Trapped in Scandal

Chapter Twelve

Darcy

1st May 1813

D erbyshire was slowly coming alive as late spring started to make way for the arrival of summer. Out across the fields and over on the hills that Darcy could see from his study the wild thyme and yarrow starting to grow, which soon enough would be joined by musk thistle. Since his aunt’s departure Darcy found life almost pleasant. He and Elizabeth had stuck to their agreement to be civil, meaning that peace had descended upon Pemberley.

However, peace also gave Darcy time to think, which normally he could channel into keeping the estate running or discussing business. The horse breeding venture Bingley was so keen on had not yet come to fruition.

Not that it mattered for now, he had to focus on finding out who on earth had found a way to besmirch his and Elizabeth’s good names. He had sent letters to some of the people who had borne witness to Elizabeth’s attendance at Miss Abigail Barnes’s birthday celebration, and a few had already replied. Darcy was unsure what he wanted to find out exactly.

He wanted to know who had caused the scandal—but he also hoped their suspicion regarding Lydia Wickham’s involvement would prove untrue. It would hurt Elizabeth to have her sister cast as the villain. Yet, if it was her, Darcy would expose her and whoever the man involved with it was.

He’d have liked it if Wickham was involved, but he’d been in Brighton, something Darcy had already confirmed. Mrs Wickham’s arrival in Brighton could not be confirmed until the following day, however, that did leave enough time for a potential dalliance at the inn.

Today, he had finished reading a letter from Mrs Collins, which further corroborated Elizabeth’s innocence. Before that, he’d received a reply from Mr Collins—a letter so pompous and unhelpful that Darcy could scarcely contain his exasperation.

“I apologise for disturbing you,” Elizabeth said as she pushed open the study door. Darcy was suddenly met with the soft scent of roses as she entered. He glanced around, expecting a window to be open.

“No, it is fine. What brings you here?” He asked, more focused on the smell than on her.

“I have something to give you,” she said before handing him a folded handkerchief. He picked it up, turning it around in his hand before it fell open, revealing the embroidery within. To his amazement, it was an embroidery of his horse with small wildflowers and plants adorning the border. He held it close, turning it around in his hands. Compared to what she had given him at Christmas this was incredible, and he almost didn’t believe she had made it, except he remembered their conversation where she had been sewing and had seen the start of this. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.

“Elizabeth… It is lovely indeed.”

“I’m glad you like it. Consider it a gift in kind for the brooch, and to make up for your Christmas present. I am aware that those slippers were not my best work. I did not put as much care into them as I could have,” she said with a gentle smile.

He had noticed recently that she smiled more, and suddenly she was much prettier to him. Maybe he was just getting used to seeing her as a good person, now that his false assumptions about her character had been rectified. After all, aside from Georgiana, he had not been in close contact with a woman for such an extended period. It was a phase, it would pass, he was sure.

“You do not need to repay me for every gift. I am sure if you did, I would end up with a stack of slippers and handkerchiefs from you.”

“I am sure there are worse things you could end up with a large quantity of,” she giggled, and all he could do for a second was smile. He couldn’t explain his behaviour, and he almost didn’t want to explain it, like it would somehow taint the experience of having these emotions by explaining it.

Then, she glanced at the letters on his desk. “Did you receive any more responses to your enquiries regarding the night of the party?”

“I have. My latest letters have been from Mr Collins and his wife,” he chuckled.

“Oh! I am glad you wrote to Charlotte. She was with me at the celebration,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “She attempted to speak up for me, but nobody would listen.”

“Which she has confirmed I am relieved to say. She has also confirmed the names of the other people who were with you that night so we can say with some certainty that it wasn’t any of these young women at the inn,” Darcy said with a nod. “The process of elimination will help us.”

“And what did Mr Collins say? Did he have any suggestions?” Elizabeth asked.

“Unfortunately, your cousin was… less helpful,” Darcy said as she went to pick up the letter and hand it to Elizabeth.

She read it, her brows arching higher with every line. When she finished, she placed it on the desk with an incredulous expression.

“The audacity of this man!” she exclaimed. “And to presume we need counselling from him of all people… Truly, I marvel at his delusions.”

Darcy chuckled dryly. “I fear his sermons on repentance and virtue are forthcoming.”

“Undoubtedly,” Elizabeth replied with a wry smile.

“The other accounts are enough to narrow the possibilities. Your sister Lydia remains our most likely culprit, though we lack proof.”

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “I feared as much.”

Darcy leaned forward. “Would you mind recounting your evening at Abigail’s celebration once more? There may be a detail I’ve overlooked.”

Elizabeth nodded, though she looked weary. No doubt because she had already told him the tale more than once.

“There isn’t much to add. I spent most of the evening with Abigail. Charlotte left early to prepare for the journey home to Kent. Lydia was invited but never arrived, having left earlier that morning for Brighton. Or so she told us. The rest of the guests were noblemen and ladies. We danced, we talked—it was a pleasant evening. I only heard of the rumour days later.”

Darcy frowned, drumming his fingers on the desk. “So, we’re left with the suspicion that Lydia was involved, but no certainty as to her companion.”

“Exactly. She could have told us she was leaving early as a ruse, so that she could go to the inn and meet her lover.”

“And we know Wickham was in Brighton, as has been confirmed by my contact,” he sighed, rubbing his temple. “I’ll write to the innkeeper who accepted the reservation under my name. Perhaps he can provide additional details.”

“Perhaps you can ask him about a description of the man?” Elizabeth suggested.

“I shall, perhaps he can confirm. Had I been in my right mind I would have gone to confront him before we were forced into this marriage, Elizabeth. I must beg your pardon for the way I have treated you. It was unjust. I was unjust.”

Elizabeth placed a reassuring hand on his desk. “Thank you, Mr Darcy. This means more to me than I can express.”

He met her gaze. “You needn’t thank me. I will make this right, I swear it to you.”

Elizabeth offered a small, understanding smile.

Darcy hesitated, then asked, “Elizabeth, am I imagining it, or do I smell roses?”

She blinked, then laughed. “You’re not imagining it. Jane has a still room at Hartley House. She has been experimenting with rose-scented perfumes. This is one of her latest attempts—a birthday gift for me.”

“Your birthday?” Darcy asked, startled.

Elizabeth shrugged. “It’s not something I celebrate, but Jane always insists on marking the occasion.”

Darcy frowned. “You should have told me. Georgiana would have liked to celebrate with you.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “If she asks, I’ll tell her. Now, I’ll leave you to your correspondence.”

She turned to go, but Darcy called after her. “Elizabeth—”

She glanced back, her expression curious.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure what he meant to say. She offered him a smile and left.

Slumping back in his chair, Darcy realised the scent of roses had gone with her. It was an unassuming fragrance, one he’d never paid much mind to before. But now, with the embroidered handkerchief in his hand, he breathed in its faint aroma and found it inexplicably comforting.

For the first time, Darcy thought that roses might be his favourite scent of all.