Page 36

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “I see nothing wrong with being specific.”

“Except in the matter of searching for a bride.

A man as particular as you could spend ten years searching and still wish to amend the docket, but you say you only seek a handful of qualities.

Yet this ‘easy’ quest has taken you better than five years.

It is almost as if—" he paused, studying him with sudden sharpness, "—you already know the sort of woman you want, but you will not let yourself have her. "

Darcy stiffened.

Richard’s brows shot upward. "Touch a nerve, did I?"

"You speak nonsense," Darcy said curtly. He reached for his own glass and drank without tasting it.

"Do I?" Richard leaned back in his chair, wholly unrepentant. "Come, now. I am not a fool. What happened in Hertfordshire?"

Darcy set his glass down with deliberate care. "Nothing of consequence."

"You forget that I had a letter from the dowager." Richard's smile was slow, wicked. "She was rather exact in her instructions to you, was she not? But there is a reason you fled the country on so little notice, and I doubt it was the scenery."

Darcy exhaled sharply. He could feel the trap closing, one inexorable word at a time.

"And now," Richard pressed, "you return to London, all in a lather, pulling your hair out and muttering about social engagements. Tell me, cousin—" he lowered his voice with mock gravity, "—did the lady come to Town as well?"

Darcy's jaw clenched.

A silence fell between them, long enough for Richard's grin to grow insufferable.

At last, grudgingly, Darcy spoke.

"She is visiting relations in Gracechurch Street."

Richard blinked. Then laughed outright. "Gracechurch Street! By heaven, Darcy, you do not make it easy on yourself."

"I did not choose her address," Darcy snapped.

"No, but you chose to follow her here."

Darcy rounded on him. "I did not follow anyone."

Richard held up both hands in surrender, laughing still. "Of course not. Coincidence. Providence. An unfortunate accident of timing."

"It was," Darcy said coldly, "a matter of agreement."

There it was. The one secret he had not meant to breathe aloud. Not to anyone. Not even to himself.

Richard cocked his head. " Agreement? "

Darcy realized, too late, the slip he had made.

Richard’s eyes sharpened with interest. "An agreement with the lady herself?"

Darcy folded his arms and glared at the fire.

It would have been easier to deny it all outright, to lie and be done with it.

But the words stuck.

"Of a sort," he muttered.

Richard laughed again, softer this time. "Well, well. That is more than I expected out of you. Let me guess. Her father disapproves of you, so you chose to move the battle to neutral ground?"

“Nothing of the sort. We have no intention of pursuing one another at all.”

Richard’s laugh died in his throat, but his mouth still dropped open.

“You… what?” He shook his head. “Is this not the same woman you have been dashing up against like the tide on the rocks for five years or better? The same woman who once got you to laugh on a picnic blanket while eating strawberries? Come, man, what is the matter with you? I thought you were desperate.”

“I do not intend—”

“Oh, poppycock! Darcy, I know you have never done this before, but it takes time to get up a decent wedding to avoid scandal. My sister Julia’s wedding was two months, and you have scarcely that now.

You have a perfectly living woman there—all her teeth, if I recall, adequate limbs and digits, even a somewhat fetching figure, if you like the wispy, elfin sort with over-large eyes and a perpetual look of mischief about her—and you will not move to settle matters where you can? ”

“Miss Bennet and I do not suit. There is the end of it.”

The colonel sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I see. Well, back to the battle map, eh? I suppose Saturday…”

Darcy set his glass down with more force than courtesy dictated. "It is intolerable," he muttered.

"Which part?"

"All of it," Darcy said shortly. He turned from the hearth, pacing the length of the room with grim agitation. "To parade oneself at every rout and assembly like a merchant displaying wares—"

"Yes, yes," Richard said, waving a hand. "Utterly beneath you. But needs must, cousin."

Darcy turned to the window, scowling, and turned back again. “I suppose you have it all worked out.”

Richard watched him flounder with all the patience of a man observing a large, stubborn animal contemplating a very small gate. "Come to the Harringtons' musical evening for a start."

She might be there. By chance. By fate. He could not help but wonder—

Darcy stopped pacing. "Very well. I shall attend."

Richard beamed. "Excellent. I shall arrange a card for you."

"And if you match me with a harpist," Darcy added grimly, "I shall take it very ill."

"I would expect nothing less," Richard said. He pushed himself to his feet and clapped Darcy on the shoulder as if congratulating him on some great personal triumph.

Darcy bore it with grim endurance.

4 December

I t was astonishing how little havoc a missing journal could cause when no one else knew it was missing.

