alone on the edge of the dance floor, her mind whirling.
That conversation had been... something. A verbal duel disguised as friendly banter. Each of them probing, testing, neither quite saying what they meant.
He knew something. Or suspected something. Or was just being Benedict, who was naturally perceptive and enjoyed teasing her.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Eloise said, reappearing with two glasses of lemonade.
"What did my brother say to you?"
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." Penelope accepted the lemonade gratefully. "Eloise, do you think Benedict could be hiding something?"
"Benedict? He's an open book. Why?"
"No reason. Just a feeling."
A feeling that she was either on the verge of a brilliant deduction or a complete mental breakdown. Possibly both.
Across the ballroom, she watched Benedict rejoin his brothers. Anthony was still staring at Edwina Sharma before she was being guided away by a motherly Kate. Benedict said something that made Anthony scowl.
And then Benedict glanced back at Penelope, caught her watching, and smiled.
It was a knowing smile. A challenging smile.
A smile that said: ‘I see you seeing me.’
Penelope's heart hammered against her ribs.
This season was going to be absolutely impossible.
XOX
The next morning's Lady Whistledown was savage.
Benedict read it over breakfast, coffee growing cold as he absorbed each perfectly crafted barb. She'd eviscerated The Silhouetta Canvas with surgical precision, questioning the artist's talent, motives, and parentage in language so elegant it took a moment to register the insults.
‘One might wonder what drives a person to hide behind sketches rather than face society directly. Perhaps it is cowardice. Perhaps it is a lack of substance. Or perhaps, most likely,it is the desperate bid for relevance from someone who has nothing original to offer.’
"She's furious," Eloise observed, reading over his shoulder. "I haven't seen Whistledown this vicious since Lady Berbrooke tried to start her own scandal sheet."
Benedict kept his expression neutral. "The Canvas must have struck a nerve."
"Oh, absolutely. Did you see yesterday's sketch? The one comparing the Featherington carriage to a lemon? Penelope was livid."
His attention sharpened. "Was she?"
"Well, she didn't say so. But I know her. She gets this look. Very calm, very controlled. It means her own calm before a storm." Eloise grinned. "I do love when Penelope gets vengeful. It's the most exciting thing about her."
Benedict thought of the woman at the ball, her sharp observations and sharper questions.
Exciting seemed an understatement.
"She was rather intense last night," he observed carefully.
"Wasn't she? She's convinced Lord Weatherby is the Canvas. Lord Weatherby! The man can barely hold a quill, let alone draw sketches." Eloise shook her head fondly. "Pen gets these ideas in her head sometimes. Remember when she was convinced the butcher was a French spy?"
"Was he?"
"No, he was just bad at English. But she followed him for a week." Eloise's expression softened.
"She's brilliant, really. Just a bit... intense about things."
Benedict smiled, remembering Penelope's interrogation disguised as casual conversation. She'd been hunting for something or someone. The realization was both thrilling and slightly terrifying.
"I should go," he said, standing abruptly. "I have an appointment at the Academy."
"You're always at the Academy lately. What are you working on that's so consuming?"
"A project. Nothing interesting."
Eloise's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but Benedict escaped before she could interrogate him further. He had a response to craft that would remind Lady Whistledown that she wasn't the only one who could wield words like weapons.
In his studio, surrounded by sketches and ink-stained rags, Benedict began to draw. Not the ballroom this time, but something more pointed. More personal.
A woman in a yellow gown, standing at the edge of a dance floor, watching the world with eyes that saw too much.
And beneath it, in his most elegant script:
‘Some observe from the shadows by choice, not cowardice. Some see truths that others miss. And some wield power precisely because they are underestimated.’
‘The Canvas sees you, Whistledown. The question is: do you see yourself?’
It was dangerous, this direct challenge. It was reckless.
It was also irresistible.
He'd have it printed by evening, distributed by dawn. And then he'd wait to see how she responded.
The game, Benedict thought with a smile, was just beginning.
XOX
Penelope saw The Silhouetta Canvas's latest work at breakfast and nearly choked on her strawberry.
It was her. Unmistakably, rendered in the same confident strokes she'd seen in Benedict's sketchbook. The yellow gown, the watchful posture, the expression of sharp intelligence.
And that text. That pointed, personal text.
‘The Canvas sees you, Whistledown.’
Her hands trembled as she set down the broadsheet. This wasn't possible. The Silhouetta Canvas couldn't know her identity. No one knew. She'd been so careful, so meticulous.
Unless...
Benedict's sketch. The way he'd watched her. The conversation at the ball that had felt charged with unspoken meaning.
"Oh God," she whispered. "It's him. It's definitely him."
"What's wrong?" Prudence asked through a mouthful of toast. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Nothing. I'm fine." Penelope forced her expression smooth, even as her mind raced through every interaction she'd ever had with Benedict Bridgerton.
The way he always seemed to be watching at balls. His new obsession with art. The ink stains. Knowing smiles. The pointed questions about words versus images.
‘How had she been so blind?’
Benedict Bridgerton was The Silhouetta Canvas. And somehow, impossibly, he'd deduced that she was Lady Whistledown.
The sketch wasn't accusatory, though. It was almost... admiring?
‘Some wield power precisely because they are underestimated.’
Was that how he saw her? As powerful?
The thought was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
She needed to know for certain. Needed to confirm her suspicions before she made her next move. And there was only one way to do that.
She'd have to get closer to Benedict Bridgerton.
The prospect should have filled her with dread. Instead, she felt a thrill of anticipation that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the memory of his warm smile and the way he'd called her wonderfully strange.
‘Focus,’ she told herself firmly. ‘This is war. Not... whatever else it might be.’
She glanced at Colin's letter, still sitting on her desk where she'd left it yesterday. The paper was creased from repeated readings, the words practically memorized.
Colin was in Greece, writing about sunsets and antiquities, completely oblivious to her existence beyond "Eloise's friend”.
And Benedict was here, seeing her. Really seeing her in a way that was both thrilling and dangerous.
This season was definitely going to be complicated.
But perhaps, Penelope thought as she began mentally composing her response to The Silhouetta Canvas, complicated could be interesting.
Very interesting indeed.