Chapter Fifteen
Darcy entered Ashcombe House with a steadiness of step that bore no resemblance to the tumult within him.
The door closed behind him, the efficiency of his household proceeding as it ought—coat taken, gloves received, a murmur of greeting offered and answered—he scarcely marked any of it.
His mind remained fixed upon the moment in the park, replaying it with a precision that bordered upon compulsion.
It had been her.
He was as certain of it now as he had been in the instant their gazes met the day before, though at the time he had denied it with a swiftness born of long habit.
The almost seven years had taught him to distrust such impressions, to guard against the treachery of memory that would conjure her likeness where none existed.
This had not been his imagination. It had not been a passing resemblance or a trick of the light.
It had been Elizabeth.
He crossed the hall without pausing, his expression relaxed, though his thoughts moved with uncommon force.
What was she doing in Town? The question pressed itself forward with unwelcome urgency.
Had she come for the Season? Had she married?
The latter seemed most probable. Nearly seven years was no short span, and Elizabeth Bennet—Elizabeth—had not been a woman to remain unnoticed.
Some gentleman, no doubt, had secured her hand, had claimed the place that—
He cut the thought short with something like irritation and pushed open the door to the drawing room.
Lucien sat at ease in a low chair near the fire, one leg extended, his booted foot resting with casual irreverence upon a small stool.
A glass of wine was balanced with careless precision in his hand, and he looked, at that moment, the very picture of indolent comfort.
He glanced up as Darcy entered, his expression shifting at once to one of easy interest.
“You return like a man pursued,” Lucien observed, his tone light. “Or like one who has seen something he did not expect.”
Darcy made a sound that might have served for acknowledgment and moved further into the room. He did not immediately reply, instead crossing to the mantel and resting one hand lightly upon it, his gaze fixed upon the fire though he did not see it.
Lucien watched him closely, his interest sharpening. “That is not the manner of a man who has merely taken the air,” he observed. “What has occurred?”
Darcy exhaled slowly. “I saw her.”
Lucien’s posture altered at once. His foot dropped from the stool, and he leaned forward, all indolence vanishing in an instant. “Elizabeth?”
Darcy inclined his head.
“You are certain?” Lucien demanded. “Certain, Darcy—not merely hopeful? You thought you saw her the other day.”
“I do not mistake her,” Darcy said, his voice low but firm.
Lucien set aside his glass without further thought. “And you did not speak to her?”
Darcy turned then, fixing him with a look that held a measure of impatience. “Of course I did not.”
Lucien’s brows rose. “Of course, you did not,” he repeated, though there was a note of disbelief in his tone. “You encounter the woman you have not ceased to speak of in close to seven years, and you did—what?—incline your head and pass on?”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “I did not even do that. The moment was brief, and I had no intention of prolonging it.”
“You had no intention—” Lucien broke off, studying him with renewed intensity. “Why?”
Darcy turned away again, his jaw tightening. “Because she is not mine to address.”
Lucien was silent for a beat. “You assume much.”
“I assume what is reasonable,” Darcy returned. “So many years have passed. She is no longer the young woman I left in Ramsgate. She is—” He paused, the words settling with unwelcome gravity. “—very likely married.”
Lucien’s gaze did not relax. “And if she is not?”
Darcy shook his head once, dismissively. “It is of no consequence.”
Lucien rose then, crossing the room with deliberate steps until he stood nearer to Darcy. “It is of every consequence,” he said. “You have built half your existence upon her memory.”
Darcy’s expression did not change, though something in his eyes shifted, darkened. “Memory is not reality,” he said. “And I have no intention of confusing the two.”
Lucien studied him for a long moment. “You do yourself a disservice,” he said at last.
Darcy did not reply. He moved instead toward a chair opposite the fire and seated himself, his posture composed, though the tension had not left him.
Lucien watched him, then, after a moment, gave a slight shake of his head and resumed his own seat.
“Very well,” he said, though his tone suggested the matter was far from concluded.
“If you will not pursue that line of thought, then perhaps you will enlighten me as to what else occupies your mind. For I do not believe it is only this.”
Darcy allowed a brief pause, deliberately setting aside one subject before taking up another. “We have received an invitation,” he said.
Lucien’s brows lifted. “Already? London moves with commendable speed.”
