Chapter 6
Elizabeth prided herself on the firmness of her opinions, particularly when those opinions concerned Mr Darcy.
Yet the past week had unsettled her in ways she scarcely wished to name.
She had expected irritation, conflict, perhaps even grudging tolerance as then entered their courtship charade.
What she had not expected was the disquieting warmth that had taken root whenever their gazes lingered too long, or the startling gentleness he showed where his sister was concerned, or the wry humour he revealed only when the two of them drifted beyond the reach of others’ ears.
Each new glimpse of him contradicted her long-cherished judgments until she felt as if she were walking on uncertain ground, her certainties crumbling beneath her feet.
More troubling still was the betrayal of her own senses.
She ought to have resented every hour spent in his company.
Instead, she found herself anticipating their next outing, their next whispered exchange behind a fan or in a quiet alcove, their next hurried strategy devised under the guise of polite civility.
Impossibly, he had become her favourite co-conspirator.
He was decisive, firm, and unyielding in his search for their quarry.
And the more they uncovered about the scandal-monger plaguing their families, the more she relied on him.
The shift was as unwelcome as it was undeniable. Elizabeth resolved that she must keep her wits about her. Whatever else Darcy might be, he was not a man she could allow to unsettle her judgment.
Still, she suspected her resolve was already fraying.
∞∞∞
The week that followed the Winter Assembly unfurled in a blur of social engagements, each one an exhausting performance in which Darcy and Elizabeth were expected to play the part of a couple rapidly progressing from interest to attachment.
Fortunately, their sham courtship provided every excuse to speak quietly in corners, share significant looks across rooms, and slip away from the most tedious company under the pretence of seeking refreshment or air.
And in those carved-out moments, they gathered clues.
At Lady Collingford’s musicale, Elizabeth lingered near a cluster of matrons discussing the latest issue of the scandal sheet.
One woman remarked that the column’s observations about the Winter Assembly were “shockingly precise. One might almost believe the writer had been present behind every potted palm!” Darcy, standing beside her as though merely listening to the violins tuning, murmured that the timing suggested someone with quick access to both gossip and print, someone embedded in the daily movements of the ton rather than a distant observer.
The next day at a salon, they learned a footman had been dismissed after asking impertinent questions about the romantic entanglements of several guests, and later at a dinner hosted by the Montague’s, Elizabeth found herself seated near a Mrs Addams, who giggled that the gossip columns had grown “far more daring of late, wickedly so!”
There were other fragments, too. None of it amounted to proof, but all of it pointed to someone accustomed to slipping unnoticed through the edges of society’s gatherings.
By the end of the week, Elizabeth felt as though she had spent every moment chasing the next whisper or hint, Mr Darcy at her side.
How odd it was. Their supposed romance was blossoming in the eyes of London, but it was not the social whirl that had gradually transformed Elizabeth’s opinion of him.
She would never have thought the Fitzwilliam Darcy she had met at a Meryton assembly would be a suitable partner in an investigation, but so it was.
He was observant and clever, quick to act when required — and better still, ready to listen to her.
Was this the Mr Darcy that had so easily dismissed her when first they had met? It seemed hardly possible.
Finally, after a late night at an interminable card party, Darcy insisted they take a morning’s respite. “If we continue at this pace, Miss Bennet,” he said as they stepped out into the crisp sunshine of Hyde Park, “we shall both collapse before the culprit is unmasked.”
Elizabeth smiled wearily. “And that would only give them more material for their infernal scandal sheet.”
They began their promenade along the Serpentine, falling into step with ease. The brisk air cleared Elizabeth’s fogged mind, and for a moment she allowed herself to enjoy the simple pleasure of walking. Though she was grateful for her pelisse, as the air still bore a formidable chill.
“I have some further news to share with you,” Darcy said, gloved hands clasped behind his back. “I had the pleasure of finding a small printing press that publishes the most salacious gossip in the ton.”
Elizabeth nearly tripped and would have fallen into the mud and grass had Darcy’s quick hand not steadied her.
