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Chapter Nineteen

T he dowager Countess of Matlock seated herself on the best chair in the drawing room with the unspoken assumption that it had been warmed for her specifically.

Mrs. Gardiner, still rallying from the shock of such a visitor arriving without expectation or fanfare, managed her welcome with commendable grace.

“How very good of you to call, Lady Matlock,” she said, offering a plate of shortbread that looked suddenly very humble.

The dowager accepted one with regal indulgence. “Yes, yes, I thought it long past time to renew old acquaintances, and I was always fond of your cousin… Pennyworth, I believe?”

Mrs. Gardiner cleared her throat softly. “Mrs. Pennington, my lady.”

“Ah, yes. They do say the first thing to go is the memory. I do hope Mr. Gardiner is well?”

“Quite well, thank you. He is with a caller in his study at present.”

“A pity,” the dowager murmured, though her tone suggested she found male callers inconvenient at the best of times.

Her gaze flicked over to Elizabeth and Jane, pausing just long enough to register a sparkle of satisfaction before returning to her biscuit.

“Now, these must be your nieces. I believe I have had the pleasure… though I hardly recall their names.”

Elizabeth met the countess’s gaze squarely, resisting the urge to smile. “Elizabeth Bennet, ma’am. And this is my elder sister Jane.”

“Ah yes,” the dowager said, as though she had solved a moderately interesting puzzle. “How lovely. You favor your mother’s side of the family, I think,” she added, in a tone that left unclear whether it was a compliment or a curse.

Elizabeth inclined her head, her spine held just a little straighter. Jane looked like she had not drawn breath in several minutes.

They settled into a pattern of careful civility. The dowager praised the embroidery—Elizabeth was fairly certain she had no real opinion on the matter—and asked after Mrs. Gardiner’s sister and acquaintances with an interest that hovered on the edge of performance.

Then, with disarming abruptness, she turned back to Elizabeth. “And what, Miss Bennet, brings you to London this winter?”

Elizabeth had been expecting it, but not so soon and not so directly. “My uncle and aunt were kind enough to offer us a change of scenery, ma’am. And with the Season underway, we thought it might be lively.”

The dowager's brows lifted, faintly amused. “How very diplomatic.” She tapped a finger against the arm of her chair, studying Elizabeth with a look of frank mischief. “And has it proved lively so far?”

“We have only arrived this week,” Elizabeth said evenly. “But there is promise.”

The dowager gave a hum that might have been agreement—or laughter.

“Well,” she said briskly, “I cannot promise to improve your fortunes dramatically, but I should be honored if you and your sister would accompany me to a musicale tomorrow evening. My friends the Harringtons host them with dreadful regularity. I believe it shall be tolerably crowded, abominably overheated, and only marginally out of tune.”

Jane looked startled. Elizabeth only blinked. “We were considering attending.”

“Then you must ride with me. I warn you,” the countess continued with mock solemnity, “most of the gentlemen will be either very married or very reluctant. They are dragged by their wives, poor souls. But not all of them,” she added, with a glance that made Elizabeth’s mouth twitch despite herself.

Mrs. Gardiner sat upright. “Lady Matlock, that is exceedingly kind—”

“Nonsense,” the dowager said, brushing it away with one gloved hand. “I have made up my mind. That is quite enough.”

Elizabeth had the distinct impression that several other minds had been made up in the process, whether or not their owners were aware of it.

They rose to see her out, the usual polite chorus of farewells beginning—

Only for the footman to open the drawing room door and pause in surprise.

A voice—deep, male, unmistakably familiar—sounded from the hall. “I thank you for receiving me, Mr. Gardiner.”

There was a flicker of motion beyond the door, and then—

“Fitzwilliam!” the dowager crowed.

Elizabeth stared.

Mr. Darcy himself stopped dead at the threshold.

He looked, for the first time since she had met him, entirely out of his depth. His eyes swept over the room, landing briefly on Elizabeth. He managed a stiff bow.

“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth. Mrs. Gardiner.”

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, just managing not to laugh.

“I was not aware you had returned to Town,” he said, turning to his grandmother with the stiffness of a man reciting under duress.

“Naturally, no,” the dowager replied sweetly. “For I only arrived today. Did you not receive my note?”

“I—no.” Darcy’s glance darkened as he registered something. “Where is Georgiana?”

“Perfectly well,” the dowager said, pretending offense. “She is enjoying a long soak in your east chamber and being fed muffins. I, on the other hand, learned my grandson was gallivanting about London and not to be found at his house, so I thought it my duty to make calls while he was out.”

