“The inherited estate is in an excellent situation for a wife,” a woman said her voice sharp and purposeful. “Glenmont Hall, they call it. The gentleman who has recently arrived and still quite unattached.”
“How swiftly can matters be settled, Grandmother?” This voice was younger, touched with eagerness.
“Quickly enough when all parties are sensible. Annabelle, you must secure his attention.”
Elizabeth’s steps halted. She ought to continue walking, to dismiss this as none of her concern. Yet something inthe speakers’ calculated tone suggested this was no ordinary matrimonial scheming.
“I surveyed the home. The room near the library would serve our purpose,” the older woman continued. “Private enough for our needs, yet respectable in appearance. Once we have him there, Annabelle, you must keep him engaged whilst we arrange the proper circumstances.”
“And if he proves reluctant?” The younger voice, Fiona, carried a note of uncertainty.
“He will not dare risk scandal. Men of his standing cannot afford such complications. By the time he comprehends the situation, expectations will be established beyond his ability to refute.”
This was cutthroat fortune-hunting and deliberate entrapment. She should walk away and pretend she had heard nothing. Yet the calculated nature of their scheme, the casual discussion of compromising an innocent gentleman, roused indignation she could not suppress.
The women emerged from the grove—an older matron in lavender silk, imperious and sharp-eyed, flanked by two younger ladies. They were too far away to discern any familiar resemblance, but it was clear from the conversation that these were relatives.
The elder granddaughter possessed striking beauty: dark hair arranged in fashionable curls and classical features that would draw admiration in any assembly. She also looked familiar in a manner Elizabeth could not immediately place.Where had she met her? She’d noticed that the grandmother’s tone carried an Irish lilt, but the girls appeared be English.
The trio moved purposefully across the lawn, their gazes fixed on some target Elizabeth could not yet identify. She followed at a discreet distance, conscience warring with propriety, half-convinced she was overreacting to perfectly ordinary social manoeuvring.
When the matron and her granddaughters reached their destination, Elizabeth realised their target.
They had surrounded Mr Darcy.
The elder granddaughter had positioned herself directly before him, blocking any easy retreat. She spoke with animation, her smile brilliant, one hand gesturing towards the house. The matron had engaged Mrs Fitzgerald and another lady nearby, her voice carrying clearly as she extolled her family’s respectability and long-standing connections to Irish society.
Meanwhile the younger granddaughter, Fiona, hovered around, likely to intervene if necessary.
Mr Darcy’s expression remained courteous, yet Elizabeth recognised tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight stiffness that suggested discomfort. He was trapped—too polite to walk away, too conscious of propriety to risk giving offence, yet evidently aware that something untoward was occurring.
“Mr Darcy, you must see Castlewood’s library,” Annabelle said as Elizabeth drew closer. “It contains several rare volumes that I am certain would interest a gentleman of your education.My grandmother was just remarking that the room adjacent to it—”
“Is perfectly suited for quiet conversation,” the matron finished. “Away from this dreadful heat. A gentleman of Mr Darcy’s consequence deserves proper refreshment and civilised discourse, not this chaos.”
“I am quite comfortable here, I assure you,” Mr Darcy replied in a measured tone.
“Nonsense. We insist, do we not, Annabelle? It would be unconscionably rude to allow you to suffer this heat when we can offer better accommodation.”
They began subtly manoeuvring him towards the house in coordinated movements.
Elizabeth’s unease sharpened. How did these women know the layout of Castlewood so precisely? They moved with the confidence of familiarity, knowing which paths led were, which routes would take them away from public observation. Were they friends of her aunt’s? But Aunt Ahearn surely would have noted the arrival of the three ladies.
Unless they had not been invited at all.
The realisation dawned on her. These women were not guests. They had inserted themselves into the gathering with deliberate purpose, and that purpose centred on Mr Darcy.
He resisted without appearing to do so—a step sideways here, a pause to acknowledge another guest there—yet thewomen compensated, closing gaps, steering him towards their goal.
She ought to let him manage his own difficulties. He was a grown man, wealthy and experienced in navigating society’s snares. Yet the memory of their earlier conversation rose unbidden. His kindness when she had confessed her humiliation at Lucas Lodge, his indignation on her behalf and his insistence that she ought not diminish herself to satisfy narrow-minded fools.
But watching these women manoeuvre him with ease towards isolation, Elizabeth recognised the pattern. She had heard of such schemes before. Fortune hunters engineering compromising situations with only the young woman’s own relatives as convenient witnesses.
A man discovered alone with an unmarried lady. Reputations at stake. It was entrapment, plain and simple. Unless someone interfered.
He had stood as her ally when she needed one. Could she not do the same?
Elizabeth moved before conscious decision completed itself. She crossed the lawn with swift, deliberate steps, inserting herself directly into the group with a smile that felt brittle on her lips.
