Elizabeth blinked once. “There is no shortage of examples.”
“Oh, quite. Some women have a real gift for turning notoriety into charm. I can only admire it.”
Jane stepped in. “You are out of line.”
Miss Bingley turned as if noticing her for the first time. “I beg your pardon. I meant it as a compliment. There is a kind of genius to surviving so... brazenly.”
Elizabeth’s pulse thundered. She opened her mouth—but the words twisted before they could form.This was her moment, was it not? The perfect cue. The stiletto remark. The ink-sharp reply. But nothing came. Not even a scribble.
Mrs. Gardiner shifted forward with terrible calm. “Perhaps you would prefer to insult us directly. It would save time.”
Miss Bingley only smiled. “Oh, but I do admire directness. That is why I have always appreciated Miss Eliza’s writing so very much.”
It hit like ice water to the ribs.
Elizabeth took a step forward. But her voice—her sharpness—her fire—
Gone.
She could only stand there. And burn.
Miss Bingley smiled beatifically. “Forgive me. I will let you return to… your circle.”
Miss Bingley smiled beatifically. “Forgive me. I will let you return to… your circle.”She glided away, nodding at Captain Marlowe as she passed. He looked right through her.Elizabeth stood frozen, air caught behind her ribs. She had sharpened her wit like a blade for years. And tonight, she had brought a spoon.
“I will slap her,” Jane muttered.Elizabeth turned her head slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
Jane’s jaw was set. “I said I will slap her!”
“You?” Elizabeth whispered. “Youwould slap her?”
Jane’s jaw ticked in fury. “I will leave a handprint Miss Bingley can cite in her memoirs.”
Elizabeth made a sound—half laugh, half gasp. “Well. That is new.”
Jane’s nostrils flared. “So is treachery.”
Elizabeth groaned. “Good Lord.”Mrs. Gardiner nudged them toward the door. “We are leaving.”
The door opened tooquickly.
Miss Bingley did not enter first. That honor fell to Mrs. Hurst, nose high and hands clasped tight in front of her, as if summoned to receive bad news from a physician.
“What is this about?” she asked at once, eyes darting between the men. “The music is still playing—surely this could wait until—”
“Until what?” Bingley’s voice cut in. “Until the scandal finishes its rounds in the drawing room?”
Mrs. Hurst faltered.
Miss Bingley appeared behind her, slower. No surprise in her expression, just a sort of polite confusion. As if she had walked into the wrong room at the wrong time and was too well-bred to say so.
“You asked for me?” she said, folding her hands at her waist. “Charles. Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy did not speak.
Bingley gestured toward the chairs by the fire. “Louisa, if you please. I need a word with Caroline. Alone.”
She blinked. “Well, I do not think—”
