"She might," Georgiana conceded. "But she respects honesty. I saw it in her eyes today. She challenges you because she wants you to be real. So be real."
She stood up and walked over to him, placing a kiss on his forehead. It was a gesture of benediction, of absolution.
"We have the Opera tomorrow," she reminded him. "A box. Music. Darkness. It is the perfect place for secrets."
"Or for disasters."
"Usually both," she smiled. "Now go to bed, Brother. You look like you need your rest."
She left him there, staring into the dying fire.
Darcy sat for a long time. He thought of Bingley and his carefree resolutions. He thought of Miss Bennet and her quiet dignity. He thought of Robert and his determined courtship.
And he thought of Miss Elizabeth.
He would tell her. He would lay it all out—his pride, his interference, his mistakes. He would hand her the weapon that could destroy him, and he would trust her not to use it. It was reckless. It was entirely contrary to every rule of the Darcy playbook. He stood up, extinguished the candle, and went to bed, feeling a strange kind of peace. The manoeuvring was over.
Chapter Seven: An Aria of Truths
The dressing room in Gracechurch Street was a flurry of silk, satin, and anticipation. It was Monday, the twenty-third of December, and the Bennet sisters were preparing for war—or rather for the Opera, which in London society amounted to much the same thing.
Elizabeth sat in front of the vanity, allowing her aunt's maid to pin a final pearl comb into her hair. She wore a gown of amber silk that suited her complexion, but her attention was entirely focused on her sister.
Jane stood by the window, adjusting the lace of her gloves. She wore pale blue—her signature colour—but tonight, she seemed different. The air of fragile tragedy that had clung to her like a shroud since the end of November was gone. In its place was a quiet, steady resolve.
"You look beautiful," Elizabeth said softly. "The Viscount will lose the power of speech."
Jane turned, a small smile playing on her lips. "He is very complimentary, is he not? It is... agreeable. To be admired so openly."
"It is certainly a change from silent adoration followed by vanishing acts," Elizabeth muttered, unable to stop herself. She turned in her chair. "Jane, are you certain about this? To be seen in public with Lord Keathley? It will send a signal. If Mr Bingley hears of it..."
Jane paused, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. She looked at her reflection in the dark glass of the window, then turned to face Elizabeth. Her expression was calm, almost puzzled.
"What about him?" Jane asked.
Elizabeth blinked. "What about him? Jane, you love him. You have been heartbroken for a month."
Jane sighed, a small exhale that seemed to release the last of her melancholy. "I loved him, Lizzy. I thought he loved me. But a man who loves a woman does not leave her without a word because his sisters suggest it. A man who loves a woman does not stay away for weeks while she weeps."
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug—a gesture so un-Jane-like that Elizabeth stared.
"He does not pine for me, that much is obvious," Jane said simply. "Why should I pine for him? Lord Keathley is kind. He is amusing. And he ishere. I am tired of waiting for a ghost, Lizzy. I choose to enjoy the living."
Elizabeth felt a wave of relief so potent it nearly knocked the wind out of her. She rushed forward and hugged her sister fiercely. "Oh, Jane! You are the wisest of us all. I have been so angry on your behalf, and you have simply decided to be happy."
"It is not quite that simple," Jane admitted, returning the embrace. "But I will not let Mr Bingley ruin my Christmas. Or my first trip to The King's Theatre."
"Then let us go," Elizabeth declared, pulling back and grinning. "Let us go and dazzle the Viscount. And unsettle Mr Darcy."
"Mr Darcy has been very attentive," Jane pointed out mischievously. "The lemon biscuits? The invitation? I think, Lizzy, that you are the one being courted."
"Nonsense," Elizabeth scoffed, grabbing her fan. "He is merely trying to apologize for his atrocious behaviour in Hertfordshire. It is guilt, Jane. Pure guilt."
"If you say so," Jane smiled. "But guilt rarely looks that handsome in a cravat."
The King's Theatre in Haymarket was a temple of noise, light, and velvet. It smelled of perfume, candle wax, and the distinct energy of hundreds of people pretending to watch a performance while actually watching each other.
The Gardiner party arrived in good time. Mr Gardiner, looking distinguished in formal evening wear that rivalled any gentleman of theton, escorted his wife, while Jane and Elizabeth followed close behind. They were met at the entrance by a footman in the Fitzwilliam livery who escorted them to the Viscount's private box.
