“Yes, he is. Which means, if we are to spy on him, we cannot sit in this parlour and glare at the wallpaper.” Richard leaned forward, tapping his spoon against the rim of his plate. “We must enter society. We must go where he goes.”
Darcy stared at his cousin, and a dreadful realisation began to seep into his bones, chilling him far more effectively than the coastal wind. “You are suggesting we mingle.”
“I am suggesting we become the most vibrant participants this place has ever seen,” Richard grinned, the amusement returning in full force. “We shall dance, converse, and drink watered-down punch.”
“I do not drink punch.”
“You will now. Because he will be there. And, by mathematical probability, the ‘unfortunate complication’ will also be there.”
Darcy rubbed the bridge of his nose. The impending headache had officially arrived and was setting up camp behind his eyes. He understood the logic. It was unassailable. But the reality of it was horrific.
“You are telling me,” Darcy said, “that in order to protect the unsuspecting, I must subject myself to the daily company of the woman who loathes me.”
“I am saying,” Richard clarified, “that you cannot observe someone from a distance if he spends all his time in a crowded ballroom. You must be in the ballroom. Tonight, in fact. There is an assembly at the Ship Inn, and we are attending.”
“Tonight,” Darcy echoed. The word sounded exactly like a death sentence.
“Yes. And you cannot stand in the corner like a gargoyle who has lost his favourite gargoyle friend. You must appear relaxed. Amiable, even.” Richard gestured to Darcy’s rigid posture. “If you march in there as though you intend to arrest the musicians, Wickham will get defensive.”
Darcy let out a breath that was halfway to a groan. The trap was constructed. He was a man of honour. He could not abandon his mission; the possibility of a lady’s ruin forbade it. But executing the mission required him to walk back into thecircle of Elizabeth Bennet. He would have to see her, speak to her, and endure her polite, icy civility, knowing precisely what she thought of his character.
“Very well.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin despite having eaten nothing at all. “We will attend the assembly.”
“Excellent,” Richard beamed, pushing his empty plate away and leaning back in his chair. “I shall wear the blue waistcoat. The ladies of Sussex are completely unprepared for it.”
Darcy climbed the narrow stairs to his bedchamber, his mind racing with possibilities. He needed to intercept Wickham and he needed to ensure Miss Elizabeth remained safe from the resulting fallout. He had to accomplish all of this while appearing effortlessly composed.
Horlicks stood in the centre of the bedchamber, holding a pressed linen shirt.
Darcy walked to the wardrobe. “We are attending the Ship Inn this afternoon, Horlicks. The establishment is fashionable but frequently crowded. I require attire that projects authority without appearing overly formal.”
Horlicks placed the shirt on the bed and turned his attention to the wardrobe. He surveyed the rows of sombre coats and immaculate waistcoats with the critical eye of an artist.
He withdrew a coat of expensive superfine wool. “A delicate balance, Sir. The navy blue, I believe, commands respect without resorting to the severity of black. It also complements the complexion when one is suffering from a lack of sleep.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes at his servant. “I am well rested.”
Horlicks withdrew a subtly patterned waistcoat. “Indeed, Sir. And shall we select a cravat style that allows for swift, unrestricted movement? In the event that diplomacy fails and fisticuffs become necessary?”
Darcy stared at the waistcoat and considered the absurdity of his situation. He was preparing to invade a public house in a seaside town to thwart a villain and impress a lady.
He reached for the linen shirt. “A simple knot will suffice, Horlicks. We are aiming for intimidation today. Violence is a secondary option.”
Horlicks bowed. “Very good, Sir. Intimidation it is.”
The assembly room at the Ship Inn was less a gathering of polite society and more an experiment to determine how many perspiring humans could be crammed into a poorly aired space before spontaneous combustion occurred.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood rigid near a potted fern that was wilting from the collective body heat. He had successfully maintained this exact position for twenty minutes. It was his preferred method of socialisation—resembling a load-bearing architectural feature and hoping people would walk around him.
Colonel Fitzwilliam emerged from the swirling throng of dancers, holding two glass cups filled with a cloudy, pinkish liquid.
“I have procured the punch,” the Colonel announced, offering one of the cups to Darcy. “I asked the waiter what theprimary ingredient was, and he looked at the floor and walked away. I suspect it is mostly seawater, sugar, and despair.”
Darcy accepted the cup but did not drink from it. He held it as a barrier against further interaction. “This room is a furnace.”
“It is a triumph of local commerce,” the Colonel corrected, taking a brave sip of his punch and grimacing. “Good Lord, that is hostile to the tongue. Now, stop glaring at the musicians. We are here to blend in. We must circulate.”
“I am circulating,” Darcy said, remaining motionless. “The air is circulating around me.”
