Chapter Twenty-Nine
Darcy had never cared much for society. He preferred the order of a well-run estate, the quiet authority of his library, or even the frank discomfort of a poorly managed dinner to the careless noise of men who believed privilege absolved them of thought.
Thus, when Bingley invited Darcy to his home after a night at Boodles, Darcy followed him there out of relief as much as affection.
They took their usual seats in Bingley’s study, the room quiet as they poured fine brandy from the decanter.
Darcy scarcely noticed the taste of the drink on his tongue, nor the burn as it slid down his throat.
He was still unsettled by Lady Matlock’s ball—by what he had learned, and more importantly, by what he had not yet confirmed.
Bingley, by contrast, was in excellent spirits.
“I have come to a decision,” he announced, stirring his drink with unnecessary vigor. “And I think you will approve.”
Darcy glanced up. “On what subject?”
“Miss Burrows.” Bingley smiled, unguarded and pleased. “I shall ask her for a courtship.”
Darcy paused. “You are certain?”
“Entirely. I have no doubt of her feelings.” Bingley leaned back, folding his arms with satisfaction. “She is warm, attentive, lively without being foolish. When I am with her, I find myself…less inclined to dwell on other matters.”
Darcy understood at once what he meant—and what he carefully did not say.
“To a point,” Bingley added, with an apologetic shrug. “One does not forget entirely, of course. But time and company are powerful correctives.”
Darcy felt a familiar tightening in his chest. He considered, for a moment, telling Bingley what he had heard—that Miss Bennet might be in Town, that she had been seen under Lady Hertford’s protection, that she had danced the first set with Bramley and left a viscount visibly undone.
But he did not know it for certain.
And worse—he did not yet know how to speak of Elizabeth de Bourgh without betraying himself.
“I am glad you are content,” Darcy said at last. “Miss Burrows is…well situated.”
“She is,” Bingley agreed easily. “Caroline is quite beside herself with triumph.”
That, Darcy thought grimly, was reason enough for caution.
He made to rise, intending to depart, when the study door burst open without ceremony.
“Charles, I knew it,” Miss Bingley declared, sweeping in with Mrs. Hurst close behind her. “I am certain now.”
Bingley blinked. “Certain of what, Caroline?”
“Miss Eliza.” She did not bother to lower her voice. “I saw her again earlier today. On Bond Street.”
Darcy’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair.
“You did?” Bingley asked mildly. “And?”
“She was not alone.” Miss Bingley smiled in a way Darcy had come to recognize as dangerous.
“She was with a woman—fashionably dressed, diamonds worn as if they were birthright rather than adornment. I would stake my reputation on it being Lady Hertford.” She smiled coyly, a touch of malice in her gaze.
Mrs. Hurst nodded. “I recognized her at once.”
Darcy swallowed.
“That is a bold assertion,” Bingley said carefully. “Lady Hertford is not a woman one mistakes.”
“Exactly,” Miss Bingley replied. “Which makes the association all the more interesting.”
“And what do you suppose it means?” Bingley asked.
Miss Bingley leaned forward. “What else could it mean? Such women do not take country girls under their wing without purpose. She is being groomed, Charles. I would wager anything upon it.”
Darcy stood abruptly. “That is enough.”
Miss Bingley turned, startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“You speak without evidence,” Darcy said coldly. “And with a recklessness that would do you no credit if overheard.”
Mrs. Hurst frowned. “We are among friends.”
“That may be so,” Darcy replied, “but we are in a house where discretion is presumed.”
Bingley raised a hand. “Caroline, be careful. Lady Hertford is…untouchable. Anyone connected to her enjoys the same protection. Even a whisper would rebound most unpleasantly.”
Miss Bingley laughed lightly. “Oh, I would never whisper. But I saw her. And she was not alone—“
She stopped herself.
Bingley tilted his head. “Not alone with Lady Hertford, you mean?”
Miss Bingley smiled tightly. “It hardly matters.”
It mattered very much.
Darcy’s suspicion sharpened. A third lady. Miss Bennet, almost certainly. And Caroline, for all her malice, was not foolish enough to say so aloud—not to her brother.
He resolved then and there that Bingley would hear the truth—but only once Darcy had confirmed it himself.
“I believe I shall take my leave,” Darcy said shortly. “I have business to attend to.”
Miss Bingley’s eyes followed him. “So soon?”
“Yes.”
She rose. “Perhaps you might stay a moment longer. I was hoping to speak with you.”