Her face flushed as she straightened. The park was not as busy this time of day, as only the truly fashionable who rose early to see and be seen were out, but Elizabeth had no doubt that Darcy’s gallantry and her clumsiness would be whispered about in parlour rooms.
“Are you well, Miss Bennet?” Mr Darcy asked her with concern.
“Perfectly,” she said, stifling a groan. She smoothed the front of her coat, doing her best to regain her composure. “Though I admit I wish I had been the one to think of finding the press itself. What did you discover?”
Darcy’s expression remained carefully neutral, but Elizabeth had learned to read the subtle tightening around his eyes that showed his satisfaction.
“It took some persuasion and a rather generous application of coin, but I was able to locate the establishment responsible for printing the scandal sheets. It is not too far from your residence.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. “Where?”
“Tucked between a tobacconist and a wigmaker. The proprietor was initially reluctant to divulge any information about his clients, citing professional discretion.” His mouth quirked slightly. “Apparently, even purveyors of gossip have their principles.”
“How did you convince him?”
“I appealed to a different principle. Namely, his desire to avoid being implicated in a scheme that has caused material harm to several families of consequence. I suggested that his cooperation might be viewed favourably should any legal proceedings arise from this matter.”
Not for the first time, Elizabeth found herself obliged to be glad that she and Mr Darcy had entered the investigation together.
She could not have questioned the printer in such a manner.
Indeed, she could not have visited the establishment at all without raising suspicion, not to mention taking an unacceptable risk with her reputation.
Elizabeth smiled, imagining how the printer must have cowered in Mr Darcy’s presence. “How very diplomatic of you.”
“I have my moments.” He paused as they bowed to a small group of ladies who tittered as they passed.
Once they were out of earshot, he continued.
“The editor was considerably more forthcoming once I assured him I had no interest in disrupting his business, only in identifying one particular client.”
“And?” Elizabeth fought to keep her expression pleasant and unbothered, even as her heart beat firmly against her ribs. Was this their first tangible lead at last?
“He confirmed that the items concerning your family, as well as those regarding Georgiana, were all submitted by the same individual. A man who has been visiting the premises regularly for the past month.”
Elizabeth’s stomach filled with a disorienting combination of hope and dread. “Did the printer give a description?”
Darcy reached into his coat and withdrew a small piece of paper, which he handed to her as they walked. “I asked him to write down everything he could recall. The man gave his name as ‘Mr Smith,’ which is almost certainly false, but the physical description may prove useful.”
Elizabeth unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the cramped handwriting. Medium height. Fair complexion. Light brown hair worn fashionably. Well-dressed in regimentals —
She breathed in sharply.
“What is it?” Darcy asked, turning to face her with immediate concern.
“Regimentals,” Elizabeth murmured, rereading the description. “He wore regimentals.”
“Yes. He was quite specific about that detail, and there was something more. He said the man clearly wished to be noticed and admired, and made a point of arriving when the shop was busy so that he might be seen in his uniform. With considerable amusement, he told me that the man, though not handsome, yet seemed to take great pride in his appearance.”
A chill ran down Elizabeth’s spine. The militia was quartered in Meryton. She knew several of the officers by sight and had danced with some of them at local assemblies. The description tugged at her memory.
“Miss Bennet?” Darcy’s voice held a note of urgency now. “Do you recognise the man?”
“I’m not certain,” she admitted, though her mind was already racing through possibilities.
“There were many officers stationed near Longbourn. Most of them are amiable enough, though. Not the sort of men I would have thought capable of such a calculated scheme.” She looked up at Darcy.
“Though I suppose that is precisely the point, is it not? We are looking for someone who does not wish to be suspected.”
They resumed walking, though at a slower pace. Elizabeth found herself acutely aware of Darcy’s proximity, the way his arm nearly brushed hers as they moved in step.
“The printer mentioned something else,” Darcy said after a moment. “He said the man seemed to refer to another set of notes when asked for details on his information.”
