He drew in a painful breath. “IwishI could say I will not—but I need to.” His gaze flicked away, distant. “Not just you, notjust us. But my family. My name. Georgiana—she is caught in this too, by Wickham. He has her letters. He compromised her, Elizabeth.”
She gulped. “Oh, Iknewsomething was amiss with that prince of the militia! He… harmed her?”
“Her heart, yes. And her reputation, if anyone discovers how he manipulated her.” He removed his hat for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. “I am still trying to reclaim them, but so much time has passed, they might have been seen by any number of eyes. And I cannot risk… any more exposure.”
Elizabeth’s pulse fluttered as she realized what he was admitting. “And I am a liability. Not only is my family’s name not sufficient protection, but I am, in the eyes of society, damaged goods.”
He thinned his lips. “A quiet, unremarkable marriage might give us both shelter from gossip,” he continued, voice rough, “and it would shield us from the terms of the will. But my sister’s disgrace. I—”
She put her finger to his lips. “No. Say no more. Let us find something better, as we always intended to do. For both of us.”
Elizabeth was late returningto the house that afternoon. She left her parcels in the hall to be carried upstairs, then let herself into the drawing room quietly, but not quietly enough.
Jane glanced up from her book, her needlework forgotten on the arm of the settee. “You look cold,” she said. “Or hunted.”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “Just the impression I was hoping to make.”
She peeled off her gloves too fast and dropped them on the table. The kettle still steamed faintly—left for her, no doubt, byMrs. Gardiner—and she poured a cup of tea as if it were the only sustenance she had had in weeks. It sloshed over the rim.
Jane marked her page, closed the book, and studied her. “You are flushed,” she said. “Are you angry about something?”
Elizabeth did not sit. She stirred sugar into her tea and stared at the swirl as if it might form answers. “Not angry. Winded. The market was full.”
Jane did not look convinced.
Elizabeth added, with a deliberately light tone, “And I happened to encounter Mr. Darcy.”
Jane’s eyes sharpened. “Is that… pertinent information?”
“Only if you care to know that Mr. Bingley was apparently diverted by a litter of spaniels and completely unaware that you were present at the exhibition last week. But,” she sipped, “he shall be aware now. Mr. Darcy seemed rather grimly intent on delivering the news.”
Jane lowered her book to her lap. “Mr. Bingley did not know I was in London?”
Elizabeth’s smile flickered. “I doubt Miss Bingley told him. Not her usual mode of charity.”
Jane stood slowly. “You are rather sharp this afternoon. Why should Miss Bingley withhold that information? What are you trying to say?”
Elizabeth waved her hand. “Only that it explains a few things. He could not greet what he did not see. Or know.”
Jane frowned. “But his sister—surely she—”
“Jane,” Elizabeth said, smiling without warmth, “Miss Bingley is not in the habit of doing us favors.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Elizabeth. What is going on?”
The knock came before Elizabeth could dodge the question. A footman entered with a polite bow and placed a tied bundle of post on the table.
“From the midday delivery, miss.”
“Thank you.”
He left with a bow, and Elizabeth set down her tea and untied the string. Several letters, a circular, and—
A slim pamphlet.
Blue-grey paper. Thick-stocked. Expensive.
She stared at it.
