She turned to Darcy.
“What did he do?” she asked.
Darcy’s knife paused mid-cut.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What did Mr. Wickham do to you?”
He blinked. Actually blinked.
“You speak,” he said slowly, “as though the guilt is already assigned.”
Elizabeth lifted her glass to her lips. “Is it not?”
“You are quite prepared to condemn a man without a trial.”
She sipped. “I was raised on novels. Trials are for dull people, like those who insist on memorizing Latin grammars.”
His mouth twitched again. But the amusement faded quickly.
“You are so willing to take my part,” he said, not as a boast, but as a curiosity.
“I do not trust easily,” she said. “But I have seen you insult people to their faces. I cannot imagine you fabricating kindness behind their backs.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he leaned slightly closer. “It is not a story I will tell here.”
“I do not need the story.”
Darcy tilted his head. “No?”
“I merely require the villain.” She set down her glass. “And I think I have found him.”
There was a flicker of something in his expression. Not relief. Not triumph. Something stranger. Something quiet and unsettled.
“I shall hate him forever,” she added. “Only because it makes good copy for my journal.”
Darcy made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look amused.”
“I am merely confused.”
“By me?”
“Constantly.”
She grinned. “Good.”
The retiring room atNetherfield was a sanctuary of soft candlelight and murmured conversation, its rose-hued wallpaper and gilded mirrors casting a gentle glow over the assembled ladies. A few maids lingered discreetly, offeringassistance with shawls and hairpins, while the air was perfumed with lavender and a trace of rosewater left by recent guests.
Elizabeth stood before a large mirror, her reticule open on the nearby table as she dabbed a touch of powder to her nose. Around her, the room buzzed with subdued excitement, snippets of conversation floating like perfume in the air.
