Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Elizabeth trailed behind her aunt as they stepped into Madame Laroux’s Dress Emporium, the soft hum of conversation and rustling silk filling the air. She had been here once before, shortly after arriving in London, when Mrs. Gardiner had insisted she needed a new spencer for the northern tour. At the time, it had been an entirely pleasant visit—rows of exquisite muslins, neatly stacked ribbons, mannequins draped in the latest fashions from Paris. More importantly, Mrs. Gardiner had exchanged pleasantries with other patrons, and Elizabeth had observed how easily her aunt moved through these circles, a merchant’s wife who, while not being of the gentry, had a natural warmth that drew people in.

Now, however, everything felt… different.

The moment they entered, Elizabeth felt the shift, subtle but unmistakable. Several women who had been chatting near the lace counter turned just slightly, their gazes flicking toward her with mild but unmistakable interest. One of them, Mrs. Winthrop, whom Elizabeth recognized from Lady Matlock’s party, was standing beside a display of gloves, speaking in quiet tones to her companion. A week ago, Mrs. Winthrop had smiled at Mrs. Gardiner and engaged her in conversation. Today, she merely gave a small, cool nod before turning away.

Mrs. Gardiner hesitated for half a beat—so briefly that Elizabeth might have missed it had she not been watching—and then carried on as if nothing had happened.

Elizabeth, however, felt a prickle of unease crawl up her spine, as if the very air in the shop had turned a degree colder.

They had become a curiosity.

She clenched her jaw and moved to the table where silk ribbons were laid out, absently running her fingers over a length of deep green satin. In the grand scheme of things, she had always known that one misstep could undo years of careful social maneuvering. That was the nature of society, was it not? But knowing it and experiencing it firsthand were two very different things.

A soft laugh from the opposite side of the room made her glance up.

Miss Ashton, another woman she remembered seeing at the earl’s party, was standing near a display of lace trims. She was speaking to a friend, their heads slightly inclined toward each other. Whatever she said was spoken too low to be heard, but a moment later, her friend lifted a delicate hand to her mouth and giggled behind it.

Elizabeth stiffened.

Her first instinct was to march over and demand to know what was so amusing. But she gritted her teeth and forced herself to remain where she was.

“You see it now, do you not?” Mrs. Gardiner murmured at her side. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that Elizabeth had never heard before.

“I do.” She tugged slightly at the green ribbon, as if testing its weight. “It seems I have become quite the object of interest. I wonder if it was because of tripping and being seen with a treasonous note, or for dancing with a certain single man of large fortune from Derbyshire.”

Mrs. Gardiner made a thoughtful noise, picking up a bolt of fine muslin and examining the embroidery. “Both, I should imagine. A week ago, I might have greeted half the ladies here and had a pleasant conversation while you looked at ribbons.” She flicked a glance toward Mrs. Winthrop, who had not looked in their direction again. “Today, however, it seems I have misplaced my ability to be seen.”

Elizabeth swallowed. It was one thing to suspect that her presence had damaged her uncle’s prospects. It was another thing entirely to witness the effects of it, to see her aunt—gracious, kind, well-liked Mrs. Gardiner—shut out because of it.

“I am sorry,” she murmured.

Mrs. Gardiner sighed and set the muslin down. “It is not your doing alone, Lizzy. But I do wish to know what you intend to do about it.”

Elizabeth blinked, startled. “What I intend—? Aunt, I can hardly force these women to unbend. Surely, you do not mean to suggest I grovel for their approval?”

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Gardiner said crisply. “But neither do I think hiding away will serve you.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “And what do you propose?”

Mrs. Gardiner met her gaze. “If people are going to watch you, then give them something worth watching. ”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply—but before she could, a new voice cut into their conversation.

“Well, if it is not Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth turned just in time to see Lady Greaves approaching, her expression poised, her smile just a little too sharp.

Elizabeth curtsied politely, though her body remained stiff. “Lady Greaves.”