Six days in London, with little—nothing, really—to show for them.

Elizabeth sat stiffly by the window, stitching a length of hem she had already mended twice, while Jane and Mrs. Gardiner discussed the week's social prospects with a quiet optimism that grated, however unjustly, against Elizabeth’s nerves.

"The Harringtons' musical evening tomorrow," Mrs. Gardiner was saying, consulting a neat stack of correspondence at her elbow. "Though I understand it may be rather grander than our usual company."

Jane smiled faintly. "That sounds delightful."

Elizabeth stabbed her needle through the linen with more force than necessary. "Do you mean they have actually sent an invitation?"

Mrs. Gardiner glanced up, mild surprise flickering in her eyes. "No, not directly. It is more in the way of a general reception. We might attend, if you girls are eager for an evening out."

Elizabeth made a show of considering it. "I suppose it could be amusing."

In truth, she could hardly bear the thought of another evening spent waiting, scanning every face in the hope of an encounter that ought to have been arranged days ago.

Surely, surely, Darcy had enough sense to have called by now. Their alliance—such as it was—depended on some form of communication.

How could he have assumed she would stumble across him by accident?

How irresponsible. How typical. How—

She bit the inside of her cheek.

If she were fair—and she had little inclination to be so—she must allow that she had proposed this absurd plan to a properly astonished Mr. Darcy without specifying how they would manage their meetings in Town. She had assumed he would manage it.

She had, she reflected grimly, probably assumed too much.

Jane set aside her embroidery and studied her cooling tea cup. "Perhaps we shall make some new acquaintances at the musical evening," she said with determined brightness. "It would be pleasant to know more people in Town."

Elizabeth forced a smile. "Yes. Pleasant."

And necessary.

If Darcy would not make himself known, she would have to search him out in some other way.

Without appearing to search, of course.

She looked up, adopting what she hoped was an air of casual inquiry. "Have you heard of any other events, Aunt? Salons, soirées, anything of that kind?"

Mrs. Gardiner tapped her papers thoughtfully. "The Baxters host a small gathering on Thursday evenings. Very literary. Not precisely lively, but respectable."

Elizabeth smothered a sigh. She had no particular desire to be quizzed on her opinions of Cicero before a gathering of well-meaning strangers.

Still—

Strangers were better than no opportunity at all.

She folded her mending with uncharacteristic care. "It sounds charming."

Mrs. Gardiner smiled, clearly pleased by Elizabeth's interest. "We shall see if there is room for guests this week."

Elizabeth returned the smile with equal parts gratitude and dread.

Her world was narrowing, closing in with quiet, invisible walls, and all she could do was smile and pretend she did not notice.

Somehow, some way, she would find him. And heaven help him if he made her work too hard at it.

The clock ticked in the corner, slow and ponderous. Somewhere down the corridor, the faint murmur of men's voices rose and fell — Uncle Gardiner entertaining business callers in his study.

Elizabeth set her folded mending aside and rose to pour herself a fresh cup of tea, if only for the occupation. The day stretched ahead, heavy with too much waiting and too few certainties.

Another knock echoed faintly from the hall, followed by the familiar cadence of the footman’s voice announcing a new visitor.

A deeper voice answered — male, indifferent — and the sound of tall boots on the wooden floor receded toward the study.

Elizabeth allowed herself a small sigh.

More business, no doubt. Ships or inventories or whatever it was that consumed her uncle’s mornings.

Nothing to do with them.

She returned to her chair, determined to read at least three pages in whatever dull book she could find before allowing herself to glance again toward the door.

Another knock.

Another voice — lighter this time, unmistakably female.

Elizabeth straightened instinctively. Jane set down her embroidery with a hopeful glance. Even Mrs. Gardiner shifted forward, smoothing her skirts.

The footman appeared in the doorway, his expression composed but his voice carrying a note of something almost like awe.

"The Right Honorable the dowager Countess of Matlock," he announced.

The Who? The teacup in Elizabeth’s hand trembled very slightly.

Mrs. Gardiner, usually so unflappable, blinked and rose with more haste than grace. Her smile was swift, automatic, but the surprise in her eyes was unmistakable.

Elizabeth rose too, the motion mechanical, her mind scrambling to make sense of it. The dowager Countess? Here?

The door swung wider, and there she was: a small, regal figure wrapped in velvet and authority, sweeping into the drawing room as though it were a minor annex to her own domain.

Elizabeth's first wild, ridiculous thought was that surely this must be a mistake.

But there was no mistaking the woman’s bearing — or the sharp, almost amused gaze that landed squarely, unerringly, upon her.