Page 49

“I will not see you shamed,” he said finally. “Not publicly.”

Her throat moved, once.

“But do not ask me to pretend it was harmless.”

The words hung like frost.

Elizabeth went still. Then turned—abruptly, harshly—as if to walk away. But she did not make it far.

“Miss Bennet!” came a bright, too-loud voice. A woman in an enormous bonnet bustled forward, half-hugged Elizabeth with her eyes. “What a charming morning! And your wrap is simply darling—did your aunt give it to you?”

Elizabeth’s expression shifted with effort—upward, composed, the sort of smile that looked polite from across a room and hollow up close. “Thank you, Mrs. Ames. It was a gift, yes.”

“And what a fine one! Tell her she has excellent taste. Oh! Will you pass on to her that I shall have a pineapple at my dinner party next week? She is quite welcome to it afterward.”

“Naturally. Oh, Mrs. Ames, are you already introduced to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”

Darcy straightened beside her, rigid and silent. Mrs. Ames glanced up at him, and her eyes widened slightly. “Oh, of course! Mr. Darcy, what a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much of you!”

He gave the smallest nod, with no encouragement for further conversation.

Mrs. Ames hesitated, then offered a flurry of comments about pinecones and plum cakes before finally retreating, her shawl catching slightly on a crate of walnuts as she turned.

Elizabeth’s smile collapsed the moment she was gone. Darcy’s hand curled around the stall’s edge as he waited.

She said nothing. No apology. No explanation. Just stared out at the crowd as though she, too, had come for oranges and discovered something rotten in the barrel.

He straightened. “How did it happen?”

Elizabeth’s shoulders drooped. “Miss Bingley.”

He caught her elbow—gently—and turned her to face him more fully. “Miss Bingley! You are sure?”

“I am… reasonably sure.”

His eyes narrowed. “Reasonably?”

“She had opportunity. And motivation. She has always wanted to discredit me.”

Darcy drew back half a step. “It seems to me you managed that on your own. You are accusing Miss Bingley of theft.”

“I am.”

“That is not a small thing to say.”

“It was not a small thing to do.”

His mouth tightened. “Then I require more than a grudge and a guess.”

Elizabeth’s breath came sharper. “It was the evening of the ball at Netherfield. I was in the retiring room, and Miss Bingley stopped by to speak some spiteful nothings.”

“Hardly a crime.”

“A few moments later, I left my reticule,” she continued urgently.

“I went to comfort Mary, because Jane she was in tears and embarrassing herself behind the ficus. I set it down and when I came back the journal was gone. I know she was the only person in the room after I left. The maid had not touched it. I thought— I hoped— she had only moved it. I could not be sure until—”

“Until now?” His voice dropped low but sharp. “Why did you not tell me this earlier?”

“I did! That was why I insisted we go to London! I told you it was urgent—”

“You told me you wanted to help me catch a wife. That it was a mutually beneficial venture, though I doubt it now as I did then.”

“It was!”

“And you thought it a clever idea to withhold that a known social saboteur had your private musings in hand?”

“I thought you had better sense than to invite her to Town!”

“I did not bring her!”

“Well, she arrived, perched on your arm like some gaudy parrot! And she may have copied most of my words, but she sprinkled in one or two of her own. I never named names, and I could never have been so cruel as some of those phrases make me out to be!”

They had reached the far end of the market lane by then, too many eyes, too much bustle. A child skipped past with a string of brass bells.

Darcy exhaled. “Enough. This is not the time for blame. What are we going to do?”

She crossed her arms. “ We? I mean to catch a husband in a hurry, and I was hoping Mr. Bingley might be brought up to scratch for my poor sister, but I see you have hidden him away and only brought out the disagreeable Bingley sibling.”

“I did bring Bingley, and there was no hope of taking him from Hertfordshire without her following!”

She sniffed. “You might have warned me.”

“I might have—if I had known. ”

“Well,” she said tartly. “Now you do. And I wish I could pretend confidence that her brother could restrain her somehow, but we both know that will be a futile endeavor.”

Darcy snorted. “Bingley could not conceive such a thing, and if I brought the matter to his attention, half the matrons in London would know more than they ought before teatime tomorrow. No, I think it best that I do not advise him of this just now, but perhaps I could ask him certain questions, as seem judicious.”

