Page 25 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman
Netherfield
Darcy
Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped into the ballroom at Netherfield, each stitch of his attire bearing the signs of haste.
His coat, though brushed, lacked its usual precision.
His cravat sat slightly askew. His boots were dulled by hurried travel.
He had done all within his power to arrive in time, racing against several unfortunate events and delays that had dogged him for three relentless weeks.
And yet, as the chandeliers cast their light across the room, the first face he sought—and found—was hers.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
He spotted her amidst the dancers, partnered with a gentleman he did not recognise.
The man was handsome, impeccably dressed, and moved with ease.
There was an elegance in his bearing that suggested refinement, though his face was entirely unfamiliar.
Darcy strained to recall whether he had seen the gentleman at the Meryton assembly, but no such memory surfaced.
Perhaps he was a new arrival, dancing with Elizabeth out of simple courtesy.
Still, something unsettled him. The man’s gaze remained fixed on her far too long for mere politeness.
There was a quiet intensity in the way he regarded her, as though he had no notion that others looked on.
Elizabeth, for her part, danced with grace, but when her eyes met Darcy’s across the room, she did not look away.
She missed a step, though her feet continued to move in time with the music.
She held his gaze for a beat too long, her expression calm yet unreadable.
The moment struck him deeply. Though the music swelled and the crowd moved around them, Darcy felt as if the air had thinned. He could not look away from her—and nor, it seemed, could the stranger dancing with her.
Then, just as Darcy attempted to steady his thoughts, his eyes caught another figure—one he had neither expected nor wished to see.
George Wickham.
Darcy's blood turned hot. His gaze tore away from Elizabeth, the moment between them shattered in an instant. His jaw tightened, breath shortening, as a flush of anger surged beneath his skin. He forced his hands to remain still, though every instinct urged him to move, to act, to confront.
It was the last person he expected to encounter in such a place.
Worse still, he wore the uniform of the militia.
What could he be doing in Hertfordshire?
And more incredibly, how had he come to be admitted to Netherfield?
Had he truly joined the militia, or was this but another of his many deceptions?
Did no one know the character of the man they so readily welcomed?
A torrent of questions assailed Darcy's mind, each more troubling than the last.
Wickham had not yet turned toward the door.
He remained engaged in the set, his partner a young lady whom Darcy believed, with rising certainty, to be one of the Bennet sisters.
He smiled with practised ease, his posture relaxed, his manner entirely too familiar for comfort.
He conversed as though among old friends, as if he had every right to be there.
Darcy's heart gave a sudden, violent jolt. At his side, Georgiana stirred. Her gaze began to traverse the room, slow but searching.
A swift surge of alarm seized him. There was no time to speak, no moment to prepare her for what she must not see.
He acted at once, his voice low and composed.
"Come, Georgiana," he said, stepping to block her view and guiding her gently by the arm. "The air is close. Let us take a turn before the next set begins."
She looked up, surprised but willing, and placed her hand lightly on his arm as he guided her away.
It was his luck again, Darcy concluded. Cursed, tireless luck.
It had barred his path to Hertfordshire for week upon week, frustrating every effort to return.
And now, as if to complete the jest, it had delivered Wickham into the very room where he had come seeking clarity.
Where he had hoped—perhaps vainly—to explain and express himself at last.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. Georgiana must not see him . Not yet. Not here.
His thoughts turned, unbidden, to the expression he had seen in Elizabeth’s eyes as she stood amidst the assembly.
The green of her gown marked her out at once, vivid against the softer shades that surrounded her.
There had been a spark in her gaze, a question that lingered even as she danced.
He knew it well. She sought the truth. And he owed it to her.
But she would have to wait.
***
Wickham
The first set was nearing its end when Wickham spotted him.
Darcy.
For a moment, he could scarcely believe his eyes.
Even with the dishevelment of travel upon him, there was no mistaking the man.
That posture, so rigid with self-possession, was unmistakable.
The coat, though travel-worn, retained its precise tailoring.
And that expression, cold and imperious as ever, could belong to no one but Darcy.
And he was not alone. Standing beside him, poised and unmistakably genteel, was Georgiana. And just behind him was Fitzwilliam.
Wickham stiffened, though his smile did not falter. He kept his posture easy, his manner light, but his insides curled with alarm. Of all the cursed turns of fortune, this was by far the worst. Not tonight. Not when he had plans already in motion.
One of the cooks at Netherfield, a cheerful, apple-cheeked woman who had been only too willing to giggle under his attentions at the Meryton market, had assured him that Mr. Darcy had been away for weeks and that the master of the house had given no instructions for his return.
Wickham had taken the information as gospel.
He would never have set foot inside the ballroom had he known Darcy would be there, let alone his sister and his cousin.
