Chapter 3
Darcy had remained in the ballroom after Miss Elizabeth had disappeared through the doors to the entrance hall.
He had pressed himself against the wall, close to an enormous potted palm.
The next dance had begun, but to his ears, the music sounded discordant and unpleasing.
It must only be his mood, no one else seemed to notice.
Miss Bingley was standing across the room, talking to her sister behind her fan. Her gaze was ceaselessly searching the room and Darcy looked away.
Miss Elizabeth had gone to her father immediately after their dance. Why had she done that? He had noticed her pallor and her downcast mien. Was she unwell? It had only been a few minutes later that she left the ballroom. She had not yet returned, and he grew concerned for her.
He glanced back at the Bingley sisters just as Miss Bingley noticed him and immediately began to move. She would work her way around the room to join him, he knew. Thankfully, she could not cross the floor while a dance was in progress. He had time to escape.
Down the first corridor, and around the corner.
She would not find him now, he thought with grim satisfaction.
He glanced around; there was no sign of Miss Elizabeth.
The air was a little cooler, although the mingled scent of candle smoke and crowd had followed him into the corridor and he closed his eyes in annoyance.
Where had Miss Elizabeth gone? She ought to have returned if she had only retired, and he knew his lips twitched; she had earlier escaped much of the dance with that odious-looking parson — Bingley had said that he was the cousin who stood to inherit Longbourn.
But that was no reason not to have returned by now. His heart sank. Perhaps he had distressed her during the dance. But her condemnation of him and support of Wickham had pained him, and he had not considered his words as he ought.
She despises me, and I did not know. When she was staying here to care for her sister, I thought she was flirting with me. Now I know of her dislike. I wish I could have explained myself more carefully; although it was not possible when dancing.
He leaned heavily against the wall. But she is not of the first circles, and I must forget her. I ought not to care what she thinks of me.
A passing footman offered him a tray of wine.
Darcy looked at the glasses with distaste.
“Thank you, but I do not want wine. If a glass of whisky, no, brandy can be procured, I would be grateful.” Bingley’s whisky was dreadful, and no doubt Darcy’s valet had his own special blend under lock and key.
A few minutes later, he was gratefully sipping whisky while looking out of the great front door out into the darkness.
The cold air swirled around his legs and along the corridor.
His lips curled wryly; Miss Bingley would be furious.
Then his eyes caught his reflection in the glass of a portrait.
Pale and scowling — if she could see him now, would Miss Elizabeth realise what hurt she had caused?
He bitterly recalled their conversation. Once again, Wickham had been believed. Miss Elizabeth, clever as she was, was convinced, trusting the man’s genial manner and handsome features. His hand tightened round the glass before he realised what he was doing.
He put the glass down in a small niche, and strode to the front door. Some fresh air would cure his headache and enable him to think. He stood in the entryway, the footmen on duty straightening up and eyeing him warily.
Filling his lungs with the cold night air dispelled his looming headache, but did little to ease his hurt — or his anger towards Wickham.
Why had that man come to Hertfordshire? Had he been following him, pursuing him since Ramsgate?
Darcy decided he would write to Richard tomorrow. Something would have to be done.
He slowly descended the steps and stepped out of the light.
It would be good to be alone. He was disappointed when he heard a guttural chuckle ahead of him.
Sounding rough and coarse, it was certainly a servant not wishing to remain with the coaches, he supposed.
Still, he began to move out into the park. A brisk walk would ease his mood.
“Quiet! I told you, you need to be quiet!”
Darcy was instantly alert. That voice — he would have known it anywhere. Was Wickham skulking around to try to find a young lady alone? Or perhaps he had a tryst set up with a maid.
No matter. He must warn the wretch away. That man must not stay to endanger those within — or perhaps speak of Georgiana. He strode out to meet the man who had been his childhood friend.
Duty. He must do his duty. But also protect his sister — and the other ladies inside, especially Miss Elizabeth. She might be too easily persuaded.
“Come on, it’s not too cold. He will be here soon enough, I can assure you; too arrogant not to …”
Darcy scowled; the insult stung as always. He rounded the small copse of trees and saw a lantern being held by a man, two others beside him. Wickham and another.
“That will do.” Darcy kept his voice firm and under control. “You ought not to be here; this park is private ground.”
From the little he could see in the lamplight, Wickham appeared to be gloating. “Ah, my old friend. I thought you would take a walk in the fresh air.”
“Then let us speak plainly for once.” Darcy stepped forward, and the trees cut out all light from the house.