Elizabeth sensed a potential opening. “Special arrangements?”
“French silks, primarily,” Charles said, accepting another glass of punch from a passing servant. “And brandy, of course. Father was quite proud of their special arrangements. Said they managed to avoid certain difficulties that plagued other merchants.”
Elizabeth felt a chill at the hint of smuggling. The Darcy and Bingley fortunes, built on illegal trade. And John Darcy—her father—had been described by multiple sources as principled, honorable, and unwilling to compromise on matters of legality.
“Did your father remember the night of the Rose Cottage fire?” she prompted gently.
“Definitely memorable!” Charles agreed with the enthusiasm of the slightly intoxicated. “Father always said William Darcy collapsed from guilt after the fire. Took to his bed for weeks, apparently. Couldn’t bear to discuss Rose Cottage or… oh, I shouldn’t speak of such things.” He seemed to remember himself, glancing around nervously.
A commotion near the ballroom’s entrance captured their attention. Gasps and startled exclamations rippled through the assembled guests as a ghoulish figure appeared in the doorway.
Thomas Rumsey stood framed against the corridor’s shadows, his appearance calculated to terrorize. White face paint emphasized the gaunt lines of his features, while tattered clothing suggested he had risen directly from the grave. In one skeletal hand, he clutched a lantern that cast eerie shadows across the ballroom.
“Truth emerges from the grave!” he intoned in a voice that carried clearly across the stunned ballroom. “Those who profit from murder still walk among you, wearing masks of respectability!”
The effect was immediately troubling. Ladies screamed andpressed backward against their escorts. Gentlemen reached instinctively for weapons they were not carrying. Even the musicians faltered, their instruments creating discordant squeaks and groans.
Elizabeth watched with fascination rather than fear as Rumsey’s gaze swept the assembly. His theatrical appearance was clearly calculated to create maximum disruption, but his words suggested warning rather than threat.
“The dead cry out for justice!” he continued, raising his lantern higher, seemingly shining it on Elizabeth. “All will be revealed at midnight! The guilty shall not prosper!”
Before anyone could question him, Rumsey disappeared into the corridor’s shadows, leaving behind a ballroom full of rattled guests and unanswered questions.
“Good heavens!” Charles gasped, his punch cup trembling in his hand. “What a dreadful fellow! Who was that ghastly creature?”
“Thomas Rumsey,” Elizabeth replied, her mind working through the implications of a midnight reveal. “The former butler who was dismissed by Mr. John Darcy many years ago.”
“Why would he appear here, dressed like… like that?”
The dance ended on a sour note, and Darcy appeared at her side and positioned himself protectively. His centurion costume seemed perfectly appropriate as he scanned the crowd for additional threats.
“Are you hurt?” he asked with a gaze of concern.
“Quite unharmed,” Elizabeth assured him. “Though Mr. Rumsey’s message was… strange. What is happening at midnight?”
“Nothing but the removal of masks,” Darcy replied firmly, though Elizabeth detected uncertainty beneath his confident tone. “Rumsey is playing a part. Pay no attention to such nonsense.”
“How terribly exciting!” Mrs. Amelia Bingley approached. Her Roman matron costume lent dignity to her bearing. “Such drama is quite invigorating, don’t you think?”
“I find drama somewhat less appealing when it involves threats,” Darcy replied stiffly.
“Oh, but surely no one takes such theatrical displaysseriously?” Mrs. Bingley’s laugh was perfectly modulated. “Though I confess surprise that former servants would choose such… intimate venues for their threats. No doubt they lie for profit, looking for a settlement.”
Elizabeth noted the careful phrasing and wondered what threats Mrs. Bingley might be referencing when Martha Wickham, dressed in widow’s weeds, approached.
“Mrs. Bingley,” Martha said, her voice carrying undertones of barely controlled resentment. “How delightful to see you taking such interest in my family’s affairs.”
“Mrs. Wickham,” Amelia replied coolly. “I trust you are enjoying the evening’s entertainments?”
The tension between the two women was immediately apparent.
“I find the entertainment… educational,” Martha replied with pointed emphasis. “Though some lessons prove more valuable than others.”
“Indeed. One must be careful about the company one keeps, particularly when reputations hang in the balance,” Mrs. Bingley observed.
Elizabeth realized she was witnessing a battle of widows whose sons represented competing claims on her supposed inheritance. Both women were positioning themselves for advantage while maintaining the fiction of polite social discourse.
“Reputation is such a fragile thing,” Martha observed with silky menace. “Built over decades, yet destroyed by a single indiscretion. Or revelation.”
