Page 58 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

As the ladies prepared to withdraw, leaving the gentlemen to their port, Darcy observed the rigid set of Elizabeth’s shoulders and the slight tremor in Anne’s hands.

His aunt had succeeded in making what should have been a pleasant evening into an occasion of barely contained hostility, and his fury at her deliberate cruelty simmered beneath his outwardly composed demeanour.

None of his male guests seemed particularly inclined to linger over port, several of them perhaps sharing Darcy’s urgency to return to the ladies.

They entered the drawing room a mere half-hour later.

Darcy immediately sought Elizabeth with his eyes.

She sat near the fire, Anne beside her, both women maintaining proper postures that betrayed nothing of their inner distress to those unacquainted with their usual manners.

Lady Catherine had positioned herself in what was clearly intended to be the seat of honour, her imperious gaze sweeping the room as though conducting an inventory of its deficiencies.

The earlier tension had not dissipated during the separation of the sexes; if anything, it seemed to have intensified.

As the gentlemen dispersed themselves among the ladies, Darcy noted with approval that Shandly made directly for Kitty, while Mr. Townend hesitantly approached Georgiana, who sat at the pianoforte though she was not playing.

Mr. Hislop paused briefly, clearly uncertain whether propriety permitted him to approach Anne under Lady Catherine’s watchful eye, before taking a seat at a respectful distance that nevertheless allowed him to observe her.

“I trust you found the port to your satisfaction, gentlemen?” Lady Catherine inquired, though her tone suggested she doubted it could not possibly meet her standards. “At Rosings, we maintain a cellar that the Prince Regent himself once praised most particularly.”

“The port was excellent, Catherine,” Lord Matlock replied before Darcy could respond. “Though I believe we are all now ready for some of Mrs. Darcy’s excellent tea.”

Elizabeth smiled gratefully at this diplomatic intervention and rang for the tea tray. “I have acquired a particularly fine Bohea that I believe you will enjoy, Lady Catherine.”

“I rarely take tea in the evening,” Lady Catherine pronounced. “But as it is being offered, I shall accept a cup.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth replied smoothly. “I recall your preference from this afternoon.”

Mrs. Jenkinson, seated beside Anne with habitual vigilance, suddenly produced her vial of smelling salts from her reticule, unstopping it and wafting it briefly before her own nose.

“The room is warm,” she murmured, though not so quietly that those nearby could not hear.

“Miss Anne, are you comfortable? You look flushed.”

Anne, who appeared to Darcy’s eye to be perfectly composed if somewhat pale, shook her head slightly. “I am well, thank you, Mrs. Jenkinson.”

The companion frowned, clearly displeased with this assessment.

“You must be careful not to overtax yourself,” she persisted, her fingers working the stopper of the smelling salts nervously.

“First riding, and now this excessive socialising. Lady Catherine, do you not think Miss Anne looks overwrought?”

Lady Catherine’s sharp gaze fixed on her daughter with clinical assessment. “Anne knows her duty, regardless of her personal comfort. Though I agree that these late hours cannot be beneficial to her constitution.”

Anne’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly at this pronouncement.

Before the conversation could continue in this vein, Harrison entered with two footmen bearing the tea service, which Elizabeth directed to be placed on the table before her.

As Elizabeth began to pour, Darcy noted a slight tremble in her hands, the only outward sign of the strain she had endured throughout the evening.

Lady Catherine, naturally, did not miss this small betrayal of nerves.

“A steady hand is essential for proper tea service,” she observed coldly. “At Rosings, our housekeepers receive specific training before being permitted to handle the better china.”

Darcy felt his jaw tighten at this deliberate slight, but Elizabeth merely smiled with perfect composure. “How fortunate Rosings is to have such well-trained staff,” she replied, her voice betraying none of the anger Darcy knew she must feel. “How do you take your tea, Mr. Hislop?”

“Tea with two slices of lemon and no sugar, if you please, Mrs. Darcy,” he requested with a polite smile. “I find it brings out the flavour of the leaves most particularly.”

Elizabeth prepared two cups with careful attention, adding precisely two slices of lemon to each.

Darcy noted with amusement that one of the cups was destined for Lady Catherine, who was watching Mr. Hislop with narrowed eyes.

