Page 160 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Caroline paced the length of the drawing room at Portman Square, her morning dress of peach muslin swishing with each agitated turn. The clock on the mantel ticked two o'clock. The invitation specified three. She had one hour to decide whether to walk willingly into the lion's den or send her regrets and hide in her bedchamber until the Season ended.

Behind her, sprawled across the settee like a beached whale, Mr Hurst snored. He had been drunk since breakfast. This was not unusual. What was unusual was that Caroline had stopped caring enough to be embarrassed by it.

She paused mid-pace and stared at him. His cravat hung loose. His waistcoat was stained with what appeared to be gravy from three days prior. He smelled like a distillery that had caught fire. She walked over and kicked his shin. Not subtly. Not gently. With the pointed toe of her slipper and the full force of her considerable annoyance.

Hurst grunted, shifted, and continued snoring.

"Useless creature," she muttered.

She turned away, clutching the invitation, and considered her options.

Option One: Decline. Claim illness. Remain safely ensconced at Portman Square where the only people who could judge her were Louisa (currently confined to her chambers with swollen ankles and murderous thoughts), Charles (who had left for his club at ten and would not return until he had emptied his pockets at cards), and Hurst (who was a sentient lump of brandy-soaked wool).

Option Two: Accept. Attend tea at Matlock House. Face Jane Bennet—now Viscountess Keathley—the woman Caroline had convinced Charles to abandon. Face Elizabeth Bennet—now Mrs Darcy—the woman who had snatched Fitzwilliam Darcy from Caroline's grasp after years of strategic cushion-making and screen-painting.

And face Miss Darcy. Sweet, quiet Miss Darcy, whom Caroline had cultivated as a friend solely because befriending Darcy's sister seemed tactically sound.

It was a terrible plan. It would end in humiliation. They would be polite, of course—they were gentlewomen. But their kindness would be worse than outright hostility. Pity dressed in civility.

She crumpled the invitation in her fist. Then smoothed it out again.

She should send word to the Colonel. He would know what to do. He was infuriatingly good at knowing what to do, even when what he knew was completely wrong and delivered with maximum arrogance.

Her hand reached for the bell pull. Stopped.

No.

She did not need his assistance. She did not need anyone's assistance. She had survived worse than tea with women who had every right to loathe her. She had survived the death of her parents, Charles's spinelessness, Louisa's bitterness, and Hurst's descent into alcoholic oblivion.

She could survive tea.

To hell with it.

Caroline rang for Schmidt. "Fetch my blue spencer. The one with the black frogging. And my bonnet. The one without feathers."

Schmidt's eyebrows climbed. "The subdued one, Miss?"

"Yes. I am going to Matlock House for tea, and I will not give them the satisfaction of thinking I dressed loudly to impress them."

"Very good, Miss." Schmidt paused. "Should I send for the carriage?"

"No. I will walk. It is only fifteen minutes, and the air will clear my head."

Or give her time to reconsider and flee to Scotland.

Twenty minutes later, Caroline stood on the steps of Matlock House, her hand raised to knock, while she questioned every decision that had led her to this moment.

The door opened before she could retreat.

A butler, ancient and disapproving, looked down his nose at her. "Miss Bingley, I presume. Lady Keathley is expecting you. This way."

He led her through an opulent hallway until they reached a drawing room. The butler announced her. She stepped inside and immediately regretted being there.

Jane sat on a sofa upholstered in cream silk, an angel who had descended to Earth and decided to stay for biscuits. She wore a gown of pale rose muslin that made her look like a sunrise. Her smile was warm, genuine, and entirely undeserved.

Beside her sat Elizabeth Darcy, dressed in deep green that brought out the intelligence in her dark eyes. She seemed amused. This was ominous. And in a chair near the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap, was Miss Darcy. She looked nervous but offered Caroline a tentative smile.

"Miss Bingley!" Lady Keathley rose, moving forward with the grace of a woman who had been born to glide. "I am so pleased you could come. Please, sit. We have tea. And lemon cakes. Cook made them fresh this morning."