Chapter Twenty-Six
“You are mistaken, Caroline! It could not have been her.”
“It was. You did not see her. Miss Eliza was with Lady Hertford! Do you not see? All the mystery surrounding her relatives in town—she must be one of the prince’s by-blows!”
Darcy frowned at the loud argument coming from the parlor. He had come to see Bingley, and did not expect to be party to…whatever the sisters were saying.
“Darcy, come to my study.” Bingley stepped out of the parlor and beckoned. “I cannot stand another minute.”
“What is that about?”
Bingley shook his head. “Caroline and Louisa attempted to secure an appointment with one of the exclusive modistes of the ton. They were turned away when Lady Hertford—yes, that lady—came for a private appointment. Caroline swears she saw Miss Elizabeth with Lady Hertford as she exited the shop. Now she is speculating about…well, it is not worth repeating.”
Darcy frowned. “You had best warn your sister to guard her tongue. Anyone connected to Lady Hertford is protected—gossiping about them could ruin her.”
“So, you think she might be right?”
“No, I think she had best be cautious before casting aspersions.” Elizabeth, here?
It did not seem possible. Darcy sat in a chair beside Bingley.
“I admit, I still lack any knowledge of Miss Elizabeth’s connections in town.
I assumed her father’s family shared her care with Mr. Bennet.
” And he had not been able to ask Elizabeth her surname.
She had skirted the question carefully. At first, he had thought it accidental on her part, but now after some weeks of contemplation, he was not sure.
“I suppose I shall never know. I do not mean to return to…Hertfordshire.”
Bingley meant Miss Bennet, Darcy supposed, but said nothing on the subject. “I am in town for the season,” he supplied. “You and I can find plenty of diversion.”
“What is this? Darcy, interested in partaking of the season and exposing himself to the haute ton? I cannot believe it.” He grinned crookedly.
“My aunt is hosting a ball. Perhaps I can secure an invitation—”
“No, I beg you. At least not to her ball at the beginning of the Season. Caroline would be unbearable.” Bingley shook his head. “She already thinks too well of herself.”
“As you like it.” Lady Matlock’s ball, which traditionally opened the Season, was well attended by the first circles. The Bingleys would only warrant an invitation if Darcy pressed, and even then, it was not certain.
“Will you come to the theater with me tomorrow week?” Bingley looked up hopefully. “Caroline insists she wishes to attend, and I have no ready excuse.”
“We might use my box, if it pleases you.” Darcy wished for his friend to return to his good spirits.
The arrangements were made, and he departed. Though he did not look forward to spending the evening with Miss Bingley clutching his arm, he felt it was a sacrifice he could make to brighten his friend’s mood.
Elizabeth’s first gown was one for the theater.
It was unlike anything Elizabeth had ever worn—elegant without excess, designed to command respect rather than attention.
The silk was a soft, lustrous pearl-grey, woven so finely it caught the light without gleaming, its high waist accented by the faintest embroidery in silver thread, visible only upon close inspection.
The sleeves were long and narrow, ending just below the elbow, allowing for warmth without heaviness, while the skirt fell in graceful folds that moved fluidly with every step.
There was no profusion of ornament: no feathers, no jangling jewels—only a narrow satin sash and a single cameo at the waist of the bodice, chosen to suggest lineage rather than vanity.
Elizabeth understood at once Lady Hertford’s intent.
This was not a gown meant to dazzle, but to place her—unassailably respectable, elevated, and impossible to dismiss as merely decorative.
Wearing it, Elizabeth felt both composed and constrained, aware that even in such beauty, every stitch had been chosen to speak on her behalf.
She had never before worn a gown that carried such purpose. At Longbourn, attire had been chosen for comfort or modest display. Here, clothing was argument—silent, deliberate, and difficult to refute.
Lady Hertford’s carriage awaited them. The lamps cast a warm glow against the polished panels as Elizabeth stepped inside, gathering her skirts with care.
They had dined with the Prince Regent in an intimate setting.
Princess Charlotte had joined them—practice, her father had called it.
Now, the prince bid them farewell. He would not be joining them this time, as he was needed at Windsor Castle.
