“That is not my aunt,” Darcy said slowly, his attention fully captured now. “Nor is it her companion. Who would be traveling in Lady Catherine’s carriage?”
The woman stood with her back to him, seemingly engaged in an intense discussion with the driver of the carriage in front. Something in her posture, the tilt of her head, the gesture of her hand?—
Darcy froze mid-step, his heart suddenly racing. It couldn’t be. And yet…
“Darcy?” Bingley’s voice sounded distant, though his friend stood right beside him. “What is it?”
The woman turned, scanning the crowd of travelers with a calculating gaze. Though her hair was severely styled and half-hidden beneath a cap, though her face was partially obscured by the turned-up collar of an oversized coat, he would know those eyes anywhere.
Elizabeth.
Their eyes met across the crowded track, and the world screeched to a halt. Recognition flashed in her gaze, followed swiftly by what appeared to be alarm. She glanced back toward the carriage, then again at Darcy, her expression silently indicating that he should remain obscure.
A man emerged from the carriage behind her—tall, fair-haired, handsome even with rain plastering his hair to his forehead. Wickham. He scanned the crowd impatiently, his gaze not yet finding what Elizabeth’s had.
“Bingley,” Darcy said under his breath, “do not look directly at them, but Wickham and Elizabeth are near the de Bourgh coach.”
Bingley surveyed the line of carriages with apparent casualness. “By God, you’re right. What is she doing dressed as a?—”
“I believe,” Darcy replied, his mind working rapidly, “that she is attempting an escape.”
Indeed, Elizabeth was now moving among the stalled travelers, speaking earnestly to carriage drivers and footmen, occasionally pressing something into their hands that caused them to nod in agreement. Wickham remained near the de Bourgh carriage, watching her progress with visible impatience.
“What should we do?” Bingley asked, clearly torn between rushing forward and remaining concealed.
Darcy considered their options. If they confronted Wickham directly, they risked Elizabeth being caught in any ensuing struggle. But if they waited, allowed her plan—whatever it might be—to unfold…
“She’s seen us. We wait for her signal,” he decided, though every instinct demanded immediate action.
As they watched, Elizabeth worked her way systematically down the line of carriages, her path bringing her incrementally closer to where they stood. From his position near the front, Wickham began to look increasingly agitated, his gaze darting between Elizabeth and the bridge.
“She’s creating a diversion,” Darcy realized aloud. “And distancing herself from him in the process.”
“Clever,” Bingley admitted with admiration. “Though risky.”
“Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy said with a mixture of pride and exasperation, “has never shied from risk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LADY CATHERINE’S GENEROSITY
Elizabeth’s armsached from Hobbs’s rough handling, but her mind raced faster than the raindrops pelting the carriage roof. They had been stalled at the flooded bridge for nearly an hour, the jumble of vehicles barely moving as guards allowed only one carriage to attempt the crossing at intervals that felt interminable.
Wickham’s impatience grew with each passing minute. He drummed his fingers against the leather seat, periodically consulting his pocket watch with increasing agitation.
“We’re losing valuable time,” he muttered, peering through the rain-streaked window at the line of vehicles ahead. “At this rate, we won’t reach Huntingdon by nightfall.”
Elizabeth noticed how his eyes darted nervously whenever another traveler passed too close to their carriage. She filed the observation away. Wickham feared recognition, a weakness she might exploit.
“This is intolerable,” he continued, his handsome face twisting with frustration. “Lady Catherine’s fancy coach is worthless if we remain trapped in this queue.”
The mention of Lady Catherine sparked an idea in Elizabeth’s mind—desperate, perhaps mad, but what did she have to lose?
“The de Bourgh coach should have precedence,” she said carefully, as if thinking aloud. “Is it not the grandest equipage here?”
Wickham snorted derisively. “Precedence means nothing in this rabble. They’ll not move for anyone.”
“They might,” Elizabeth ventured, “if properly approached.”
