Mrs Forster shook her head slowly. “I cannot understand it. He seemed such a gentleman. A dashing soldier, clever, elegant, dancing so well. What is the world coming to?”
Darcy stood near the fireplace, following Miss Elizabeth with his eyes.
She was moving through the room, pouring tea, soothing Mrs Forster, containing Lydia’s energy, caring for the elderly maid. She was the calm, steady centre of the storm. She had orchestrated the humiliation of their worst enemy without compromising her sister’s reputation or resorting to public scandal.
She was extraordinary.
He caught her eye over the rim of a teacup, and offered a small, private smile. She returned it instantly, a soft, genuine expression that settled a deep warmth into his chest.
An hour later, the tea was consumed, the excitement had faded, and the exhaustion of the late hour finally claimed the household. Lydia had yawned herself to sleep on the settee, Mrs Forster was nodding off in her chair, and Winslow was preparing to retire to the servants’ quarters.
Darcy set his empty teacup upon the mantelpiece.
“We must take our leave.” He spoke softly, not wishing to wake the sleeping girls. “It has been an eventful evening.”
Miss Elizabeth rose from her chair and turned to walk them to the hallway.
“Thank you.” She looked up at him, the teasing banter gone. “For explaining everything to Colonel Forster, and... for everything.”
“I require no thanks.” Darcy’s voice was low, rough with emotion. “I am grateful the plan succeeded.”
Richard stepped forward and executed a flawless bow to the elderly woman sitting in the armchair.
“Winslow.” Richard spoke with genuine respect. “You are a credit to the tactical arts. If the War Office had half your strategic brilliance, Napoleon would have surrendered years ago.”
Winslow beamed. “You’re very kind, Colonel.”
Darcy offered a bow of his own.
“I shall inform Horlicks of your triumph.” Darcy looked at the former scullery maid. “I am certain he will not be surprised at all, because he views you as a hero of the highest order already.”
Winslow’s single-toothed smile widened significantly. “He’s an excellent young man. You’re lucky to have him.”
Darcy and Richard stepped out and they walked back to their lodgings in silence.
Darcy looked up at the stars, the ache in his chest gone, replaced by an enduring certainty: he was going to marry Elizabeth Bennet. He simply needed to find the proper moment to ask her again.
Epilogue
The Steine at nine o’clock in the morning was empty of shrieking debutantes, strutting militia officers, loud vendors, and the rest of fashionable society. There were only the grey paving stones, the crash of the English Channel against the shingle beach, and a flock of loud seagulls.
Elizabeth Bennet considered the seagulls an improvement over her mother’s social circle.
She walked at a slow, measured pace, holding her sensible brown parasol angled carefully against the brilliant, rising sun. The sea breeze tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet, tasting of salt and victory.
Winslow walked beside her with an expression of supreme contentment, holding her customary apple in her right hand.
Scrape.
Winslow attacked the fruit, the noise echoing loudly across the empty promenade.
But Elizabeth did not find the sound irritating. She found it comforting. It was the sound of a chief architect enjoying the spoils of war.
They walked without talking for exactly ten minutes, until the sound of deliberate footsteps upon the stones broke the morning peace.
Elizabeth turned her head, and her heart executed a complicated, unladylike leap against her ribs.
Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy was walking directly to them.
