Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The lavishly appointed entry hall of Lord Matlock’s London townhouse was a riot of light and sound, the kind of spectacle that swallowed people whole. Chandeliers glinted like stars overhead, their crystals catching every flicker of the candles beneath them. The hum of voices, laughter, and the faint strains of a string quartet floated through the air, and Elizabeth Bennet could feel the swell of the music already pulling at her feet.

Elizabeth adjusted the lace at her sleeve for the third time in as many minutes and glanced sideways at her aunt. Mrs. Gardiner looked equally uneasy, though she disguised it better, her posture straight, her chin lifted. Her uncle, in contrast, seemed to fit the scene with ease, exchanging pleasantries with a gentleman by the doorway as if they were old friends.

The invitation had arrived only two days before, as much a shock as a delight. Mr. Gardiner’s recent success brokering a complex trade agreement across the Channel had brought him to the attention of Lord Matlock himself, an acknowledgment so unexpected that Elizabeth had nearly dropped the letter when her aunt handed it to her. The earl’s gesture—inviting them to this gathering of London’s elite—seemed both a reward for Mr. Gardiner’s hard work and a challenge to their place in society. Could they withstand such scrutiny?

Elizabeth had overheard her aunt say as much to her uncle that morning: “It is not only an honor; it is a test. We must give them no cause to think us unworthy of the company.” That thought had stayed with Elizabeth, its sharpness piercing her like the stiff new stays she had reluctantly tightened to perfection earlier that evening.

Elizabeth smoothed her skirts and tried to ignore the tiny tremor in her hands. She had never been so determined to disappear into the background of a room, but the sheer opulence around her made it feel impossible.

“Do not fidget so, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner murmured, leaning closer. Her tone was firm, but her eyes betrayed her own nerves. “You are drawing attention. ”

Elizabeth swallowed. “I am trying to look inconspicuous,” she whispered back. “I fear I am failing spectacularly.”

Her aunt gave a wry smile. “I was hoping Miss Fletcher would be here. She knows some of these people. It would have been easier with some introductions.”

Elizabeth only stared about, glassy-eyed. Her aunt’s newly hired “companion,” functioned more as an assistant, helping Mrs. Gardiner to sort papers for Uncle Gardiner's warehouses. Uncle had been urging her for some time to either pass the duty on to a clerk or find some help, and Anne Fletcher had provided a perfect solution to the trouble. But Miss Fletcher had been kept at home this evening by an inconvenient and rather violent stomach ailment. And so, they must do without the help of feminine introductions.

But they were not ignored for long. A liveried servant approached them, inclining his head crisply. “Mr. Gardiner, I believe? Lord Matlock requests the pleasure of your company in the main drawing room,” he said. “He would like to meet your entire party, sir. If you would follow me.”

Elizabeth’s pulse quickened as they were led through a gilded archway and into a space that seemed even grander than the one before. The drawing room was enormous, its high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork and frescoes of pastoral scenes. A sea of elegantly dressed men and women mingled beneath them, their movements fluid and practiced, as if they had rehearsed this very tableau for years.

Her uncle gestured for her to follow, and she clung to his side like a lifeline as they navigated the crowd. The sheer number of unfamiliar faces was dizzying, but a few names reached her ears as her uncle whispered them under his breath. “Lord Cowper… the Duke of Somerset… ah, and there is the Earl of Matlock himself.”

Elizabeth’s eyes darted toward a tall, silver-haired man standing near the far wall. His presence was commanding, his stance relaxed but watchful, as though he were both host and sentinel. He was deep in conversation with another gentleman, who carried an air of importance despite his unassuming appearance.

“That,” her uncle continued, his voice lowering, “is Monsieur Lapointe, the French minister.”

Elizabeth’s stomach flipped as she looked at the shorter man. She had heard whispers about the Frenchman during the carriage ride over—hushed remarks about secret negotiations, delicate matters of diplomacy, and a web of intrigue that seemed far removed from her quiet life in Hertfordshire. He was in all the gossip rags, and seemed, on the surface, to be on good terms with his British counterparts, though everyone had something else to whisper behind his back. Seeing him now, she was struck by how ordinary he seemed, with his thinning hair and plain black coat. And yet, the way others kept a careful distance spoke volumes.

Her uncle drew closer to Lord Matlock, bowing slightly as he introduced himself. Elizabeth and her aunt curtsied in turn, murmuring polite acknowledgments as the Earl greeted them with practiced charm. His sharp blue eyes flicked briefly to Elizabeth, and she felt an odd sense that he was weighing her somehow, measuring something unseen.

