Elizabeth managed another smile, hollow and well-practiced.
A pair of gentlemen, having caught the tail end of the joke, veered toward them with eager expressions. One of them, a fellow named Hardy, was already chuckling. “The authorship is half the fun, is it not?” he said, grinning. “There’s already a pool at White’s. I believe Lady Charlbury is the current favorite. She has the right wit—and the wrong sense.”
Elizabeth did not join in. “I am not certain it is a game worth playing,” she said. “Speculating about anonymous writers feels a touch… ungracious.”
“Oh, come now, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Hardy. “I never heard a lady uninclined to gossip! Surely whoever wrote the thing means to be talked about.”
“Lady Adelaide has been mentioned,” offered Miss Grafton. “But the tone is a bit too pointed for her, I think.”
“And too polished for Lady Charity,” Bingley added.
“Oh,” Jane said, laughing as she turned toward Elizabeth. “I almost thought it sounded like somethingyoumight have written—”
Elizabeth inhaled sharply and coughed into her glove. “As if I could be that clever!” she blurted, too loudly.
Brilliant. Perhaps she could also wear a sandwich board and ring a bell.
“Do not be so modest, darling! I have often thought you the funniest—”
“Oh, but what of Lady Cheltenham!” Elizabeth interrupted. “Surely you have read her letters? So dry one might use them for tinder.”
Jane blinked. “Of course. That is a far more likely guess.”
Mr. Hardy grinned. “Lady Cheltenham, now there is a woman who could eviscerate an archbishop with a single footnote.”
The group laughed. Elizabeth did not. But she smiled. Because it was either that—or scream.
Two ladies joined them—Miss Grafton and Miss Dunsmore, each carrying a glass of wine and the air of women who had come to see and be seen.
“Well, now, it sounds as though you are all trying to guess the same as everyone else. Have you reached a verdict?” Miss Dunsmore asked. “We are all dying to know.”
“Lady Charlbury,” said Hardy.
“Lady Cheltenham,” ElizabetAnd a nose for snakes, apparently.h said quickly.
“I have heard Lady Honora.” Miss Grafton sipped her wine. “A sharp tongue and a reputation for mischief. And she does use semicolons as though they are shillings.”
A few more gentlemen drifted in—an officer in navy blue, a balding man with an enviable laugh, and a young man Elizabeth vaguely recognized from a card party the week before.
The circle widened. Names passed easily from one speaker to the next, each suggestion more absurd than the last.
Elizabeth smiled. She nodded. She offered opinions with the appropriate amount of curiosity and restraint.
And inside, she was melting.
The group shifted as Miss Bingley approached, every posture subtly adjusting to make room for their hostess.
She stepped into their circle as though she had a right to command it, a gloved hand resting lightly against her waist as she turned to greet them. Her gown caught the candlelight justenough to dazzle without daring to compete. Her smile was perfectly cast: warm, composed, utterly appropriate.
Elizabeth met her eyes.
It was only a glance. But it struck like the sudden give beneath ice. Whatever warmth her smile suggested, her eyes told another story entirely.
And Elizabeth, for one breathless second, could not feel her hands.
“Or perhaps the true author is wise enough to let others take the credit.”
There was a slight arching in posture—just enough to let her presence be felt. Elizabeth straightened her spine.