Elizabeth could not help it. She snorted—just once—but it was audible.

Darcy shot her a look that might have withered crops, but she only tilted her head innocently.

He cleared his throat. “You are already installed at Darcy House?”

“But of course,” the dowager sniffed. “You do not think I would stay with your uncle, do you? Always on about the furnishings and tapestries, he is. As if even the most expensive rugs are not made to be walked upon! I blame his father, God rest his soul.”

Elizabeth could not help it this time. She hiccuped in laughter and quickly covered her mouth.

Darcy narrowed his eyes and refused to look at her again. “I had… been considering certain investments,” he said vaguely. “And recalled an old… familial connection. I thought it proper to inquire after Mr. Gardiner.”

“Of course you did,” the dowager said.

Darcy only swallowed and looked as though he would have preferred an encounter with Napoleon.

“Your timing is excellent,” the dowager went on. “I have just invited the Miss Bennets to accompany me to a musicale tomorrow evening. You shall have company.”

He blinked. “You have—?”

“I have.” She looked positively gleeful. “Seven o’clock. My carriage shall call for them here. Come along, Fitzwilliam, we are late already.”

Darcy hesitated, his mouth working. “Late for what?”

But the dowager only took his arm. “Shall we? And Miss Elizabeth, I fancy you shall make for an amusing companion.”

Elizabeth concealed the rather swift upturn of her brow as she dipped a curtsy to the lady. “We look forward to it.”

T he carriage jolted forward with a lurch that sent Darcy bracing against the doorframe. Across from him, his grandmother sat perfectly composed, her gloved hands folded atop her reticule, looking every inch the benevolent architect of someone else's disaster.

"You are brooding again," she said cheerfully. "I do not allow brooding in my carriages. It darkens the upholstery."

Darcy fixed his gaze on the passing streets. "I wonder if it is worth the bother of reminding you that this is my carriage, as you had already sent yours away. Oddly.”

“Oh, no sense making the fellow wait out in the rain.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes and slid a glance to his grandmother. “Indeed. And what precisely are you about now? You ought not to have brought Georgiana to Town."

"Nonsense. Georgiana is in excellent hands. Mrs. Annesley is an admirable companion, and I shall personally see to it that no gossip dares brush so much as a hem of her gown."

He did not answer. The thought of Georgiana exposed—even under careful supervision—to London’s gossips and fortune-hunters set his teeth on edge.

"And as for you," the dowager continued, blithely ignoring his silence, "you are quite wrong to sulk. I have done you a tremendous favor."

Darcy turned a disbelieving glance upon her. “I am sorry?”

"Indeed," she said. "You could not very well march up to Gracechurch Street and drag the poor girls into Society by brute force. Appearances must be preserved. I, being the soul of discretion, have offered them my escort to the Harrington musicale. Entirely proper. Entirely unremarkable."

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. "You should not involve yourself in this."

"I already have," the dowager said, unrepentant. "It was either me or some clumsy scheme of yours, and we both know which would actually result in you at the altar."

He tightened his grip on his gloves. "Miss Bennet is not a suitable match."

"Good heavens, no," she agreed at once, her tone positively sparkling.

"A provincial girl of no fortune, no connections, and an alarming tendency toward original thought. Utterly unsuitable.” She sat back and peered deliberately out the window before growling, “Though I do wonder how many ‘unsuitable’ women you intend to collect before you finally trip over one who suits you entirely too well.”

Darcy stared at her, unmoved. “Grandmother…”

The dowager only smiled, the kind of smile that had seen more courts and wars than Darcy cared to contemplate.

"She amuses me," she said. "And if you think, Fitzwilliam Darcy, that I am about to deprive myself of that amusement merely because you are constitutionally incapable of managing your own affairs—" she broke off, lifting one gloved hand in a delicate wave—"well.

You are not nearly so clever as I hoped. "

Darcy looked away again, scowling at the city beyond the window.

He did not trust her easy agreement.

He did not trust her laughter.

And he most certainly did not trust himself when it came to Elizabeth Bennet.

"You will not ," he said after a moment, "make a spectacle of them. Or of me, for that matter."

"My dear boy," the dowager said with false sweetness, "I am always a spectacle. That is the point."

Darcy muttered something uncharitable under his breath.

The dowager only laughed. “At least pretend to enjoy yourself, darling. It will confuse the debutantes.”

5 December