Page 94

The Beeson Residence

The dinner party was quite large, and Caroline Bingley had high hopes of turning a few heads after she had accomplished what she came for—spreading the gossip about Eliza. Sarah Beeson, an acquaintance from Mrs. Latimer’s School, had granted her request to host her in London but it came with a price. She had insisted that Caroline and a number of their schoolmates attend her Grandfather Beeson’s birthday celebration and ball, and make themselves available to dance with the men who would be present. Caroline had not been anticipating this soiree with delight.

“Thank you for the invitation to stay with you, Sarah!” Caroline declared with false sincerity, grabbing her friend’s hand as they lead the parade back to the music room after dinner. As they slowly moved forward with the crowd, she justified their relationship. At least the home is elegant, even if the occupants are not, she mused, taking in the large bevelled crystal chandeliers, numerous gilded mirrors, dark mahogany tables, imported Persian rugs and other expensive furnishings.

While it was true that Mr. Beeson was in trade, a connection Caroline normally avoided whenever possible, they were wealthy. And after all, Mrs. Beeson’s grandfather had been an earl and she was accepted among some factions of the ton, which in itself redeemed the family somewhat. Otherwise, Caroline would never have considered Sarah worthy of her time, as she was not fashionable, good company, or accomplished.

As she, Sarah, and their little coterie gathered in a small alcove near the open doors to the balcony, Caroline stood out in her tangerine gown, her choice of colours making all of the others look positively sickly in their pale pinks and whites. As always, she became the centre of attention in the less than stellar group and turned the conversation to her recent return from Hertfordshire seeing an opportunity to further her first priority–ruining the good name of Elizabeth Bennet.

“I do not think I could have endured one more day in Meryton,” she said, waiting until all eyes fixed on her to continue. “There is no refined society in that awful wasteland. My brother’s child whines constantly, and his wife is a shrew who ignores me completely—which is the only good thing I can say about her. As I have said many times before, she brought nothing to the marriage—no dowry, no connections. I cannot abide that Charles has forced me to associate with her and her equally appalling family.”

Suzanna Carlson, another tradesman’s daughter, wrinkled her nose in a look of contempt. “From what you have said, Caroline, they are people of the lowest sort. Why ever did your brother condescend to marry someone with such a family and no dowry, especially when he could have done so much better?” Left unsaid was the fact that she herself had chased Charles Bingley for over a year, but he had never given her so much as a sideways glance. Truth be known, not only was Miss Carlson very plain, but her disposition was too much like his sister’s for Charles to be tempted.

“Two words, Suzanna,” Caroline opined. Everyone quieted, anticipation building as they awaited the pronouncement.

“Arts and allurements,” she declared with absolute authority. There was much murmuring among the group as everyone nodded knowingly.

Rebecca Watley, a mousey, thin woman interjected, “Mother says many strumpets use those very things to secure decent men—the very men who should have been courting me!” Her voice got higher as she became more flustered, waving her hands about. “I mean us—but for the temptations offered by these trollops, I might have been married already.”

There was another round of mumbled agreement from the unattractive band, each now convinced that they were likely the victims of such women since they were unmarried.

“And that, ladies, is the very reason that I have hurried to London,” Caroline trumpeted. Eyebrows rose in unison, as ears perked up again. “It is my Christian duty to warn a good and decent man of my acquaintance of a similar scheme being perpetrated against him at this very moment by a deceitful woman.” She was very pleased to see eyes widen and mouths hang open in expectancy.

“Do tell us who, Caroline.” Sarah whined. Caroline never understood Sarah’s penchant for whining instead of speaking clearly as it always made her skin crawl. But she forgave the whining in this instance, since the high pitch of Sarah’s voice drew everyone’s attention.

