Familiar.
Toofamiliar.
How? Why? Elizabeth had never written for public amusement, let alone gossip. She abhorred idle cruelty. And she would never have made her little observations public.
But the details were too aligned to be coincidence: a misfired epigram at a musicale, a comment about a gentleman’s waistcoat that had clearly once been green.
Had someone overheard her? Followed her?
No. It was not merely her style being mimicked.
It was her actual words. How the devil…?
Darcy’s fingers clenched against the desk.
“Brother?”
He looked up.
Georgiana stood in the doorway, half inside the room. She held a folded piece of paper—something domestic, possibly a receipt or a note from Mrs. Annesley—but her eyes had landed on the pamphlet still open beside him.
She paused.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said too quickly. “I only—Mrs. Griffin wanted to confirm the arrangements for our aunt’s visit.”
Darcy looked up. “Arrangements? Which aunt?”
Georgiana hesitated. “Lady Catherine. The dowager says she is expected early next week.”
His brow lifted.
“I believe Grandmother received her letter yesterday,” Georgiana hastened to clarify. “And she said I ought to learn some of my duties, so... she asked me to see that everything was in order with the housekeeper.”
Of course she had. Delegation disguised as grace. And Lady Catherine assuming the world would adjust to her schedule like a well-trained dog.
Darcy suppressed the sigh. “Tell Mrs. Griffin the green chamber will suffice. And remind Cook—no onions.”
Georgiana nodded, but she did not move.
Her gaze had strayed—drifting to the pamphlet on the desk. Then back to his face.
“You recognize this,” he said.
“No,” Georgiana replied quickly—but her voice caught on the word, just slightly. Her eyes flicked to the pamphlet. Then to his face. Then away again.
“I mean... not truly. I have only seen it about. In... drawing rooms.”
She adjusted the note in her hand, folding the edge that did not need folding.
Darcy frowned and edged a brow upward. “Georgiana…”
Her gaze dropped further. “I did not thinkyouwould read it.”
The flush rose fast. Not guilt—embarrassment. As if she had just caught him rifling through someone’s reticule.
He shifted. “Who mentioned it?”
