by Violet King
“Are you still here?” Mr. Darcy asked, looking down his nose at her. “I will not dance with you. I am in no humor at present to give consequence to unsuitable young ladies, especially those who have been slighted by other men.”
Elizabeth saw red. “Then I shall take myself from your esteemed presence and beg a dance from your acquaintance. Would you say he has hair like the sun?”
“No.” His neck pulsed, and Elizabeth smiled.
“Gold then. Or perhaps some cheerful flower.”
“Mr. Wickham is not to be trusted.”
Elizabeth laughed. “And you, Mr. Darcy, are not to be believed.” She curtsied. “I take my leave.”
As she walked away, she heard him call out, “Miss Elizabeth,” but Elizabeth pretended she did not hear. Not to be trusted! Mr. Darcy was just the sort of arrogant cad to assume himself worthy of trust without making the slightest effort to prove himself. Elizabeth dearly wished to take Mr. Darcy down a notch. Perhaps Mr. Wickham, more than the code, would provide a means to do this. What about the man got Mr. Darcy’s back up so?
9
Just when Mr. Darcy determined this evening could not get worse, it had. He should never have attended this blasted Assembly. If he had been able to refuse with any degree of politeness, but…
Wickham. Here. Mr. Wickham was as charming as ever, and the country ladies, young and old, peasant and gentry, all bent to him like flowers in the sun.
Or perhaps some cheerful flower.
To the devil with Wickham, and blast Miss Elizabeth Bennet as well! How had she gotten under his skin?
Mr. Darcy stood by the refreshments table clutching a glass of negus. It was too sweet, and the flavor of mulled wine, lemon, and sugar cloyed at the back of his throat. He emptied the glass anyway and quickly spooned himself a second serving.
Wickham had wagered Pemberley as if he owned it, and now he was here, pretending ignorance even as he rubbed the affront of his presence in Mr. Darcy’s face.
Blast him! Blast them all.
Miss Bingley approached him with a concerned expression. “Mr. Darcy, it’s not like you to take so heavily of the punch. Are you well?”
“Well enough.”
“Charles admonished me not to speak to Mr. Denny’s acquaintance, and as a dutiful sister, I will not. What is his name again?”
“Wickham. George Wickham. Avoid his company. He is a charlatan and a fool.” And a criminal, though Darcy could not make such an accusation in this place, to the sister of his host, without evidence.
“I would never!” Miss Bingley assured him. “I set my sights only on those I consider of quality.” She gave him a long look. Mr. Darcy took another sip of his drink as she continued, “An Assembly may be diverting, but it is just that, an amusing diversion.” Miss Bingley flicked her fan open and looked over it at Mr. Wickham. Miss Elizabeth and another young lady walked towards him, arm in arm. “Miss Elizabeth appears keen to make the young Wickham’s acquaintance.”
A surge of anger passed through Mr. Darcy. The other young woman, Miss Lucas, who Mr. Bingley had danced with earlier this evening, said something and Miss Elizabeth laughed. The expression lit her entire face, and Mr. Darcy’s breath caught in his throat. She was passably handsome when she scowled, but when she smiled…
“Mr. Darcy, you seem to have a greater interest in the dance floor than these refreshments.” She fluttered her fan again. “Perhaps you wish to engage in another dance?”
“A second dance gives an improper impression,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Nonsense! My brother has already danced with that eldest Bennet sister twice. A sweet young lady, but we all know nothing will come of that.”
Mr. Wickham made some remark, and Miss Elizabeth inclined her head, smiling again. Had the cad asked Miss Bennet to dance? Mr. Darcy would not accept that.
Mr. Darcy bowed. “Excuse me,” he said.
Mr. Darcy made a straight line the towards the group. Now Mr. Denny and Miss Elizabeth were exchanging was pleasantries, which was at least more tolerable. Mr. Darcy came up to Miss Elizabeth’s side. He nodded to Mr. Denny and more grudgingly to Mr. Wickham before holding out his hand, “Miss Elizabeth, the next dance is soon to begin.”
Miss Elizabeth smelled of apricot and mint. She looked up at him. Her cheeks were flushed. She quirked her lips and glanced down at his hand before folding her own together in front of her. “I believe you might be correct,” she said.