“My dear,” the older woman said, looking her up and down. “I was quite surprised to see you here today. After all, one might have thought that after last week’s… excitement, you would prefer to be elsewhere.”

A flicker of irritation flared in Elizabeth’s chest. This was a test—she knew it as well as she knew the sky was blue. If she faltered, if she flushed, if she stammered, Lady Greaves would own her in this conversation.

Instead, she tilted her head with a polite smile. “Elsewhere? Surely not. Madame Laroux’s is the finest shop in town. And besides, Lady Greaves, you must know that I quite adore a bit of excitement.”

A beat of silence. Then a short laugh. “Indeed,” the woman said, raising a single brow. “I do not doubt it.” She glanced toward Mrs. Gardiner then, offering a slight nod, before sweeping back toward her original companions.

The moment she was gone, Elizabeth let out a long, controlled breath.

Mrs. Gardiner, beside her, smirked slightly. “Well done.”

Elizabeth huffed. “I do not believe I had a choice.”

“No,” her aunt agreed, picking up a delicate lace trim. “You did not.”

Darcy had no intention of staying long at Brooks’s. The club was quiet this afternoon, as it often was before the evening crowd arrived, and he meant only to take a glass of port and skim through the latest reports before heading home.

He had barely settled into his chair when a familiar voice called his name. “Darcy! Just the man I hoped to see.”

Darcy looked up to find William Harcourt, a landowner of some standing in Derbyshire, making his way toward him. He had always regarded Harcourt as a rational, neutral man—not one to involve himself too deeply in the petty politics of local rivalries. Which made it all the more irritating when Harcourt took the seat across from him and fixed him with an expectant look. “I hear there is some talk of your standing for Parliament.”

Darcy ground his teeth. So, it had begun already. He kept his expression blank. “I had not heard.”

Harcourt smiled faintly, swirling the brandy in his glass. “Come now, Darcy. The matter has been whispered of in the right circles—no doubt, you know the source as well as I. A great many gentlemen have been hoping for an alternative to Stanton—one who has the means to oppose him properly.”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “And they assume that will be me?”

Harcourt shrugged. “Who else? The trouble with Stanton is not just his methods, but his character. No man of honor trusts him, and yet he holds his seat unchallenged. Unless, of course, you mean to allow that to continue.”

Darcy’s grip on his glass tightened. This was what his uncle wanted—to make it appear inevitable. To trap him before he had even decided. Before he could formulate a response, a second voice sounded spoke up.

“I cannot say I blame Mr. Darcy for preferring to stay out of it.”

Darcy turned sharply at the sound of the voice behind him. Mr. Lionel Edgeworth, a minor MP with strong ties to Stanton’s faction, stood nearby, his posture at ease, a glass of brandy balanced between his fingers. His expression held a lazy amusement, but there was calculation in his eyes.

The conversation at the nearby tables slowed. A few men—political men, and even one or two Derbyshire men—turned slightly in their chairs, their ears subtly inclined in Darcy’s direction. They were not openly staring, but the tension had shifted.

Darcy met Edgeworth’s gaze coolly. “You seem well informed about my affairs.”

“A man need only listen to the right whispers. And there have been many whispers of late.”

He took a deliberate sip, then added in an almost idle tone, “Not every man enjoys the burden of responsibility.” He swirled his glass, glancing at the amber liquid as if the matter were of little consequence. “Then again, it is always easier to let someone else make the decisions.”

The words were light, but the implication was razor-sharp.

Darcy was either avoiding a fight or afraid to lose one .

A slight murmur rose from the nearby table. One gentleman chuckled softly. Another—Darcy recognized him as Mr. Forsyth, a retired barrister with Derbyshire ties—leaned in to whisper something to his companion.

Darcy’s jaw locked. He knew what was happening. Edgeworth was baiting him, casting doubt not just for his own amusement, but for the benefit of those listening. A test. Would Darcy rise to defend himself—or would he retreat?

Harcourt, still seated, tilted his head slightly, as though gauging Darcy’s reaction.

