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Chapter Forty

T he drawing room at Chiswell House had been transformed for the occasion.

Sprigs of evergreen and pale ribbons adorned every lintel, and a footman in polished boots carried a silver tray of syllabub with all the solemnity of a funeral procession.

A harp plinked nobly in the corner, doing its best to disguise the fact that no one was listening.

Half the county had turned up in their second-best gloves and most flattering opinions of themselves.

Elizabeth took one look at the arrangement of carved rosewood chairs gathered near the pianoforte—each draped in pale pink silk as if upholstery could blunt humiliation—and retreated to the window.

It was snowing again. A polite, genteel sort of snow, drifting down in perfectly unthreatening flakes. A shroud of insulation that did nothing to stem the arrival of more guests. This was not a party so much as a parade of good breeding.

A trio of gentlemen near the hearth were murmuring about the gingerbread, trying to determine if the spice was clove or simply old nutmeg. Two older women studied the garland above the door, debating whether Lady Chiswell’s use of ribbon leaned toward French ostentation or commendable local cheer.

Elizabeth let their voices pass through her. She had already counted the snowflakes on one sash and was now attempting to rank the guests’ waistcoat embroidery by degree of pretension. Third place had just gone to a gentleman in mauve when a pair of passing matrons caught her ear.

“…a surprise to be sure! I daresay Miss Ashford’s mother had ordered half of London to prepare for the ceremony…”

“…and such a prize he was! Darcy of Pemberley—who ever would have guessed?”

Elizabeth’s lungs flattened. But when she turned, the conversation was already on to someone else’s elopement in Bath.

Still. The name had struck like a stone to the ribs.

He was married, then. Of course he was. That was no surprise, so why did it suddenly feel like one?

The ceremony must have been quiet. Dignified, tasteful, little attended—the groom’s choice, surely—but here was proof, carried north on the backs of gossip and velvet cloaks.

And still she could not stop listening. Not to the speculation about the guest list or the rumored cost of the flowers.

Not to the awful, stupid ache that followed every mention of his name.

She turned sharply back to the window, blinking hard against the glass.

And yet—

No one looked at her. No one whispered behind a fan or narrowed their eyes in familiar triumph. A young woman brushed past her with a murmured pardon and not a hint of theatrical recognition. A gentleman seated by the fire offered her a mild smile and returned to his conversation.

They did not know.

Or if they did, they did not care.

The scandal had not reached this far north—or perhaps it had arrived wearing someone else’s name.

For the first time in weeks, Elizabeth exhaled without wincing.

She had expected to be noticed, perhaps even shunned.

She had arrived braced for impact, half-ready to feign illness and flee back to Lambton at the first raised eyebrow.

But so far, not a single person had even hinted that she might be more than just Miss Bennet of Hertfordshire. It was almost disappointing.

Almost.

She melted into the background as easily as if she had been painted there, her expression calm, her wit folded neatly behind her teeth.

She sipped her wine slowly. She admired the embroidery on a passing gown that was ambitious but not successful.

And she made precisely one mental note to ask Mrs. Gardiner whether anyone in Derbyshire still danced, or if it was all parlour tricks and harp solos now.

Lady Chiswell, in a plume-trimmed turban, swept into the center of the room. Her voice rang above the cheerful din.

“My dears, if I may have your attention! We shall begin with a little amusement—entirely harmless, I promise!”

The muscles along her back drew tight like a bowstring.

Lady Chiswell raised a hand and beamed.

“My dear friends, welcome—belated though this celebration may be! Illness delayed our Twelfth Night, but the snow has been kind enough to keep the spirit of mischief alive. Before supper, we shall indulge in a little diversion with a game of Riddles. You will each find a slip and a quill near the sideboard. Compose something clever—anonymous, of course—and all entries shall be placed in this basket. The most amusing shall be read aloud and, naturally, guessed at. No prize but glory… and perhaps a few suspicions confirmed.”

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped.

The noise of the room dimmed, or perhaps her hearing had simply vanished. She stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the window but not seeing it at all. Her lungs forgot themselves. Her gloves felt suddenly too tight.

It could not be. It could not be!

Not this game. Not here! Someone must suspect!

She took a sharp step backward, bumping into a side table. A bowl of candied walnuts rattled ominously.

