Elizabeth’s eyes darted toward a tall, silver-haired man standing near the far wall. His presence was commanding, his stance relaxed but watchful, as though he were both host and sentinel. He was deep in conversation with another gentleman, who carried an air of importance despite his unassuming appearance.
“That,” her uncle continued, his voice lowering, “is Monsieur Lapointe, the French minister.”
Elizabeth’s stomach flipped as she looked at the shorter man. She had heard whispers about the Frenchman during the carriage ride over—hushed remarks about secret negotiations, delicate matters of diplomacy, and a web of intrigue that seemed far removed from her quiet life in Hertfordshire. He was in all the gossip rags, and seemed, on the surface, to be on good terms with his British counterparts, though everyone had something elseto whisper behind his back. Seeing him now, she was struck by how ordinary he seemed, with his thinning hair and plain black coat. And yet, the way others kept a careful distance spoke volumes.
Her uncle drew closer to Lord Matlock, bowing slightly as he introduced himself. Elizabeth and her aunt curtsied in turn, murmuring polite acknowledgments as the Earl greeted them with practiced charm. His sharp blue eyes flicked briefly to Elizabeth, and she felt an odd sense that he was weighing her somehow, measuring something unseen.
“The Gardiners, of course,” he said. “You are most welcome. I trust you are enjoying the evening?”
“Very much, my lord,” Mr. Gardiner replied. “It is an honor to be included in such an august gathering.”
“Indeed,” Matlock said, his tone neutral. His gaze shifted to Elizabeth again, lingering a fraction too long. She resisted the urge to fidget.
But the weight of his scrutiny sent an unwelcome prickle of heat rising to her cheeks. She knew what he saw: a young woman plainly dressed compared to the glittering fashions around her, her gown simple and modest but decently tailored, with no attempt at the daring necklines or vivid silks worn by the ladies of theton. Her dark curls were neatly arranged, though without the intricate twists and jeweled pins that adorned the other women in the room. She had taken care to carry herself with dignity, aware that one wrong step—or word—could undo not just her own reputation but that of her aunt and uncle as well.
And yet, her eyes always gave her away. Elizabeth knew they were too bright, too alive with curiosity as they darted around the room. She could not help herself. Every face, every gesture, every detail was a puzzle waiting to be unraveled, and though she knew better than to stare, her gaze lingered just long enough to make her feel out of place. She clasped her gloved hands tightly in front of her, willing herself to appear as composed as her aunt, and offered Lord Matlock a small, polite smile.
Before she could overanalyze Lord Matlock’s lingering gaze, a figure approached from the far side of the room. The newcomer—a tall man in Matlock livery with the slightly hunched posture of one accustomed to discretion—leaned in to murmur something to the Earl. Elizabeth caught the low murmur of words. “My lord, Mr. Darcy has arrived.”
The earl’s hand paused mid-gesture, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he doubted what he had just heard. “Darcy?” he repeated, his voice still quiet but edged with clear surprise.
The servant gave a single nod. “He is in the hall, my lord. He declined to join the festivities.”
“Indeed! How very like Darcy. Show him to my study. Tell him I will join him directly.” Matlock straightened, his focus shifting back to the Gardiners and Elizabeth. “I must ask you to excuse me,” he said, his tone impeccably polite despite the abruptness of the interruption. His gaze softened as it fell on Mrs. Gardiner. “Please, make yourselves at home and enjoy the evening. My staff will see to it that your every comfort is met. It was a pleasure to meet you, madam, and you as well, Miss Bennet.”
Without waiting for further acknowledgment, the Earl strode toward the doorway, his long strides purposeful, the murmuring crowd parting instinctively before him.
Elizabeth glanced at her uncle, whose brow furrowed slightly in thought. Mrs. Gardiner shifted closer to Elizabeth, her fingers brushing Elizabeth’s gloved arm. “Did you hear that?”
“I did. Who is Mr. Darcy that his arrival should disturb the earl?”
“His nephew, I believe. I grew up nearly in the shadow of the Darcy estate, Pemberley, and I recall hearing much good of his father. I wonder if the son is anything like him.”
“It must not be so, given the look on the earl’s face just now.”
“Perhaps! Oh, Lizzy, let us step away from this crush. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I fear I may do or say something terribly embarrassing. My dear?” she asked, turning to her husband. “Might we go to the refreshment tables?”
Elizabeth let out a quiet breath, her shoulders easing as the Gardiners stepped away. She glanced around, unsure whether to follow her aunt and uncle or remain where she was. Her fingers twisted the edge of her glove, a nervous habit she had tried to break, but her attention had now begun to drift. Perhaps she could look about on her own. After all, when would she ever have another opportunity to make herself welcome in the home of an earl?
Another glance at her aunt and uncle—they were by the refreshment table now, deep in conversation with a merchant about trade routes. While she respected her uncle’s business acumen, she would never make sense of half the terms being discussed. Her curiosity about the room had grown into a ticklish nuisance, and surely no one would notice if she wandered a little closer to the gathering near the far wall.
The press of bodies grew tighter as she moved deeper into the drawing room, the hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. She tried to stay out of the way, hugging the edge of the crowd, but she misjudged the flow of the group. Suddenly,she found herself in the midst of a small cluster of gentlemen, their faces stern and their voices low.
It took her a moment to realize who they were. One of the men, standing slightly apart from the rest, wore an unadorned black coat that seemed almost plain against the grandeur of the room. His features were sharp, his eyes quick and calculating, and though he was not tall, there was an air of authority about him that marked him immediately. Monsieur Lapointe. The French minister.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She froze, her mind racing as she realized she had wandered straight into the company of not just the minister but several of his attendants. Their accents, their reserved manner, even the way they carried themselves—it was clear that these men were not mingling like the other guests. She should leave immediately, but her feet refused to move. The room around her seemed to tilt as the conversations nearest to her began to falter, and unfamiliar gazes nearly stung her exposed shoulders.
Monsieur Lapointe turned to her. His expression remained calm, but his brow lifted slightly in curiosity. He spoke, his voice low and fluid, the cadence unmistakably French.
Elizabeth blinked. She understood enough to know he was addressing her, but the words slipped past her grasp like water through her fingers. He must have mistaken her for someone else—a member of his host’s staff, perhaps, or an invited guest of higher station. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“I—pardon, Monsieur,” she stammered in English, her cheeks burning. The minister tilted his head, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips, but before he could respond, another voice murmured nearby.
“Est-ce elle?”someone whispered. The words were not meant for her, but she heard them all the same. A sharp glance from one of the minister’s companions swept over her, and she felt her heart thrum painfully in her chest. Who were they talking about? She looked around for this important “elle” but saw no one attracting gazes but… herself.
Monsieur LaPointe’s gaze settled on her, and a slow smile curved his lips as he inclined his head. “Je crois savoir que les fleurs sont en pleine floraison,” he said, his tone light, almost casual.
Elizabeth blinked. That was an odd remark—did she understand him correctly?Flowers?Certainly, some flowers might still be in bloom, but it was September. Was he referring to the gardens here? Or some other place? Still, not wanting to be impolite, she managed a hesitant, “Oui… naturellement.”