Elizabeth suspected the truth was rather more strategic. His absence allowed her to be seen without explanation, observed without attribution. It was safer for him and more instructive for her.
“I took the liberty of purchasing you new theater glasses.” Lady Hertford handed Elizabeth an elaborate case containing the set.
“Thank you, Your Ladyship.”
Lady Hertford shook her head. “You may be less formal when we are alone. Madam will suit.”
Elizabeth felt stirrings of suspicion. The intimacy implied by the suggestion was subtle, almost flattering, yet she recognized it for what it was—an invitation to shift allegiance, to accept guidance in place of independence.
Her loyalties were fixed, but she obliged Lady Hertford.
“I look forward to utilizing them during the performance.”
“One does not come to the theater for the performance, my dear, not someone of our standing.” She looked slightly amused.
“You are free to enjoy the play and music—simply be aware that others will be watching you. We are using my box tonight. The prince does not wish for your connection to him to be known yet.”
The words settled over Elizabeth with the weight of instruction.
A private box meant visibility without exposure, distinction without explanation.
She was to be noticed—but not questioned; admired—but not claimed.
It was, Elizabeth realized, an introduction carefully stripped of context, allowing speculation to bloom while answers remained just out of reach.
As the carriage rolled forward, Elizabeth straightened her spine and folded her gloved hands neatly in her lap.
She felt a flicker of anticipation—there was pleasure in beauty, in music, in the hum of society at its most animated—but it was tempered by vigilance.
Tonight, she would be judged not by what she said or did, but by how she appeared to belong.
And so, she resolved to do precisely that: to sit, to observe, to enjoy what she could, and to remember always that the eyes upon her were not idle.
This was not merely an evening at the theatre. It was her debut into a far more dangerous performance.
“Louisa, look!” Miss Bingley’s hiss carried, and Darcy turned to see where they were pointing. Across the theater sat two ladies in a large box—the Hertford box, if he was not mistaken.
The realization alone was enough to still him. That box was never casually occupied.
He lifted his theater glasses to his eyes and followed her pointed finger. Lady Hertford was there, speaking quietly to a much younger woman.
He sucked in a breath. It looked like Elizabeth, but not. The lady there was fashionably attired, though unlike others in boxes around her, was not dripping in gems. Her gown was the height of fashion—much nicer than anything the Bennets or their niece had worn.
Darcy lowered the glasses slightly, then raised them again, as though a second look might undo what his senses insisted upon. The young woman’s posture—upright yet unforced—the tilt of her head as she listened, even the stillness with which she held herself, were painfully familiar.
It is too far away to be sure. Still, he frowned as he tried to catch a clear view of the lady with Lady Hertford. The theater box was too dimly lit to see any details. She is too much in my thoughts—I am not imagining her presence where it is impossible.
The shadows were unkind, obscuring her face even as they emphasized her presence. Whoever she was, she belonged exactly where she sat—neither shrinking from attention nor courting it.
If Elizabeth were connected to Lord and Lady Hertford…
He dismissed the thought immediately. How did a country maiden become connected to so exalted a family?
And yet the question, once formed, refused to be silenced.
Then the story Richard had told him crept into his thoughts.
He knew Elizabeth’s mother was a Bennet, but who was her father?
Had some gentleman defied his family and married a country nobody?
Could Elizabeth be the product of that union?
It seemed ridiculous, but it made sense in a way.
Elizabeth spent most of the year in Town.
Her education was extensive, and he knew she spoke at least one language fluently.
He suddenly recalled something she had said—something he had disregarded and forgotten until now.
Did she not say she spent only four months of the year with her Bennet relations?
Each recollection aligned too neatly, like pieces of a puzzle he had not known he was assembling. He had always sensed there was something…unaccounted for about her—an ease, a polish that defied her supposed circumstances.
Darcy cursed his heart, which seemed determined to find any way to justify his fascination with Miss Elizabeth. She is not for you, Darcy, he reminded himself.
The admonition rang hollow. His heart was a traitor, and worse—it was imaginative.
During intermission, he tried to leave the box, hoping to see the mysterious lady in the box across the theater, but an unexpected arrival to his box surprised him. Miss Bingley greeted the brother and sister pair warmly.
Her timing was impeccable. Darcy suppressed a sigh.