“I am asking for your next dance,” Mr. Darcy said. He avoided looking at Mr. Wickham, knowing the sight of his nemesis would snap his already fragile hold on his temper. “If you would please,” he added.
“I daresay I would not please, as I have promised my next dance to Mr. Denny, who has, to this point, been perfectly amiable.”
Mr. Denny blinked and then grinned. “I… Yes, it is my honor, Miss Elizabeth.”
“So there you have it then,” Miss Elizabeth said. “You need not trouble yourself with dancing, as you made it plain in our earlier conversation you have no interest in such pursuits.”
“I believe Miss Elizabeth has you pegged to the pound,” Mr. Wickham interjected.
Mr. Darcy’s hands clenched, and he put them behind his back for fear he might strike his once-foster brother. “Miss Elizabeth and I are hardly acquainted. Neither of us can make a fair judgment of the other’s character.”
The first notes of the next dance began, and Miss Elizabeth took Mr. Denny’s hand. Mr. Wickham bowed to Miss Lucas and with a nod to Mr. Darcy, escorted her on the floor.
Mr. Darcy stared. How had Wickham bought himself a commission? Perhaps he had traded away “Pemberley” and fled London before his dupe could discover how uneven the stakes had truly been. If nothing else, Mr. Wickham put up the appearance of a stable income. Mr. Wickham was excellent at putting up appearances, a skill Mr. Darcy had never mastered.
Mr. Denny and Miss Elizabeth met at the center, her hand resting atop his as the dance began. Mr. Darcy swallowed. His mouth was dry, and he found his anger twinned between Mr. Wickham, who was laying his sunshine charm upon Miss Elizabeth’s unsuspecting companion, and Mr. Denny, who likely did not deserve Mr. Darcy’s disapprobation.
Not that Mr. Darcy could help himself.
Passably handsome? For the second time in as many weeks, Mr. Darcy realized he had once again erred. Miss Elizabeth was passably handsome when she scowled, but when she danced…
The scent of lavender heralded Miss Bingley’s nearness even before she spoke, “Mr. Darcy? I had thought such country dances held no appeal for you.”
“I only wished a word with Miss Elizabeth.”
“The word is you gave Miss Elizabeth the cut direct.”
“I would hope you were not the sort to engage in gossip,” Mr. Darcy said, which was about as close to a skirting of the truth as he could manage. He might hope that Miss Bingley did not engage in gossip, but it was clear from their acquaintanceship she most definitely did. And between young ladies, gossip could be as deadly as a sword or well-placed dagger.
“So do you have an interest in the young lady?”
“Insofar as she does not deserve Mr. Wickham’s attentions. Beyond that, any connection between us must at most be cordial.”
Miss Bingley placed her hand on Mr. Darcy’s forearm. “Then perhaps, in the interests of geniality, you ought not glare such daggers at her.”
Was he glaring?
Mr. Darcy turned his attention back to Mr. Wickham. He projected the image of gentlemanly ease, but on the rare moments his gaze rested on Mr. Darcy, his shoulders stiffened, and his expression seemed to freeze. Whether this had anything to do with the rumor of him gambling with Mr. Darcy’s estate or was merely a result of their already troubled history, Mr. Darcy had no way to determine.
The dance ended. As Mr. Wickham led Miss Lucas back to Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Denny, Mr. Darcy made certain to cross their path.
“Mr. Wickham,” he said. “If I might have a word.”
> “I would be pleased, except the next dance is set to begin, and I have promised it to Miss Elizabeth.”
“This is about Pemberley.”
Mr. Wickham laughed, a bit too forcefully. “I have not set foot in our childhood home for at least a year, as I am certain you are well aware.”
“And your commission has brought an end to your nights of commerce and whist?”
“Any debts I may have incurred are now paid, and if you insist upon dredging up such unseemly things here, with ladies present, I pray I must take leave of this conversation.”
“I only wished to tell you Miss Darcy is faring well.”
“She has suffered too many losses, Mr. Darcy. My condolences to you both.”
Mr. Darcy, having no polite alternative but to end the conversation, simply nodded. At that moment, Mr. Denny and Miss Elizabeth returned. Both were laughing.
