Page 64

He turned on his heel. “And when the season ends, she goes to Bath. Or Scotland. Or anywhere else I can send her with dignity intact. She will write a letter of apology. And she will deliver it—privately, and sincerely. Not to you. To Miss Elizabeth. If she refuses, then I shall not wait for the end of the season. She will be gone by morning.”

Darcy said nothing. The plan was sound. Moderate. Surgical. And it would work.

But he hated it.

Bingley must have seen it in his face, because his voice softened. “You want to ruin her.”

Darcy looked away. “I want her silenced.”

“This way, she will be,” Bingley said. “And no one else need suffer for it.”

C aptain Marlowe had drifted somewhere near the refreshments.

Not far. Not close. Close enough to claim he was present, far enough to avoid the fallout.

Elizabeth stood with Jane and Mrs. Gardiner near the vestibule, half hoping the cold might reach them through the walls.

Elizabeth had already asked for her cloak.

Mrs. Gardiner stood beside her, lips pressed tight. Jane, pale and rigid, had not spoken since they agreed to go. The room felt smaller now—candlelight flickering over whispers, each one louder than the last.

They would leave before it got worse.

But it was already bad enough.

Elizabeth caught sight of Miss Bingley just as the crowd parted—no warning, just silk and satisfaction, gliding through the hush like a woman taking credit for the weather.

Elizabeth turned, or tried to. Jane caught her wrist.

“Do not move,” Jane said.

It was not a plea. It was a command. And it was furious.

Jane never raised her voice. Never flared. But now her fingers trembled with restraint and her eyes followed Miss Bingley like flint waiting for spark.

Miss Bingley stopped before them with the grace of a woman who had practiced victory.

“My dear Miss Bennet,” she said sweetly, folding her hands over her reticule, “do you truly mean to leave so early? Surely it is all a misunderstanding. Such scandalous speculation—it cannot possibly be true.”

Elizabeth blinked once. “There is no shortage of examples.”

“Oh, quite. Some women have a real gift for turning notoriety into charm. I can only admire it.”

Jane stepped in. “You are out of line.”

Miss Bingley turned as if noticing her for the first time. “I beg your pardon. I meant it as a compliment. There is a kind of genius to surviving so... brazenly.”

Elizabeth’s pulse thundered. She opened her mouth—but the words twisted before they could form. This was her moment, was it not? The perfect cue. The stiletto remark. The ink-sharp reply. But nothing came. Not even a scribble.

Mrs. Gardiner shifted forward with terrible calm. “Perhaps you would prefer to insult us directly. It would save time.”

Miss Bingley only smiled. “Oh, but I do admire directness. That is why I have always appreciated Miss Eliza’s writing so very much.”

It hit like ice water to the ribs.

Elizabeth took a step forward. But her voice—her sharpness—her fire—

Gone.

She could only stand there. And burn.

Miss Bingley smiled beatifically. “Forgive me. I will let you return to… your circle.”

Miss Bingley smiled beatifically. “Forgive me. I will let you return to… your circle.”She glided away, nodding at Captain Marlowe as she passed.

He looked right through her.Elizabeth stood frozen, air caught behind her ribs.

She had sharpened her wit like a blade for years. And tonight, she had brought a spoon.

“I will slap her,” Jane muttered.Elizabeth turned her head slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

Jane’s jaw was set. “I said I will slap her!”

“You?” Elizabeth whispered. “ You would slap her?”

Jane’s jaw ticked in fury. “I will leave a handprint Miss Bingley can cite in her memoirs.”

Elizabeth made a sound—half laugh, half gasp. “Well. That is new.”

Jane’s nostrils flared. “So is treachery.”

Elizabeth groaned. “Good Lord.”Mrs. Gardiner nudged them toward the door. “We are leaving.”

T he door opened too quickly.

Miss Bingley did not enter first. That honor fell to Mrs. Hurst, nose high and hands clasped tight in front of her, as if summoned to receive bad news from a physician.

“What is this about?” she asked at once, eyes darting between the men. “The music is still playing—surely this could wait until—”

“Until what?” Bingley’s voice cut in. “Until the scandal finishes its rounds in the drawing room?”

Mrs. Hurst faltered.

Miss Bingley appeared behind her, slower. No surprise in her expression, just a sort of polite confusion. As if she had walked into the wrong room at the wrong time and was too well-bred to say so.

“You asked for me?” she said, folding her hands at her waist. “Charles. Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy did not speak.

Bingley gestured toward the chairs by the fire. “Louisa, if you please. I need a word with Caroline. Alone.”

She blinked. “Well, I do not think—”

“ Alone. ”

Mrs. Hurst turned to her sister, who offered a faint shrug, then turned to go. Her skirts whispered indignantly as she swept through the door.

The latch clicked shut behind her.

Only then did Miss Bingley turn toward them fully. Her mouth formed something like a smile. “This feels dramatic,” she said lightly. “Have I done something worthy of interrogation?”

“Sit,” Bingley said.

She did not.

She turned to face the fire instead, brushing an invisible thread from the sleeve of her gown. “Well, if this is about the salmon, I must assure you it was the cook’s choice entirely.”

“Miss Bingley.” Darcy’s tone was quiet.

She froze, but had the temerity to smile sweetly. “Yes?”

“I believe you know why you are here,” he said.

Bingley moved to the hearth, resting one hand on the marble mantel. “You have something to say,” he told her. “Say it.”

“I have said nothing,” she replied, too quickly. “I do not know what you mean.”

Darcy stepped forward. “Then allow me to clarify. The pamphlets.”

Miss Bingley tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What pamphlets?”