“Another set of notes?” Elizabeth forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand. “That is very curious. It might indicate that his memory was poor, or perhaps that his information was not first-hand.”
“I suspect the latter,” Darcy told her. “Though what that means, I cannot say.”
Elizabeth considered this, her mind working through what she knew. An officer who wished to be seen and admired, of medium height, fair-complexioned. The description nagged at her, hovering just beyond reach. Then, too, the suggestion that he was not the principal figure in the case…
“There must be a connection between this man and whoever is orchestrating the rumours. Perhaps he is merely a messenger, but even so, he must know something of value.”
“My thoughts exactly. If we can identify him, we can follow him. And if we follow him—”
“We identify who is truly responsible.” A surge of determination coursed through her. “But how are we to identify him from a written description? There must be dozens of men in London who match these details.”
Darcy was quiet for a moment. “Not dozens with connections to the militia, and the specific knowledge of certain events required to invent plausible slander.”
She frowned. “But why would an officer involve himself in such a scheme? What could he possibly gain?”
“Money, perhaps. Or favour from someone with influence.” Darcy’s expression darkened. “Or revenge.”
The word hung between them, heavy with implication. It was a grave thought. “You believe this is personal. Not just opportunistic gossip-mongering, but a deliberate attack.”
“The targets are too specific,” Mr Darcy said gravely. “Your family. My sister. Bingley’s courtship of your sister. These are not random selections from the pages of the ton. Someone chose us deliberately.”
“But who would wish harm to both our families?” There was something she was missing, some connection she had not yet made.
“I have enemies, Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy confessed. “Men I have crossed in business, families whose overtures I have rejected. But none who would know enough about your circumstances to craft such detailed falsehoods.”
“Unless,” Elizabeth said slowly, “they had an informant. Someone who knew both our families.”
They reached a small grove of trees that offered relative privacy from the main path.
Darcy guided them into its shelter, and Elizabeth found herself standing closer to him than propriety strictly allowed.
She could see the tension in his shoulders he usually kept hidden beneath his reserved exterior.
“I keep returning to the same question,” he said. “Who would benefit from our mutual ruin?”
Elizabeth’s mind raced through possibilities but kept circling back to that frustratingly familiar description.
Medium height. Fair. Light brown hair. Regimentals.
Someone connected to Meryton, to the militia, someone who preened at other’s notice and would ruthlessly cause harm to give himself any advantage.
“I feel as though I should know,” she said, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. “The description is familiar, and yet I cannot place it. It is like trying to recall a dream upon waking.”
Darcy’s expression softened with something that might have been sympathy. “Do not force it. The memory will come when you are not actively seeking it.”
“I suppose,” Elizabeth grumbled. It was maddening to be so close to information that could stop the hurt bring inflicted upon their families.
They stood there in the shelter of the trees, the sounds of the park fading into insignificance.
Elizabeth knew they should return to the main path and continue their performance for whatever eyes might be watching.
But exhaustion weighed heavily on her. It was a relief to be hidden from the scrutiny of the ton, if only for a moment.
“We should return,” Mr Darcy said eventually, though he made no move to leave. “We have been out of sight too long.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. The air grew thick between them.
Finally, Mr Darcy offered his arm with a genuine smile, foregoing the careful mask he wore in company. “Erase that frown from your countenance, Miss Bennet. Lest the ton think we’ve had a row. Don’t trouble yourself too much. We have a solid lead, and can now focus our efforts more strategically.”
Elizabeth rubbed the crease between her eyes and sighed.
Irritatingly, he was right. They did not want to jeopardise the progress they had made in their charade simply because she was upset with her inability to place the mysterious information.
She placed a blithe smile on her face and considered herself a talented actress indeed. “Shall we?”
Mr Darcy nodded, and Elizabeth took his arm, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fabric of his coat. As they emerged back into the sunlight, she tucked the description carefully into her reticule, as it was already tucked carefully into the back of her mind.