Lady Hertford tapped her walking stick on the floor. “Where is Madame Dubois?” she asked imperiously.
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley turned in tandem. Elizabeth, still partially hidden behind her chaperone, saw the moment their expressions registered that the newcomer was someone of standing.
“Lady Hertford.” Madame Dubois threw aside the curtain that led to the back. “It is such a pleasure to see you.”
Miss Bingley tittered at the name. Elizabeth could hardly believe her gauche manner. While Lady Hertfordwasthe prince’s mistress, her rank meant she could ruin the upstart daughter of a tradesman in an instant.
“I believe you ladies were leaving.” Lady Hertford stared down her nose at the sisters.
“Of course.” Mrs. Hurst clasped a hand on Miss Bingley’s arm. “Come along, Caroline.”
Elizabeth thought she had escaped detection. Miss Bingley turned as she exited the shop, and they locked gazes. Elizabeth kept her face neutral as Miss Bingley’s eyes widened in disbelief. And then she was gone.
I hope for the lady’s sake that she does nothing untoward.If she did, there would be no place in England she could go to hide from the consequences.
By the time they returned to Carlton House, dusk had settled over London and Elizabeth’s head was full to aching. The day had been spent in a whirl of measured indulgence: muslin walking gowns and silks in sober, elegant shades; slippers ordered with discreet heels; gloves, pelisses, and a single evening gown of restrained magnificence that Lady Hertford declaredunassailable. There were fittings, consultations, and quiet instructions delivered with efficient kindness, and Elizabeth could not deny that she had enjoyed herself—Lady Hertford proved brisk rather than unkind, her praise sparing but genuine, her judgment unfailingly sure. Still, beneath the satisfaction lay an unease she could not entirely shake. The ease of the day, the comfort of being guided and approved, had been intentional. It became clear, as the carriage rolled back through the lamplit streets, that this was the prince’s design: to bind Elizabeth not through command alone, but through competence and favor—transferring her loyalty gently, almost imperceptibly, from affection to dependence. She arrived back at her chambers outwardly composed and newly adorned, yet inwardly resolved to remember where her truest attachments lay, even as she learned to move gracefully within the circle now drawn around her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“You are mistaken, Caroline! It could not have been her.”
“It was. You did not see her. Miss Eliza was with Lady Hertford! Do you not see? All the mystery surrounding her relatives in town—she must be one of the prince’s by-blows!”
Darcy frowned at the loud argument coming from the parlor. He had come to see Bingley, and did not expect to be party to…whatever the sisters were saying.
“Darcy, come to my study.” Bingley stepped out of the parlor and beckoned. “I cannot stand another minute.”
“What is that about?”
Bingley shook his head. “Caroline and Louisa attempted to secure an appointment with one of the exclusive modistes of theton.They were turned away when Lady Hertford—yes, that lady—came for a private appointment. Caroline swears she saw Miss Elizabeth with Lady Hertford as she exited the shop. Now she is speculating about…well, it is not worth repeating.”
Darcy frowned. “You had best warn your sister to guard her tongue. Anyone connected to Lady Hertford is protected—gossiping about them could ruin her.”
“So, you think she might be right?”
“No, I think she had best be cautious before casting aspersions.”Elizabeth, here?It did not seem possible. Darcy sat in a chair beside Bingley. “I admit, I still lack any knowledge of Miss Elizabeth’s connections in town. I assumed her father’s family shared her care with Mr. Bennet.” And he had not been able to ask Elizabeth her surname. She had skirted the question carefully. At first, he had thought it accidental on her part, but now after some weeks of contemplation, he was not sure.
“I suppose I shall never know. I do not mean to return to…Hertfordshire.”
Bingley meant Miss Bennet, Darcy supposed, but said nothing on the subject. “I am in town for the season,” he supplied. “You and I can find plenty of diversion.”
“What is this? Darcy, interested in partaking of the season and exposing himself to thehaute ton?I cannot believe it.” He grinned crookedly.
“My aunt is hosting a ball. Perhaps I can secure an invitation—”
“No, I beg you. At least not to her ball at the beginning of the Season. Caroline would be unbearable.” Bingley shook his head. “She already thinks too well of herself.”
“As you like it.” Lady Matlock’s ball, which traditionally opened the Season, was well attended by the first circles. The Bingleys would only warrant an invitation if Darcy pressed, and even then, it was not certain.
“Will you come to the theater with me tomorrow week?” Bingley looked up hopefully. “Caroline insists she wishes to attend, and I have no ready excuse.”
“We might use my box, if it pleases you.” Darcy wished for his friend to return to his good spirits.
The arrangements were made, and he departed. Though he did not look forward to spending the evening with Miss Bingleyclutching his arm, he felt it was a sacrifice he could make to brighten his friend’s mood.
Elizabeth’s first gown was one for the theater. It was unlike anything Elizabeth had ever worn—elegant without excess, designed to command respect rather than attention. The silk was a soft, lustrous pearl-grey, woven so finely it caught the light without gleaming, its high waist accented by the faintest embroidery in silver thread, visible only upon close inspection. The sleeves were long and narrow, ending just below the elbow, allowing for warmth without heaviness, while the skirt fell in graceful folds that moved fluidly with every step. There was no profusion of ornament: no feathers, no jangling jewels—only a narrow satin sash and a single cameo at the waist of the bodice, chosen to suggest lineage rather than vanity. Elizabeth understood at once Lady Hertford’s intent. This was not a gown meant to dazzle, but to place her—unassailably respectable, elevated, and impossible to dismiss as merely decorative. Wearing it, Elizabeth felt both composed and constrained, aware that even in such beauty, every stitch had been chosen to speak on her behalf.
She had never before worn a gown that carried such purpose. At Longbourn, attire had been chosen for comfort or modest display. Here, clothing was argument—silent, deliberate, and difficult to refute.
