Page 17 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”

Had she seen Elizabeth? Was Elizabeth there, taking tea with her aunt? Did she enquire after me at all?

He immediately castigated himself for such foolish preoccupations. Elizabeth Bennet was nothing to him now—could be nothing to him. He had made his choice when he interfered with Jane and Bingley. There was no path back from that decision.

But still, his eyes kept drifting to his sister’s face, searching for any clue about what—or whom—had brought such light to her countenance.

Darcy found himself counting the minutes until this torturous meal would conclude and he could speak privately with Georgiana.

“Good Lord!” Mr Hurst exclaimed suddenly, his voice cutting through the subdued atmosphere.

He held up the evening paper, squinting at the print through his spectacles.

“Listen to this morsel of scandal. ‘ Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, nephew to the Earl of Matlock, was observed in most compromising circumstances with a Miss B at a recent soirée. The lady was seen departing a private anteroom in disarray, followed moments later by the gentleman himself. Are wedding arrangements to follow?’ Darcy, what on earth have you been doing?”

The reaction was swift and dramatic.

Caroline’s fork clattered against her plate with a most ungraceful sound. “Miss B?” she gasped, her hand flying to her throat in a gesture worthy of Drury Lane. “Merciful heavens, they are speaking of me!”

Darcy felt his blood turn cold. “What?”

“Miss B!” Caroline’s voice rose to a pitch that made the crystal sing.

“Miss Bingley! At your uncle’s soirée last week!

Oh, this is beyond dreadful—they are saying I was in disarray, that we were…

that you and I…” she fanned herself frantically.

“Everyone will think the worst! My reputation is utterly ruined!”

Georgiana’s eyes widened in shock. “But surely people will know it cannot be true? You were never alone with—”

“It matters not what truly happened!” Caroline interrupted, her voice growing shriller.

“What matters is what people believe happened. And now they are saying we were caught in a compromising position, that wedding arrangements are being made!” She turned to Darcy with desperate eyes. “We shall both be ruined.”

Darcy felt as though the walls were closing in around him. He remembered the evening in question—Lady Banksley’s soirée the previous week. Caroline had indeed disappeared for a time, claiming a megrim. He had stepped out onto the terrace for air. But together? Never.

“Who else could it be?” she continued, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes with theatrical precision. “I was there, you were there. The Hursts can attest to it! Oh, Mr Darcy, this is ruinous beyond measure. People will expect… they will demand…”

Darcy set down his napkin with deliberate care. “It is a complete fabrication,” he said through gritted teeth. “We were never alone together at the soirée. Never.”

Within his chest, fury burned like a coal. Someone had not merely manufactured a romance—they had crafted a scandal so specific, so damaging, that denial would seem like desperate lies. Who would dare publish such calculated poison?

“Fabrication or not, the damage is done!” Caroline’s voice pitched even higher. “When people read this—when your uncle reads this—what will they think? My reputation hangs by the merest thread. We shall both be utterly destroyed.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” Darcy replied with stiff formality, rising from his chair. “I shall not dignify such foolishness with acknowledgement.”

He departed the room with swift purpose, Caroline’s protests echoing behind him like the cries of disturbed peacocks.

An hour later, Bingley discovered him in the library, staring into the fire with a tumbler of brandy clutched rather too tightly in his hand.

His thoughts kept drifting treacherously to Elizabeth—was she truly so disappointed in humanity as Lydia claimed?

Did she think of him at all, or had she dismissed him entirely from her considerations?

Stop this foolishness, he commanded himself.

But even as he formed the thought, he knew it for the lie it was.

“Darcy?” Bingley settled into the chair opposite, his countenance troubled. “Caroline has taken to her chamber with the vapours. She claims her nerves are quite overset.”

“I am certain they are.”

“You do not suppose…” Bingley hesitated, then pressed forward. “You do not suppose she might have orchestrated this herself? Arranged to be seen leaving some room, then claimed you followed?” Bingley hesitated, then pressed forward.

Darcy had been pondering the same dark possibility. “She was present, as were the Hursts. Any of them could have supplied such particulars.”

“To risk her reputation on such a gamble?” Bingley rubbed his temples wearily. “Even Caroline would hesitate at such extremes… would she not?”

“Indeed.” Darcy took a long draught of his brandy. “What would you counsel me to do?”

