Page 29

“No, wait—let me tell you what happened. You deserve to know.” Elizabeth leaned back slightly, her gaze growing distant as she recalled the night before.

“After dinner at Netherfield, we returned to Longbourn as usual. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—except for Papa. He was in such spirits, Charlotte, I hardly recognized him. He sang. Not just a line or two, but whole verses—some roguish tale of poachers, hares, and moonlit mischief in Lincolnshire. Jane and I exchanged looks, puzzled. Mama laughed and said he must have emptied half of Mr. Bingley’s wine cellar.

But I knew better. He hadn’t drunk more than usual. He was simply… unburdened.”

She glanced at Charlotte now, her tone quiet but certain.

“Something had shifted. I could see it in the way he walked, the way he spoke—lightness, not mockery. So when the house had settled, I went to him. I found him in the study, humming to himself and feigning interest in a book. I didn’t ask directly—I didn’t have to.

I only remarked on his cheerful mood… and waited. ”

A faint, incredulous smile touched her lips.

“And then he told me. Calmly, even wryly. He said there had been a game of cards—Darcy, Bingley, and Hurst. He hadn’t meant to play, but somehow he was drawn in.

And before long, he had ‘won’—his word, though he used it with a certain irony—just over the amount he owed and Mr. Blunt had pressed him for. ”

Her voice lowered.

“Papa said little, but enough. He couldn’t explain how he had won—no more than he could explain all his previous losses.

But I can imagine what he observed. Darcy’s play—subtle, measured, surely deliberate.

Bingley fidgeting, barely meeting anyone’s gaze.

Hurst, likely oblivious to the purpose behind it all.

And Darcy—yes, Darcy—playing with such care that even Papa, who is not easily moved to believe in generosity unsaid, must have understood. ”

She held Charlotte’s gaze now. “Darcy paid the debt, Charlotte. Not openly. Through the fiction of a game. So that Papa might accept it without shame, and speak of it, if he must, as an evening of remarkable luck. There were no grand gestures. No speeches. He simply laid a blank draft beside the counters—nothing filled in, nothing to suggest it was prepared in advance. And only when the last hand was played, did he write in the sum and Papa’s name. ”

Elizabeth paused, voice quiet and full. “Papa said he would treat it as a debt of honor—Darcy’s gesture, and his own obligation to repay.

And I thought then, how could Darcy have known?

I imagined perhaps a solicitor’s letter, or some whisper from London.

But now—” she gave Charlotte a searching look—“now I understand.”

Charlotte’s lips parted, her eyes shadowed with guilt.

But Elizabeth reached for her hand and held it firmly.

“You told him. And he acted. You call it an indiscretion, but I never shall. You gave him the truth—and through that, he gave us hope. You gave me that. Not shame. Not betrayal. Friendship.”

Charlotte’s eyes filled, though she blinked them quickly away. A small, uneven breath escaped her—one that might have become a laugh, had it not caught in her throat.

“I should go,” she said softly, her voice steadier now.

“There are preparations to see to—Mama will grow impatient if I am gone too long, and I still haven’t decided what to wear tonight.

” She tried to smile. “But I am very glad I came. Hearing it all... knowing how it truly unfolded—it lifts something. I feel less... burdened.”

Elizabeth gave her hand a final, steadying squeeze.

“You have done more than I ever asked of you,” she said quietly. “And more than I ever deserved. I shall not forget it.”

Charlotte blinked, visibly moved. “I only hoped to mend what I feared I had broken.”

“You did far more than that,” Elizabeth said. “You brought me truth—and kindness. Thank you, Charlotte.”

Charlotte rose then, the strain of her arrival eased into something gentler—her movements no longer guilt, but composed, assured.

“I shall see you soon, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth’s voice held the warmth of shared understanding. “I shall be thinking of you, Charlotte.”

With a final glance—grateful, quietly unburdened—Charlotte turned and slipped from the room, leaving behind a silence made tender, not heavy.

Left alone in the drawing room, Elizabeth remained still for a long moment.

The air had not changed, nor the light—but something within her had.

The pieces that had once troubled her —Darcy’s silence, Charlotte’s evasions, even her father’s sudden cheer—now aligned with quiet sense.