He glanced across the room again and saw them turning. Darcy’s hand was already at Georgiana’s elbow, guiding her firmly from the ballroom. Wickham had no doubt he had been seen.
He felt a noose tighten.
There had been whispers, of course. Men he owed had suddenly become eager to settle, speaking vaguely of a gentleman who had asked after him.
A few of his less reputable acquaintances—men who owed him loyalty, if not money—had warned him that Darcy was following the trail. Always a step behind, but never far.
And now, here he was. In the same room.
Wickham forced a laugh as Lydia Bennet twirled into his arms. She was breathless, flushed with pleasure, and entirely unaware that he had begun to look past her.
The music ceased. The first set was over. Wickham bowed, offered some idle compliment, and murmured an apology about a cramp in his leg. “I shall return shortly, my dear. A brief turn in the hall, and I shall be quite myself again.”
Lydia pouted but allowed him to go, believing, no doubt, that he meant to return to her side with even more flattering nonsense.
He slipped from the dance floor with the ease of a man accustomed to disappearing. In the corridor beyond the ballroom, he pressed himself flat against the wall, listening for voices, for movement. When none came, he moved quickly, keeping to the shadows, avoiding servants and lingering guests.
He reached the front door just as the musicians began their tuning for the second set.
Without hesitation, he fled.
***
Elizabeth
Elizabeth moved through the steps with practised grace, though her limbs felt as though they no longer belonged to her.
She summoned every bit of will to steady her trembling legs, determined not to betray the turmoil within.
Mr. Darcy had looked directly at her, his gaze firm and unwavering, and then, without the slightest acknowledgement, turned away as though she had not been standing there at all.
His jaw had been set, his expression unreadable, though something about it suggested he was displeased.
Angry, perhaps, or troubled by something grave.
Then, he had turned to the young lady beside him and left the room with her.
Elizabeth blinked, struggling to recover her composure.
Was that Miss de Bourgh? It hardly seemed likely.
Mr. Collins had described his patroness’s daughter as delicate and sickly, but he had never spoken of her age.
Still, Elizabeth had not expected someone so young.
The lady who accompanied Mr. Darcy could scarcely be older than Kitty or Lydia.
And curiously, Mr. Collins, who was at present dancing rather clumsily with Mary, had not stirred from his place to greet his revered connections.
Elizabeth doubted he had seen them at all.
The music had been lively, the dancers engaged.
The soft creak of the opening door had gone unnoticed by most, and it seemed only a few had registered the quiet entrance and swifter departure of Mr. Darcy and his companion.
Even Mr. Bingley remained entirely absorbed in his set with Jane.
“Are you quite well, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Lumley asked, offering a look of polite concern as the set drew to a close.
Elizabeth forced a smile and inclined her head. “Yes, sir. Only a little winded, I think. I shall sit out the next set, if you do not mind.”
He offered at once to fetch someone to attend her, but she declined with assurances that she only required a moment’s rest. At last, he relented.
He remarked that he was to stand up with his cousin, Mrs. King’s daughter, for the next set, but would be glad to claim another dance later, should she feel recovered.
Elizabeth murmured her thanks, though she barely registered his words. Her thoughts were wholly fixed upon Mr. Darcy. He was here. After three weeks of silence, without so much as a letter or explanation, he had appeared. And not alone.
A sharp breath caught in her throat. His sister . Of course. The young lady must be his sister. The age would suit, and the family resemblance—though she had not had a clear enough view—seemed a plausible guess. And yet, the uncertainty gnawed at her.
“Lizzy,” came Lydia’s cheerful voice as she sauntered past.
Elizabeth blinked and turned. “Yes, Lydia?”
“Have you seen Mr. Wickham?”
Elizabeth frowned. “I thought he was dancing with you.”
“He was. But then he said he had a cramp and needed a little walk down the hall.”
“I see. No, I have not seen him since.”
Lydia said something, but her words were lost as Elizabeth’s mind leapt ahead. The timing. Darcy’s sudden departure. Now, Wickham was suddenly missing. Could they have seen each other?
Lydia said something indistinct, but Elizabeth scarcely heard it.
Her thoughts had begun to race, threads of understanding knitting themselves together.
Had Mr. Wickham seen Mr. Darcy? Or had it been the other way around?
Surely, if Mr. Darcy had glimpsed him, that alone might explain his abrupt departure.
After all, Wickham had once sworn that, should they ever meet again, he would reveal the true character behind Mr. Darcy’s carefully maintained reserve.
What strange fortune, then, that the two men should meet under this very roof, she thought.
Before she could think further, a voice sounded just behind her.
“Good evening, Miss.”
Elizabeth turned at once.