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Her smile was sweetly triumphant.

“The usual quantity, miss?”

“Yes, if you please.”

Darcy could not help himself.

“What wine is it?”

The clerk named it.

Darcy knew the wine. He also knew three others he would have chosen before it.

Miss Elizabeth saw that too. “Do not,” she murmured.

“I said nothing.”

The clerk wisely pretended not to hear them.

The bottles were brought out and packed. Darcy inspected one label.

“It is respectable,” he conceded.

She put a hand to her chest in an amused, playfully mocking gesture. “What a relief,” she said. “I feared I should have to tell my uncle that his Christmas had failed to meet your standards.”

“My standards have nothing to do with it.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

The clerk promised to send the bottles around to Gracechurch Street. They thanked him and stepped outside, where the bells of St Mary-le-Bow had just begun to ring. They stood beneath the shop awning while a cart passed, its wheels throwing dirty water towards the kerb. Darcy stepped slightly in front of Miss Elizabeth to be certain none of the water reached her.

She smiled at him. “My uncle will begin preparing it tomorrow.”

“Christmas Eve?”

“He prepares the spices first.” She smiled. “Whether he makes it at Longbourn or in Gracechurch Street, the smell of it tells me that Christmas has come.”

Darcy imagined Gracechurch Street as he had experienced it. The children, busily engaged in their various projects, Mrs. Gardiner issuing instructions from three places at once, Mr. Gardiner returning from business and being immediately claimed by whichever child reached him first.

A boy pushing an empty barrow was making his way up the pavement at some speed. Darcy put his hand on the small of Miss Elizabeth’s back and moved her out of its path.

When he removed it, they began to walk again, and Darcy was silent for several steps. “At Pemberley,” he said at last, “we have always served a spiced wine at Christmas.”

When he did not continue, she prompted him. “But?”

“But,” he said, “I do not believe it has ever been said that the smell of it means Christmas has begun.”

Miss Elizabeth slipped her hand more securely through his arm as they crossed the next street.

“Had you planned to go north to Miss Darcy for Christmas?” she asked.

“I had considered it, but I wrote to Lady Matlock—my aunt—that I would be remaining in town.”

She offered him a wry little smile. “And what did Lady Matlock think of that?”

A month ago, he might have turned such a question aside. But he had promised Bingley to tell the entire truth and allow those most nearly involved in a thing to make their own decisions. So he took a breath and said, “She has heard, indirectly through Mrs. Hurst, where my carriage has been seen nearly every day this month, and she does not approve.”

“Of Gracechurch Street?”