“The Gardiners, of course,” he said. “You are most welcome. I trust you are enjoying the evening?”

“Very much, my lord,” Mr. Gardiner replied. “It is an honor to be included in such an august gathering.”

“Indeed,” Matlock said, his tone neutral. His gaze shifted to Elizabeth again, lingering a fraction too long. She resisted the urge to fidget.

But the weight of his scrutiny sent an unwelcome prickle of heat rising to her cheeks. She knew what he saw: a young woman plainly dressed compared to the glittering fashions around her, her gown simple and modest but decently tailored, with no attempt at the daring necklines or vivid silks worn by the ladies of the ton . Her dark curls were neatly arranged, though without the intricate twists and jeweled pins that adorned the other women in the room. She had taken care to carry herself with dignity, aware that one wrong step—or word—could undo not just her own reputation but that of her aunt and uncle as well.

And yet, her eyes always gave her away. Elizabeth knew they were too bright, too alive with curiosity as they darted around the room. She could not help herself. Every face, every gesture, every detail was a puzzle waiting to be unraveled, and though she knew better than to stare, her gaze lingered just long enough to make her feel out of place. She clasped her gloved hands tightly in front of her, willing herself to appear as composed as her aunt, and offered Lord Matlock a small, polite smile.

Before she could overanalyze Lord Matlock’s lingering gaze, a figure approached from the far side of the room. The newcomer—a tall man in Matlock livery with the slightly hunched posture of one accustomed to discretion—leaned in to murmur something to the Earl. Elizabeth caught the low murmur of words. “My lord, Mr. Darcy has arrived.”

The earl’s hand paused mid-gesture, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he doubted what he had just heard. “Darcy?” he repeated, his voice still quiet but edged with clear surprise .

The servant gave a single nod. “He is in the hall, my lord. He declined to join the festivities.”

“Indeed! How very like Darcy. Show him to my study. Tell him I will join him directly.” Matlock straightened, his focus shifting back to the Gardiners and Elizabeth. “I must ask you to excuse me,” he said, his tone impeccably polite despite the abruptness of the interruption. His gaze softened as it fell on Mrs. Gardiner. “Please, make yourselves at home and enjoy the evening. My staff will see to it that your every comfort is met. It was a pleasure to meet you, madam, and you as well, Miss Bennet.”

Without waiting for further acknowledgment, the Earl strode toward the doorway, his long strides purposeful, the murmuring crowd parting instinctively before him.

Elizabeth glanced at her uncle, whose brow furrowed slightly in thought. Mrs. Gardiner shifted closer to Elizabeth, her fingers brushing Elizabeth’s gloved arm. “Did you hear that?”

“I did. Who is Mr. Darcy that his arrival should disturb the earl?”

“His nephew, I believe. I grew up nearly in the shadow of the Darcy estate, Pemberley, and I recall hearing much good of his father. I wonder if the son is anything like him.”

“It must not be so, given the look on the earl’s face just now.”

“Perhaps! Oh, Lizzy, let us step away from this crush. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I fear I may do or say something terribly embarrassing. My dear?” she asked, turning to her husband. “Might we go to the refreshment tables?”

Elizabeth let out a quiet breath, her shoulders easing as the Gardiners stepped away. She glanced around, unsure whether to follow her aunt and uncle or remain where she was. Her fingers twisted the edge of her glove, a nervous habit she had tried to break, but her attention had now begun to drift. Perhaps she could look about on her own. After all, when would she ever have another opportunity to make herself welcome in the home of an earl?

Another glance at her aunt and uncle—they were by the refreshment table now, deep in conversation with a merchant about trade routes. While she respected her uncle’s business acumen, she would never make sense of half the terms being discussed. Her curiosity about the room had grown into a ticklish nuisance, and surely no one would notice if she wandered a little closer to the gathering near the far wall.

The press of bodies grew tighter as she moved deeper into the drawing room, the hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. She tried to stay out of the way, hugging the edge of the crowd, but she misjudged the flow of the group. Suddenly, she found herself in the midst of a small cluster of gentlemen, their faces stern and their voices low.

It took her a moment to realize who they were. One of the men, standing slightly apart from the rest, wore an unadorned black coat that seemed almost plain against the grandeur of the room. His features were sharp, his eyes quick and calculating, and though he was not tall, there was an air of authority about him that marked him immediately. Monsieur Lapointe. The French minister.

