Chapter 29

Awed? Darcy’s brows raised at Miss Bingley’s boast; he had never seen her behave so boldly. Both Lady Matlock and Lady Catherine stared at her with obvious disapprobation; she did not seem to notice. Then she lurched forward—lurching was the only word for it—and he suddenly grew suspicious. Was she inebriated? She never had more than one glass of wine at dinner, and he was quite certain tonight had been no exception. He had believed her to be sipping at lemonade this evening—had not he overheard her say something about it?

She sat down at the pianoforte with a jolt, her hands landing on the keys with a discordant crash—and then she snickered at the sound.

Darcy tried to give Bingley a hint that his sister might not be quite the thing—but dash it, the man was so busy fawning over Miss Bennet, he did not notice.

Miss Bingley began to play; at first, Darcy felt only relief, for whatever her coordination in other aspects, she obviously knew this tune quite well—a very lively song. An animated sort of song, played vigorously, and with a cheerful sort of musical ‘stomp’ at the end of every stanza.

Suddenly, Darcy realised that he, too, knew this song, having learnt it during his Cambridge years. He only prayed the lyrics would remain unsung.

Alas, they were not. With a certain glee, both Lord Roden and Mr Fletcher began singing, and to his dismay, Miss Bingley joined them. Loudly.

Not until the lewd chorus began did Bingley, finally realising his sister’s disgraceful state, hurry to the instrument and practically drag her out of the music room.

“Well! I never!” Lady Catherine was nearly speechless with horror, and Lady Matlock’s lips were pursed. His uncle, Darcy noticed, appeared to be hiding a smile as he shepherded the older gentlemen and the Bakers from the room; Lady Matlock followed her husband, collecting the Ridleys and Miss Lushington as she went—as if the music room itself had been contaminated by the performance.

In the ensuing quiet, he noticed Anne—her shoulders shaking with silent mirth, tears of amusement running down her face. She was laughing so hard, in fact, that she slipped right off the settee and onto the floor.

Lady Catherine finally realised the similar state of her daughter as she rolled on the floor in her hilarity. Her ladyship seemed at an unusual loss as to how to proceed.

Darcy strode to the music room door and addressed the footman waiting just beyond it. “Michael, Miss de Bourgh requires assistance to her chamber.”

The young man hurried in and with only a little of Darcy’s assistance, managed to prop Anne—still snorting with mirth—to an upright enough position that he could escort her from the room. Darcy picked up the goblet she had dropped on the carpet and stared at it thoughtfully.

Lady Catherine trailed after her daughter, but at the door she paused. “Darcy, I want those awful people gone by morning!”

He raised a brow. “Do you mean the Bingleys? Only if Anne departs as well.”

“What? Anne was plainly a victim of that—that immoral, dissipated, corrupt?—”

“We shall not argue about who holds the greater share of the blame,” he interrupted. “I witnessed Anne serving whatever it was they were drinking to Miss Bingley. Either both young ladies are guilty, or Anne alone, or neither.”

She seized at the words. “It was your servants, then! I demand they all be questioned! I shall do it myself!”

“You will not breathe a word to my servants. If I hear so much as a hint of interrogations taking place, you will never enjoy the hospitality of any of my homes again. I will make any investigations I deem necessary. You will not interfere. Am I understood?”

Lady Catherine drew herself up to her full height. “I have never been so offended in all my life,” she declared. “Your father would be ashamed!” With an angry swish of her skirts, she departed.

When she had gone, Darcy turned to the four remaining young ladies. Georgiana exuded guilty culpability. Miss Bennet appeared extremely confused. Miss Bentley and Elizabeth radiated innocence.

“What has been happening here?” he demanded.

His sister blanched, but Elizabeth only set down her cup and cleared her throat, deliberately, it seemed to him, turning his attention away from Georgiana.

“Miss Bingley and Miss de Bourgh approached me this evening with what I thought was uncharacteristic sociability, offering me lemonade. They seemed insistent that I drink it. However, I noticed nothing unusual about it. Perhaps…” Elizabeth paused delicately. “Perhaps, if there is a bit of, er, strength to it, they inadvertently overindulged?”

