Page 24

“I am testing the limits of my confinement, my dear,” Mr Gardiner said, motioning to his wife to turn the chair in a tight circle. “I find I possess a natural aptitude for giving directions.”

Miss Elizabeth glanced at Darcy and offered a tiny shake of her head, undoubtedly recalling the lavender-scented disaster of the previous morning.

Darcy’s lips formed a broad smile.

“The library is at your disposal.” Darcy moved away from the window, looking at the restless, energetic merchant confined to the chair. “However, I suspect reading may prove too sedentary an occupation for a man with such an appetite for adventure, sir. Do you play billiards?”

Mr Gardiner’s eyes lit up. “Billiards! I have not held a cue in five years, sir, but I was considered something of a terror in the Cheapside parlours.”

“Then we must put your skills to the test.” Darcy gestured to the door. “The billiards room is just across the hall. The table is well-lit, and the baize is freshly brushed. The ladies are, of course, welcome to join us or remain here by the fire.”

Miss Elizabeth’s head snapped up, her book forgotten. “I have never seen a game of billiards played, Mr Darcy. Is it very difficult?”

“It requires a steady hand, a grasp of angles, and a certain ruthless calculation, Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy held her gaze, a thrilling challenge passing between them. “I believe you would find it to your liking.”

Georgiana abandoned her embroidery. “Oh, yes! Let us all go. Fitzwilliam is a master at the table, Miss Elizabeth. He once beat Cousin Richard while blindfolded.”

“Richard was excessively intoxicated at the time, Georgiana,” Darcy corrected, though his sister’s praise warmed him. “His inability to hit the ball had little to do with my skill.”

They moved to the other room, a parade of silk skirts, squeaking wheels, and clicking canine claws. Apollo and Diana, having firmly bonded with the injured man, trotted faithfully on either side of the Bath chair.

The billiards room was a masterpiece of masculine elegance. A long table dominated the centre of the floor, draped in green baize. Brass lamps hung suspended above the playing surface, casting bright pools of light that banished the gloom of the thunderstorm raging outside.

Darcy moved to the rack, selecting a finely weighted cue. He tested the smooth, polished ash wood with his palm, revelling in the balance.

Soon enough, Martin, the Pemberley butler, followed them.

“Good afternoon,” he said, bowing to everyone. “I observed the party moving here, and I have taken the liberty of ordering refreshments.”

“Thank you, Martin.” Darcy chalked the tip of his cue. “That is most considerate.”

Martin stepped to the side, his chin raised.

A sickening dread coiled in Darcy’s stomach.

A hesitant, shuffling footstep came from the passage.

Bates appeared in the doorway. The young footman was pale, sweating profusely, and gripping a silver tray tightly. On the tray sat a large decanter of watered-down orgeat, a smaller of ratafia, and six long-stemmed crystal glasses.

Fletcher had clearly increased the severity of the boy’s training. This was not a mere exercise in walking. This was a trial of Bates’s nerve, conducted under the watchful eye of the head butler.

Miss Elizabeth inhaled sharply, taking a step backwards, her eyes darting between the trembling footman and the entirely flat floor.

“Proceed, Bates,” Martin commanded.

Bates swallowed and took a single step into the room. The crystal glasses initiated a high chiming sound, clinking together like tiny warning bells.

Darcy gripped his cue, calculating the exact distance between Bates and the nearest expensive antique. The room held its collective breath. Even the wolfhounds seemed to sense the tension, remaining still by the Bath chair.

Bates moved with the unnatural gait of a clockwork automaton, navigating the corner of a sofa. He successfully managed a side table, while the chiming of the crystal grew louder.

“Eyes forward, Bates,” Martin intoned from the doorway.

Bates reached the long sideboard at the far wall. He lowered the silver tray with excruciating slowness, the metal connecting with the wood. Not a single glass tipped. Not a single drop of orgeat spilled.

Bates released a breath that sounded like a punctured bellows. He sagged, mopping his sweating brow with his sleeve.

“Adequate.” Martin offered a microscopic nod. “You may remain to serve the beverages, Bates. Do not break anything.”