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A CHANCE TO PLAY THE GALLANT

D arcy left his house the next day with a greater sense of purpose than he had felt the first time he went in search of Bingley.

On that occasion, he had only meant to warn him that Jane Bennet was in town, that she was apparently enamoured of him, and that he ought to take care to stay out of her path.

Today, he intended to find out exactly what Bingley was about.

He sincerely hoped it was not what it seemed.

He was for Grenier’s Hotel on Jermyn Street.

It was Bingley’s preferred place of lodging whenever he was not staying at Hurst’s and was most likely where he had been going the day Elizabeth spotted him coming out of Boodle’s.

He arrived to a busy scene. Several people and a couple of hall boys were loitering in the hotel lobby, there was a loud rumble of chatter coming from the public dining room, and at least half a dozen men were reading their newspapers in the private lounge. Bingley was not among any of them.

Darcy was still waiting to speak to the porter, who was occupied with another guest, when a gust of cold air and a rash of angry whispers drew his attention to the front door.

A familiar jolt of pleasure assaulted him upon seeing that Elizabeth had entered the hotel, though it was quickly followed by suspicion that she—and her companion, whoever the lady was—should be so far from her uncle’s house again, and once more in the same location as Bingley.

Hard on the heels of that sentiment came resolve.

It mattered not why she had come. As much as he had enjoyed their encounter in Hyde Park, it would not do to encourage her.

Or himself. Darcy turned back to the desk and pretended not to have noticed her arrival.

That did not stop him from straining to hear what she was saying, particularly since it was being said heatedly, her voice little above a whisper but her tone clearly agitated.

The temptation to turn and look was formidable and grew nigh on unbearable when her companion raised her voice enough to be heard and said?—

“Your mother is right—you are exceedingly vexing.”

Despite his best attempt, Darcy could not make out Elizabeth’s reply.

“Can I help you, sir?” the porter asked.

Distracted, Darcy muttered good day, withdrawing a calling card from his inside pocket and handing it over. “I am looking for Mr Charles Bingley. Could you tell me which room he is staying in?”

“Of course, sir. One moment.” The porter leafed through his book.

Darcy told himself not to turn around. Then he told himself again. And again.

Then Elizabeth’s companion said, “Would that you had shown this much compassion for her when your cousin proposed!”

He turned around, the word ‘proposed’ ringing in his ears and his heart racing.

Elizabeth looked angry and embarrassed—an expression he had often seen on her in Hertfordshire whenever one of her relations had performed some obscene new impropriety.

This was no relation Darcy had ever met, however.

The woman was of middling years, handsome, and very finely attired.

Elizabeth’s aunt, perhaps, though she did not appear to be relishing her niece’s company and wore an expression of pure exasperation.

“Mr Darcy?”

He snapped his attention back to the porter. “I beg your pardon. What was that?” But his eyes had already stolen back to Elizabeth, and he did not attend to the man’s answer.

“I must bid you good day, Miss Bennet,” the older woman said tersely. “Unless you intend to follow me all the way upstairs?”

“No, I—” Elizabeth stopped, and in a quieter voice said, “Would you please let her know I should like to speak to her?”

Her companion disappeared through a door at the back of the lobby without responding. Elizabeth, having turned to watch her go, noticed Darcy and flushed a deep red.

“Mr Darcy! What are you doing here?”

He hesitated. He would rather not mention Bingley lest she attempt to speak to him herself, but he disliked the idea of lying to her. She did not give him the chance to think of an alternative.

“Forgive me. That is none of my business. Good day.” She curtseyed and left.

Darcy stared after her, taken aback by her manner.

She had gone without her friend and did not appear to be otherwise accompanied.

Furthermore, it appeared that, now she was outside, she knew not where to go, for she stood on the spot, looking anxiously up and down the street.

When she took three steps in one direction, only to whip around and stare back the other way, wringing her hands, his mind was made up.

“Mr Darcy?” the porter asked again.

“One moment,” he told him, then he crossed the lobby in quick steps and left the hotel.

“Is everything well, Miss Bennet?”

With a pained expression, she admitted, “I have lost my bearings. I did not pay attention on the way here, and now…”

“Where do you wish to go?”

“Henrietta Street. It is not far.”

It was above half a mile, but Darcy knew such a distance would be no obstacle to Elizabeth.

“If you would be kind enough to point me in the right direction?” she added.

“Allow me to accompany you.”

“Oh! Thank you, but that is not necessary. I would not inconvenience you.”

“Is your friend coming back?”

A strange look passed over her countenance. “Mrs Randall is my mother’s friend, and I do not know what her plans are.”

“Then please, allow me.” He gestured for her to walk with him, and when she eventually fell in beside him, he set them off towards Haymarket, absurdly pleased that her brief reluctance had not lasted.

She was nevertheless uncommonly quiet, repeatedly looking away to the other side of the street, each time sighing quietly or biting her lip. He hated seeing her distressed.

“Mrs Randall was ungenerous to abandon you in that manner.”

She sighed more openly. “I cannot wholly blame her. I rather imposed myself on her.”

Darcy did not presume to ask for an explanation, but she must have caught his curious glance, for she gave one regardless.

“I did not wish to end our conversation, but she had a prior engagement and had to leave. So, I walked with her, when I think she would have preferred that I had not. As would my uncle’s coachman—he is still waiting at Henrietta Street.”