“You know very well what he means, for you published them,” Bingley growled.

Darcy watched her carefully. No visible startle. Only a narrowing of breath. The briefest stillness.

Miss Bingley turned, slow and smooth. “If you mean those amusing little publications everyone has been whispering about—surely you cannot think—”

“We do,” Darcy said.

Silence again.

Miss Bingley’s mouth curved, barely. “You give me too much credit.”

“Do not insult us both,” Darcy said. “You had Miss Elizabeth’s journal. You knew what it contained. You twisted it. You published it.”

Miss Bingley’s brows lifted. “Her journal? Oh, come now. Those were scattered notes. Disjointed phrases. I merely thought the world might appreciate her wit as I did.”

Darcy did not move. “You stole her words.”

Miss Bingley’s gaze flicked toward the fire.

“You twisted them.”

Nothing.

“And you made them a weapon.”

Miss Bingley turned from the fire with a slow breath, chin lifted. “If Miss Bennet was so eager to conceal her cleverness, she ought not to have left it so readily at hand.”

“Among friends?” Darcy said.

“That is generous,” she replied, “given what she wrote of them.”

“You knew it was private.”

“And you knew it was true.” Her gaze flicked between the two men. “ That is what troubles you.”

“You exploited her trust!” Darcy thundered. “You embarrassed her. You endangered her reputation and that of her sisters! Four innocent women!”

Miss Bingley made a snort of derision in her throat at that remark, but Bingley spoke before she could answer. “And you have embarrassed me . My household. You used my drawing room to plan your little scandal.”

Miss Bingley’s jaw set. “You think I meant to cause harm?”

“I think you meant to raise yourself,” Darcy said.

The silence that followed was brittle. Miss Bingley reached for the bellpull for a quick tug. Then, she glanced at Darcy, something sharp flickering in her eye. “Well,” she said, “if we are to air secrets, perhaps I ought to share one of yours.”

Darcy did not blink.

Miss Bingley turned to the door when a servant came. “Bring the packet,” she told the maid. “From my writing desk.”

Bingley’s face went slack with confusion, but Darcy already felt it—his blood thickening.

“I thought you might ask eventually,” Miss Bingley said, drifting back toward the hearth like a hostess unveiling the final course. “Of course, it is not the entire collection. The person who lent these to me still has several—he was always sentimental—but he allowed me to borrow a pair.”

She lifted her hand, palm relaxed, fingers poised like a performer readying her trick. The maid approached silently, placing a folded packet in her grasp.

“Recognize the hand?” she asked Darcy, all silken triumph.

He did not reach for it.

He did not need to.

That curve of ink. The careful, even pressure of each letter. Georgiana.

The world narrowed. The rug beneath his feet. The fire behind her eyes. The slow, insidious realization blooming behind his ribs.

Wickham.

Of course. Miss Bingley had needed a scalpel. He had offered a blade.

The breath left Darcy in a single, long exhale—measured, because anything less would have shattered him.

Miss Bingley stepped closer. “I showed them to the Earl of Matlock last week. He was… intrigued.”

Darcy’s head snapped toward her. “You showed my uncle—” His words stopped short, the air around them drawn tight as wire. “ You were the one who brought him into this?”

He did not shout. Did not raise a hand or even step forward.

But the fury was there, leashed and low, coiled beneath every syllable.

“You took forged rumors, twisted writings, and now my sister’s private correspondence—dragged it before the one man in England most likely to turn it into ammunition! ”

Miss Bingley’s smile was almost tender. “Well. I needed someone who understood the gravity.”

Bingley turned to her, blinking. “Moreover, you spread rumors about Darcy's father's will? Tonight—with my guests—”

“Your guests were my guests,” she said, a flick of steel under the silk. “Until you made a point of embarrassing me tonight.”

“Enough,” Darcy said.

But Miss Bingley only smiled again. “Careful, Mr. Darcy. Secrets have such sharp edges.”

“You mean to blackmail me,” Darcy said. His voice was flat, devoid of heat.

“I mean to bargain,” Miss Bingley replied, placing the letters on the edge of the writing desk. “I am not unreasonable.”

Bingley let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a bark. “You are out of your depth.”

Miss Bingley ignored him. “These letters, as well as the others still in Mr. Wickham’s keeping, could vanish. Permanently. Along with any future mention of Miss Bennet’s writing. No more pamphlets. No more speculation. No more shame.”

Darcy stared at the fire, one hand flexing slowly at his side. “And in return?”

She gave a single, graceful nod. “An understanding between us. A future alliance.”

Bingley moved. “Caroline! You cannot mean—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Charles. You do not understand what is at stake.”

Darcy turned fully to face her. “You believe you are the answer. The solution to a mess you yourself created.”

“I believe,” she said carefully, “that I can contain it.”

“You unleashed it!”

“And I can bury it again.”

Darcy looked at the packet—Georgiana’s hand. Her letters. Her vulnerability caught in a stranger’s grasp. And then he looked to Miss Bingley. Steady. Unrepentant. Calculating.

“I would see the city burn before I allowed your name to touch hers,” he said. “Or mine.”

A flicker—she flinched. Not visibly. Not enough for Bingley to see. But Darcy caught it.

“Take your letters,” he said. “Return them to Wickham. Frame them if you wish. I will find the rest.”

Miss Bingley’s mouth parted. A single breath, like steam escaping.

Darcy turned to Bingley. “You wished to know the truth. Now you do. Your sister is a viper.”

He moved to the door.

“Darcy—” Bingley started.

“Keep her out of my path.”

The door clicked shut behind him.