Into the drawing room they went. Elizabeth kept her gaze averted. If Mr. Wickham were present, she had no desire to converse with him. Emma Woodhouse followed so closely behind that she nearly tread on Elizabeth’s heels.
“Are you acquainted with our vicar, Mr. Elton?” whispered Emma into Elizabeth’s ear. “Is that why he is smiling so?”
Mr. Elton had to be the dark-haired man in clerical attire. When he caught sight of Emma, he fairly leapt from his chair. “Miss Woodhouse! How wonderful to see you, and in such good health.” He impulsively put out a hand, but Emma did not take it.
“How do you do, Mr. Elton?” she said solemnly. “May I present Miss Bennet and”—Emma glanced behind her—“and Mr. Darcy?”
Mr. Elton’s smile dimmed to politeness.
No wonder Emma was flustered! For wedged into Mr. Elton’s buttonhole was not a silk flower but a sprig of Christmas mistletoe! Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Emma. Had she noticed this?
Mr. Elton turned a glowing face to Emma and dug in a pocket of his frock coat. “I have a letter from your father—er, somewhere.” He gave an awkward laugh.
“And one from dear Harriet as well?” said Emma. “How is she faring?”
“Who?” said Mr. Elton blankly. “Oh, Miss Smith? Well enough, I suppose. To be honest, I have no idea. Here is your letter.”
“But—” said Emma, taking it, “you have seen nothing of Miss Smith?”
“Perhaps at one of the services,” he said, shrugging. “It must be at least a fortnight since—”
“Mr. Elton,” said Emma, interrupting, “why are you wearing mistletoe?”
Mr. Elton’s cheeks grew pink. He removed the sprig, twirling the stems between his fingers. “’Tis the season, don’t you know.”
“The season for what?” said Emma.
“Why, for kisses. And—you know—for love.”
Elizabeth heard Mr. Darcy disguise laughter in a fit of coughing. Wretched man! And yet, how could she blame him? What a dreadful situation! For Mr. Elton’s mannerisms were very similar to what Mr. Collins’s had been—the nervous twisting of his fingers, the flushed cheeks and too-bright smile.
“Mr. Elton,” demanded Emma. “Was it Father who sent you here? Or did you receive a letter from—from someone else?”
Someone else? Elizabeth caught her breath. Did Emma mean Aunt Jane?
Mr. Elton just stood there, blinking. “Why, er, I …”
Emma’s face paled. “Pray excuse me while I read this,” she said—and fled from the drawing room.
Elizabeth did not mean to catch Mr. Darcy’s eye. She did not mean to laugh, either. He promptly offered his arm and led her toward one of the sofas—and away from Mr. Elton. “Poor Miss Woodhouse,” Elizabeth whispered.
“She has attracted quite a suitor,” he remarked. “He’d best mind his teacup, as those mistletoe berries are poisonous. Not the most effective courtship technique, dying.”
Again Elizabeth had to swallow laughter. Who knew Mr. Darcy could be so witty? “He reminds me of—of Mr. Collins, don’t you think?” she confided. “Not in appearance, but in manner.”
Almost Mr. Darcy’s lips twisted into a grin. “I wonder,” Elizabeth continued. “Among clerics, is Christmas is the season for courtship?”
He laughed outright at that, and she gracefully took a seat on the sofa. “Would you care for coffee or tea, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Tea, I think,” she said unsteadily. “Thank you.”
As Mr. Darcy moved away, Elizabeth gave a quick glance around the drawing room. There was Mr. Wickham in his red coat, smiling as he rotated the stem of his wine glass. Ned Parks, Longbourn’s stable-man, sat beside Sir Hugh. He looked very out of place.
At a low table, apart from the men, Jane was pouring out. Of Caroline Bingley there was no sign, which was just as well. She would not like seeing Jane as acting hostess.
Mr. Darcy returned with Elizabeth’s tea. As she lifted the cup, George Wickham’s familiar laugh drifted across the drawing room. Elizabeth hesitated, caught by a memory. If what Mr. Darcy said about him was true, then—
Again Elizabeth’s gaze wandered, this time moved by curiosity. Was there a scar on Mr. Wickham’s ear? If he would just turn his head, she might be able to see. Unfortunately, the man caught her gaze, and he boldly lifted his wineglass in salute.
Elizabeth felt the blood rush to her cheeks. And then Mr. Wickham winked at her.
What brazen insolence! How could she have thought him charming?
And how dreadful that Mr. Darcy had noticed the exchange! “I can see no scar on his ear,” she said to him, “and yet I cannot disbelieve that you struck Mr. Wickham. Indeed,” she added, “it would be a wonder if you did so only once.”
