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L ady Spencer's magnificent drawing room gradually filled with the hum of an arriving crowd, the ladies in their fine evening gowns and gentlemen in their dark coats.

The room had been arranged to accommodate nearly fifty guests, with gilt chairs positioned in neat rows facing a small dais where the performers would display their talents.

Darcy positioned himself near the entrance, his height allowing him to survey the arriving guests with ease.

He bowed to Lady Jersey and her daughter, both resplendent in the latest fashions, followed by the Fitzherberts and several other couples from his aunt's circle.

Several young ladies of marriageable age appeared with their mothers, many carrying sheets of music, a clear indication of their intention to perform.

And then, finally, he saw her.

Elizabeth entered with the Abernathys, a vision in a gown of deep violet silk that complemented her dark curls and fine eyes.

The modestly cut bodice was edged with delicate lace, and a single strand of pearls adorned her throat.

The pins in her hair were also topped with small pearls, and the candlelight made them shimmer.

She looked, to Darcy's admittedly biased eye, more elegant than any other woman present. And yet there was something about her that seemed . . . troubled.

Darcy moved smoothly through the crowd to greet the Abernathys, his gaze never leaving Elizabeth's face.

"Miss Bennet," he said, bowing over her hand. "You look exceedingly well this evening."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy," she replied, her smile warming slightly at his approach. "It promises to be a memorable occasion."

"Indeed," Darcy agreed, studying her with increasing concern. "Miss Bennet, may I inquire—"

"Darcy!" Milton’s voice, smooth and confident, sliced through the ambient hum of conversation and Darcy’s question. "Ah, this must be your elegant Miss Bennet. What a delight.”

Delight was not the word Darcy would have used. “Miss Bennet, may I present my older cousin, the Viscount Milton?”

Elizabeth dropped a curtsy while Milton bowed and then waggled his eyebrows approvingly at Darcy. “Charmed, Miss Bennet. Charmed.” He addressed Darcy. “I was just telling Lady Jersey about your remarkable hand with a pencil, cousin."

Darcy had been bracing himself, but this statement surprised even him. "You were doing what?"

"Do not be modest, Darcy." Milton offered Elizabeth a courtly bow. "Miss Bennet, you must know, Darcy can sketch a likeness so precisely that it practically leaps from the page."

Elizabeth lifted her eyes to Darcy’s. "Truly? I had no idea."

"I assure you, Miss Bennet, my cousin is engaging in what he believes is flattery," Darcy replied. “It has no basis in truth.”

"Modesty again," Milton said, clapping Darcy’s shoulder. "Why, the sketches of Pemberley alone would earn him a spot at the Royal Academy."

"I have made precisely two sketches," Darcy said tightly. "They are in a desk drawer where they belong."

"And I visit that drawer regularly to pay homage," Milton quipped. "They are haunting."

"They are unfinished."

"Art often is." Milton turned to Elizabeth with a mock-serious nod. "True genius is so rarely appreciated."

“Even by its creator, evidently,” Elizabeth replied. She glanced at Milton. No doubt she was wondering what his family was about.

"Darcy!" Lord Worcester approached with measured steps, his wife at his side, both wearing expressions of earnest purpose.

"Just the gentleman I hoped to encounter this evening.

My wife and I have been discussing the establishment of a school in our parish, and Lady Spencer mentioned your generous contributions to education in Derbyshire. "

Lady Worcester nodded with the enthusiasm of someone who had found her cause.

"We should be most grateful for your advice on the matter.

" She leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on the confidential tone of someone sharing weighty concerns.

"Lord Worcester is determined to proceed, but I confess we hardly know where to begin. "

As a gentleman, Darcy could hardly refuse such a sincere request. "I should be happy to share what experience I have gained," he replied.

As the Worcesters launched into detailed questions about everything from slate boards to arithmetic primers, he caught sight of what appeared to be a subtle nod from Lady Matlock, who was positioned near the pianoforte.

"If you will excuse me," Milton murmured with perfect timing, "I see that Mrs Nott’s tiara is listing to port.

One cannot in good conscience allow a decorative disaster in public.

" He drifted away with practised ease, leaving Darcy thoroughly ensnared in philanthropic discourse while Elizabeth found herself momentarily forgotten beside them.

