“No, I mean Caroline. She is presiding over the party, is she not? In my house. Wearing a gown I purchased and smiling at my guests and laughing at the damage she has caused.” Bingley turned toward the door. “Let her face what she has done. And let her victim hear her apology to her face!”
Darcy moved faster than he meant to, intercepting him with one hand outstretched. “Bingley—”
Bingley’s eyes were bright with fury, but his voice—when he spoke again—was clear. “You think I do not want to burn it all down? I do. She has made a mockery of someone I admire. She has mocked you, and lied to me.”
“And which lady do you think will suffer the more for your actions?”
Bingley exhaled hard, then shook his head once. “Quite right. If I drag Caroline into the fire, I drag my dear Jane with her. Everyone knows I mean to court Miss Bennet. They will say she is sister to a scandal, tied to a woman who slandered her own sex for sport. No one will come out clean—not you, not Miss Elizabeth, and certainly not Miss Bennet, so long as her name is associated with mine.”
Darcy hesitated. The truth of it hit low. Miss Bennet’s name, dragged into the scandal not by word, but by association—just enough to leave a stain. Just enough to reach Elizabeth.
He wanted vengeance. He wanted names named, reputations overturned, and Miss Bingley banished from every drawing room south of Mayfair. But all he could see was Elizabeth’s face—worn, wary, and already enduring too much.
“Very well,” he said. His voice was ice. “No spectacle.”
Bingley’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, Darcy thought he might shove past him, anyway. But then his friend exhaled, slow and sharp. “You are right. A scene would only make it worse.”
He began to pace. “But this will end. I shall speak to her in private. I will make it clear what she has done—and that she is finished. No more parties. No more guests. No more influence in this house, or any house I have the care of.”
He turned on his heel. “And when the season ends, she goes to Bath. Or Scotland. Or anywhere else I can send her with dignity intact. She will write a letter of apology. And she will deliver it—privately, and sincerely. Not to you. To Miss Elizabeth. If she refuses, then I shall not wait for the end of the season. She will be gone by morning.”
Darcy said nothing. The plan was sound. Moderate. Surgical. And it would work.
But he hated it.
Bingley must have seen it in his face, because his voice softened. “You want to ruin her.”
Darcy looked away. “I want her silenced.”
“This way, she will be,” Bingley said. “And no one else need suffer for it.”
Captain Marlowe had driftedsomewhere near the refreshments.
Not far. Not close. Close enough to claim he was present, far enough to avoid the fallout.
Elizabeth stood with Jane and Mrs. Gardiner near the vestibule, half hoping the cold might reach them through the walls.
Elizabeth had already asked for her cloak.
Mrs. Gardiner stood beside her, lips pressed tight. Jane, pale and rigid, had not spoken since they agreed to go. The room felt smaller now—candlelight flickering over whispers, each one louder than the last.
They would leave before it got worse.
But it was already bad enough.
Elizabeth caught sight of Miss Bingley just as the crowd parted—no warning, just silk and satisfaction, gliding through the hush like a woman taking credit for the weather.
Elizabeth turned, or tried to. Jane caught her wrist.
“Do not move,” Jane said.
It was not a plea. It was a command. And it was furious.
Jane never raised her voice. Never flared. But now her fingers trembled with restraint and her eyes followed Miss Bingley like flint waiting for spark.
Miss Bingley stopped before them with the grace of a woman who had practiced victory.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” she said sweetly, folding her hands over her reticule, “do you truly mean to leave so early? Surely it is all a misunderstanding. Such scandalous speculation—it cannot possibly be true.”