“My, Miss Elizabeth, you do offer a clever jest!” Mr. Denny laughed again, and Mr. Darcy wanted to hit him.
“Miss Elizabeth is quite handsome, is she not? And spirited,” Mr. Wickham said.
Mr. Darcy could not speak through his anger. He had made a right hash of things, and now Wickham was here to loot the spoils.
MissElizabeth said, “Charlotte, Mr. Denny is quite a pleasant dance partner, both in demeanor and conversation.”
“Pleasant,” Mr. Denny retorted, his lips still twitching with mirth. “I hope to have made more of an impression than merely pleasant.”
“Oh but Mr. Denny, for a lady of a practical bent such as myself and Miss Lucas, pleasant offers far greater pleasures than brooding or enigmatic. I will also add that you are possessed of fine features and a finer sense of humor. That, in and of itself, is beyond compare.”
“Then I shall take such compliments and hold them in my heart as precious jewels.”
Mr. Denny flirted too much.
Mr. Wickham said, “Miss Elizabeth, any man would be fortunate to be given such precious jewels from a beautiful woman’s lips.”
“Scandalous!” Miss Bingley remarked, fluttering her fan.
Mr. Wickham took Miss Elizabeth’s hand. When the dancers had taken their places on the floor, Miss Bingley murmured, “They are lovely together. Dark and light, sun and shadow. A fine contrast.”
Anything he said would be a lie, so Mr. Darcy remained silent. He had warned her. It should have been enough. But he watched them as they started their dance, and a low, seething rage mingled with protectiveness in his belly.
They stepped away from each other, moving in precise steps through the dance, crossing, and meeting again. As they circled, backs to each other, Mr. Wickham caught Mr. Darcy’s gaze and smiled.
As children, Wickham had always coveted Darcy’s toys. And when he could not claim them, more often than not, those toys were found in corners and under the beds, broken.
For a moment, he saw Miss Elizabeth as a doll, her dark eyes like shiny stones, her face cracked, staring up from the floor, arms and legs askew as the others danced in measured steps past her small and broken form.
Mr. Darcy swallowed. This excess of emotion he felt around her did neither he nor Miss Elizabeth any service.
Mr. Darcy nodded once and turned on his heel, returning to the refreshments.
10
The following morning, the post came with troubling news.
Mr. Bennet went white as his daughter read out the letter. “Mr. Dowding passed on?”
“He appears to have suffered a sudden apoplexy,” Elizabeth explained.
“We were at Eton together. He was always in vigorous health.”
Those boyhood days were at some remove from the present for Mr. Bennet, though Elizabeth would not be forward enough to say it outright. Before his eyes had begun to fail, Mr. Bennet had been an excellent marksman.
Mr. Bennet sighed. “I suppose the funeral has already passed.”
“It has. This missive concerns Mr. Dowding’s work. They are worried his keys may have been compromised.” Mr. Dowding was more than merely an old friend—he was also one of the chief encoders for the navy. He created the keys that Lord Nelson and others less famous used to hide the coordination of overall fleet movements. Rumor had it Lord Wellington had pressed the navy to use Mr. Dowding’s services. Now, with Dowding dead, another encoder would be needed. “They are asking we create a series of codes and keys to aid our work on the peninsula!”
“This is a challenging request...” Mr. Bennet mused. He tapped the pad of his index finger over his lips. “We will have to create something unique, but accessible. And it will not simply be one request. They will want new keys periodically.”
“It is our duty to accept,” Elizabeth said, relishing the opportunity.
After some thought, Mr. Bennet agreed.
“Lizzie! By heavens, where is that girl?” Mrs. Bennet pushed opened the study door and strode in. “Mrs. Lucas is here. Mr. Bennet, you simply will have to find yourself another assistant for the next hour or so. Lizzie, we need you.”
Elizabeth gave her father a helpless look and stood. She did wish to see Charlotte and share her experience both with Mr. Darcy and with Mr. Wickham in the confidence of her best friend, but it felt like a betrayal to leave important work undone. “I will return as soon as I’m able.”
“I am not such an invalid as that. Encoding is more a matter of the mind than the eyes, so be assured, progress will be made by the time you have returned.”
