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Chapter Two

E lizabeth had not expected a velvet tent.

She blinked twice, just to be sure it was not a mirage.

No—there it stood, pitched at the edge of the lawn like a conquering banner, swaths of dark red fabric fluttering at the corners, and golden tassels swaying like it had been summoned from the Arabian Nights and accidentally dropped in Derbyshire.

“Well,” she said, adjusting her bonnet, “someone is very serious about charity.”

Beside her, Jane laughed softly. “Mrs. Gardiner says Lady Chiswell is rather fond of spectacle.”

“And velvet, apparently.”

The rest of the lawn was no less ambitious.

Tables groaned under sugared fruits and trifles in glass bowls.

A string quartet had taken up residence near the hedges, tuning their instruments with the air of people who did not care if anyone listened.

A gaggle of children raced past with paper fans and sashes of silk tied about their waists.

And everywhere—everywhere—there were hats.

Huge ones. Plumaged ones. One so large it appeared to have a birdcage embedded in the brim.

Elizabeth made a note of it. Literally. She tugged her small notebook from the inner pocket of her reticule, shielded it behind her shawl, and scribbled:

Spotted: A lady bearing the full contents of the London aviary atop her head. When it took flight in the wind, no one dared stop it.

Her hand had moved before she quite realized it. Writing was second nature now—like breathing, only neater.

“Lizzy,” Jane murmured, nudging her. “Are you writing again?”

“I am making a charitable contribution to the future,” Elizabeth whispered back.

Mrs. Gardiner was speaking to someone near the lemonade table.

Elizabeth only half-listened, her eyes darting over the crowd with the precision of a field scout.

There was something delightfully absurd about the whole affair.

The ladies preened. The gentlemen barked in polite laughter.

Everyone pretended not to notice the bidding table being discreetly set up in the shade.

“Oh dear,” Elizabeth murmured. “There are ribbons.”

Jane followed her gaze and stifled a giggle.

“Are you quite certain we are not at a cattle fair?” Elizabeth added.

Before Jane could answer, Mrs. Gardiner returned, her cheeks a little pink from the sun—or the conversation.

“Girls,” she said, lowering her voice, “I have just encountered Lady Matlock.”

Elizabeth blinked. “ The Lady Matlock?”

“One of them, yes. The dowager. Her late husband was a cousin of my uncle’s, distantly. She remembered me, or at least pretended to, and she asked who you were.” She nodded toward Elizabeth, eyes alight. “She said you had the look of someone likely to cause trouble. In a good way.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Trouble? I shall have to be very careful, then. If I cause too much, she might try to marry me to one of her relatives.”

Mrs. Gardiner laughed—truly laughed, the kind that drew glances from the neighboring guests—and patted her arm. “She is quite fond of sharp young ladies. I would not be surprised if she summoned you for conversation before the afternoon ends.”

Jane looked pleased. Mary looked like she wished for her copy of Plutarch. Elizabeth, however, felt the familiar spark of something dangerous and thrilling: attention. From someone important. Who might even understand her.

“Do not tease her too much,” Jane murmured later, as they walked past a row of painted parasols.

“Would I do such a thing?”

“You have already invented three nicknames for Lady Biddlesby’s bonnet.”

Elizabeth smiled, but the notebook stayed tucked away. Some things were too good to write down in the moment.

And then—the air shifted.

Not literally. But there was a change, a pull, as if something colder had entered the warmth. The ladies near the table turned as one. One of the footmen straightened. Jane followed the movement, her eyes widening.

Elizabeth turned.

A gentleman had just arrived. He wore black. Not a fashionable black, but a grave one—coat, waistcoat, gloves. Even his cravat looked severe.

He was tall, and still, and looked at the crowd as if he had already counted their sins.

Elizabeth’s breath caught—not for his face, which was certainly fine, if one appreciated the brooding type—but for the way he stood. As though he was waiting to be disappointed. As though he already had been.

“Who is that?” she asked Jane softly.

“I do not know.”

“Whoever he is,” Elizabeth said, “he is dressed for a funeral and wishing it were ours.”

But she did not look away.

D arcy had already decided not to speak.

It was easier that way. One could not be drawn into foolishness or flirtation if one declined to open one’s mouth. He could nod. He could bow. He could offer a single, glacial “Madam” when absolutely required. But he had no intention of saying anything more than that.

It was a policy that had served him well on the ride to Matlock, where Major Fitzwilliam had spent an astonishing portion of the journey speculating about tarts. Not the edible sort.

