Darcy narrowed his gaze. “You will have to narrow that down, I am afraid.”
Bingley took a step forward, blinking fast. “The things they are saying—about Miss Elizabeth. About the pamphlets. I tried to ignore it, I did. Who would believe such a thing, and about a lady? But it is everywhere. I heard her name twice tonight before I crossed the ballroom. And Miss Bennet—my poor Jane is growing pale every time someone speaks.”
Darcy’s shoulders locked, and he glanced toward the door.
“I know you know something,” Bingley said. “You two were always—” He broke off, then gave a helpless sort of half-smile.
Darcy did not flinch. But his breath did something sharp in his throat.
“I thought,” Bingley continued, quieter now, “if anyone could explain what is happening—why people are saying these things—it would be you.”
Darcy’s fists clenched. “Explain?”
Bingley raised both hands, the way a man did when walking into a storm. “I am not blaming her. I am trying to understand. Tell me the truth, Darcy. Is it her?”
Darcy sighed. “What have you heard?”
Bingley stepped once toward the fire. Not accusation—confusion. Deep and growing. “The pamphlets, Darcy. My sisters and their callers have been full of talk—laughing, shaking their heads, spinning tales as if it were all some parlor game.” Bingley hesitated, then added, “But it is not. Not to those involved.”
He looked down for half a breath, then met Darcy’s eyes again. “The way Miss Bennet looked tonight. Like she was standing trial.”
Darcy’s hands had gone cold.
Trial.
If only that were the worst of it. She was not just standing trial—she had been stripped of a defense. And every witness laughing in the gallery.
He closed the distance to the hearth, jaw tight, breath sharp. “Itisher,” he said. “And it is not.”
Bingley blinked. “What does that mean?”
Darcy turned, gaze like flint. “The styling was hers. The theft, the publication, the cruelty—none of that was.”
Bingley reeled back a step, as if the air itself had struck him. His hand came up to his temple, dragging across his browlike he could scrape the thought away. He turned, slow and disbelieving, and braced himself against the mantel with both hands, shoulders rising once in a shallow, stunned breath. “I did not want to believe it.” Bingley’s voice was low, almost stunned. “Not Miss Elizabeth. Not Miss Bennet’s sister.”
He shook his head, slowly, as if the idea itself resisted settling.
“But you—” His eyes met Darcy’s, searching. “You were always close with her. The two of you—there was always something. Not improper, I do not mean that, only… something understood. You knew, did you not?” His hands opened at his sides, helpless, as if hoping Darcy would deny it.
Darcy’s fists curled. “Not all of it. Enough.”
The quiet that followed was not stillness. It was heat. Movement. The slow collapse of Bingley’s expression from worried to wounded. “So… she wrote those things?”
Darcy drew a breath. “She wrote… something. Private reflections. Never for publication.”
“But the things printed—Darcy, they are not gentle.” Bingley’s voice faltered. “Some of them are cruel.”
“The original ideaswerehers,” he said tightly. “The shape of them—the rhythm and clever turns of phrase. But the framing, the venom… even down to making them recognizable no. That was not her.”
“Then… I do not understand. If she wrote them but then did not, how did these things get out into publication?”
Darcy’s gaze did not waver from the flames. “They were taken. From her journal.”
“Taken?” Bingley echoed it. “By whom?”
He said it before he could temper it. “Your sister.”
“Caroline?” Bingley’s face… the only way to describe it was to say that it… broke.