“Excuse me,” she said to no one in particular, and turned in a tight, deliberate circle as if she might locate a coat, a door, a trapdoor in the floor—anything to make a dignified exit before she collapsed into the fireplace or began shrieking.

“Lizzy—” came a familiar voice, gently urgent.

Mrs. Gardiner appeared at her elbow with a face that said, quite clearly, please do not faint or flee until I have explained.

Elizabeth clutched her reticule like a lifeline. “You knew?”

Her aunt winced. “I was hoping it would not come to this part.”

Elizabeth’s breath stuttered. “They will know. They will read one line and—”

“They will do no such thing,” Mrs. Gardiner said firmly, lowering her voice. “Elizabeth, listen to me. Those pamphlets never reached this far. I asked Lady Chiswell myself—discreetly—and she had not heard a word of it. Not even a rumor.”

Elizabeth blinked. “You asked Lady Chiswell? ”

“She has always been a good gauge of local gossip,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “And if anyone in Derbyshire had heard of some disgraceful satire scribbler from London, it would be she.”

Elizabeth made a soft, strangled sound. “She is a menace! Have you forgot that she holds an annual auction to sell off eligible gentlemen for charity? I won Mr. Darcy for a picnic lunch!”

Mrs. Gardiner gave an unrepentant laugh. “Which you then spent mocking his choice in waistcoats, if memory serves.”

“He wore a cravat like it was a form of penance,” Elizabeth muttered. “I had no choice.”

“Nevertheless,” her aunt continued, more gently, “Lady Chiswell was not aware of your supposed crimes. She simply liked the idea of clever sayings and wished to amuse her guests. That is all. You are not in danger. And Lady Chiswell—who, you must admit, never met an entertainment she did not immediately attempt to improve—declared it would make a perfect parlour amusement. She told me about the old game: submitting anonymous epigrams and verses to guess the author. It is quite a real tradition, you know.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said darkly. “It is called torment the hostess until she regrets offering biscuits.”

“She was thrilled,” Mrs. Gardiner went on. “Declared it the very thing to warm the spirits after such a long, dull January.”

“I am not taking part.”

“Indeed. Ah…” Her aunt gave a soft, almost guilty smile. “About that. You remember yesterday morning, when Mrs. Hartley asked if I had a headache and you offered—very nobly—to take your tea alone?”

“I remember that you all vanished before the second toast was cool.”

“Well,” Mrs. Gardiner said again, “I went upstairs to fetch my shawl. You know I always forget it until the moment I need it. And while I was in your room—purely to reach the side table, I promise—I happened to see a bit of crumpled paper in the waste bin. I thought it might be another upsetting letter from your mother. You had such a look about you all evening, I feared it might be a fresh volley of aspersions.”

Elizabeth gave her a tight, incredulous look. “You were foraging in my waste bin out of ‘concern’?”

“I was brushing ash from my sleeve, which happened to be over the bin, and the paper peeked out like it wanted rescuing.” Her aunt pressed a gloved hand over her chest. “I swear it. I had no intention of snooping.”

Elizabeth arched a brow.

“Until I saw your handwriting,” Mrs. Gardiner amended. “Which, really, is not snooping—it is simply noticing.”

She drew in a breath. “And later, when Lady Chiswell and I were discussing the post-holiday gloom that seems to settle after Epiphany, I said something I perhaps ought not to have. She was fretting about the dullness of her guests—fretting in that very particular, theatrical way she has—and she was hoping to find some means of making her nephew laugh again, poor fellow. I told her that if she truly wished for something bright and original, then she ought to pray for a contribution from my niece. I did not mean to offer anything. But when I returned to your room that morning to fetch the shawl I had left behind, I… I saw the waste bin.”

Elizabeth inhaled sharply.

Her aunt winced. “They were clever, Lizzy. Hilarious and sharp and unmistakably yours. And I know why you threw them away—I do. But I thought… if you saw the effect your words had, if you heard them read aloud without the burden of consequence or suspicion, then perhaps you would remember why you began writing at all. You are not careless anymore. You know too well what your words can do. That makes you more trustworthy than ever. And the world needs more wit, not less.”

Elizabeth stared at her, eyes wide, jaw tight. “But… you went through my waste bin!”

“I did,” her aunt admitted, without flinching.

“That was private!”

“It was .”