Page 11 of The Lost Prophecy

“Then you will take the necessary measures before your confidence becomes a tragic experiment,” Darcy issued the order, trying to disguise it as advice.

Bingley halted. “I fed before we left.”

Darcy did not trouble to conceal his scepticism. “You fed six hours ago, and Colonel Forster served enough roasted garlic to discourage appetite in every species represented at his table.”

Hurst examined a spot of rainwater on his sleeve. “I found the soup stimulating.”

Darcy did not turn his head. “You drank only from your flask, Hurst.”

Hurst bristled indignantly. “Well, the soup looked tasty. Everyone said so.”

Another fluttering sequence of beats travelled from the blue chamber. Bingley closed his eyes in pure agony, a low sound vibrating in his throat.

Darcy put a hand on Bingley’s arm. “You will feed elsewhere, Charles. And you will not return until you can pass beneath Miss Bennet’s chamber without calculating the precise distance to her throat.”

Bingley swallowed hard. “I am capable of restraint.”

Darcy shook his head. “Use the western park. The deer have recovered from Hurst’s visit last week, although they may not have recovered emotionally.”

Hurst lifted both hands in protest. “I took very little.”

Darcy glanced back without warmth. “You pursued the same stag for twenty minutes because you claimed it insulted your waistcoat.”

Hurst adjusted the garment in question, smoothing the silk with reverence. “Its attitude was unmistakable. It looked right at my lapels and sneered.”

Bingley departed through the side entrance into the driving rain without another word. Darcy listened in silence until his friend’s steps faded on the stone terrace and disappeared towards the sprawling parkland.

Miss Bingley produced a smile composed entirely of disapproval. “This is what comes from allowing country families to mistake a polite invitation for intimacy. Miss Bennet’s mother sent her three miles on horseback in a threatening sky, although any woman with minimal sense would have ordered the carriage.”

Mrs Hurst adjusted her shawl. “The rain began after Miss Bennet left Longbourn. She could not have predicted it.”

Miss Bingley sniffed. “Her mother predicted that Miss Bennet might be obliged to remain overnight, which appears to have been the primary object of the equestrian exercise.”

Miss Bingley entered the drawing room, and the others followed. Despite her sharp criticism, she paused under the ceiling below Miss Bennet’s chamber and raised her eyes to the plaster. Genuine concern did not soften her features, but something colder entered them when Bingley’s heavy footsteps sounded briefly on the gravel outside, then vanished again into the storm. She had watched her brother’s agitation, and Darcy did not doubt that she had reached the same conclusion he had.

Darcy took a commanding position near the roaring hearth, letting the heat dry his damp pantaloons. “Has an apothecary been summoned?”

Miss Bingley turned from the ceiling with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Mrs Nicholls did not consider it necessary. Miss Bennet has taken a chill, not contracted the plague.”

Darcy frowned. “You cannot possibly know that.”

Miss Bingley cast her eyes to the ceiling. “She was well when she arrived, apart from being wet, hopelessly cold, and unable to stop shivering.”

Hurst sank into a wing chair. “Those details offer limited support for the word well.”

Mrs Hurst glanced nervously at her husband. “Her fever rose less than an hour ago. Mrs Nicholls intended to reassess her condition before sending a footman out into this awful storm.”

Darcy reached for the bell pull. “The weather will not improve merely because we neglect the patient until morning.”

The butler appeared instantly. Darcy instructed the man to send a mounted servant to Mr Jones at once. Miss Bingley drew breath to object to this assumption of authority within her brother’s house, but a sudden movement overhead took the words from her. Mrs Nicholls crossed the upper passage, opened the blue chamber, and closed the door again.

Bingley returned twenty minutes later. He brought rain, significant quantities of mud, and an alarming degree of robust good cheer into the elegant drawing room. He strode inside, removed his sodden coat, and displayed a bright freshness unsuited to the dismal hour.

He rubbed his hands together vigorously. “The western herd is in excellent health.”

Darcy surveyed the torn shoulder of his friend’s linen shirt. “You overfed.”

Bingley grinned, exposing normal, blunt teeth. “I took precautions. Four deer permitted modest contributions, although the largest doe objected to my approach and kicked me into a holly hedge. No lasting injury occurred on either side.”