Now they stood together near the edge of the lawn, the sun striking Fitzwilliam’s polished boots while Darcy remained half-shadowed beneath the eaves of a tent. It was large, garish, and flapping a little at the corners like it might take off if enough nonsense were said beneath it.

“Well,” said Fitzwilliam, surveying the crowd, “they’ve laid out quite a battlefield. Which sector would you like to die in?”

Darcy only narrowed his eyes.

“Do not look like that,” his cousin added. “You are not being led to the scaffold. You are simply standing among cakes and widows.”

Darcy adjusted his gloves. “They do not seem to be mourning.”

“Of course not. That would require sincerity. Now smile like you were trained to and pretend you are not counting the minutes until it is over.”

Darcy did not smile.

A cluster of ladies passed nearby, their eyes flicking toward him like moths to a candle.

Darcy kept his expression fixed and his shoulders squared.

He had no intention of being approached.

He had only agreed to come because Fitzwilliam had threatened to recite Pope aloud until they reached Pemberley’s stables.

“Darcy!”

He turned before the name had fully registered, and there she was: the dowager Countess of Matlock, imperious in grey lace and a hat wide enough to shade half the garden. She leaned on her cane as if daring the earth to trip her.

“Good heavens,” she declared as she reached him. “You look like a thundercloud in a cathedral.”

Darcy bowed. “Your ladyship.”

“Oh, do not try that funeral voice on me. I have buried a husband and two children and still manage to speak in complete sentences. You, on the other hand, appear to be punishing the daffodils.”

Fitzwilliam choked on a laugh.

Darcy straightened. “I had assumed black was still acceptable.”

“It is,” said the dowager, “in November. In a drawing room. When you are not being auctioned off like a prized gooseberry.”

That gave him pause. “I beg your pardon?”

The dowager waved her fan. “Never mind. You shall discover soon enough. Just try not to scowl too fiercely. One of the Lady Milletts has a weak heart.”

She sailed off with terrifying grace, her cane clicking smartly against the flagstones.

Darcy turned slowly toward his cousin. “ Auctioned? ”

Fitzwilliam grinned. “Oh, did I forget to mention that?”

Darcy’s jaw clenched.

“I think they are doing it for charity,” Fitzwilliam added brightly. “Or to titillate the ladies. It is hard to tell the difference.”

Darcy looked out over the crowd again. Tables of sweetmeats. Giggling ladies. Ribbons. A tent fit for a sultan.

And in the middle of it all, somewhere—he felt it like a stone in his shoe—a disaster waiting to be assigned his name.

E lizabeth had not been paying much attention to the white dais.

It appeared innocent enough—just a little platform at the far edge of the lawn, half-sunken in the grass and trimmed with summer flowers.

She had assumed it was for music. Or possibly a speech.

No one had climbed it yet, which was all for the best, as Lady Millett was presently standing in front of it, looking like she meant to speak and absolutely should not.

Jane had wandered off in search of lemonade, Mary was deep in conversation with a very serious boy who had the air of someone about to form a youth theology society, and Mrs. Gardiner was chatting animatedly with a man who appeared to be explaining the intricacies of sheep breeding with hand gestures.

Elizabeth, feeling wonderfully unchaperoned, stood near a hedge and watched society make a fool of itself.

And then the bell rang.

It was small, silver, and held aloft by a girl in a bonnet the size of a small ship. She rang it twice and called, “Ladies! If you please!”

Elizabeth blinked. The music stopped. The ribbon table rustled. Someone behind her whispered, “Oh, the auction!”

Auction?

Elizabeth turned her full attention to the dais. A portly gentleman in a puce waistcoat had stepped up beside Lady Millett and was now raising his hands for silence.

“Good ladies of Matlock,” he said, projecting his voice as though delivering a sermon, “you are most generous, and the cause is most noble. Today, your support will benefit the Foundling Hospital of London—and you shall do so with a delightful twist!”

There was polite laughter. Elizabeth felt a prickle of apprehension at the words “delightful twist.” They rarely meant anything proper.

The gentleman continued. “We shall be offering the company of several eligible gentlemen, each of whom has—willingly, I assure you—agreed to be your luncheon companion for a private picnic.”

Louder laughter now, tinged with feminine squeals and one or two pointed looks.

Mary looked up from her pamphlet, scandalized. Jane had returned and was already flushing in the way that meant she found this all deeply improper, but did not wish to say so aloud.