Her pulse galloped in her ears. She placed a hand against the edge of a nearby chair to steady herself.
Not at home. Not misplaced. Not forgotten.
Gone.
And the only people who had been near it—who had sat beside her—who had smiled just a little too sharply…
Her throat went dry.
Caroline Bingley.
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, willing herself to remain composed.
She stared at the empty chair.
Not misplaced. Not at home. Not forgotten.
Gone.
If Caroline Bingley had taken it…
No. No, it was unthinkable! And yet entirely plausible.
She had lingered near the tea service. She had made some remark about the supper set—how she and her sister had taken bets on which eager young lady Mr. Darcy might favor. She had smiled too widely, with too many teeth, and then added that misunderstandings could be such a dreadful inconvenience. Her hand had rested near Elizabeth’s wrap, just briefly.
And then she had left.
The journal had not been tucked far. Just beside the silk. Close enough to lift without fuss. Close enough to disappear.
And if it had?
If Caroline Bingley was holding that book in her well-manicured claws at this very moment—
Elizabeth’s mind reeled.
Every name. Every biting turn of phrase. Every scribbled observation she had made that evening and in the past months—about the guests, the dancing, the officers, the food, the heat, the noise, the desperate marriage schemes. About Mr. Darcy.
Dear God.
She had written abouthim. About the way he looked at her. About how she could not stop cataloguing his flaws even when he danced well.
If even a single line made it into someone else’s hands…
A step echoed behind her.
“Elizabeth?”
She turned, heart lurching. Jane and Charlotte stood in the doorway, their expressions worried.
“You looked pale,” Jane said. “Is something—”
“My reticule,” Elizabeth interrupted, her voice far too quiet. “It is missing.”
Charlotte’s brows lifted. “And?”
“My journal was in it.”
Charlotte blinked. “You brought your journal to aball?”