Throwing her head back in righteous indignation, Caroline peered down her nose, as her eyes circled the group. “I expect you to keep this our little secret,” she warned at full volume, knowing full well they would do as she wished and shout it to the heavens. “I intend to warn Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

A chorus of gasps pierced the air.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy?” Marjorie Simonds lamented, almost moaning his name. “He is so handsome. My mother said if she were just a little younger—”

“Oh hush, Marjorie!” Gladys Pope scolded. “We have all heard how your mother would do this and that, if she were a little younger. Let us hear what Caroline has to say about Mr. Darcy.”

A worshipful look suffused Theodora Berman’s face. “If you ask me, he is simply divine. I used to swoon whenever I was in his company, though he has scarcely been seen in London in years.”

“I agree, Theodora. I tried to get his attention in my first season. He was the most handsome man of my acquaintance,” Muriel Burnett sighed. “Do tell us, Caroline, though I cannot help but wonder if he would even heed your advice. He is very much his own man according to my father.”

“I have no doubt he will listen to me as we are such good friends. I have known him for years.” Caroline added purposefully, “And it is that intimate knowledge that tells me his kind heart has led him into this unfortunate circumstance.”

Caroline poured her heart and soul into the tale she spun about Mr. Darcy’s distant cousin, so much so, that her performance would have put to shame many an actress on the London stage. Unbeknownst to her, there were two people not of her group, listening with more than benign curiosity.

Lady Gwendolyn Waltham was near Caroline, and upon hearing Mr. Darcy’s name mentioned, moved close enough to hear everything. She began to wonder. Could it actually be true that the unattractive little woman I observed at Pemberley with Fitzwilliam was not his cousin, but an imposter who fled her husband and sought to insinuate herself at Pemberley?

An unbidden smile appeared as she contemplated this new intelligence. In some ways, this twisted tale offered her a ray of hope. Or perhaps Fitzwilliam knows who she is but enjoys her ... hmm ... company. Could his staunch sense of decency and honour have developed a crack in its facade or, with any luck, a large fissure?

Gwendolyn smiled for the first time in days. If my dear boy is going to cast propriety to the wind, then why should I not be there to catch it? Surely he did not mean to cast me aside with that whore Leighton.

Sudden thoughts of Count Francesco came to mind. Lately, he had been preoccupied with business matters and had neglected her, leaving her to find other escorts to soirees such as this, and he was no longer showering her with jewels as he had when their acquaintance was new. The presents had been a great incentive to tolerate his attentions—well, that, and his proficiency in bed. Still, he was so sure of himself that he expected her to be available whenever he deigned to visit. A return to Derbyshire would kill two birds with one stone—warning the count that she was not one who would tolerate being taken for granted, and, if she were lucky, relighting an old flame. The time was ripe to approach the reticent Mr. Darcy again. She smirked as she passed the roomful of insignificant people on her way to the man who had escorted her, the elderly Lord Greenwich.

Fitzwilliam simply must be tired of that ugly, diminutive toy by this time. In any event, there is nothing to be gained by staying here.

Also, within range of Caroline’s diatribe was George Wickham, who had stepped out on the balcony to avoid a jealous husband. The sound of the name of his old nemesis being bandied about just inside the open doors garnered his curiosity. He moved closer, being careful not to be noticed by the small band of women gossiping in the alcove.

He was surprised to see someone he recognised holding court—Charles Bingley’s sister. This was a woman whom he knew had used her brother’s friendship with Darcy to chase after him for years now. As he listened, she wove an illogical tale of a married woman and the heir of Pemberley. Knowing Darcy as he did, Wickham was about to dismiss the tale as a fabrication when Miss Bingley mentioned the woman’s name—Elizabeth Bennet.

Was not that the maiden name of the count’s wife? This Bingley woman did mention that this cousin had run away from her husband.

His interest peaked, Wickham headed straight for the door to collect his coat and hat, eager to contact his man and have him investigate this visitor to Pemberley. Knowing not to make claims that he could not irrefutably prove, he was determined to ascertain the lady’s identity before confronting the count with the evidence. A wide smile split his face as he practically ran out of the house to await his carriage. Five thousand pounds would go far towards settling his expenses and putting him back in the game, and he was determined that no one would collect that reward but him.