Page 9

She did. She really, truly did. But there was still time for his trousers to dry, and because they were black it was not as though the wine would result in a very noticeable stain. She said as much.

“Trust me, the men will notice, and then I shall never hear the end of it.”

It was her fault, startling poor Simms as she had. She supposed . . . “I will fix it,” Elizabeth whispered back. The next course was arriving, and she knew it well. One of Mr. Abernathy’s favourites, trout with a béchamel sauce.

“Fix it?” he hissed. “Short of divine intervention—”

As the next footman, Johnson this time, leaned to set down Mr. Darcy’s plate of trout in a delicate béchamel, tipping it slightly to one side as was proper so that he might see what he was to eat, Elizabeth turned as quickly as she had before.

Her shoulder brushed the man’s arm just enough to jostle the plate.

The plate stayed in Johnson’s hands. The trout did not.

The slippery fillet slid off the porcelain and landed squarely on Mr. Darcy’s chest, accompanied by a soft splash and a rather generous helping of the cream sauce. It slid down his waistcoat and into his lap, a sprig of parsley left behind waving like a flag of surrender.

Elizabeth swallowed hard. So did Johnson.

Across the table, someone gasped. Someone else stifled a laugh. Mr. Darcy stared downward with a ponderous frown. Cream sauce dribbled elegantly off his buttons. A sliver of fish clung stubbornly to his waistcoat.

Lady Maria gasped.

Mr. Langford muttered something unprintable.

Mr. Darcy was utterly, absolutely still.

“Oh no! I am so sorry, Mr. Darcy! Johnson, this is all my fault!” Elizabeth cried, voice ringing with theatrical dismay as she held out her napkin to her betrothed. “I am mortified!”

Mrs. Abernathy launched into a flurry of reassurances. Arabella was barely stifling her laughter, covering her mouth with her napkin until she could regain her composure.

Mr. Darcy’s ears turned scarlet, which rendered him rather . . . adorable. Elizabeth pushed the thought away.

“Miss Bennet,” he ground out, “it is of little matter. It was an accident.”

“But I am so very sorry, sir. I have ruined your trousers.” And Elizabeth was in truth a little sorry. She tried to show him as much with an apologetic look.

Mr. Darcy's jaw clenched. He was embarrassed, but now no one would notice the wet mark in a suggestive spot that had started it all. They would only remember Elizabeth Bennet knocking an entire plate of food into her intended’s lap.

They would not recall him so much as her loud remorse and napkin-flailing dramatics.

Her mission was accomplished.

Before Elizabeth could so much as hand Mr. Darcy a second napkin, a small battalion of servants descended, their convergence made more urgent, no doubt, by Mrs. Abernathy’s fluttering fan and Lady Maria’s ongoing distress.

The butler himself murmured something discreet about a retiring room, and Mr. Darcy, now adorned with wine, trout, béchamel, and the last shreds of his pride, rose with impressive composure.

He gave Elizabeth a long, unreadable look, and then allowed himself to be escorted from the dining room.

As the doors closed behind Mr. Darcy and his entourage, the dining room fell into a pause.

It was not the silence of shock or concern. It was the silence of amusement.

A few forks moved. A glass clinked. Somewhere down the table, Lady Maria cleared her throat very softly and resumed cutting her fish with particular elegance, as if to prove she was not thinking about the fact that Mr. Darcy had just exited the dining room with trout and béchamel slowly sliding down his person.

No one laughed. Not aloud.

But as Elizabeth lifted her own fork and looked up, she saw it plainly: the subtle shift of shoulders, the raising of wineglasses with just a touch more flourish, the quick, sidelong glances not at Darcy’s empty chair—but at her.

***

Darcy strode down the corridor with as much dignity as a man wearing a full plate of trout in béchamel could muster.

His jaw was clenched so tightly he could hear the grinding of his teeth.

Of all the humiliations he had suffered in his life—and there had been precious few, he was proud to say—this ranked near the top.

Darcy had entered the dining room prepared.

He had been measured and resolute, with every element of his strategy laid out like troops in formation.

But within minutes, Elizabeth Bennet had scattered his composure.

She had contradicted a titled lady with poise, challenged him on military strategy with startling acuity and intentional misdirection, and somehow, reduced his plans to wine-stained trousers and cream-soaked .

. . everything. He had simply not accounted for her being this quick, this bold, this maddeningly impossible.

By the time he was escorted from the room, he realised he had not courted her at all.

She had taken the field, and he had not even known the battle had begun.

He had not thought Miss Bennet actually hated him. Mr. Abernathy had not thought so either. Had they both been wrong?

"This way, sir," murmured the butler. The man led him to a small, well-appointed chamber with a washstand and mirror. "I shall send for Mr. Abernathy's valet directly. Please make yourself comfortable."

Comfortable. What an absurd suggestion. Darcy gazed down at his ruined evening attire with profound displeasure. His waistcoat was beyond salvation. And his trousers. Good God, his clothing was a disaster.

He removed his coat and laid it carefully across a nearby chair, then examined himself in the glass.

There were a few drops of the sauce on the side of his neck above his cravat, though the cravat itself seemed to have escaped untouched.

Using his handkerchief, he wiped the evidence away with vigorous strokes, as though he might erase not just the sauce but the entire episode.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of not one but three servants, each bearing cloths, bowls of water, and expressions of studied neutrality.

"Mrs. Abernathy's compliments, sir," said the most senior of them. "We are to assist you."

Darcy nodded curtly. "Very well."

What followed was a flurry of activity that reminded him uncomfortably of being a child under the ministrations of his nurse.

Cloths were dampened, applied, and whisked away.