Darcy inclined his head stiffly. “Another time.”
Her disappointment was unmistakable.
As he stepped into the cold night air, Darcy drew a steadying breath. His mind was already racing ahead—toward Bond Street, toward Lady Hertford’s carriage, toward Elizabeth.
If she was in London—truly in London—then everything had changed.
And if she was not—He did not finish the thought. He would know soon enough.
Darcy had begun to measure time by absence.
It was an absurd habit, and one he would have denied aloud had anyone been foolish enough to suggest it; it persisted all the same.
Every assembly, every rout, every dinner invitation he attended carried with it the same quiet expectation—and the same disappointment.
He scanned rooms without appearing to do so, listened for a particular cadence of laughter, a familiar poise amid the glitter and noise.
A week had passed since Lady Matlock’s ball, and Elizabeth de Bourgh had not appeared at a single public function since.
It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
London was not a place one vanished from by accident, particularly not when one was being presented under powerful patronage.
If Elizabeth were truly under Lady Hertford’s protection—and all evidence now suggested she was—then her absence was deliberate.
That knowledge gnawed at him. Deliberation implied intention, and intention implied that Elizabeth was choosing when and how she would be seen.
He did not like that she had chosen not to be seen by him.
It was with this mood—restless, coiled, and poorly disguised—that Darcy found himself once more in his aunt’s carriage, seated opposite Lady Catherine and beside Anne as they made their way toward the park.
The morning was crisp, the air sharp with winter, and Hyde Park was already alive with movement: riders, walkers, and carriages performing their slow, ritualized circuit, each occupant both observer and observed.
Lady Catherine was in excellent spirits.
“I told you, Darcy,” she declared, settling her furs more securely about her shoulders.
“I told you that Anne would draw notice once she was properly displayed. Lady Featherstone’s son bowed to her most attentively last night, and Lord Henshaw made a point of seeking an introduction. A very respectable family.”
Anne sat very straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. There was a faint color in her cheeks, whether from the cold or her mother’s triumph Darcy could not tell.
“I am pleased Anne has been well received,” he said, carefully neutral.
Lady Catherine sniffed. “Well received? Nonsense. She is exactly what society requires—birth, fortune, refinement. None of these little upstarts cluttering the rooms with their pretensions. A grand marriage is inevitable, if properly directed.”
Darcy said nothing. He had long since learned that contradiction only sharpened his aunt’s resolve.
The carriage turned, wheels crunching softly over gravel, and then Lady Catherine’s voice faltered. She stiffened.
Darcy followed her gaze. Another carriage—a barouche with a retractable roof—was approaching, its horses matched and gleaming, the livery unmistakable. The driver reined in with practiced precision, and Darcy felt his breath leave him in a single, unguarded moment.
Elizabeth.
She sat opposite Lady Hertford, her posture elegant without affectation.
From his position, he could see her gloved hand resting lightly over her cousin’s.
Jane Bennet sat beside her, pale but composed, her expression gentle as ever.
Elizabeth’s cloak was winter-appropriate but fashionably cut, deep pink trimmed in sable, her bonnet perfectly balanced to frame her face rather than obscure it.
She looked—Darcy thought wildly—exactly as she belonged there.
Lady Catherine became very quiet.
Lady Hertford inclined her head with impeccable courtesy as the carriages slowed alongside one another. “Lady Catherine,” she said smoothly. “What a pleasure. You are looking remarkably well.”
Lady Catherine’s smile was thin, brittle. “Lady Hertford.”
The acknowledgment was cool, but the deference was unmistakable. Darcy saw it clearly now: his aunt, for all her bluster, knew power when it sat before her—and bent to it when required.
Lady Hertford’s gaze flicked, deliberately, to Darcy. Her eyes sparkled.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said. “I wondered how long it would take before you recovered from your stupification.”
Heat rushed to his face. He had been staring at Elizabeth. “Lady Hertford.”
Elizabeth met his gaze at last and gave him the barest of nods—not unfriendly, but distant. Polite. Controlled. It struck him harder than outright disdain would have done.
He watched, transfixed, as she shifted slightly closer to Jane and looped her arm through her cousin’s. The gesture was instinctive, protective—and unmistakably intimate.
Jane looked up then, her smile soft but reserved. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, inclining her head. “It is good to see you again.”
“Miss Bennet,” he replied, forcing his voice to steadiness. She looked a little wan, he noted, though whether from the trials of the season, the cold, or some other reason, he could not say.