“Lady Sefton,” Darcy explained, his tone even. “She hosts a private ball in two evenings’ time.”
Lucien considered this. “Sefton,” he repeated. “I recall the name.”
“You should,” Darcy said. “We have spoken of her in our lessons. She is one of the foremost patronesses of Almack’s. Vouchers are not easily obtained, and her favor is not lightly given.”
Lucien smiled faintly. “Then we are to be gratified by our inclusion.”
“Gratification is not the object,” Darcy returned. “Access is.”
Lucien inclined his head. “And what sort of access does Lady Sefton’s ball provide?”
“Precisely the sort we require,” Darcy said. “The first circles will be present. Those who matter—and those who imagine themselves to matter—will attend. It is an opportunity to observe, to be observed, and to establish what must be established.”
Lucien leaned back, his earlier ease returning in part. “And you expect to encounter your former acquaintances.”
“I expect nothing,” Darcy said. “But it is likely.”
Lucien’s expression sharpened once more. “Your family.”
Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “If they are present, they will not know me.”
“You are very certain of that.”
“Viscount Bramley did not recognize me,” Darcy said calmly. “I have altered sufficiently. The beard alone is enough to obscure what most would recall.”
Lucien studied him. “Your cousin is not a fool.”
“No,” Darcy agreed. “But he is not looking for me.”
Lucien nodded slowly. “And Hargrave?”
Darcy’s expression cooled. “He has been invited.”
Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “You are certain?”
“I have it on good authority,” Darcy replied. “Though I cannot say with certainty that he will attend.”
“And Langford?”
“The same.”
Lucien was silent, then gave a slight, humorless smile. “Then it seems your gathering will be…interesting.”
Darcy did not return the smile. “It will be useful. Now is the time to establish an acquaintance with certain…gentlemen.”
Lucien regarded him with a look that held both approval and concern. “And if Elizabeth is there?”
The question hung between them, inescapable.
Darcy did not immediately answer. He rose instead, moving a few steps away, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. When he spoke, his voice was even.
“I shall do nothing.”
Lucien frowned. “Nothing?”
“As far as she is concerned,” Darcy agreed, “I am nothing more than a new acquaintance. A stranger newly arrived in London. That is all.”
Lucien rose again, his expression intent. “And you are content with that?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, though his tone did not change. “Contentment does not enter into it.”
“You would stand before her,” Lucien said slowly, “and say nothing of what has passed?”
“I would say nothing that would compromise what must be done,” Darcy replied.
Lucien held his gaze. “And what of her? What she has endured and she believes?”
Darcy’s expression flickered, just briefly, before settling once more into control. “What she believes is that I am dead.”
Lucien’s voice lowered. “And you would allow her to continue in that belief?”
Darcy did not answer at once. The silence stretched, filled with something heavier than either had spoken aloud.
“At present,” he said at last, “it is necessary.”
Lucien studied him with sober intensity. “Necessary,” he repeated. “For whom?”
Darcy met his gaze. “For all of them.”
Lucien exhaled slowly, seemingly weighing whether to press further. At length, he inclined his head, though his expression remained thoughtful.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall not argue the point.”
Darcy gave the slightest indication of acknowledgment and turned back toward the fire. The conversation, for the moment, was at an end.
The image remained.
Elizabeth, standing in the park, her gaze meeting his with that same clear steadiness he had once known so well.
He had told himself it was of no consequence. That she was likely married. That her life had moved forward, as it must, while his had been arrested and remade. Still, he could not dismiss it. Nor, he suspected, would he.
The conversation between Darcy and Lucien had scarcely settled into silence when a discreet knock sounded at the door. It was not the hesitant tap of a servant uncertain of interruption, but the signal of one who knew his timing would be tolerated.
Darcy turned his head. “Come.”
The door opened to admit Mr. Gibbs, whose manner, as ever, was composed and exact. “Mr. Stone has returned, sir, and requests the favor of a word.”
Darcy straightened at once. “Show him in.”
Gibbs inclined his head. “At once, sir.”
He withdrew, and a moment later, Mr. Stone entered. He paused just within the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room with subdued attentiveness before settling upon Darcy and Lucien. There was nothing obsequious in his manner; neither was there any presumption. He bowed.
“Sir. Monsieur.”
“Mr. Stone,” Darcy said, gesturing toward a chair. “Pray be seated.”