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Darcy raised his eyebrows at this but made no reply. They talked desultorily of the arrangements of their stay in Vienna for several minutes more. The princess had gone to the trouble of recommending a nearby palais that provided accommodation for the genteel. She had booked several rooms for them at her own expense.

After Mr Trevor excused himself to take his breakfast, Darcy continued to promenade on deck. Meeting the earl’s secretary had been a happy distraction from his indignation over Caroline’s machinations, the short conversation acting like oil on water. His mind turned to mathematics again and within a short space of time he had his eureka moment. Pulling out the pages of his proof from his greatcoat, he searched for the crucial induction in his notes and found that he had indeed not generalised the problem correctly. Excited, he raced downstairs to his writing implements.

For hours, Darcy worked feverishly in his cabin. Finn brought a breakfast tray and then removed it untouched an hour later. Darcy’s valet was not happy when the pattern was repeated at lunch, but he knew better than to disturb his master when he was inspired. When the dinner hour arrived, Finn found Darcy asleep at his desk, having worked himself to exhaustion. As his master had not eaten all day, Finn was quite insistent that Darcy should dress for dinner.

Thus, half an hour later, Darcy found himself entering the saloon in a snappish mood, grumpy from being woken and hungry, certainly in no mood for Caroline’s tricks. He had erased her name from his pocketbook and decided to pretend ignorance of her incursion on his privacy.

Miss Bingley behaved herself well enough during dinner, and after the ladies withdrew, Darcy thought he might be spared any further harassment. But when they rejoined the Bingley sisters in the outer saloon, Caroline produced a volume of poetry and suggested they take turns reading it aloud. The marked lack of enthusiasm from the gentlemen was quickly quelled by Caroline and Louisa’s exhortations.

After opening the volume at a marker, Caroline handed it to Darcy to read the first stanza of the selected poem, brushing his hand as she did so.

He scanned the lines and then, through pursed lips, read in the dullest voice he could summon:

“Oh! Did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright, but mild affection shine;

Though they might kindle less desire,

Love, more than mortal, would be thine.”

Seething at this new onslaught, he handed the volume to Charles as if it were a hot coal. But instead of reading his designated stanza, Charles exclaimed: “See here, Caroline! This is Byron! I thought you abhorred him above all things!”

“You quite mistake the matter, Charles,” retorted Caroline, irked that her brother had thrown a spoke in her wheel so quickly. “I cannot approve of his person—his reputation is atrocious, and you know I abhor physical deformity—but his poetry is superior.”

“Well, I don’t see why you should hold it against a man that he cannot waltz! It is not his fault he was born with a dodgy foot. However, I distinctly remember you quoting parts of that scathing Edinburgh review!”

Caroline glared at her brother until, with a harrumph, he meekly submitted to reading his stanza.

However, when it came Darcy’s turn to read again, it became obvious that getting him to read the first florid stanza had not been Caroline’s true object. He stiffened in annoyance on scanning his next designated stanza, but mindful that creating a fuss would make it worse, he dutifully read:

“‘Tis said that Berenice’s hair,

In stars, adorns the vault of heaven;

But they would ne’er permit thee there,

Thou wouldst far outshine the seven.”

Clearly not content with entering her name in his notebook, Miss Bingley was now determined to use the information she had read there to undermine her competition with this jab at Miss Andrews’ modest appearance. He handed the volume on to Charles, who finished the last stanza.

Then, keen to get away, Darcy stood and cleared his throat: “I beg your pardon, Miss Bingley, but my voice has not yet recovered from my recent illness. I fear I must be excused.”

This was complete blarney, and it went against his principles to lie so blatantly, but Darcy had no wish to be Caroline’s puppet a moment longer; to be forced to falsely profess a love for her through another man’s poetry. Did she really think he was to be influenced by such a method? With a curt goodnight to the party, he left.

He discovered his valet patiently waiting for him in his cabin, buffing his boots. When Finn prepared to remove his waistcoat, Darcy was careful to retrieve his ivory notebook, mindful he should keep it close about him to prevent further incursions by Caroline. As he settled into bed while Finn extinguished the oil lamp, leaving him with a single candle, Darcy held the notebook in his palm. Then, upon his valet bidding him goodnight and departing, he fanned the leaves out to again reveal those two names. Finally, he acknowledged that Caroline was right after all. There should be a third name on the list, but not her own. What he had suspected at Netherfield; what his mind had been telling him all week, was that name was Elizabeth Bennet. Her breeding was not good, but respectable. Her education was not first-rate, but she was interesting. Her dowry was negligible. But trumping all this, he was powerfully attracted to her, more than any woman in his experience. Of course, there was still the question of whether he should act on his impulses, follow his heart rather than his head, but as he drifted off to sleep, he made no effort to repulse Miss Elizabeth when she opened the door of his cabin to step into his dreams. He welcomed her with open arms.

Darcy woke early the next morning feeling refreshed, as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. Getting up, he pulled on his banyan, retrieved his handkerchief from under his pillow and immersed it in the tepid water of the brass pail. After stoking the fire, he squeezed out the square of linen and hung it out to dry on the rail at the front of the closed stove.

He was working feverishly once more on the proof when Finn stuck his head into Darcy’s cabin around eight.

“Good morning, sir. Will you be dressing for breakfast or would you prefer a tray?”

“A tray please, Finn,” he replied without looking up, unwilling to lift his eyes from the paper he was scribbling on.

Yesterday’s pattern repeated itself. The breakfast and lunch trays were removed largely untouched. Darcy only paused to sip some of the tea as he wrote.

By three, he finally reached a waypoint in his theorem and put down his pen. He frowned at the last line with a growing sense of déjà vu and then groaned in recognition—he had just reproduced the proof up to the point he had left it, seemingly in triumph, before posting north at the news of his father’s death. He remembered leaving it on the desk of his friend, Calhoun, when he had been unable to find him prior to leaving for Derbyshire. For two weeks, the idea that he had the solution to the famous theorem by the tail had been Darcy’s only comfort as he oversaw the interment of his sole surviving parent in the family tomb at Pemberley. The effect of the arrival of Calhoun’s letter, pointing out his error, had been devastating; so much so, he realised in retrospect, that he had buried the incident deep in his memory.