She crossed her arms and nodded silently.

He looked at her sideways. “And what now? You marry the next man who makes you laugh and hope the scandal does not outpace the engagement?”

“If I must.”

“How tidy for you. Really, very neat,” he growled.

She blinked up at him in surprise. “Here, now, you sound as if I have personally wounded you! If you do not recall, it is my name in danger!”

“And what have you written in that wretched book about me? ”

Her mouth worked, but only a faint rush of air came out.

“ What, ” he repeated, “apart from several sharp phrases and the occasional insult, have you committed to paper? Was my… predicament outlined by your pen?”

She cleared her throat. “Nothing… detailed .”

He stepped closer. “Define ‘nothing.’”

“Snippets. Impressions.”

“Could they be deciphered? Could anyone have learned… what they ought not?”

Her eyes, those fine chocolate orbs, rounded. And her lips parted in panic. Oh, bollocks.

He looked at the bustle of shoppers—too many ears. “Walk with me.”

She followed, slowly, without grace. He led her around the corner, to an empty market stall that might afford some protection from eavesdroppers.

“Could they be understood?” he pressed urgently.

“Only by someone creative,” she muttered.

“Are they accurate?”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Too accurate. If one reads them as a whole.”

Darcy drew in a breath. “So if someone were intelligent—”

“Then I should be ruined twice over, and you with me,” she cut in. “But Miss Bingley is not intelligent. Or creative. You ought to be quite safe.”

He stared at her, still fuming—but quieter now. His voice came rougher than he intended. “Why do you write like this, Miss Bennet? Why would someone so careful put herself in harm’s way again and again?”

She looked away. Her jaw tensed.

“I do not understand. What are you trying to prove? Why do your fingers twitch every time you have a thought, and what is wrong with keeping them inside your own head?”

Then, without looking at him, she said tightly, “I was eight. Mama told me my teeth were too large and my laugh too loud and that I would never catch a man if I kept flinging opinions like flower petals. I was mortified.”

Darcy swallowed. Rather harsh for a mother.

She exhaled, as if the story needed to be finished, even if it cost her. “Papa gave me a blank book and told me to write it all down. Said it would stop me from shouting. I filled four pages that night. And the next. And every day after.”

Something hollow flickered behind her voice then—something that did not belong to wit or pride.

“I have tried to stop,” she added. “I truly have. But sometimes I think I might fly apart without it.”

Darcy’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “And you kept them all.”

She nodded once. “Every one. Even the awful ones.”

They walked for a moment without speaking, the bustle of the market threading around them in a hum of bells and voices.

He glanced at her sidelong. “How many did she get?”

Elizabeth exhaled. “Just the one, thank Heaven.”

“The most current one, I suppose, which would mean, perhaps, that it… was not very complete?” He tilted his hat to survey her hopefully.

“Poor, optimistic man. There, I doubt anyone has ever accused you of optimism before! That wretched thing was nearly bursting.” she said. “I had a very nice new pen, you know, and a very productive set of circumstances. You were a particularly obliging subject.”

He gave her that look—half horror, half disbelief. She shrugged. “I had a great deal of time on my hands, and very little sense of self-preservation.”

He frowned. “And the rest?”

“Locked in a trunk. At home. With a key that no longer matches anything in this country.”

Darcy gave a short breath—almost a laugh, though not a kind one. “Then one volume was enough to do this much damage.”

Elizabeth’s mouth twisted. “Miss Bingley may not be clever, but she had plenty to work with.”

Darcy shook his head once. “We were fools to assume stupidity made her harmless.”

Elizabeth hummed. “Well. We do have a lot of practice being wrong.”

“Entirely. And too much history to…” He stopped.

“To what?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Elizabeth’s voice dropped to a hush, urgent and tremulous. “Speaking of history… there is still a way. We both laughed at it once, but it would… well, it would solve… We could—”

He lifted a hand to stop her, face falling as he searched for words. “Please, Elizabeth… I cannot.”

Her hopeful smile faltered. “You cannot —or you will not?”

He drew in a painful breath. “I wish I could say I will not—but I need to.” His gaze flicked away, distant. “Not just you, not just us. But my family. My name. Georgiana—she is caught in this too, by Wickham. He has her letters. He compromised her, Elizabeth.”

