“We shall see,” Bingley replied, but Darcy could hear the first fissure in the younger man’s assurance. “We will canvas the subject again in the morning.”
“No, Mr. Bingley,” Darcy said slowly. “We will not.” He could not look at Miss Bingley, but he addressed her. “Miss Bingley, you should consider yourself fortunate. Had you been successful in this scheme, you would have been throwing yourself into the power of a man who now despises you.” He paused. “My family has a small estate in Scotland.” He allowed the words to work their power.
“Scotland?” Miss Bingley asked timidly.
“In the north, near Cape Wrath,” he informed her. “They raise sheep.”
“You would never . . .” she breathed. She sounded terrified, the tremor in her voice quite pronounced.
Darcy released a heavy sigh. He lifted an eyebrow at Bingley. “Your brother is a betting man,” he told her as he looked directly at his false friend. “Ask him to explain the odds.”
He made his way back into the hall and took the stairs to his chamber. He was tired, but it appeared he would not sleep tonight. Slipworth was startled when he entered—Darcy knew he was not expected for several hours yet.
“We are off again,” he told his valet.
Slipworth’s expression did not alter. A midnight departure was rare for Darcy, but not unprecedented. It was, however, the first time anyone had succeeded in herding him into a room with a woman who was unchaperoned. Thankfully, Miss Elizabeth’s stubbornness had kept him from ever being alone with Miss Bingley.
“Shall I call for the carriage, sir?” Slipworth asked.
Darcy briefly considered bidding Miss Elizabeth a formal farewell, but he could not remain, and the ballroom was still crowded. For the same reason, he could not speak with Mr. Bennet before departing.
“No, you will take the carriage to London in the morning. I wish you to deliver a note to Longbourn. Help me change, then pack and get some sleep, if you can.” Darcy dashed off a brief note for Mr. Bennet. Slipworth helped him change out of his evening attire, draping his jacket carefully over the back of a chair before assisting him with his riding clothes. Darcy left noiselessly through the back of the house, avoiding the ball, and swung up into the saddle. He would ride directly home to London. There was a full moon, and the morning was near enough that he would not need to bother with an inn.
As Darcy guided his horse down the sweep at the front of the house, he stopped to take a final look at Netherfield. The windows of the ballroom were aglow with candlelight. Framed in one was the young woman he could not banish from his thoughts. He could not discern her features, but her dark curls and delicate gown were clearly visible as were the gloved fingers of one hand that rested lightly on the glass. She lifted that hand in a half-wave, and he wished he could see her eyes one last time.
Darcy tipped his hat before he leaned forward and urged his horse into a gallop.
Lydia’s undisguised yawns grated on Elizabeth’s nerves. Miss Bingley was staring at her with such venom that the hair on the back of her neck stood up, but she would not be cowed. Mr. Bingley had his back to her but was conversing with Jane in a warm, modulated tone, low enough that she could not hear. What was he telling her?
When they arrived home, her mother and sisters streamed up the stairs to bed. Elizabeth watched them go and turned to her father.
“Papa,” she said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. “Might I speak with you?”
He began to demur, but when his eyes met hers, he simply nodded and waved her into his study. “Now,” he said gaily, closing the door behind them, “what mysterious event has occurred that you cannot wait to inform me until tomorrow?” His brown eyes twinkled. “Are you to confess a secret engagement?”
Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes. “What I have to say involves Mr. Darcy,” she informed him pertly. “Do you still believe I am engaged in a clandestine romance?”
Her father chuckled. “Would you have preferred to be matched to poor Mr. Collins? Your mother probably had plans for one of you in that quarter.”
Mr. Collins, the heir presumptive to Longbourn, had passed of a sudden illness a few months before Mr. Bingley arrived at Netherfield. The search for the next heir was still ongoing.
“Are you suddenly so interested in making a match for me, Papa?” Elizabeth asked, impatient with his levity when she had such a serious matter weighing on her.
“I am not,” he promised her. “But watching you and your sister Jane this evening, I know it will not be long before some worthy gentlemen carry you both away. And then what shall I do?” He gazed at her fondly. “Now, to this business of yours, Lizzy. What have you to tell me?”
Elizabeth sat on her usual chair and clasped her hands in her lap. The events of the ball were so entirely beyond her previous experience that she hardly knew where to begin. She had been angry with Mr. Darcy, provoking him with taunts about his taciturn disposition and his mistreatment of others. He had been justly offended when she mentioned Mr. Wickham, but he had remained a gentleman. She could not say she had behaved as a lady. Her cheeks warmed at the memory.
She had followed Mr. Darcy from the ballroom. Never had she done anything so entirely improper, but he had raised her ire to such an extent that she had not realized where she was until they were quarreling in the hall. Yet that was not the end. She had refused to allow him to quit the field of battle without answering her question. She could not blame herself for that—it had been an entirely reasonable inquiry. Still, to have stalked into the library after him!
It was only that she had been so very angry at his rudeness in walking away without even declining her request for information. She had been determined to finish their conversation no matter Mr. Darcy’s sentiments on the matter, and she had been justly served by landing herself in the center of a scandal.
Her father cleared his throat. “Lizzy?” he inquired. “Are you well? You are not usually one to have trouble forming your thoughts.”
She related the story in full and watched Papa’s expression transform from idle curiosity to deep concern. “I was entirely mistaken about Mr. Darcy,” she concluded, embarrassed. “As a consequence, I have also been very wrong about Mr. Wickham.” She lifted her shoulders slightly and let them fall. “And I must say that Mr. Bingley’s behavior is appalling. I would never have thought it possible.” Even Miss Bingley’s actions had shocked her, though she had never believed the woman to be of sterling character.
“Do not berate yourself, Lizzy,” Papa said drily as he reached for a cigar. He cut the end, lit it, and sat back in his chair. “Mr. Darcy was clearly taken unawares, and he has known Mr. Bingley longer than we have.”
“There was a man watching Mr. Bingley in the ballroom, after. I believe he was anticipating an announcement of some sort,” Elizabeth mused. How many people had been involved in trapping Mr. Darcy into a marriage he did not desire? What a blow it must have been—she had not been able to see Mr. Darcy’s face when Mr. Bingley accused him, but the way his shoulders had suddenly sagged when he discovered his friend’s duplicity would stay with her always.