Elizabeth’s breath caught. She froze, her mind racing as she realized she had wandered straight into the company of not just the minister but several of his attendants. Their accents, their reserved manner, even the way they carried themselves—it was clear that these men were not mingling like the other guests. She should leave immediately, but her feet refused to move. The room around her seemed to tilt as the conversations nearest to her began to falter, and unfamiliar gazes nearly stung her exposed shoulders.

Monsieur Lapointe turned to her. His expression remained calm, but his brow lifted slightly in curiosity. He spoke, his voice low and fluid, the cadence unmistakably French.

Elizabeth blinked. She understood enough to know he was addressing her, but the words slipped past her grasp like water through her fingers. He must have mistaken her for someone else—a member of his host’s staff, perhaps, or an invited guest of higher station. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“I—pardon, Monsieur,” she stammered in English, her cheeks burning. The minister tilted his head, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips, but before he could respond, another voice murmured nearby.

“ Est-ce elle?” someone whispered. The words were not meant for her, but she heard them all the same. A sharp glance from one of the minister’s companions swept over her, and she felt her heart thrum painfully in her chest. Who were they talking about? She looked around for this important “elle” but saw no one attracting gazes but… herself.

Monsieur LaPointe’s gaze settled on her, and a slow smile curved his lips as he inclined his head. “Je crois savoir que les fleurs sont en pleine floraison,” he said, his tone light, almost casual.

Elizabeth blinked. That was an odd remark—did she understand him correctly? Flowers? Certainly, some flowers might still be in bloom, but it was September. Was he referring to the gardens here? Or some other place? Still, not wanting to be impolite, she managed a hesitant, “Oui… naturellement. ”

Beside him, his companion—shorter, sharper, with a face like a fox—exchanged a glance with LaPointe before murmuring something in French, too low for her to understand. But it was the way they were looking at her that made the skin on the back of her neck prickle like it was on fire.

Elizabeth took a step back, nearly colliding with a servant carrying a tray of drinks. Her pulse quickened as she looked around for a way out, but she saw… there, something terribly odd. One of the minister’s men had just placed a small folded slip onto the tray, the motion subtle but deliberate. The paper could hardly be seen, but there it was, regardless.

Elizabeth tried to ignore it. The note could be anything—a harmless message or arrangement for the evening. But then why the furtive glance? The servant deposited the drinks at a side table, then disappeared into the crowd.

Her stomach churned as she realized how deeply compromised she must already look, standing among these men, the French minister himself having addressed her. She had to make it seem as though she had purpose—some explanation for why she had been there at all.

She glanced toward the side table. If the note were important, surely it was better to deliver it directly to Lord Matlock. Her gaze flicked around the room, but her aunt and uncle were nowhere in sight. Her pulse pounded as she stepped toward the table. One small action. One quick correction. That was all.

Her gloved hand brushed the edge of the note just as a sharp voice cut through the air behind her.

“Young lady, you are standing in the path of the servants.”

Elizabeth startled, her foot catching the edge of a chair. She collided with the very servant returning to collect the tray, the tray tipping as the paper fluttered to the ground. A mortified apology tumbled from her lips as she crouched to gather them, her movements hurried and clumsy. Her hand closed instinctively around the note, the folded edge pressing into her palm.

“I am so sorry,” she stammered, rising to her feet. The servant gave her a tight-lipped nod and moved on, balancing the tray once more as though nothing had happened.

Elizabeth hesitated. The note felt oddly heavy in her hand, though it was only paper. She glanced at it, her curiosity piqued by the dark, flowing script visible through the fold. It was not hers to read, and yet she could not seem to stop herself.

Her gaze darted around the room. No one was watching. Carefully, she unfolded it.

The words leapt off the page :

L'échange de prisonniers se déroulera comme convenu. Assurez-vous que l'envoyé soit retardé. Notre homme s'occupera du reste.

She swallowed. Glanced around. That could not possibly mean what she thought it did! Surely her French was bad. Or her imagination was wild. But what she thought she read was something about prisoner exchanges and delaying envoys and someone handling something.

Elizabeth stared at the note, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her translation skills might be suspect, but the implications were clear. This was no innocent message.

Her mind raced. Who had written it? Who was it meant for? And why had it ended up in her hands?

“Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth’s head snapped up, and her blood froze. Standing before her was one of the British dignitaries, his expression thunderous and his gaze sharp as a blade.

“What, precisely, do you think you are doing?”