His aunt was probably wondering whether the young man had deliberately mimicked her tea preference in order to flatter her.

Mrs. Jenkinson fluttered about handing out cups as Elizabeth directed, her movements jerky and her expression pinched at being relegated to a servant’s role.

The company settled into their tea, conversation resuming in small, cautious groups.

Lady Catherine had positioned herself where she could observe both Anne and Mr. Hislop, though they sat too far apart for private conversation.

Her scrutiny was so pointed that even Lord and Lady Matlock’s attempts to engage her on the subject of mutual acquaintances received only perfunctory responses.

“Your tea is particularly fine, Mrs. Darcy,” Lord Matlock commented, making a valiant effort to ease the atmosphere. “Catherine, do you not find it excellent?”

Lady Catherine lifted her cup with a gesture that somehow conveyed that she was granting a great concession by sampling the brew. She took a deliberate sip, her expression neutral. “It is adequate,” she pronounced. “Though perhaps steeped a little too long for perfect flavour.”

Darcy caught Elizabeth’s eye across the room, offering her a small, private smile of support.

Her answering look combined resignation with amusement at Lady Catherine’s determined criticism.

Whatever his aunt’s behaviour, Elizabeth’s spirits remained uncrushable, a quality that had first intrigued and then captivated him during their courtship.

Lady Catherine set her cup back on its saucer with a sharp clink that drew attention. “I find the room excessively warm,” she announced, reaching for her fan with imperious gestures. “Darcy, you might instruct your servants to reduce the fire.”

“I shall attend to it myself,” he said, striving to maintain an amiable demeanour, though in truth he had just been thinking that another log on the fire might be called for. Rising, he made his way towards the fireplace, passing close by his aunt’s chair as he did so.

Lady Catherine had barely set down her cup when Darcy noticed the first sign that something was wrong.

Her face, normally composed into deliberate expressions of approval or disdain, suddenly contorted in confusion.

She pressed one gloved hand to her stomach, the other gripping the arm of her chair with unexpected force.

For a moment, no one else seemed to notice, the conversations continuing around her.

“Lady Catherine?” he inquired, his voice cutting through the gentle murmur of conversation. “Are you unwell?”

Her eyes widened, meeting his with an expression he had never before seen on her imperious features: fear, raw and unguarded. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead of words, a strangled gasp emerged.

“I feel...” she began, but could not finish, doubling over suddenly as a violent spasm wracked her body. The teacup she had been holding clattered to the floor, shattering on the marble hearth.

“Mother?” Anne rose, her face draining of colour.

Lord Matlock moved swiftly to his sister’s side, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Catherine? What is it?”

Lady Catherine’s answer was a sudden, violent retching that brought up nothing but caused her body to convulse. Her face contorted in agony as she clutched her stomach, a low moan escaping her lips. “Burning,” she managed. “Inside, burning.”

Darcy felt the blood drain from his face as terrible recognition dawned.

These were exactly the symptoms Lord Joseph had displayed before his death: the sudden stomach pain, the violent retching, the confusion and fear.

His gaze shot to Elizabeth, who rose to her feet but then stood frozen by the tea table, her face a mask of horror as the same realisation clearly struck her.

“Harrison!” Darcy called sharply. “Send for Dr. Winters immediately!”

The butler, already moving toward the door, nodded and disappeared with commendable speed.

Lady Catherine convulsed again, more violently this time, her body nearly sliding from the chair.

Lord Matlock and Darcy moved together to support her, lowering her carefully to the floor as she writhed in obvious agony.

“What is happening?” Mrs. Jenkinson’s shrill voice cut through the room as she rushed toward her patroness. “Lady Catherine! Oh, someone help her!”

The drawing room erupted into chaos. Lady Matlock ushered the younger ladies to the far side of the room, her face grave but composed as she attempted to shield them from the distressing scene.

Georgiana clung to Kitty, both their faces pale with shock.

Anne remained rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on her mother’s contorted form, one hand pressed to her lips in silent horror.

Darcy knelt beside his aunt, supporting her head as another spasm wracked her body. A frothy foam began to appear at the corners of her mouth, white at first, then tinged with pink as she bit her own tongue in her violent convulsions. Her eyes, wide with pain and terror, locked onto his.