She gulped. “Oh, I knew something was amiss with that prince of the militia! He… harmed her?”

“Her heart, yes. And her reputation, if anyone discovers how he manipulated her.” He removed his hat for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. “I am still trying to reclaim them, but so much time has passed, they might have been seen by any number of eyes. And I cannot risk… any more exposure.”

Elizabeth’s pulse fluttered as she realized what he was admitting. “And I am a liability. Not only is my family’s name not sufficient protection, but I am, in the eyes of society, damaged goods.”

He thinned his lips. “A quiet, unremarkable marriage might give us both shelter from gossip,” he continued, voice rough, “and it would shield us from the terms of the will. But my sister’s disgrace. I—”

She put her finger to his lips. “No. Say no more. Let us find something better, as we always intended to do. For both of us.”

E lizabeth was late returning to the house that afternoon. She left her parcels in the hall to be carried upstairs, then let herself into the drawing room quietly, but not quietly enough.

Jane glanced up from her book, her needlework forgotten on the arm of the settee. “You look cold,” she said. “Or hunted.”

Elizabeth forced a smile. “Just the impression I was hoping to make.”

She peeled off her gloves too fast and dropped them on the table. The kettle still steamed faintly—left for her, no doubt, by Mrs. Gardiner—and she poured a cup of tea as if it were the only sustenance she had had in weeks. It sloshed over the rim.

Jane marked her page, closed the book, and studied her. “You are flushed,” she said. “Are you angry about something?”

Elizabeth did not sit. She stirred sugar into her tea and stared at the swirl as if it might form answers. “Not angry. Winded. The market was full.”

Jane did not look convinced.

Elizabeth added, with a deliberately light tone, “And I happened to encounter Mr. Darcy.”

Jane’s eyes sharpened. “Is that… pertinent information?”

“Only if you care to know that Mr. Bingley was apparently diverted by a litter of spaniels and completely unaware that you were present at the exhibition last week. But,” she sipped, “he shall be aware now. Mr. Darcy seemed rather grimly intent on delivering the news.”

Jane lowered her book to her lap. “Mr. Bingley did not know I was in London?”

Elizabeth’s smile flickered. “I doubt Miss Bingley told him. Not her usual mode of charity.”

Jane stood slowly. “You are rather sharp this afternoon. Why should Miss Bingley withhold that information? What are you trying to say?”

Elizabeth waved her hand. “Only that it explains a few things. He could not greet what he did not see. Or know.”

Jane frowned. “But his sister—surely she—”

“Jane,” Elizabeth said, smiling without warmth, “Miss Bingley is not in the habit of doing us favors.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Elizabeth. What is going on?”

The knock came before Elizabeth could dodge the question. A footman entered with a polite bow and placed a tied bundle of post on the table.

“From the midday delivery, miss.”

“Thank you.”

He left with a bow, and Elizabeth set down her tea and untied the string. Several letters, a circular, and—

A slim pamphlet.

Blue-grey paper. Thick-stocked. Expensive.

She stared at it.

The typeface was the same, but this was not the same one as before.

A new issue.

Part Two.

She did not open it at once.

Jane, still standing, watched her. “What is it?”

Elizabeth opened the pamphlet. Flipped past the preamble. Found the headings with one hand as the other set aside the teacup.

The first sketch featured a well-born widow whose best friend was her own reflection.

The second took aim at a curate’s daughter with strong opinions about other people’s weddings.

The third—Elizabeth’s stomach clenched.

A lady who catalogues the moral faults of others while writing in a secret diary.

She sat down without meaning to.

“Lizzy? What is it?”

Elizabeth could not answer at first. Her eyes scanned the column again.

No names, save for the occasional initial.

No specifics.

Only the shape of her, twisted and dressed for company, with a rapier in hand rather than a reticule.

“They are spreading it,” she whispered. “There is more…”

Jane frowned. “What?”

Elizabeth shook her head, as if to clear it. “Still. To new people.”

“Lizzy, what are you talking about?”

Elizabeth looked down at the bottom of the page. A final line, in the same precise script.

The Ink-Stained Nobody: Part III to follow.

Of course there would be a part three. There was enough material for a fourth, and probably even a fifth.

And she … she was done, as soon as someone recognized her.