“Well, who doyouthink will get her?”
Darcy frowned, but before he could say anything, there was Mr Alfred Hurst poking his nose in. “What’s the game, men?”
“Nothing,” Darcy hastened to say. “No game.”
“Darcy and Fitzwilliam both want the same woman,” Saye informed him. “Darcy will not bet, but perhaps you will?”
Hurst’s eyes lit up, and he rubbed his hands together with glee. Uninvited, he sat, putting his chin in hand to peer at both Darcy and Fitzwilliam carefully. “And the lady is…?”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Fitzwilliam said helpfully.
Darcy barely stopped himself from kicking him.
“Which one was that?” Hurst asked. Then, with a charmless waggle of his brow and a gesture towards his chest, he asked, “The, um, well-padded one, no doubt?”
“The one who stayed for above a week at Netherfield to nurse Miss Bennet,” Darcy informed him with an annoyed sigh.
Hurst’s brow wrinkled and he sat back in his chair with a thud. “But you hated one another.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. “I never hated her.”
“But she must have hated you.” Hurst pointed one finger at Darcy and shook it as he addressed the rest of the party. “Argued all the time, they did. Could not even make sense of it half the time.”
“Then your money is on my brother?” Saye asked.
“This is not a matter to wager upon like some boxing match or a horse race,” Darcy protested.
“Love is absolutely a horse race, and if you think it is not, then you have been doing it wrong all along,” Saye informed him loftily. “Shall I start a book on this, men?”
“What if,” Fitzwilliam asked, “neither of us gets her?”
“Three outcomes, then. Even better.”
“She did not suitmyfancy,” said Hurst, “but I say she was a fine filly. Good hair—and you know, the hair is the first sign of a woman who can birth easily.”
“Old wives’ tales,” Saye said dismissively. “You in or what, Hurst?”
“Aye, and I shall put in a share for Bingley, too.”
“Excellent!”
“You cannot do this,” Darcy said. “I absolutely insist that you cease this nonsense at once. It is disrespectful to Miss Elizabeth and to her family. She should not have her future haggled over in this undignified manner.”
“No one even knows who she is,” Saye protested.
“But they will, will they not? If she comes to town as either my wife or his”—Darcy glared at Fitzwilliam—“they will understand it was she who was the object of all these wagers.”
“And by that time, she will be either the daughter of an earl or Mrs Darcy, and no one will give a tinker’s curse about some bets laid over her engagement,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Come, Darcy. You know full well that the betting books are filled with things of this sort,” Hurst added.
“This one is just more interesting because of the parties involved,” Saye explained. “Cousin against cousin! A battle to the death!”
“Hardly a battle to the death,” Darcy muttered, though in truth the idea of Elizabeth married to Fitzwilliam did feel, at times, like it might kill him.
“When do we go, then?” Saye asked. “I should prefer to wait until after Lady Bainwright’s ball.”
Darcy and Fitzwilliam exchanged a look. It was dashed awkward—Bingley had been all but forced to offer Fitzwilliam an invitation to the wedding festivities, but Saye? Saye had no right cause to be there.
