“We are equally astonished,” Elizabeth replied. “I now understand the impetus for Mr. Darcy’s letter. His own contrition was quiet and profound, focused on his faults rather than on Miss Bingley’s. I must say, I am deeply impressed by both gentlemen.”
“As am I,” Jane said quietly.
Mr. Morgan extended his arm, and Jane slipped to his side, followed by his sister. They ascended to their box, the velvet curtains closing with a soft hush. Uncle Edward, pride warming his features, led his wife and Elizabeth back down the corridor, their footsteps echoing lightly as the orchestra struck up the overture to the next act.
Thunderous applause cascaded throughthe gilded theatre as the heavy crimson curtain descended upon the second act. Ashton rose from his plush seat, his tall figure casting a shadow across their private box.
“I shall fetch some lemonade for Georgiana,” he announced with practiced elegance, glancing meaningfully at Richard. Darcy understood his cousin’s reluctance to have his brother attend with him. The recent musket wound on Richard’s shoulder, a harsh reminder from Wellington’s Portugal campaign, remained tender even to the slightest touch, enough to render any jostling in the crowded lobby an agony. Though content to remain with the colonel in their secluded box, Darcy inwardly steeled himself for the inevitable social intrusion that would surely punctuate the interval like a sour note in a perfect melody.
“That frown suggests you find the performance wanting,” Richard observed dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he studied Darcy’s expression in the flickering candlelight.
“Miss Bingley intercepted us upon arrival,” Darcy replied, his voice low, wishing to spare Georgiana further distress. “Though she abstained from intrusion during the first interval, I harbour no illusions that she will exercise similar restraint now.”
“Ah,” Richard nodded, a gleam of mischievous understanding lighting his hazel eyes. “Rest assured, Ash and I stand ready as your vanguard. Leave that insufferable harpy to our management.”
Darcy’s gratitude remained unspoken as three sharp raps interrupted them. The lacquered door swung open to reveal Bingley and Miss Eldridge, with Miss Bingley immediately pushing forward like a ship under full sail. She halted abruptly when Colonel Fitzwilliam stood to his full imposing height, forcing her to acknowledge his formidable presence with a poorly concealed grimace. The Hursts followed at a dignified pace.
After exchanging the slightest civilities with the colonel, Miss Bingley craned her neck to peer at Darcy.
“Mr. Darcy,” she simpered, “is not the performance simply divine? From your box, one can truly enjoy the most advantageous perspective.”
“It serves adequately,” Darcy replied, his tone clipped enough to extinguish any hope of further fawning or hope of an invitation to join them for the remaining two acts.
At that instant, Ashton returned, bearing Georgiana’s lemonade in a cut-glass goblet. Darcy delivered it to his sister, happily receiving her timid smile of gratitude, before addressing his aristocratic cousin.
“May I introduce my friend’s party?” he asked, his voice low but courteous.
Ashton lounged against the carved oak balustrade, his expression one of languid amusement. “I think not,” he drawled. “Although the Hursts may remain, if they so wish.”
At once, Bingley’s face flushed a sudden, angry crimson, Miss Eldridge’s eyes widened in startled dismay, and Miss Bingleyblanched, her balance faltering momentarily. When Mrs. Hurst moved to steady her sister, her husband’s fingers closed around her arm, and he gave her a subtle but resolute shake of his head.
“Darcy!” Bingley’s voice rose with indignation. “Will you permit such an affront to my sister and myself?”
“Viscount Ashton’s social preferences are, I regret to inform you, entirely his own affair,” Darcy replied, longing for the evening’s conclusion and the sanctuary of home with Georgiana. Yet despite his irritation, he was reluctant to sever ties with Bingley entirely. “Let us meet at the club tomorrow to discuss this matter further.”
Bingley stiffened, his posture betraying wounded pride as he offered his arm to Caroline, all the while utterly neglecting Miss Eldridge.
“Come, Caroline, we shall return to our seats,” he announced, then fixed his gaze upon his elder sister. “Will you accompany us, Louisa?”
Mrs. Hurst cast a furtive glance at her silent husband, then closed her eyes, drawing in a calm breath as though steeling herself against a gust of wind.
“I think not, Charles,” she replied softly. “Reginald and I shall rejoin you before the third act commences.”
Nostrils flaring, Bingley tilted his chin with ill-concealed irritation. “As you wish. Good evening, then.”
Before he could turn away, Darcy intervened. “Mr. Bingley, Miss Eldridge awaits your escort.”
Colour suffused Bingley’s features as he reluctantly extended his remaining arm to the forgotten young lady. The three departed, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake. No sooner had the latch clicked than Ashton addressed Hurst in lowered tones.
“My apologies for the unpleasantness. My mother and her circle have become aware of Miss Bingley’s conduct. I regret to inform you that she stands on the precipice of social ruin. She has twice offended the Cavendish family, once on Bond Street and again this evening, where the anteroom hums with disapproval.”
A meaningful look passed from Ashton to Mrs. Hurst, who immediately cast her eyes downward. Beside her, Hurst’s lips compressed into a thin line, and Darcy recognised the signs of an impending domestic reckoning.
The men’s club stoodnearly empty when Darcy entered its hallowed halls, the polished oak panels gleaming in the pale afternoon sunlight that streamed through tall, arched Georgian windows. He preferred the hushed atmosphere of early afternoon, savouring the scent of beeswax and leather that permeated the air, although the establishment would soon fill with lords and wealthy gentlemen alike, their boisterous laughter and political debates echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Bingley, ever the late riser, would doubtless complain about the hour, preferring to remain abed dreaming of his latest blue-eyed infatuation.
The heavy oak door to his reserved private room swung open with a soft creak, bringing a slight draft that disturbed the pages of The Times laid out before him, along with not only Bingley but Hurst as well. Darcy rose to welcome them, gesturing for the liveried footman to serve drinks.
“I had not expected your company, Hurst,” Darcy remarked once they were settled in plush leather chairs that sighed beneaththeir weight.