His waistcoat was removed and dabbed at with frantic efficiency.

One footman knelt to address the worst of the damage to his trousers.

Darcy put a stop to that immediately.

"I do not believe," he said through gritted teeth, "that all of this is necessary. I am perfectly capable of—"

"Begging your pardon," interrupted a new voice from the doorway, "but I believe I am best equipped to handle this situation."

The newcomer was a slender, grey-haired man of perhaps sixty, with the impeccable posture and faintly disapproving air of a career valet. He surveyed the scene with a single, comprehensive glance.

"You may leave us," he told the other servants with quiet authority.

They departed with visible relief, closing the door behind them.

"Hastings, at your service, Mr. Darcy." The valet approached with the confidence of a battlefield surgeon. "If you would remove your trousers, I shall see what can be done."

Darcy hesitated, but only briefly.

"I must apologise for the state of them," he said stiffly as he removed the offending garments.

Hastings received them with no change in expression.

"It is hardly the first culinary catastrophe I have witnessed, sir. Mr. Abernathy once returned from a dinner at Sir George Kendrick’s house with an entire bowl of lobster bisque down the front of him.

Sir George himself knocked it from the servant’s hands into the air with an extravagant gesture. "

Despite his foul mood, Darcy felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips. "That must have been memorable."

"Indeed, sir. Most memorable." Hastings set to work with a small arsenal of cloths, brushes, and what appeared to be a solution of some kind. "I understand this was a similar accident?"

Darcy frowned. Miss Elizabeth Bennet's face flashed in his mind. Those dark, intelligent eyes had been at first apologetic and then dancing with mischief as she turned so suddenly, so deliberately. The incident with the trout, at least, had been no accident.

"Yes and no," he said. "My intended has a rather lively temperament."

Hastings made a noncommittal sound as he worked. Under his skilled hands, the worst of the damage was rapidly disappearing. "I have observed Miss Bennet on several occasions, sir. A most spirited, kind young lady."

"Spirited," Darcy repeated, testing the word. "Yes, I suppose that is one way to describe her."

In truth, there were many words he might use for Elizabeth Bennet, not all of them flattering.

Stubborn. Wilful. Maddening. But she was also intriguing.

He had neither expected nor wanted this engagement, but he had not taken the escape Mr. Abernathy had so graciously offered him. He had wanted to know more of her.

And then she had dumped an entire plate of fish into his lap.

"There, sir," said Hastings with quiet satisfaction.

"The trousers will require proper laundering, of course, but they should pass for the remainder of the evening.

The waistcoat, I fear, is beyond immediate remedy.

However, Mr. Abernathy is of a similar build to yourself.

He has offered this as a temporary replacement.

" He fetched a dark green waistcoat of fine silk from where it hung over the back of a chair.

Darcy examined the garment. It was of excellent quality and not dissimilar to his own taste. It was a little larger around the middle, but not much. "That is most generous of Mr. Abernathy."

Hastings held the trousers out to assess his handiwork. "That should suffice, sir. Although—" He paused, his nose twitching slightly. "Might I enquire, sir, about the wine?"

"Wine?" Darcy repeated blankly.

"Yes, sir. There appears to be a distinct aroma of claret emanating from your person. Particularly from, if you will pardon me, the vicinity of your—"

"Ah," Darcy said hastily. "Yes. There was a minor incident with the wine service before the, er, main event."

Hastings's expression did not change, but Darcy sensed a flicker of understanding pass through the man's eyes. "I see, sir. A most unfortunate coincidence.” He located a powder and disappeared with the offending article of clothing.

And suddenly, with a clarity that stopped him in his tracks, Darcy understood too.

The fish. The dramatic scene. Miss Bennet's exaggerated distress and fulsome apologies.

She had created a spectacle deliberately, ensuring all eyes were on her, not on him and not on the damning evidence of spilled wine in a most unfortunate location.

She had diverted attention away from his embarrassment by manufacturing a larger one of her own.

She had not created the second scene to be malicious, but to be kind.

In an odd, very Miss Bennet sort of way.

"Good God," he murmured.

"Sir?" Hastings called from the other side of the dressing screen.

"Nothing," Darcy said. "I was merely . . . considering something."

"Very good, sir.” He reemerged, holding the trousers that now smelled a great deal less like the food and drink being served.

As he dressed, Darcy found his anger gradually subsiding.

The picture he made was not perfect, but it was far better than he had dared hope.

His coat had been brushed, his neck wiped clean, and between the borrowed waistcoat and the cleaned trousers, his clothing showed little evidence of the dinner table calamity.

“If there is nothing else, sir,” Hastings said, “I believe you are ready to rejoin the company."

Darcy was not entirely certain he was ready for anything of the sort, but he thanked the valet with genuine gratitude and made his way back towards the dining room. His steps slowed as he approached, his mind still turning over this new revelation.

Miss Bennet had protected him—or his reputation, at least. She had taken the blame entirely upon herself, ensuring she would be the object of gossip and amusement, not him.

And she had made certain the servants would not be blamed either.

The men would certainly have their jests, perhaps even speculate about what he might have said or done to make his intended angry. They would laugh about that, the way men did, with knowing glances and ribald comments. But they would not focus on the wine stain or its implications.

She was a mistress of diversion. A tactician. She had told him as much. And she had deployed her skills on his behalf.

Miss Bennet did not hate him. Even if she could not yet admit it.

Darcy paused outside the dining room door, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. He would have to tuck away that bit of knowledge, he thought. One never knew when it might become useful.

He smoothed his expression into one of calm composure and pushed open the door to face the remainder of the evening.