Page 77 of The Lost Prophecy

Chapter Twelve: A Ball of Excellent Execution Part I

BY SEVEN O’CLOCK, NETHERFIELD had acquired enough candles, flowers, and polished silver to conceal any quantity of evil beneath excellent taste. Light blazed from the ballroom chandeliers, musicians tuned their instruments in the gallery, and servants moved through the public rooms carrying final instructions which contradicted the instructions issued ten minutes earlier. Miss Bingley had revised the placement of the chairs twice since dinner, although no one in the house had dined, and the eastern doors had survived only because Bingley had placed himself physically between them and his sister.

Darcy stood in Bingley’s study with the household assembled around him. Bingley occupied the space before the fire, his hands clasped behind his back in a poor imitation of calm. Hurst had taken the corner nearest the drinks table, while Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley shared the sofa. Fletcher waited beside the door, a folded plan of the ground floor resting in his palm.

“He does not touch her.” Darcy allowed his gaze to move over every face. “Not her hand, her arm, or any part of her clothing. We require evidence of a fresh offence, but Miss Elizabeth will not be injured to obtain it.”

Hurst leaned one shoulder against the wall. “We understood the rule the first three times.”

Darcy pointed a finger at him. “You will understand it a fourth.”

“Then I understand it with unusual thoroughness.”

Bingley left the hearth and walked to the table where Fletcher was spreading the plan. “An attempt at compulsion will be sufficient?”

“Yes. The True Blood is protected under the oldest law. An expressed threat, an attempt to compel her, or any movement intended to seize her permits intervention.” Darcy placed one finger against the marked position of the study. “He need not draw blood. He must not reach her.”

Mrs Hurst studied the narrow passage running between the card room and study. “I shall remain between the drawing room and the ladies’ staircase. Caroline will control the ballroom, and Hurst will take the western corridor when Wickham leaves the dancers.”

“The servants stationed here and here know that no guest may enter the private rooms.” Fletcher indicated the eastern passage and the stairs. “Two men will remain near the terrace doors, one inside and one in the garden. The study has been opened as an additional gentlemen’s room, but the service door behind the shelves will remain under my control.”

Miss Bingley rested her hands against her skirts. “I continue to object to using my ball as a judicial trap.”

“Your brother’s ball,” Hurst corrected.

“I arranged it. Charles engaged musicians and then asked whether musicians needed chairs.”

Bingley turned away from the floor plan. “We can still cancel.”

Miss Bingley stared at him. “We cannot cancel a ball an hour before the guests arrive because one officer has deficient morals.”

“He has fangs, Caroline.”

Darcy moved to the windows. The curtains had been closed at dusk, and the glass behind them held nothing but darkness. Miss Elizabeth had chosen to proceed after learning the truth. Her consent had been clear, informed, and accompanied by conditions which left no room for convenient misunderstanding. None of that reduced his responsibility. If Wickham reached her, Darcy would remain the man who had opened the door and permitted him to enter.

Hurst pushed away from the wall, his voice devoid of mockery. “If we cancel, Wickham approaches her at Longbourn, Meryton, or the next assembly. We shall not choose the room, control the doors, or know who stands near her. Tonight, he enters ground we have prepared, and every creature capable of stopping him is waiting.”

“She should never have been required to stand on that ground at all,” Darcy said.

“No, but that decision belonged to Wickham. Miss Elizabeth has decided what she will do about it.”

Darcy turned from the window. Hurst’s correction struck too near the argument Miss Elizabeth had made. Respecting her choice only when it agreed with his own would turn concern into another form of control.

Fletcher cleared his throat. “There remains the matter of the bowl.”

Miss Bingley’s posture sharpened. “It is locked in Mr Darcy’s chamber.”

“It was locked there.” Fletcher maintained the grave composure which had helped him survive twenty-seven years in a vampire household. “It has twice crossed the room since luncheon. The second time, I discovered it under my coat.”

Hurst examined the valet’s narrow frame. “That must have required optimism.”

“It displayed determination.”

Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where is it now?”

“In the centre of your bed with the door locked, the key in my possession, and a chair placed against the handle.”

Miss Bingley rose from the sofa. “It will remain there. I refuse to have an ancient ceremonial vessel pursuing Miss Elizabeth between the dancers.”