“The temptation,” Mr. Darcy replied gravely, “presents itself often.”
Just then Sir Hugh, the magistrate, rose to his feet. “No doubt you are wondering why I have come,” he announced. “As you may have guessed, this is not precisely a social visit.”
At once conversation stilled. Sir Hugh placed a chair facing the group and settled into it, with his hands resting on his knees. “Nor does it involve a serious criminal matter,” he went on. “Still, I would like to solve the mystery here, as civilized people, without having to involve the courts of assize.”
The stopper rattled in the decanter; Tom Bertram was helping himself to another glass of port.
“We had an incident in Meryton this afternoon,” Sir Hugh continued, “involving Mr. McGready here, and this officer of the militia.” He indicated Mr. Wickham.
Mr. Wickham was smiling; of course he was. How could have Elizabeth thought the man attractive—or sincere? Emma Woodhouse returned to the drawing room just then; at once Mr. Darcy surrendered his seat on the sofa.
Mr. Wickham rose to his feet and made a bow. “George Wickham,” he said pleasantly, “of the ___shire Militia, at your service.”
After he was seated, Mr. Wickham’s gaze wandered to Elizabeth, and Emma came under his notice. Elizabeth saw his eyes widen and then narrow, as he took in every detail of Emma’s appearance. The string of pearls, clasped carelessly about her neck, held particular interest.
Why, the man was a rogue! Sizing up Emma’s worth in that odious way! Poor Emma must have noticed, for she did not remain long in the drawing room.
“The conundrum involves this,” said Sir Hugh. From a pocket he drew a sparkling bracelet—Elizabeth’s very own amethyst bracelet.
Elizabeth gasped aloud; she could not help it.
“Mr. Ned Parks,” prompted Sir Hugh. “Are you able to identify this item?”
Ned cleared his throat. “That there bangle is Miss Elizabeth’s, sure as I’m alive. And what it was doing in the hands of that maggoty person, as he was a-selling it to the likes of McGready, is what I’d like to know.”
A rush of whispering swept the room. “Not you, your honour,” amended Ned. “That there officer is the maggoty person I mean.”
Elizabeth could only stare. There must be some mistake. Her bracelet was in the drawer of the dressing table upstairs! And then she remembered. The day the rain stopped she had worn it—
“Continue, Mr. Parks,” said Sir Hugh.
“That fellow”—Ned indicated Wickham—“was in Mr. McGready’s office for to pawn it. I happened on them by chance. It’s thievery, that’s what it is.”
All eyes shifted to George Wickham. He was continuing to smile, without a trace of shame. Elizabeth wished that she could say the same for herself. And yet she knew she must speak. She had no other alternative.
“May I see the bracelet, please?” she said. Everyone remained silent while Sir Hugh brought it to her. “This is mine,” she admitted. “How it came to be in Mr. Wickham’s possession I do not know. Jane wore this the night of Mr. Bingley’s ball.”
Mr. Wickham said not a word. Did he care nothing for her reputation? A man whom she had counted as a friend would leave her with no defense?
Ned spoke up. “Did you give this officer your bangle, Miss? Or did he steal it?”
Wickham made an impatient gesture. “As I told the magistrate,” he said, “and you, if you care to recall it, this bauble was staked as a wager by a gentleman. It became my property in the course of the game.”
Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy turn to Tom Bertram. Mr. Bertram’s face and cheeks were pink; he took a large swallow of wine.
Sir Hugh held out the bracelet. “You admit that this your property, Miss Elizabeth?”
“I do.”
“And how did it leave your possession?”
“I—must have lost it while I was walking outside the other day. I—was not paying attention. The clasp is faulty.”
“I will attest to the broken clasp,” said Mr. Darcy.
His support gave her courage to continue. “To be honest,” said Elizabeth, “I did not realize that it was missing until now.”
The magistrate did not look impressed. “You were walking outside in the garden? In the rain, Miss Elizabeth?” He lowered his voice. “It will do no good to shield this officer. If he stole it, he must be made to admit it.”
“I did go out, Sir Hugh. Yesterday morning, after the rain stopped.”
“Rather mucky for a walk, wouldn’t you say?”
“We had been shut up in the house for so long. It was a relief to go out.”
“So you did not give your bracelet to Mr. Wickham?”
“I did not, sir.”
Sir Hugh turned to Mr. Wickham. “And you say that it came into your hands in the course of a game?”
“Very pretty, that,” remarked Ned.
Mr. Wickham rounded on Ned Parks. “Gaming debts between gentlemen are something you would know nothing about.”
Ned gave a snort. “You, a gentleman? That’s rich.”
Sir Hugh interrupted this exchange. “But who staked the bracelet? That is what I want to know.”