“Perhaps you might make enquiries. Discover who submitted the story.”

“Or I might remove to Pemberley,” Darcy said suddenly, the idea crystallising as he spoke. “Take Georgiana away from London entirely. Away from… complications.”

Away from the Bennets. Away from the constant reminders of Elizabeth’s existence. Away from Georgiana’s growing friendship with Lydia, which could only lead to further entanglements he was powerless to prevent.

“Run away?” Bingley looked surprised. “That seems rather unlike you, Darcy.”

“It would be a strategic retreat,” Darcy corrected, though the words tasted of cowardice even to him. “Allow this nonsense to die a natural death whilst we are safely removed from its influence.”

Bingley nodded, though he appeared unconvinced. “Perhaps you speak truly.”

***

The following morning proved Darcy most spectacularly mistaken.

He had arranged to meet his uncle, Lord Matlock, at White’s for their customary monthly discussion of family affairs. The moment he stepped through the club’s doors, he was quite besieged by congratulations.

“Darcy, old fellow! About time you took a wife!”

“When shall we hear wedding bells?”

“Quite a conquest, this Miss B. Heard she is a diamond of the first water.”

By the time he reached the private dining room where his uncle awaited, Darcy’s jaw ached from forced civility and his patience had worn thin as parchment.

“Well, well,” Lord Matlock declared, rising to embrace his nephew with evident amusement. “The talk of all London, are we? I confess myself quite surprised. You have never been one to court the scandal sheets.”

“Uncle, I assure you—”

“Sit, sit.” Lord Matlock gestured to the chair across from him, his eyes fairly dancing with mirth. “Tell me of this mysterious Miss B. Are you going to make an honest woman of her?”

Darcy sank into his chair and accepted the offered brandy with gratitude. “There is no Miss B. At least, not in the manner the papers suggest. Someone has taken it upon themselves to manufacture a romance that does not exist.”

Lord Matlock’s eyebrows rose with interest. “Indeed? How very peculiar. Have you any notion who might perpetrate such mischief?”

“I harbour suspicions but possess no proof.”

“Well, my boy, I regret to be the bearer of unwelcome tidings, but proof may signify less than perception.” Lord Matlock leaned forward, his lips puckered.

“Half of London has perused that paper by now. If you do not produce this Miss B and announce your engagement presently, the speculation will grow most unseemly. And if there truly is a Miss B—whoever she may be—her reputation shall suffer for your delay.”

“You cannot seriously counsel that I marry someone to satisfy the gossipmongers. There is but one lady who would volunteer to the task—in fact, she already imagines herself Miss B—and she is unthinkable.”

“I counsel that you consider your options with great care. Scandal spreads like wildfire through a dry wood, and once it takes proper hold…” Lord Matlock shrugged eloquently. “Find yourself a suitable Miss B and marry her. It would resolve all your difficulties.”

Darcy nearly choked upon his brandy. “Marry a complete stranger?”

“Not a stranger, precisely. Someone appropriate. Someone whose family would benefit from the connection as much as yours would benefit from ending this speculation.” His uncle’s eyes glinted with purpose. “I am certain we could arrange something mutually advantageous.”

The remainder of the day passed in similar fashion. Everywhere Darcy ventured, people offered congratulations, winked with knowing significance, or made pointed observations about the benefits of matrimony. By evening, his head throbbed and his temper had worn as thin as silk.

He returned home to discover Caroline in the drawing room, arranged upon the sofa in a pose of dramatic suffering, with smelling salts positioned within easy reach.

“Oh, Mr Darcy!” she cried upon seeing him, her voice carrying the tremulous quality of a gothic heroine. “It has been dreadful. The looks I received when I ventured forth today. The whispers behind fans. Everyone expects… everyone assumes…”

“Caroline, perhaps you should retire early this evening,” Georgiana suggested with gentle firmness. “You appear quite overwrought.”

“Overwrought? My dear Georgiana, my entire future trembles in the balance!” Caroline pressed the back of her hand to her forehead with practised grace. “What gentleman shall have me now? My reputation is compromised beyond redemption unless…”

She fixed her gaze upon Darcy with what he could only describe as calculated desperation. Unable to summon a reply that was not exceedingly rude, he turned and departed.

Darcy possessed the most uncomfortable sensation that the morrow would bring tidings far worse than today’s trials.