Page 16 of The Lost Prophecy

Miss Bingley adjusted her posture, eager to demonstrate superiority. “The Italian scenery in Udolpho is particularly fine.”

Miss Elizabeth put the question pleasantly, as though it contained no trap at all. “Do you mean the castle in the Pyrenees?”

Miss Bingley adjusted the silk on her wooden frame. “Naturally. I read it several years ago and remember it well.”

Hurst raised his glass from the corner without opening his eyes. “Caroline does not read novels. She examines the first volume and develops opinions about the remaining three.”

Miss Bingley shot him a murderous glare. “I read extensively, Brother.”

Hurst took a sip. “You purchase the books extensively, Sister. The distinction has affected several London booksellers very favourably.”

Bingley’s loud laughter threatened his fangs once again. Miss Bingley abandoned literature and began criticising the circulating libraries that encouraged unsuitable reading among impressionable young women. Miss Elizabeth listened politely, although her eyes returned to Darcy whenever he contributed. Their conversation had acquired an ease he ought to have resisted. Yet each challenge invited another, and each quick answer revealed a mind unwilling to surrender merely because his fortune, rank, or brooding manner expected it.

Mrs Nicholls appeared at the door before the discussion could move safely to the weather. Miss Bennet had awakened and was asking for Miss Elizabeth. Bingley rose so quickly that his chair struck the floor loudly behind him, and he rushed forward. “Has the fever worsened?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “It remains unchanged, sir. Miss Bennet wishes only for her sister.”

Miss Elizabeth returned the book to the table and stood. “I shall go to her.”

Bingley hastily retrieved his chair, nearly overturned the wine stand, and begged Miss Elizabeth to send word if Miss Bennet required anything. She promised to do so before following Mrs Nicholls upstairs. Darcy stayed in the drawing room until the closing door above removed all excuse for listening to her light steps, and he retired half an hour later.

Fletcher had prepared the grand bedchamber and placed the punch bowl on its usual table. It sat under the candlelight in a state of innocent stillness, displaying none of the movement that had occupied it earlier in the day.

Darcy allowed Fletcher to take his coat and remove his cravat. “You may retire, Fletcher.”

His valet inspected the bowl suspiciously before crossing to the dressing-room door. “Shall I remove anything breakable first, sir?”

Darcy rubbed his eyes. “It has exhausted itself.”

Fletcher bowed. “The candlestick believed the same this morning.”

Darcy waited until the door closed, then approached the table and rested both hands firmly on its edge. He spoke to the empty vessel. “Bingley has formed an attachment to Miss Bennet.”

The bowl was motionless.

Darcy continued. “Miss Bennet is human, uninformed, and ill under his roof. If his control fails, her life may be altered without her consent.”

No response disturbed the polished silver.

Darcy leaned closer. “Wickham may have passed through Meryton, and his presence would endanger every mortal connected to Netherfield.”

The bowl offered no opinion.

Darcy narrowed his eyes on the curved rim. “Miss Elizabeth is among those endangered.”

A metallic tremor travelled rapidly around its rim.

Darcy scowled. “You have ignored an ill woman, an infatuated vampire, a fugitive scoundrel, and the possible exposure of our kind, yet Miss Elizabeth’s name commands your concern.”

The bowl rocked once, firmly, as if nodding.

Darcy gripped the table edge. “She is not the only one whose welfare matters.”

Its handles remained stubbornly still.

Darcy began to pace. “If I stay, I expose her to my own hunger. If I leave, Bingley remains without any authority capable of restraining him, and Wickham may approach her before I understand what she really is.”

The bowl nudged itself slightly towards him, producing a small scraping sound against the wood.