He strode over to where two identical pitchers rested on a table, lifting one and examining its contents; droplets of moisture beaded on its stone surface. Compared to the other pitcher, this one was noticeably emptied. He poured some into a cup, tasting it; it was a rare combination of sweet and sour, perfectly balanced and like no lemonade he had ever sampled. The smell of alcohol, while not overpowering, was definitely present. He poured another from the second pitcher, but already was certain of what he would taste.

Simply lemonade, with a hint of mint.

Darcy frowned at the four women; he could, no doubt, pry the truth from his sister with pressing, but he strongly suspected her to be a mere accessory. Yet, how could Elizabeth be blamed? She had never come near the pitchers; he only knew that because he had been—discreetly, he hoped—watching her all evening. If she had somehow infused one of them, in some way, with liquor, why had Miss Bingley and Anne served themselves only from the contaminated pitcher? Georgiana, Miss Bennet, and Miss Bentley had remained on the other side of the room the entire evening; he was fairly certain he would have noticed, had they crossed over.

“Would one of you like to explain to me what is going on here?”

Elizabeth gave him an exaggerated look of piety. “How could we possibly know? However, it seemed to me that Miss de Bourgh and Miss Bingley shared more amusement this evening than I have noticed since the party’s beginning. Perhaps you ought to question them?”

“I find I am awfully fatigued. Ladies, are we ready to go up?” Miss Bentley intervened, evidently deciding to disregard his enquiries altogether.

“Oh, yes!” Georgiana acceded at once. Miss Bennet murmured quick agreement.

Elizabeth covered a dainty yawn. “I am ready as well.”

“We shall see you tomorrow then, Mr Darcy,” Miss Bentley said blithely. “And we wish you a goodnight.” The other three turned to follow her.

“Miss Elizabeth, a word with you if I may?” he asked, preventing her escape.

She halted. The others stopped too but she urged them to continue on. “Sir?” She turned back to him.

“I am not stupid,” he said, once they departed. “You may not know everything, but you know something. I suppose, if you are unwilling to discuss the matter with me, I must speak to my sister. I will have the truth from her.”

He phrased it as though it were some kind of threat, putting on his iciest glare. Before it, grown men had been known to falter and confess sins they had not committed.

Elizabeth only observed him with the same interest she had displayed that first day, when Lady Catherine had rudely ordered him to oust her and her sister from the chambers they had been assigned in the family wing. It was an assessing sort of look, watchful but unruffled—as though she saw right through him, to the man who could never bear to discompose his sister, the one who adopted the sternest bearing towards nearly everyone else so that he would never be thought vulnerable again.

“That can surely wait until morning, can it not? And, perhaps, this conversation as well? It is growing late.”

“You mean, so that you will have time to rehearse with Georgiana what she ought—and ought not—to say?”

Unexpectedly, Elizabeth smiled impishly up at him. “Surely not.”

It was all he could do not to smile back, to maintain his forbidding expression. “I hope that no one takes this absurd competition so seriously as to purposely impair any guest in my home. Such an action would invoke my gravest displeasure.”

Her eyes were positively twinkling now. “That would be the stupidest idea in the world, sir. Upon that object, we both firmly agree.”

He wanted to kiss her. He did not know what had occurred between Miss Bingley and Anne, only that Elizabeth, somehow, had gotten the best of them, and she was proud of herself for doing it. He was proud of her too. He wanted her in every way that a man could want a woman. It was torture, knowing she slept only a few doors away—and yet, he wanted her nowhere else. As he held her gaze, he saw a slight blush blossom on her cheeks, her smile fading.

She was so close! What would she do, if he traced that perfect jaw with one finger, if he followed it with his lips?

Probably slap me.He scrambled to return to the subject at hand.

“If those two have been disrespectful towards you, in any way, I would prefer to be told, rather than have to deal with any consequences of a more, er, personal revenge.”

“Do you really believe either of them needs provocation in order to behave spitefully?” she asked, as if she were merely curious. Some of the sparkle had gone from her eyes.

Darcy suddenly remembered the incident with Miss Bingley and the battledore injury. Had Miss Bingley purposely attacked Elizabeth? How deep did hostilities run?

When Elizabeth simply turned and left the room, he still had not answered her.