“Mr. Darcy,” Forster said, raising a brow. “Are you... quite well?”
I coughed, struggling to compose myself. “Apologies, Colonel. The wine, it must have gone down... the wrong way.”
Forster nodded slowly, but his eyes lingered on me for a moment longer. Wickham, of course, was watching me with that smarmy, knowing grin of his, as if he suspected far more than I would ever admit.
I sent Ewan a murderous glare, but he only looked more amused. “Och, lad, ye should be thankin’ me! I’ve gone an’ made yer evenin’ a sight more entertainin’, haven’t I?”
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of half-hearted conversation and strained smiles. Glasses moved just beyond the officers’ reach, legs of pheasant suddenly vanished from their plates, and the fire from the hearth kept blustering up, then going cold all at once, as though “someone” was tampering with it. It was when the shutter on the window suddenly blew open, leaving the panes flapping in a stiff breeze from outside, that even Hurst began glancing about nervously.
Ordinarily, we’d have stayed for port and cigars. Bingley had told me that was how he had passed his last meal with the colonel. But tonight, Colonel Forster, clearly uncomfortable with the odd occurrences, cleared his throat as Saunders jumped up to lock the window. “It seems the weather is turning. Terrible shame, sir. We have drills early in the morning, and I’d hate for the drive back to Netherfield to be unpleasant.”
Bingley nodded immediately. Poor chap, he had no idea that we had brought the trouble with us, and must have thought we would escape it when we left. “I… I think you are right, Colonel. We, ah… we wouldn’t want to keep you.”
The officers seemed relieved to see us go, and I could hardly blame them. As we said our farewells, I caught Wickham’s gaze lingering on me, his eyes sharp and calculating. But for once, I didn’t care.
Ewan had made Wickham the butt of more than one of his pranks that evening—more than the others had noticed—and Icould only imagine what Wickham’s face would have looked like if he’d known. I almost smiled at the thought.
Almost.
The next day atNetherfield brought an odd calm. Ewan had been conspicuously absent, though I doubted for a second that meant he wasn’t meddling somewhere. I suspected he was behind the rumors of the ball, but why he would orchestrate such a thing remained a mystery.
Bingley, however, was utterly baffled.
“I just don’t understand it, Darcy,” he said, pacing in front of the study window. “The butcher confirmed the order—enough provisions to feed an army! Yet, no one in the house knows anything about it.” He paused, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I’ve spoken with Cook. She’s just as confused as I am. She swore up and down she placed no such order!”
I sat back in my chair, watching him with the calmness of a man who was fairly certain he already knew the culprit. Ewan’s interference was written all over this, but why he was intent on hosting a grand event at Netherfield on Christmas Eve? That remained maddeningly unclear.
Bingley paused his pacing long enough to look at me, eyebrows raised. “You’re sure you didn’t...?”
I shot him a pointed look.
He nodded. “Right. Of course not.”
He resumed pacing, his brow furrowed deeply. “I was almost resolved to put a stop to the whole thing,” he admitted, “but then I started thinking… Well, why not? I’ve been invited to no fewer than ten dinners over the Twelfth Night season, but as it happens, no one around here has any major plans for Christmas Eve. It might be nice to host something festive.”
There it was. The exact moment Ewan had been waiting for, no doubt. Bingley, the most easily guided man alive, was now halfway to embracing the idea of this ball as if he’d thought of it himself.
I sighed, leaning forward slightly. “Bingley, are you sure this is wise? I can’t shake the feeling that someone—” a ghostly Scotsman, perhaps— “is pulling strings here, and you may regret this decision later.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t see the harm. The provisions are already being prepared, and truly, a Christmas Eve ball would be splendid. Just think of the atmosphere—dancing, caroling, good cheer!”
I could think of other things. Ewan, lurking in the shadows, plotting something devious. Wickham, probably charming every unsuspecting guest in attendance. And the potential chaos that would ensue when both of those elements collided in one ballroom.
Before I could press the issue further, the door creaked open, and Williams, the footman, entered with a slight bow. “Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, I’ve been asked to inform you that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are currently entertaining the Bennet ladies in the drawing room.”
I turned sharply to Bingley. Why on earth would we be alerted about that? It wasn’t as if Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst hadn’t entertained female guests before—far from it. The Bennet ladies had been here on more than one occasion without requiring an official notice.
But the way Bingley’s face had gone from pleasantly confused to a rather vivid shade of red told me there was something more at play.
“Why,” I asked, narrowing my eyes, “would we need to be informed of that particular visit?”
Bingley scratched the back of his neck, clearly flustered. “Well... I... may have asked Williams to fetch me any time the Bennets called.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The Bennets. Specifically.”
Bingley gave a sheepish nod.
“Jane Bennet,” I said flatly.
