Page 52 of The Servants’ Matchmaking

His face gave nothing away to the room at large, but when he reached Elizabeth she saw the anger sitting there beneath the surface, held down by considerable effort.

"The shawl is safe," he said.

"And Miss Bingley?"

"With her brother."

"Did she deny it?"

"Not successfully."

Elizabeth wanted the whole of it. Whether he had entered the room, whether Louisa had brought witnesses along, whether her own shawl had been used to shame some other woman. But she saw, too, how many eyes in the ballroom had drifted their way.

"Later," she said.

Darcy's eyes warmed a little. "Later."

He offered his arm and returned her to Jane's side. The orchestra played on. Guests talked and laughed and danced, entirely unaware. Netherfield's ball carried on because servants kept moving candles and musicians kept keeping time and two particular people had refused to let Caroline Bingley write the story of the evening for them.

Elizabeth glanced towards the doorway. Sarah stood there, pale but standing straight all the same. McKeever joined her for a brief moment, said something too quiet to carry, and Sarah nodded once, her shoulders finally coming down from around her ears.

Their little scheme had begun weeks ago, as an attempt to make a match.

Tonight, without quite meaning to, they had ended up protecting one instead.

CHAPTER 12

Mr. Darcy

The message arrived by an innocent footman who knew nothing of any of it. He had taken the words from Miss Bingley's maid and carried them along as instructed.

"A lady in blue asks to speak with Mr. Darcy in the east saloon," McKeever repeated, in the flat, careful voice of a man reciting something he wished very much he did not have to.

Darcy looked across the crowded ballroom. Elizabeth stood beside Jane, shawl-less, her shoulders bare in the candlelight. She met his gaze and gave one small, steady nod.

She knew. Of course she knew.

He found Bingley near the supper-room door. "It has begun."

Bingley's jaw tightened until a muscle stood out along it. "I am coming."

They went together, McKeever following a few paces back. Close enough to serve as a witness. Not so close as to look like company. The east corridor stood empty, its lamps turned low for the ball, throwing long strange shadows against the panelling. The saloon door stood ajar, a slice of lamplight falling across the corridor floor.

Caroline waited inside, wearing Elizabeth's blue shawl over her own silver gown. The contrast made the theft plain at a glance. Blue silk against silver silk, one borrowed and one bought. She had arranged a single lamp behind her, so that anyone entering from the corridor would see the colour of that shawl before they saw her face.

Darcy stopped at the threshold. Bingley stood beside him, very still. Caroline turned with an expression of surprise so rehearsed it might have been performed for an audience of hundreds. It faltered the instant she saw her brother standing there too.

"Mr. Darcy. Charles."

"You sent for me," Darcy said.

"I did no such thing. Your valet must be mistaken."

McKeever stepped into the doorway's light. "The message came by way of Miss Bingley's own maid, madam."

"Then she misunderstood me entirely."

"Take off Miss Elizabeth's shawl," Bingley said.