An idea began to form in his mind. It was simple. It was elegant. It required no cliffs, no hidden musicians, and absolutely no ink.
He opened his eyes, a slow, triumphant smile breaking across his face.
“I have it,” he announced softly.
“What is it?” Anne leaned forward eagerly. “Is it the cliff?”
“Tell us!” Richard demanded.
“Very well.” Darcy stood up and smoothed his waistcoat. The anxiety, the panic, the fear—it was all gone. He felt invincible. “I am going to tell you exactly what my plan entails, because you are all going to be implicated.”
Robert’s expression lit up with unholy glee. “Implicated? Fitzwilliam, you speak to my very soul. Tell us. Who are we kidnapping?”
“We are not kidnapping anyone.” Darcy sighed. “But I cannot execute this alone. It requires precision and timing.”
“A coordinated infiltration.” Richard nodded approvingly, sitting up straighter. “I like it. What are my assignments?”
Darcy gathered them around him. “I am going to host a dinner at Vauxhall Gardens, and I will need your assistance.”
Robert’s face lit up with glee. “Vauxhall? Music, lanterns, and overpriced wine. Very theatrical, Fitzwilliam. What is our role in this production?”
“I need a moment of privacy with Miss Elizabeth,” he explained. “Properly chaperoned by proximity, naturally, but out of earshot. I will invite the Gardiners and the Bennet sisters. When we arrive, I need you all to scatter her family. Draw them to the main pavilion or the cascades.”
“Consider it done.” Richard nodded approvingly, sitting up straighter on the sofa. “I shall ask Mr Gardiner about the Thames shipping routes. That should occupy him for at least an hour.”
“I shall keep Miss Bennet captivated,” Robert promised, pressing a hand to his heart with solemn gravity. “She shall not notice a thing.”
“Anne and Georgiana.” Darcy turned to the ladies. “You will engage Mrs Gardiner. Inquire about her favourite musicians or the latest fashions. Keep her attention fixed upon you.”
“We shall manage her beautifully,” Anne said, a mischievous spark in her pale features. “But what of you, Fitzwilliam? Where will you go?”
“Once the path is clear, I shall guide Miss Elizabeth towards the quieter walks. And there I will ask my question.”
“Dawson! Boodles!” Robert shouted, leaping out of his armchair. “Bring the good brandy! The smuggled French stuff! The master of Pemberley is hosting a party tomorrow night!”
The wreckage of Lady Catherine’s ambitions was far behind them, replaced by the thrilling promise of the future. Darcy did not need a windswept moor, a hidden choir, or a tragic monologue. He had his cousins, a plan, and a heart captivated by a woman with an unmatched wit.
Chapter Twenty: The Lanterns of Vauxhall
ELIZABETH BENNET STOODin the middle of her modest bedchamber in Gracechurch Street, staring at her reflection as if the woman in the mirror had personally betrayed her. She wasagonisingover a silk shawl. Ashawl. Two hours of her life—two precious, irretrievable hours—had been sacrificed to the precise arrangement of an ivory fringe, all because Fitzwilliam Darcy, the former marble statue of Derbyshire, had somehow managed to become the centre of her universe.
If someone had told her six months ago that she would be preening like a debutante for the man who had once declared her “tolerable,” she would have laughed herself to tears. Though right now, she wanted to cry because the shawl still lookedwrong, and her heart was performing an undignified jig against her ribs.
“He is spoiling us, Lizzy,” Aunt Madeline observed from the doorway, fastening the clasp of her own velvet cloak. “Vauxhall Gardens. A private supper box. The man is yanking stars out of the firmament and arranging them into a heartshape at your feet. This is not a casual evening stroll. This is a declaration, mark my words.”
“I am aware, Aunt,” Elizabeth muttered, tugging the fringe again. It still refused to drape with the dramatic elegance she aimed for. “Though I suspect he simply wishes to prove that his conversational skills have evolved beyond praising the sturdiness of my bonnets.”
Jane glided into the room like a vision in frosted pink silk, her golden hair catching the lamplight. She took one look at Elizabeth’s frantic adjustments and smiled that gentle, knowing smile that had always made Elizabeth feel both comforted and thoroughly stupid.
“Lord Keathley sent a note an hour ago,” Jane said, perching on the edge of the bed. “He claims he has commissioned a special dessert for the evening. Something involving excessive spun sugar and possibly a small fountain.”
“The viscount,” Elizabeth said dryly, finally abandoning the shawl to its rebellious fate, “is a walking confection. I half expect him to leave a trail of molasses and bad decisions wherever he steps. Though I suppose it is rather endearing how he trips over his own charm whenever you are near.”
Jane’s cheeks pinked, but her eyes sparkled with delight. “Be kind to him, Lizzy. He has only just recovered the power of speech. The poor man spent half of Astley’s looking as though he had swallowed a live eel.”
Elizabeth turned from the mirror, her teasing grin softening. She crossed the room and took her sister’s hands, squeezing them. “You deserve every ridiculous, spun-sugar-filled compliment he can muster, Jane. You deservea man who looks at you like you hung the moon and then immediately forgets how to form sentences. After everything...”
Jane squeezed back, her voice soft but steady. “I am happy, Lizzy. Truly. And I am even happier for you. Mr Darcy looks at you like you are the only fixed point in his universe. It is rather beautiful to watch.”
