Dear Papa,
I write to you not as your second and most dutiful daughter, but as a woman cast adrift in the treacherous sea of London society, where the currents are treacherous, the fish all have sharp teeth, and the lifeboats appear to have been set aflame for sport.
It is with no small degree of regret that I must inform you that our venture into high society has not gone precisely as planned. Last evening, I was unwittingly caught up in what one might call an… adventure. You, of course, would call ita blunder. Imagine, if you will, your daughter—the very picture of respectability—unwittingly causing a very public incident, interrogated by a peer of the realm, and forced to dance with a man who looked as though he would rather face a firing squad.
The earl, who is at once both terrifying and fascinating, seems to believe I am in possession of secrets too dangerous to be trusted to my own keeping. I suspect he is mistaken, though I suppose it is possible I have been carrying out nefarious plots in my sleep. Stranger things have happened. You will be pleased to know, however, that I defended my honor with what I hope was sufficient impertinence to do you credit.
The man with whom I was compelled to dance—a Mr. Darcy—proved himself to be as cheerful and engaging as a storm cloud. He said little, frowned much, and seemed determined to ensure I had no illusions about his willingness to suffer through the ordeal. I daresay we made a fine pair, each more miserable than the other, much to the delight of our audience.
I do not know what further humiliation awaits me today, for we are summoned once more to the earl’s residence this afternoon. I expect I shall either be summarily dismissed or pressed into further absurdity. Rest assured, I shall keep my head held high (though my bonnet may slip, as I have had little success insecuring it properly).
Pray do not worry, Papa. Whatever the outcome of this visit, I am certain you will have enough material for months of ridicule at my expense. I only ask that you reserve some portion of your mirth for poor Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, who are enduring all of this with admirable fortitude.
Yours in disgrace and defiance,
Elizabeth
Elizabeth sat back, readingover the letter with a small, satisfied smile. It was as cheeky as she dared to be, and she could almost hear her father chuckling as he read it. She folded the paper neatly and sealed it, placing it on the corner of the desk for her uncle to post later.
The smile faded as she glanced at the clock. Nearly one. She had promised her aunt she would be ready by half-past, but the thought of returning to the earl’s house made her almost ill to her stomach. She had spent the morning inventing every excuse she could think of to delay her preparations. When the maid arrived to help dress her hair, Elizabeth insisted she could manage on her own, despite the maid’s dubious expression. The truth was, she simply wanted to put off the moment when she had to face herself in the mirror and remember the evening before.
Now, however, there was no more time to waste. Elizabeth rose from the desk with a sigh, crossing to the dressing table. Her hair was pinned loosely, the curls not nearly as tidy as they should have been. Her gown, though respectable, was creased from having been hastily chosen and laid out hours earlier. She frowned at her reflection, tugging at the hem of her sleeve as though that would magically improve her appearance.
“It will have to do,” she muttered to herself, straightening her posture. The effect was marginally better but still left her feeling underwhelmed.
Her aunt’s voice floated up the stairs, calling for her to hurry. Elizabeth sighed again and grabbed her bonnet, tying the ribbons in a bow that was both too tight and slightly crooked. No matter. She had dallied too long and run out of time for perfection.
Darcy arrived at MatlockHouse precisely a quarter hour before the appointed time. Punctuality was his habit, and he found it useful to arrive early for meetings with his uncle, who had a way of ambushing his guests with half-planned schemes. Better to be prepared than caught unawares, Darcy reasoned.
The earl’s butler greeted him at the door with a low bow and ushered him inside. Darcy handed over his hat and gloves, adjusted his coat, and followed Benedict’s gesture toward the drawing room, where his aunt was seated by the window, a tray of tea laid out before her.
“Darcy!” Lady Matlock exclaimed, rising from her chair with a smile that softened the sharp lines of her features. “What a pleasant surprise. I had not expected you again so soon.”
“I am here at the earl’s request,” Darcy replied, bowing slightly. “He indicated he wished to speak with me further this afternoon.”
His aunt waved this off as though the earl’s demands were of little consequence. “Well, he can wait a moment. Come and sit with me. I am positively starved for decent company—your uncle has been holed up in his study since breakfast, muttering about Derbyshire and Parliament, and I cannot seem to get a coherent word out of him.”
Darcy hesitated, glancing toward the doorway. “I would not wish to intrude.”
“Nonsense,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “You will have plenty of time to suffer through whatever tedious matters he wishes to discuss. For now, indulge me. I insist.”
Darcy was about to acquiesce when the door opened, admitting a footman who bowed and said, “Mr. Darcy, the earl requests your presence in the study at once.”
Lady Matlock let out a theatrical sigh, waving her hand dismissively. “Very well. Off you go, then. It seems I must rely on Reginald for entertainment—though he is far less interesting.”
Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. “Another time, Aunt.”
The footman led him through the corridors to the study, where the door stood ajar. The familiar scent of the earl’s favored tobacco greeted him before he even stepped inside, which meant the earl had spent the morning plotting things. He always cut a fresh Havana when he was plotting things. And, indeed, when he entered, he found the earl seated behind his desk, a cigar in hand and an open ledger before him.
“Ah, Fitzwilliam,” the earl said, looking up. “Prompt as always. Sit, sit.”
Darcy complied, taking the chair opposite his uncle and waiting patiently as the earl glanced over his papers. After a moment, the earl set the ledger aside and leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar. “I trust you are not too put out by last night’s festivities,” the earl began, his tone almost conversational.
“Not at all,” Darcy replied evenly, though his jaw tightened at the memory. “I was more curious about the purpose of last night’s… arrangement.”
The earl’s lips widened behind his cigar, as though suppressing a smile. “All in good time. For now, there are more pressing matters to discuss.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Such as?”
