Darcy followed his cousin’s gaze and saw a man in a waistcoat the color of shame stepping onto a small platform, waving his hands like a parish preacher about to request funds for the roof.
Darcy frowned. “What is that?”
“The opening act, I believe,” said Fitzwilliam.
“Explain.”
But his cousin was already stepping aside, murmuring something about needing a better vantage point. Darcy turned back just in time to hear the man in puce declare something about a “delightful twist” and a “luncheon companion.”
No.Surely not.
He drifted forward a few steps, catching fragments now—for charity, gentlemen volunteers, private picnic.
His stomach turned.
“Fitzwilliam,” he growled through his teeth. “Did you know of this?”
“Darcy,” came the reply, far too smooth, “I know many things. Some of them I even share.”
He was going to murder him. Slowly. With a butter knife, if necessary.
Up on the dais, a name was called. A young man with unflattering hair stepped forward to applause. A gaggle of ladies giggled. A number was offered. Another. Someone clapped.
“Dear God,” Darcy muttered. “They are bidding.”
“For a noble cause,” Fitzwilliam said brightly. “Think of it as patriotic humiliation.”
Another name. Another man. This one strutted a little. Someone offered ten shillings and a pair of gloves.
“I shall leave.”
“You cannot.”
“I can.”
“You must not. It would offend the hostess. And Lady Matlock. And me.”
“Those are not deterrents.”
Fitzwilliam gave him a look. “You are dressed like a widow on judgment day. Do you truly believe you will not be noticed if you slink off into the shrubbery?”
Darcy clenched his jaw.
It was then he noticed the table of ribbons. Satin, in various shades of disgrace. They shimmered in the sunlight like sins waiting to be pinned.
He turned his head—and caught sight ofher.
She was standing half in the shade, a curl escaping her bonnet, a notebook half-tucked in her hand. She was not laughing, not precisely, but her expression was unmistakable.
Amused. Engaged. Dangerous.
Darcy looked away quickly. It was a party. There were dozens of young women. She was simply one of them.
And then, from the dais: “And now, ladies, our next fine gentleman—Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley!”
He froze.
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then applause. Quite a lot of it. And some frantic shuffling from a cluster of females near the front.
