Lady Catherine inclined her head slightly. “Unless, of course, youwereinformed directly.”
“I have received no formal report.”
“But you have receivedinformation.” She studied him a moment longer. “By express, I presume. One does not speak of ‘intelligence’ otherwise.”
Darcy’s jaw set. “Mr Bingley, who is the current master of Netherfield, was in London.”
“Ah.” The sound was quiet, satisfied. “Then he was here when the disturbance occurred.”
“He was.”
“And therefore learned of his property’s condition without delay.” She paused. “I should not have thought Netherfield’s affairs would be your immediate concern unless its master were already under your roof.”
Darcy’s silence answered her.
Lady Catherine nodded once. “Staying with you, then.”
“For a short time,” Darcy said. “On his way elsewhere.”
“With company, I imagine. One does not decamp to the seaside alone.”
Darcy’s expression did not change. “That is Mr Bingley’s concern.”
“Indeed,” Lady Catherine said. “But when ladies are involved, concerns have a way of overlapping.” She considered him with renewed interest. “Which ladies, Darcy?”
He did not reply.
She waited, unperturbed, as though silence were merely another datum. When he did not oblige her, she inclined her head again. “Very well. The names are not essential. My clergyman writes that he is even now travelling toward Hertfordshire for his wedding. He was disappointed to learn—some days ago—that his bride’s entire family would not be present. An unusual circumstance.”
Darcy frowned but made no comment.
“Families do not absent themselves from such a happy occasion without cause,” Lady Catherine continued. “Illness, perhaps. Or some private necessity requiring removal. It is unfortunate when such necessities coincide with… disturbances.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. “You did not come to interview me about acquaintances in Hertfordshire.”
“No,” she said crisply. “I came to advise you on inheritance.”
“Oh?”
She rose then, crossing the room with purpose. Darcy was obliged, then, to stand as well, so he wandered closer to the mantel to wait on what she had to say.
“There has been, for some time,” Lady Catherine said, “a pattern of imprudence in your conduct. You have permitted intimacy where distance would have preserved order, and indulged familiarity where discernment was required.”
Darcy met her gaze. “If you refer to my friendship with Mr Bingley—”
“I do,” she said at once. “And I refer to it as precisely the sort of attachment that leads gentlemen astray when it is allowed to deepen beyond its proper bounds. You have encouraged a degree of closeness entirely unsuitable to the disparity of your situations, and in doing so have ceded your judgment to a man ill-equipped to guide it.”
“Mr Bingley is neither ill-intentioned nor incapable.”
“He is a tradesman. A pleasant one, no doubt, but that does not recommend him as a counsellor in matters of consequence. Your father understood this. He approved your association with Mr Wickham precisely because such an arrangement preserved proportion—affection without influence, companionship withoutpresumption.”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “Mr Wickham is not a standard by which I judge my companions.”
“And yet,” she said, “he was at least of the proper sphere. You have instead allowed yourself to be led into false assumptions, risky connections, and—inevitably—unfortunate entanglements. Such entanglements,” she continued with a scowl, “are rarely singular. They radiate outward. One imprudent intimacy begets another.”
Her eyes fixed on him with renewed sharpness. “My parson, Mr Collins, has advised me with some concern. He is soon to be allied with the Bennet family and has observed what others have chosen to excuse. Repeated indisposition in one daughter. Sudden collapses. Complaints of nerves and headache advanced with remarkable convenience. Conduct that invites attention while professing innocence of design.”
Darcy felt the shift at once, like a draught across the skin. “You speak of Miss Bennet?”