Darcy set his glass down with careful precision. “Curious,” he said at last, his tone as smooth as Edgeworth’s own. “I do not recall ever seeking your advice, Mr. Edgeworth. And yet, here you are, offering it freely.”

A few men nearby smirked. Edgeworth’s mouth quirked, but he was not so easily shaken.

“Merely an observation,” he said, lifting his glass. “When a man of your name and standing remains so very silent on a subject, one cannot help but wonder.” He drained his glass, set it down, and inclined his head in a mockery of politeness. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving his words to linger in the air like the smoke curling from the club’s lamps.

Darcy could still feel the weight of other men’s eyes upon him, measuring him, waiting to see how he would react.

Harcourt studied him over the rim of his own glass. “A word of caution,” he said quietly. “The men in Derbyshire who are undecided will be watching you, whether you like it or not. A show of reluctance may be taken for indifference.”

Darcy’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.

Harcourt drained the last of his brandy, gave Darcy a considering look, then stood. “Good evening, Darcy.”

Darcy did not reply. He simply stared into his untouched port, his appetite for leisure well and truly gone.

By the time Darcy arrived at Matlock House, irritation was pulsing through his veins like a slow burn. His uncle had set this in motion. He had been maneuvered into place like a chess piece, and it was only now—when he was already deep in the game—that he was beginning to recognize the strategy behind it.

A footman admitted him and led him toward the study, where the earl sat behind a heavy mahogany desk, puffing on a cigar with no small amount of satisfaction. “Ah, Fitzwilliam. I wondered how long it would take before you darkened my door again.”

Darcy closed the door behind him with more force than was necessary. “You have been meddling.”

The earl exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Oh, I have been doing far more than that.” He gestured to a nearby chair. “Sit.”

Darcy did not. Instead, he stalked to the desk, bracing his hands on the edge. “Harcourt approached me at Brooks’s today. Stanton’s people are already moving, spreading the idea that I am either unwilling or afraid to challenge him.”

The earl tapped his ash into a tray. “Good. That means the right people are talking.”

“I have not agreed to anything!”

The earl merely smirked. “And yet here you are.”

Darcy exhaled sharply, pacing to the fireplace. “Even if I wished to stand, which I do not, you know as well as I do that my name alone is not enough. All your posturing and scheming is not enough, either.”

The earl studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod. “You are correct. That is why you need to begin showing yourself—immediately.”

Darcy stilled. “…Meaning?”

The earl flicked a glance toward a stack of correspondence. “Lady Matlock has arranged for you to attend several events in the coming weeks. You will be expected to make an appearance, to engage, to be seen. And, of course, you will need to be seen in excellent company.”

Darcy’s stomach dropped. He did not like where this was going.

The earl took another long drag of his cigar before adding, “Starting with Miss Bennet.”

“What?”

“You will need to call on her. Publicly. And then you will take her driving.”

Darcy’s entire body stiffened. “I will do no such thing.”

The earl raised a single brow. “Will you not?”

Darcy turned away, running a hand down his face. “You overreach, Uncle. ”

“I do nothing of the sort. Miss Bennet’s presence in your company will shift public perception, just as we discussed. And besides, it is the polite thing to do. You did, after all, dance with the girl.”

Darcy nearly growled. “Under duress.”

The earl laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Fitzwilliam, you make it sound as if I forced you into the ballroom at gunpoint.”

Darcy ground his teeth. “You might as well have.”

The earl waved a hand. “The point is, the match must look plausible. I do not expect you to marry the girl—I merely expect you to behave as if you might .”

Darcy exhaled heavily, staring out the window. He had known—of course he had known—that this scheme was not over. But it was another thing entirely to hear it spoken aloud, to have his uncle dictating the next step with such casual authority.

He inhaled slowly. Then, finally, gritting his teeth, he turned back to the earl.

“Give me the Gardiners’ direction.”

The earl grinned. “Excellent choice.”