“I thought you had better sense than to invite her to Town!”
“I did notbringher!”
“Well, she arrived, perched on your arm like some gaudy parrot! And she may have copiedmostof my words, but she sprinkled in one or two of her own. I never named names, and I could never have been so cruel as some of those phrases make me out to be!”
They had reached the far end of the market lane by then, too many eyes, too much bustle. A child skipped past with a string of brass bells.
Darcy exhaled. “Enough. This is not the time for blame. What are we going to do?”
She crossed her arms. “We?Imean to catch a husband in a hurry, and I was hoping Mr. Bingley might be brought up to scratch for my poor sister, but I see you have hidden him away and only brought out the disagreeable Bingley sibling.”
“Ididbring Bingley, and there was no hope of taking him from Hertfordshire without her following!”
She sniffed. “You might have warned me.”
“I might have—if I hadknown.”
“Well,” she said tartly. “Now you do. And I wish I could pretend confidence that her brother could restrain her somehow, but we both know that will be a futile endeavor.”
Darcy snorted. “Bingley could not conceive such a thing, and if I brought the matter to his attention, half the matrons in London would know more than they ought before teatime tomorrow. No,I think it best that I donotadvise him of this just now, but perhaps I could ask him certain questions, as seem judicious.”
She crossed her arms and nodded silently.
He looked at her sideways. “And what now? You marry the next man who makes you laugh and hope the scandal does not outpace the engagement?”
“If I must.”
“How tidy for you. Really, very neat,” he growled.
She blinked up at him in surprise. “Here, now, you sound as if I have personally woundedyou!If you do not recall, it ismyname in danger!”
“And what have you written in that wretched book aboutme?”
Her mouth worked, but only a faint rush of air came out.
“What,” he repeated, “apart from several sharp phrases and the occasional insult, have you committed to paper? Was my… predicament outlined by your pen?”
She cleared her throat. “Nothing…detailed.”
He stepped closer. “Define ‘nothing.’”
“Snippets. Impressions.”
“Could they be deciphered? Could anyone have learned… what they ought not?”
Her eyes, those fine chocolate orbs, rounded. And her lips parted in panic.Oh, bollocks.
He looked at the bustle of shoppers—too many ears. “Walk with me.”
She followed, slowly, without grace. He led her around the corner, to an empty market stall that might afford some protection from eavesdroppers.
“Could they be understood?” he pressed urgently.
“Only by someone creative,” she muttered.
“Are they accurate?”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Too accurate. If one reads them as a whole.”
