A flicker of irritation flared in Elizabeth’s chest. This was a test—she knew it as well as she knew the sky was blue. If she faltered, if she flushed, if she stammered, Lady Greaves would own her in this conversation.
Instead, she tilted her head with a polite smile. “Elsewhere? Surely not. Madame Laroux’s is the finest shop in town. And besides, Lady Greaves, you must know that I quite adore a bit of excitement.”
A beat of silence. Then a short laugh. “Indeed,” the woman said, raising a single brow. “I do not doubt it.” She glanced toward Mrs. Gardiner then, offering a slight nod, before sweeping back toward her original companions.
The moment she was gone, Elizabeth let out a long, controlled breath.
Mrs. Gardiner, beside her, smirked slightly. “Well done.”
Elizabeth huffed. “I do not believe I had a choice.”
“No,” her aunt agreed, picking up a delicate lace trim. “You did not.”
Darcy had no intentionof staying long at Brooks’s. The club was quiet this afternoon, as it often was before the evening crowd arrived, and he meant only to take a glass of port and skim through the latest reports before heading home.
He had barely settled into his chair when a familiar voice called his name. “Darcy! Just the man I hoped to see.”
Darcy looked up to find William Harcourt, a landowner of some standing in Derbyshire, making his way toward him. He had always regarded Harcourt as a rational, neutral man—not one to involve himself too deeply in the petty politics of local rivalries.Which made it all the more irritating when Harcourt took the seat across from him and fixed him with an expectant look. “I hear there is some talk of your standing for Parliament.”
Darcy ground his teeth. So, it had begun already. He kept his expression blank. “I had not heard.”
Harcourt smiled faintly, swirling the brandy in his glass. “Come now, Darcy. The matter has been whispered of in the right circles—no doubt, you know the source as well as I. A great many gentlemen have been hoping for an alternative to Stanton—one who has the means to oppose him properly.”
Darcy exhaled slowly. “And they assume that will be me?”
Harcourt shrugged. “Who else? The trouble with Stanton is not just his methods, but his character. No man of honor trusts him, and yet he holds his seat unchallenged. Unless, of course, you mean to allow that to continue.”
Darcy’s grip on his glass tightened. This was what his uncle wanted—to make it appear inevitable. To trap him before he had even decided. Before he could formulate a response, a second voice sounded spoke up.
“I cannot say I blame Mr. Darcy for preferring to stay out of it.”
Darcy turned sharply at the sound of the voice behind him. Mr. Lionel Edgeworth, a minor MP with strong ties to Stanton’s faction, stood nearby, his posture at ease, a glass of brandy balanced between his fingers. His expression held a lazy amusement, but there was calculation in his eyes.
The conversation at the nearby tables slowed. A few men—political men, and even one or two Derbyshire men—turned slightly in their chairs, their ears subtly inclined in Darcy’s direction. They were not openly staring, but the tension had shifted.
Darcy met Edgeworth’s gaze coolly. “You seem well informed about my affairs.”
“A man need only listen to the right whispers. And there have been many whispers of late.”
He took a deliberate sip, then added in an almost idle tone, “Not every man enjoys the burden of responsibility.” He swirled his glass, glancing at the amber liquid as if the matter were of little consequence. “Then again, it is always easier to let someone else make the decisions.”
The words were light, but the implication was razor-sharp.
Darcy was either avoiding a fight or afraid to lose one.
A slight murmur rose from the nearby table. One gentleman chuckled softly. Another—Darcy recognized him as Mr. Forsyth, a retired barrister with Derbyshire ties—leaned in to whisper something to his companion.
Darcy’s jaw locked. He knew what was happening. Edgeworth was baiting him, casting doubt not just for his own amusement, but for the benefit of those listening. A test. Would Darcy rise to defend himself—or would he retreat?
Harcourt, still seated, tilted his head slightly, as though gauging Darcy’s reaction.
Darcy set his glass down with careful precision. “Curious,” he said at last, his tone as smooth as Edgeworth’s own. “I do not recall ever seeking your advice, Mr. Edgeworth. And yet, here you are, offering it freely.”
A few men nearby smirked. Edgeworth’s mouth quirked, but he was not so easily shaken.
“Merely an observation,” he said, lifting his glass. “When a man of your name and standing remains so very silent on a subject, one cannot help but wonder.” He drained his glass, set it down, and inclined his head in a mockery of politeness. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving his words to linger in the air like the smoke curling from the club’s lamps.
