Page 43 of The Lost Prophecy

“Another hour would have sufficed,” Hurst muttered.

Darcy stationed himself by the window and parted the curtain by an inch. The autumn sun lay pale on the grounds, touching the wet lawns without warmth. Somewhere beyond them, Wickham had begun weaving himself into Meryton society before Darcy could prevent it.

“The young ladies found him handsome, agreeable, witty, and the most charming officer ever to wear a uniform.” Bingley placed his hat on the bedpost.

Darcy released the curtain. It fell back into place, restoring the room to its comfortable gloom. “Bingley, when Miss Lydia asked if you would invite him to the ball, you agreed.”

“I agreed that Colonel Forster and his officers would be welcome.”

“You should not have.”

Fletcher lifted his foot from the bowl and carried the jar to Darcy’s dressing case. Behind him, the vessel stayed obedient for almost three seconds.

Bingley lifted both hands. “What would you have had me do? Miss Lydia asked before the entire room.”

“Refuse.”

“On what grounds?”

“Any grounds.”

Bingley stared at him.

Darcy allowed Fletcher to inspect the fastening of his coat, then turned back to his friend. “You might have developed a sudden objection to uniforms. You might have claimed that the ballroom floor could not withstand military boots. You might have cancelled the ball.”

“Mrs Bennet would have demanded an explanation.” Bingley retrieved his hat and struck it once against his thigh. “Miss Lydia would have demanded six. Worse, the entire county would have learned before dinner that I was not amiable.”

“Your reputation would have recovered.”

“My reputation is founded entirely on amiability. You are asking me to surrender my principal asset.”

Hurst collected his gloves from the table. “Bingley has a point. Without amiability, he has only five thousand a year, an excellent house, and a face women appear to approve of.”

Bingley considered this. “I might survive.”

“You invited Wickham into Netherfield.” Darcy’s voice silenced them both. “You offered him a ballroom containing hundreds of exposed throats.”

The punch bowl struck the side of the table.

Fletcher caught it as it rolled to the door. He lifted it, carried it back, and placed it firmly in the centre of the table.

Darcy continued before Bingley could answer. “Miss Bennet and her sisters will be among those guests. Miss Elizabeth will be among them.”

The bowl launched itself from the table.

Fletcher caught it against his chest, the impact forcing him back one step, but he retained his hold.

Hurst watched the struggle. “It understands the objection.”

“It understands nothing,” Darcy replied.

The bowl twisted, and Fletcher tightened both arms around it. “It understands advantage.”

Bingley moved closer to Darcy. “I did not invite Wickham individually. I invited Colonel Forster and the officers attached to his regiment. Had I excluded one man by name, everyone would have wanted to know why.”

“Then you should have provided a reason.”

“Which one?” Bingley began counting on his fingers. “That Wickham is a disgraced vampire who has developed a habit of converting unwilling strangers? That you created him and now need evidence before you can destroy him? Tell me, Darcy?”