“He would have had to wait considerably longer had it been any other woman who decided to walk across London and back.”

She did not reply, and they strolled in silence for a while, but not wishing to be accused of taciturnity again, Darcy forced himself to speak. “Are you enjoying your stay in town?”

“We have not done much beyond a little shopping and some morning calls. My sister has not felt in much of a humour for social engagements.”

Darcy understood her implication and rued the speed with which they had arrived at the topic of Bingley.

It hung like a spectre between them—but there it would have to stay, for he had no intention of broaching the matter, or allowing her to, if he could help it.

He diverted them to a less incendiary subject.

“My sister very much enjoyed meeting you last week.”

“As I did her.”

“Was she what you expected?”

Elizabeth looked askance at him, and he explained, “You are a studier of character. I wondered whether she matched the reports you have heard of her.”

“My, that is a brave question!—and would require a good deal of courage on my part to answer honestly if I happened to agree with any report that differed from yours. But, as good fortune would have it, you were right. Your sister is about my height, or rather taller.”

Darcy chuckled at her equivocation. “Very astute, I am sure.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Perhaps not, but five minutes’ acquaintance hardly qualifies me to know her better.

I must say, it says much of your estimation of her character that you were not concerned how I might answer.

I am quite sure I should not be valiant enough to ask your opinion of my sisters. ”

“I do have a great deal of faith in Georgiana, but in this instance, I was relying more on your ability to perceive her true character beyond whatever else might have been said of her.” He hoped she knew he was thinking of Wickham.

A more serious, pensive turn came over her countenance. “Well, in that case…I see why you said she was shy, but she also seemed very earnest. And extremely eager to please you, which must be gratifying.”

He took Elizabeth’s elbow gently as they crossed the busy thoroughfare into Leicester Square, for carriages often thundered around the periphery with no consideration for pedestrians.

“I am vindicated—you have understood her perfectly. Though her eagerness to please is certainly not confined to me. She is a very obliging young woman. Too obliging on occasion.”

“Is there somebody you wish she had not tried to please?”

Darcy baulked. He had made the remark without thinking, no doubt because Wickham was fresh on his mind. He scrambled to think of a different name. “My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, rarely bestows her good opinion, so naturally Georgiana expends the most effort attempting to impress her.”

“You will make me nervous. I am to meet Lady Catherine myself at Easter. If she can disapprove of Miss Darcy, with all her accomplishments, I had better prepare myself to be a vast disappointment.”

He smiled, knowing full well that Elizabeth was not the least bit afraid of rank and would be about as nervous of his aunt as he was of her young cousin Miss Gardiner.

“Lady Catherine values intelligence and good sense. You will be anything but a disappointment to her. But…you are going to Rosings Park?”

She hesitated for some reason before saying, with a small frown, “No, I am going to visit my cousin, Mr Collins—who is your aunt’s parson, if you recall.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Darcy mumbled, as perturbed by the reminder of Mrs Randall’s remark —‘When your cousin proposed’ —as when he had first heard it.

He did not like to consider the significance of its effect on him.

Some admiration that Elizabeth had not shackled herself to a complete sapskull was to be expected, but relief powerful enough to render him stupid was less easily justified.

He held his tongue and listened as she explained that Collins had married her friend Charlotte Lucas.

“And she informs me that we shall be expected to dine at Rosings at least once a week during our stay.”

“Likely. Her ladyship enjoys company.”

They fell into silence again, but since they were almost at their destination, Darcy allowed it to endure. Yet, as they turned into Henrietta Street, he remembered his other concerns.

“I understand your mother has joined you in town.”

“Yes—or rather we have joined her. She came last month to help nurse Mrs Randall back to health after an illness. That is why my carriage is here. I came to visit her, but she was not at home.”

“She must be a wonderful nurse, for Mrs Randall seems fully recovered.”

A flash of irritation passed over Elizabeth’s face, but she disguised it quickly with a smile. “Indeed, and we all hope that means she will be returning to Longbourn soon.”

They had reached her carriage, and she apologised to her coachman for making him wait before asking whether her mother had returned while she had been gone. The answer was negative.

“Well, that is me for home, then,” she said with unconvincing lightness. “Thank you for your kindness, Mr Darcy.”

“My pleasure.”

Seeing there was no footman to perform the task, Darcy opened the door and lowered the step for Elizabeth himself.

He vastly enjoyed her astonishment, for he had learnt very soon after first knowing her that she was exceedingly difficult to surprise or outwit.

He had also learnt early on that it was one of his favourite things to do, because her countenance, when it happened, was at its most unguarded, her eyes at their most incisive, and he relished being the object of her intrigue.

He relished, too, the delicate warmth of her hand as he assisted her into the carriage, not immune to thoughts of all the ways such a delicate, warm hand could please a man.

He waited only for her coachman to coax his horses into motion before turning on his heel and marching back to Grenier’s at twice the pace he had walked to Henrietta Street. The porter jumped when he saw him; Darcy forced himself to stop glowering.

“Mr Bingley’s room?”

“I am sorry, sir. He quit his apartments quarter of an hour ago.”

Darcy swore. He ought not to have left his card for Bingley to see. Lord only knew where he was to be found now—and Lord only knew with whom!