“She needs hot tea,” Martha announced gruffly as Elizabeth approached. “And a less delicate constitution. She screamed through all three dips.”
“I was drowning!” Mrs Forster sobbed, her teeth chattering so much that she could barely form the words. “It is a barbaricpractice! I shall write to the Prince Regent and demand this woman be imprisoned!”
“Thank you, Martha,” Elizabeth said, ignoring Mrs Forster’s threats of royal intervention. She handed the dipper a coin. “We shall take her home now.”
The journey back to the Forster lodgings was excruciatingly slow. Winslow supported Mrs Forster, who complained of the cold with every step. Elizabeth supported Lydia, who complained of the crazy donkey with equal fervour. Elizabeth’s thoughts remained firmly anchored to the moment on the pebbles, and the warmth of Mr Darcy’s embrace.
They finally reached the narrow brick townhouse the Forsters had leased. Elizabeth and the elderly maid hauled the two weeping women through the front door and deposited them on the settee in the drawing room.
Colonel Forster was standing by the window, holding a small porcelain teacup. He had the mild, unassuming features of a village vicar rather than the hardened countenance of a military commander. He turned as they entered, his eyebrows rising slightly at the sight of his sodden wife and his hysterical houseguest.
“Good heavens, Harriet,” the Colonel said mildly, setting his teacup on a side table. “What happened to you? And Miss Lydia, why are you weeping? Has the milliner run out of ribbons?”
“A crazy donkey attempted to assassinate me!” Lydia yelled, throwing herself backwards against the cushions. “It bolted! I clung to its mane for dear life! I was nearly trampled to death!”
Colonel Forster blinked. He looked from Lydia to Elizabeth for confirmation.
“The animal was startled, Colonel,” Elizabeth explained, maintaining a straight face. “It did run a short distance, though I assure you, Lydia was never in any true mortal danger.”
“A donkey.” The Colonel frowned, walking over to inspect his wife, who was still shivering. He did not seem overly concerned with assassination plots. “Well, that is the hazard of the seaside, is it not? One must expect the local fauna to behave unpredictably. Though I must say, Harriet, we are approaching the end of June. The water is at its warmest.”
“I was nearly drowned, and you speak of temperature!” Mrs Forster wailed, burying her face in her hands.
“Just an observation, my dear,” the Colonel replied reasonably, patting her damp shoulder. “And Miss Lydia, your hem is torn. You must ask the maid to mend it before you wear it again. We cannot have the militia associated with ragged hems.”
Elizabeth stared at him. A man tasked with the defence of the southern coast against the threat of a French invasion was fretting over the state of a hemline.
Any lingering hope she harboured that Colonel Forster might eventually recognise Wickham’s nature and intervene was instantly extinguished. The man was incapable of defending his own wife from a bathing machine, let alone defending the young women of Brighton from a calculated, charming villain.
They were alone in this fight.
Elizabeth turned her gaze towards the window, looking out over the grey, choppy waters of the Channel. The militaryoffered no protection. The chaperones were worse than useless. The only true defence Lydia Bennet had was a secret alliance forged on mutual necessity.
A slow, determined smile touched her lips. Colonel Forster could worry about Lydia’s hem. She and Mr Darcy would handle the villains.
Chapter Eight: One Dusty Alcove at a Time
The Theatre Royal on New Road was a triumph of architectural claustrophobia. It had all the gilded elegance necessary to attract the most fashionable members of Brighton society, whilst simultaneously ensuring that those same members were compressed into a space inadequate for the volume of their collective finery.
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in the confines of his rented box, pressed uncomfortably against the wooden partition. He was attempting, with limited success, to avoid inhaling the overwhelming rosewater perfume wafting from the dowager in the adjacent box.
“I cannot decide,” Richard observed loudly over the din of the orchestra fighting their instruments, “whether the playwright intended this piece to be a tragedy or a farce. The leading actor has thus far delivered every line as though he is suffering from severe indigestion.”
“He is attempting to project his voice to the upper gallery, Richard,” Darcy replied, his gaze fixed resolutely on the audience rather than the stage. “Though I admit, his facial contortions are alarming.”
“If he clutches his chest one more time, I shall be forced to call for an apothecary,” the Colonel declared, stretching hislong legs until his boots connected solidly with the velvet-draped ledge of the box. “And the heat is atrocious. We are being slowly roasted inside a velvet oven. It is an undignified way to perish.”
Darcy offered a vague murmur of agreement. He was indifferent to the temperature of the theatre and the agonies of the leading man. His attention was focused on the intricate, swirling social dance occurring below them in the crowded pit.
His eyes searched the sea of bobbing feathers and silk turbans, seeking the simple but elegant coiffure of Miss Elizabeth. He located her instantly. She was seated three rows from the front, trapped between the incessant, high-pitched chatter of Mrs Forster and the restless fidgeting of Miss Lydia. Even from this elevated distance, Darcy could perceive the stiff, guarded set of her shoulders. She was enduring the performance, her mind undoubtedly dissecting the absurdity of the play and the audience with equal, ruthless precision.
A warmth bloomed in his chest. It had been three days since the incident with the donkey on the pebble beach, since she had fallen against him, her hands gripping the lapels of his coat. He had spent every waking hour since reliving that singular, breathless moment. He was ruined by a pair of fine eyes, and he had absolutely no desire to seek a cure for his affliction. If only she returned his sentiments. He sighed covertly.
“There he is,” Richard pointed, leaning forward and nearly knocking a brass candelabra from the ledge. “Ground floor, standing near the western corridor.”
Darcy abruptly severed his romantic reverie, his posture snapping back into a rigid line. He followed his cousin’s finger.
Wickham was indeed loitering near the corridor that led to the refreshment saloon, though he was not wearing his customary easy, lazy charm. He seemed frantic. He was nervously twisting a button of his uniform coat, his eyes darting across the crowded theatre like a cornered fox.