The debt had nearly been paid, yes, but not only in coin.

It had been answered in trust, in risk, in friendship.

Charlotte’s confession, so heavy in the telling, had left behind no wound—only warmth.

And as for Mr. Darcy… Elizabeth could no longer pretend not to see him clearly. She did not yet know what to do with what she now understood—but at last, she understood it.

***

East London, Tuesday the 22nd of October, 1811

That evening once more brought together the three gentlemen of Mr. Phillips’s action party.

The solicitor had begun to suspect that the modest gains Peregrine Vale and Silas Cobb had allowed him the previous night—handed over with a sort of careless indifference—were not generosity at all, but bait.

Drake’s minor losses and cautious manner had marked him off, for now, from the list of likely victims; and for that very reason, his return to the card table tonight would raise no suspicion.

It was therefore entirely probable that the scoundrels intended to test Mr. Phillips this evening—to see whether some profit might be drawn from his apparent na?veté.

Thus far, they had been deliberate, measured, careful not to attract attention.

They might continue with modest stakes to lull him further; if so, Phillips himself would play the fool and be the first to raise.

Downey and Drake had their orders: they were to appear meek and inconsequential at the table, winning if chance allowed, but promptly losing most of it in the hands that followed.

Mr. Bennet’s brother-in-law little suspected that Phillips was wagering from his own last reserve of funds—risking what he had in order to save Mr. Bennet from ruin.

The plan was laid in full. At Mr. Phillips’s signal—“Grab them!”—Downey and Drake would act: Downey to seize Cobb, Drake to restrain Vale.

If necessary, they were to disarm them of any concealed blades.

In case matters turned dangerous, Phillips carried an old flintlock pistol that had not fired in twenty years—brought purely for intimidation.

They had agreed not to be seen arriving together, so as not to arouse suspicion. There remained the possibility that in every club the tricksters frequented, some partner or informant might linger nearby—someone willing to do anything, for a price.

According to their arrangement, Downey would arrive at the Ravenwood Club first. He was to linger in friendly conversation with the same footman he had spoken with the other night, waiting near the front door and watching for the arrival of the man with the scar above his left brow.

At the far corner of the street, Mr. Drake waited by the church steps.

Several dozen yards beyond, Mr. Phillips sat alone in a hired carriage, half-shadowed beneath his hat brim.

Downey’s entry into the building was the sign. Once he passed through the doors, the others would follow.

Minutes later, the signal came.

The solicitor entered last, just as they had agreed.

The interior of the Ravenwood Club was precisely as Mr. Phillips had imagined: lit by Argand lamps, their glass chimneys casting a steady golden glow over polished tables; warm with cigar smoke and murmured conversation; and thick with the quiet self-assurance of men who believed themselves beyond consequence.

Mahogany gleamed under the light, velvet-backed chairs ringed the gaming tables, and footmen moved between rooms with the smooth precision of chessmen on a deliberate board.

Mr. Phillips stepped inside without hesitation, removing his coat and offering it to the nearest attendant. “Good evening,” he said in a voice smooth with ease. “Might one inquire if play has commenced this evening?”

The footman, accustomed to discretion, inclined his head. “Indeed, sir. Gentlemen are seated already, and tables may be joined at will.”

“Excellent.” Phillips handed over his gloves, his gaze sweeping the main room with practiced calm.

To his left, Downey was already seated, engaged in conversation with an older gentleman whose white waistcoat and tasteful cravat marked him as a man of means and long-standing habit.

The two spoke with quiet civility, their heads occasionally dipping in shared amusement.

Downey, for his part, appeared perfectly at ease.

Phillips observed them a moment, then concluded the other man must be a silk merchant—or something of the sort.

Too finely dressed for trade, too open for landed money , he thought.

One of those honest men who never quite says what he does, which usually means he’s doing well at it .

Drake, meanwhile, strolled leisurely between tables with a glass in hand.

He paused now and then to study a hand in play or exchange a quiet nod, the very picture of idle ease.

Yet to a discerning eye, his true purpose was evident: he was scanning the room for Vale.

When at last he spotted him—leaning slightly forward in conversation as a fresh deck was being shuffled—Drake adjusted his course, drifting toward that table with the idle steps of a man who had nowhere in particular to be.