“Your version of mingling resembles pursuit,” she sniffed. “At least pretend to greet someone before you flatten them with your gaze.”
“Over by the pianoforte,” Richard murmured suddenly. “Two brunettes, both showing a little teeth. Could be flirtation. Could be nerves. Thoughts?”
Darcy swerved slightly to look—only to exhale in frustration. Neither matched. Wrong posture. Wrong energy. No spark.
“They are from Suffolk,” said the dowager. “Their mother tried to set them on your brother the viscount last year. He had to fake a fever to escape.”
“I envy him,” Darcy muttered.
“You should. He got out before the games began.”
He did not answer. His heart struck hard within his chest, as though attempting to shake loose some hidden truth. Perhaps she was not here. Perhaps the trail had gone cold again.
Richard craned his neck in mock helpfulness. “We ought to ring a bell and shout ‘witty, elusive brunette—last seen fleeing a ballroom.’ That might speed the matter.”
Darcy’s teeth clenched. “Must you be a blackguard at every threshold?”
“Only the significant ones,” Richard replied cheerfully.
Then, above the rustle of fans and the gentle clink of glass against silver, came the bright and unmistakable voice of Lady Chiswell.
“My dears, if I may have your attention!”
Darcy turned toward the sound, nearly missing the last few steps into the centre of the room.
“My dear friends, welcome—belated though this celebration may be! Illness delayed our Twelfth Night, but the snow has been kind enough to keep the spirit of mischief alive. Before supper, we shall indulge in a little diversion with a game of Riddles. You will each find a slip and a quill near the sideboard. Compose something clever—anonymous, of course—and all entries shall be placed in this basket. The most amusing shall be read aloud and, naturally, guessed at. No prize but glory… and perhaps a few suspicions confirmed.
The room laughed and murmured in approval. Quills were already appearing. A footman approached with a basket lined in velvet.
And in the span of a single breath, Darcy froze. It was not fear that struck him—but recognition. This was no ordinary party game.
This was a summoning.
He stood very still, his spine taut, eyes sweeping the room with new precision. A game of riddles. Anonymous wit. Veiled truths.
It washer.
It had to be. The coincidence was too perfect, too pointed. Elizabeth Bennet would never have orchestrated such a thing—not after everything—but Fate? Fate had a sense of humor. Fate wasted no opportunities. And it had chosen to make its point in rhyme.
He began again, scanning each face, each profile, sharper now. Focused. He ignored Richard’s next jest, the dowager’s subtle adjustment of her shawl.
She was here.
Shehadto be. Heaven could not make more of a mockery of him by letting this moment pass without her.
Somewhere behind the fan-spread crowd. Somewhere behind the ficus, the musicians, the dull gleam of candlelight on brass. He could feel her presence like a shifting current, tugging at the edges of the room. Perhaps she had seen him first. Perhaps she was hiding. Perhaps the game itself was her signal.
And perhaps—Heaven help him—it was a dare.
Darcy’s mouth curled, slow and reverent.
The rules had just changed. And if this game would flush her out—then by God, he would play.
Chapter Forty-One
The room had takenon the light buzz of festivity, the kind that followed a second glass of punch and the promise of mild scandal. Guests huddled near the fire or drifted past the writing table where slips of cream paper lay beside freshly trimmed quills.
A maid circulated with a tray of tarts; someone in the corner had begun to sing something Scottish and tuneless. Footmen wove expertly through the crowd with trays of spiced wine and syllabub, their passage trailing laughter and cinnamon. Elizabeth edged along the far wall, ducking between floral arrangements and palms too ornamental to offer real concealment.
