Thomas Bennet.
Elizabeth smiled, preparing to fold the letter and run upstairs to show Jane. But her eyes caught a final, hastily scribbled addendum at the very bottom of the page.
P.S. I regret to inform you that your mother, in a quest to locate my misplaced spectacles, stumbled into my study and accidentally set eyes upon your letter before I could secure it in the drawer.
Elizabeth froze, the teacup halting halfway to its saucer.
The ensuing hysteria was spectacular,Mr Bennet’s script continued.After depleting the county’s supply of smelling salts at the revelation of ten thousand a year in your grasp, she immediately commanded the carriage.
The blood drained from Elizabeth’s face.
I am afraid to report, Lizzy, that she went straight to Meryton. She told your Aunt Phillips. I have it on good authority that your mother and Mrs Phillips took tea with Mrs Long. Along with Mrs Long, naturally, they intercepted Mrs Goulding in the apothecary. Mrs Goulding, as we all know, calls daily on Lady Lucas. On this occasion, she marched them all to Lucas Lodge.
Elizabeth stopped breathing. Her eyes flew over the final, fatal sentence.
Lady Lucas started wailing that Mr Darcy is engaged to Lady Catherine’s daughter, nearly resulting in fisticuffs with your mother and Aunt Phillips. Then, under a deep sense of civic duty, she sent an express to her son-in-law and daughter in Hunsford. I assume my cousin reported the news to his patroness. Therefore, I suggest you tell your suitor to brace himself. I suspect a storm is coming.
The letter slipped from Elizabeth’s fingers, fluttering onto the tablecloth.
The gossip chain had been activated. The most lethal, unstoppable force in the British Empire—the Meryton communication network—had conveyed the secret of ten thousand a year directly to Lady Catherine’s lap.
Elizabeth stared blankly at the marmalade. She could practically hear the sound of hoofbeats approaching.
Her aunt entered, and Elizabeth stared at her unseeingly. “Aunt Madeline,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Yes, Lizzy?”
“I believe,” Elizabeth swallowed hard, “we are going to need more biscuits. A great deal more.”
Chapter Nineteen: The Dragon of Grosvenor Square
THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATIONof the existence of Hell on Earth was the small, hastily folded piece of paper in the palm of Darcy’s hand. The note had arrived from Cheapside less than an hour ago, smelling faintly of lavender and sheer panic.
My Dear Mr Darcy,the elegant, hurried script read.I write to you with the utmost urgency to inform you that the Meryton communication network has breached all bounds of natural science. My mother stumbled upon a letter intended for my father. After demanding her smelling salts, she immediately dashed to Meryton. She informed Aunt Phillips. Aunt Phillips informed Mrs Long. Mrs Goulding was next. The news reached Lady Lucas. An express rider has been dispatched to Hunsford. Lady Catherine KNOWS. I suggest you bolt your doors, draw your curtains, and instruct your staff to hide the good china.
Yours in profound horror,
Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy read the note for the fourth time. The efficiency of the Hertfordshire matrons was a marvel of modern society. They operated with a speed that rivalled the Royal Mail.
The morning room of Darcy House had been transformed into a holding pen for anxious aristocrats. Viscount Keathley paced continuously, occasionally pausing to peer through the curtains to the street. Colonel Fitzwilliam was systematically shifting delicate porcelain vases from the tables to the safety of highest perches, calculating the likely trajectory of a swinging cane. Anne de Bourgh was seated on the sofa, consuming a piece of shortbread, while Georgiana inspected her own trembling hands.
“She is coming,” Darcy announced, his voice dropping to a sombre, resonant pitch. “I can sense it.”
“Let her come.” Robert dropped the curtain and turned to face the room. “We have the high ground and superior numbers. We have Boodles, Dawson, and Mostyn.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, the viscount’s valet appeared in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder with Dawson and Mostyn. The three servants stood with crossed arms and unnerving stillness, ready to face an apocalypse.
“I could double-bolt the front doors, my lord,” Mostyn suggested in a voice without emotion. “I could instruct the footmen to feign deafness should anyone demand entry without a calling card.”
“That is a futile gesture, Mostyn.” Anne brushed a crumb from her emerald silk day dress. “If Mother finds the doors bolted, she will simply order her coachman to drive the horses through the ground-floor window. It is safer to let her inside and allow the tantrum to run its natural course.”
“Miss de Bourgh speaks with the wisdom of experience, sir,” Dawson murmured to Darcy. “Shall I prepare a tray of calming chamomile? Or perhaps I should decant theeau-de-viede cidreI acquired from a French smuggler in my youth? It dulls the senses wonderfully.”
“Stick to brandy, Dawson,” Darcy sighed, rubbing his temples. “If my aunt consumeseau-de-vie de cidre, she will demand to be crowned Queen of Scotland by teatime.”
The words had scarcely faded when the sound of a carriage grinding to a halt echoed from the square below. This was followed by a barrage of blows against the solid oak of the entrance door, delivered with the furious tempo of a cane.