“My lips,” said Mr. Wickham primly, “are sealed.”
“You will keep silent and call into question a lady’s reputation?”
“So it would seem.” Mr. Wickham’s smile reappeared. “Mine honour as a gentleman must take precedence.”
“Oh, come now.” It was Mr. Darcy who rose to his feet; clearly he was annoyed. “Since when have you cared for honour, Wickham? You’ve fleeced some poor fellow, that is all. And you hope to do so again. So you keep your mouth shut about his identity.”
Wickham spread his hands. “A faithful friend, who can find?” he recited.
“You’ve already won the money in his pocket—and his timepiece too, am I right?” Mr. Darcy went on. “In flat despair, he returns to Netherfield and finds in the shrubbery a honeyfall—an amethyst bracelet. So he lets that stand against his debt.” He turned. “Isn’t that so, Bertram?”
Tom Bertram’s pink face was now scarlet. “It—it was in the mud,” he stammered. “Buried-like. How was I to know it belonged to Miss Elizabeth?”
Mr. Wickham was now scowling. “I am no thief. I stole nothing.”
Darcy stepped forward and laid a hand on Tom Bertram’s shoulder. “A simple mistake,” he said. “The sort of misunderstanding that can happen when one is desperate. Miss Elizabeth now has her bracelet. All that remains is for Mr. Wickham to return the money to Mr. McGready.”
“But—” said Wickham.
“That’s it, Mr. Darcy,” said Sir Hugh. “What of it, Mr. Wickham?”
“That bracelet was rightfully mine! The money is mine as well.”
“But you pawned Miss Elizabeth’s bracelet without her permission.”
“I—I,” stammered Mr. Wickham. For the first time he looked uncomfortable. Elizabeth saw him give a tug to his collar.
“Return Mr. McGready’s money,” said Mr. Darcy mildly, “and then settle up with Bertram some other way. What’s the figure, Mr. McGready?”
“Five pounds.”
“There you are, Wickham, five pounds. A small price to redeem a lady’s reputation—and your own.” Mr. Darcy rocked back on his heels, studying Mr. Wickham.
There was a short silence, during which Mr. Wickham went very red in the face. “Really, Darcy,” he protested. “I don’t carry money—”
Mr. Darcy smiled; it was a cold smile, Elizabeth thought, but not unattractive. “Is that so?” he said. “You have been in Meryton for a month? Tradesmen become impatient for payment. I do hope that some of them have been paid with that five pounds …”
Wickham opened and closed his mouth like a fish. He wheeled on Tom Bertram. “You!” he cried out. “You’ll pay for this.”
Sir Hugh lifted his voice. “Now that Mr. Darcy brings it to mind, I have heard a thing or two about outstanding debts, Mr. Wickham. Your outstanding debts.”
Elizabeth had heard enough. Amid the raised voices of the men, she slipped out of the drawing room and into the cool of the upper hall. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks and willed herself to think. Where to find refuge quickly? Her bedchamber? No, it was too far. Better yet, the ballroom? The doors were ajar …
Behind her, the drawing room door came open and closed. Elizabeth stood like a statue. She did not dare look to see who came out.
“Here is your bracelet, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy’s quiet voice.
Elizabeth turned to him with a sigh of relief. He was holding it out to her, so she opened her hands to receive it. “I—oh, Mr. Darcy,” she confessed. “I was never so embarrassed.”
“I thought you handled the situation very well,” he said mildly. “To my mind, Wickham takes the prize for humiliation. He does not have the money to pay McGready.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “What of Mr. Bertram?”
“That young fool? A salutary lesson. If he’d been content to play for Miss Bates’s penny points, this would never have happened. I will give Bertram the five pounds, if it comes to that.”
Elizabeth could not return his smile. “It is I who have been the fool, Mr. Darcy.”
He looked at her rather searchingly. “You don’t mind about Wickham too much, do you?”
“Meaning, is my heart broken? Surprisingly, no. I was charmed by him, that is all. I should have known better than to believe everything he said.”
“He excels at being plausible. Even my own father was taken in.”
Elizabeth discovered that Mr. Darcy had taken her hands into his own. His were warm and surprisingly gentle. She would have returned their clasp if not for the bracelet she held.
“Elizabeth,” he said softly. She lifted her eyes to his.
And then Emma Woodhouse’s voice carried sharply into the upper hall. “Mr. Elton!”
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy shared a startled look. Was Emma in the empty ball room?
There was more. “You forget yourself, sir!” Emma cried out.
Then came the sound of a stinging slap.
Mr. Darcy lifted an eyebrow. “So much for the power of mistletoe,” he remarked.