“No matter. We were ready to call it a day. The balls will likely be devoid of men tonight.” Bingley chuckled. “Everyone is either too tired, or too determined to settle scores, to dance.”
“Have they finished? What was the worst of it?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“When I left, Mr Stephen Fox was down nearly five thousand,” Bingley reported. “I believe that was the worst of it, though there were so many side bets going on, one can only guess.”
“People betting on other people’s hands?” Darcy asked.
“Betting on others’ hands, betting on how much would be lost or won, betting on how many times a man might relieve himself.” Bingley laughed. “It was madness, utter madness.”
“Sounds…deplorable,” Darcy managed.
“All in good fun. How was Kent? You were both there, I think?”
“We were,” Fitzwilliam answered. “Quite an agreeable visit, if I do say so.”
“Nothing like the country when the weather gets warmer,” Darcy added.
“That is true,” Bingley owned. “But London is charming at this time of year as well.”
“I understand your country place is rather nice,” Fitzwilliam said. “Hertfordshire, is it not?”
“Oh, I only leased Netherfield Park,” Bingley told him. “And as it happens, I have given it up.”
“Given it up?” Darcy exclaimed. “Why did you do that?”
Bingley did not look at him as he explained, “An eligible purchase offer was made for it. The Suttons of Devon have purchased it for a second son, I believe.”
“Hugh Sutton?” Fitzwilliam shot Darcy a look. “Good-looking fellow, well seated.”
“He is a dandy,” Darcy said with a reproving sniff. “I am shocked he found the place fashionable enough for him.”
“A few hours on a horse gets him to Bond Street,” Fitzwilliam replied. “It will do.”
“I heard he is lately engaged,” Bingley said. “No doubt he needed a place to take his bride.”
That much was a relief at least. Darcy need not add Hugh Sutton to his list of competitors.
“It sounded like a rather agreeable county. We had intended to beg an invitation from you,” Fitzwilliam said with his usual bonhomie.
“Would that I could offer one,” Bingley exclaimed warmly. “As it stands, I shall only be there again…um, briefly.”
As Bingley said so, he appeared to take great interest in the tankard he had only just emptied of ale. He picked it up and attempted to drink; then, finding it empty, he set it back on the table and stared into it for a few minutes before he suddenly said, “Well, Darcy, this might be the last time you speak to me.”
Darcy exchanged a glance with his cousin. “Why would it be the last time I speak to you?”
Bingley crossed his arms over his chest. “I am getting married.”
“Married?” Darcy exclaimed. His cousin began to proclaim his delight and well wishes. A fraction of a second too late—and not missing the look Bingley sent him—Darcy joined in the felicitations. “May I ask who the fortunate young lady is?”
Bingley sighed. He fidgeted and shifted, then sighed again. At length he said, “Hang it all. I know you will not approve, but as Shakespeare said, ‘To your own person be truth.’ Or is it ‘Mine self be the truth?’ ‘Speaketh mine own truth?’ Whatever it is—you know I do not have a head for such things!”
He paused, and Darcy prodded gently, “The lady’s name is…?”
“Jane Bennet.” Bingley met his gaze squarely. “I am going to marry Miss Jane Bennet.”
Darcy winced, not meaning to. He should have gone to Bingley and told him what he had learnt from Elizabeth—that Miss Bennet did love him. He had not considered it because he was too enmeshed in his own misery to even think of Bingley. ‘Selfish disdain for the feelings of others’ echoed uncomfortably through his mind.
He recognised, suddenly, that his wince might have been perceived differently and so offered Bingley a smile, trying to seem placating. “I am happy for you, Bingley. Truly, I am.”