“Miss Bennet!” Miss Grayson approached at a lively clip, her fan flicking like a conductor's baton.

“We are positively at war over the romantic landscape hanging in the hall. Lady Jersey has declared it all ‘melancholy weather and giant rocks,’ while I rather think it captures the delightful indifference of the natural world.” She leaned in as though revealing a closely held secret.

“Lady Matlock says that you have a deep affinity for the artistic. Do you not believe that art ought to wound the soul just a little?”

Darcy saw that Elizabeth was startled, but she attempted to reply. "I confess I found the landscapes quite moving, though I am not certain I could articulate why—"

"Excellent! You must come settle our argument properly," Miss Grayson declared, already taking Elizabeth's arm. "Mrs. Crawford also has some rather strong opinions about the sublime versus the merely picturesque, and we are quite at an impasse."

As Elizabeth was gently but firmly guided towards a cluster of ladies near the far window, Darcy’s jaw tightened, even as Lord Worcester continued his earnest discourse on the merits of different slate suppliers.

"The quarry in Yorkshire produces superior quality, you understand, though the transportation costs are considerable .

. ." Darcy nodded with what he hoped appeared to be appropriate gravitas while inwardly calculating whether it would be impossibly rude to excuse himself from educational philanthropy in favour of artistic philosophy.

The sight of his aunt casually repositioning herself near the pianoforte, surveying the room with the satisfied air of a general whose battle plan was proceeding flawlessly, suggested that such an escape would prove somewhat . . . difficult.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats!

" Lady Spencer announced, her voice carrying over the chatter with the practised authority of a seasoned hostess.

The Worcesters excused themselves and hurried towards the front rows.

Darcy found himself swept along with the general movement of guests, but he navigated the crowd with singular purpose, his height allowing him to find Elizabeth as she returned and to keep her in sight even as bodies shifted around him.

He arrived at Elizabeth's elbow just as the ladies with her concluded their spirited debate about sublime landscapes and began wandering off towards their own chairs.

Miss Grayson had joined her party and claimed a seat in the third row, while the other participants in their artistic discussion scattered to find their preferred positions.

Elizabeth was glancing about her, no doubt looking for the Abernathys.

It rather reminded him of the crowded ballroom on the night they had met.

He approached. "Miss Bennet, I noticed you seem uneasy this evening. If there is anything—"

The first performer found that she had lost her sheet music, and Lady Spencer announced a delay.

Darcy wondered whether his aunt had anything to do with that. But why would she? What was she about?

A tall gentleman approached Elizabeth with a smile of warm familiarity. Darcy recognised him as one of Lord Matlock's younger acquaintances from the House, a man known for delivering stories with more enthusiasm than precision.

“Lord North,” Elizabeth said.

Yes, that was the man’s name. He recalled him from one of Lady Matlock’s many salons. He was from Derbyshire, but not near Pemberley.

"Miss Bennet," Lord North said, bowing. "Forgive the interruption, but I could not resist the opportunity to say how deeply I admire your intended. His actions last year during a flood near Lambton are something of a legend.”

Darcy stiffened. "That is most certainly an exaggeration."

"He dashed across the current," the man continued, warming to his tale, "boots submerged, waistcoat soaked, the child clinging to him with all the trust of innocence. Not a moment's hesitation, I am told."

"The water was knee-deep at most," Darcy said, incredulous.

Lord North laughed. "Modesty is ever your failing, Darcy. Come, Miss Bennet, I am to escort you to Lady Spencer. The Countess of Winchester wishes to meet you."

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, clearly torn, but allowed herself to be led away with a polite nod.

Darcy followed their progress, his jaw tight.

As he turned slightly to retreat, his eyes caught a glimpse of Fitzwilliam just beyond the crowd.

He was guiding Miss Abernathy towards the terrace.

The look he cast over his shoulder—just before he disappeared with her—was brief but unmistakable: a swift, boyish wink in Darcy's direction.

Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy, both beaming with genuine goodwill, were clearly on their way to intercept Darcy, their backs to their daughter. He exhaled slowly, understanding at once.

He had long thought himself a strategist, but his skills paled in comparison to his aunt’s.