Elizabeth nodded, though his assurance stung. She had hoped to be of more value than a pair of eyes to her father, and believed herself a capable decipherer, but in many ways, Mr. Bennet saw Elizabeth as an extension of himself. And perhaps there was truth to it. When she married, her work with him would take a distant second to her family and responsibilities as lady of household.
When Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet returned to the sitting room, Lady Lucas and her daughter, Elizabeth’s best friend Charlotte, were seated. Charlotte sipped a cup of morning cocoa. “Lizzie!”
Elizabeth crossed the room and sat beside her friend. They exchanged excited pleasantries while their mothers went over the previous night’s Assembly in immense detail.
“You began the evening well, Charlotte,” Mrs. Bennet said. She was not speaking to Charlotte but instead to Mrs. Lucas, and because of that did not await an answer from Charlotte and instead continued on. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.”
Charlotte hesitated, glancing at her mother, before responding. “Yes, but he seemed to like his second better.”
It was a dance of pleasantry and domination, one Mrs. Bennet excelled at. Elizabeth, in contrast, found the whole thing tedious. Everyone realized Mr. Bingley’s preference was for Jane, and the conflict between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham had been far more interesting.
“Oh! You mean Jane, I suppose—” Mrs. Bennet artfully stumbled in her speech.
“How do you think Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham are acquainted?” Elizabeth cut in.
Charlotte leaned towards Elizabeth. “Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham, acquainted?”
Mrs. Bennet laughed. “Two more different gentlemen I cannot scarcely imagine! Mr. Wickham is the sun and Mr. Darcy an angry cloud.”
Charlotte whispered, “Had you a special interest in Mr. Wickham?”
“No! Certainly not. I just wondered at Mr. Darcy’s expression when he and Mr. Denny entered.” Elizabeth kept Mr. Darcy’s warning about Mr. Wickham to herself. Having no true grounds to trust Mr. Darcy and no acquaintanceship beyond a pleasant dance with Mr. Wickham, Elizabeth would not endanger either man’s reputation. But she hadn’t imagined the reaction either. She distinctly recalled Mr. Darcy’s flush and Mr. Wickham’s eyes widening as his skin grew most pale.
“Expression?” Mrs. Bennet said. “I saw no expression! What expression are you speaking of Lizzie? Out with it.”
Elizabeth shook her head. She had no desire to give her mother further ammunition for her gossip. “I just… I am probably mistaken.”
&n
bsp; “Perhaps Mr. Darcy had a spell of gas,” Mrs. Bennet suggested.
Kitty raised her handkerchief to her mouth and smothered a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “He was paying special court to the negus and pastry throughout the entire affair! And his manners, so formal and unwelcoming! Why, he spent close to a half hour with Mrs. Long and did not say a word!”
“Are you certain, mother?” Jane interjected. “I saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.’’
“Aye, because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her, but she said he seemed very angry at being spoken to.’’
“Miss Bingley told me,’’ said Jane, “that he never speaks much unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is remarkably agreeable.’’
Jane truly saw the best in everyone. And perhaps there was something to it. Mr. Bingley had been perfectly amiable, and somehow he and Mr. Darcy maintained a close enough friendship for Mr. Bingley to invite Mr. Darcy to Netherfield as his guest.
“I just wish Mr. Darcy hadn’t slighted you so, Eliza,” Charlotte said, using the nickname she had agreed suited Elizabeth best when both were twelve. “And then, not five minutes later, he asks you to dance again. It makes no sense.”
“He was jealous,” Mary said, looking up from her book. “Jealousy is a sin and a fire in the blood.”
Elizabeth doubted Mr. Darcy could muster a fire in his blood, no matter his sins. Especially after his cruel rejection of her when he said, “I have no interest in a woman who is slighted by other men.”
No, jealousy had not played into his reversal. It had been something else, some history between him and Mr. Wickham. The same history that led him, inexplicably, to warn Elizabeth off of the man even as he stomped on her womanly pride.
“Mr. Wickham asked you to dance, once and properly,” Miss Charlotte said.
“Him and Mr. Denny,” Elizabeth said. She studied her friend carefully at the suggestion of Mr. Denny. He had seemed a solid sort, but possessed of a sense of humor. Perhaps Charlotte might discover some deeper affection for him?
