The butcher’s eyes widened. “Me, sir?”
“Of course!” Bingley replied. “If you wish, that is. I assume you will want to sample your own meats. It would look rather poorly if we had to say the butcher would not come eat some of his own roast.”
The butcher swallowed. “I will… I shall speak to my wife, sir.”
“Very good,” Darcy answered. “Roberts here will settle the account as soon as you can arrange to have the meats delivered.”
As they turned to leave, the butcher’s assistant whispered something to her employer, glancing nervously at Roberts. Darcy caught it but gave no outward sign. He simply straightened his shoulders and held the door for his companions. One advantage they had was the weight of consequence, silencing further murmurs.
By the time theyreached the baker’s, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows over the town. Inside, the air was warm and sweet, the scent of fresh bread mingling with spices and sugar.
“Ah, this is where the magic happens,” Bingley said as they entered, his voice buoyant. “We shall need an array of cakes, tarts, and puddings. Too much for Cook to manage all on her own, of course, so this will do nicely. Something festive—do you have plum pudding?”
The baker, a thin man with flour-dusted hands, nodded. “I can, sir, though you’ve almost waited too long to order if you want ‘em rightly aged. Will you require a few?”
“A few?” Bingley exclaimed. “We shall need a dozen! Perhaps more. What do you think, Darcy?”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “A dozen to start. And a centerpiece cake. Something… remarkable.”
The baker hesitated, his gaze darting toward Roberts, who stood silently behind the gentlemen.
“Do you take commissions, Mr. Baker?” Bingley pressed. “Something extraordinary to match the grandeur of Netherfield.”
“Er… of course, sir. And this is for… the Christmas party?”
“It is indeed,” Darcy said. “Sir Thomas will host, but the event will welcome the entire neighborhood.”
“The entire neighborhood?” the baker repeated faintly.
“We assumed everyone knew,” Bingley said with a slight shrug. “But if not, do spread the word. Sir Thomas insists, and Darcy and I mean to spare no expense.”
“No… expense?” The baker swallowed.
“Ah, of course.” Darcy withdrew his pocketbook. “You might require some supplies, and I would not have you out of pocket before you have even been paid. Allow me.” He dropped a few notes on the desk. “And I trust you will attend as well?”
The baker’s hesitation melted under their combined pressure, and by the time they left, he was discussing flour quantities with a one-armed Army veteran and two of London’s most wealthiest bachelors as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
As the carriage trundled back toward Netherfield, Darcy glanced at Bingley. “You handled yourself well.”
Bingley grinned. “You mean I was useful for once?”
Darcy allowed the faintest smile. “Your charm has its uses.”
Roberts cleared his throat softly. “If I may, gentlemen, I believe you have caused quite a stir in town.”
“Good,” Darcy said firmly. “Theyshouldbe stirred.”
And as they passed the edge of Meryton, Darcy caught sight of a group of villagers huddled in conversation, their heads turning toward the carriage as it rolled by. He met their gazes squarely, his purpose set. Whatever prejudices the town harbored, they would not be enough to deter him now.
Seventeen
“Miss Elizabeth, do takecare!” Darcy’s voice carried across the icy expanse, his tone just stern enough to earn an arched brow from Elizabeth.
She pushed off with a confident glide, the frost-bright air biting at her cheeks. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I am perfectly capable of maintaining my footing.”
Bingley, laughing as he skated past, called back, “Careful, Darcy! Miss Elizabeth might leave you in the dust.”
“Quite,” Elizabeth quipped, executing a graceful turn. “Though, if Mr. Darcy prefers the safety of solid ground, I would not blame him.”
