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And a nose for snakes, apparently.

Elizabeth’s smile did not change. “Though I must say, some entries feel oddly mismatched. As if someone else took up the pen halfway through.”

“Oh?” Miss Bingley arched a brow. “I had not noticed any inconsistency.”

“Nor I,” said Hardy. “There’s a clear voice throughout. Bold, pointed, dry as dust. I daresay the lady saw it printed just as she intended.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, still staring at Miss Bingley. “Still, tone can be rather difficult to preserve when passed between hands.”

Captain Marlowe laughed. “I should think a woman clever enough to write it was clever enough to keep control of it.”

Miss Bingley glanced at Elizabeth again. “And clever enough, I am sure, to know what she risked.”

Elizabeth kept her eyes on the rim of her glass. “Or perhaps she simply trusted the wrong people.”

The conversation stilled—briefly. Just a breath of silence, sharp at the edges.

“Come now,” said Bingley, “is this the part where we all pretend we did not beg for scandal last Season, just to stay awake through dinner?”

He laughed, the sound bright enough to jostle the mood. “Honestly, if someone had taken up a pen then, we might have all survived Lady Chilstone’s tableaux with our sanity intact.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the group. Miss Bingley tilted her head in amusement. Elizabeth smiled, narrowly.

“I maintain,” said Mr. Hardy, gesturing with his glass, “that nothing in print can rival the performance of Lady Chilstone as Helen of Troy.”

Miss Grafton shuddered. “A crown of tulips and a net made of hair ribbon.”

“She did mean it to be mythic,” said Miss Dunsmore.

“It was certainly unforgettable,” Elizabeth said dryly.

“Unforgivable,” murmured Jane.

More laughter.

“Perhaps someone should have written that up for publication,” said Marlowe.

“Oh, but they would have had to disguise it better,” said Hardy. “I suppose Lady Chilstone might not have noticed—but the rest of us would have.”

Miss Bingley’s smile sharpened. “You are very optimistic about society’s ability to miss its own reflection.”

“Especially when the mirror flatters,” Elizabeth said.

A few nods. Someone murmured agreement.

“Which brings us back,” said Mr. Hardy, “to our elusive author. If not Lady Cheltenham, then who? Who else is tart enough to write such things?”

Miss Bingley turned her glass slightly in her hand. “Whoever she is, I imagine she is quite young. A little too pleased with her own wit. And perhaps… not entirely accustomed to being listened to.”

Elizabeth met her gaze. "Indeed. Though, as I mentioned, the tone varies so much, it suggests more than one contributor."

Miss Bingley tilted her head. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the author simply has a wide range." She turned to Captain Marlowe. "What do you think, Captain? Could one person be responsible for such diverse commentary?"

He beamed, all too pleased to be consulted. “Oh, certainly. A sharp mind can wear many hats. It is quite the talent, really—one moment witty, the next a touch wicked. That variety is what makes the thing so entertaining.”

Elizabeth’s stomach tightened. He had meant it as praise. That was the worst part. He was still smiling, still proud to stand beside her. He did not know. He could not see it.

Miss Bingley’s smile curved like ribbon. “Exactly so. Whoever she is, she does not miss a single fault. A pity she writes instead of saying things aloud. Then again—one doubts she would be half as bold without a mask.”

Elizabeth sipped her wine. Her hand did not tremble, but only because she made it so. Every word in the air felt aimed just above her heart, like a duelist who could not quite bring herself to draw blood. And still, no one stepped in.

Captain Marlowe laughed again, oblivious.

So terribly pleased to be amused. Like a dog proud of catching a ball someone else had already thrown.

“If she did say them aloud, she would not last an hour at Almack’s.

Unless, of course, she were as charming as she is vicious.

In that case, I imagine she would be quite popular. ”

She stared into her glass. The rim gleamed smooth and thin and useless. Just as useless as Marlowe was, apparently.

Darcy would have known. He would not have smiled.

He would have said nothing—but it would have meant something.

And she would have heard it like thunder.

He would have caught the curl of Miss Bingley’s phrasing, the careful cut of her compliment.

He would not have stood silent, blinking and amused and then rise to the occasion of flattering himself.

He would have said something to agree with her .

Or if he could not—if circumstance forbade it—he would have looked at her. Seen her.

Marlowe did none of that.

Elizabeth turned her head slightly and let her gaze drift, just for a moment, past the edge of their little circle. Darcy stood near the pianoforte, nodding politely at something Mrs. Ashford had said. His expression gave nothing away. He did not look over.

And why should he? He had done his part.

He had kept his distance. She glanced at Darcy again.

Still nothing. No flicker of recognition.

Without her pen, the urge to speak felt like a splinter under her skin.

However, her pen had never answered back—but he did.

Dryly, reluctantly, as if dragged into amusement against his will.

And she had never missed it more than now, when the only person worth speaking to was busy nodding at someone else.

Elizabeth smiled back at the round of gossipers. “Well, if it was only one person, then I hope she was at least paid double for the effort.”

A few chuckles followed. The circle relaxed. The barb was gone, the mask was back in place. And no one noticed she was gripping her fan hard enough to crease the ivory.