Mrs. Hurst shifted uncomfortably in her seat next to her husband, who was dozing on the settee. “Perhaps it would be best, Caroline, if we all got some sleep. We could resume our conversation in the morning when we are rested and refreshed.”
“You traitor!” Her face was a mottled purple, and Darcy began to genuinely fear she was going to suffer an apoplexy.
“I take it back,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with a sigh. “Calling you a tradesman’s daughter was too generous.”
She blinked.
“You are acting more like a fishwife.”
The shriek Caroline let out could have shattered glass. She stormed from the room in a flurry of silk and indignation, Louisa rushing after her, attempting to calm the storm.
Hurst drained his glass and stood. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “at least the evening turned out less dull than expected.” He shuffled out without a backward glance.
The room fell silent. Darcy turned to Bingley and began to apologize for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s remarks, but Bingley waved a hand. “Do not apologize. I am only surprised neither of you said anything sooner than tonight about her behavior. She has been unbearable ever since I asked to court Jane.”
“Speaking of Miss Bennet,” Darcy replied hesitantly, “I think you may need to make a decision about what to do about Miss Bingley once you are married.”
“What do you mean?”
“He means that your harpy of sister will make your new bride’s life—and therefore yours—quite miserable.”
Bingley gaped, and Darcy hurried to explain. “What Colonel Fitzwilliammeansto say” he gave his cousin a dirty look “is that it is doubtful Miss Bingley will be willing to graciously turn over hostess and mistress duties to Miss Bennet.”
Enlightenment dawned on Bingley’s face. “You mean it will become a power struggle.”
“More like a child getting trampled by a runaway carriage,” the colonel muttered.
“Miss Bennet is a kind, gentle lady,” Darcy said hastily. “Not unlike Georgiana. I imagine she will do everything she can to prevent conflict, even at her own expense, which will cause Miss Bingley to think she can do whatever she likes. As a husband, it will be your responsibility to protect your wife, to shield her from those who would upset her.”
Bingley nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “Yes. Yes, I see. I must... be better.” He murmured something like a goodnight and wandered out, deep in thought.
The door clicked closed behind him. Silence fell again, broken only by the pop of the fire.
“Good riddance,” the colonel muttered, settling deeper into his chair. “Well. That was satisfying.”
Darcy glanced at him. “How do you feel?”
“Triumphant, obviously. The fishwife speech? One of my better ones, I dare say.”
Darcy gave him a look.
“Oh. About Le Corbeau?” The colonel leaned back, tossing one leg over his knee. “Uneasy.”
“I would have thought you would feel relief. You have finally caught your nemesis.”
“You would think so, would you not? But no, there is something about it all that causes me to feel…unsettled.”
“Why?”
“I do not know,” he admitted. “I was just so surprised that Le Corbeau turned out to be Carter. I could have sworn I had entirely eliminated him from our list of suspects. It is not like me to be so… erroneous.”
“You say that like it is the first time you have ever been wrong about something,” Darcy teased, trying to elicit a grin. When no smile was forthcoming, he asked, “What made you think it was not Carter?”
The colonel grimaced. “I cannot recall. There were too many blasted soldiers for me to remember them all.”
He pulled a small, worn notebook from his waistcoat pocket, and began flipping pages. Darcy moved to look over his shoulder, only to frown at the bizarre markings. “That is... gibberish.”
“It is my own shorthand,” the colonel said absently. “Home Office habit. Assume everyone is a spy, even your own valet… or batman, in my case.”
